A/N

After a short discussion with a friend of mine, I've decided to start uploading this story twice a week, for the very mature reasons known as: I've finished writing this story, like, a month ago and I really wanna dump everything for everyone to see as quickly as possible.

You're welcome.

CHAPTER 10

She and Illia stroll towards the direction of the dungeon, through the castle. "How much of that did you see?" Blake asks.

Illia's scowl deepens. "Enough." Maids and butlers alike walk alongside them, not giving them a questioning look or even a second glance. They belong here. She belongs here. "He's no good for you, you know?"

"Who?"

"Sun Wukong."

"You mean the boy from before?"

Illia gives her a look that says, "Duh!" Since this is Remnant, the more suitable words would be, "Who else would I be thinking of?"

"I don't even—" Blake clears her throat. "I'm not interested in courting anyone."

Illia stops, and Blake stops too. "Really?" She asks, her face a weak mask of indifference. "You don't have anyone on your mind? No one at all?"

Remnant isn't Earth in the old ages. There are loads of similarities, but there are also differences. The most obvious ones are the existence of Grimm and auras, which allow some humans to develop supernatural abilities.

There are also subtle differences, too. One is the lack of homophobia.

It took awhile for Blake to comprehend this. She remembers when she did. She doesn't think she can forget it. It happened after her first mission as a soldier, as she and the other soldiers marched back home. Their loved ones were waiting for them at the end of the gate. Blake's was her mother, teary-eyed.

Before she could run up to her, a man ran forward, pushing her back. Another man, from the gate, ran up to him. They hugged, and Blake remembered thinking; brothers. Then, they kissed, and Blake's heart seized, bracing herself for insults, disgust, jabs, anything.

There were none. No one cared. They had their loved ones to care about. As Blake's mother embraced her, Blake asked her, "Did you see that?"

"See what?"

Blake blinked, looked back on the two men who were crying and linking their heads together, murmuring something only the other could hear. "Nevermind."

"So, no one?" Illia asks now.

There's nothing stopping Blake from pursuing this. Illia's good for her, and they've known each other since they were little. They trained together, fought together, strived for a better future together. Even the Illia on Earth would be an ideal suitor for her. If there's anyone she trusts, it's Illia.

"There's no one," Blake says.

Illia's mask of indifference crumbles. "I see."

"Illia, I—"

"Let us visit our prisoner, shall we?" She asks, and walks away, not waiting for an answer.

Blake sighs.

So, they walk through the large halls with looming pillars, carved in geometrical patterns. Blake halts to admire the room for statues of kings, the details within each wrinkle and hair popping out. Another strange thing about Remnant; Blake cannot compare it to any of Earth's time periods, not because everything's so different, but because Remnant is a mish-mash of different Earth time periods. The existence of portrait painting should suggest that this is the 1350s, but the lack of longbows should mean that this is before the 1000s. At the same time, clocks are a thing already, so shouldn't they be in the 14th century?

The best she can come up with is "between the 15th and 19th century", which tells her nothing.

A lingering wrongness creeps up to her as they walk through the stairs leading to the dungeon below the ground. It slithers around her chest, then squeezes when a cry of pain echoes through the narrow, uneven walls and ceiling.

Blake doesn't think; she runs.

On the only-occupied cell, Dragonheart is screaming her guts out. Someone's with her, crouching too close to her. He's holding her chin and—

Oh, Gods.

"STOP!"

The man startles, but doesn't pull the blade away from Dragonheart's cheek. Blood flows down in a pace too sickeningly quick. Dragonheart's eyes are lidded, her skin thick with sweat and her breathing shallow. How long has she been enduring this?

"Is there a problem, ma'am?"

His face looks genuinely curious. It makes her angrier. "Leave. Her. Alone."

His brows scrunch. "The king's orders are to make her talk until she's no longer able to do so."

"Well, my orders are for you to stop," she says, then wishes to kill herself. No one can disobey the king. Not without consequences. "This is my prisoner, do you understand?" she asks, yanking the cell door away with more force than necessary. "I'll be the one to deal with her."

He nods a nervous nod.

Blake waits, then scowls. "Why are you still here?" she asks.

He flounders and apologises, tripping over his boots as he leaves. It's mean of her to do so, but it's necessary to do so. Illia whistles as his footsteps fade away. "I've never pegged you as cruel."

"I'm not." Aren't I?

Illia cocks her head, walking over and crouching to inspect Dragonheart, who's too weak to lift a finger, much less shove Illia out of the way. Blake isn't sure Dragonheart's lucid enough to understand where she is, or who's surrounding her. She is lucid, though. Somewhat. Her eyes may be staring at nothingness, but they're open.

"Can you believe she's Vale's hero? We were all afraid of her. I ran away from her." Illia nudges Dragonheart's forearm, then chuckles when she receives no retaliation. "Oh, the great and mighty Dragonheart, reduced to… this."

Again, no retaliation.

Dragonheart meets Blake's eyes, and Blake has to look away. The wrongness returns again, adding weight to her body, like chained bricks.

"So, what are we to do with her?" Illia asks again.

"Nothing."

"What?" Illia faces her with wide eyes. "Nothing?"

"Yes."

"Are you serious?" Blake's face must've told her more than words could, because Illia jumps into a standing position. "Blake, she is a Valeer! She killed our people!"

"I know," Blake says, but her voice isn't loud enough.

Illia steps forward, giving Blake no chance to ignore her eyes. "Satin-wearing Grimm is still Grimm."

"I know." Still not loud enough.

"You should not feel guilty. You are our champion. You are Menagerie's hero."

"I know." Pause. "I think you should leave."

Loud enough, this time. Too loud, perhaps.

What are you doing, Blake? She asks herself. The king has entrusted you with this, yet here you are, failing him. You want this. You've been wanting this for years.

Blake can't describe the look on Illia's face, but it makes her want to reach out and apologise. She doesn't, though. Because she's tense, and she's nauseous, and she's not sure she understands what she's doing.

"You are making a mistake," Illia says.

Yes, Blake refuses to say, I maybe am.

Illia steps towards her. Blake half expects a hand to her shoulder, but it never comes. "Remember. Valeers are known to be cunning."

Then, she disappears behind Blake, her footsteps rigid, their noise growing less audible with each step. A clank of the dungeon door opening, then a thud of it closing.

Blake's shoulders sag. She presses her forehead against the cool and rusty bar of the cell bar.

Dragonheart's eyes are closed, but her breathing hasn't evened out. Blake hopes she's on Earth, where the worst injury she could face is a paper cut or a sprained ankle.

Can I bring her back here? Blake wonders. If I try hard enough, can I bring her back here?

Dragonheart's brows are furrowed. They're a deeper shade of blonde than her hair. Her face is a blur of tears and sweat and blood from an injury her aura is healing. Did she cry?

Another moment of observation. She's as old as I am.

So are many soldiers. Soldiers which she's killed.

You've killed too. You had no choice but to.

Dragonheart twitches, her head lolling to one side. Her hair sticks to her face. It's as long as the one on Earth, and styled the same way, too.

How could Blake not have known she's like her, too? Humming that song. Speaking in a non-Remnant way. Dying her armor yellow. Metal colouring hasn't been invented yet, which means she must've done it herself; she invented color pigmentation.

For what? To look cool?

Blake doesn't doubt that. Not for one second.

She stays in the dungeon all day long, trying not to glance at Dragonheart and trying to tell herself it's silly to feel guilty. Keyword; try.

#

To say Yang's lives are shitty would be to say Hitler's a meh influencer.

Yes. Lives. Because she has one ugly luck. Not only is she kidnapped on Remnant, but her being kidnapped messes with her sleep schedule on Earth. Depending on the day, and who the guard is, she'd either wake up in the middle of the night back on her bed after passing out, or she wouldn't be able to sleep back to Earth despite how hungry and thirsty she is.

Shadow is the best part of everything, which is a surprise—considering anything about this situation can be good. Whenever she shows up, which is often, she'd tell everyone in the room to leave, then stand there in that broody silence of hers.

Occasionally, she'd sneak in food and water for Yang. The first time it happened, Yang glared at her. "What the hell is this?" she asked, not bothering to sound more Remnant-esque.

Shadow's face twitched as she glanced to the side. "To keep you alive," was all she murmured.

"Alive? Why? So you could torture me some more?"

"I'll never torture you."

You're doing it right now! Yang wanted to point out. Instead, she asked, "Why am I here, then?"

Shadow didn't answer her. Yang didn't ask again. The hunger and thirst grew to be too much, and so she grabbed what Shadow offered and garbled down the food.

"You may want to save it for later," Shadow told her, as Yang gulped down her water. "I don't know when I'll be able to sneak in another water supply for you."

"Another?"

No explanation. No words at all.

Despite how much it hurts her pride, Yang always ends up taking them. Not that it matters. Whenever her strength rebuilds, someone other than Shadow would notice, then squash it down.

Her condition on Remnant bleeds into the one on Earth. She may not be hungry, nor thirsty, nor riddled with dozens of injuries, but at the same time she is, and she's humiliated. She can't bear to look at anyone. Especially Ruby. Which sucks. Because, one morning, she comes up to Yang and says, "You can at least tell me whatever it is I did wrong."

Yang, who's been up since two, blinks away the blurriness from her eyes. "What?"

"I mean, I must've done something wrong, right? Why else have you been avoiding me?"

"I haven't—"

"You are, Yang." Ruby waits, and Yang imitates a fish; opening and closing her mouth without making a sound. "Fine," she says, stomping out of the kitchen.

Uncle Qrow, from his couch with a bottle on his hand, turns to look at Yang. He looks mad. No, not mad. Disappointed.

Yang glares back at him. He, of all people, has no right to give her that look.

Despite her never throwing a chair at anyone again, school is still difficult. On one of the worst times, she'd fall asleep in class, experience severe pain throughout her body, then, when she woke up, got reprimanded for it.

If her teachers knew any time between ten to six are the only times where she can sometimes get peace and quiet, they'd let her doze off with her hippo-sounding snore.

One time, she wakes up with a jolt in class. The teacher glares at her, asking her if she'd been paying attention. "Nope," she says, her smile straining. "I doubt anyone is, really."

The class laughs. The teacher gets flustered, and tells them to stop. It makes them laugh even harder.

Yang rubs the sleep from her eyes, squashing down her irritation. The guard's not being a bother, back in Remnant. Should she go to the nurse's office and sleep there instead? Sure, she doesn't have the best reputation, but school can't be that cruel, right?

She catches a pair of familiar eyes from the front row. Shadow cranes her neck back to look back on the board.

Whatever. So, Shadow's pretending Yang doesn't exist at school—actively avoiding her, despite them meeting almost everyday on Remnant. Good. She may be saving Yang from torture, but she was the one who put her there.

It doesn't mean anything.

What's weird is how she now knows stuff about Shadow she didn't think she'd ever know. Like how Shadow walks everywhere with her notebook. And how often she raises her hand in class to answer the teacher's questions. Jeez, overachiever much?

She even shares a few advanced classes with Ruby. When Ruby first told her, Yang had to keep her features a false mask of cool. Shadow won't attack, she told herself. Not with so many witnesses.

"Besides," Ruby said, "she doesn't seem to recognise me."

Or if she is, thought Yang, she's doing a great job pretending otherwise.

"Erm. Is that—are you cool?" Ruby cleared her throat. "With that, I mean?"

"Of course. Yeah. Sure. Totally. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, you know…" Ruby trailed off, then shrugged. Yang gave her a grin, but that made her more suspicious. "You could tell me, you know?"

She could. She really could. But she didn't. And Ruby frowned and never asked her about it again.

"So, Yang," Nora says, food in her mouth and pointing a spoon in her direction, "me and Ren and some of the other kids are planning to hit up on this new cafe. It's, like, vintage and retro and stuff."

"Vintage and retro are the same thing," Ren says, after swallowing his own food. "But yes. From what I've seen, it's very instagrammable."

Yang toys with her food, but doesn't eat it. "Sorry, guys," she murmurs, not bothering to look up. "Now's not really a good time, right now."

There's a small but notable pause before Nora says, "Alrighty! If you say so!"

Yang hasn't apologised to her, yet here she is, acting like Yang's never done her wrong in the first place. Looking up from her plate, she says, "May your luck be beautiful, Nora."

"What?"

Ah. Right. This is Earth. "Nevermind," she says, going back to not eating her food. She keeps nodding on and off. After the third time her face has almost fallen down onto the plate, Yang excuses herself. That's it, she tells herself. They have to crash at the nurse's office.

If not, Yang will have to settle for the bathroom again.

Sluggishly, she pushes the double doors open, and keeps her head low as she walks to the nurse's office. She looks up as she hears Ruby's voice.

"—lot, like, you have no idea."

She's clutching her books with a smile on her face. Looking up at Shadow. Who has a smaller smile on her face. Books in her hands too.

Yang sees red.

A/N

Insert joke about how the canon Yang's eyes turn red, and this Yang "sees red."