WEAVER
He always thinks he should do what others tell him. There is where they are so very different. She believes she should do whatever she wants, whatever feels true to her (or to who she wants to be, as the case may be). Advice is just that, advice. It’s suggestions other people make based on their own experiences, on the things they would choose to do. And those are good things to consider, but in the end, you make your own choices. She doesn’t really care what he does so long as he enjoys the choice. And no, sulking in a corner is not enjoying the choice, sorry brother. Instead he does things because he thinks he’s supposed to, which isn’t exactly working for him.
Control was indeed, only an illusion, but you can learn to believe the lie. Tell it long enough and it becomes true. Wear the mask long enough and it becomes a part of you. Eventually you no longer remember who you thought you might be, because you have become someone else, and it’s not necessarily a bad thing. After all, hadn’t Weaver done exactly that? She’d always been something like this, but still, she’d been different too. These were things Korbin wouldn’t remember, things sometimes she barely remembered.
All she remembered was falling to pieces that first night she’d finally come home after Erebor died, weeks later when the healers deemed her healthy enough to go. Remembers sobbing into her pillow with no clue what they were going to do, careful to make sure Korbin couldn’t hear her. And that night she’d slipped on the composure she’d worn ever since, donned a cloak of invisibility and never taken it off. There’d been no other path forward. Not one she could live with, anyway. Not one Korbin deserved to live with.
Eventually, you become what you pretend.
Her kick lands, and she sees his knife leave his hand, hears it clatter to the floor. The hilt of her knife forward, Weaver drops her leg and lunges to stab him in the gut. He’s charging forward, but she doesn’t try to stop him. She just thrusts the knife forward as he comes barling, hoping he can’t shift in time to miss the knife to his stomach before she gets slammed into the ground, all the breath leaving her lungs. She coughs, rolling onto her side slightly, trying to catch her breath, hoping that she managed to leave him sputtering for breath too.
Control was indeed, only an illusion, but you can learn to believe the lie. Tell it long enough and it becomes true. Wear the mask long enough and it becomes a part of you. Eventually you no longer remember who you thought you might be, because you have become someone else, and it’s not necessarily a bad thing. After all, hadn’t Weaver done exactly that? She’d always been something like this, but still, she’d been different too. These were things Korbin wouldn’t remember, things sometimes she barely remembered.
All she remembered was falling to pieces that first night she’d finally come home after Erebor died, weeks later when the healers deemed her healthy enough to go. Remembers sobbing into her pillow with no clue what they were going to do, careful to make sure Korbin couldn’t hear her. And that night she’d slipped on the composure she’d worn ever since, donned a cloak of invisibility and never taken it off. There’d been no other path forward. Not one she could live with, anyway. Not one Korbin deserved to live with.
Eventually, you become what you pretend.
Her kick lands, and she sees his knife leave his hand, hears it clatter to the floor. The hilt of her knife forward, Weaver drops her leg and lunges to stab him in the gut. He’s charging forward, but she doesn’t try to stop him. She just thrusts the knife forward as he comes barling, hoping he can’t shift in time to miss the knife to his stomach before she gets slammed into the ground, all the breath leaving her lungs. She coughs, rolling onto her side slightly, trying to catch her breath, hoping that she managed to leave him sputtering for breath too.
I was made to be wild, wicked, and free
