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!
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
It was too much. It was not enough. For an instant Korbin thought he was actually shown a real, valid answer to his question, and something sparked in him. Enough to look up, to listen intently. Spinal reflex desperately craving a way out even if the mind did not.
But the longer Chulane went on, the more it began to sound like the same old bullshit he had been spoonfed all his life, and the tasks piled up before him began to look insurmoubtable. All of that? He had to do all of that, and was supposed to lie and pretend he didn't hate every second of it?
He was here, now, like this, because he couldn't do it. Korbin wasn't strong enough, he could never do what Weaver did, live as brightly. Wilting back down on the matress that brief spark died away again and he closed his eyes, the convulsions lessening but not gone. His mind filled with images of Weaver, how she had looked and acted that last moment they had together. Tired but with a light of determination in her eyes. So fierce, commanding and strong, ready to do anything it took to protect what she loved. So beautiful, brighter than any of her fires.
"I can't, " Korbin breathed, hopeless. "Not strong enough. Not good enough. I don't actually care about anyone else. Sorry, but... I really don't. Would never do anything like this for you. Or for Kia, or... anyone. You're only ghosts passing by, and your lives and pains don't make me feel anything."
And none of them were breaking.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
He was at first heartened by the response in the boy, the way his attention snapped to, the way he heard every word. But as Chuy kept talking, he knew he had said too much, or the wrong thing, or not enough of the right thing.
He pressed his first finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. He was out of his depths, giving advice to one who didn't want to hear it in the first place, pleading for someone to live their life rather than end it.
"You would make Weaver responsible for your death?" Everything the boy said led back to losing her, to having nothing left to live for with her gone. Would he truly go through with this, paint her as a demon who dragged her brother down long with her foolish decisions?
"You would shame and dishonour all that she lived for?" His voice held accusation in it now, anger and resentment. "Fucking bullshit, Korbin. You're lying to yourself." He shook his head, and waved his hand as if dismissing all that Korbin had said.
It wasn't fair, to pin this on him when he was so raw from his ordeal, to make it worse - but he had to try, to make his point, to find something that would stick, that would ensure when he left here, the boy no longer tried to sprint to an ending so final, so permanent. He looked to the boy again, sought to press his piercing gaze against Korbin's own.
"You are strong enough. You prove that every day, even when you laid me flat out on the ice - you were strong enough to do that, and to pick me up and make sure I lived afterwards too. Don't fucking discount that, because I fucking care that I'm alive, and I fucking matter too."
He didn't want to give up, he wasn't ready to. "Just let us. Let us help! Try, for the sake of trying, for the sake of your sister, for the sake of yourself! You haven't even tried!"
it is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
Was he lying? Not intentionally. Not on purpose, with intent. Korbin believed what he said. That he wasn't enough, not good, not nice. The accusation of lying made him twist in discomfort, wanting to object, but Chulane was moving on and he didn't have strength enough left to interrupt, let alone sit up again. His body was spent, the warmth and the soft bed draining away the feral alertness he had maintained so far. Exhaustion from crying and resisting, from the long abuse he had put himself through... it was all catching up.
It was hard to listen to what the older man said. Hard to let down the guard enough to accept any of it, to even listen. Ego and pride wished to listen, to swell and absorb. The child wanted to reach out for the offered hands and just weep in relief, so ready to curl up against a new chest and let that become the reason, the guide, the beacon. Didn't really matter who, and wasn't Chulane offering already? He wanted to help, he said so.
But the wolf in him was a wounded beast, wary to let anything close that smelled similar to what had hurt him in the past. To accept help would be to soften, to lower the guard, to open up for feeling, for caring, for more of this. Because let's be honest, it wasn't that Korbin didn't care about the people around him. Rather, he cared way too much and would happily spend himself to carry them, as unable to stand aside and let them live their lives as he was to let them close in the first place. There was no balance, no middle ground. Feel everything and let it ruin him, tear him to pieces and spend until he became the ghost. Or feel nothing, only to fester and rot behind walls of his own making.
And it was the greatest conundrum. For them. Or not for them. Give them everything or nothing, and always, always forget about himself because... well. He didn't matter, remember? His needs did not actually exist, or were less important, or not good enough to pursue.
"Not her fault I'm like this," he tried to object, and struggled to sit up. The world spun, dancing and twisting around him, and as he sank back down he closed his sore eyes again, seeking refuge in the dark when the nausea returned. "She tried to help, to make me do things, but..." He hadn't listened. Couldn't change, or find the reason to, any more than he could now.
If he had died and she remained, would she have let herself break like this? Korbin somehow doubted it. She always had a bigger heart. Wide and generous, and galvanized. Loss hurt her too, but she always bounced back. Knew the trick to caring without being consumed, to taking everything that appeared and make it serve her, somehow, someway. Maybe she had been her own guiding light.
He didn't know himself well enough for that. Didn't love himself, or value himself enough. Wouldn't even know how to start building one.
"I know. I don't... don't want to try. Don't want to see if I can make it without her. How can I... How can I? It would be like saying I don't need her. Like she wasn't vital. When she is everything. I don't want to live a life that she is not part of."
And that whispered confession brought on the tears again. Hot, painful, never ending. He couldn't really curl up anymore but he wanted to, the repeated shattering demanding that he yield or snap, and it was frustrating that he could do neither.
It had gone full circle now. Chulane had witnessed a full revolution of his spiral, carved him open and laid him bare. Ugly, wasn't it? Pathetic. A hopeless case. Too many things were broken, start to repair one thing and another would snap; watch it poke new holes in what had just been rebuilt. No easy fixes, no quick solutions...
Why even try? That was indeed the million dollar question. So many reasons not to, and not one that felt good enough to make an effort for.
Painstakingly prying his red, swollen eyelids open, Korbin turned his gaze on Chulane. Aware, of how difficult he was being. Keenly aware that he wasn't helping. But he couldn't lie. Couldn't pretend to see hope when it wasn't actually there. Wouldn't pretend to accept a truth when he didn't understand or believe in it. And it was a heavy burden to put on someone. Weaver had carried him like it was nothing, but...
Korbin's gaze was a quiet shrug. A wry smile, an offer to drop this and walk away. It was okay to give up. He had; wouldn't blame Chulane if it turned out that saving a life was harder than expected.
It was okay to back out.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Spirals were dangerous. Vortexes of anxiety, of sorrow and depression, sucking in those near to them as well. Had they come full circle? Was this all Korbin had to say, again and again?
How deep had Chulane been pulled? How far had he travelled, how much had he learned, about Korbin, about his relationship with his sister, with himself? Was it enough - could it ever be enough?
He watched the boy, seeing and understanding how exhausted he was, how low, how broken, and determined to continue on anyway. He had let himself get angry, and in the silence that followed, in the shaky breaths, he regained control over himself, steadying himself in the here and now, even though the here and now was uncomfortable, frustrating and depressing all at the same time.
Chulane would endure this. It was the least he could do, with what he was trying to convince Korbin to endure.
He heard the words, as he at the last minute tried to shift the blame from Weaver, despite piling the blame onto her just before. He made some claim that he couldn't go on because she was vital to him, that he didn't want to exist in a world where she wasn't. And then he looked at Chulane, as if granting Chuy permission to get up and walk away, to wipe his hands of the mess that was Korbin and be done with it.
The vet merely looked right on back, meeting Korbin's swollen eyes with his own hard stare, his own steadfast determination.
"Bullshit," he said, in response to everything - the words, the look, everything. "Fucking bullshit, Korbin. Say you do die, what then? The whole Hale family name is blown away in the ashes of the home you so delicately put a torch to. The story of a barkeep and her lost little brother is told utterly inadequately by those who knew them for all of a few minutes, the rest of the family already forgotten, already unknown.
"Now, say you live. Say you carry the memory of her, of Weaver -" he said her name clearly - he would not shy away from it like Korbin "- with you always, you live through that memory, then she is never gone. She lives only as long as she is remembered. And the rest of us? We don't know her, not like you did. We need you, Korbin, to tell her story, to share her life, and to live and write your own. The only way you would live a life where she isn't a part of it is if you end the life you are living now. Live, Korbin, live and let her memory live on, stronger and clearer in the rest of us too - let us help you to remember her, always."
Korbin could pop holes in all of the arguments Chulane raised all he liked - Chulane would plug them right back up again, his mind wired far too logically to do anything different. Just as Korbin would give him permission to leave, Chulane would decline it, and take it as permission to stay instead.
"Life will never be the same," he murmured, "but that doesn't mean it's not worth living."
it is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
His gaze shuddered, wavered. Faltered and shied away under Chulane's steady glare. It wasn't as though the thought never occurred to him. And in the moment when he lit the fire, he had been fine with it. The story of the Hale family had been a tragedy from the start. It had seemed fitting, somehow, to let it end on the same note. It had always been a path littered with spider lilies, a dirge, an ode to lost hope and shattered dreams. When he set his house on fire, Korbin had committed himself fully to the ashes, been happy to consign them all to oblivion. It didn't matter if everyone else forgot, as long as five ravens could fly together again. The rest of the world did not matter.
But Loren had ruined all of that, when he dragged Korbin out of the house. Forcing him to remain by magic and chains of debt, while everything else went up in flames... Korbin wasn't sure he would ever forgive the man for robbing him of that beautiful ending. Everything from there on was chaos, a mad caleidoscope of disjointed thoughts and emotions he couldn't make sense of. Still couldn't, even though the colors had faded and only showed various shades of black.
Korbin had been fine with being forgotten. But... it kind of hurt to think that no one would recall Weaver's name if he was gone. Surely someone would... She had lived all her life here, there was no way that she hadn't impacted the lives of others.
Us against the world.
But... maybe they had done it too well. He had only seen her, and it looked as though she had been the open one, the sharing and caring one. Had it only been from his perspective? Was she actually closed off and secretive too? He knew the Scythe had been her mask, just like the smiling jester had been his. Knew the soft, bleeding girl beneath, strong because she had to be. And Korbin admired her fiercely for it. But... did anyone else know how much she loved the color green, and the scent of living plants? How it only took a few sweets and a few compliments to become her best friend? Offer up a cupcake and a dagger in the same breath and she would go to war for you. Didn't they know how desperately she craved the acknowledgement of the gods, and how happy she had been when Ludo finally answered her prayers?
Didn't they know? Hadn't they seen? What were they doing, when they looked without seeing what was right there?
Korbin had grown still, tears streaming but the sobs gone, caught up in a different kind of maelstrom. "You're contradicting yourself. First I should live for her, then for me, and now both... Which is it?" he muttered, somewhat absently. Strangely clear, even if his mind seemed a million miles away. A part of him was a bit offended that his worth in living was for others to retain some piece of Weaver. Was that all he was to them?
And then he caught the irony, the hypocrisy of his own thoughts and it almost made him laugh. No, he was laughing, a helpless hiccuping sound that was half hysterical and a lot desperate.
"Gods, she would hate having to leave the narration of her life to me... Always had to add something to my songs. I don't... She would..."
But he lost track of where he had been going with the thought, so exhausted that he was back to slurring again. Crying fucking hurt at this point but it just wouldn't stop, and he didn't know how to make it.
"I just.. fuck, I miss her so much."
Something hard and brittle crumble in him with that laugh, and as it gradually returned back to those tearing sobs, Korbin finally relented. A hand reached out, fumbling and blind as it groped for... what? A hand, a support, something to break? He didn't know, it didn't matter, might not even last, but it was the first time he actively created an opening, revealed a crack in the thick wall of negativity and denial he'd built up around himself.
And gods, but hadn't he been stubborn about it.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Weaver had been many things, and Chulane would only knew a few of them from the short time he had with her. Loren would know another side, perhaps more of the true Weaver, perhaps not. Kia had trained with her, had met the warrior within. And all of Halo had felt her steady leadership, her love and devotion to her land as Warden. But only Korbin knew her true self, the one that had seen her grow from child to girl to woman, from barkeep to Warden, warrior to sister. Only he could tell a story about Weaver so complete - and in doing so, he would hopefully find himself telling a story about himself too.
To tell a story, one had to be alive, that was the important part, the part Chulane hoped would give Korbin some purpose, some intent to this dreary life he seemingly had had enough of.
Chulane waited for more words to come, and was surprised at first, when they did. He could tell Korbin was mentally elsewhere, could tell that his mind was still processing all of the implications of their entire conversation, of their night that had begun out on the ice again, and wouldn't yet end. And yet, despite it all, Korbin managed to comment that he was contradicting himself?
The vet almost huffed a laugh, but it was cut off as suddenly Korbin was laughing - not a true, hearty laugh, more a laugh all the same.
Had he broken the boy? Ruptured his mind completely?
Chulane had wanted to reply, had wanted to say that there was so much more than just those two options to live for, but if both would convince him to keep living then those were the only reasons that mattered. But Korbin was speaking again, and he let him speak, afraid that if he interrupted he would lose this momentum, this chance. They were on a precipice, looking over the edge, deciding whether to jump or to step back - but was life the jump or the step back?
And then it was there, a hand, an opportunity, a chance. He didn't know if it was meant for him, didn't know if he should take it; But he took it all the same. Leaned over, reached his hands out for the one proffered, clasped it tightly, offering his own strength, his own warmth and solidarity for the boy to lean on, to hold onto, to use and trust.
"I know, mate. I'm here, mate," he murmured, "I'm here."
it is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
At one time, Korbin had overheard a conversation between two healers. Someone had broken a leg, and it had begun to heal crookedly. So, in order to make the person walk again, they had to break the leg all over, and then set it correctly.
Maybe Chulane had broken him. Maybe he was insane now. All broken pieces strewn on the floor, not one fragment intact. And somehow, from this mess, he now had to reasseble himself. The picture would never be what it used to. Too much had changed, chips and splinters were lost forever, and without them the old version would always be incomplete. Korbin had, up until now, not tried to even look at the mess. He'd had a few of them stuck together and called it quits, but now Chuy had stepped in, trampled apart those few remnants... And gleefully left Korbin to figure out what to do now. A few sketchy ideas sat as a serving suggestion in the corner, but it seemed impossible to gather all of this into something resembling a life. A self. A story worth telling.
Sadist. Chulane may look nice and innocent, but he was a bona fide douchebag and an ass. He'd hidden it well, but now Korbin saw it clearly, and for some reason it made him relax a bit. Never could he stomach samaritans and goody two shoes... but if Chuy was doing this for his own twisted amusement then it was fine. That was valid. Sick and twisted, but far more acceptable.
Korbin Hale was no hugger. Not one to seek physical contact, awkward and wary of being misunderstood as caring more than he did (wary of accepting responsibility he didn't want, as if a hug was a binding contract), and even the simple act of holding a hand made him crawl and squirm inside, horrified and dismayed at all the parts that softened and melted, exposed to cuts and blows, to tearing and bleeding. He wasn't supposed to rely on people. What was this trust bullshit, it would only leave him disappointed. Why was be letting himself cling to this hand like it wasn't going to leave, when it inevitably would?
Fuck. Fuck. It would never end well. But he couldn't bring himself to let go either. Not even as the storm of sobs gradually subsided and he was left in a daze, barely conscious. So tired that he was delirious.
Those hands had suddenly become the only anchor to reality, that let him know he wasn't dreaming.
"Do I really... have to stay?" he was vaguely aware of asking. Like a child pleading to go home but repeatedly told 'No.' On the verge of giving up, but... just had to ask one more time. "Can't I just.. go to them? Now?"
Korbin really just wanted to see his family again. Was it so much to ask for?
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Why had Chulane come? Because he cared. Why had he tried once again, and then again and again, his tactics becoming crueller, a relentless assault that he never would normally take. Chulane had always strived to be honest, to be kind, caring, open and direct with his communication. But what he had done here tonight wasn't just open communication - it was borderline abuse, an attack on the grief that would drag Korbin into whatever afterlife Caidoians believed in.
He found no amusement in his actions tonight. No pleasure, had no desire to commit them, knowing the power simple words could wield, and swinging them around anyway, driving them into all the vulnerabilities that Korbin showed in his weakest moment. But he would let Korbin think the worst of him, think him an ass, a douche, a prick, if it meant that Korbin was alive to think those things, he would accept it - he would welcome it.
If Korbin never spoke to him again after this, but he was alive. Chulane would accept it. Because he would be alive, at least, even if he lived in hatred of the vet who only sought to save another life.
He was crying, quiet sobs as the boy clung to his hands, a small sense of relief daring to show itself. It was precarious, terrified, afraid to rise up lest it be shot down again. And when the boy murmured his final questions, it tremored in fear, shivering and shuddering at the darkness those simple questions posed to it.
"You have to stay," he confirmed in soft tones, feeling no need to have his voice reverberate and boom like before, settling more into gentler, normal intonations, though perhaps a bit rough around the edges from the emotion that got stuck in his throat. "Someday, you can go to them… but not today. Not until you've lived too."
The night crept on, the few hours left before dawn seemed to move by in a drowsy blink. Chuy's back hurt, his posture as he fell asleep slouched in his chair, reaching for Korbin the whole night. Sleep was something of a foreign concept for the vet tonight, and he was woken as the first few rays of light crept through the heavy curtains on the window. That, and the cook who came bustling through the door, apparently still in her habit of waking him at the crack of dawn even when he was no longer a permanent resident of the lodge.
But she came with kindness and delightful smells this morning, with bread freshly baked and butter melting across it, with fresh ningo eggs poached and awaiting consumption. Chuy sat up in his chair, stretching the aches and awkward posture out of his frame, unable to contain the yawn that stretched his mouth open wide. He gratefully accepted the cook's offerings, taking both plates from her with a tired but warm smile. He sat Korbin's atop the bedside table, before waving the cook back out, (she took the untouched broth from the previous night with many mutterings under her breath).
Then he looked over to the boy, to see if the commotion or perhaps the food, might've woken him. Adjusting his chair once again, he positioned himself to put his feet up against the edge of the bed, before tucking into his own meal with gusto. He was… here. And he'd remain here until Korbin was definitely awake, until Chuy could confirm he was not going to try anything stupid again - until he knew his assholery from the night before had been an effective treatment for what was ailing the raven-boy.
it is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
He was never aware of falling asleep, and was distantly surprised to be waking up. Voices murmured around him, above him, but they were distant things. Korbin was only barely aware enough to acknowledge that he was awake. That he shouldn't be, that it would have served him better to sleep the day away. Maybe then he'd actually get some of the rest he really needed.
Recalling some dream - or was it 'conversation' from last night? - where a soft voice told him to stay, to live, Korbin reluctantly pried open one eye. Regret and resignation came with the words, wistful acceptance echoing in a soul valt that was strangely empty, unusually void of heavy dark... He might have examined this unusual state of mind more closely, but was rudely interrupted by the stab of light into his eyeball, and his wince set off a marching band that thundered through his head with a vengence.
The groan that slipped from the boy was one of boundless suffering, made tolerable only by the knowledge that he had done it to himself.
He smelled food. Blessing and curse wrapped up in one, alluring and foul; it made him ache with hunger even as his throat closed in revulsion. Could he get anything down even if he tried to eat? Would he retain it? Questions he was not quite ready to examine yet.
Like an undead rising from a grave after a week long stay, Korbin slowly pushed himself up to sit. Eyes too swollen to open properly, face a puffy mess and the hair a nest fit for any crow, he looked awful. Felt worse.
"...water?" he croaked, to whomever was sitting nearby. Thought he knew - who else would cheerfully eat next to a dying without shame? - but didn't care to examine it closer just yet.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
The groan that rose up from the pile of blankets and rumpled clothes that was Korbin sent another wave of relief rolling through Chulane. He almost smiled at it, for he had made similar noises when cook had woken him up on her ridiculous schedule, but the grin didn't make it past the concern - and the hunger.
He bit into the bread and sent his mental thanks to the cook for always baking the best bread. Then he came back to reality after daring to spend a moment on himself, hearing the mumbled question ask for water from the now mostly-upright Korbin. He swallowed with a hard gulp, looking to the small desk that had had the broth from last night on it, vaguely recalling a pitcher of water and some cups beside it. They were still there.
"Coming," he murmured softly back, rising to put his plate down and fill the cups, realising rather belatedly that he too was thirsty from a night of shedding tears and exhaustion.
Returning to his chair with a cup of water in each hand, he pressed one into Korbin's hand, before taking a sip from his own as well. He looked over the boy a bit closer now, frowning softly at the swollen face, the pain, both physical and mental, that clearly still afflicted him. But Chulane knew that there was little he could do but give the boy a push in the right direction - the direction that would let him heal, if only he would let enough time pass to allow healing to take place.
As he woke up more himself, he remembered more and more of what went down last night, of the way he had felt when he had forced his words on the boy, when he had dug deep and tried to cut out the mental infection from the boy's very soul.
Would Korbin ever forgive him for it? Would he hold it against him forever? Would he hate him, treat him with scorn or indifference? At least that would be a return to 'normal' for the boy's treatment of Chulane.
He took another sip of water, before grabbing his own plate of food again and taking another bite of bread.
it is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
Quite probably Korbin managed to doze off again between the question and the deliverly, because he was startled awake by the cup being pressed into his hands. Somehow he managed to grasp it without more than a few drops sloshing over the edge. His hands were trembling. Raising the cup to his parched lips for a sip, he regretted that it was only water. Cool, clear and tasting of home, it revived him little by little, though he was careful to take it slow. Already his gut growled in protest, all of the inside in an uproar.
Pressing the cold clay mug to his forehead, Korbin gazed blearily at Chulane from the shadow beneath the hands. Memory was returning to him as well, and there were flashes of sentiment with each recollection. Anger, humiliation, betrayal and hurt, not to mention the helplessness of having everything stripped away. Choice, illusions, clothes and freedom. Did this count as a kidnappning? Unlawful restraint? He should be furious, should resent this man to the depths of oblivion.
But all of that was offset by the memory of hands anchoring him down, and much as Korbin wanted to... he just couldn't hate Chulane. Never had, even if his treatment of the man might suggest it. Call it a 'violently indifferent to his general existence, wants and needs, so get out of my face' kind of situation. Except it never worked. People in this place - especially the Outlanders - were really bad at accepting 'no' when they heard it. Chulane wasn't alone in that.
The room was really hot. Or was it him? The hands around the mug felt like ice, but his forehead was burning, flushed from more than swollen eyes. By the time he finished off the water, Korbin's hands were shaking so much that he could no longer hide it, and the food on the plate had stopped looking tempting.
"Got anything stronger?" he mumbled hoarsely, doubting it even as the words slipped from the tongue. But Korbin knew this kind of shake, knew the nausea, the sweating... knew what poison had brought it on, and what would cure it. At least for a while.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Chulane had accepted the No that Korbin had laid out, eventually. After a short confrontation over a meal he just wanted to share with someone. But it was hard to avoid the boy in such a small town, when he was trying to be active, to help the region survive its harsh climes, and help at the local bar which his sister owned.
Push had come to shove though - Chulane had rejected the No when it became apparent that Korbin was going to hurt himself, or someone else (like he had to Chuy) through his actions. Chulane had forced himself on the boy, had made him stand up, dragged him to a safe space where he could clean up and the infection of grief could finally be lanced.
It still left a bitter taste in his mouth, that he had needed to go that far. Relief and guilt warred in him, and would for some time, though he would go on as he always did - shoving it aside, focussing on the here and now.
Mouth pulled into a concerned line at the boy's question - this was also why Chulane had a healthy wariness about alcohol. He wasn't interested in making his body feel like shit the next morning, wasn't interesting in coming to rely on it just to feel normal. Every now and then, he gave into the peer pressure and drank socially, but otherwise?
"Just water," he said, gently plucking the cup from Korbin's hands to refill it, before giving it back.
The boy was feverish, but then, it was to be expected. Injuries, hangovers (though likely he was still a bit drunk, given how early in the morning it was), but the healer from last night should have magicked away any chances of true infections at least.
"Try to eat. If it doesn't stay down, then let it come up, sleep it off, and try again." He instructed, putting his plate back down after taking another quick bite of his bread, and scooping his ningo egg into his mouth. It was a simply meal, and would hopefully settle easily in the boy's roiling stomach, but… only one way to truly find out.
He picked up Korbin's plate and held it before the boy, happy to hold it steady while the boy picked the food off it. And just to be safe, he got a small bin ready to catch what might come up as well.
it is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers
But what does it take to break you, to awake you?
To make you bow and spit it out?
He never had a problem with alcohol before. He would drink sometimes, got drunk and then got better. Went long periods without, to the point where Weaver wondered if something was wrong when he had a goblet of mulled wine early one afternoon. She had been the prolific drinker, though it was always under control.
But when his world came crashing down around him, it had been a convenient means of escape. When he couldn't die and couldn't sleep, drinking became the next best thing. If he was plastered, he didn't have to think. Didn't have to feel, or face a reality he was unequipped to cope with. If he downed a few bottles of hard liquour it would make him drop off eventually, and those moments of unconsciousness became the relief he sought. That he thought he needed.
There was no way to drink that hard and that much without it leaving marks. Korbin might be young but he also didn't get food or rest. It had been long hours since he had his last glass and the shaking hands screamed of a need he refused to see as a problem.
He did not insist. Took the refilled cup of water and drank it with more intent, dry as parchment. When the plate was held up before him, he recoiled from it, from the smells that jabbed at his nose. Clawing, tearing. The grease made him gag and drool at the same time. Reluctantly, he picked up the bread. Tore off miniscule chunks and popped them into his mouth, chewing like it was the hardest thing he had ever done. Getting a few morsels down, he waited. Felt his stomach churn, consider, tighten with a pain like kicking feet.
The bin was a good touch. As it turned out, he could not keep the food down, and his throat felt like an open wound by the time Korbin stopped heaving. After rinsing his mouth with more of the water, he slumped back on the bed, shivery and weak.
"Living sucks," he declared, in a broken whisper that held no trace of humor. There was a note of accusation in there, that longed to blame Chulane for this misery.
But Korbin was self-aware enough to acknowledge that at least this bit of misery was his own doing.
Doesn't matter if I hate you or embrace you
Nothing makes you turn around
Ah, the thought came, the wrinkled nose accompanying it, as the heaving began, the retching, the vomiting. The vet was used to seeing animals vomit, but he hated seeing it in other people. So held the bin and tried to focus on pretty much anything else until the boy was done.
A small, extremely subtle, single huff of air was pushed through his nostrils in response to the boy's statement. "Sometimes," he conceded. Sometimes life did suck. A lot of the time it was unfair. He didn't mind taking the blame for Korbin's life sucking in this brief moment, it sat well with the mixture of relief and guilt he was feeling - relief that Korbin was alive to live through this sucky time, guilt for being a part of this particular sucky time.
When the boy moved to lay back on the bed, Chuy put the bin down on the floor beside the bed, just in case. He also put the food back on the bedside table.
Idly, he looked to the windows, to the golden dawn light peeking through. He was exhausted still, though the water and food gave him a bit of energy, he would no doubt collapse into a heap this evening after the day's errands were run.
He ate the last of his bread, glancing to the boy once more.
"Get some more sleep." He instructed, softly, but still with authority. He doubted Korbin would find the energy to rebel against those orders, at least.
"I best be off, for now. I'll check in on you tomorrow, or sooner or later if you want. Make sure you keep your fluids up, even if the food won't settle. You're gonna feel like shit for a while." In more ways than physical.
"And whenever you feel up for it, even if that is never… I'm here. For you. To talk to, to shout at, or to just sit in silence, if that's what you want." He shrugged, before ensuring Korbin's cup was filled again with water. He took a drink from his own cup, and hesitated only long enough to hear any reply from Korbin, before he would take his empty dishes to the kitchen, and eventually make his way to the little home he had made for himself.
it is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers
