i'll pray at your feet (as long as you let me)
Before the winter had begun, Clover had held grand plans within his heart. He was going to continue teaching the children, he had thought; he was going to finally improve his pitiful baking abilities in order to stave off Nora's eternal want for pastries and bread. He had been planning on testing out winter vegetables now that he had Ren and Nora's help to ensure the crop was being taken care of even when the cold seeped far too deep into his injured, bolted-together bones for Clover himself to move properly. He was going to visit Qrow every day, and then, if the god would allow it, he had wanted to invite the deity to stay in his home, as he had the previous winter on those occasional chilly nights. He was going to do his best not to worry about what Harriet had said, and instead was going to focus on giving these children the happiness they deserved in whatever peace they had left to them.
His plans had been genuine, true.
And yet, somehow, before he knows it, winter is already in full swing. Their routines are lazy and lethargic, each day focused on accomplishing one task versus the many he had managed to get through himself the year before; there is a certain kind of fatigue which lingers in the eyes and hearts of the children, too, as they stumble through their days. Their priority is simply staying fed and staying warm, and going outside is not conducive to that in the slightest.
So… they stay inside.
Away from the shrine.
At least he does not need to worry about Qrow. After the first heavy snow of the season, he hears a pecking at his windowsill; from then on, the god comes to check on him and the children each night. Clover eventually begins to leave the window open for the crow, although Qrow scolds him for it, but… it's just easier to stay where it's warm, curled up by the fire. Qrow has his two places to perch whilst in Clover's home, after all; there is always a little bird's nest which Clover had constructed the year before, still set up for the god; and Clover's lap is always open, ready for the creature's embrace.
Qrow does not seem to mind that Clover does not visit the shrine much over these months. "It is your knee, is it not? The cold increases the pain," he reasons softly in Clover's ear one eve. "I do not want to cause you injury, Clover. You have suffered enough."
Clover swallows thickly. He wishes it were that simple, but how in the world can he explain this feeling to the god when Qrow does not experience the same kind of human weariness? How can he tell this deity that he longs to go out to the shrine, that he dreams of laying under the stars with the god's brilliant aura lighting up that clearing as they look up at the stars just as he had the year past- that he cannot bring himself to do it, for some strange, unearthly reason? It is not as if he is depressed or even remotely unhappy- the sight of the children stumbling downstairs, hair sticking up in all directions in their cozy pyjamas and fuzzy socks, is enough to warm his heart like nothing else. He is not lonely, nor is he upset. He just… does not know how to be present.
But Qrow forgives him, always. That beak never ceases to comb through his hair once the children have gone to bed, the deity's light always filling his living room after his candles burn to nothing. Clover wonders whether he deserves it. He is grateful for it, though; now that the children are staying with him, he does not want to earn a deity's ire when he needs Qrow's protection more than ever.
He almost wishes Qrow wasn't so intimate, though. It is difficult to bite back the fact that his heart still longs to see Qrow, to hold him. It is the foolish, selfish wish of a mortal, and he knows it, but he cannot help it.
When the springtime finally rolls around, Clover almost weeps in happiness. The sight of tiny green sprouts pushing through frozen patches of snow-covered soil lights a spark of joy in him which he has not felt in months. There is something so glorious in seeing that hint of yellow, that ray of sunshine peeking through the grey and white seas of clouds floating above, pushing through the thick layers of snow. It is wonderful- enough to properly invigorate him for the first time in so, so long.
He goes to the shrine with Nora and Ren that morning, and together, they clean and eat and bring Qrow enough offerings to cover the last few months. The shrine is soon packed to the brim with trinkets and little carvings Nora has done and cookies and preserves which Clover has made with Ren, and Qrow accepts them all with glee, flying down and refusing to leave from Clover's and Ren's and Nora's embrace for the rest of the day. Nora and Ren are more than happy to stay there until the sun sets, babbling on and on with an energy that Clover has not seen in them since the previous summer.
It is wonderful.
However, when the children's chattering turns to the topics of war which have begun to bleed into their ears as well throughout the winter months thanks to the few CCTS broadcasts they truly tune in to, Qrow's joyous energy seems to dissipate in an instant. "It's okay," Ren soothes Nora when the girl's face turns glum at the thought of upcoming battles. The young boy smiles, leaning his head on Nora's shoulder as he looks up hopefully at Clover. "Qrow shall protect us, right? We shall pray and pray, and we shall be safe here."
Clover smiles encouragingly, but he does not nod, does not confirm these words. After all, Qrow's talons tighten over his skin, threatening to pierce his flesh, although he doubts the deity is aware of this force. Qrow has already made it clear to Clover that he does not participate in the battles of man.
He wonders whether that sentiment would hold true if the war truly did arrive.
Clover wants to sleep. It is all too much to think about- these murmurings of war are naught but whispered remnants of a life he has left behind. He would very much like to keep it in the past, to never think about conflict ever again. He is sick and tired of having everything ruined by battle.
Spring comes and goes. They get back into the habit of going to the shrine, if for no other reason than to pawn off a surprisingly bountiful harvest; with this third summer incoming, Clover finally has a grasp of what to do before the picking seasons really get underway, leaving him able to grow more than enough to pay for himself and the children without dipping into his savings. The stall at the market thrives next to the baker's stall, after all; his blueberries are an even greater hit than before, and now that he's getting a hang of preserves, too, those are more than popular enough to support a steady stream of income- and of trinkets for Qrow.
And yet, the town seems to exist in a nebulous sense of reservation. It is not the same as it had been the year before, Clover realizes faintly; whether it is from the talks of war, or the same fatigue grinding down on Clover's bones, there is far less life in town that spring even as the airships begin their transit routes once again, bringing people back into the ebb and flow of the town's natural heartbeat. The sunshine is not enough to reinvigorate a people who still seems halfway trapped in winter's hibernation.
Still, life goes on. A few times that spring, there are terrible storms, just as there had been during Clover's first year in Anima; thanks to Qrow's kindness and ever-watching grace, Clover wakes up each time to find his home in ruins, but his children, safe and sound. The trio grows accustomed to patching up windows and rebuilding the trellises outside, their hands moving in perfect harmony as they pass along tools and supplies to keep this old farmhouse sturdy and safe.
As the spring winds down and leads into summer while Clover is forced to clean up the kitchen for the fifth time in four months, he cannot help but sigh and lean back against one of the unscathed walls. "What's the point of going into town to buy supplies if it's going to get destroyed again?" he murmurs aloud, his leg aching from stiffness and strain, every muscle in his body simultaneously too tense to work and too languid to even care.
It is Nora who spurs him on anyways. "We've gotta stock up for winter again, don't we?" she says softly, yawning for the nth time that day as she carries a tray of carefully-swept broken glass out of the house. "We gotta start now!"
He knows she is correct. With a sigh, he totters over to her and presses a kiss upon her forehead on his way to call Ren from behind the house where the boy is surveying the damage done to the gardens. They need to get their jackets and boots on properly for a trip into town. Maybe I should just start stocking up on house repair things even now, he thinks wearily, so then we can save future trips.
That sounds nice to him. He is growing weary of these trips- he is growing weary of everything, in all honesty. This fatigue is only compounded by the fact that his dreams begin to haunt him as summer rolls around, bringing with it the scathing heat of southern Anima; perhaps it is the heat causing these dreams.
He hopes so. There is nothing more gutting than waking up, only to find that Qrow is not, in fact, in his arms. The only thing left behind is a sour taste in Clover's mouth and an emptiness, and neither of those things are helping his hollow heart carry on.
Ren whispers one evening, "Is it… Is everything weird because of the soldiers in town?"
Clover draws him in for a one-armed hug, leaning back against the shrine's outcropping and looking up at the stars. "I don't think so," he replies slowly.
But maybe it truly is the fault of the soldiers who have completely taken over the inn for all these months, still awaiting further orders from their superiors whilst mooching off the townsfolk. That tiny thought begins to grow into a full-on suspicion, however, as he begins to hear of calamities falling upon the townsfolk; each time he sets up his tiny stall (always a little slower than before) he hears news of more problems ailing these people. Some fields are experiencing strange, isolated drought. Other farmers are experiencing terrible infestations, nothing like they have ever seen before. Food stores are dwindling, but while they speak on it, no one seem to be the faintest bit concerned; they do, however, openly show frustration with Clover's luck, for no ill has befallen Clover's crops, as small as his harvest may be.
It is only thanks to Qrow, and Clover knows it.
However, it is only when the deaths in town begin to mount that his suspicion truly, fully solidifies into full-on fear. It begins in the fall after hearing of a few ill soldiers who had been staying in the inn. The older folk in town had likely caught some bug from the new shipment of soldiers who had arrived, Clover had been told, leaving them weak and vulnerable, a fact which eventually has cost quite a few of the elderly folk their lives.
He does not worry too much about it- and with his own home so neatly separated from town, it almost feels like a rumour being whispered upon the wind, something which he does not need to truly take seriously. He does not go to investigate, either. His priority is ensuring that the children are safe, after all; he explains to Nora and Ren why they cannot go into town just to be safe, a situation which stresses and confuses the two young ones immensely. However, he stands firm upon this decision, for they have enough in storage to last them even through winter if need be.
Then, the news of those deaths becomes real.
He finally receives the news through a stuttering Scroll signal. With this, he understands just how dire the situation truly is; he reads the message four times before it sinks in, and even once the words have been processed, the grief does not arrive.
It should be hitting him. It should be breaking him.
It does not.
He waits for it. He sits there at his kitchen table, waiting for the tears to come. He understands what has happened, but for some reason, he cannot shed a single tear, cannot heave a single sob. He does not feel sad, no matter how much he awaits the incoming grief, ready for it to overtake him- and yet it never arrives.
At least the children weep. The old baker has passed away in her sleep, despite her relative youth and liveliness. The townsfolk do not know whether it is the same thing which has robbed those soldiers of their lives, but no one is taking the risk to find out. Nora and Ren scream and beg to go into town to see her final ceremonial rights, but the townsfolk hold a memorial which they cannot attend thanks to a storm, leaving them stranded and huddled up in his cellar.
So, they use his shoulders as their caskets to cry upon, and he lets them, his own heart beating with a rhythm which is so calm that it makes him want to vomit.
Once Nora and Ren have shed enough tears to water their entire garden, their two tiny bodies are carried upstairs and tucked in. Clover patiently wipes their tear-stained cheeks and smooths out their hair, kissing their foreheads and laying warm, comforting blankets around their shoulders. He tucks them in together this night; he knows that they shall need someone else to hold once they come to their senses, and he does not know if he will be there if they should awaken in the middle of the night, trying to find him.
After all, Clover's feet are already carrying him out of the door by the time he has parsed together these actions. He is dressed far too lightly for an autumn eve, but he does not care.
"Something is wrong with me," he laughs brokenly as he presses his forehead against the base of the shrine, a few inches way from Qrow's bouquet of carvings. "Why aren't I sad? I am sad- I- she was a friend, she was like the only family I have down here, but- why can't I cry? What's wrong with me?" He laughs, barks of noise turning his voice hoarse and haggard as he continues to shiver and shake with this strange, unidentifiable emotion and the cold biting into his bones.
His eyes are thankfully already closed when strong, warm arms wrap around his shoulders like the summer's embrace itself, soothing his aching soul. The light shining through his eyelids is so bright it burns as godly fingers trace his brow, gentle fingertips smoothing out his furrowed wrinkles with the gentleness of a summer breeze. "I… Clover," Qrow's haunting voice whispers hoarsely in his ear, his arms squeezing ever-so-slightly, "you are not broken. I do not know what ails you, but you are still you."
But Clover isn't. He hasn't been himself in a year, he realizes- but he does not know how to say that when he can see Qrow's handsome visage shining through his closed eyelids, even as Clover bows his head in reverence. He cannot bring himself to say a word when the vague, blurry, stuttering outline of Qrow's brow is just as furrowed, his shimmering crimson eyes just as lonely as Clover wishes he himself could feel now that he has lost his dear, dear friend.
But Clover does not want to see this grief in Qrow's eyes. Qrow hasn't done anything wrong. He does not want this deity to weep for him… and yet, Qrow does, eventually turning back into his corvid form so he can nuzzle his head into the crook of Clover's neck, trilling and clicking with a grief that would break anyone's heart.
Come dawn, Clover still feels empty.