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,
There were a lot of demons to haunt him, weren't there? Maybe that was why it hit him so hard now. One crisis too many, the straw that finally broke the camel's back... It seemed he just wasn't as strong as her, because she had all of the same ones, yet Weaver wasn't breaking.
Later, he might remember this moment and loathe the way he let himself be dressed like he was no more than a child. Yet while he was in it, he didn't even register the shirt being pulled over his head. His thoughts were circling on Loren too, but in a far different way. He saw the healer's fists rise and fall to strike at a face that couldn't get away, because Korbin was holding it down. Slowly choking the life out of it, until eyes bulged and the tongue lolled out. Like a dog. Like a slaughtered animal.
It took a long while before the paper registered with him. The single word took even longer to process, before he recalled having said anything.
"The fight," he said slowly, words slurred and not fully formed - his inability to hear really showed through here, where his mind couldn't focus on shaping the words properly. "The cannibal. I keep seeing... didn't mean to hurt. It wasn't you, it was.."
His gaze was turning distant again, once again fading back into the vision that had caught hold of him in the training hall.
Maybe Loren would have been a better choice. But what could the healer do here? What could anyone do, when Korbin was trapped in his own mind and couldn't find a way out?
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
Funny, how life comes full circle. How she’d told Loren that after Erebor died, after she’d broken in the silence of her room when she was well enough to even understand, truly, what had happened, that she'd simply resolved not to break again. It had been a mask, for a while. Put on for Korbin, and somewhat for herself, to keep them going when going on felt impossible. Eventually that invincibility became a part of her. She doesn’t really know how it happened, or when it happened, only that it did. That at some point she’d gone from hiding the brokenness to simply being hard to break.
She dresses him, and though he is a child in this moment, it isn’t all that strange really. How many times had she helped him dress? How many times had she wandered into his room and told him to unbutton the back of some dress she’d put on for a particular occasion? This is what they did. They took care of one another, even when they didn’t always feel like it. Because in the end, she would never leave him alone.
He finally speaks, his words like a drunken man’s, but she gets the impression. Ah. The cannibal. Someone not really human anymore, someone who needed to die. She can’t make it better for him, not really, so she doesn’t try. Instead she tugs at his hand slightly, encouraging him toward the pillow, encouraging him to lie down. She grabs some furs, planning to toss them over him and at least try to keep him warm. What does she know about shock, about stuff like this? Maybe she should take Loren up on the offer of lessons. For now though, she can tuck him in, and if he obliges, she can curl up next to him and keep him company.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
It didn't matter that it was 'only' a cannibal. It was not about the exile, or the fight, or his mortal peril, or even Loren's bleeding arm and roaring dragon. Korbin couldn't even say why this incident had gotten to him so deeply when so many other things had happened before. Perhaps it was the last straw to break the camel's back. Maybe it was because of the immensity of the burden a life really was, and that it went against everything he really wanted to do.
Maybe there just was no reason at all.
Still mostly lost to the world, Korbin obeyed the gentle directions to lie down, and slumped back onto the bed. The furs were too hot and not warm enough, the hairs poking and prickling, tickling and disturbing his senses. Reaching out a hand, he made to tug Weaver down beside him, and tried to pull her in close, so he could tuck his head onto her shoulder.
How long had it been since he lay like that? Years, probably. He had been a lot smaller, a lot younger, and cried for a mother that never came back, no matter how long he waited. Korbin didn't cry now, but the ache inside his chest was the same.
Maybe if he could be allowed to pretend, for just a moment, that none of this had happened... he might find a way back to himself.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
He reaches for her, and she obliges, because of course she would oblige. She’d never intended to go anywhere at all, but to stay by his side. There is nothing else she can offer him besides her presence, but sometimes that is enough. Sometimes that is all that matters. She slides into the bed with him, letting him tuck his head against her shoulder. She reaches around him, wrapping him in her arms. How many times had they done this, when he was little? When he’d been scared, or after their parents died. There’d been a few nights after Erebor died too, after she’d come back home. She’d slipped into his room just to be there, just to hold him tight. Maybe her arms around him could keep him safe. Maybe too, it could keep her strong.
So they lay like that now, like they have so many times before but not for a long time. Maybe that’s where they went wrong, when they ceased to curl up together the way only siblings can. When they’d ceased to hold to each other physically, remembering only the emotional pain that serving such a bond can bring. She doesn’t know, and maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it only matters that she is here now, that when everything else breaks, they still have each other.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
The beat of her heart was soothing. It was a constant rhythm, familiar and safe, and feeling it pulse against his cheek let Korbin focus on something beyond what went on in his head. Slowly, painfully so, his taught muscles relaxed and the breathing evened out. Falling into a doze, halfway between sleeping and wakefulness, he watched the scenes of all the terrible things he'd been through roll past his vision. Replay, over and over again, fading a little more with each time. The death of dad, the disappearance of mom, the death and struggle of his brother and sister. Lovers found and lost, wounded animals tended in secret by clumsy young boy hands, only to succumb to the chill or inevitable slaughter for survival.
He recalled that winter he had spent as a raven, cooped up among the rafters - there hadn't been enough food, and as the bird he wouldn't have to eat as much. No one had asked him to do it; they didn't have to. It hadn't been awful, but returning back to himself as a human had been perhaps the hardest thing he'd lived through.
"I love you too, sister," he mumbled, half asleep, in response to a note she had written not so very long ago. He had shrugged it off then, but somehow it seemed very important to say it now. She knew, or should know, but he needed to say it all the same. "I'm sorry for all of this. I really am."
That's when the tears started rolling. Hot and painful; he tried to hold them back, struggled to regain control of himself.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
His breathing grows steady, not quite asleep but somewhere near enough to it. She closes her eyes, content to simply be in the moment. There are a million things she could be doing, but nothing is as important as him. The Kraai would survive without her. Their chores could wait; the house was always messy anyway. So she just stays, arms wrapped around him, holding on tighter than she has in so long. Which is saying something, because she has always held on tight to her brother, for he is all she has left.
There may be outlanders now. There may be the Kraai now. There may be portals and Loren and dreams to dream and lives to live. None of those things mattered without him though. Maybe she didn’t tell him that enough, didn’t explain well enough that all those things were just bonuses. She did need him. She needed him to be her brother, to stay, to be safe and tucked in her arms forever. Without him, what other reason to go on did she have? He’d been her whole reason for so long, though she has never told him that. It feels like too much of a burden to put on him, and so she keeps the secret. Maybe it would be better if she told him.
He speaks, and she opens her eyes to look at him, a little surprised. Her smile is soft, gentle and kind, a smile that is almost only ever seen by him. She cannot respond without the paper, and that would involve letting him go for a moment, which she will not do. So instead, she hugs him tighter, leaning her face down to kiss his forehead, wrapping him up in her as he cries. Without words she can tell him that she loves him. Without words, she can tell him it’s okay to cry.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
He felt like a child again. And maybe that was just how it should be. Because really, when was the last time he acted like one? He grew up too fast. So did she, really, and maybe that was the whole problem. They were really just kids, struggling desperately to stay alive in a world that had no place for weakness. They needed to be hugged more, loved more, but all they were given were matchboxes and knives, a map half drawn on the road to survival. Plenty of help along the way, sure, but they still had to figure stuff out on their own.
Korbin felt the love and warmth in that small kiss, in the way she held him tighter. And he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her in close; cried like a little boy, as something shifted and eased inside. How many breakdowns did it take to reach rock bottom? Was this it? Had he stopped falling now? He prayed it wouldn't get worse than this. That this was the bottom, and all he had to do now was to start the climb back into himself.
If she wanted to place burdens on him, he would be happy to carry them. She was his reason, and Korbin didn't hesitate to place the weight of that on her. Because it was that important. Meant that much. And he believed from the bottom of his heart that she was strong enough to carry it with her back straight. That kind of love was a responsibility; maybe one he desperately needed to bear.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
He was still a kid, really. Nineteen is a good age. It’s the age where you are supposed to be starting to figure it out, to truly take care of yourself, to be freed from your family to make your own way. Instead, they’d had their family ripped away and neither of them would ever know how to leave the other. The thought is a foreign one, the idea impossible. She would always be his, in some way, as he would always be hers. She would never feel grown because she has always been grown, nearly as far back as she can remember. Their childhood had been too short for each of them, and maybe now that was coming back to haunt them.
The fall hurts, but sometimes it’s the climb back up that is harder. She can hold him as he tumbles down, can kiss his forehead and wipe away the tears. But she cannot build him back up. She can be there with him, but she cannot do the work. It’s a lonely road. One she’d shortcutted by jumping, making up her mind in one moment that she simply had to change. That does not seem like the method Korbin will use. For him, it will be a journey, but one worth taking.
Perhaps one day, she’d tell him the whole truth. Perhaps one day she wouldn’t be afraid of asking him to bear even more, because he already bears so many. Maybe one day she will realize it’s the thing he needs. The idea sits there, in her mind, but now is not the time. It’s not the sort of thing she wants to write, and it’s not the sort of thing he needs right now. Right now, all she can do is hold him.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
Eventually, just like the madness, the tears faded away. It was a storm blowing past, a rumble of thunder and lightning in the midst of heavy snowfall, growing smaller and fainter with time. Eventually, silence reigned surpreme again, much as it had never left for him.
He breathed easier now. At some point in all of this, his thoughts had shifted away from the nightmares, and circled sluggishly on more ordinary things. Work, and chores. How Noah was doing, and Ezekiel - who had never returned at the turn of the season, and seemed lost to the leisures of Torchline. Friends and acquaintances, sad times and fun times, bad years and good ones.
It was not quite peace, what came over him, but it was the closest thing he had felt in a while. "Thank you, Weaver," he murmured, and reached up a hand to touch her cheek. Always there when he needed her; gods, what a debt he had to repay after all this. He really wouldn't deny her anything.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
He quiets, though she doesn’t let him go. She stays with her head pressed against his, her arms around him. Maybe she holds him as much for herself as for him. Maybe she holds him because she, too, misses what they were, because despite her longing for the world, she longs too for the simplicity of the life they once had. Some part of her will always mourn when it was simple, when it was just them against the world. Not that that has gone away, but it has changed, and it will stay changed. For all her talk, sometimes she wants nothing at all but the one thing she has always had.
If only he could hear. All the things she could tell him. They threaten to spill from her so easily now, but it wouldn’t matter. He lived in a world of silence, and she couldn’t convey what she wanted in scribbles on a piece of paper. She could not tell him just how much he meant with a pen.
He speaks again, and she lifts one hand to trace letters in the air. A L W A Y S. She closes her eyes as he touches her cheek, leaning into his hand slightly. John and Mom and Erebor flash into her mind, and in this moment, she is full with both the joy of all the things she has been lucky enough to have and the pain of all the things they have lost.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
He watched her trace the letters, and smiled wearily at the message. Here, now, in this moment, he believed her like never before. It took family to set aside the kind of harm they'd done to each other and end up here, like this. It was surreal, how they could cut each other to pieces with sharp knives, only to snuggle on a bed like nothing happened. But such was the life of the Hale's. Always had been a mad rollercoaster, even while they were all alive. Korbin didn't remember much from that hazy, golden time, but he did remember that.
Shifting, Korbin raised his head and sat up a bit more, pushed himself higher up on the pillows. Gathering his sister up in his arms, he tucked her in beneath his own chin, to return the favor. She was always the strong one, always the one who held herself together. And maybe that's just how she was, how she wanted to be... but if they were already using this day to break, he at least wanted to offer her the chance to do so. If she felt like it. In case she needed it.
And if the Scythe proved to be just a young woman like any other, capable of shedding blood and tears alike... it would stay a family secret. Korbin wasn't going to tell.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
They were so close, it made it easier to cut each other apart, literally and figuratively. They know the right buttons to push, they know the words that will hurt. They know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. In the end though, they are family of the strongest kind. The cuts don’t matter. Not in training, when they slice each other open. Not in verbal fights, when they slice far deeper than any knife could go. She will always forgive the cuts, because she has already forgiven them all already.
He shifts their position, and for once, she lets herself be held in return. He rests his chin on her head, and she finds herself snuggling into the crook of his neck, simply curling against him. She does not cry. Maybe she doesn’t know how anymore. Maybe her tears dried up after Erebor was killed, after she would have given anything to trade her life for his. Maybe she would cry, if there were words to speak, if the truth could come tumbling out of her.
Perhaps this truth was always meant to be locked away. Funny thing, timing. When she finally would tell him, he cannot hear the truth anyway.
But still, she lets herself be held. She wraps her arms around him and curls against him, tucked in his embrace. In so many ways that speaks volumes compared to tears from Weaver. To be held, like that, is to feel vulnerable and weak, to admit that maybe you cannot stand up all on your own. So she does not cry, but she falls apart all the same, holding tight to her brother.
And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed,
He could shed tears for her too. Perhaps that was a role he could still fill in all this. The softer touch, the lighter shade of black. The one that bled red, that couldn't always get back up. The one to hold back, where she dragged them on. The break, to her gas.
It only made for a good team when they worked together, though. Like they were here. A balance lost was found again in the simple act of holding and being held, in allowing some of that core to shine through, to be seen. Korbin found that he couldn't actually remember that she ever let herself lean on him this way. Possibly it had happened, but... Weaver always went to Erebor for that kind of support. Their brother had been a rock, a mountain, so solidly grounded that nothing seemed to phase him. The kind of man you could lean on. Weaver was a fire, burning hot and bright, always moving on, leaving the ashes of the past behind seemingly without a second glance. And Korbin? A feather on the breeze, swept this way and that, as of yet unable to take control over his own fate.
And still she nestled in against him, and his heart bled for the things she didn't say, the things he only understood here because he couldn't hear. Because he had to listen with his heart instead.
Maybe a curse wasn't always a curse. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, too. His grip on her tightened, holding on like he never planned to let go.
And in a very real way, he never would. No matter what happened.
Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
Perhaps that was how they were made, two halves of one far greater whole. He could temper her fire while she could stoke his. He could remind her how to feel where she would remind him that they learn to move on anyway. They only needed to stop and remind themselves of this, once in a while. Stop and remember they were meant to be together, two metals forged into one to make the blade stronger. They were double edged, so long as it was both of them.
Us against the world. He cannot hear it, and she does not say it, but the truth hangs in the air all the same.
She has not let him hold her like this. The closest would have been after Erebor’s death, when she’d crept into his room to hold him. She’d held him, yes, but it had been for her own benefit, too afraid to let him go in case she might lose him as well. Too afraid to show weakness, because she did not want to give him any more to worry about. It had been easier to lean on Erebor for strength. He’d had it in droves, in excess to simply give away. Besides, then he’d been the oldest, the responsible one. He’d been the one who did not get to break. She wonders now if he would have, if there’d been someone for him.
Strange, how much can be said with no words. How much can be said by the way their arms hold tight to one another. So many apologies, in those arms. So many promises in the beating of their hearts against their chests. So many explanations written into the silence. All the things they could not say or did not want to say, finally heard, when there is nothing to hear at all.
