Salutations and welcome, ladies and gentlemen. The following chapters are meant to serve as a preview and promotion for my upcoming RWBY AU, To Serve With Honor. Further information can be found in the Author's Note at the end of the second chapter.
Read on and enjoy.
Part One - Intrusion
"Weiss, this is Corporal Jonathan Amsel," Winter introduced with an absent gesture as she passed. "He will be staying with us for the remainder of the month while I oversee a portion of his training as an Atlas Military Specialist."
"An honor and a pleasure, Miss Schnee," the young man - the soldier - stopped in front of her and brought a closed fist across his chest to rest against his shoulder in an informal salute, adding a short bow of his head for good measure. He then glanced over and noticed that Winter had not slowed her pace whatsoever, and scrambled to collect his bulky grey rucksack and catch up.
As far as first impressions went, it wasn't the worst Weiss had run across in her years of encountering her family's numerous associates - but for some reason, it left a bad taste in her mouth. The young man looked to be only a year or two older than Weiss herself; and whenever Winter spoke of him casually, her tone was pleasant and professional, yet still awkwardly stiff, bringing to mind a myriad of implications that Weiss was not just reluctant, but vehemently opposed to consider.
Her concerns only festered as the week progressed. Every day it was the same routine; she would arise at her leisure to find Winter and the soldier sequestered in some room or part of the estate grounds, generally with a table littered with books and papers between them as they both pored over the materials with cups of coffee in hand. She would watch them for a short while before going about her own morning routine, and would run across them later in the cavernous room that the family's personal trainers used for combat instruction, standing a short distance apart as Winter lectured or interrogated the soldier on whatever subject they were covering at the time.
Winter was resplendent as always in formally-styled military regalia, while the soldier was adorned in a slimmer, less armored variation of the uniform that Weiss had seen worn by the guards that accompanied General Ironwood whenever he visited her father. Their stances never changed when they were starting out - Winter held herself with a casual poise, her shoulders always squared and chin held high as she spoke, always looking him straight in the eye when she addressed him, arms at her sides and hands clasped purposefully at the small of her back. The soldier was much looser with his stance; while the rough positioning of his body mirrored Winter's, he was less rigid in his posture, and since he was always facing away from Weiss when she saw them, she could see that one hand looped around his opposite wrist behind his back, and he rolled his free hand at the wrist from time to time as her sister spoke.
In spite of their radically different demeanors,- in her eyes, anyway - the two clearly operated on similar wavelengths, and interacted in a professionally familiar manner. Winter would go on in her lecture, pausing occasionally to quiz the soldier, or when he interjected with a question in a dry or curious tone; her tone would lighten noticeably at the sound of his voice, apparently reassured that she was holding a mutual exchange with another person rather than lecturing at a distant and uninterested audience. Once the floodgates had been opened, their respective barriers fell, and both adopted looser, more comfortable stances: Winter would shift to favor her left leg, her right bending slightly at the knee, and she would cradle her arms at her midriff; and he would widen his stance vaguely and either stuff his hands into his pockets up to his knuckles with his thumbs hooked on the outside of his pants, or else fold his arms across his chest, gesturing with one hand whenever he spoke. His arms became expressive whenever he would speak at length, but no matter what, he never seemed to break Winter's gaze; and judging by the subtle shifting of her sister's face as conversations proceeded, the soldier and Winter shared a preference for communicating with their eyes.
Weiss wasn't sure what to make of that, except that she felt... Oddly, that Winter always seemed the happiest, or at least contented, whenever the eye-conversations took place. The eldest Schnee daughter's slate blue orbs came alive, radically different from the lidded gaze of contempt that had contributed in part to her moniker of 'Ice Queen' amongst the less couth members of Atlesian high society. She gave the soldier the entirety of her attention, eyes held fully open and bangs pushed aside to allow access to her full range of vision - a courtesy that Weiss noted was only very rarely afforded to close friends and family such as herself, yet was apparently expected by both parties during these sessions. The 'odd' emotion stewing in Weiss's vision was soon recognizable as jealousy, at both the apparent and the implied closeness between the two that she could only look forward to having with her sister once in a blue moon.
Jealousy morphed into raw envy when Winter and the soldier danced.
In a way, every bout between the two took on the appearance of a carefully choreographed routine. Winter's prized saber lashed out in streaks of quicksilver, the blade leaving trails of light in its wake. She crossed the training floor in long, elegant strides, and struck and parried with graceful twirls, the twin tails of her coat flaring with the motions. She pressed offense and defense with her weapon held in her dominant hand, the other tucked carefully out of the way against the small of her back unless she chose to split her saber and make use of the smaller rapier blade hidden within its core.
The soldier - his inexperience clear in everything from his struggles against Winter's ferocious pace, to his excited and wasteful strikes whenever he managed to grasp the initiative - may have been less competent with his weapon, but compensated with strength, adaptability, and an admittedly impressive grasp of footwork. His weapon - a broadsword the length and width of his leg with a cylindrical steel core, and a guard that resembled a pistol grip set parallel to the hilt - was wielded with conviction and at least a little practice, striking out in powerful sweeps and deflecting jabs and swipes. But while his blade work might have been mediocre and only just coming along, the soldier compensated by ably matching Winter's elegant rhythm with his own unique melody.
When the two came together in close quarters and stood determined to force the bout within arm's length, Weiss couldn't call the engagement anything but what it was: A dance, ever-changing and flowing from one style to the next by the cues of a silent accompaniment. Winter and the soldier circled one another in a primal, sinuous salsa, testing their respective defenses and never once breaking eye contact as their gazes flashed with warnings and promises that had Weiss blushing hotly just from watching. The beat would change, and one or the other would dive headlong into the lead of a furious waltz, the previous warmth replaced by a sub-zero flame around which the dancers trod with precision, constantly searching for openings and opportunities to steal the initiative from their opponent.
Winter held the lead more often than not; but the soldier was cunning, pressing against her defenses with raw power and drawing on superior reserves of stamina to apply continuous pressure, ultimately creating the slightest crack as the Schnee was forced to yield and regroup under the unrelenting assault. He would slip in and, for a few stanzas, he would seem to push Winter to the edge; and then in a blink, she would lash out with a single measured strike and break his momentum, effectively recapturing the lead, and the cycle would begin anew. The dance would continue for what seemed like ages, and Weiss would remain captivated throughout the entire performance, until a grand crescendo brought the number to its final refrain.
Winter and the soldier usually ended their bouts at the same approximate level of exhaustion. While the former was more experienced in hiding it than the latter, Weiss could recognize the signs in her sister - the slight panting and visible effort to control her breathing, and an ethereal sheen to her alabaster skin. The pair would separate and the tempo would slow, and after a period of wordless teasing and half-hearted exchanges, one of them would strike out for the final blow.
The soldier had yet to emerge with a definitive victory; but he had on several occasions forced a dignified defeat, and at least one desperate stalemate. On most occasions, however, the final stanza consisted of less than a dozen clashes of blades, before a conclusive blow sent him to the ground. But whether the soldier ended the performance flat on his back or on his knees in defeat, the first exchange after the match had ended remained the same: With Winter standing tall, dignified, and triumphant, and the soldier laid low and submissive at the ground beneath her feet, held at the point of her saber, their gazes never separated, and mirrored the same pride and warmth and... something. Something that Weiss knew that she had to experience to recognize, and something that felt so wrong to be seen in a look shared between her beloved sister and this... dog.
The two would break to clean up and discuss the match, and Weiss would occupy herself elsewhere in the estate for a spell before joining them for lunch. Conversation was always light, and the soldier was nothing less than courteous. He was stiff and out of place for the first few days, but grew more comfortable and familiar with the mannerisms associated with the setting and the company over time, in addition to contributing more frequently and readily to the discussion.
Weiss endeavored to avoid his gaze as much as possible without arousing suspicion, but inevitably ended up making eye contact for a period, distracted and - though she would never admit to it aloud - being spellbound by his stunningly blue irises. The cobalt depths always seemed to hold something new each time she catch them - curiosity, contemplation, determination - but after long enough, they would morph into guarded amusement, and no amount of further examination would reveal anything more than what he wanted her to see. Lunch would end shortly after, and the three would part again for a time.
Every other day, Weiss would meet with Winter at an outdoor pavilion on the expansive grounds encompassing the estate. The sisters would discuss Weiss's training, and follow up with a short series of spars highlighting areas of possible improvement in her swordsmanship or Semblance use, and end with a summary of the session's progress, to be followed by more casual and familiar conversation.
But ever since she first observed Winter's training with the soldier, Weiss was constantly making comparisons between every interaction, searching for every tic. Trying - sometimes desperately - to engage Winter in the same way that he did. Adding variation to her vernacular to resemble the way she had heard military officers and Specialists speaking casually at social events; adapting her stance to match Winter's, and progressively loosening it as time passed; even insisting during a spar that they increase their pace of battle. The first two appeared to elicit some small degree of warmth and amusement, but ultimately resulted in no real shift in the dynamic; while the last lead only to a rather humiliating defeat as Weiss utterly failed to adapt to Winter's rhythm of combat.
Finally, three weeks into the month, Weiss could stand it no more. "Sister?" she asked out of the blue, breaking the silence that followed their instructional debriefing.
"Yes, Weiss?" Winter replied absently, her gaze fixed on some point further out in the landscape that Weiss had given up on trying to locate. The younger Schnee resisted the urge to grit her teeth; Winter hardly even bothered to offer the courtesy of eye contact outside of mealtime conversation anymore.
"Why exactly is that... soldier, here?" She failed to completely disguise the peculiar undertone when saying the word, and Winter finally turned and regarded her with a curious quirk of her brow.
"You are referring to Corporal Amsel? Weiss, I explained it when we arrived: I am preparing him for-"
"-I mean," Weiss cut in, fighting back a wince as her sister's visible eye narrowed in annoyance, but unable to bear having the same information repeated again in a voice meant for addressing a slow child, "Why does that training necessitate him staying here, with us? Wouldn't the military base nearby have been a sufficient location?" Winter's sharp gaze softened, and she offered an uncharacteristic shrug of indifference and glanced aside to the landscape, much to Weiss's ire.
"Purely my own convenience, I suppose. I had no interest in returning to a military facility during my furlough unless absolutely necessary; and it is not as if we are lacking in spare rooms for guests."
"Wait, you're on leave right now?" Weiss balked, "And you're training a soldier?! That's completely unreasonable! General Ironwood has no right to-!"
"General Ironwood protested the decision, but I volunteered my time for the task," Winter cut her off sternly. "I usually find myself with more time on my hands at home than I know what to do with. Corporal Amsel is a quick study, and serves as an excellent sparring partner to maintain peak form; it is a mutually beneficial arrangement."
"He is a common soldier that barely knows how to use the blade he carries!" Weiss protested derisively.
"While he admittedly lacks experience with his new weapon, he is more than capable of compensating with his quick analytical mind and tactical acumen, physical strength and conditioning, and experience in combat against Grimm and human opponents alike," Winter retorted quickly and decisively, meeting Weiss's challenging glare with a cold stare from both slate eyes, "And I find it interesting that you, having observed his regular bouts with me, believe yourself to be in a position to pass judgement on his abilities, given the result of our own most recent spars." Weiss flushed deeply in embarrassment and shrank back, bowing her head and finding great interest in the surface of the table in front of her. Winter winced slightly as she recognized her own venom and frowned lightly in regret and shame at her loss of composure. For several awkward moments thereafter, the sisters sat in silence.
Finally, Winter sighed lightly. "What is this about, Weiss?" she asked softly, gazing at the top of her younger sister's head. Weiss looked up hesitantly from her lap, and Winter was staring into the same curious and sad ice-blue eyes that had asked her not to leave the night she before she had joined the military.
"You're home on leave for the first and longest time in over a year... I'm here preparing to enter a Huntsman Academy... And yet, you're spending most of your time training some no-name soldier that you hold no obligation to whatsoever. Why, Winter? Why are you doing this for him? What is he to you?" Weiss asked softly, pleadingly - desperately.
"I..." Winter was at a loss for words, and Weiss almost felt a tear spring forth as her older sister broke her gaze again. "... He has a name, Weiss. His name is Jonathan Amsel, and..." she trailed off and seemed to fight a furious internal struggle as Weiss stood by helplessly, silently pleading for an answer. "... And I can't tell you. I would if I could, Weiss, but... it's just not my place."
It was Winter's turn to watch helplessly as Weiss sprang to her feet and swiftly crossed the smooth cobblestone floor of the pavilion, stopping at the entrance to turn her head part way back towards Winter.
"... I want to fight him," she ground out, disguising her welling tears and indignation behind a mask of anger. "Tomorrow, I want to fight him, and I'll prove to you that he's not worthy of your attentions."
"Weiss!" It was too late. She was already halfway back to the manor, while Winter remained in her seat at the pavilion.
She didn't see Winter for the rest of the day, secluding herself in her rooms with her rapier, Myrtenaster, and taking dinner at her desk. Clyde, the Schnee family's head butler, and Weiss's de facto father-figure in her youth when her father was regularly absent, had fixed her with a concerned stare that she had to fight to ignore when he delivered her meal, but did not press the issue until he returned to find Weiss lashing out furiously at a Schnee Dust Company training android with glyphs and sword strikes, dismembering the mechanical humanoid swiftly and then panting slightly as she towered over the robotic remains, glaring hatefully at the far wall.
"Miss Weiss." The resolve and naked concern of her normally cheerful man-servant's accent broke the heiress from her emotional reverie, and she looked to the man in surprise and a little embarrassment.
"What is it, Clyde?"
"Your sister has informed me of your intentions to challenge her... Subordinate," the mustachioed gentlemen seemed to deliberate for an instant before settling on the term.
"And I suppose you're here to dissuade me," Weiss muttered sourly, replacing Myrtenaster in the sheath at her waist and turning to watch as another SDC droid entered the chamber and gathered the remains of its fellow mechanical.
"I'm here to inform you of the possible repercussions of the match," Clyde clarified respectfully. At her curious glance, he elaborated. "While you may have secured your father's grudging approval to attend an Academy by defeating his creation, he of course remains opposed to your decision to become a Huntress, and may use the match to force the issue to his agenda."
"And you doubt my capability to defeat some nameless military dog?" Weiss demanded, not a little hurt by Clyde's implications.
"I have no doubts as to your combat ability, Miss Weiss," Clyde declared diplomatically, and her pain sharpened as she realized that he had not denied the accusation, "That being said, I feel obligated to inform you that, while Corporal Amsel is fairly new to the formal blade style of a Huntsman, he has the advantage of over a year of combat experience against the Grimm in Mantle's interior; he has also seen battle against the fighters of the White Fang, many of them longtime veterans of their cause."
"But did he defeat them?"
"If I recall, of the terrorists he has faced, only a handful can claim to walk free. Many more currently reside in the prisons of Atlas, while a majority... Are no longer among the living," he finished with a grimace of reluctance.
"All that tells me is that he is a killer - just like every other one of the military's thuggish soldiers - and that he is smart enough to take advantage of the weapons and equipment supplied to the army by the SDC to defeat opponents of lesser training and skill," Weiss sniffed haughtily. A little part of her mind told her that she was wrong - that she was in denial, and unwilling to lend any merit to her opponent's skill because of his occupation and her own wild emotions. She quashed the tiny voice ruthlessly as Clyde let out of a long, sorrowful sigh.
"His experience and your own preconceptions notwithstanding, Corporal Amsel is not without his own legitimate motives for seeking to win this match," the portly butler supplied neutrally.
"Yes, I'm sure the embarrassment of one of Ironwood's soldiers losing out to a daughter of the Schnee family not even into a Huntsman Academy would be substantial for the Atlas military," Weiss dismissed with a wave, turning as a new training droid emerged from the same doorway as the first. She drew Myrtenaster once more and listened with half an ear as Clyde muttered to himself.
"More so than you realize, Miss Weiss," he finally raised his voice to directly address her. Before she could quash her pride and ask him to elaborate, however, he had collected the tray with the remnants of her meal, and the training droid was advancing slowly and deliberately towards her.
As the door to her chambers closed with a resounding click, and she set to work dismantling the new droid, Weiss was also fighting constantly inside her own head to suppress the niggling voice at the back of her mind; it insisted that she open her eyes and dig deeper into the situation, to reconsider her impassioned crusade against the interloper that so dared to waste her sister's time and steal her affections-
With a great cry of rage, Weiss summoned a series of glyphs to surround the droid, and darted about the hapless automaton with a vengeance, her swipes slicing through joints until the unit lay in even more pieces than the last, its head skewered deeply by Myrtenaster as the Schnee heiress panted in exhaustion.
Tomorrow, she would prove herself - she would banish the lowly thug from her great house, and Winter would realize that she was wasting her precious time and energy on him, along with all of the time that she had already wasted over the years of serving as one of Ironwood's tools. Time that could have, and should be spent on her own flesh and blood - her family.
The morning light shone through translucent pale blue drapes as a knock at the door roused Weiss from her slumber, accompanied by a servant informing her of the time set for the match. With time to spare, the heiress bathed and dressed in her combat regalia, reverently loading dust capsules into Myrtenaster and sheathing the weapon at her hip. Chin held high and with a purpose in her stride, she made her way to the training chamber.
To her great surprise and a tiny bit of dismay, an audience had already gathered to witness the bout. Several finely dressed servants lined the field of battle, chattering in soft voices that quieted once they witnessed her entrance. Clyde also waited, silently and patiently, and stood alongside the two main sources of Weiss's distress: Her father, Jacques Schnee; and the head of the Atlas military, General James Ironwood.
Burying her unease deep down and schooling her features into determination, she approached the pair and stopped a few paces away, waiting for the two to glance away from their conversation and recognize her presence before offering her salutations.
"Father," she greeted, her tone carefully tailored into confidence, and an undertone of reverence; her father nodded lightly in recognition, and she lit up inside as the corners of his mouth twitched upwards into a tiny, barely noticeable smile of approval. "General Ironwood," she turned to the imposing man, shaven clean and cutting a dashing figure in his formal military dress.
"Miss Schnee," the general returned with a nod and a more genuine smile than her father's. "I must say, I was rather surprised to hear that you intended to challenge one of my soldiers, particularly on such short notice; your conviction in the matter is quite admirable."
"I confess that I cannot claim to have been deeply considering the implications of my challenge when I issued it," Weiss admitted with demure candidness, at which the general chuckled warmly, "However, that will not stop me from witnessing for myself the capabilities of the soldier that my sister has chosen to take such a vested interest in."
"I can assure you, for his young age and short career, Corporal Amsel's record is quite distinguished; and his tutelage under Winter will only have sharpened his skills from military training and combat. I am confident that he will offer you a worthy challenge," Ironwood promised firmly; as he spoke, however, his eyes drifted minutely to the end of the field, and as he finished speaking, Weiss turned to witness the object of the general's distraction.
The soldier waited patiently at the opposite end of the field... Alongside her sister, and the pair exchanged small words and veiled smiles that fueled the red creeping into the edges of Weiss's vision. Turning back to her father, the younger Schnee daughter bowed her head faintly in deference.
"By your leave, Father," she intoned politely.
"You will make me proud, Weiss," Jacques nodded, speaking with surety, and a familiar undertone that promised consequences should he be proven wrong.
Spinning on her heel, Weiss strode to the opposite end of the field, and took up a position opposite the soldier. His cobalt eyes sharpened in recognition of her arrival, and he offered her a courteous nod as he spoke his final piece to Winter. Her sister's gaze, on the other hand, adopted a dulled sheen of concern; but as she made to cross the field towards Weiss, the soldier called her before she could get too far. He snapped to attention and offered her a ceremonious salute, along with a few words that were lost to the distance; and Winter brightened ever so slightly and turned her body fully to return the gesture, before resuming her journey towards Weiss.
By the time she had crossed the distance, however, her worried look had returned and doubled. She stopped at arm's length from Weiss, and positioned herself to present her back to their father.
"It's already far too late to call off this foolishness," Winter declared with a slight grimace.
"I would not, even if I had the opportunity," Weiss replied. "I'm going to show you, Winter - he's not worth your time."
"You think that I would have stuck my neck out for him if I thought he was completely worthless?" the Specialist quirked a brow at the idea.
"I think that he has something over you, or that he's playing on your feelings to do this. I'm saving you from disappointment," Weiss insisted, refusing to back down.
"How gallant and entirely presumptuous of you, little sister," Winter rolled her eyes and cocked her hip. "Whatever happens now, we'll discuss after the match is over." Her features softened again, and her final words were spoken softly. "And whatever happens, Weiss... You are and will always be my beloved sister, and I'm sorry that I've disappointed you as I have."
Without another word, Winter turned sharply on her heel, and moved to take her place between their father and Ironwood as the official of the match.
Weiss and the soldier took several steps forward, and previously unseen lines on the floor flashed with pale blue light; a display came to life on the wall opposite the spectators, and two identical green bars appeared, filling completely to represent each fighter's Aura.
Winter stepped forward as the fighters approached and stopped twenty paces from one another. "The first combatant to reduce their opponent's Aura into the red will be declared the winner," she announced. Before she could continue, however, General Ironwood took a step forward to a side, and whispered something in her ear. Whatever the general said caused the Specialist to bristle, and she snapped around to protest, only to grudgingly acquiesce under her superior officer's stern glare.
"A last-minute notice, to both combatants," Winter very nearly growled the words, "Although this is a voluntary and unofficial private match - it will also be serving as a benchmark evaluation, to determine Corporal Amsel's continued enrollment in the Specialist program. As such, should he be defeated... He will be immediately stripped of his title, and returned to duty in the Atlas Foreign Legion."
Weiss's eyes snapped open as a great leaden weight materialized and settled in the pit of her stomach. She looked to the soldier, but was again surprised to find that he simply smiled wryly, and cobalt orbs settled on Ironwood with a cold fire that promised retribution. As quickly as the look appeared however, it was gone; and Weiss was forced to wonder if she had simply imagined it as he met her gaze once more.
"Combatants, step forward to meet your opponent."
Winter took a step back as Weiss and the soldier moved to within arm's length. The younger Schnee daughter was conflicted, but refused to allow it to appear on her face while in the presence of her father; settling instead on a blank stare and a slight downward quirk of her lips.
The soldier met her gaze evenly, and had the gall to smile pleasantly. "Well, Snowflake," he spoke, and Weiss couldn't stop herself from bristling at the despicable nickname, "As you now know, my career is at stake in this fight. So don't expect me to go easy on you."
"I would be insulted if you gave anything less than your best," Weiss shot back coldly. "Not that it will be enough to defeat me."
"Pretty words from a pretty face, Snowflake," he grinned, taking two casual steps backwards and wrapping a hand around the hilt of the broadsword slung across his back. Weiss mirrored the movement, resting her hand on the hilt of Myrtenaster and shifting into a ready stance, coiled and set to lunge in for the first strike.
"At my command," Winter called from the side, but the words barely registered to Weiss as she did her level best to stare holes in the twin cobalt pools before her; the subjects of her ire only continued to twinkle with amusement.
"Ready. Begin!"
Cobalt flashed, and Weiss lunged.
Part One End.
Next: Part Two - Rivalry