KORBIN
And my hands are not clean,
maybe they never will be
maybe they never will be
Well clearly looks and half spoken meanings didn't come across as they once did. Maybe they were never as good at communication as they believed, or perhaps it had just been easier when all they had to say was about daily chores, of staying safe, of going about their own routines.
Korbin responded to her look with one of his own, a brow arched when she questioned him further. He wasn't sure what part she didn't get; that he would never stop caring what she thought, or that she was judging everything he did whether she intended to or not.
He was still puzzling out what to say when she scribbled out the rest of the reply. It made his face fall in disappointment. The raven sighed and looked down, fixing his gaze on the hide as thoughts churned through his head.
"I would kill a hundred creatures if it helped you," he said at last, voice rough and eyes downcast. "I will help you open however many bars if that is what you want to do. I won't love it, but if it makes you happy, I'll do it anyway. You don't have to protect me from unpleasant tasks, Weaver. It won't kill me to hunt. It won't ruin me to fight." He drew in a deep breath, to keep the voice as steady as he could make it.
"But it just might do both if you keep excluding me and deciding things for me. When was the last time we made any decision together? You go off on your own without telling me where. You decided to make the bar and to change everything about our lives without asking for my opinion. Now you've done this too without even asking if I cared to help. Am I really that unreliable, to you?"
His tone was soft, more so than it had been in a long time. But he sounded sad, and hurt, and resigned. Because... well, the evidence was there, wasn't it. He clearly wasn't enough to keep her happy and content.
Korbin responded to her look with one of his own, a brow arched when she questioned him further. He wasn't sure what part she didn't get; that he would never stop caring what she thought, or that she was judging everything he did whether she intended to or not.
He was still puzzling out what to say when she scribbled out the rest of the reply. It made his face fall in disappointment. The raven sighed and looked down, fixing his gaze on the hide as thoughts churned through his head.
"I would kill a hundred creatures if it helped you," he said at last, voice rough and eyes downcast. "I will help you open however many bars if that is what you want to do. I won't love it, but if it makes you happy, I'll do it anyway. You don't have to protect me from unpleasant tasks, Weaver. It won't kill me to hunt. It won't ruin me to fight." He drew in a deep breath, to keep the voice as steady as he could make it.
"But it just might do both if you keep excluding me and deciding things for me. When was the last time we made any decision together? You go off on your own without telling me where. You decided to make the bar and to change everything about our lives without asking for my opinion. Now you've done this too without even asking if I cared to help. Am I really that unreliable, to you?"
His tone was soft, more so than it had been in a long time. But he sounded sad, and hurt, and resigned. Because... well, the evidence was there, wasn't it. He clearly wasn't enough to keep her happy and content.
But they can still carry you home
when you are ready to sleep
when you are ready to sleep
