Lonely shadows following me
Lonely ghosts come a-calling
Lonely ghosts come a-calling
He stared at the reflection in the mirror. The fresh ink was stark against the pale skin of his chest. Black on white. Or would be, once the furious red flush of irritation had settled down. Three ravens were flying in a circle over the space where his heart should be. It was beating still, somewhere beneath tissue and bone, but the central patch of skin was empty. The wing tips were connected, beaks turned inward, protecting what was left of him. Cutting his heart off from everything else.
Or so he had requested. But there was a gap between two of the birds. The wingtips didn't align properly, and the circle was made incomplete. Korbin's jaw tighened as he turned the mirror back and forth.
"This is not what I asked for," he said tersely.
"I know. It's what you need," the tattoo artist replied, and calmly kept cleaning off his tools.
"Fill it in," Korbin demanded. His voice was rough, eyes bloodshot and puffy. It was late, shop hours long since over. But this was not the first time a Hale came knocking in the night, and the man was used to it. Weaver had been the more frequent customer though.
"No," came the steady answer.
"Then I won't pay," Korbin snapped, hackles rising. He threw the mirror down on the work table. It cracked, fine hairline fractures spreading from a corner. A hundred small versions of himself stared back when he rose and looked at it. He should feel sorry, but even as he searched his mind, no remorse could be found.
"I didn't expect you to," the man replied, unphased. Setting the needles and ink aside, he rested work worn hands against the knees and followed Korbin with steady gaqze as he pulled on shirt and coat. He said nothing even as the young man stalked off to the door and pulled it open. Then came a quiet; "May she burn brightly."
Korbin slammed the door behind him and left the house. It was only words, but they brought the pain rising like another tidal wave, and he felt as though he was drowning. It never really stopped, but there were moments where it mellowed, almost bearable. Then a word or an image rose up in his mind, and brought it all crashing down over him again.
He stalked through the streets in the cold night. Every pile of snow was calling for him, beckoning. It would be very easy to just sit down, close his eyes and let the cold do its worst. He wanted to, but there were too many people moving about. Someone would inevitably find him in time. Some might take the new tattoo as a sign that he was recovering, but it was not. All he sought from it was the pain, the needle, a moment's distraction. Now it was over, and he had to find something else.
He went to find the tavern. The old one. Korbin couldn't look at the Kraai anymore. Couldn't stand to see people move behind the bar; he kept seeing Weaver. Every dark haired girl, every person moving with confident strides... but it was never her.
Pushing open the door, his entrance drew a few glances, but the old men and stubborn traditionalists that frequented it were as quick to look away as everyone else when they realized who it was. Ignoring them, he stalked up to the counter and ordered a drink. One turned into several; Korbin threw them back with the grim determination of someone who planned to get shitfaced as quickly as possible.
Or so he had requested. But there was a gap between two of the birds. The wingtips didn't align properly, and the circle was made incomplete. Korbin's jaw tighened as he turned the mirror back and forth.
"This is not what I asked for," he said tersely.
"I know. It's what you need," the tattoo artist replied, and calmly kept cleaning off his tools.
"Fill it in," Korbin demanded. His voice was rough, eyes bloodshot and puffy. It was late, shop hours long since over. But this was not the first time a Hale came knocking in the night, and the man was used to it. Weaver had been the more frequent customer though.
"No," came the steady answer.
"Then I won't pay," Korbin snapped, hackles rising. He threw the mirror down on the work table. It cracked, fine hairline fractures spreading from a corner. A hundred small versions of himself stared back when he rose and looked at it. He should feel sorry, but even as he searched his mind, no remorse could be found.
"I didn't expect you to," the man replied, unphased. Setting the needles and ink aside, he rested work worn hands against the knees and followed Korbin with steady gaqze as he pulled on shirt and coat. He said nothing even as the young man stalked off to the door and pulled it open. Then came a quiet; "May she burn brightly."
Korbin slammed the door behind him and left the house. It was only words, but they brought the pain rising like another tidal wave, and he felt as though he was drowning. It never really stopped, but there were moments where it mellowed, almost bearable. Then a word or an image rose up in his mind, and brought it all crashing down over him again.
He stalked through the streets in the cold night. Every pile of snow was calling for him, beckoning. It would be very easy to just sit down, close his eyes and let the cold do its worst. He wanted to, but there were too many people moving about. Someone would inevitably find him in time. Some might take the new tattoo as a sign that he was recovering, but it was not. All he sought from it was the pain, the needle, a moment's distraction. Now it was over, and he had to find something else.
He went to find the tavern. The old one. Korbin couldn't look at the Kraai anymore. Couldn't stand to see people move behind the bar; he kept seeing Weaver. Every dark haired girl, every person moving with confident strides... but it was never her.
Pushing open the door, his entrance drew a few glances, but the old men and stubborn traditionalists that frequented it were as quick to look away as everyone else when they realized who it was. Ignoring them, he stalked up to the counter and ordered a drink. One turned into several; Korbin threw them back with the grim determination of someone who planned to get shitfaced as quickly as possible.
Thousand voices dead at my feet
Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone
Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone
