KORBIN
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
To make you bow and spit it out?
Quite probably Korbin managed to doze off again between the question and the deliverly, because he was startled awake by the cup being pressed into his hands. Somehow he managed to grasp it without more than a few drops sloshing over the edge. His hands were trembling. Raising the cup to his parched lips for a sip, he regretted that it was only water. Cool, clear and tasting of home, it revived him little by little, though he was careful to take it slow. Already his gut growled in protest, all of the inside in an uproar.
Pressing the cold clay mug to his forehead, Korbin gazed blearily at Chulane from the shadow beneath the hands. Memory was returning to him as well, and there were flashes of sentiment with each recollection. Anger, humiliation, betrayal and hurt, not to mention the helplessness of having everything stripped away. Choice, illusions, clothes and freedom. Did this count as a kidnappning? Unlawful restraint? He should be furious, should resent this man to the depths of oblivion.
But all of that was offset by the memory of hands anchoring him down, and much as Korbin wanted to... he just couldn't hate Chulane. Never had, even if his treatment of the man might suggest it. Call it a 'violently indifferent to his general existence, wants and needs, so get out of my face' kind of situation. Except it never worked. People in this place - especially the Outlanders - were really bad at accepting 'no' when they heard it. Chulane wasn't alone in that.
The room was really hot. Or was it him? The hands around the mug felt like ice, but his forehead was burning, flushed from more than swollen eyes. By the time he finished off the water, Korbin's hands were shaking so much that he could no longer hide it, and the food on the plate had stopped looking tempting.
"Got anything stronger?" he mumbled hoarsely, doubting it even as the words slipped from the tongue. But Korbin knew this kind of shake, knew the nausea, the sweating... knew what poison had brought it on, and what would cure it. At least for a while.
Pressing the cold clay mug to his forehead, Korbin gazed blearily at Chulane from the shadow beneath the hands. Memory was returning to him as well, and there were flashes of sentiment with each recollection. Anger, humiliation, betrayal and hurt, not to mention the helplessness of having everything stripped away. Choice, illusions, clothes and freedom. Did this count as a kidnappning? Unlawful restraint? He should be furious, should resent this man to the depths of oblivion.
But all of that was offset by the memory of hands anchoring him down, and much as Korbin wanted to... he just couldn't hate Chulane. Never had, even if his treatment of the man might suggest it. Call it a 'violently indifferent to his general existence, wants and needs, so get out of my face' kind of situation. Except it never worked. People in this place - especially the Outlanders - were really bad at accepting 'no' when they heard it. Chulane wasn't alone in that.
The room was really hot. Or was it him? The hands around the mug felt like ice, but his forehead was burning, flushed from more than swollen eyes. By the time he finished off the water, Korbin's hands were shaking so much that he could no longer hide it, and the food on the plate had stopped looking tempting.
"Got anything stronger?" he mumbled hoarsely, doubting it even as the words slipped from the tongue. But Korbin knew this kind of shake, knew the nausea, the sweating... knew what poison had brought it on, and what would cure it. At least for a while.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Nothing makes you turn around
