Memories:
Classical music filled the air, loud enough to be heard through the whole hall, yet quiet enough to not disturb the conversation that buzzed incoherently. He looked down, seeing the freshly-pressed suit hugging his muscled frame. When his eyes rose they were met by a glittering sapphire gaze-his sister's-and her face broke out in an overjoyed smile as she waved him over. He strode forth with ease, reaching out to offer her a hug.
"I was starting to think you wouldn't come!" she teased, pulling back after their embrace.
"And miss your concert?" he said. "Never!"
They both looked over at the assembled people, though while she had nothing but admiration in her eyes, he felt only tension growing in his gut. And there was her husband, looking decades younger than he did now, his stark white suit accented with an ice blue flower on the left breast. He shook hands with her husband, holding on longer than was polite.
"Everything alright?" the white-suited man asked. "Don't tell me you're getting nervous now of all times!"
And so he let go, watching Cecelia and Astor link arms and wave to the crowd as they prepared to go backstage. Walked numbly towards the large double doors that led into the auditorium. Took his seat and sank into it as the orchestra warmed up. His eyes helplessly locked onto Cecelia the second she took the stage, the soloist for the night, and never once looked away. Not even as the floor shook, dust clogged the air, and ringing filled his ears. He recovered quickly, his aura flaring and driving him to his feet in a mad dash towards the remnants of the stage. He didn't scream, not this time. He knew what was waiting for him there in the ruins. And there he was, Astor, uncaring of his tattered suit and singed hair as his aura glowed and he knelt to perform chest compressions. Despite himself, he looked down upon his sister's face.
She was exactly as he remembered her, lying limp on her back, eyes closed, one would almost believe she was asleep were it not for the awkward angle of her neck and the blast injuries peppered over her torso. How often that exact image had intruded upon his dreams, sleeping and waking both, his grief tormenting him with his cursedly clear recollection! But there had been no time to mourn, then, for less than an hour after the bombing the White Fang had taken up arms within the city of Vale itself, and he had had his hands full coordinating the military response. "The Siege of Vale" they later called it, the fools. A siege was static, more deaths coming from attrition than enemy fire, and the war he waged against the Fang within the city limits had been anything but static. It had been a brutal street by street, house by house, room by room campaign to remove every last trace of the Fang and their operatives. Even today the city still bore scars from that conflict, reconstruction of the capital having taken a backseat to the more pressing concerns of war.
Astor had thrown his full backing behind him, swearing the full measure of his fortune and resources to the destruction of the Fang. Hector had likewise pledged his support, and the Schnee-Nikos collaboration had seen Vytal's military, along with their Hunter contractors, armed with the best weapons and purest dust munitions that could be produced. Then there was Qrow and Summer Rose, Lie Orochi and Raven Branwen, friends from school and veterans of the Great Hunt. All had survived similar assaults upon their families, assassinations aimed at removing humanity's greatest heroes before the war even began. Cowards they had called the Fang, swearing vengeance against the terrorists as they took up positions of leadership under Damien's overall command. Together they had freed Vale from the clutches of the Fang and restored order to the city. Together they had scoured the land for the Fang's hideouts and training centers. Together they had reclaimed the Vacuo Dustworks, robbing the Fang of their best weapons. Until he, alone, had shattered that precious unity in but a single day.
Raven, the strongest and weakest link of the group, ran a brutal and ruthless regiment. Damien had often counted on them for the worst atrocities that the war had demanded, including the running of the Menagerie. That had been a mistake, in hindsight, for Raven had developed a conscience and attempted to warn the occupants of Fort Castle on the eve of their attack. He had tried appealing to reason, tried restraining her, it hadn't worked. Nothing had worked except drawing his rifle and clipping her wing as she attempted to flee.
Orochi, a steadfast ally and a master of defense. His regiment had provided security and overseen the reconsolidation of the war's gains. A true hero of the people, with too big of a heart. He had been swayed by Raven's words, and was there to stop him from finishing Raven when he had the chance. Traitors could not be tolerated, the battle must be won, the Fang must be dislodged from their fortress and brought low. Orochi's death had the mercy of being swift, at least, with his blade buried up to the hilt in the Havenite's chest.
Summer, one half of the brother-sister pair that ran their regiment, and one of Damien's better generals. Equally effective on the offensive or defensive, and driven, so Damien had believed, by the same rage that festered in his own heart. Not realizing that she fought not for vengeance but for peace had been his greatest oversight, and her betrayal had stung more than the rest. It was she who had prevented him from immediately killing Raven, ambushing him with dust-sorcery and her blinding speed. In the end she too had died, slain with the very pistol she had gifted to him as part of the Great Hunt.
Qrow, Damien's oldest friend. Skilled, steadfast, brutal. A ruthless slayer of Grimm and Faunus alike throughout both campaigns. How Damien had longed to believe that Qrow had not learned of Raven's betrayal, and how his heart leaped when it proved to be true! The lies he had spoken then sealed the fate of Fort Castle far more effectively than any battleplan, for Qrow the Reaper had taken it upon himself to storm the fortress alone. Damien remembered walking through the ruins after the battle, from the still-burning wreckage of the bullhead Qrow had commandeered for his mad frontal assault through the blood-soaked streets filled with soldiers sweeping up the surrendering civilian populace, on to the inner bunkers and armories.
Even though Damien had scrambled as many forces as he could to assist, Qrow had worked at such a furious pace that even as the first marines landed in the fortress he was already breaching these last lines of defense. Not a single officer or commander of the Fang had survived Qrow's wrath, no civilian leader that had spoken up had kept their head. There he stood, cloaked in midnight and rage, spattered with blood and grime. The very image of a man who deserved the moniker 'Demon'. Qrow turned at Damien's approach, his cloak fluttering away into dozens of blackened rose petals to reveal a fresh gunshot wound in his chest. His face was aged and pale as the grave, a mere shell for the sheer hatred burning in his eyes.
"You killed them" Qrow accused, "You killed them all!"
Slowly dimming sunset bathed the land in glorious fire, reflecting off of the snow capped mountains and glittering on the river deep in the valley. Conifers shifted in the breeze, a stately side to side motion as their needles rustled. The mountain air was crisp and dry, the sun dipped low earlier each day. Winter would come soon, he noted, relaxing into a chair upon his deck to take in the commanding view. Winter would come, and his work was finished for now. The Lodge was a perfect home away from home, a place to relax and let the kids play far, far away from the media firestorm that surrounded all the old hunter families.
He had only just taken the first sip of his first beer of the evening when white petals exploded into the air around him. He turned, a bemused smile dying on his lips when he saw his sister's expression, that mixture of terror and razor focus he hadn't seen since the Great Hunt. He rose automatically, his mind registering automatically the presence of two young girls hacking and coughing-his beloved nieces hadn't yet mastered the art of holding their breath while their mother flickered. He registered the even, factual tone in which his sister spoke, and the horrible need for action now.
The memory of racing to Taiyang's was faint and indistinct, a mere sensation of dread overwhelmed by the horror of what had come after. He arrived to a silent house, the floor littered with broken bodies that he only later would realize to be faunus. With a heavy heart he followed the trail of death through a home he knew all too well, hoping against hope. And then that gasping scream, the blind dash upstairs to shield Summer's eyes-too late-from the corpse of her husband.
How quickly events had gone then, the police investigation that fell apart after the White Fang claimed responsibility and declared war on all of humanity. The shocking news of the Siege of Vale and how the day was carried-if only just-by the presence of the renowned hunter Damien Arc. Then the recruitment drives and personal entreaties for old hunters like Summer and himself to join the war, entreaties they were only too happy to accept. The early failures, the later successes, and the final brutalities and paranoia as the Fang were driven further and further back and their leadership systematically dismantled. Another day, another martyred terrorist in the street, another two dozen or more civilian casualties, another raid against known or suspected terrorists, another family torn apart and hurled into mass detention centers. Another day…
And then it was over. One horrific, blood soaked night of loss and pain, and it was all over. No more killing, no more intelligence reports, no more trying to figure out the why of it all. No more of Summer's brilliant smile or Raven's sharp tongue, no more restful sleep or peace of mind. Only two sparks of life and joy remained, two flickers of innocence to be sheltered against the winds of war before they could be snuffed out entirely. He had tried, and tried and tried and tried and tried until his mind was numb from the effort of bringing up his nieces with no experience, no assistance, and no easy way to tell them how their parents died. Such wonderful young women they had grown up to be despite his clumsy efforts...
But what of Jaune? The catalyst for this whole adventure, showing up on his doorstep one day and confidently declaring that he had run away from home. How he had wanted to send this unwelcome reminder of Damien back, to never again think of the Arc family! He couldn't bring himself to do it, not to a child. He had taken the boy in, raised him as his own. How glad he had been when Jaune revealed his hatred for his father's ways, his desire to dismantle the world Damien had built. How proud he was, of all of them…
[Downtown Vale]
"Then talk" Jaune said warily, probing Ren with his eyes for any weakness.
"You do not deny that you are Paladin?" Ren asked, giving Jaune nothing to seize on that could reverse their situation.
"Would it do any good if I did?" Jaune replied mirthlessly.
"Not much" Ren admitted. "Tell me, Jaune, why do you fight?"
"...have you seen the world my father made?" Jaune replied after several long moments.
"Yes, and you're right at the top" Ren said, deliberately insulting. "What offends you so much that you deny what should be yours by right?"
"What offends me?" Jaune said, remaining calm and not rising to Ren's provocation. "The fact that this world was built atop the backs of slaves? That my father is a monster who deliberately waged a war of terror on all faunus? In what world is my social station 'mine by right'?"
"The world we live in" Ren replied dispassionately.
"My father changed the world for the worse" Jaune said. "It may take years, decades even, but I'm going to undo everything he ever did."
"Don't make promises you can't keep" Ren snorted. "No amount of vigilantism will bring back the dead."
"No" Jaune admitted, "but I can help them rest in peace. My father will pay for what he has done, he and all his supporters."
The two young men looked at each other, their conversation broken by Ren's scroll chirping insistently. Velvet tensed as Ren flicked one of his guns at her, and it took a repeat of the motion to realize she was being told to sit down. Shakily she did so, sitting on the floor and drawing her knees up to her chest with her arms. Jaune joined her a moment later, wrapping an arm around her shoulder reassuringly.
"Ren here" Ren said once both of them were no longer an immediate threat. His face froze almost immediately, his eyes locking into enraged slits. "Understood."
With a sharp motion he holstered both of his guns and looked at Jaune. Gone was the accusatory glare, the unwavering confidence in a plan unfolding step by step. In its place was a sort of nervous energy held in check through willpower alone.
"That was the VCT" Ren explained as he put his scroll away, gesturing for Jaune and Velvet to rise. "General Arc and Colonel Rose just tried to kill each other in the streets of Vale. Both are in the hospital right now, and there's a team coming to pick you up for security purposes."
"What?!" Jaune snapped, but Ren cut him off.
"If you planned to bring down your father you surely have evidence capable of ruining his reputation" he said. "Where is it?"
"Why should I tell you?" Jaune demanded. "Even if…"
"He killed my father" Ren snapped, four words of raw emotion that tore from his throat before his forced calm returned. "For no reason other than that they didn't see eye to eye on the Menagerie. Do you have evidence?"
"...yes." Jaune said after a moment. "It's headed to Atlas and out of my father's reach as we speak."
"Then we're going to Atlas" Ren replied. "We must strike now, while the public still has their eye on him and the destruction he caused. We'll never get a better chance."
Turning his back on Jaune and Velvet, he headed for the door and held it open with a "well, are you coming?" expression. Despite Velvet's shivering, Jaune helped her get up and slowly led her by the hand after the young officer. He wasn't entirely sure he could trust Ren, nor whether Ren truly hated Damien as much as he seemed to. But he was right about the timing: the public had a short memory, if they were to publicly shame Damien, now was the time.
[Vale Memorial Hospital]
Everything hurt. Dull, throbbing pain suffused his whole body, beating rhythmically in time with his heart. Sharp lances of white hot pain cascaded through his limbs whenever he attempted to move them in the slightest. His breath came in rasps, supported by an oxygen mask even as his chest begged to be still. For all that, pain was good. Pain meant he was alive. Through sheer force of will he opened his eyes and endured the bright light that shone into them for the few seconds it took for his aura to adjust. Seconds, where it normally was instantaneous! The fight had demanded far more of him than he had realized.
The room was sterile, smelling of cleaning agents and filled with the light beeping of his vitals monitor. An iv tube curled down through his vision, hooked into his arm to deliver fluids and dust-based therapeutics. He could feel his dressings against his skin, medicated bandages over his superficial injuries and a strict cast on his arm where his elbow had been shattered. He leaned back into his pillows with a sigh that was somewhere between relief and pain. Physically he would mend, he had spent enough time in infirmaries to know that it was merely a question of time before his injuries would vanish.
Unbidden, those memories he held painfully dear rose behind his eyes, the faces of four friends forever silenced by his hand. A ghastly parade of the damned ruled his mind, an impossible vision of his worst memories from the war overseen by his best friend, blood dripping freely from his chest.
"You killed them" Qrow accused, "You killed them all!"
The howl that emanated from Damien's room was scarcely human, a manifestation of rage and loss and self-hatred. He had done what he had to do, there had been no choice. Everything, everything, had been for the good of Remnant and its people. Why then, did victory demand such a heavy price?
Author's Note:
Just a short one here to apologize for the delay in getting this chapter out, it was draining to write. I freely acknowledge that I am not the best at writing PTSD, and I mean no disrespect to anyone who lives with the condition. I hope you all have a great week as this story moves towards its conclusion.