if it doesn't burn a little
She listens as he explains his own pain, and she nods, though there’s a slight chuckle with it. ”Gods,” she begins, nostalgia tingeing her voice. ”I’m so tired at night I barely make it to my bed half the time. But my older brother used to scold me for ‘sleeping in’”. She says the last bit while making air quotes with her fingers, the emphasis in her voice clear she disagrees. Now she thinks back on those memories fondly, even if she’d just been annoyed at the time. ”I’d wake up with the sun and he’d already be dressed, with a pot of tea ready, pretending I was late.”
She sobers though as he answers her next question, listening and nodding slightly. He knows the answer. It wouldn’t help the pain. You can’t drown it away. Honestly, in the end, the self-loathing downward spiral usually just makes you feel worse. She’d flirted with it briefly after Erebor died, though she’d never actually had the luxury of succumbing. She had a younger brother to take care of, after all. ”I suspect you have more to stick around for than you realize,” she says. Hell, he was the only Launceleyn she happened to like, though he probably didn’t realize how much she’d miss him if he were gone. They may be new friends, but that didn’t matter.
As the wind rises in the room and the fire flares, Weaver jumps to her feet alongside Loren. Her hand flies to a knife at her belt, though she stops herself from whipping it out. There’s nothing in the room but the wind and the crashing of the items on her bookshelf. When the wind and the fire die down, there are only a handful of items left on the bookshelf at all. As Loren speaks her name, seeking the ghost in the room, Weaver takes a hesitant step forward. Then another. Soon she crosses the small space to the bookcase to see what remains.
”Do you think she is showing us what she wants us to save?” Weaver picks up the stack of letters, examining them. She holds them out to Loren to look at, or to take one, if he wishes. ”They look like invitations?” To what, she is not sure, and it feels almost wrong to open one. Though maybe they were supposed to.
She sobers though as he answers her next question, listening and nodding slightly. He knows the answer. It wouldn’t help the pain. You can’t drown it away. Honestly, in the end, the self-loathing downward spiral usually just makes you feel worse. She’d flirted with it briefly after Erebor died, though she’d never actually had the luxury of succumbing. She had a younger brother to take care of, after all. ”I suspect you have more to stick around for than you realize,” she says. Hell, he was the only Launceleyn she happened to like, though he probably didn’t realize how much she’d miss him if he were gone. They may be new friends, but that didn’t matter.
As the wind rises in the room and the fire flares, Weaver jumps to her feet alongside Loren. Her hand flies to a knife at her belt, though she stops herself from whipping it out. There’s nothing in the room but the wind and the crashing of the items on her bookshelf. When the wind and the fire die down, there are only a handful of items left on the bookshelf at all. As Loren speaks her name, seeking the ghost in the room, Weaver takes a hesitant step forward. Then another. Soon she crosses the small space to the bookcase to see what remains.
”Do you think she is showing us what she wants us to save?” Weaver picks up the stack of letters, examining them. She holds them out to Loren to look at, or to take one, if he wishes. ”They look like invitations?” To what, she is not sure, and it feels almost wrong to open one. Though maybe they were supposed to.
-- weaver
then what's the point in playing with fire?
