i'll pray at your feet (as long as you let me)
Clover is not broken.
This thought comes creeping in as spring turns into summer, bringing with it more than just daffodils; his flower patch flourishes far earlier than his fruits and vegetables do, the little plot pressed against the back of the farmhouse a mosaic of brilliant oranges and yellows, reds and lilacs, blues and greens.
The children are always there by his side, weeding and watering and aiding in his work. Their bare feet belong in the grass, always running amok whenever their duties for the day are done- and, more and more often, Clover joins them. His knee no longer hurts as terribly, for all of his exercise in his makeshift gym and in tending to the farm are more than enough to help him rebuild the muscle and strength he had lost in his left leg.
To his surprise, rather than the times spent in the garden with them, what he treasures even more are the times when he finds himself sitting at the dining room table with workbooks and writing supplies, guiding the children in learning to read and write. Their letters are shaky, but on sunny days and warm evenings, they move their lessons to the shrine, and Clover knows that Qrow enjoys seeing Nora and Ren learn and grow. They are fast learners, and Clover is more than happy to provide them what education he can. They deserve as much as he can give them, if not far more.
Clover enjoys teaching, he finds. It makes him feel as if all the skills and decorum he had learned to a militaristic perfection has not been for naught. Nora manages to properly write a letter for the first time in her life; it is addressed to the baker during a stormy week when they cannot go visit the village. When the older woman replies, Nora's face lights up with a pride and a vibrancy that can outshine the sun itself, and Clover knows his time and efforts are worth it.
Clover is not broken. He truly is not, he begins to realize as he finds himself able to pick Ren's sleeping form up without any difficulty one warm summer night. His knee does not pain him in the slightest as he squats beside the sleeping figure, for the boy has fallen asleep in the grass, his long, dark hair splayed around his head like water; Clover brushes it out of his eyes, a touch so tender that Ren instinctively curls closer to his protector, the novel he's been slowly reading almost falling out of his hands.
Clover's eyes linger for a moment upon the book, his heart clenching as he realizes the intrigue of the novel which Ren has read so intently that he has fallen asleep still clutching its pages; the story of children taken away from their families due to the Grimm should not resonate with any child so deeply, and yet, Clover knows that this story must be truer to Ren's own experience than any fairy tale he could weave for the boy.
After all, he knows the truth now. The children had shared their story with him one tranquil morning over breakfast. The words had been so nonchalant, spoken through a mouthful of oatmeal and berries, that Clover had almost not registered their meaning, their intensity; looking back, Clover cannot even remember what had sparked the topic- something about teasing Nora for always eating as if his simple, often boring meals were the fruit of the gods themselves.
It had been naught but a joke, but he can still remember Nora's eyes. "I didn't have a home when I was littler," Nora had said simply. "This food is really yummy. I used to eat whatever people threw into the trash. It was scary."
And Ren had silently reached over to take Nora's hand in his, a shame flickering in his eyes that spoke volumes of a burden which Clover could not even imagine. "I'm so-"
"And then the Grimm attacked the whole village," she had continued, flashing Ren a sweet, understanding smile. "And Ren's mom and dad tried saving him, but no one could get away from that monster."
"The Nuckelavee," Ren had whispered, brows drawing together. "It's a terrible demon. It haunts the forests of Mistral."
"But we made it out."
"We made it out. Together."
"You and me, right Ren? Forever." And then, Nora had looked up at Clover and held her empty bowl up towards him using her free hand, her other still intertwining its fingers with Ren's. "Can I have more oatmeal please?" she had cried brightly.
Clover had nodded that day and fed them both seconds, and then, once he had given them tasks for the day, he had gone to his room and tried to fight back the emotion welling up inside, choking him from the inside out, for they are both far too young to be able to speak of such horrors with such sobriety. They should not be able to bear that trauma.
And whatever guilt resides in Ren's heart… he dreams of easing the little boy's burdens. Whatever had happened in their home village is over. He wants this child to be free.
Ren's heat lingers in Clover's heart long after he has tucked the boy into bed beside an already-snoring Nora, placing his novel on the bedside table with care; before he leaves, he pulls Nora's covers up to her chin, the action bringing a faint smile to unaware lips as the little girl slumbers.
This heat in his hands- it is strange. The weight which he carried so easily into the house- Ren's weight- is nothing like what he had once known, for although he has begun training with Kingfisher again, no longer is his weapon an extension of his body. It is but a tool which he shall wield only when needed. His hands are meant to care for these little ones now, and as long as they are happy, he knows that his trials will have been worth it.
He is not broken, just different. Perhaps even better than before. He'd like to think so, even if his subordinates think otherwise. They are still haunted by increases in Grimm, after all.
…He doesn't like to think of that part.
Despite his growing strength, his limp remains ever-so-slightly in his gait, growing prominent by nightfall each day. it is always the most visible each time they visit the shrine. He still relies on his grandfather's cane, although he has needed to use it less and less heavily as the spring rains had waned, leaving behind more sure footing. The children barely notice either way, always so excited to perform their daily ritual of eating with Qrow; Ren brings flowers each time a new one blooms to show off their hard work. "Thank you for protecting us," he says shyly each time before Nora bowls him over, the girl ready to launch into a summary of the day's affairs for the hidden deity.
It is easier to bring the deity flowers rather than trinkets these days, for the crow's hiding spot for the treasures Clover had brought him the previous summer is almost full, and the flowers can be immortalized in a different way.
After all, Qrow carves every single flower the children brings into the pedestal, proving to Ren and Nora that they, too, are treasured beyond this mortal plane.
"I hope we are not troubling you with these," Clover murmurs one starry evening after the children have been put to sleep. Gone is the tulip which they had brought that day, and Clover has no doubts that by the next morning, they shall see yet another addition to the veritable bouquet decorating the floor of the shrine. He leans back against the stone outcropping, the chill from the rock sending a shiver down his spine. He does not mind that sensation, though; it is grounding. It is real.
The glow from Qrow's humanoid form is the opposite, the glimmer of light at the edge of Clover's vision an instinctive, silent command to close his eyes, to brace for the deity's presence.
Just as expected, Qrow appears, his light illuminating the clearing. Clover shivers again, fingers clenching around fistfuls of white clover and dandelions, stirring the seed spores into the air. Through his closed eyelids, he watches the figure of the god land upon the soft grass, the wind rustling through the trees as he straightens to his full height; then, with footsteps both silent and deafening, the god walks close to Clover.
And then, without a word, he takes a seat next to the man, leaning back against the pedestal.
"They are like my nieces," he whispers after a long, tranquil moment of stillness. "Their father- he loved gardening. Would always grow flowers, and the girls would bring me them whenever I saw them." Clover can hear the smile on his lips as he adds, "I… am quite fond of flowers, because of that."
"You didn't live with them?"
He can sense Qrow shaking his head slowly. "I've always been unlucky. I would never want to bring that upon them." After a moment's hesitation, he adds, his voice trembling like a new leaf in the breeze, "I only hope my presence is not going to hurt your little ones, too."
With his eyes still closed, Clover shifts his body to face Qrow- to have more access to the shrine. He silently moves his fingertips across the stone, the sensitive touch catching on the engravings carved time and time against into the flat outcropping, protected from the elements underneath the lip of the shrine; he traces images of lilac and lavender, chrysanthemum and rose, peony and poppy, heather and honeysuckle. He traces each line with trembling, tender care, for in each one of these markings, this god has immortalized the place in his heart which he has given to the two children who Clover now considers his own.
Once his touch finally reaches the oldest carving- the white clover, its tiny head of buds still so clear in Clover's mind's eye- he finally shakes his head, finally speaks. "You bring them joy in a way I don't think anyone can," he admits quietly. "Their happiness was thrown away by the gods. They've endured horrors to get here. I hope I can make them happy now, as long as I can, but they are never as bright as when they are with you."
Qrow does not respond to these words, but Clover can see the glowing shape moving towards his hand upon the rock- can feel callused, smooth fingertips tracing the veins along back of his own hand, and his heart swells and his body aches and he yearns to turn his palm upwards, to lace his fingers with Qrow's the way Ren and Nora are able to do with one another so effortlessly. He longs for that innocent touch.
It is not innocent in reality, though. He knows that. He also knows just how impudent he would be to voice these desires; so, he keeps them locked away in his heart, contenting himself to being explored by the god until the deity himself decides to leave.
This kind of exchange happens throughout the summer, Clover's yearning for the god only growing more and more prominent in his heart. He can never act on it, but he dreams.
One sunny day in the tail end of the season, he goes into town on his own while the children work, much to Nora's chagrin; however, that animosity fades away the moment he returns, carrying a large cake and a plethora of new clothes and toys and books for the duo. "The baker told me it was your birthday," he explains as they marvel at the delicate frosting on the treat.
Shockingly, Nora shakes her head. "It's not our birthday," she replies softly. "It's just-"
"The attack was two years ago," Ren replies. "We don't remember our own birthdays."
Clover freezes, eyes wide, knife paused in midair before he can cut into the cake. "You two- you-"
Nora's smile is far too sweet for the topic. "It basically is my birthday, though," she giggles. "I wasn't really me until I met you, Ren!" And without missing a beat, Nora grabs a fistful of cake and slams it straight into Ren's face, cackling at the boy's shell-shocked expression before helping him wipe it off.
Their resilience is inspiring, almost terrifyingly so. He hopes he appears as strong to them.
That evening, they bring a slice of cake for the god. "I think we'll celebrate on this date from now on," he whispers to the shrine as the children set up their dinner on the grass, just as usual. "They do not know their birthdays, but…"
Every child should know that the fact that they were born into this world is something to celebrate.
The wind rushes past him, stirring the canopy above in a frenzy; then, he feels a touch on his forehead, the air curling into his ear, whispering, "We shall watch over them together."
He turns on the spot. His heart thuds almost painfully in his chest as he watches the crow land on Ren's shoulder, then onto the ground between them, cawing loudly. At first, the duo are shocked; as Qrow's voice booms through the air in tandem with the crow's open beak, however, their eyes light up, their amazement unrestrained as Qrow calls, "Your flowers are beautiful, children."
That night, Clover's cheeks ache from smiling, having spent the entire evening watch Qrow hopping onto their laps and trilling as it brushes its beak through their hair. Nora and Ren delight in Qrow's appearance, their joy unabashed and brilliant. And, from that day onwards, Qrow appears fairly often at their dinners, stealing food off the children's plates and allowing them to brush its feathers gently, much to their delight. Clover never hesitates to thank Qrow for these tiny moments, for he knows that Qrow's presence does something which Clover can never do for the children: give them hope that the gods shall not abandon them again. Watching their interactions is enough to patch up the broken shards of Clover's faith once and for all, too.
It is once the fall harvest is underway, with Clover's weekend booth in the farmer's market finding much success and the children's bellies full with the fruits of their labour, that Qrow finally announces the truth; that he, too, has noticed Clover's growth, Clover's change, Clover's wholeness.
Unlike Clover, however, Qrow does not view this change with joy.
"You are leaving soon."
Clover's breath catches in his throat, his entire body recoiling on reflex. There is no acid in Qrow's words; there is naught but bitter resignation. "What- what do you mean?"
"You are strong," the crow says, leaning its head against Clover's stomach as it settles down on his thigh. "You are healed, almost."
He splutters, "I still feel pain in my knee-"
"You carry the children with ease. They do not need to help you with building things anymore, with carrying supplies. You no longer use your cane." The deity pauses, the air trembling as if Qrow has just taken in a shuddering breath. "Your face is no longer haunted by shadows of the north. Thus, you are healed."
Clover freezes, his mind racing as he takes in those words. It is true, he realizes dimly. When was the last time he had found himself feeling loneliness? Isolation? Bitterness? Since when had he not woken up each morning only to feel his heart sink to the floor the moment he realized he was in Anima and not Atlas?
Since when has he started moving forward in this rural little community, rather than clinging onto the titles and honours he had been forced to leave behind?
He cannot remember. That is more shocking than anything, so much so that tears well up in his eyes, doubling him in two; he presses his forehead against carved stone, the chilly touch both sobering and gutting, for he is not dreaming. He has not been dreaming this whole time.
He is not broken. Even a god has said so.
Tears spill down onto his cheeks. He does not bother to wipe them away, for they cool the mild stinging of his sun-kissed cheeks.
However, Qrow's tone does not share any of his wonder nor relief. "You are leaving here soon, then."
Clover raises his head, baffled. "Why would I leave? Where would I go?"
"Back to the north," Qrow replies. "Is that not your home?"
The realization is striking, but true. He is lonely. He is scared of being alone again.
Tentatively, Clover gathers the bird up in his arms, curling over to place a kiss upon the bristles on its head. "This is my home now, Qrow," he whispers. "Thank you for making me feel like I belong here."
His eyes snap shut as the god's light bursts into the clearing, the weight in his arms suddenly increasing, filling out, the space in front of him suddenly occupied by a strong, lean body that smells like the freshest breeze, carrying the faintest scent of cinnamon and earth and damp cedar; the body shifts until Qrow kneels before Clover, his godly voice turning into that of the man for whom Clover longs.
He feels the god kiss his sweat-streaked, dirty hair with so much tenderness that the tears appear anew. "If I have done that, then I am the one who is thankful," Qrow whispers.
Clover is not broken. He has a god who believes in him, after all.