KORBIN
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
That blushed and bloomed,
He had to turn away on hearing those words. For a long time Korbin stared off into the distance, unseeing, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he fought to keep his emotions under control. There was an urge to laugh or cry, and he wasn't sure which was stronger. If she'd had the attuned bond, he would have shared with her the complicated mess that rolled within... And the gaping void in his heart the brother had left behind. Full to the brim with a grief that wouldn't heal, and love the raven couldn't find an outlet for, now that Erebor was gone. Who else could carry the weight of it? There were two other such holes in him. Pieces of him that had been ripped out with every loss.
But Weaver was still there. Still very much alive, and as always capable of reaching into him with words that never failed to hit their mark. No one knew him better.
"I don't know," he replied, reluctant to say anything positive about any of them. But it was perhaps less vehement of a rejection than he showed for Sunjata. "He gives me this feeling. Like I want to trust him. And that gives me even more reason to think I shouldn't. My gut keeps screaming they're bad news, all the outsiders."
Stepping away, Korbin went for the hare and sat down on his heels. Pulling out his knife, he began to clean it; already it had almost frozen, and the job was messier and slower than he would have liked.
But Weaver was still there. Still very much alive, and as always capable of reaching into him with words that never failed to hit their mark. No one knew him better.
"I don't know," he replied, reluctant to say anything positive about any of them. But it was perhaps less vehement of a rejection than he showed for Sunjata. "He gives me this feeling. Like I want to trust him. And that gives me even more reason to think I shouldn't. My gut keeps screaming they're bad news, all the outsiders."
Stepping away, Korbin went for the hare and sat down on his heels. Pulling out his knife, he began to clean it; already it had almost frozen, and the job was messier and slower than he would have liked.
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
Of the old time entombed.
