i'll pray at your feet (as long as you let me)
The rumours continue to circulate of increased Grimm activity covering their world, only increasing now that the winter season has left so suddenly. The route back to the village is open once again, the trade routes and airships now carrying passengers all around the rural landscape, breathing fresh life into the formerly-isolated farm. These Grimm sightings worry Clover to no end; while he knows Qrow will keep him safe, his trust within the deity having become so intimate and so true over the past few lonely months, he fears for the town. Do they have enough Huntsmen to protect them? Their borders lie beyond Qrow's usual reach, but he does not want them to suffer; the villagers have been nothing but kind to him.
The thought is strange. A year ago, he had thought he would never find a place to be. It is reassuring to see that belonging can come in many forms- but also a little terrifying, too. He does not wish to lose anyone else, but now, his allies are no longer soldiers who can defend themselves.
People are fragile. He knows it better than anyone, although he tries to forget that fact.
As he looks at his reflection in the mirror one morning, the fact that he truly has changed thanks to the town's influence- thanks to this life's influence- is more pronounced than ever. No longer is he the pristine, composed leader of the Ace Operatives. The light smattering of freckles across his nose has become a mainstay upon now deeply-tanned skin, his eyes looking brighter and more open than they ever had in Atlas. His lips are always a little chapped, but he does not mind, for he cannot help but adore the sun which has learned to kiss his skin gently rather than burning him from the get-go. He is smaller now, more spindly, more wiry; his strength remains, however, and he is able to accomplish everything he needs to- carrying supplies, chopping firewood, scooping up Nora when she decides to bother wildlife out of her insatiable curiosity- with enough ease that he does not miss the bulk of his days as a soldier. He has traded his uniform for worn cotton and waders and sunhats, and he finds that he does not regret a thing.
It is absolutely baffling to think that he has been in this area for almost a full year now, but with the children laughing downstairs as they try their best to make breakfast for the trio, it is undoubtedly his home.
The farmers market reopens now that spring is taking over the countryside, their late winter crops lining the stalls. The baker ushers him over the first weekend it opens, smacking him lovingly on the shoulder, a sense of familiarity and affection in her eyes that one might reserve for a nephew. "The children wouldn't stop worrying about you all winter," she says quietly as Nora runs off to play with the baker's younger children, dragging a hapless Ren behind her. "I'm glad to see you're doing well."
"I couldn't stop thinking about them either," he admits. "Thank you for taking care of them."
"Thank you," she replies easily, "for letting me have one winter with these brats before you take them away from me forever. I'm fond of 'em, shenanigans and all." Her expression sours slightly. "Nora will eat me outta house 'n home, though. Good riddance, them staying with you from now on will save me more lien than you can imagine."
He blinks at her in shock, but the warm-hearted permission in her eyes makes his knees weak. Perhaps he will not be so lonely next winter. Perhaps it will be warmer with the children in the house, too.
It is not just kind words which she offers him, as it turns out. With the days growing warmer, she clears a little space at the edge of her stall. "Once you've got something to sell, come over here!" she announces. "With your berries and my bread, we'll sell out yet."
And just like that, Clover knows that he belongs here, and he cannot help but wait in eager anticipation to see what grows first upon his lands.
To his surprise, it is not fruits or vegetables which flourish first within his garden, but the daffodils. At first, he does not recognize the bulbs which Nora had insisted on planting months before; their tiny stems grow stealthily, only truly becoming visible to Clover's eye once they are almost six inches tall, for he had no idea that they would bloom so early.
And yet, as the weeks of spring solidify the season with its cool, yet devastating rainfalls and breezy sunny days, the earth begins to truly feel warm underneath Clover's feet, running through his fingertips as he weeds and tills and sows. Nora and Ren help him plant summer blossoms and fruits and vegetables with gusto, their excitement for the upcoming summer months on the farm infectious and giddying in their vibrancy.
When the daffodils finally bloom, it is incredible. At first, he only spots a lick of yellow out of the corner of his eye, and it takes him a moment to actually process what in the world it may be; however, upon second glance, his breath catches in his throat, his heart soaring through the heavens as he kneels down carefully in the shade covering his house-side garden, taking a look at the living artifact he himself has cultivated.
This flower is utterly different from the images he has seen of them in books and upon his Scroll. Before he can stop himself, he reaches down, brushing the earth; it is still frigid in the wake of winter, so different from the soil he had tilled in the summer heat almost a year earlier. Running his fingers up the stem of this singular blossom, he carefully brushes against the petals themselves, taking it in with bated breath. The yellow petals are delicate, unfurling so softly that he is scared the merest touch of his own callused fingertips will break them; each petal curls slightly, crimped and ruffled edges of the fluted trumpet's bell in the center pointing proudly towards the sky. He is speechless as he looks at the numerous other daffodils ready to bloom at a moment's notice, their green prisons almost broken through, the buds already having yellow peeking through each of the casings.
It is beautiful. It is theirs.
He cheerfully waves Nora over when she finishes watering the vegetable patch. The girl is absolutely ecstatic, announcing immediately, "I'm going to give this to Qrow!" before rushing to the shed for a pair of shears. Clover can only laugh, left behind in the trail of the dust always remaining in her wake.
And so, their offering that evening consists of some winter pear from the farmer's market alongside their very first daffodil, cut and cared for lovingly by Nora. "Thanks for melting all the snow and giving us spring!" she says happily when she kneels to pray. "It's so much nicer to be here than in town."
"Nora," Ren murmurs, fighting back his own laugh for he has long-since given up on reminding Nora to speak properly to this deity, "he's not the god of the seasons, you know."
Pouting, Nora shrugs, looking back over her shoulder to Clover. "Yeah, but Clover said he's responsible for all sorts of good things here and he protects us, so why wouldn't he help bring spring faster?"
Clover bites his tongue to prevent the scolding which longs to spill from his lips, for Nora's impertinence would be harrowing in the shrine of another god; Qrow, however, adores the children, and Clover knows there are no worries to be had. He'll still remind her of proper etiquette later, though. For now, however, he simply guides them to place the offerings upright and says, "The flowers are coming back. It's really hard to imagine that they were able to make it through even though the ground is still fairly frozen in the shade of the garden."
"Flowers prove that beautiful things can bloom even in shadow, right?" Ren says suddenly. Surprised, Clover raises a brow towards the young boy, who immediately blushes in response under the sudden scrutiny. "There were a lot of lotuses in my hometown's waterways," he explains, clearing his through and straightening up as if to recite something. "Mother always said that they grow out of mud, and their beauty is a hundred times more wonderful because they pushed through adversity."
Clover is not blind to the way Nora's brow creases, nor to how her hand immediately intertwines with Ren's, squeezing gently without any of her usual exuberance.
Instantly, his heart aches for them. What horrors had they witnessed during the attack upon their home, before their long journey through Anima?
"Qrow will protect us," he murmurs, stepping back from the shrine. The containers of food they have packed for dinner await them just a few feet away, after all. "And I always will, too."
The two children smile, and although he wants to ask more about the story behind that immediate connection, behind the lotuses, behind the torrid details of their traumas, Clover knows it is not the time. They are young. They are not ready. And until they are, he shall be there for them.
Once the children have eaten and the sun has set, however, Clover finds that he cannot sleep. His brain runs in circles, mind screaming about too many things to settle down. His thoughts jump between Ren and Nora's past- their hometown- the increase of Grimm- the safety of the village- Qrow-
His eyes fall upon Kingfisher, the weapon dusty and still, hanging untouched upon the wall. Getting stronger again isn't enough, he realizes faintly. I need to train properly again. After all, what if he is attacked? Even worse- what if the children are attacked? What if Qrow isn't there? What if something happens, and they're overrun, and-
He needs to protect the children. He refuses to give them another story to grieve over, another story after which they need to cling onto one another as if they are the only ones left. He refuses to let himself be but a tragic chapter in their lives.
With this thought in mind, he goes out to see Qrow. He cannot sleep, and the god is better companionship than the deafening silence anyways; at least the wind whistling through the leafy canopy above can give him solace, even if the deity himself is not there. He uses his cane to hobble over more out of habit now than anything, and soon, he is seated upon the grass in front of the pedestal once again, looking up at the stars peeking through a ceiling of green.
Qrow alights on the grass in his corvid form, beak opening to murmur, "You appear troubled."
"I can't sleep," Clover admits with a smile.
Qrow clucks and trills, then hops closer and closer until the bird sits upon Clover's good knee. "Is it your injury?" the god asks.
He shakes his head. "It actually does not hurt as much as before- although, I suppose in a way, that is part of why I can't sleep, yes."
"What is plaguing you?"
Carefully, Clover explains the increased sightings of Grimm again to the deity. "In light of that," he summarizes, "I've been thinking of training again."
"Training?"
"I think I'm going to get back to combat training," Clover says quietly. "It would do my body well to get back into shape- even if I can't be exactly as strong as I was thanks to this." As he pats his wounded knee, a wry smile on his face, he raises his chin to the sky, adding, "It's probably going to be a good idea to begin carrying my weapon around with me, too, especially if-"
"You do not trust me."
Clover freezes in place, trembling. There is no malice in those words; just cool, calm, weary acceptance. W…what? Clumsily, he begins, "Qrow, that's not true-"
"Then why do you wish to fight?" the god challenges, his voice booming through the clearing. Clover winces as the wind rushes through the air, stinging his eyes in its ferocity. "You have no need."
Clover bows his head, heart pounding in his ears in fear and worry and discomfort as he feels waves of dissatisfaction rolling off of Qrow's body. "I- my leg," he stammers out. "I want to be as strong as I used to be, Qrow. I want to be ready just in case."
"In case of what?" He can feel the chill in the air as Qrow's voice drops down to a whisper. "In case I cannot help? Do you really think me so weak?"
No, Clover longs to cry out, you're wrong! If there's really an increase in Grimm, it's lonely fighting alone-
"Why, then, does a mortal feel the need to try and fight alongside me? In case of my misfortune-"
"I do not want to be your burden," Clover announces suddenly. He draws himself up proudly, chest puffed up. "I do not want to burden you with my safety when I can at least take care of myself somewhat. The children need someone they can see as a protector, too if need be, and-"
He cannot voice the words he wishes to say most of all though. They are too churlish in the face of a god, even one as loving as Qrow. I do not want you to have to fight alone anymore.
His eyes are pressed closed, his hands clenched tightly into the fabric of his jeans, palms clammy and frigid. To his surprise, Qrow does not berate him, does not scream out about Clover's insolence or disrespect. Instead, Qrow simply takes a pause; then, through Clover's eyelids, he can see the brilliance of Qrow's presence fill the clearing, the blurry outline of his human form just as tantalizing and breathtaking as ever.
A gentle touch pulls his hands away from his jeans, and Clover is struck with the urge to wipe them off first before Qrow touches his damp skin. He does not dare pull away, however, nor does Qrow seem to mind. With tender, careful fingers, Qrow squeezes his palms, his own fingers too cold and too hot all at once, smooth and callused, rough and gentle. "You are not a burden, Clover," Qrow whispers, his voice entering Clover's ear so faintly that it is almost drowned out by Clover's own heartbeat.
Then, he is gone.
Clover is grateful for the fact that the children are asleep when he finally manages to totter back into the house, for his cheeks burn just as fiercely as his fingertips do, and Clover does not know what to do to calm his heart down. Even when morning comes, the sensation does not fade, Qrow's caress engrained into his very pores for eternity; he cannot focus for the entire day, mind trapped in that one breath of time when Qrow had held his hands, his heart, with all the tenderness in the world.
He is only broken out of the fugue at the end of the day. "Clover, look!" Nora squeals excitedly when they arrive at the shrine that evening to pray and eat dinner together. She points at the outcropping, eyes sparkling in amazement; Ren's eyes soon join hers, the young boy's face lighting up just as much, if not even more, as he examines what has alerted her so.
Squatting carefully, Clover peers onto the outcropping. His heart pounds in his chest, vision wavering for a moment as he takes in the sight of the carvings upon the pedestal. Alongside the old images of a sunflower and clover, there is now a daffodil delicately intertwining its stem with the other two, a broad leaf from the flower drooping over elegantly to the side.
You are not a burden.
With one hand, Clover traces the petals of the daffodil which Qrow has immortalized in stone, proof of their presence- of Clover's presence. Of the winter they have survived. Of the spring that shall heat the earth and bring life back to the world.
He is not a burden.
And with the other hand, he wordlessly draws Ren against his chest in a hug, smiling wider as Nora weasels her way in as well. The winter is over, and the snow has melted, and the children are warm in his arms, and the daffodils have bloomed. Daffodils are so much more beautiful than he had thought they would be when he had first thought of them a year ago, it turns out. He cannot wait for the rest of them to bloom.