Thunder splintered the tree's around a small house out in the wilderness of Texas, each proud sentinel splintering under the constant assault of the forces of nature outside of it. The sharp whistling of the weather rattled the home, shaking it's proud portraits and works off of its walls.
The first tree to explode had been worrying, the second even more so. But by the time the third struck?
There was no chance to escape.
All around, branches scattered into the wind as constant lightning hit the tree's near their home caused its occupants to quake in fear, their storm shelter within the very foundations of their home rocked.
"George... I... I'm frightened." whispered a woman, elderly and horrified at the carnage outside.
"I am too, dear." muttered George, burrowing his face in her hair as he held her close. They had lived a long life filled with havoc and fear, and George had never seen something so primal in all his years.
Though must have been hours, the furious weather seemed to stop. If George had to guess, it was because every tree within a three mile radius had to have been annihilated. The two of them looked to each other and started to laugh, George not even noticing the portrait of his grandfather in full military regalia staring up at him from where it fell. The portrait frowned as always, and if George had looked at him, he would have remembered his number one lesson.
Always be cautious in victory.
As the two stood up, the sound of a piece of paper tearing sounded right in their ears as heavy thumps and screeching metal sounded right outside their door. The woman screamed in horror as George jumped to his feet, desperately looking around his emergency shelter for anything he could use to defend them. Tearing through his art supplies, he pulled at what looked like his great-great grandfather's officer's sabre.
Instead, it was only a wide-brimmed paint brush.
Wide eyed, George tried to grab ahold of something, anything else. But before he could, the doors and roof of the shelter came torn off, revealing a pitch black sky above the two of them.
"George!" wailed the woman, pointing high above him.
He barely had the time to look up as a bolt of lightning streaked towards him. He shut his eyes, but rather than feel his entire body burn into a crisp, he felt the lightning wrap around him and slowly drag him up into the clouds.
"Oh my heav- George! GEORGE!" the woman screamed. Powerless to do anything.
All Laura Bush could do was watch as the 43rd President of the United States was carried into the sky, white faced and clutching his paintbrush.
A loaded pistol sat in front of him. High above, the screams of gunfire and man echoed into his hiding spot.
Perhaps, his dream hadn't been worth all of this suffering. Or maybe, the suffering had been what made his trials worth it. Whether he won or lost, the world would better itself.
But that was beyond him now. The screams drew closer, and all anyone could do was think about what had to be done.
Sometimes, those who fought hardest must lose in the simple ways.
The easy way.
Cold steel pushed against his head, eyes still hovering over his fallen wife and daughter in front of him. The lights flickered as a bright flash shone down the hallway.
"Wenn es so sein muss, dann sei es so."
Victory, it would seem, did not have to come through violence. It did have to be fought for, and with great fury and pride. But violence only bred violence, and through that the weakness of this great country would spread once more.
With a gasp, and the support of an aide, the old weathered man placed his bare feet on the ground, out to the resounding cheers of his supporters and revilers. Many who believed in him raised their voices in pride, while others swore in fury and called him a demon.
Victory, of course, had to have a loser.
But today, for the first time in anyones memory, it would not be his people.
As he placed his foot on the soft, grass of the upraised lawn in front of him, he heard a loud crack. All of a sudden he was falling, screams echoing all around him as people ran too and fro.
He couldn't bring himself to care, for all he could see was the hastily approaching clouds, filled with rain.
"How... odd..."
He slipped into the shadows as rain began to lightly tap his body, a distant voice right next to him crying out:
"He has died, our teacher is dead!"
He couldn't didn't hear the man.
"To flee would be weakness, Cirito."
"By the Gods, would you not reconsider!?"
"No, for if I back down now, it would be an admittance of guilt. For the world to move past this darkness, I must perish."
"You have many allies, old friend. We could find a way to spirit you away, the guards tonight are particularly greedy and would not be remiss of a few extra coins in their purse. Away with me, tonight!"
"Your kindness does you great justice, dear Cirito. And yet, to flee would be to admit I have anything to fear. The Gods will judge my worth, whether in Elysium or Tartarus I do not know."
"...And this is final?"
"Yes, my friend. I am sorry. But I must."
"I... I understand. For what it is worth, your wisdom will not die with you."
"I am not wise."
"Ha. As you say."
"And Cirito?"
"Hm?"
"Don't forget to sacrifice a rooster at Asklepios."
The door to the cell closed gently shut.
Sat before the man rested a cup of guilt.
Hemlock.
Thunder raged around Vale, tearing apart the Emerald forest and driving Grimm back for miles on end.
On the floor of an office, lay a cane.
Shattered, the last of its energy fading out.
"Our only hope at this time is for Knowledge." Whispered Ozpin, the feed of Amber's flat vitals still looping on his computer.
"I only hope it brings wisdom with it too."
A/N: A legend begins.