i'll pray at your feet (as long as you let me)

He has never truly heard the sounds of the battle waged nightly in his home until the snows fall.

The snow here is different than in Solitas, he is quick to realize once the autumn finally wanes. There is a stickiness, a humidity which permeates the air and the earth even though crystals fall from the sky; it is not the dry, humourless powder which constantly assaults the northern continent. For the first time in months, when he sees the snow fall upon his little farm, Clover finds himself missing Atlas. The biting cold of his homeland was sharp and brisk, nipping at his nose and destroying his sense of safety, for those trapped alone on the tundra of Solitas would find no respite from the elements; but that was a demon with which he was comfortable. He was trained to survive in Atlesian ice storms.

In contrast, this land's chill is an insidious one, seeping into his bones and lingering there, the cold, icy damp finding every nook and cranny in his home and his soul to sit and fester whilst he shivers under dozens of layers. Yet, no matter how many sweaters he piles on, no matter how many logs he burns, he still feels cold.

At least the children had been smart enough to warn him to cut wood. Thanks to their ushering, he has prepared more than enough fuel to keep his hearth ablaze throughout these months should his Dust-fueled heat generator fail. He is grateful for that warmth. And the two of them will be well-fed by the baker, he thinks gratefully as he looks out into the garden, so much more tidy thanks to four tiny helping hands. I can't wait to welcome them back.

He hesitates to say 'welcome home' to them, even in his thoughts. He does not know why. Maybe he simply hopes that they shall say it first; he has never been good with children, but Ren and Nora are ones he shall gladly keep by his side as long as he can. Upon their last farewell as they had boarded the airship before the storms had begun, he had joked that he could not wait to be rid of them, to which Nora had quipped and Ren had laughed in that quiet, shy way of his; the words unspoken had announced the truth, after all. The house is far too empty without their footsteps and laughter, and when spring arrives, he shall welcome them back happily.

Clover cannot help but worry about the shrine during this change in seasons. The first morning he awakens to fields of pure, untouched white surrounding his little home, his mind immediately runs to Qrow. Will the rooftop collapse under the weight of the snow? Will the land in the clearing grow barren? Will animals try to defile it or nest within it now that it has grown too cold for their regular burrows? These worries are over-the-top and he knows it, for he is confident in the stability of the structure they have built with brick and mortar and love, and he knows that nothing would dare touch the abode of a deity, even one as unknown as Qrow; his heart still fears, though.

That is what initially prompts him one particularly cold even to go out into the snow in the evening, to go out and search for Qrow. He has not seen the god, neither as a bird nor in his true form, lingering around the shrine as of late. It is clear that the offerings are being taken up- each day, they disappear, after all- but no longer is it practical for him to expect a dinner companion each evening. The snow is simply too cold to spend time in for too long, even when he goes out during the warmest period of the day.

That day, he had not gone out to see the deity, however. A call from an old comrade in Mantle had taken up his lunch hour, and after that disruption to his schedule, he has not yet found a chance until nightfall to truly seek out the god. He knows Qrow will not be upset, but the fact that he has not yet been able to verify whether the deity took the previous day's offerings bothers him. He worries for the crow god.

So once his nightly routine is almost finished, he opens up one of the higher cellar cabinets, too far up for Nora and Ren's reach. From within, he withdraws a small bottle of whisky; he does not drink often, but his grandfather had amassed quite a collection, and Clover is more than happy to take a glass and bottle out to the god as one might when praying to the Great Brothers. The deities love spirits, after all. Perhaps this shall keep Qrow warm.

The moment he steps outside his front door after nightfall, however, Clover regrets not leaving sooner. The chill immediately sinks through the lining of his high boots as his feet sink into the snow, his body recoiling, yearning immediately to return indoors. He regrets returning his bivouac gear when he left the military; they had issued him more than enough gear to allow him to survive the cold outside, but-

No, he thinks wearily, I wouldn't be able to camp outside anyways. The dull ache in his knee begins to outright throb in the midst of the snow, the pain enough to make him tremble as he fights to retain his balance. It happens every single time he goes out to the shrine around midday, and every single journey leaves him feeling embittered and defeated. If he cannot even walk for long periods of time in this, how can he possibly spend time with Qrow?

Suddenly, he perks up, shuffling back inside the house the best he can. It does not take him long to find what he needs- a long, tall wooden cane, carved of the same oaken wood which grows plentiful in the forests. He remembers this cane in the hands of his grandfather, just barely; it had always been leaning against a table or the armchair in which the elderly man had sat whenever Clover had come to see him as a child. His fingers trace along the grains in the wood, the light sensation sending shivers up his spine.

An errant thought causes him to almost drop the cane after a moment, leaving him wanting to hide away the support. It is a small thought, creeping slow, malevolent; he is not an old man who can no longer walk straight, and the sense of shame which plunges across his shoulders at his clear disability is a cold shower of frustration which douses him from head to toe. He is too young to need a cane, isn't he?

Then, he stops, looking back at the piece thoughtfully. The cane is still beautiful. He does not harbour any ill will towards it- there are only positive memories associated with the cadence of its weight upon hardwood. What shame is there in using something that can help him traverse the cold, especially if he is still able-bodied for the rest of the year?

He feels a little silly as the initial wave of anxiety and shame subsides. This piece had supported his grandfather, and now, it shall support him. The ghost of the man who had always welcomed him home lingers on here. There is no weakness in that. I guess I've not completely given up the Atlesian mindset, he thinks wryly, gripping tighter onto the wooden support. I need to let it go. This is my place now.

So, with this cane in hand, he bundles up yet again and pulls on his boots over four pairs of socks, finally braving the wintry chill.

The cane helps. It provides him that balance and stability which he has so sorely been lacking the entire week; a part of him cannot help but blush at his own folly and stubbornness, for he should have realized this was an option days earlier. He weaves his way through thick, wet embankments of snow, making slow but steady progress around the farmhouse, alongside the garden, until he reaches the trees. The Dust lamps which light up the exterior of his home are able to light up the entire area, unlike during the rest of the year; with golden-yellow light gently reflecting off the snow, gone is the darkness which had once plagued the area beyond his four walls. When accompanied with the moonlight, the entire field seems to glow for him tonight, guiding him home.

However, that soft, tender light does not reach the treeline. He gulps, pulling out his Scroll clumsily with thick gloves, flicking on the flashlight as he begins to stumble through the forest. He only hopes he does not fall; a night out here would do him serious harm, and he is not in the mood for dealing with further injuries today.

The clearing is empty. He is unsurprised; he does not know where Qrow sleeps, but he only hopes that it is safer than here, where the bird would be exposed to the elements.

Before he can turn around and leave, his shoulders hunched disappointedly and his body weary from even just the brief moment in the snow, he pauses, hearing a rustle in the bushes. He immediately grimaces, for his hand flies to his hip, only to find that it is painfully bare of Kingfisher's presence; he can do naught but watch, slowly backpedaling towards his home, as he awaits to see what shall emerge from the bushes behind Qrow's shrine.

Nothing could have ever prepared Clover for what actually steps out into the moonlight filtering through the leaves and into the clearing.

He is stricken. The monster reveals itself bit by bit, each inch exposed by the moonlight another year shaved off Clover's life. Eventually, it emerges completely, dark, rippling flesh and dripping fangs and blood-stained claws crunching through layers of ice and snow all fading away in favour of focusing upon the glowing, orange-red eyes which burn within deep, sunken-in eyes, the bone-white mask covering the creature's face deathly pale, almost ethereally so, when surrounded by snow.

A Beowolf.

The next three heartbeats knock Clover off his feet and onto his bottom, his body wincing and protesting at the movement and sudden chill, the snow deep enough to plunge his hands wrist-deep as he tries to cushion his fall. He barely even notices the pain, however, for in those scant seconds, three things happens so quickly he cannot process it all: two more Beowolves step out into the clearing, their fangs bared and claws waiting, the giant, hulking creatures of Grimm ready to pounce on his unarmed and very anxious self; the wind stirs suddenly, the moon illuminating the night sky suddenly clear as the breeze parts the canopy of trees above-

And a glow begins to overtake the skies for a split-second before a dark silhouette appears, instilling more unabashed dread within Clover's bones than he has ever felt before in his life. This glow is not white, heavenly; this glow is blood-red, tinging the air with the scent of death and decay, so prominent that Clover's numb nose can smell it instantly.

The shape is familiar, though. Clover has seen it time and time again out of the corner of his eye, or glowing from behind his eyelids. He has felt this figure's presence so often since coming to Anima that his heart longs to draw closer, but his mind immediately screams that he needs to run.

After all, he knows Qrow's silhouette perfectly.

He does not know the giant, blood-stained scythe trailing through the air from Qrow's hands, so long that Clover cannot even fathom wielding it himself.

It is an icon of pure destruction, leaving red afterimages in the sky, contrasting horrifyingly against the bloodstained moon. For a moment, Clover wants to cry out in shock- then, he remembers what Qrow had told him about Qrow's duties as a god.

It is but a second, and the deed is done. The glimmering blade swings in a powerful arc, and a strike of pure power and crimson magic rains down, slicing the three monsters creeping closer towards Clover in twain so brutally, yet cleanly, that Clover gags, rolling onto his knees to upheave the contents of his stomach into the snow. The heat melts the thin layers of crystalline white, turning the pool in front of him into mush and mud and vomit that, when combined with the scent of rancid flesh left behind from the dissipating bodies of the Grimm, only makes him nauseous further.

When Clover is finally able to look up, he catches but a glimpse of red eyes staring down at the earth; there is no warmth, no kindness in those eyes. There is naught but quiet, restrained anger, a hint of disgust and a bitterness lodged within. Those eyes reflect the bloodstains upon the scythe twirled around in his hands, his intense presence forcing the trees themselves to cower in the otherwise-silent night.

He truly is a reaper of the Grimm.

And then, those red eyes turn to look at Clover, and Clover screams.

Those seconds, those heartbeats, pass. He is suddenly upon his feet, scrambling despite the screaming pain in his knee, wincing and limping and gasping for air as he desperately fights his way over to the opposite end of the clearing. Those eyes wanted to kill-

"Clover!"

He freezes, that one word settling over him like an iron grip, seizing his muscles. He drops the cane in pain, collapsing once again to his knees, whimpering as he feels the bodies of the Grimm and their predatory aura vanishing, the stronger force between them lingering on. He says nothing in response, though. He cannot speak- he can only look down at the snow where he has fallen, praying that the scythe in Qrow's hands shall stay away from him forever.

To his surprise, Qrow does not chase him, does not give pursuit. Instead, Clover trembles as Qrow's projected light grows white once again, entering the clearing, illuminating the tiny, snow-blanketed world. This glow is gentle, kind; it is what Clover knows, what he has grown to adore over the past few months living in Anima quietly by his lonesome.

And yet, there is no warmth in his heart as he feels the god approach him, the light growing stronger and stronger until Clover trembles not from the cold, but from the presence of a creature whose blade was long enough to cleave a man in two effortlessly. A crunch of snow alerts him of the deity taking a seat in the snow. It is only then that Clover finally whispers, "Thank you for saving me. I'm sorry for not coming earlier today."

He hates how weak his voice sounds, how cowed he must look. He does not know what else to do, though; the image of Qrow as a vehicle to hunt Grimm had never been as visceral when it had been mere knowledge. Now, however, Clover wonders how he shall sleep that night, a blood-red sky forever engrained behind his eyelids.

"Were you not a Huntsman yourself, Clover?"

Wincing, he nods, for he knows what Qrow asks. "It has been almost seven months since I have seen the Grimm," he breathes. "I… I suppose I've grown weak." I'm just a civilian now, I guess, he adds silently.

Qrow does not respond. Clumsily, Clover removes the small bottle and glass from one of his large, downy pockets, holding it out in offering. "I wanted to bring this to you. For today. I didn't know there would be Grimm, though."

"No," Qrow says quietly. "Do not offer me spirits."

Clover frowns, tilting his eyes curiously up at the glowing figure. Now that the clearing is truly filled with white light, with no more hints of the bloody red which had elicited so much horror from him, Clover's heart has begun to settle down. He just needs to breathe.

Biting his lip, he settles his sights on a nearby tree, on watching how the light from Qrow's godly figure reflects off the smooth planes of thick, untouched layers of snow resting upon the branches, the textured trunk collecting pockets of damp white, the thin icicles beginning to form at the tips of each branch translucent, caught glittering between melting and clinging onto the tree.

After a moment of this silence, filled with nothing but Clover's ragged, strained breaths, Qrow finally explains, "When I was a mortal, I drank too much. I know that gods usually appreciate liquor as their gift. I do not."

"Oh," Clover replies, his mind racing. Qrow had been a human so long before; for him to still harbour such ill will towards alcohol, for him to turn down what is often prized as one of the finest offerings a god can experience… "Alright. I won't bring it again. Would you like something else?"

Qrow pauses, and Clover can feel the wind rustle through the leaves as the deity takes in a sharp inhale before sighing, exhausted. "I… are you not frightened of me, Clover?"

Immediately, the man winces, for the mere thought of Qrow's bloody blade is enough to send shivers down his spine. He has always known that Qrow was a god, but to see him as the reaper he claims to be…

He simply hopes to never have to see that image again. "I… I am," he admits at last, recoiling at the shame which floods his voice. Shame. That's a good word for it.

Better yet, though, would be regret. He has never heard Qrow's voice be so regretful, that heartbroken tone mirrored within Clover's own heart.

"Then why do you not run?" Even as a whisper on the icy breeze, Clover can hear the pain, the frustration.

"Well, you protected me." He smiles, patting his knee, trying to muster up his usual, cavalier, jovial tone with the god. "I don't think I would've been able to fight off those Grimm alone. Turns out I'm not so good with the cold these days after all." The admission stings, but Clover chokes it out anyways, for he needs Qrow to know. "I'm sorry for turning away. I just… I wasn't expecting it."

To his surprise, the light from Qrow's deistic form fades away, leaving behind only the light of his Scroll lingering faintly from his pocket. However, that light is more than enough to see the black mass which flings itself at him, prompting him to drop the cane in favour of holding the bird in his arms. "Qrow, are you okay?"

The god does not respond, merely tucking its beak inside Clover's hood, faint breaths tickling Clover's ear. It trembles, be it from the cold or from his own heartache, Clover does not know; however, when the god's voice echoes through the trees, murmuring, "Humans are different now, it seems," all Clover can do is shudder and bite back his own shocked cries.

How many had seen Qrow cull Grimm for their sakes?

And, of those, how many had rejected Qrow for the reaper he has become in return for his immortality? How many had rejected Qrow after he had saved them, just as Clover may have, had he not fallen?

So, Clover does the only thing he can think of: he wraps the corvid up in his coat, buttons it up, and makes the long stumbling trek back through thick snowbanks to his home, where he can defrost frozen feathers and provide the god some respite. He does not know if he shall be struck down for daring to do such a thing, but the shrine is cold, and Qrow is weary, and Clover's knee aches from winter's sting, so he does so anyways.

And when he awakens the next day curled up in the armchair by his fireplace, he finds that the corvid is gone, but the fire is stoked and the house is warmer than it has been in days, and he is content. After all, the image in his dreams had not been of a reaper silhouetted by the moon; he had seen thin lips curving into a smile, crimson eyes flashing with warmth, as his beautiful god had welcomed Clover back to his side.