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