Long for that feeling to not feel at all

KORBIN

But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?

The difficult part was, that this particular wild beast had trapped itself in the wire on purpose. Everything Korbin did was quite deliberate, going so far as to ignore the urgings of his own body and subconscious in order to ruin himself. His rudeness, the fighting, the drinking and the filth, it was part of some obscure plan to make the people around him stop caring and give up. No one would go out of their way to save someone they couldn't stand to be around, and that was the whole point.

Korbin did not want to be saved.

He had not expected the door to really stop Chulane, but it irked him all the same to be followed. Flopping down on the bed, without so much as looking at the food - the scent permeated the air, filled his nostrils and made his mouth water even as it burned the back of his nose, cloying and greasy - he turned his back on the man. Couldn't ignore him completely, too aware of eyes burrowing into his spine.

The demand - it certainly wasn't a request - made Korbin flinch. Weaver's name... it alone brought a lump to his throat, a dull ache of unshed tears into his chest.

"No."

Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around

CHULANE

One of the qualities of both a veterinarian and a farmer is unending patience.

Chulane had it. He was also very adaptable, able to alter his treatment or behaviour if faced with a new challenge.

But he was not a psychologist, he was empathetic but he was out of his depth when it came to dealing with such dark emotions and suicidal ideals. He was a life preserver, and he had never felt so low that death for himself was the only option available - he had no reference point, aside from his own experience of being plucked from his homeland and dumped here. Even then, he had done what he always did, and tucked the emotions away, to deal with them at a later time (or not at all).

He got a reaction from the boy, physical and then verbal. He couldn't say he was surprised at the rejection of his notion, but he'd be lying if he said he hoped some mention of Weaver might elicit more than the single word from the boy.

He didn't know what to do. Did he keep pressing, keep prodding and poking and asking for that which Korbin so clearly did not want to give, to face, to re-live? Or did he fall back onto his default politeness, his kind and caring and softness that had so far yielded less in all the time he'd known Korbin than the last hour of rough abruptness had?

"Tell me about Weaver." He spoke again, his tone thicker this time, a lump forming in his own throat. No, he cursed himself, as he restrained the emotion from showing any more. It is not my time to feel.

He would keep repeating this phrase until he received a different answer.

it is better to know some of the questions
than all of the answers

code shamelessly stolen from Skylark <3

KORBIN

But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?

It seemed both cruel and selfish to Korbin, these interventions from the strangers around him. He had made it perfectly clear that he did not want to live, that he wanted no help, that all their supposed caring did not move him. It did not stir anything but frustration when they interrupted his descent into ruin, and for what? Arbitrary moral rules that said the living must stay alive. They didn't even know him. More than one person had admitted that this pain he was in would never go away and still they kept him from going. What was this, other than some cruel and unusual punishment?

Or torture, perhaps. Every time Chulane said Weaver's name, Korbin flinched like he had been whipped, and with every refusal he curled up on himself a bit more. Like a child he clapped his hands over the ears to block Chulane's voice out, but it didn't work well enough. New pain, fresh and raw flodded in, like bright blood welling from a wound that had barely even started to scab over, and soon tears were rolling from the corners of his eyes. Silent, hot, so accustomed these days that it didn't even register. Her image rose out of the fogs of the booze, wavering yet so clear, so beautiful. Smirking at him, like she knew all the secrets of the world and had a great time watching as he fumbled around in the dark for a glimpse of them.

It was so real that he actually turned, to see if she wasn't standing in the door after all. Arms crossed over the chest, leaning against the frame as she looked at him. But of course Weaver wasn't there. The door was open and the hallway beyond empty. The only person in the room with him was Chulane, and the eyes Korbin turned on him were red rimmed and hurt, the pain in him naked and raw as his loss was hammered out for him all over again.

"No! Stop it! She's gone, what more is there to say!?" Korbin's voice broke. Gasping for breath, the one he got down became a sob. Half choked, drowning. He had been for so long, yet he neither passed away nor surfaced.

This was his life now? Good fucking job saving him, heroes.

Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around

CHULANE

He hated to do it. Hated to inflict pain on another. Hated that his words hit like a whip's lash, hated that every time he said her name the boy cringed, winced, grimaced, as though the emotional blows were physical. But he persisted, for he was getting a reaction, more than he ever before - and he hoped it would lend itself into a less bumpy road in the future. Right now, the road was barely a path in a swamp, covered in danger and muck, dragging both of them down.

The boy looked at him, eyes crimson and wet, scorn and hate clear on his voice. That look might have made Chulane flinch before, but now he simply stared back, his own eyes misty from emotion, but no tears were yet shed - not my time to feel. It was Korbin's time, to feel something other than the grief, the depression, the ideation of an action that would take him from this world too. It was cruel, it was unfair, and Chulane knew this, but still he would persist. He had to, had to try, to make this attempt, for even as they got deeper into the pit of Korbin's despair, they got closer to the apex, which meant they were closer to moving past the worst of it - he could hope, could dream, could try to believe it, at least.

"There is so much more to say." Deep voice resonated, strong still, but thicker again from the emotion that threatened to tear a sob through his own voice. He swallowed it, and spoke again. "Tell me about Weaver. I know she's gone. Tell me about Weaver."

it is better to know some of the questions
than all of the answers

code shamelessly stolen from Skylark <3

KORBIN

But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?

He tried. If only to make it stop, so he would be left alone. There was an intake of breath, an attempt to form words but... but they never came. What could he say? No words from him would do her justice. And even though he tried, to say anything, even to describe the color of her hair, the pain that wrecked Korbin made him double up, the pain so physical it drove the breath from his lungs. A kick to the gut, because every thought, every image of her drove home over and over that she was not there.

"She left me." A breathless whisper, a crack in the dam. And the flood gates were forced open. Slowly, every move an agony, Korbin's arms went up to shield the head even as the sobs began to wreck his exhausted body. Tearing, gut-wreching, the crying of one who had done it for so long and so often that every second was old, wearied, a familiar path from which there was no escape.

The thought, the single sentence kept spinning in his head. She left. She left him. She went off without him and now she was gone, and these idiots wouldn't let him follow. What was he supposed to do here without her? How could it be them against the world when there was no them anymore?

How was he supposed to do this without her?

Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around

CHULANE

Finally, a change. An attempt, an effort, and Chulane stopped his own talking, his own breathing, to see it unfold. He still hated it, hated himself for doing it, for poking and prodding the wounded the beast, for eliciting some kind of response from him that wasn't hate or scorn or death or violence. He was full of self-loathing, even when the reaction came, the words slipping out like a hushed secret, a tearful admission, a terrible realisation. He didn't feel satisfaction, didn't feel like a hero - he felt like the bad guy, an antagonist, a foe out to destroy an enemy.

But he didn't think of Korbin as the enemy, he thought of the grief that threatened to take Korbin from this world as the enemy. Unfortunately, to fight the grief, he had to fight Korbin, and this was the only way that had gotten results. Still, he hated it, despised his own actions, his own voice as it had uttered the harsh and confronting words, his whole self as he stared in silence at the boy who crumpled before him, who cried and folded, bowed down to the sorrow at last.

He stood up, to close the door to the room, to give some sense of privacy over the situation. But he remained within, and he moved the chair to come closer to Korbin, within reach of a gentle hand on his shoulder or a punch to his face - one never could know given recent events. Chulane didn't touch him though, remembering Korbin's words from before, and respecting them (this time, at least). He simply sat nearer to him, quiet, silent, stoic to a point.

Tears rimmed his eyelids, dribbled over onto his face. He sniffled softly, wiping his nose on his sleeve absently. He sat there, and he waited as long as it took for the tears to settle, for the breathing to become some semblance of steady again - whether it took seconds or minutes or hours, he would be there. Then he spoke.

"Tell me more. Keep going." He was relentless - he had to be, to try to get the boy through this, to have him suffer through this sorrow - at least not alone - so that the sorrow could turn into something else. The stages of grief weren't so much a ladder as it was a maze where one was given a new stage every other moment. Chulane was no psychologist, but he was persistent, and he cared, as much as Korbin cursed him for it. He knew there were no quick fixes, no magical cures, he knew he was probably a fool for trying - but he had to try, if not for Korbin, than at least for the sister he wept for.

it is better to know some of the questions
than all of the answers

code shamelessly stolen from Skylark <3

KORBIN

But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?

If the bond that linked the Attuned had been open, Chulane would have been privy to everything that went on inside the boy at that moment. Perhaps it was a good thing they were both closed off, both trapped in their human selves, cut off from one another. At least this way, Korbin couldn't drown anyone else. That had never been his intention. He never wanted to hurt anyone. Just... wanted to be left alone.

But not even now, here, in the midst of a breakdown was he granted that. It was ironic, really. All the world offered to him, and the few things he genuinely desired, he was not granted. His family. The music. Something that stayed when no one and nothing else ever did.

How long did he cry, with that quiet spectator leering down upon him? Another violation. Korbin hated having an audience to his private emotions. He had worn a mask of smiles and cheer ever since he was a kid to make the people around him relax. Because he liked to see them laugh, and so they wouldn't ask questions. Weaver... she had always seen through it though. Ever since they were kids. She was the only one who knew exactly what went on inside him, more surely than even Erebor could. Their mum had left too early, his father died too soon. He had protected himself from the pain by smiling and pushing on, by pulling himself up by the collar to move on, grow up, pick up the burdens left behind. One after another. More and more.

Until he couldn't contain it all anymore. Until the mask cracked and the smile faded, and all that was left inside was an oozing, festering wound that had him roaring in pain.

How long did he cry? How long did he howl into the pillow, smothering his own hoarse screams? It was not the first time Korbin cried like this. Not the first night he lay awake, drowning. That's what the booze was for. To knock himself out... at least at first. Then the buzz eased the numbness. Or dulled the emotions. Both. Neither. Nothing actually helped, because even when the gasping convulsions slowed and ceased, the pain was still there.

And Chulane wielded a stick, jabbed it right back inside that wound, asking for more. He struggled to breathe through a clogged nose, couldn't see for the swelling of the eyes - red rimmed, puffy, painful and inflamed and getting worse with every fat teardrop that pushed through, hot as blood - and as he curled in on himself again, in the midst of another shuddering gasp there was a spark of rage.

He wanted to hear more? Fine, let him hear all of it.

"She left. Went off on her own to fight a fucking Ursur, even though I was right there." It was a snarl, a wolf's growl through gritted teeth, half muffled by the pillow, by shielding hands that tried to hide his ruin from sight. There was no mistaking the twist of his face though. "She said it would be us. Us against the world, and she wouldn't leave. Not like the others, she would stay and we would make it work, and then she left. Off through the fucking portal. To fucking outlanders who used her for their own gain, who didn't care that it changed everything for us both."

It was old poison, old anger, but it still burned in him. The smoke billowing all the blacker because of the rancour it contained. And he couldn't stop chewing it over, letting it sink in, fester, turn to hate. Pawing at his face - oh, it was such a ruin - Korbin sniffled furiously and sat up, fists clenched as he stared at Chulane, seeing and yet not seeing. It wasn't him there, it was everything but him. Faces, moments. And beneath it all, that roaring pit that rose up to swallow him. How he longed for it. How he feared to let it consume him.

"She said it was us, but after she opened that fucking bar it was only ever about her. I never wanted it and she knew that, but how was I supposed to leave her to handle it alone? She said she wanted me there, so I stayed. She told me I should do what made me happy, but she never listened when I told her the only thing I needed was her. Don't you get it? All I ever wanted, or needed, or wished for was for her to be there. Everything else was secondary. I didn't love any of it but I did it anyway because of her. Because if I didn't she would be hurt, or hungry, or too tired to do what made her smile. And... a-and all I ever wanted was to see her.. see her smile..."

And he crumbled to pieces again, voice breaking, fading, the anger lost in another tidal wave of realization.

He would never see her smile again.

Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around

CHULANE

The tears flowed, fast and furious, sad and sorrowful, and Chuy sat through them, his own building up in his eyes, falling freely every now and then, being mopped up by a sleeve pressed to his cheek every other moment. Emotion wasn't weakness, he knew that, it had a time and a place, he was just so practiced in packing his away, in ignoring them indefinitely, that even when faced with the immense load of being plucked from one's whole world and delivered to a new one, he had managed to continue on with an illusion of life. He did it with the hope that the illusion would become reality, even if he didn't always feel genuinely enthused about aspects of it all the time - running errands, slaughtering livestock, stacking wood and delivering food could only give one so much satisfaction. But somewhere along the way, he had found enjoyment in it, had found the reality to be manageable, survivable, had let it stir his ambition to aim for something better, to make something better of himself, had let him process his feelings and then develop different, more positive feelings for another…

Fake it till you make it, perhaps it wasn't the best or most appropriate advice, but it had seemingly been what had got him through his time. Death and despair was seemingly rampant in Caido, those who survived each disaster would continue to live on, remembering those lost to them but living on regardless.

Korbin didn't want to live on though, and that was where Chulane was at a loss.

The words came, the emotions with them - Chuy heard them, absorbed them, held them all dearly, for even though Korbin hated him, loathed him, he was still complying with his orders now, giving him what he asked for. Tell me about Weaver he had demanded, and he received so much more - about Korbin, about the family, the disaster, the life they had built that was now falling over. About the seemingly age-old resentment he had about Outlanders, about the world changing and Weaver, ever the one to live life to the fullest taking it in her stride, leaving him behind. About how he had dedicated his life just to her, to her whims, her bar, her happiness, in amongst all of it, none of it was for Korbin, his joy seemingly only coming from Weaver. He understood now, at least as best he could with the boy's words - Weaver was not just a sister, not in the sense Chulane might have thought of sisters. In this world, this region of ice and snow and isolation, Weaver was Korbin's everything, his very reason for existing, for guiding him, protecting him, nurturing him (in her own way, of course). Weaver Weaver Weaver…

Chulane had liked Weaver, had appreciated her humour, her business acumen, her style. He felt like now he knew her better than before, knew another side to her - the sister who stepped up when parents were gone, who kept the family together when it would otherwise fall, who despite the harsh region they lived in, rose up and survived all the while. Weaver had been placed on a totem, she was an idol to be worshipped, and worshipped she was. Now she was gone, her totem smashed to pieces, and like a fanatic being told the god they prayed to didn't exist, she left a gaping and deep unknown fear in those she left behind.

Korbin's words stumbled to another pause, his voice breaking, his expression almost stunned. Chulane could only guess at what realisation had hit him now - surely it was better to come to this realisation here, with him, the Outlander he hated but who cared for him, who felt like he owed him, or Weaver, or himself, to at least try and help the boy through this crisis, if not completely, then at least partially? He wasn't a hero, not in how he was executing his 'help', and he wasn't trying to be a hero - he was just trying to do the decent thing, to help a fellow being in need. Had Korbin not done that himself, even recently? He took a steadying breath, again hating himself for the words that had to be said, prepared to act should they elicit more than scornful words thrown back at him.

"You claim you lived for her. You hold her responsible for a lot of your own purpose and feelings… that's a lot to put on one person. Did you ever do or feel anything for you? Did you expect she would be around forever, for you to constantly lean on, for you to shift the blame to, for you to be able to feel and do whatever you want without ever owning those actions or feelings for yourself?" He looked at the boy, frowning through the misted eyes, trying to get Korbin see that he would have had to come to this conclusion at some stage - he would have to take responsibility for himself one day, whether Weaver was still around or not. It was a stark and harsh reality, but the boy was well overdue in getting there - he had burned his nest to the ground it was time to build himself a new one.

it is better to know some of the questions
than all of the answers

code shamelessly stolen from Skylark <3

KORBIN

But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?

It was emotional dependency at it's most profound. Beautiful, loving, dangerous, like smothering vines that wrapped so tight around its host tree that eventually it would have smothered it, becoming naught but a hollow imitation of what had once been there. Maybe that was where they would have ended eventually, if Weaver had lived. Or maybe they would be like two trees seeded so close to one another that when they grew, their bark merged and they fused into one being. Co-dependent, needing one for the other to survive. Weaver had always been Korbin's reason to keep going, and he had been hers. She had crawled into his bed the night she came home after Erebor died and together they had laid curled in the darkness, pressed against one another. Frightened children in a world that tried its best to kill the weak, and there a pact had been made. Together they would be strong. And they would survive.

Was it weak, to depend upon another for safety, for support, for meaning and purpose? Then Weaver was just as weak as him. Better at hiding it, her heart larger and more willing to let others in, but she was just the same as him. He had been strong too once. Able to carry the burdens when she needed to be saved. Able to offer support and comfort. In a house that no longer existed, she had leaned her head on his shoulder and let herself be weak so that he could feel what it was like to be strong, and he had relished the feeling.

But it was ashes now. A dragon had cut the trees apart with claws of ice, and fire had ravaged what remained. This sapling was supposed to have burned too, but careless water had put out the flames.

So many metaphors. There were so many different ways to say it, but it did not change the simple fact that she was gone and he remained, and it was so profoundly wrong.

"Yes," Korbin replied in a broken sob, a shuddering whisper, when Chulane's words tried to cut him, tried to make him react again. "I thought she would survive forever. I had her back. We were good. I leaned on her and she leaned on me. She was strong and carried me, and because she was there I could be strong too and carry her. I never mattered."

And he believed it. Genuinely, without making excuses. His existence was pointless. "I never belonged here. Never fit in. Too soft. Too weak. I could not hunt, because seeing the animals crumpled and dying gave me nightmares. I wasted away, couldn't eat, or sleep, so Weaver took over the hunting. I couldn't fight well... landing a blow on her turned my hands to water, and it was like hitting myself, or tearing my own heaet out. We kept sparring, but I was always afraid, and she did not push me to change. I did the other things. Traded pelts and bones, tanned hides and split firewood, I cooked and cleaned and kept the house while she was out hunting. I did everything to put food on the table. I worked until my back broke and my hands bled and when it wasn't enough I stole and I fucked to get hold of what we needed anyway. It was fine. It was for Weaver, and she did things for me too, more things than she ever said, things she thought I would never know about. She sold Halo secrets for the booze in the Kraai, did you know? My secrets, your secrets, her own secrets... because it was better than the Tundra. Better than ursurs, and freezing your hands off, and what could I really say when I couldn't step up and do the job for her? I never belonged in Halo but she gave me a place anyway. Weaver's brother. The younger brother. Was I a chain around her neck that held her back? Was I her reason to keep going too? Maybe it was both. I wanted to turn raven and never come back, but she was still here, so I could not. Sometimes I hate her for that. Sometimes, when we laugh together and she looks at me with crinkles around her eyes it all just makes sense. Yes. This is why. This is the good. This is enough of a reason to keep waking up."

Like a ruptured dam, the words just poured out. Monotone, colorless, at some point it became unclear if Korbin even knew that he was talking out loud. An internal monologue that was stuck on repeat, spinning brokenly. Unable to stop, or move on.

What was the question again? Did he ever try to exist for himself? To be his own reason?

Well, no. He was alive only because she made it so he could survive. Without her he was nothing. His place was gone. His existence a moot point.

Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around

CHULANE

Strength or weakness didn't come into it - Chulane wasn't here to call one weak for dealing with the shit hand they'd been dealt as they best could with the resources they had at the time. It simply was what it was - a symbiotic relationship, that ultimately was not healthy long-term, even if circumstances necessitated it for one to survive the short-term. But it was an easy trap to stay in, an easy way to live, never having to take responsibility for one's own actions completely, one's own emotions… It was never going to last, no matter how shielded, how strong the relationship was, how much strength and determination each member found in the other - it relied too much on both parties remaining alive, and present, at all times to survive. It simply wasn't going to work.

How aware was Weaver of Korbin's dependency on her, on this relationship? How far did she go to promote it, to nurture it? Did she know Korbin thought so little of himself, so much so that he thought he didn't matter at all? It was heartbreaking to hear, to realise how far the boy had gone along with this narrative. Chulane knew he was looking for something to blame, looking for a way not to be angry at this realisation, looking to shift the responsibility to one who could not defend herself anymore - but it wasn't Weavers fault, it wasn't even Korbin's fault. They had acted out of a need to survive, but their method was never meant to be so prolonged.

He kept listening, letting the words and all their implications wash over him. He learned a great many things, things that he would no doubt take away and digest properly later - compartmentalisation at its finest, letting him focus on the now in a crisis, letting him fall apart in private later (or never, who knows). It was a false strength, but he maintained it was not his turn to feel, not his turn to make this about him - he was here for Korbin, to convince he boy that he had to keep living, even if he had no clue how to do that.

"Korbin." Deep tones said sometime after the boy's words fell to silence, an attempt to get him back, to pull him away from wherever his words had taken him. "Korbin," he said again, as if to remind the boy that he had a name, an identity all his own, as if he was trying to give it back to him, to stamp him with it, brand him - he wanted to shake the boy, to slap him, to wake him from this dreary and terrifying abyss, but he didn't, he only had his words and his presence, and they felt wholly insufficient to handle the task he had set them.

"You do matter, Korbin. It's time to own yourself, to step up, to live for yourself." He let his voice boom, he let it resonate, hoping that it penetrated the numbness that had swallowed the boy, hoping that it had some kind of effect, that it elicited some kind of response. It was time for change, for adaptation, for him to stand on his own legs and take responsibility for his actions, his emotions, his own survival. And if he needed help, if he wasn't strong enough? He could lean on those around him, those who were trying to prop him up, who were forcing him to stay alive despite his wish to join his sister - why? Because they were selfish? Because they were filled with a moralistic need to preserve life if it could be preserved? If that is the truth, then so what? Chulane would feel no shame for saving a life that still had so much potential, so much life to live - and Korbin himself had done as much too, when given the opportunity to leave Chuy to die on the ice (twice, in fact).

"Weaver is dead." He said, softer than his previous words, but he had little doubt they would be the words that the boy heard the clearest. "And we will not have you follow her." He confirmed out loud, he announced it, unashamed, determined. "Call us selfish, call us fools and pricks and idiots, but Korbin, we are acting no different than you - we are acting on reflex." He hoped the very explanation that the boy had used previously would help to summon some kind of understanding, some kind of change within the boy. "You matter, Korbin - you recognise enough that a total stranger's life matters without knowing anything more about them, and you save them anyway, because you know that they matter as well." He sighed, praying his words were being heard - he'd just repeat them until Korbin showed some sign of hearing them, anyway.

"It's time to own your life Korbin. Time to stand for yourself. It's not going to be easy, but we are here for you, and we will not suffer another loss." That was the crux of it, really - they would keep intervening, keep on picking him up and making him live on, even if he objected, they simply wouldn't let him go.

it is better to know some of the questions
than all of the answers

code shamelessly stolen from Skylark <3

KORBIN

But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?

His own name sounded strange. Awkward. It was repeated over and over, with different inflection and tone color and weight, yet it wasn't until he heard Weaver's name that he truly reacted. And it was to flinch again, and scoot backwards on the bed where he sat, as through Chulane had said something foul, and the only way to not be tainted by it was to keep up the distance.

None of the things Chulane said brought the kid joy. Normally it should be thrilling and ego stroking to hear someone say these things. That he mattered. That he wasn't alone. That he was seen and heard and hands were outstretched and just waiting to catch him if he dared to stand up, just in case he were to stumble. It was stuff to bring a flickering, wavering confidence to full brightness, and though Korbin rejected all of it, even he wasn't immune to it. Words had power.

But they could do a lot of damage too. Throw a flashbang into a room of complete darkness, and what happens to the eyes that can't shield from the light?

Weaver is dead. We will not have you follow her. Out of everything, this was what rang loudest, what cut deepest, and it robbed Korbin of the way out. He couldn't argue the words, because hadn't people already acted that way? Loren, Kiada, Chulane.... others too. All on their own, uncoordinated, in various ways, they all intruded, interfered, as if they had a right to demand anything of him just because they happened to exist in close proximity.

They wouldn't let him die. But that was no comfort, and the ragged, heaving breaths that came quicker in a panicked frenzy said as much. They were condemning him to a pointless existence, a hollow nothingness, a ceaseless drowning that would never lessen. Korbin knew it. Not a day went by where he had not been haunted by it. The grief. The loss. The pain. Shadows of people he had loved and lost... and he had to go on like this? Because of reflex?

That reflex must be the real curse. The instinct programmed into the living, so deep that it affected them all. Vi was a cruel bastard, and Safrin a vicious bitch. Rae was no better. But worst of all was Caido itself, who set it up to be like this in the first place.

"What about my suffering? Who will take responsibility for that? Are you going to take it away? You're not even staying, as soon as the weather  changes you'll be off with your precious gurl. Some nerve, to trap me here and then just waltz off.

"You say I have to live, but for what? What's the point? There's nothing left but pain. No one actually need me, you just think you owe it to Wea... to my sister.

"I get it, you're pissed because I was a jerk, but this is a bit much of a retaliation. Just hit me or something... don't make me stay. Don't make me have to keep going like this.

"Please. Please? It hurts. It won't stop."

His tone changed, gradually. From numb, spiteful, bitter, into something softer. Deeper. More fragile, as Chulane dug into the core of this boy's thoughts. It was brainsurgery with pickaxe and sledgehammers, crude and brutal. Was he happy now? Korbin sat huddled on the bed, arms wound tight around himself, tears streaming unchecked down a face twisted in agony. He couldn't breathe right, gasping and choking like a man drowning, and in his gaunt expression the blotches of bruise and swelling, of frostbite and heatflush and tears made him look older, younger, out of his mind.

Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around

CHULANE

It wasn't fair. It wasn't easy. Grief wasn't easy to begin with, loss was never easy to process, but then the loss Korbin was suffering was made all the worse because of how he and his sister had set themselves up - to fall so hard when the other could no longer stand. Chulane hated it, hated that he was the one to do this, to say this, to hold the knife and keep poking, stabbing, twisting it into Korbin. It was as if he was trying to bleed the infection out, to slice off a dead limb, to extract dead organs, with nothing but a blunt cleaver to achieve his means.

He could never be happy to see another suffer, could never find satisfaction in it - but he held hope that as Korbin processed all that Chuy threw at him, he slowly but surely made his way towards a less destructive existence, a less painful one. He let Korbin's words roll over him, let the spite, the bitterness try to penetrate - he wouldn't let it. Korbin spoke from a place of hurt, his tortured mind spewing vitriol and venom - he wouldn't be dragged under, dragged down. He would take the words for what Korbin was trying to say, for the meaning hidden beneath a layer of scum.

But first, he would let Korbin cry, let him catch his breath. He would wait, as look as it took, even if it took Korbin to nearly be asleep, for the gasping and the choking to cease, for the breaths to come in deep and at least more steady than before. He would let Korbin sit with his words, his thoughts, let him possibly think more on what Chulane had said previously - for everything Korbin said was more of the same, more of the shifting blame, more of the excuses, the bargaining, the insults. Chulane would wait, even as he cried silent tears himself, even as he hated himself and the grief that wracked the boy.

He rose, at some point, to stoke the fire in the small hearth of the room, to stack more wood on it, to keep it burning hot throughout the night. Then he returned to his chair beside the bed, to where the raven-boy cried and rocked and clung to himself. It's not my time to feel, but oh, how he would break when looked past the wall at all the shit he was piling there. He felt like shit, like a monster, a bastard, a jerk. He breathed a shaky breath, re-centring himself, shaking the webs of fatigue from his mind - how late was it? How long until dawn? It didn't matter - he was here, and he would be here until he deemed it safe to go. Another deep breath filled his lungs.

"It won't stop." He repeated the last words Korbin said. It was along the same line of thought he had shared with Korbin on another day - the pain from grief never stopped, but it did get easier to carry, if one only endured it. "You are responsible for your own feelings, Korbin. We can and will do as much as we can to help you, but first you must own yourself. You must find a purpose - a new one. We can help, but you must be willing to accept it first." It was a difficult concept to communicate, to express - one had to let others in their life, to be able to rely on them without burning them out, to accept help when it was offered but also be able to look after themselves.

"I'm not pissed, Korbs. I care. About you. Because you matter." He reiterated - he would keep saying it until it penetrated the boy's mind as truth. "You can do this. We will help, but first you have to believe that you can do this." He looked to the boy, blue eyes seeking his in the dim light provided by the fireplace. "Do you hear me, Korbin? You can do this."

it is better to know some of the questions
than all of the answers

code shamelessly stolen from Skylark <3

KORBIN

But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?

It was a tall order. Chulane was asking him to do what he had never been able to before, at a time when Korbin was at his absolute lowest point. It felt like his legs had been carved off above the knees and now he was told to dance on the bleeding stumps, like it was the natural thing to do. But it wasn't. Not to this boy, who had grown so used to shifting his dependency around just to survive. When the mother left, when the father fell ill and rotted before their eyes...

His only place of absolute independence had been the terrible weeks after Erebor died where Weaver still lay dying in sickbed, and no one believed she would pull through. There had been no one else to lean on then. People had helped, but the decisions had been his. Korbin vaguely recognized that much, but that memory was a nightmare he was not keen to recall.

Now he was back there. And it was so much worse than he remembered because now he didn't even have hope left. Weaver was dead and the pain... oh gods, the pain of that was more than he could bear.

"But... why would I want to?" he gasped, bewildered, lost, so fucking tired... but the tears did not stop and he couldn't calm down. "If this is all there is... I don't want it." He didn't have a purpose, didn't know how to find one, didn't particularly want to try for one. Korbin couldn't see any reason why he should dig his way out of this pit, because the outside would be just as black.

Without a guiding light... he would just be lost. Staggering blindly to no use.

Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around

CHULANE

He was under no illusion that it was a tall order, to demand someone find themselves again so soon after being cast out from the life they knew before. To ground oneself, to discover oneself anew, to find something to live for, to strive for. The boy seemed to acknowledge on some level that it had to be done, he hadn't said no directly, hadn't rebutted Chuy's words wholly - he just needed more, more guidance, more ideas.

Was it Chuy's place to offer that? Was the boy seeking ideas, inspiration? Or just trying to make excuses again, trying to find a way to escape this responsibility himself? Had Chuy placed too much on his already overfull plate, had he stacked on the expectations too thick, too high, even when he said he'd help?

Was Korbin asking for his help?

No, the boy had never asked, not outright, not directly. But he needed help nonetheless.

"What did Weaver do, before she died?" Did she strive for success in her life, did she laugh often, and love hard and true? Did she let the weight of the world hold her back from her dreams? Did she embrace all that life gave her? From what Chuy knew of her - and he would be the first to admit he didn't know everything - she was that, and more.

"Your life is full of untapped potential, Korbs. There's a whole world out there - and no, you're not going to find Weaver out there. But you might find that which sparked the same zest for life she possessed - but for yourself." What more guidance could he give? Was he offering too much, too little? "You don't know what's out there because you haven't even looked, haven't even tried - how can you say what you don't want if you don't know?"

What had kept him going, kept him here, learning and building something of a life for himself? Just a sheer determination to live - he had been raised different to Korbin, his life full more of love, of education and learning, of a desire to improve, always, for the self-satisfaction was enough. He had life on Easy-Mode, at least until he had arrived at Caido, which only had one mode.

"Focus on the Kraai again, maybe. You're a decent healer, and Loren probably needs something to focus on again too - try to learn more from him. And when the portal opens up again, explore. And…" he hesitated, not knowing if anything he was saying was helping, or appropriate. "Even if you don't want to, pretend to. Pretend so well that someday in the future you might find you actually haven't been pretending at all, or that you at least have a better idea of what you do want from life."

He shrugged, helpless, hopeless himself. "No one really knows what they want, Korbs. That's life. And we're all in it together."

it is better to know some of the questions
than all of the answers

code shamelessly stolen from Skylark <3