KORBIN
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
That blushed and bloomed,
There was no end to the things Korbin should do. Be happy, be grateful for what he had, be nice to people. He should let go of pain and embrace change, let people in and trust more freely. He should let his sister do whatever she pleased and take her advice, he should give his all in everything he did, even if it meant driving a dagger into her flesh during a training session.
And it wasn't that he couldnt be all that, do all that. He could. He had never been unable to. It just... lit his head on fire to do any of it when it was expected of him. Was that the essence of a teenage rebellion? To resent being told what to do? To refuse the voices of reason, precisely because they were reasonable? Resenting every chance to please because he didn't wish to make anyone pleased. It would be to play right into their hands, like a nice little puppet, when he did his best to cut all the strings.
Except they wouldn't let themselves be cut. Wouldn't break, wouldn't let go, and it made his enraged thrashing seem so much like the fly struggling in vain in the confines of a spider's web. Only bringing the inevitable closer.
Was the utmost form of rebellion to acquiesce, then? To give in, let go the control, become the ultimate puppet? Not because he had no other choice, but because he chose to give in. It was only an illusion of control, but then... control really was the ultimate illusion.
And none of this really mattered in the moment, because Weaver's leg came hurtling towards the arm that aimed to punch her, and he didn't have the balance to withdraw. The kick landed and his dagger was sent clattering offer over the floor. Her leg was wreathed in fire, hot and burning, and his options had become far too limited.
Not even thinking, Korbin simply hurled himself at her. Tried to slam all his weight and bulk into her smaller frame, to knock her off her feet and bring them both down.
And it wasn't that he couldnt be all that, do all that. He could. He had never been unable to. It just... lit his head on fire to do any of it when it was expected of him. Was that the essence of a teenage rebellion? To resent being told what to do? To refuse the voices of reason, precisely because they were reasonable? Resenting every chance to please because he didn't wish to make anyone pleased. It would be to play right into their hands, like a nice little puppet, when he did his best to cut all the strings.
Except they wouldn't let themselves be cut. Wouldn't break, wouldn't let go, and it made his enraged thrashing seem so much like the fly struggling in vain in the confines of a spider's web. Only bringing the inevitable closer.
Was the utmost form of rebellion to acquiesce, then? To give in, let go the control, become the ultimate puppet? Not because he had no other choice, but because he chose to give in. It was only an illusion of control, but then... control really was the ultimate illusion.
And none of this really mattered in the moment, because Weaver's leg came hurtling towards the arm that aimed to punch her, and he didn't have the balance to withdraw. The kick landed and his dagger was sent clattering offer over the floor. Her leg was wreathed in fire, hot and burning, and his options had become far too limited.
Not even thinking, Korbin simply hurled himself at her. Tried to slam all his weight and bulk into her smaller frame, to knock her off her feet and bring them both down.
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
Of the old time entombed.
