KORBIN
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
That blushed and bloomed,
The bang of the door made him turn on his heels. It reminded him of the sound Loren's fist had made when it connected with the cannibal's face. The twang of the bowstring that had sent an arrow flying skyward towards them. His breath tried to pick up again but Korbin tried to resist it, forced each lungful down slowly, deep and deliberate.
His hands were still shaking. He tried to pull the heavy overcoat off, but his fingers were so numb, they wouldn't obey. Forced to let Weaver peel off the layers, he couldn't quite recall how he got from the hallway and into his room. He just saw the bed and wanted to crash down on it, sleep and never wake up into this nightmare again.
It was so backwards. He was the one who should be caring for her. After what he'd done, what he'd almost been unable to keep himself from doing... This was all wrong.
Very slowly, the young man eased himself down onto the bed. Sat on the very edge, like it was full of needles. The blood staining his torn shirt and skin was sticky and itched; he should remove it. Clean up, before the skin got irritated. Halfway through the motion, he remembered that there had been no blood that day. Only Loren's torn sleeve and light graze; his own hands had been clean, even though he'd sullied them with murder.
So very, very clean. Korbin shuddered and closed his eyes. Tried to shut the images away, but only succeeded with blocking out Weaver.
His hands were still shaking. He tried to pull the heavy overcoat off, but his fingers were so numb, they wouldn't obey. Forced to let Weaver peel off the layers, he couldn't quite recall how he got from the hallway and into his room. He just saw the bed and wanted to crash down on it, sleep and never wake up into this nightmare again.
It was so backwards. He was the one who should be caring for her. After what he'd done, what he'd almost been unable to keep himself from doing... This was all wrong.
Very slowly, the young man eased himself down onto the bed. Sat on the very edge, like it was full of needles. The blood staining his torn shirt and skin was sticky and itched; he should remove it. Clean up, before the skin got irritated. Halfway through the motion, he remembered that there had been no blood that day. Only Loren's torn sleeve and light graze; his own hands had been clean, even though he'd sullied them with murder.
So very, very clean. Korbin shuddered and closed his eyes. Tried to shut the images away, but only succeeded with blocking out Weaver.
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
Of the old time entombed.
