WEAVER
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.
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.
I was made to be wild, wicked, and free
