[Training] [SE] but the silence was unbroken

KORBIN

And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,

A novelty, a responsibility. A show of trust, as he had asked. Far from being a burden, Korbin found himself bolstered by the simple act of holding her. There might be some truth to the cliché about that male need to provide, or just his own personal need to be needed. Or wanted, whichever term made Weaver happier.

Regardless, the young raven breathed easier, relaxed further, and the calm of the moment settled deep into his bones. A quiet reserve of strength to draw from, when he set out to do what needed to be done.

And in his mind, Korbin came to a decision. He had to do something about all this. The anger, the chaos, this... whatever the meltdown was. Even if it meant talking to Loren, or visiting a shrine again.

He owed it to both of them to try.

Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

WEAVER

At least for the moment, the difference between need and want ceases to matter. Maybe she shouldn’t be so stubborn, because for her brother, need was the important thing. He wanted to be needed. And gods, she did need him. In the same vein she didn’t want him to feel like he had to fall on his sword to help her when it made him miserable. It was a balancing act she couldn’t seem to figure out, but maybe they’d learn. Maybe he’d grow to find his place in the world and his joy while realizing she always wanted/needed him around. Maybe she’d grow to learn how to show it better, to be something other than a cold, glittering weapon.

She closes her eyes, content to curl against her brother, finding him as comforting as she had once found Erebor. Her breathing evens slightly, though she’s not asleep. She’s just calm. Her mind is quiet, and she doesn’t feel like she has to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders.

After a moment, she opens her eyes and picks up a hand to spell in the air again. Maybe he already knows it, but she needs to say it write it anyway. I M S O R R Y. For what? Well that didn’t really matter, did it? She was simply sorry. Sorry for everything. For all the loss, for all the pain, for all the times she didn’t tell him how she really felt, for pretending when she didn’t have to.

I was made to be wild, wicked, and free

KORBIN

And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,

He would have puffed up and preened in proud delight if he knew she found him to be equal to his brother in anything. Erebor always seemed a distant, unreachable pinnacle in his mind, just as Straia was. Even as a kid, he had an easier time of connecting with his father. They spoke the same language, in many ways, even if Korbin had been more loud and rambunctious than his dad. Their values were the same, their roles and obligations similar... Now he wondered how similar they actually were. His memories were so vague, it always saddened him to realize that he barely knew anything at all of his father.

His eyes, that had drooped into a content half-doze, pried open to watch as Weaver spelled out more words in the air. At first, Korbin thought he must have misread. Was she actually apologizing? Why? For what? He drew in breath to raise a storm of protest, but seemed to think better of it. Letting out a slow breath, the young man considered everything they had been through. Particularly recent events, the changes wrought upon their lives. Much was unavoidable. Accidents and turns of events that had nothing to do with them, save for the fact that they happened to them. But of course, there were things she was responsible for. Just as he was responsible for others.

And maybe they were just not good enough at really apologizing for the screw-ups. Too accustomed to defending, that they started to do it to each other as well. 'Us' had somehow turned into 'me', even if only for an instant here and there... and for all that it was human and necessary o consider the own self and develop the ego, they really did work better together.

Perhaps, the trick here was to turn the 'us' into 'you and me'. That might be where the balance lay.

Korbin smiled softly. T H A N K  Y O U, he spelled out. Not because he had to - he could just say it aloud - but it seemed somehow wrong, to break this quiet that they both actually shared. Even if it wasn't quite the same, Korbin enjoyed imagining that they were together in the silence too, not just in the moment and curled up on the bed, like small children coaxed into taking a midday nap.

There were so many things to be grateful for. Her kindness, however saw-toothed and blunt it may be at times. The patience, the boundless acceptance, her sheer, stubborn refusal to give up on the things that mattered. He owed all he was to her, and he was honored to be her brother. It was a lot to live up to, but that was the kind of pressure he wanted to rise up to.

Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

WEAVER

Erebor and Straia always felt like unreachable pinnacles to her as well. Memory and admiration are funny things, the way they can reshape and distort the truth. Her memory of Erebor is good, but still, time has blurred it. Her memory of their mother is better than Korbin’s, but she’d been young enough when Straia had disappeared that she is sure her memory is faulty. In her mind, both of them were perfect, some new level that she could never hope to achieve. It wasn’t true, of course. Each had their faults, though Weaver isn’t sure she could tell you what they were. Not now, anyway. Death too tends to shift perceptions like that.

John too seemed perfect, though in a different way. Where Straia was a force, and her brother had been a mountain, John had simply been. He’d been kind and quiet, the sort of man that believed in responsibility and doing what needed to be done. Korbin has grown so much into the role that his father left open, and Weaver hadn’t really seen it. They look alike, John and Korbin. They act alike too, though John didn’t play at being a martyr quite so well as Korbin had been lately. It doesn’t hurt to see John in her younger brother, but she hadn’t been paying quite enough attention until now, and it hurts that she missed it.

He spells out his response, and she smiles as he writes it. Maybe it is better this way, all the things that go unsaid. They don’t feel necessary anymore, as if they have all been understood in the simplicity of the silence. As if the silence could speak far better than either of them would ever manage. Words got so tangled, and no matter how hard she tried, she could never quite get them right. Instead they just argued, twisting around meanings that they couldn’t quite explain. This worked so much better.

She closes her eyes again, wrapping her arms back around him, in no rush to leave.

I was made to be wild, wicked, and free

KORBIN

And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,

If only everything could stay this simple. Peaceful, quiet and serene, with only heartbeats and simple words to guide them. But sooner or later the world inevitably would make itself reminded, and they would have to rouse, return to chores and work, to people and change.

He had been acting the victim, lately. There were far more graceful ways of letting the world know you were not interested in being swept away. Perhaps one of these days he would be able to find a better way, one that didn't hurt the people around him. Hopefully, this temporary madness would remain temporary... or at least, if it returned there would be a way of handling it, of curing it. He wanted to laugh again, to dream again, to feel the kind of hope and strength when looking at a new day that Weaver seemed to have.

In this moment, he wished, above all, that he could be more like her.

But there was no rush. He was strangely exhausted still, muscles aching like he'd run all over the Tundra in a single day, and sleep beckoned. Weaver didn't seem in a mind to leave, so Korbin tucked them both in under the furs and settled down, fully intending to make this a proper nap.

-------

- FIN

Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.