i'll pray at your feet (as long as you let me)
He cannot process what is happening. Nothing makes sense; the juxtaposition of what he had expected to come through his front door and what is actually there, what is actually standing in his dining room, is too much to comprehend. Quietly, the coherent part of his brain is thankful for the fact that the children are already in bed, leaving him to deal with this unexpected guest with the clarity and honesty that it deserves.
…he does not know if he is up to the task either way, unfortunately. His brain has been in a fog as of late. This was not part of his evening plans, and every fiber of his being struggles to maintain his poise as he stands here, vulnerable and on-display for a world he had left behind.
He does not know how to smile at Harriet Bree, his former second-in-command, as she crosses her arms and glares at him from across the room. Her mouth is twisted into a frustrated grimace, eyes darting around his living room and kitchen with naught but pure, unadulterated judgement and disappointment in her eyes before returning to him over and over again; it is as if with every new speck of dirt, every new rustic detail she finds, she comes back to him, her furrowed brow only growing more tightly knitted as if to say, "Really? This is what you've become?"
He knows. He is not an Atlesian man- not anymore.
However, even her disgust has to come to an end one day. The short, stocky woman sighs, uncrossing her arms and walking over to the window of the farmhouse. Her steel-toed boots echo ominously upon the creaking floorboards, the sounds swallowed up by a million and one drafty nooks for which Clover has never really felt shame until now. "You should get out of here soon," she says lowly, evenly. "I heard you were settled down here. I wasn't expecting this-" and she gestures blandly at the dull, worn wood of his home which seems even greyer thanks to the dull, cloud-covered autumn skies, "-when I had heard you settled down in Anima, but you need to leave if you want to be safe."
"And go where, Bree?" he asks plainly, taking a seat at the dining table. His head throbs as he instinctively tries to feign some level of stern taciturnity, but he has long ago forgotten how to wear those masks. The children feel far more comfortable when he is honest, after all, and all Qrow has ever wanted from him was his companionship, his unadulterated faith. "This is-"
"I don't care where," she responds crisply, her monotone projecting every bit the Atlesian soldier he no longer is. "Go to Menagerie if that's where you choose. As long as it's not here."
"Why?"
Her somber gaze stands out far too much in the shadows, her warm umber skin seeming chestnut due to the lack of light in his kitchen. "You can't stay here, sir."
Clover holds up a hand, massaging his temples for a moment as he processes this information. The townsfolk were right to fear, he thinks distantly. They were right all along. "There… there really is a war coming, huh?"
There is a sense of disbelief, quickly swallowed up and replaced by irritation, all visible in the set of Harriet's jaw, the furrow of her thin brows. "I thought I told you. Do you have any idea how that could have been interpreted if the monitors had caught the fact that I had dropped the classification number over an unsecured line? They would've thought-" Her voice rises with each word, anger blazing in her bright, large eyes, every fiber of her being standing on end in pure, bitter frustration as she looks at him. "I risked everything saying that, and now I'm risking it all by dropping by here when I'm supposed to be heading south, and you're still doubting me?!"
"Bree…" He lets out a long, weary sigh. "I… I know. And I appreciate it. I know you can't tell me why this is happening-"
"Finally, some sense," she snarls, crossing her arms against her chest.
"-but you know that I trust you." He attempts to flash her a kind smile, although even he knows it probably does not look genuine. It is hard to be amicable after finding out that one's home shall likely be turned into a battlefield. "But… wow. The war really is coming."
"Yeah." She sighs, then walks over to the dining table, yanking out a chair forcefully and sitting down. There is a part of him that watches the action in amusement; she had always been highly professional back when he was still in Atlas, so to see her acting with such unrestrained confidence- one might even call her rude, in her complete disregard for him- is almost refreshing, comforting. It takes a lot for an Atlesian soldier to let their guard down- an Ace Operative, even more so.
Harriet Bree still trusts him, too, it seems.
He wonders idly whether that means she still respects him, though. Based on how judgementally she is acting, however, he cannot help but wonder whether she has ever truly respected him at all.
"Either come join us again, or disappear, Clover," she says dully. Her anger simmers down, leaving behind naught but quiet, embittered exhaustion. "You don't have a choice."
"I do," he replies instantly. "This is my home, and I'll stay here. Besides," and he moves his legs so that they stick out to the side underneath the table, resting in her view, "I'm still not fit to go back onto the battlefield."
"Atlas is your home."
"I quite like the seasons down here, actually."
Her nostrils flare, the side of her mouth curling as if she has bitten into something sour. Her eyes are deadened, weary, as she gestures around to his home, utterly unimpressed. "It's not much, you know."
He shrugs, a sense of calm washing over him once again. "It's more than Atlas ever was."
That frank phrase not only takes Harriet aback, but also surprises Clover, too. There is a kind of conviction there which he had not been intending- a strength of will, a resolute, unwavering honesty which emanates from his words with such force that even he, the unwitting speaker, cannot deny a word. He means it. Anima is home.
"And this life is better than everything you've built?" She stands again, her anger mounting once more. "What is it, Clover? What is so good that you won't let it go-"
No more 'sir', huh? Clover stands, wincing as his knees protest the sudden movement. Leaning upon the table, he says firmly, "You say this, but I am not a soldier anymore. I can't be one. Atlas told me that clear as day-"
"Then why stay here in the path of fire?" She snorts without a lick of amusement. "What's keeping you here? Is it those brats-"
The way she spits that word with disdain is what does it; he lunges forward, fury pulsing through his veins with an intensity he has not felt in months, causing his head to spin, heartrate to skyrocket, breath growing ragged and hoarse as he growls, "They are mine, Harriet, and I am not leaving my home again."
She steps back, eyes wide, startled. He can only watch her, lost for words; just as quickly as his own irritation had peaked, hers fades, leaving them both clumsy and mute as they try to make sense of this strange, uneasy shifting dynamic between them.
This young woman had been his right hand in Atlas. They have fought countless battles, guarding each other's backs. They have never let one another down-
But during those months in the hospital, Clover realizes in painful, visceral horror, she never visited once. She had simply been given the promotion to fill the void he had left, and she had moved onwards whilst he had been stuck there- stuck for so long, so deep within in suffering, that it had taken a deity and two children to snap him out of his longing for his old way of life.
Atlas was his past. Anima is where he belongs now. His skin is covered in too many freckles, hands too rough and callused from building and gardening, heart too softened by the warmth surrounding him, to go back north now.
She chews her lip, then slips past him. "I'm going to check your place out until my ride arrives," she says quietly, clearly just as exhausted by this brief encounter as he. "I… just cool your head down. You look like you're going to collapse." Under her breath, she adds just loud enough for him to barely hear, "I guess farm life is pretty dull, if me being here will give you a heart attack."
"…fine." With that, he collapses back onto his chair, burying his face in his hands as the front door creaks open then shut. "Not like there's much to explore anyways-"
Suddenly, his skin grows cold, clammy, heart draining of energy as he realizes what he has done in his folly. I didn't tell her to be mindful of the shrine-
But why should he? He sinks into his seat, looking up out the window. She is a grown woman who is long-accustomed to offering prayers to the Brothers, so why should he bother feeling worried about how she interacts with the shrine? She knows better than to disrespect a god, even if it is a deity whom she does not entirely know.
However, this strange sense of worry and fear does not abate, and within a few minutes, he is tugging a jacket on and shuffling outside the farmhouse, holding out his Scroll to light his way towards the shrine.
The brisk night air is frigid, hinting at the winter to come; in a few weeks, it shall be the snowy season once again, and he and Nora and Ren shall need to build up a winter routine with the three of them. Somewhere in that routine, he knows he needs to implement a habit of visiting the shrine each day, for now that they will not have gardening to do, this shall be the one thing they do outdoors amidst the freezing temperatures. I haven't been forgetting, he tries to reason with himself, guilt gnawing numbly at his bones, I've just been thinking about a lot of things.
It is true. Nothing has ever truly been the same since learning of the Atlas' impending attack.
…it does not justify the fact that he has been forgetting to visit the shrine more often as of late. He knows this. He only hopes that Qrow is not lonely. He does not mean to hurt Qrow.
For now, however, he must find his former subordinate. To his great discomfort, the footprints in the muddy path eventually lead to the shrine, just as he had feared; as quickly as his legs allow, he shuffles back into the forest clearing, praying that he shall find Harriet before anything happens.
She does not kneel at the altar, merely standing a few feet away, hands tucked into her pockets and gaze concentrated upon the carvings on the stone. "I should've told you about this place," he calls quietly. "It's a shrine we've made… would you like to make an offering?"
"This isn't to the Brothers, though," she replies, curious and baffled. "So, who's it for?"
His brain automatically supplies, Why should I pray to them when they abandoned me, but his mouth speaks, "A local deity. He protects this forest, and us."
To his absolute disgust, Harriet does not bow to the shrine and pay her respects, nor does she simply accept that information and leave. Instead, she doubles over, a laugh ripping through her belly so fiercely that when she finally lifts her face again, there are tears in her eyes, twinkling alongside her bright white teeth even in the waning moonlight. "You built a shrine yourself to a local deity? What, you're too scared to fight the Grimm now, so you bank on the gods? You used to be a soldier! And now, Kingfisher's just collecting dust in your farmhouse- gods, Clover Ebi," and she stands, her tiny form exuding so much strength and power and brash confidence that Clover almost cowers at the sight, "you really have changed. Maybe this place is your home, after all." She walks past him, her previous irritation nowhere to be seen. "Fine. I've done my duty, sir. It's up to you to use this information or not, but there is going to be a battle here."
"…Don't you have a mission in Anima? Telling me this can't be why you came here," he mutters through gritted teeth, fists clenched tight.
She enters the treeline behind him. "I do. I thought it might be worth taking a detour- I guess it wasn't, in the end."
Clover is about to chase after her when he hears the sounds of an airship engine. That would be her escort, he thinks, turning back to the shrine. He faintly hears voices, but he does not go to investigate; it is far easier to sink to the ground, allowing his fatigue to spill out of him after an already-long day of setting up the back flower garden for the winter and repotting the indoor plants. It is almost dizzying, the way tidal waves of emotion crash into him without restraint, attacking him with such sensation that he cannot breathe. The sense of exhaustion which overwhelms him at her near departure fills him with a sour mixture of relief and disappointment-
And shame.
How could he have let Harriet say those things? How could he have allowed her to speak of Ren and Nora, to speak of Qrow, to speak of these beings he has grown to love and cherish with all his heart, in such a flippant manner- as if his adoration for these souls is one to be mocked- as if they are not valued?
By Atlesian standards, he thinks bitterly, wanting to laugh as well, they're not worth anything, though. Harriet isn't wrong.
That conclusion is what brings the first sob to properly slip out of his throat. They are worth something, Atlas be damned. Ren and Nora- Qrow- they are worth everything, now.
He cannot leave them behind. He knows Harriet does not want to lose an old comrade. He also knows that the only reason he is here is thanks to those children- thanks to this deity whose presence becomes known the moment the engine's rumbling groans fade away into the night sky. War be damned, he cannot say goodbye to this place which has inextricably become a part of him.
"You are distressed." The voice filters through the clearing from behind him, curling into his ear with such tenderness that Clover's eyes fill with tears unbidden. "What is wrong?"
Clover lets out a long, shuddering breath, shuffling towards the rocky outcropping. He lays his forehead against icy-cold, smooth stone, shivering at the contact, but refusing to pull away. "You once said," he begins carefully, "that you will never participate in human battles."
"Yes."
"…Okay."
With that, he does not elaborate. It is far easier to play pretend- to imagine that Harriet had never come- to ignore this idea that war is on the horizon, and there is nothing he can do about it.
…he is tired. All of this night has been too much.
Thankfully, Qrow does not know the truth. It is easier to pretend, after all, when one of the actors believes their play is truth; even easier is having that actor's beak combing through one's hair, his fingers brushing against one's skin, his heart in one's hands.
Clover shall not break that heart, he tells himself. He shall cherish it, Harriet's warnings be damned. Qrow deserves that much.
I'll bring the kids tomorrow morning, he thinks wearily to himself as he bids Qrow goodnight, pressing a kiss against a feathered head with as much tenderness as he dares to muster for this god. I'll let them spend the morning with him.
He is so, so tired these days, though. The easiest thing of all… is to do nothing.