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.
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
than all of the answers
