What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.
They were two sides of one coin. No pain, no gain. She looked for the good because at least then she would have it for a time. It was a reason to live, something to cherish, memories to hold tight to. To live without anything good is not living. It is existing. What is the point in merely existing? Someone may have said their life before the portals were opened was nothing more than existing, but she would disagree. They had lived. They had loved. They had made a way for themselves and snatched joy from the pain and the sorrow.
Now, when everything else is becoming easy, living is becoming so much harder.
She looks up, giving him a look, like he should know better, and like usual, he is underestimating her. He is so often underestimating her (and she him; perhaps they cannot help it). Weaver picks up the pencil again, writing in her lazy, looping scrawl. No. You won’t know what you like until you try it. You won’t know who you want to be, not who you were.
She isn’t a fool. He isn’t a child anymore, and though she misses that child, that doesn’t mean she expects him to come back. Though she has changed far less than he has, it’s not as if she has stayed the same. Neither of them are children. She stopped being a child after their parents died, forced to grow up and care for Korbin. He stopped being a child perhaps then too, though perhaps not until Erebor passed away, when there was no one left but them. Still, this brooding, angry man is not him, not really. Or at least, she hopes it is not. She hopes that somewhere underneath the hurt and the rage and the pain is the man he is meant to become.
Now, when everything else is becoming easy, living is becoming so much harder.
She looks up, giving him a look, like he should know better, and like usual, he is underestimating her. He is so often underestimating her (and she him; perhaps they cannot help it). Weaver picks up the pencil again, writing in her lazy, looping scrawl. No. You won’t know what you like until you try it. You won’t know who you want to be, not who you were.
She isn’t a fool. He isn’t a child anymore, and though she misses that child, that doesn’t mean she expects him to come back. Though she has changed far less than he has, it’s not as if she has stayed the same. Neither of them are children. She stopped being a child after their parents died, forced to grow up and care for Korbin. He stopped being a child perhaps then too, though perhaps not until Erebor passed away, when there was no one left but them. Still, this brooding, angry man is not him, not really. Or at least, she hopes it is not. She hopes that somewhere underneath the hurt and the rage and the pain is the man he is meant to become.
Weaver
