The sight of the child on the table almost stops her in her tracks. Almost. The problem is she knows, all too well, that even children are taken. That many are taken too young, before they were ever given a chance to live. One might argue that Erebor, even, was taken too young, though he had been in his early twenties. Not a child, but still, hardly a man. He was just beginning, really. His life was a blank canvas before him, though Weaver could imagine a wife and children in it, had he been given the chance. Erebor coming home with his kill from hunting that day, children running out to meet him. Maybe a boy that would learn to hunt, but before he was old enough one that would still help his father skin and carve a kill. She can imagine them bent over their work, hands bloody and cold, but laughing as father teaches son. Maybe a girl that Erebor would have pampered, because he was soft like that, and yet taught to survive. Weaver knows this treatment first hands, knows that he’d teach a girl to hunt and carve and fight just as much as a boy, knows that he’d bring her pretty dresses (or pretty knives) all the same.
She has to shake the thoughts from her, has to bring herself back to reality as Abasi speaks saying that some here also like to be cremated. They have more of a choice, here, with the ground far softer than Halo’s will ever be. Abasi sits and gestures for her to do the same. Removing the scythe from behind her back and leaving it by the door, Weaver joins him. It seems rude to keep the weapon any closer at hand given that she is not attempting to hurt anyone and if something goes terribly wrong she still has knives anyway.
He gestures to a wall and she turns to look, noticing the writing and images that surround the window. He goes on to explain, and after a moment she gets up to examine what is written there. It is a beautiful thing, and though she does not share the same beliefs as those on this wall, she finds them comforting all the same. “Of course,” she says, walking back toward him. “Do you have something to write with? “ Her alternative, which she’d be fine with, would be to scratch it into the wall with a knife. She doesn’t say as much, remembering how her last joke fell flat. Looking back to the wall, she adds, “Which is yours, if I may ask?”
She has to shake the thoughts from her, has to bring herself back to reality as Abasi speaks saying that some here also like to be cremated. They have more of a choice, here, with the ground far softer than Halo’s will ever be. Abasi sits and gestures for her to do the same. Removing the scythe from behind her back and leaving it by the door, Weaver joins him. It seems rude to keep the weapon any closer at hand given that she is not attempting to hurt anyone and if something goes terribly wrong she still has knives anyway.
He gestures to a wall and she turns to look, noticing the writing and images that surround the window. He goes on to explain, and after a moment she gets up to examine what is written there. It is a beautiful thing, and though she does not share the same beliefs as those on this wall, she finds them comforting all the same. “Of course,” she says, walking back toward him. “Do you have something to write with? “ Her alternative, which she’d be fine with, would be to scratch it into the wall with a knife. She doesn’t say as much, remembering how her last joke fell flat. Looking back to the wall, she adds, “Which is yours, if I may ask?”
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
