KORBIN
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
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?
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.
Of the old time entombed.
