Lonely shadows following me
Lonely ghosts come a-calling
Lonely ghosts come a-calling
Some time in the night, when Kiada had fallen asleep and the Kraai lay quiet, Korbin shifted back into himself and slipped away. Out into the cold night he went, heedless of leaving his coat behind. The cold air ate at his exposed skin and froze the sweat on his face. Cold sweat, brought on by the pain of broken ribs. He could feel the sundered edges scrape against one another, now and then stabbing a muscle at the side, or worse, grazing against a lung. If he kept moving around, sooner or later he would damage himself beyond repair.
But that was okay.
Staggering, face drawn, Korbin made his slow agonizing way home. The house was dark when he got there. Empty. When he pushed the front door open, he was met with a barrage of familiar scents. So well known they barely registered. Dust in corners, dishes that should have been taken care of, clothes that needed washing. A scent of bread regularly baked, of leather and soap and alcohol, and the cigarettes Weaver kept smuggling into her room.
It was cold. The fire had long since burned out. They would have to fine for that... though Weaver might waive it, now that she was the Warden. Rules never applied to her.
Slowly, Korbin moved through the house, lost in a haze of memories. Floorboards creaked under his feet, and brought to mind the steps of his parents in the early mornings, in that dimly remembered time when everything was still alright. He couldn't quite recall his mom's face, but the voice that called for them to wake up rang clear and crisp to him across time. Would anyone remember her name? Straia Hale. The strong, indomitable woman who walked out one day and never returned.
Pushing open the door to his parent's bedchamber, he found the air inside stale and stagnant. No one had been inside for a long time. Not since dad died and the traces of his illness was cleaned out. Maybe Erebor had come to fetch some tool or other, to gather a trinket for trade when times were hard. Korbin had often been told he was most like Larse out of his sons, but his own memories were reduced to a man with blue eyes and a soft smile. Everything else was lost in the ravages of time.
Erebor's room was just as he left it. That morning, he had been in a hurry, and strewn clothes and items around as he got ready. Reaching down with a soft groan, Korbin's frostbitten fingers closed on a light inner coat of black leather. With great pain he slowly pulled it on, and was surprised to find that it fit rather well. A bit wide over the shoulders and arms... Hos brother had been a mountain, someone he'd never hoped to ever match. Now he was just as tall. Who would ever think to compare them now?
Passing by his own bedroom, Korbin pushed open the door to Weaver's. He stood hesitating in the doorway, listening for the shout to stay out. She had always waltzed into his without a second thought, never bothering to knock, but if he so much as peeked inside hers, she thrashed him for it. Arbitrary rules. He went in. There were clothes strewn on the floor. A bottle of whiskey and glasses sat on the bedstand, and makeup, hairbrushes and scattered pieces of jewlery littered a desk. Gifts from him, from their parents, from Erebor and a number of suitors over the years. She rarely wore them. The dagger in it's sheath was more her thing. Picking it up, Korbin drew the blade out and smiled wryly; the blade was chipped. Left behind to be sharpened later, no doubt. Absently, he pocketed it.
The scent of her was stronger here. It followed him, like a thought or a ghost as he left to go downstairs. On his way, he paused by the lamps along the hallway. Lifted them down, unscrewed the lid and poured the contents onto the floor. One by one; the last he sprinkled onto the steps of the stair.
Korbin went into the workshop next. In the dark, the shadows were heavy, and he remembered the conversation he had held with Weaver as they worked on her leather. One sided; he had talked, and her replies had been written notes on a grubby piece of paper. Searching the floor, he spotted a patch if shimmering gray in the gloom. As he picked it up and unfurled it, the letters were illegible. But he didn't have to read it to know every line.
I love you, brother, she had written. And he had only shrugged. Not replied, until weeks later when it was almost too late. Ah, well. It didn't matter now. He said it, and she knew. Always knew that he loved her too.
Finding wood chips and stashes of kindling, he scattered it across the floor. It was a shame on all the tools, but couldn't be helped. Selfishly, he did want to see them in the hands of another. At least the pantry was empty. Their stores had been the first to be handed out when the Palace fell. Weaver thought him heartless at times, when he didn't want to lend things out or give food away. Now she had nothing to complain about.
Into the hallway he went, emptying the rest of the lamps onto the floor. Splashed some on the walls too, just for good measure. He couldn't remember when they had all been lit at the same time. If ever. It had been many years since this stopped being a real home, but now... now it was only a monument over everything that had been lost.
Strangely, the kitchen was harder to look at. It hurt to strew debris onto his own painstakingly swept floors. It felt beyond strange to empty the last bottle of oil onto the pile of wood by the hearth, and for a long time he stood with flint and steel in hand, staring at the table. A few ningo feathers had fallen to the floor and wedged in under a leg. They had been plucking them, and argued about the bar. Was it really only a season ago? Now Deepfrost was halfway through. Funny, how much could change in such a short time.
How many funerals could a person attend, before they turned nineteen? Korbin was relieved that he wouldn't have to find out.
Crouching down, he struck flint to steel and watched the spark spring to life. Twice, three times; then it caught on a piece of tinder and flared up. For a moment he watched, ready to keep going if it looked about to die down. But as it grew, it reached a pool of oil. With a roar the flame rose up, greedily consuming the fuel, and with a sigh Korbin leaned back against the cupboards behind him. Staggered, and slumped onto the floor.
As he watched the fire spread, he recalled how the light of it had danced over his sister's face as she held out a palm towards him. It had brought light to her dark eyes, and shimmered over the dark braid. She had been smiling, even though her eyes were sad.
"May we burn brightly," he whispered, hoarse and ragged. His breath hitched, tears welled up... and he finally felt how something snapped inside. Throwing back his head the last Hale let out a howl of pain, loud and piercing, not caring who might hear. Again and again he screamed, until the vocal chords tore and cracked and the taste of blood filled his mouth. The fire was rising high all around him now, roaring and consuming what was left of his life.
It was only as it should.
But that was okay.
Staggering, face drawn, Korbin made his slow agonizing way home. The house was dark when he got there. Empty. When he pushed the front door open, he was met with a barrage of familiar scents. So well known they barely registered. Dust in corners, dishes that should have been taken care of, clothes that needed washing. A scent of bread regularly baked, of leather and soap and alcohol, and the cigarettes Weaver kept smuggling into her room.
It was cold. The fire had long since burned out. They would have to fine for that... though Weaver might waive it, now that she was the Warden. Rules never applied to her.
Slowly, Korbin moved through the house, lost in a haze of memories. Floorboards creaked under his feet, and brought to mind the steps of his parents in the early mornings, in that dimly remembered time when everything was still alright. He couldn't quite recall his mom's face, but the voice that called for them to wake up rang clear and crisp to him across time. Would anyone remember her name? Straia Hale. The strong, indomitable woman who walked out one day and never returned.
Pushing open the door to his parent's bedchamber, he found the air inside stale and stagnant. No one had been inside for a long time. Not since dad died and the traces of his illness was cleaned out. Maybe Erebor had come to fetch some tool or other, to gather a trinket for trade when times were hard. Korbin had often been told he was most like Larse out of his sons, but his own memories were reduced to a man with blue eyes and a soft smile. Everything else was lost in the ravages of time.
Erebor's room was just as he left it. That morning, he had been in a hurry, and strewn clothes and items around as he got ready. Reaching down with a soft groan, Korbin's frostbitten fingers closed on a light inner coat of black leather. With great pain he slowly pulled it on, and was surprised to find that it fit rather well. A bit wide over the shoulders and arms... Hos brother had been a mountain, someone he'd never hoped to ever match. Now he was just as tall. Who would ever think to compare them now?
Passing by his own bedroom, Korbin pushed open the door to Weaver's. He stood hesitating in the doorway, listening for the shout to stay out. She had always waltzed into his without a second thought, never bothering to knock, but if he so much as peeked inside hers, she thrashed him for it. Arbitrary rules. He went in. There were clothes strewn on the floor. A bottle of whiskey and glasses sat on the bedstand, and makeup, hairbrushes and scattered pieces of jewlery littered a desk. Gifts from him, from their parents, from Erebor and a number of suitors over the years. She rarely wore them. The dagger in it's sheath was more her thing. Picking it up, Korbin drew the blade out and smiled wryly; the blade was chipped. Left behind to be sharpened later, no doubt. Absently, he pocketed it.
The scent of her was stronger here. It followed him, like a thought or a ghost as he left to go downstairs. On his way, he paused by the lamps along the hallway. Lifted them down, unscrewed the lid and poured the contents onto the floor. One by one; the last he sprinkled onto the steps of the stair.
Korbin went into the workshop next. In the dark, the shadows were heavy, and he remembered the conversation he had held with Weaver as they worked on her leather. One sided; he had talked, and her replies had been written notes on a grubby piece of paper. Searching the floor, he spotted a patch if shimmering gray in the gloom. As he picked it up and unfurled it, the letters were illegible. But he didn't have to read it to know every line.
I love you, brother, she had written. And he had only shrugged. Not replied, until weeks later when it was almost too late. Ah, well. It didn't matter now. He said it, and she knew. Always knew that he loved her too.
Finding wood chips and stashes of kindling, he scattered it across the floor. It was a shame on all the tools, but couldn't be helped. Selfishly, he did want to see them in the hands of another. At least the pantry was empty. Their stores had been the first to be handed out when the Palace fell. Weaver thought him heartless at times, when he didn't want to lend things out or give food away. Now she had nothing to complain about.
Into the hallway he went, emptying the rest of the lamps onto the floor. Splashed some on the walls too, just for good measure. He couldn't remember when they had all been lit at the same time. If ever. It had been many years since this stopped being a real home, but now... now it was only a monument over everything that had been lost.
Strangely, the kitchen was harder to look at. It hurt to strew debris onto his own painstakingly swept floors. It felt beyond strange to empty the last bottle of oil onto the pile of wood by the hearth, and for a long time he stood with flint and steel in hand, staring at the table. A few ningo feathers had fallen to the floor and wedged in under a leg. They had been plucking them, and argued about the bar. Was it really only a season ago? Now Deepfrost was halfway through. Funny, how much could change in such a short time.
How many funerals could a person attend, before they turned nineteen? Korbin was relieved that he wouldn't have to find out.
Crouching down, he struck flint to steel and watched the spark spring to life. Twice, three times; then it caught on a piece of tinder and flared up. For a moment he watched, ready to keep going if it looked about to die down. But as it grew, it reached a pool of oil. With a roar the flame rose up, greedily consuming the fuel, and with a sigh Korbin leaned back against the cupboards behind him. Staggered, and slumped onto the floor.
As he watched the fire spread, he recalled how the light of it had danced over his sister's face as she held out a palm towards him. It had brought light to her dark eyes, and shimmered over the dark braid. She had been smiling, even though her eyes were sad.
"May we burn brightly," he whispered, hoarse and ragged. His breath hitched, tears welled up... and he finally felt how something snapped inside. Throwing back his head the last Hale let out a howl of pain, loud and piercing, not caring who might hear. Again and again he screamed, until the vocal chords tore and cracked and the taste of blood filled his mouth. The fire was rising high all around him now, roaring and consuming what was left of his life.
It was only as it should.
Thousand voices dead at my feet
Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone
Now I'm gone, now I'm gone, now I'm gone
