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.
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
than all of the answers
