From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
She went off on a rant of rants then, that made his mutterings seem like a polite 'thank you but no'. Only the mention of their mother's name kept him listening, jaws clenched and face darkened into a scowl that said everything about how much he hated hearing all of it.
There was a cold, callous practicality to all of it that he knew well. That he had tried to emulate all his life, and kept failing to maintain. Why? Because he felt too damn deeply about everything. If he didn't hate it, he loved it with a passion. Either he would protect something with his life, or punt it off a cliff himself. It was black or white, all or nothing, and maybe it just was the youth of him that couldn't stand the idea of 'waiting and seeing' but he didn't feel that cunning. That clever.
He could fly how damn high he wanted, and it felt like he would never be able to see the whole picture the way Weaver could.
Korbin stalked along in fuming silence for a while. Unonsciously picking up the pace with his long legs, as if the inner heat brought on a speed meant to leave Weaver behind. But then he stopped too, and spun around. Frustration blazing in his eyes, all that raw energy in him so pent up and with nowhere to go.
"It's damn easy for you to say sit tight and wait when you already know what you want," he snapped. "You have your job, you have your place and you've always had it, Weaver. You're exactly what mom wanted you to be, while I'm... I'm just the odd jobs guy, the extra. No one actually needs me. Not even you."
Ah. And there it was. The reason.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
It was cold and callous, as Straia had been in many ways, but he was not those things. That was not a bad thing, but he needed to temper, needed to know when to bide his time on occasion. So did she, for though she was capable of their mother’s waiting game, Weaver was still far more fire than their mother had been. Their mother had loved them, but she’d been sort of mother who loved you as a bird might; she’d throw you off the cliff and let you figure out how to fly.
So Weaver waits. Waits as he fumes, waits as he picks up his pace. She doesn’t try to keep up with him, but simply waits. Wait until he spins around to face her. Wait until the truth is finally let out.
”That is not true,” she says, her voice deadly quiet, more serious than she ever is. ”I need you more than you know, brother, but not the way you think. I do not need you at the Kraai. I do not need you to do my dirty work and clean up my messes. But I do need you in my life. There is a difference.” She pauses for a moment, leveling those amber eyes of hers on her brother. They were her mother’s eyes, full of a fire Straia did not have, but so similar in many ways, though he may not know it.
”As for the rest, you are eighteen. I have nearly ten years on you and I’m just starting to figure things out. I’m just very good at pretending. And all mom ever wanted for us was to be ourselves. I am myself. You will figure out who you are, but you can’t do that if you keep picking up after me, Korbin.”
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
He shrank back from that gaze. The quiet of her, the weight in her words. It was unexpected - he had half assumed he'd be punched in the face again - and Korbin felt her meaning pierce deep through the hazy fog of his own turmoil.
And it hurt. Hurt having it confirmed that she didn't actually need his actual physical help. The things he could provide with his hands, his back, the hours of his day. Those were the things he knew how to give, and if she didn't want that... What else was he to do? What else did he have to offer that could possibly be of any use?
"What am I supposed to do then?" he protested, though the intensity of him was flagging in the face of her serious demeanour. "You said before that you wanted me to help, and now... what, you don't anymore?" He was honestly confused, couldn't see what she was getting at.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
04-23-2020, 11:43 PM (This post was last modified: 04-23-2020, 11:44 PM by Weaver.)
It’s not dying I’m afraid of
Her gaze softens as he speaks, confused, and she smiles and shakes her head at him slightly. ”Exactly, I said I want you there. You keep using the words want and need like they are interchangeable, but they do not mean the same thing.” A pause, a pointed look. ”And you keep acting like you don’t want to be there. You keep acting like if you aren’t there, everything will crumble around me because I can’t do anything on my own. You keep acting like a martyr who's been asked to fall on his own sword. Which is kind of insulting, you know.”
It’d been starting to piss her off, but in this setting, the words aren’t angry. She’s just giving him the truth, laying it before him so maybe he will realize. In any other situation, it may have been a much worse fight.
”If you want to be there, the bar is yours as much as it is mine. Or it can be, anyway. But if you don’t want that, that’s okay too. I just want my brother, not slave labor.” They could make it theirs, if he’d join her. If that was the path he wanted to take, she’d let him carve out some part of it for himself and make it feel like his too. But she wasn’t sure that was his path, and maybe she needed to help him realize the door was open. He was not a captive to her whims.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
Well the two were so closely related in his mind that they practically were interchangeable. One might want something, but if they didn't need it, what was the point of having it? In other words... if he wasn't needed at the bar, why would she want him there? What good could he possibly do if his presence was redundant? Their closeness and understanding had always sprung out of the mutual need to survive and do what had to be done, or so it seemed to Korbin. The need to stand united against an unforgiving world. If that was no longer the case...
Painful things were going on within him, and it reflected in the blue of his eyes. She kept saying she wanted him there, but it still felt like she was rejecting him all the same. No, he didn't want the Kraai, because the place had become synonymous with everything that was changing between them. One blazing beacon over things he was losing. He didn't like being there, because it felt like he was accepting it when he was, and he didn't want to do that.
But if he didn't have the job at the bar... if he no longer was supposed to help provide for their family... then what purpose did he have? Who needed him, if she didn't?
To his chagrin and shame, Korbin felt tears well up in his eyes again, for no reason he could discern. He looked away quickly and bit them back. Couldn't find any words to respond with - and it was better that way, he didn't know that his voice would be steady if he spoke anyway.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
She sees the tears, and even if she didn’t, his silence is enough to give him away. His silence. This hunt. That first thrown punch. She knows her brother, after all, knows that he cannot pull apart this idea of need versus want. Yet to her, it seems so simple. Perhaps it is nice to be needed, but it is far nicer to be wanted. The things you needed you sometimes simply tolerated, but the things you wanted...Well, that was something special indeed.
Weaver reaches out, hand going to his chin to turn him back to her. This time, she would not let him hide, would not let him bury his head in the sand as if it might just go away. This isn’t a problem she can fix for him. She cannot tell him who to be. But she can be here for him.
”I need my brother,” she says, her voice that same deadly quiet. She is serious in a way she rarely is, because this is more important than almost anything else in their life has been. He is more important. ”But you have ceased to be my brother. We have spent so very long simply surviving that somewhere along the way, we got lost. You are my brother, Korbin. You are my best friend. But that is everything I need from you, and those are no small things to ask of you. The rest though is just icing on the cake.”
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
She was probably the only one who could make him do anything with just a light touch. Anyone else and he would have jerked away, flinched back, been long gone by now. But this was the hand that fed and clothed him when there was no one else around. The one that put weapons in his hands, taught him to get back on his feet after being knocked over and swallow down the blood from a cracked lip rather than spit it out - because they didn't waste resources.
He looked down, met her gaze, and tried to see Straia in her eyes... but only saw Weaver.
And it made something brittle and hard - like so much glass - shatter and break inside. Korbin caved in to that steady gaze, to the sincerity in her words.
"I don't know what to do," he admitted, a hoarse confession barely louder than a whisper. "I don't... know what matters anymore. If it's not us like before, then..."
Then what did he do now? Where did he go? How was he supposed to find any answers, when there was a blizzard raging inside him, blinding him to everything but the cold and dark?
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
Her heart breaks for him, though she doesn’t show it. She shows him compassion, love, kindness, but not how her own heart shatters with his. There has always been a strange line in their relationship, one that Weaver has learned to tread on very careful. In many ways, she is both mother and sister to him, for he’d never gotten the luxury of time with his real mother. Weaver had filled that role, though she’d always done her best to do as much of it from the side of sister as she could.
It is perhaps why they are so close now. They were close even when Erebor was alive, and brought together even more when she’d lived instead of died. Though she acts as his sister, her heart breaks as a mother’s would. This is not something she can fix for him. She cannot stop the storm that rages in those blue eyes. John’s eyes. Soft and kind, deep and rich. So different from Weaver’s, from Straia’s. Korbin was most like his father, of all of them.
”There is always an us,” she tells him, because it would always be true. ”The shape of us though will change, and that’s okay. Because for once Korbin, you finally get a chance to be you. You don’t have to be all the things you hate just for us to survive. You get to be the things you want, and we’ll survive just fine.” The Kraai provided food for them, and though she would still hunt, they simply didn’t need to as much now. The Kraai provided the means to trade for all sorts of goods, giving him time to get out of the market more often. And whatever he did next would provide for them as well. For once, they didn’t have to worry about that. For once, they got to live.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
If only he knew who he was without the struggle. What did it mean, to live beyond the basic survival? Korbin wasn't sure he knew how to do it. How to do more than steal a few hours for himself when he really should be sleeping, to spend in quiet contemplation or with the lute in his hands. Anything more felt decadent. Wasteful. Arrogant. There was a pride in surviving on the edge, of having nothing but the bare necessities. Of being the one to step out there despite how much he disliked it, and do what needed to be done anyway.
Salf-sacrifice. It had a bittersweet taste to it that could be quite addictive. To feel needed. Depended upon. To be the one someone turned to, when a need arouse.
There was a guilt too, in stepping back to leave the danger of that edge for others. One he already carried, for letting Weaver do the hard part, the dirty work. How could he step back when he knew how difficult and dangerous it was to hunt, to fight, how heavy the burden of life was in your hands?
Even if he wasn't suited for it, Korbin was still capable of all those things. How could he in good conscience refrain from offering? From trying?
Weaver had already done more than her share. It was fine if she wanted to do something else, even if he disliked the circumstances. But Korbin... he didn't feel that he'd earned any kind of reprieve, or ease.
"There's nothing I want that isn't right here," he said, and almost felt like he meant it. Gazing down on her, he could feel her sincerity, the certainly of her conviction. And it hurt because he wanted to share it, but kept floundering. Lost, blind... oh, it was so much easier when all he had to do was work, eat and sleep and never think of anything beyond tomorrow. Them against the world.
Except, the world had begun to intrude upon their perfect unity. And now he was expected to play nice with it?
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
Everything is so black and white for him. In her brother’s world, he can only be one thing, which for him and for too long, has been a martyr. He falls on swords he doesn’t even need to fall on, though also on many he did need to. They’d had no choice, after all, once Erebor had died. She could not be everywhere at once. The problem is that once he did it, he’d gotten a taste for it. A taste for the accolades that came with living martyrdom.
They were both well known in Halo. Their story was no secret, not in a small town, not when it’d been so gory and delicious. They were treated with both respect and pity, a strange mix of the two things that was alluring, tantalizing. Did you hear about the Hale siblings? she can imagine someone saying. The whispers, the way the story was told just out of their hearing, after one of them had passed. Poor souls, the listener might reply, and they would tuck the information away for later use.
Kindness came hidden, in Halo. Extra tasks for Korbin to do, an easier and slightly unfair trade in his favor. That kindness came less now, though still, they received it. Weaver was very aware of it, but Korbin? He simply saw what needed to be done, or what he thought needed to be done, and did it. Never did it cross his mind that perhaps something didn’t need to be done, but the task had been given simply as a reason to give ‘those poor Hale siblings’ a little extra of whatever good that person could offer. He’d grown so used to the tasks before him that he saw no other way to live. She couldn’t broaden his view, couldn’t make him realize that perhaps some of the things he did had not all been as needed as he might think. People of Halo were tricky like that.
”I never said you had to look far,” she says, kindly enough, though with a bit of humor in her voice. ”You could play music at the Kraai, you know. Instead of washing dishes. We have dishawasher already.” He could be with her and live his own life all at the same time.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
He did frequently underestimate her, but then, perhaps so did she underestimate him. Korbin was no fool, nor was he blind. He knew perfectly well the kind of preferential treatment they were given by the people of Snowcloak. Village darlings, they were. The poor orphans who worked so hard and did so well for themselves. A sob story it was, though it had been a long time since he'd heard anyone talk about it where he could hear it now.
And that kindness, that little extra he got, the help, the chances, they were all just more reasons why he felt like he had to keep working. To give back some of what he'd been gifted. To somehow, in some small way, repay those who aided them when they had nothing. It was no trouble for him; he was young, he was strong, he had working hands and legs and the ability to learn. He could be anything, do anything - all that really stood in his way was his own head.
In so many ways, he was blessed. Didn't that make it his duty to give what he could to others? Or was that hubris, to think he might actually be able to help someone?
Then there was the matter of the Kraai. Korbin raised a brow at his sister when she brought it up, and somehow dragged his playing into it. "What does my music have to do with anything?" he asked, and tried to recall if he'd even mentioned it. No, he was pretty sure he had not. "It's just a pastime."
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
Maybe that was half their problem, the fact that they always seemed to underestimate the other. It was not that she did it on purpose, but simply because he’d always be a little boy to her. Even though he was far from that now, she couldn’t help but see the five-year-old version of him. In her head he was still a kid, still the boy who shifted and flew out from behind closed doors at them. She had a hard time seeing the man he had become.
He was grown up. She hated it. Gods, how she hated it.
Still, she also wanted him to live. Wanted him to explore, to learn who he was, to get to be who he wanted to be. They’d both had childhood ripped away from them far too soon, but maybe they’d finally been granted some time. Some time to be themselves, or at the very least, to figure it out.
She rolls her eyes at him as he doesn’t follow her train of thought. ”Because it doesn’t have to be pastime now. That’s the point. You can actually do something with it, if you want. If not that, then what else interests you? What do you want to explore?” He really is dense, sometimes.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
She'd always been good at moving forward. At stepping over any hurdles, make them boost her on the way to the next goal. It was something he admired with her, and always wished he could emulate. Korbin really wanted to be able to let go, the way she did. To not carry everything of the past like a chain around the neck, constantly weighing him down. He really did want to cast it off, fly free, look towards tomorrow and see the kind of hope she did.
But... when she asked what he wanted to do, what interested him, something shifted in his gaze. It shuddered away, dimmed, like a door suddenly closing. Walls coming up to guard even from her. Not because he couldn't think of anything, but because... well... he was afraid. Things he loved were always taken away. Why would dreams and interests be any different from family members?
Best way to guard them seemed to be not to talk to them. If he never began to expect anything from them, he wouldn't be disappointed when he was inevitably let down. He wouldn't have to hurt over it.
"If I knew that, we wouldn't be having this conversation," he replied shortly.
Withdrawing, Korbin turned and started walking again, the pace he set brisk. Meant to be punishing enough to prevent further talk.
He wasn't sure whether he could take much more at the moment. Loren had been wrong; talking really didn't help anything at all right now. The boiling frustration was still there, not lessened in the slightest even after the spar... and he still hadn't found an outlet for it.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
She didn’t really see failure. She saw only lessons in the failures, saw stepping stones to something better. There were misstarts and missteps, there were stumbling blocks and full on roadblocks, there were twists and turns along the path. The path was half the fun though, for the destination was not really the goal. The goal was to keep going, to find one destination and then the next. For one was never enough. One was a disappointment, a letdown, because there was always more.
It was not that she forgot the past, it was simply that she knew how to keep moving. She knew how to carry her past pain, her past loses, as one carries their childhood blanket. It is a part of her, but it was not a weight.
”That is why I am asking you,” she says, some of the softness leaving her voice as all his damn walls go slamming back into place. ”And I will keep asking you, because eventually maybe you will actually think about it and try something.” He spins and sets off at a brutal pace though, which she is no longer willing to tolerate. She throws up a wall of fire in front of him, attempting to halt him in his tracks.
She follows behind him at her own pace, calling above the wind. ”Stop shutting the world out, Korbin. Fuck, stop shutting me out. Because in the end, that’s going to hurt even more.”
