That’s a different sort of cold, emotional versus physical. Weaver has grown up knowing the latter only, really. The loss of her family usually left her numb, not cold, though she always found that spark of life again. Refused to lose the flames for long, to waste the life she was given that they were not. Perhaps she was born with the gift of fire manipulation because she was made of fire. Created from it and of it. ”Caido has never been known for kindness,” she says, and it is unclear if she means the land or of the God or both. In the end, the difference doesn’t really matter. ”And do you like it here, in the Grounds?” She asks, curious if the girl would choose this life over the one she had been ripped from, or if this was at least better.
Erebor had been gentle, in his way. Korbin was the kindest of them, a lover, not a fighter. Straia though had never been gentle. She loved her children fiercely and fully, but she was not a gentle mother. She did not coddle, she did not kiss your boo boos all better. From the stories, she gathers her father was not gentle either, but made of twisting shadows and decay. Weaver never knew her real father, though she never cared. John had raised her, loved her, been her father even though she wasn’t his, and he had always been enough.
The question hurts, though Melita can’t know the knife that twists in Weaver’s gut at it. ”Korbin and I, sometimes. It’s not really the same though, without the rest of them. Life in Halo is hard, and as such, death is common.” Though she doesn’t say it directly, her meaning is clear enough. They still train, they still fight, but there’s something a bit hollow about it without Erebor’s disapproving stares and their mother’s laughter when they cheat and trick.
Erebor had been gentle, in his way. Korbin was the kindest of them, a lover, not a fighter. Straia though had never been gentle. She loved her children fiercely and fully, but she was not a gentle mother. She did not coddle, she did not kiss your boo boos all better. From the stories, she gathers her father was not gentle either, but made of twisting shadows and decay. Weaver never knew her real father, though she never cared. John had raised her, loved her, been her father even though she wasn’t his, and he had always been enough.
The question hurts, though Melita can’t know the knife that twists in Weaver’s gut at it. ”Korbin and I, sometimes. It’s not really the same though, without the rest of them. Life in Halo is hard, and as such, death is common.” Though she doesn’t say it directly, her meaning is clear enough. They still train, they still fight, but there’s something a bit hollow about it without Erebor’s disapproving stares and their mother’s laughter when they cheat and trick.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
