i'll pray at your feet (as long as you let me)
The murmurs of increasing Grimm upon Solitas morph, turning from quiet, under-the-table reports from his old subordinates to the murmurs he hears from the occasional traveler who braves the winter snows of Anima. At first, Clover looks forward to those visits from passersby, happy to offer food and shelter for a little while to help them on their way; however, as more and more strangers bring news of the rising shadows haunting Solitas, he finds that his heart begins to sink every single time he sees a silhouette walking upon the horizon.
The location of these Grimm sightings crosses the northern ocean after weeks of the same story. They land upon the shores of Argus, apparently, moving further and further south- further and further inland, threatening to encroach upon Clover's newfound peace. Whether or not these sightings are merely rumour is yet to be seen. He prays it is so- not for himself, but for Qrow, for the deity deserves to have some bit of respite amidst his constant heartache and battle.
At least Qrow does not report an increase in Grimm sightings himself. When Clover asks, the deity murmurs without pause, "Even if there is a change in their ranks, I shall strike them down anyways." He speaks with such conviction, such absolute certainty that only a god of chance could carry, that Clover believes him without fail. It is reassuring to note that Qrow has at least one thing in which he shall always bear good luck.
Or perhaps it is just skill. Clover does not bother to doubt. As long as Qrow is safe, it does not matter.
Kingfisher continues to gather dust upon his wall. While Clover is thankful for Qrow's protection from whatever tides may be changing in the shadowy battle ravaging the world, each time his subordinates call him, he cannot help but have to stop what he is doing and put down his Scroll, hanging his head low, focusing on naught but his breath as his words empty, his heart stopping, his chest simultaneously so hollow and so filled with emotion that he cannot think.
Guilt is the name of this emotion- shame, its constant companion. He knows they do not belong in his heart, for he has done nothing to warrant such suffering, and yet he cannot say no to it.
The one thing he can say with utmost confidence is that he is grateful to have built the shrine. From the night he had seen Qrow fight onwards, he has gone out to the shrine before sundown each day to pray, to give offerings and thanks, and to open his arms. Most days, those arms remain empty, and he simply murmurs, "Goodnight, Qrow," to the deity's corvid form before picking up his cane and hobbling back to the farmhouse. Every once in a while, though, when the air seems to stir in particularly turbulent vortices, threatening to knock the world off-kilter completely, and not even the tiny clearing is safe from the violence of these increasingly-aggressive snowstorms and thunderstorms which haunt them all, Qrow takes Clover up on his offer of warmth and safety.
There is a tiny nest built of fabric and shredded paper, of stuffing and leaves, which sits in the living room now. There is nothing sweeter in the world than seeing Qrow fly over to it in crow form after Clover closes the door behind them- at least, nothing sweeter other than having Qrow stay in his arms as he falls asleep in his armchair under layers of blankets. The deity is never there when he awakens, although the remnants of his presence- a roaring hearth, more blankets, an opened window- always linger behind.
These nights always leave Clover wondering briefly whether the companionship had been naught but a fantasy; oftentimes he wonders whether he should photograph Qrow with his Scroll, but he does not wish to upset the deity. It feels disingenuous to capture the bird's image whilst he is sleeping, and Clover is far too shy to ask for permission during the day, so his memories shall have to do.
Sometimes when he sleeps, however, he can feel fingers intertwining with his, the wind stirring to caress his face despite the windows all being shut. He wishes he could see the deity's human form when he does this, for one question haunts Clover each morning when Clover awakens alone yet again:
With what eyes does Qrow look at him?
He is not so haughty to dare to ask, however, so that question remains unanswered, and Clover contents himself to merely enjoying the breathtaking view of the winter months.
There is only so much of stillness which he can take. Boredom is the mother of ingenuity, and soon, he finds himself clearing out one of the spare rooms upstairs; he converts it, slowly but surely, into a miniature gym. It is nothing like the high-end equipment he had utilized throughout his military career, but makeshift weights and supplies are created thanks to the plentiful supplies around the house, and soon, Clover feels some of his strength returning. Even his left leg no longer pains him as much, only truly hurting on particularly cold nights when the chill pervades the world beyond what blankets and fires can stop.
The pain never lasts long, nor uninterrupted. Every time he mentions the ache to Qrow, the wind blows and the pain ceases, if but for a moment. Clover is grateful for that.
However, one can only be alone for most of the day for so long before the madness begins to set in. He falls out of discipline with his early rising, finding himself crawling out of bed by noon more often than not. It is difficult to tell the hour with the skies almost-eternally overcast and grey. This lack of a concrete cycle digs itself into his skull, hooking painful claws of madness into his heart, for Clover has never lived alone for so long before, and the distinct lack of his Atlesian colleagues has never been more apparent; he finds himself speaking out to the empty air constantly, chattering about the news or the weather, about plants he wishes to try raising and that which he needs to avoid, about the animals which he really needs to drive off his tiny property and back into the fields if he is going to have a chance at growing certain things. He really, truly would like to grow strawberries in the upcoming summer, but if he does not find a solution for the slug problem, that'll be but a far-off dream forever.
He wonders whether Qrow likes strawberries. He hopes so.
The winter can only last for so long, but Clover is utterly unprepared for the ferocity with which the seasons change. In Solitas, the shift between winter to spring is slow, creeping- a gradual augmentation in temperature that never truly becomes warm, for after the ice comes the sleet and the storms, and the permafrost lingers forever to keep the world freezing as it should.
As it turns out, though, much like everything else in Anima, life is different here.
Clover walks outside one morning (or just past midday, if he is to be honest with his terrible schedule) only to find three decidedly surprising things which shock him so completely that he is stunned in his tracks:
First off, there is simply no more snow. As if it has evaporated into non-existence, the ground is barren, the trees no longer sporting any white filigree atop their skeletal arms. The only remnants of the ice and snow which have covered the land for months on end is the delicate trim of white which lingers upon the side of his rooftop not yet exposed to the sunlight, the steady drip, drip, drip echoing numbly through the air as melted snow plops onto cracked concrete and brick.
Second, the air is warm- not hot, not fresh, but warm indeed. The humidity cannot be understated, although he does understand why it is suddenly so difficult to breathe upon stepping past his front door. Thanks to the rapid thawing of the area, each breath is thick, heavy.
And thirdly, the shape of an airship at the stop down the road rises into the air, disappearing quickly behind cloud. It leaves behind two silhouettes sprinting towards the farm at full speed, high-pitched yelps and cheers echoing in the air.
Clover will later not admit that he weeps when Nora and Ren launch themselves into his arms, knocking him off-balance and sending him crashing onto his bottom. They all know, though.
And just like that, life feels whole again.
The children are delighted to see the bird's nest built inside Clover's home. "Did Qrow really come and stay with you?" Nora squeals, eyes wide in amazement.
"Gods don't do that, unless you're special, right Clover?" Ren adds, just as intrigued.
Clover chuckles as he watches them settle back into his home so effortlessly it is like they had never left; he pauses, taking a moment to simply savour the presence of the children. Nora has grown taller; she is now bigger than Ren, a fact that will likely change in the coming years. Her lanky limbs are barely covered by sleeves and pants which are now just a hair too short for her, so he makes the silent note to buy her more clothing the next time they go to town. Ren, on the other hand, is not very different physically, but his accent has changed. The changes are subtle, but the rhythm and intonation of his voice could have placed him as being from outer Mistral, rather than the surrounding independent villages from which he originally hails. Soon enough, the boy may begin to sound almost native to Vale, should he spend enough time with Nora.
He does not comment on these changes, instead simply raising a brow. "I hope you're ready to get back to work," he murmurs, ruffling their hair in tandem.
Their smiles shine, and his heart is warm.
Qrow is just as delighted that the children have returned, although he will not admit it, much like Clover. The deity squawks excitedly when the children's voices ring through the air as the trio makes their way to the shrine that evening, dinner in hand. Ren has taken on the task of bringing over the offerings for Qrow, the young boy's expression sage and stern as he sets the bowl down underneath the covered shrine.
On the other end of the spectrum, Nora quickly pops onto her knees, brings her hand up to her heart, and drops it just as quickly, clearly just going through the motions in order to do what she really wants- looking through the canopy for Qrow. "Qrow, we're back!" she calls excitedly, waving to the trees. "We missed you!"
The bird does not show itself, much to her chagrin. Clover laughs as he and Ren calm her down, urging her to eat nicely after they have given their silent personal prayers and thanks towards the deity who protects them from harm. After the children have gone to bed that night, however, Clover ambles back over to the shrine in the darkness, using his Scroll to light his way; there, he is greeted by a god who simply murmurs, "Close your eyes."
Obediently, Clover does, sitting carefully upon the grass, soft clover and broadleaf plantain cushioning him. Immediately, he freezes as hair as soft as wing feathers brush against his neck, the deity's human head leaning into the crook of Clover's shoulder. The sensation is foreign and electrifying, the magic that dances and exudes from Qrow's form overtaking Clover's in a heartbeat; Clover can only stop in his tracks, for the humanity of the god has never been clearer, nor has he ever touched Clover like this in his true form. Even through his closed eyelids, he can make out the shape of Qrow's dark, silky hair falling upon his shoulder, of lashes that seem more like a wash of colour than individual strands upon the deity's closed eyes.
Embarrassment floods through his body from head to toe as heat takes over, filling up his core. When was the last time he had felt this kind of touch from another? Since when has he not felt genuine warmth like this, a body nestled against his side belonging to someone other than the children?
His heart is a battering ram in his chest, the fervour and want almost painful. Now, more so than ever, he wishes he could see the god properly, for the desire to truly hold Qrow has never taken hold of him so fiercely before.
He wants to, though. Brothers, how he wants to.
Quietly, he murmurs, "The children missed you."
Qrow replies, his voice both booming on the wind flying through the rustling canopy above and caressing his ear like the gentlest whispering breeze, "It shall be livelier with them here once again."
"I hope you do not mind."
"…I do not."
"I'm glad." He means it, with all his heart.
It is once he is tucked into his own bed that night that he allows himself to close his eyes and imagine the dream which his heart and mind have been so desperately trying to conjure as it scrabbles for bits and pieces of Qrow's image. In his dreams, he imagines the children helping him on the farm; he imagines trips to town, buying supplies and trinkets and watching them laugh as he sells his earnings; he imagines coming back to the farm, packing everything away, making dinner.
He imagines going out with them to the shrine, only to see a god in the shape of a handsome man awaiting them. In his dreams, he knows he can see Qrow- even if it is not an accurate portrayal of the beauty which must follow the god's every plane. That breathtaking splendour is not what matters, though; what matters is that in his dreams, they all eat together, and they laugh, and there is no more of this distance between them.
When he awakens the next morning, he does not remember all the details. He does, however, remember the single wish that remains in his heart. That wish in itself is terrifying; after all, there is no way for it to become true, nor is there any way for him to justify the impropriety of that desire which seeps through every fiber of his being. He is just a mortal. He does not have the right to long for such things.
Yet, he prays silently to the Brothers for the first time since his arrival to Anima anyways that he may one day eat with Qrow and the children together. As a family. At the very least, he prays to dream of it once again, so that at least in his most vulnerable moments, he may taste the joy of his heart being completed by the god's smile at last.