written in the stars
This stage is beautiful.
Time and time again, he has walked this path circling from the dressing rooms, out past security doors and technician booths, all the way around the edge of the amphitheatre-like seating. He has climbed up these stairs rising up to the catwalk many times before, his footsteps finding assured, comfortable purchase upon the black runway lined with twinkling golden lights; his heels dig an automatic cadence into the structure, alerting the empty stadium of his presence.
Whether that rhythm so deeply engrained into his gait runs in time with militant instinct or the yearning, soulful songs indelibly carved into his very soul, he does not know. Either way, it does not matter, for he cannot hear the pacing of his own steps. His heartbeat thunders like drums guiding a march to war between his ears, drowning out nearly all other sensation, the ragged traces of his regenerative Aura all but dissipating just by that mere pressure in his skull. He is weak and aching, filled with such disbelief and anger and confusion as he walks over the crowd's seating, closer and closer to the glittering lights of the stage proper. Spotlights still linger on, illuminating his path with a pomp and circumstance that leaves his mouth dry and ashen, the air far too still to be safe.
He does not want to be here. Something is coming. He does not know what, but the foreboding in his gut rings even louder now than it had before his performance that night- before everything had fallen apart.
But what choice does he have if he wants to find the truth?
"We're finally here," Clover breathes from the Harbinger's clock face. Qrow pauses mid-step, taking a moment to simply lift up the blade, holding Clover's glowing vehicle up to look at the vast seas of empty seats. Nothing in here looks processed, no Tar filling up this stadium- not yet. It looks just as pristine as it had during dress rehearsals twelve hours earlier.
It is beautiful. Qrow hates that it is so. This place was the start of everything, after all.
The runway ends in a small raised platform still housing a single microphone. Qrow shivers, his fingers reaching up to the lapel of his jacket; he has continued to carry Clover's pin with him, even though his Singer shroud has been abandoned at home. Callused fingertips trace the silver detailing, but even that familiar motion is not enough to soothe the ache in his heart as he glances upwards, blinded by the lights shining down upon him.
This had been his stage. He should've been able to sing.
"When I first saw you tonight on this stage, Songbird, I…" Clover trails off, the clock face dark for a painfully-long breath. "Everyone loved you tonight, you know that?" The shift in his tone is clear as he adds, "Everyone except them."
He closes his eyes. Yes, he remembers; he can still feel the heat of the lights, so much hotter thanks to the burning fires of the audience's gaze, so strongly focused upon him that he could barely breathe as the music had begun.
He takes in a deep breath. Closes his eyes. Allows the world to go dark, his mind visualizing the scene- replaying the music perfectly where his own voice cannot, even as he exhales as if to hum, his nose vibrating as if to produce sound where there is none. The sentiment is clear, however, for nothing can ever erase the pure, undeniable fear that had flooded his pores, drowning him to the very core, stealing away the very breath from his lungs during that performance.
He hadn't wanted to perform in Amity that night. However, performances at Amity were streamed across Remnant without fail. I just wanted Ruby and Yang to know where to find me- I'm still here, and I'm waiting for them, I'm looking, I'm not giving up-
But rather than thoughts of his nieces, what overtakes him is the undeniable, horrifying image of the quintet who had crashed onstage mid-song, destroying any chance he had had of ever reaching out to his girls. After all, with the largest man in the group wielding the Harbinger, his expression merciless as he had thrown the extended blade with the force only a true soldier could muster, there had been no time to focus on the music, on his performance.
His heart aches at the mere thought of it. It does not matter that the faces of their assailants had belonged to those he had once called his friends, for Clover has always been far too good at his job, and being Qrow's protector here in Remnant is no exception. The younger man hadn't even hesitated to throw himself in between the singer and the blade, the Harbinger cutting through Clover's chest so cleanly that the tip had still managed to slice through Clover's body and into Qrow's own ribcage.
And then, Qrow had been transported off to the edge of Vale, bleeding from a wound his Aura was barely able to heal, his delicate shroud falling to tatters around his torso. The only two things he had been able to process past the searing pain in his chest and the dizzying static in his eyes had been the light of a nearby CCTS Terminal and Clover's voice in the distance, the words too fuzzy to make out.
Even now, he remembers the poll on-screen. "Build a bridge to the Emerald City! Sign the petition today." Numbly, he had agreed, to which the system's OS had automatically replied, "Only 48,559 signatures to go!" He had barely given it a second thought, however, for constructing bridges to one of Remnant's most notoriously-glitch-filled sectors was not a priority when Clover sounded like he was in pain.
"Qrow? Qrow, where are you?" the bodyguard's voice had called, frantic and breathless and terrified beyond his wits. Qrow had shuffled onwards, his eyes blurring in and out of focus as he felt his code be rewritten frantically, his Aura trying desperately to correct whatever damage had been done by the nick of the blade. He had focused upon Clover's voice, the younger muttering, "Gods, if he's hurt I'll- I'll- I'll what? I'll just-"
And then, he had seen it- the blade, the concrete barrier… and Clover's body.
"You're alive," Clover had breathed, his voice coming not from the bleeding, broken body splayed out on the pavement, but from the sword. "Me, I'm… I'm not so sure."
Qrow had opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. No sound had come out. He had vomited.
"I know this looks bad, but I could use some help." With each word, the clock face upon the blade had lit up, illuminating the horrible image of Clover's pinned body upon the slab before him.
Qrow had tried to sob. He couldn't.
"Hey," Clover said after a moment, "Songbird… say something will you-"
"Oh no."
Qrow's eyes snap open, his breath rushing into his lungs. He does not know how long he has stood upon that stage, gripping fruitlessly onto a microphone that projects nothing but his breathing into the empty stands; however, sometime during his recollection, the stage lights had shifted into a warm, fiery red, flooding the stage with a glow that rings far too reminiscent of the colour left behind on Clover's body, back in the alleys of Vale. He sucks in a haggard breath and turns to meet what had made Clover gasp, heart dropping to the floor like an anchor, causing his feet to drag as he pulls himself along.
There is a processed figure standing upon center stage. He knows this figure, despite the fact that the upper half of her body has been completely reduced to expressionless black obsidian; he recognizes the blade she wields, for in her hands is a white, thin rapier, the insignia of the Schnee Dust Company shining upon the hilt. He has sparred against this rapier time and time again, both in and out of Remnant- to see it so soon, however, sends his stomach into a roiling simmer, making him want to retch yet again from the mere memory.
Winter Schnee… are you part of the 'Circle'? Why are you on this stage? He trembles, slowly unfurling the Harbinger in his hands, ready to strike. This young woman must be a victim in all this, he tells himself- there is no way that his Ruby's best friend's older sister is part of the group that has unleashed hell upon their city.
The figure begins to move, to jerk, to twist and turn until its body is standing upright, facing him with Tar dripping from its fingertips. His fingers tighten around the corded grip of the Harbinger.
Winter, why did you try to kill me?