#edelwrites

[a-mellowtea]

I'd say that this RWBY AU in my head is cooking, but it's more like a witch's cauldron that I keep tossing random ingredients into as I cackle in maniacal glee...

[a-mellowtea]

"shh, shh. you were having a nightmare" for --you guessed it-- ironqrow? 👉👈

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When James startles awake, it's to the sound of the world ending.

At least, that's what the sudden crack, the rumble, the flash of pure, blinding white light feels like. All around him are screams, gunfire, the impossible cacophony of reality being flipped squarely on its head. The sulfuric linger of Dust is in his nose, his lungs, and it's hot — searing, dripping, like he's being drowned in blood and burned from the inside out. He can't breathe, can't see, can't think beyond the instinctual grab he makes for Due Process, but the twin pistols aren't where they should be. James chokes, twists desperately, trying to get his feet under him, only to find that his legs are ensnared. He kicks—

—and falls straight off the bed.

It hurts, but it's the jolt that brings him back, that shoves the little breath he managed to take from him and leaves him gasping. He's on his side, staring across soft carpeting, the dim glow of a small nightlight glaring from low on the wall. He's in his apartment, in the Academy, in Atlas. There's no fire, no screams, no Brothers-forsaken battlefield.

Every inch of him shaking, James lowers his head to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut. He can't tell if the sting is tears or sweat. The sob that escapes him is painfully loud.

"James?"

For a heartbeat, the voice doesn't register, and terror freezes James in place. Then he rolls over by half, looks up, and meets familiar crimson eyes. His relief could have powered the entire Kingdom.

"Qrow," he whispers, hoarse and breathless and so not like him that he flinches. 

Qrow slides off the bed and sinks down next to him, settling a hand low on James’ chest. His fingers twitch with the urge to cover it with his own, but everything’s so heavy and moving at all right now feels like a hopeless endeavor, so instead he closes his eyes again and struggles for a steady breath.

"Hey..." Qrow soothes, rough with sleep but gentle. Cool fingers brush James’ hair from his forehead. "Shh, shh. You were having a nightmare."

Oh. Yes, that explains it. He blinks, and turns his head to look past Qrow, under the bed, out the windows. He can see the twirling tempest of a blizzard; can hear the whistle of the wind if he listens for it. Thundersnow is rare, especially in Atlas. That probably hadn’t helped.

And yet...

"I can't remember," murmurs James.

The room lights up again, but the rumbling that follows is quieter. Qrow doesn't say that it's probably best that he doesn't, that it was nothing, just a bad dream — they both know 'just' never applies to either of their terrors. He rubs small circles against James' chest, breathing slow and even. James finds himself matching the rhythm without even meaning to.

They sit in an easy silence. The last skips of adrenaline drain away, and James becomes aware of a pain in his right wrist. It’s not terrible or sharp, and he can’t think of what caused it — definitely not tumbling off the bed — but it makes him wince all the same. Qrow stills.

"You hurt yourself?"

James scoffs a dry laugh and shakes his head. It's residual, a phantom ache, like the haze in his head, and the ghosts, and the rest of it. Qrow shifts, and reaches for his hand anyways. James can just make out the way his brows are furrowed, the concern in his eyes.

"Lemme see."

James lets him. He expects him to be analytical, to check the joint for damage or something knocked out of alignment, but all Qrow does is weave their fingers together and hold tight. The warmth chases off the tension, the echo of anguish, and James huffs a breath that rasps barely shy of another sob.

He doesn’t realize his eyes have slipped shut once more until Qrow’s tapping his chest. There’s a touch of amusement to the way his lips have quirked, behind the tenderness and worry.

"You wanna get up?"

James considers it a moment. The world's still spinning, and he's still trembling, and he really doesn't trust himself to move.

"Not yet," he croaks, still no louder than a breath. Qrow nods without hesitation.

"Okay."

He swivels, and for a moment James thinks he’s going to climb back into bed. But then Qrow tugs down two pillows, and the heavy duvet, and is suddenly curled up next to him on the floor, one arm beneath his head, the other snaking around James to pull himself close. It’s a less sudden thing, the feeling of safe that tucks itself neatly behind James’ ribs, but when it finally resolves and beats alongside the machine-steady pulse of his heart, it’s overwhelming.

James feels more than hears Qrow’s hum when he wraps his arms around him in return, burying his face — and the tears — in feather-soft hair.

"Shh. You're here, Jim. You're right here."

[a-mellowtea]

This was brought up in a Discord server I’m in, and I was going to -- and at some point probably will -- write a proper mini-fic for it (it’s still in my drafts), but I want to paint a scene first, because it’s stuck in my head.

It’s Atlas Academy. It’s students, around the same age as our heroes; young warriors, with families and friends and dreams of helping the world and their Kingdom, like every student of Beacon was. Things were shaken a bit when Vale fell and the CCT went down, but life went back to a slightly-adjusted normal pretty quickly. The new semester started, classes resumed. Amity Colosseum drifted its way home, and there’s a buzz in the halls about the newly-dubbed “Protector of Mantle” -- Doctor Polendina’s creation, restored. Any unease about her nature lessens within a week of her presence on campus as students bump into her, and disappears completely when the first reports of sector security in Mantle come in; the highest its been in decades. 

Things aren’t perfect -- the Academy’s rationing Dust and there’s disquiet about the increased military presence in Mantle, no matter how many reassurances the undercity students are given -- but they’re stable. Safe.

And then Mantle is attacked. They’re ordered to their dorms; upperclassmen and faculty providing what guidance they can as they lock down the school. There are whispers that some students saw Specialist Schnee leave for the military compound in a panic, but there are no answers. All they can do is trust. Trust the military. Trust their Headmaster-General. Trust that they have the situation under control, and that they’d just get in the way if they tried to help, and that this storm will blow over even as the name “Salem” rings in their ears and General Ironwood tells them all that she’s what they’re really fighting. It’ll be okay. Amity Colosseum is ready; the whole world will be able to fight back, together. Atlas is strong. They’re strong. It’ll be okay.

And then evacuations from Mantle are halted. A few teams nervously ask their Professors about gunfire in the hallways. There’s a storm outside, red lightning arcing through the clouds. Sometimes it’s bright enough to illuminate what looks like a giant whale -- the upperclassmen say that that’s ridiculous. There are no Grimm like that. There is a horde out on the tundra, though; sitting there, waiting. The students of Atlas Academy sit and wait too. No one’s heard from General Ironwood. The Kingdom’s shield is raised. They’re told to stay in the dorms.

Then, suddenly, in the painfully early hours of the morning, Scrolls start beeping. It’s a video; a message, on Atlas’ Emergency Broadcast Channel. A young girl -- she can’t be older than a first-year student -- is on every screen. She smiles awkwardly and waves. She tells them all her name is Ruby Rose, and she’s a Huntress. She says Atlas is under attack by Salem, and that they need help. Whispers start -- why isn’t General Ironwood the one making this announcement? -- but are quickly hushed so that the rest of the broadcast can be heard. She asks them to try not to panic. The name “Salem” is said again; this time to the whole world. It must be; must be from Amity. They’re connected again! Even if things are dire, they can hold out. They can rally the Kingdoms, the people, organize a fight-

And then this Ruby Rose starts talking about magic. About Maidens and Relics and what Salem’s truly after. She says the Headmistress of Beacon and the Headmaster of Shade Academy -- why is there no mention of Haven? The rumors must be true, Headmaster Lionheart must have died defending it -- can verify what she’s telling them, and maybe even organize a way to fight back. She tells them their Headmaster-General can no longer be trusted. The whispers start again. And then that name -- “Salem” -- is tied to a word.

“Immortal”.

No one speaks. No one moves. Ruby Rose confidently tells Remnant that just because she can’t be destroyed doesn’t mean she can’t be defeated. She says “even if Atlas falls”. She says nothing of an immediate plan, of how they’re going to keep Atlas and Mantle alive in the days, maybe weeks until help arrives, if it will at all; just about banding together and not giving up.

And then the broadcast cuts out. The signal is lost. They’re alone.

It’s pandemonium. Students in the halls and their dorms desperately try to figure out what's going on. Snippets of frenzied conversations - "Who was that girl?"; "I think I've seen her around with the Ace Ops."; "Aren't they from Beacon?"; "But the General said we were going to fight, right?" - try to rationalize it all. Some are arguing, furious and confused. Some are crying. Some want to fight. Some are just staring vacantly out at the storm. There are screams; walls painted dripping crimson -- those are few, but more than one: some still had family in Mantle, and for some it’s all just too much. A handful cling to enough calm to go looking for their Professors for answers. It takes until finding them to realize:

No one has any.

The storm rumbles on.

[a-mellowtea]

predisposition

->

Omega watches.

It's one of the things she is very, very good at. She observes, and analyzes, and takes note of all the little things that would slip beneath the notice of those around her. The holos and hallways of Tipoca City practically sing for her, and a beautiful melody at that, carrying her insatiable curiosity on a neverending current. It's uncanny how quickly it lets her learn: borderline unnatural, and she can't explain it, but it comes as easily as breathing. She's half certain that it's the main reason, beyond being the Kaminoan's creation, that Nala Sae has stayed so patient with her.

It's a blessing and a curse. As surely as she knows the secrets of the city, the ins and outs of the science, she picks up on every word, every snicker and jibe from men who are, genetically speaking, family. And it hurts, but she's learned to roll with the punches. Usually by countering with her own, albeit in quiet and creative ways.

Sometimes Omega watches a little too closely, and almost thinks she catches onto things before they happen, but that's silly. Too much time spent staring at sterile laboratory walls. What was it called? An imagination?

She dearly wishes the last few days could've been chalked up to that. If only so then she wouldn't already know exactly what was happening to the tired soldier -- brother, he's my brother -- sitting across the cell from her.

She watched the tremors and headaches filter through the examination rooms, listened to the horrible murmurs and cries of nightmares played out on medbay cots. She's seen what these inhibitors, this order, have done. She feels it. It echoes in her ears, faintly, like the pulse of her own heartbeat, and it makes her cold in a way even the clean of pristine white corridors can't.

So, when Crosshair puts a hand to his temple, closing his eyes on an uneven sigh, and looks so defeated, so lost, Omega stops watching and gets to her feet.

It's so much worse to witness it play out in slow motion.

"You're angry," she says, just to get his attention. She scoots onto the bench beside him, bitter metal biting her palms, and leans forward to catch his eye as he affords her a rather withering glance. She doesn't take it personally.

"Very perceptive." 

He slouches away, chin propped up on his fist, but neither that nor the attempt at his as-yet usual clipped sarcastic monotone do anything to hide the shaking. It's fine and wiry and she's sure none of the others have looked close enough to notice, yet sitting next to him it's impossible not to. This close, it's like standing in the maelstrom of Kamino, violent and turbulent.

Angry.

Confused.

Scared.

Omega raises a hand to his shoulder, as confident as she is desperately gentle. The blacks under her fingers are warm, and she hopes it's not imagination that she feels him steady eversoslightly. 

"I know what you're going to do, but please. Don't." 

Keep fighting it, she implores, because she knows -- stars save him, she knows -- that he is, but it doesn't gain a voice. She can't think of a way to say it bluntly, to tell him that he's losing himself, that won't frighten him more.

He regards her a moment, eyes still harsh. Not nearly to the degree they were a minute ago, though, Omega decides.

"What do you know?"

Far too much, she thinks, and it makes her lips twitch into a sad smile.

"I know it's not your fault," she tells him, softly. Someone has to. "You can't help it."

He blinks at her, once, surprised for a scant heartbeat, and in that moment, she hears it. Hears him, as surely as the hum of the walls, and that's what it must be, because something in his eyes shifts, nearly shatters, in that same instant.

Then it vanishes, and he tenses. There's another reassurance on her tongue, but it dies when red enters her peripheral, and she drops her hand when she would have -- should have -- held on. The exchange is too quick, and he's gone; marched away by shocktroopers to a fate she's already guessed. Already knows.

The space next to her is cold. She feels it down to her bones.

Later, when there's a blaster in her hands and a perfect shot down the sights, when it would maybe be kinder, she knocks the rifle from his grasp instead. Because it's not his fault, and even this far away, even though it's so much quieter, in the moment of stillness that follows, she can hear him.

He's screaming.

[a-mellowtea]

A month after his world fell apart -- after everything he knew and called home had to be left behind, after his sister was lost to the darkness of a magical void and his other sister appeared with tears and blue flames battling in her eyes, after they all stumbled into the lap of an uncaring desert and unprepared Kingdom -- Whitley slams his palms down on the lacquered wood of a table in a Vacuo bar.

He’s sick of the looks. He’s tired of the whispers, and the truth within them. He’s through with being a Schnee, and a useless one at that. He can’t stand it anymore; not when Weiss is gone, and Winter’s gaze is far away when she’s not venting her grief on Grimm, and there’s a boy his age with a stick for a weapon who’s doing more than he is.

He doesn’t ask. He demands. 

“Teach me how to be a Huntsman.”

[a-mellowtea]

🌹 💜

"Of course, because the stars in the sky would sooner go dark than James admit to wanting anything even halfway, as he'd put it, 'indecent'."

[a-mellowtea]

“Problem, the first: Salem. Problem, the second: I felt about as inclined as a certain reincarnating wizard to tell anyone of importance, least of all General James Ironwood, ‘funny thing: the evil witch lady you’ve devoted your life to fighting? She’s immortal!’. At least, not without a plan. Which was not currently forthcoming.

What was more likely to yield first: the wall, or my forehead?”

r/RWBY bit me with an Isekai-tis bug about a month ago, which has led to this fic, tentatively titled “Fate Is Kind” you get a cookie if you understood that reference, in which a poor darling fan is reincarnated in Penny’s body.

Yeah, I can’t unironically label the sub as anything but ‘peculiar’.

[a-mellowtea]

“don’t do that. don’t shut me out” or “there’s nothing wrong with asking for help” for Wishbone (Clover/Marrow)? Marrow is a concerned boyfriend. 🥺

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"There's nothing wrong with asking for help."

The words are soft, a brush of breath across his arm. There's no malice behind them, nothing more than a slight tinge of judgment, of frustration born from worry, but Clover can't quite blame his wince on the jagged wound Marrow is oh-so-careful binding.

A million things had gone wrong. Their position, the weather, the projection of Grimm in the area. It happened, and he knew it, but it didn't happen to them. At least, not since Tortuga. They were careful, they were precise, and where that fell short, they were lucky. Yet, what should have been a simple recon mission had turned into a six-hour adrenaline-filled blur of snow and ice and chance; one that Clover is still having a hard time remembering a good half of.

Warmth brings him back around to the present, to where Marrow's hand has settled against the crook of his elbow.

"Hey," he says, and Clover glances at him on instinct. "It could've been any of us."

Yes, it could have been. It could also have been so much worse. It is by chance--by luck--that they're all in one piece; just not his. No, he'd lost that along with his Aura, shattered by a Beowulf pouncing through the whiteout. They'd been at the mercy of the tundra, and if the mission had been farther from the old mines, if the storm hadn't let up enough for their flare to billow through, if the Ursa's aim had been inches truer...

Sheer, dumb, blind luck. That's all he can think to thank.

Clover returns his gaze to the window. Beyond the frost-laced panes, the last of the storm has settled into a calm spring snowfall. His voice is a lot steadier than he feels.

"I'm supposed to be the one getting us out of situations like that."

Marrow squeezes, gently, then goes back to tying off the bandages. "Not just you," he replies. There's a conviction in his tone that should be comforting, but the words don't fully register. "We're a team, aren't we? You can't expect that we depend on you to do everything."

He pauses. His hands move away, and Clover immediately misses the warmth.

"You don't, right?"

Clover rolls his shoulder; a spike of pain dances down his arm, but nothing incapacitating, and certainly nothing his Aura won't take care of. He swivels on the bed, away from the snow, but only looks at Marrow for a moment, long enough to flash his partner a half-hearted smirk. The concern he sees ties his stomach in knots.

"Who's the walking good luck charm?"

Marrow rolls his eyes, lips briefly quirking at the corners. He shifts, and sits forward on the chair so that he's clearly in sight, and crosses his arms in a way Clover knows he picked up from Elm.

"Luck doesn't mean infallibility, you know. Balance of probability only gets us maybe halfway. The rest?" He lifts a hand and ticks off on his fingers, "Skill, discipline, trust."

They're words he's heard before, and Clover can't help a proper smile.

"Careful. You're starting to sound like James."

A dismissive hand is waved in his direction. "Ah, it was in the recruitment brochure or something." Marrow's voice dips softer, and he frowns, but it's more considering than condescending. "It's true, though. We depend on you as our leader, and your Semblance is super handy, but we're still here."

He reaches out. After a heartbeat's worth of hesitation, Clover meets him halfway, and he weaves their fingers together. "I'm still here. You don't have to do it all. And don't take something like this as your failing, alright?" Marrow nods to the bandages on his arm. "There's nothing to be punishing yourself for."

And that's the kicker. Of course, he knows; probably figured out the moment Doctor Bruna told him he hadn't been by to have the injury looked at. Marrow's perceptive--one of the many, many things Clover adores him for. The lop-sided, confident grin that brightens his expression a moment later is on that list too.

"We're in this together."

When Clover repeats it, he believes it.

"Together."