Opus
His hands shake, even though they are bound behind his back so tightly he can barely move an inch. They shake within their bindings, each finger trembling, curled permanently into a vacant claw which had, only moments before, held the hilt of Harbinger. The scythe has long-since been Qrow's constant companion, its comforting weight having become so synonymous with his own that to sit without it upon this cold, hard bench within this airship feels utterly uncomfortable, utterly foreign. He feels lopsided, tilted; his body leans over, unsure of where to go, how to orient itself.
He wonders whether he would even be able to wield that blade, to hang it upon his hip once again, though. Its silver, ornately engraved blade had been designed by Summer a long, long time ago; she had carved those marking into the weapon with a giddiness that had eased any kind of concern he could have felt over someone so small wielding power tools half her size. However, she had gotten it done, helping him design the weapon he had always dreamed of building. "Even the Grimm Reaper would be impressed with this," she used to say with such pride as he spun around his newly-fashioned scythe, the motion natural and effortless despite its newness in his hands.
"But 'Harbinger'?" he had protested all those moons ago. "I… I know I'm unlucky, but that just feels-"
"Like you're a force to be reckoned with," she had stated firmly, silvery eyes glinting with mirth. "The Grimm have no chance. You'll put an end to them with this. Cool, huh?"
He had replied the same way he always had: a simple, "You're such a brat, you know that?" and she had smiled, and they had stood together, comrades-in-arms, best friends, partners. She had always been his leader, his guide. Hearing her words of support had always been enough to keep wielding his blade.
When she had been so pleased with Harbinger's final design, he had smiled. He had been proud of the man she had been proud of, too.
But now, how could he ever wield Harbinger again?
It is a question which he barely gets to ask himself before an exoskeleton-aided fist crashes into his cheek. He barely processes the impact; all he knows is that Harriet Bree screams in front of him, the short woman seething, covered in bruises and bandages of her own. The faintest sparks of Aura flit across her skin, attempted to heal her wounds, but the brightest light comes from the fire burning in her eyes as anger fuels another blow, and then, another.
In another life, he would have made a comment. Perhaps he would have pointed out how this is police brutality; or, perhaps he would have simply stated that they already had him in custody, so any attacks now were more a reflection of them, rather than he himself. Perhaps he would have even managed to say the words with a smile, laughing off the younger woman's anger. It is not the first time he has felt wrath from someone he had called a comrade, after all.
He does not say a word to her, though. He asks Marrow Amin whether Ruby and Yang are in custody. After a moment's hesitation, Marrow whispers, "They're still fugitives."
They are safe. Qrow goes boneless. That is all he needed. They could do with Qrow as they saw fit, as long as they did not harm his nieces.
Then, Marrow bites his lip, takes a moment to center himself, then breathes, "Did… did you really do it, Qrow?"
Qrow does not answer. No, he thinks- he had not done it himself, per se. Harbinger had not been in his hands when the action had come to pass. The intent to kill had never crossed his mind. All that he had been able to think of during that battle had been how to escape as quickly as possible; the sharp, gusting winds above Solitas made it impossible for him to fly far distances in his corvid form, meaning he had needed to find an alternate escape route in his human form.
All he had been able to think of was the inescapable betrayal of watching his comrades turn on him. Calling Qrow a criminal had been fine; it had stung, yes, but he could get past that.
Calling Ruby and Yang and their friends fugitives, though? Mobilizing the Ace Ops to capture and pin down his nieces? Putting his little girls in harm's way?
There is no way he could have ever allowed that. So, he had fought.
In hindsight, he shouldn't have. He should have stayed firm and talked it out; he should have kept a level head and ensured that they had gotten Tyrian Callows locked up before their own arguments could have come into play. Everyone else in that airship had been reasonable people, he had always believed. They could have talked it out.
He cries when Elm drags him by the hair and tosses him into a cold cell. It's his temporary quarters, she says, stone-faced despite eyes glassy with tears. The pain is not what gets him, nor is it the mistreatment of his comrades; it is the sight, flashing into his vision for just a brief moment in time, of another Atlesian soldier holding Harbinger, the blade covered in blood which is not his own.
"Are you happy now, you bastard?" Harriet spits at him through bars.
He shrugs. He is empty. "I told him that I was unlucky," he breathes through bloody, swollen lips. "He always believed… his luck would keep him safe."
Harriet screams. Vine drags her away. Elm storms off, and Marrow's tail no longer wags when looking at Qrow.
Qrow does not blame them. He does not know who to blame; all he knows is that the pin which used to sit upon Clover's lapel is stained crimson, and even if he tries to wash it, Qrow doubts that pin, his hands, his heart, will ever be clean again.
Tyrian Callows has escaped after stabbing Clover with Harbinger in a moment when Qrow had been disarmed.
Clover Ebi is dead by Qrow's own blade, and there is nothing he can do to change that fact.
He should've known that this is how it always goes. His hands have always been too red to ever live comfortably in the white snows of Solitas. No good fortune could ever outweigh the sins of his existence. Clover is just another onto the pile.
He laughs. He had promised Summer there wouldn't be any others, back when she had been declared killed in action. Sorry, Summer.
He does not apologize to Clover. This is intentional. Nothing will change what has happened, and at the very least, Qrow wants the other man's spirit to be free of Qrow's thoughts, presence, misfortune, in the afterlife. Nothing good comes of being with a bad luck charm all the time, after all.