Whelp. Happy Friday everyone! Have some dragons and extra-small Schnees!

6. Stirring the Pot

Hiking out to see Glacier—in knee-deep snow and numbing cold, alone, at night—was probably the stupidest thing Whitley had ever done in his life. So, of course, here he was a week later. His hand lay poised on the handle of the same side door. There was slightly less snow on the ground, but the temperature had dropped.

He was not wearing his coat. It had come out of his first misadventure at Glacier's stable thoroughly soaked and, given it was made of down, smelling like a wet duck. He'd told Father it happened visiting the gardens. Father had pointed out that he didn't really need it, since the entire manor was accessible via the underground tunnels, and had it sent off for cleaning.

Whitley might have seen it as a sign that he shouldn't have gone in the first place, but he didn't believe in that sort of thing. He did believe, very firmly, in the concept of humans freezing to death. That should be enough to convince him to go back to his nice, soft bed.

He pushed the door open. The night air cut straight through all four sweaters he was wearing, the chill seeping into flesh and bone. Whitley shivered violently. Then, slowly, he started the long trudge to Glacier's stable.

When he arrived, his face had gone from red to blue and his nose was running. The stable door opened, and standing framed in the doorway was the same stable hand. Wordlessly, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over Whitley's shoulders.

"You're eager to freeze, aren't you?" he said, moving aside to let Whitley enter.

"My c-coat is at the c-cleaner."

Rusty squinted at him, like he suspected a joke. "You're an odd one."

"Excuse m-me?!"

"Didn't mean nothin' by it. Just never met anyone who liked the cold so much." Whitley stared at him, puzzled. It wasn't like he went looking for freezing temperatures like this.

"Can I see G-glacier?" He breathed into his hands, trying to thaw his fingers and stop his teeth from chattering.

Rusty led the way, propping a shovel against the wall. Whitley tried not to think too hard about what it might be for. They walked to the very end of the stable, stopping outside the door of the only occupied stall. Normally they were designed so that dragons could poke their heads out, but there was a metal grate installed in Glacier's to keep him from lashing out at his handlers.

"Glacier?" Whitley called softly. He wanted to step forward, but Rusty saw him looking and held out a hand.

"Not just yet," he whispered. "See what he does. Then maybe we get you closer."

Hardly breathing with anticipation, Whitley strained his ears for any sound. The clink of chains... a scraping noise... then the eye was back.

Whitley froze, staring. The chain around Glacier's neck made a sound like the tinkling of windchimes as the great head tilted to one side. The eye looked into him, fathoms deep, unblinking.

He groped for words. He'd planned to say hello, but instead his mouth just hung open in disbelief. Glacier moved his head, as though he was trying to get a better look, and Whitley caught a glimpse of the muzzle around his snout. It was simple leather, dyed snow white to match the dragon's scales, and crusted with hoarfrost.

"We're coming a little closer now," Rusty said. Glacier kept staring. Slowly, feeling like his feet were moving through honey, Whitley inched towards the door. He could feel the cold emanating from it. Mist rose from the dragon's scales, like his whole body was breathing fog into the air.

Whitley felt frozen himself. He was hypnotized, eyes roving hungrily over the image in front of him. The proud frills, the power and grace in the cant of the great head... and the muzzle, and the chain, and the grate with its thick steel wires crisscrossing one another, woven into a diamond pattern.

He moved like a sleepwalker, closer and closer, his hand trembling with the desire to reach out. Rusty grabbed for his wrist and said, "Don't—" and all of a sudden Glacier lunged. The chain snapped taught with his head still about a foot away from the grate, the muscles in his jaw dancing underneath the leather muzzle. Deadly mist glittered as he huffed out through his nose, and for the second time in two weeks the faunus stable hand grabbed Whitley by the shoulder and hauled him away.

"Don't take it personal," Rusty told him several minutes later. Whitley was sitting in the doorway of another stall, on the opposite side of the barn. A patch of frost had spread across the sleeve of the man's jacket in spiraling fractal patterns. His mind felt oddly blank, torn between remembering how Glacier had looked... and thinking Weiss would have been able to touch him.

But dragons were animals—it meant nothing.

"I should go home," he decided. He wasn't even sure why he'd come here. It was pointless to risk losing a hand to frostbite just so that he could... what? Have a preview of his future? Prepare for his own egg?

No. It hadn't even crossed his mind. He didn't want an egg, he wanted... wanted...

"Master Schnee?"

Whitley looked up, startled, then realized he must have gotten lost in thought. Not something he should ever do in public.

"My apologies," he said, and moved to slide the jacket off and give it back.

Rusty shook his head. "Keep it for now. I don't want you freezing on your way back."

"But—"

"You can return it when you've got yours back from the cleaners," Rusty said, and something in his tone suggested he didn't believe Whitley's explanation of what had happened to his coat. He scowled. Why else would anyone walk around out here without one?

Part of him wanted to refuse the offer just for that, but he was still shivering and for the past week he'd been waking up with the sore throat he'd learned always preceded a cold.

"Thank you," he said instead, and found that he really did mean it. Rusty irritated him often, but so did most people—and his jacket was comfortable. Heavy and rough, but warm.

Whitley left it under his bed when he returned to his room. It wasn't as if this one would be much the worse for a bit of melted snow—unlike his usual coat it was more practical than fashionable—and he didn't want Father to see.

I'm trusting you.

Emerald felt the words on her back like they'd been carved there with fire. She was jittery, and put a hand on the back of Jade's head to steady herself.

All of Haven felt like it was simmering, caught just on the brink of a rolling boil. Half the students were convinced the Council would be coming for their dragons next, or their friends' dragons, and had rallied around Char and Paprika. The other half were restless. They could feel the tension, and knew they'd have to take a side soon.

Of the four teachers, two were already poised to rebel against the council. Another was a lost cause—she'd been critical of Dragonmaster Lionheart for years because he was trying to give dragons more legal protection. The last...

Emerald knocked on his door.

Professor Rivers opened it, frowning at her over a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. "Can I help you?"

Breathe. Follow the plan. The thought came in Cinder's voice, and Emerald played up her anxiety for all it was worth. "It's Jade," she said, nudging her dragon forward. "I'm just worried, I heard the council was coming and..."

She saw a flicker of pain in his face. Yes—others had already come to him for this. "I'm sure it's nothing." He beckoned her inside. "Let me look at her."

As Jade followed her into the room, she put her head down and wheezed. The first time she'd done it—completely unprompted—had been while Emerald was kicking ideas around with Mercury, and it had scared her half to death.

Rivers frowned and inspected Jade's head, gently peeling back her eyelids. "No sign of infection..."

The wheezing continued. He bent down to listen at her chest, and his frown deepened. "Her heart rate is fine. Must be lung trouble."

"But—"

He held up a hand. "We have no reason to believe it's a congenital issue. Dragons do get sick sometimes, though not as often as humans."

Emerald looked at the floor. "It's... well, it's been going on a few weeks now, and I—"

"Weeks?" He scowled. "You should have reported this."

"I thought if I waited it would go away." She didn't meet his eyes—it was even easier to lie when she was supposed to look guilty and chagrined. "If there was really something wrong with her, I thought if I said anything she'd be culled."

Jade wheezed some more, then made an odd noise Emerald thought might be a cough.

Rivers rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "I've never heard anything like this before. It could be a simple bronchial infection that will clear out on its own. We'll get her a more thorough checkup next week."

"Okay." A thorough checkup would reveal that there was absolutely nothing wrong with Jade, but by then it wouldn't matter. "But the council—"

"We will do everything in our power to keep your dragon safe," he said—dully, as if by rote.

"Will you?" Emerald crossed her arms. "I heard Lionheart sends letters to the council all the time, asking for better conditions." Those letters were why he was such an important target. Rivers was Lionheart's unofficial partner in all things administration, and was the only other person who could access those letters.

He twitched. "Dragonmaster Lionheart is committed to improving the lives of dragons at Haven academy."

"I don't want someone to write useless letters!" Emerald made her voice break, pleading. "Someone has to actually do something."

"I understand your concern—"

"No you don't!" Cinder had given Emerald all the information she could dig up, and he did. He absolutely did. "I can't just sit here and watch her die!"

"I wouldn't ask you to." His face softened. "I lost a dragon, when I was only a little older than you. Believe me when I say that I know how hard this is."

Emerald made herself look appropriately ashamed, though inside she wanted to sneer. He knows, does he? If Jade were actually sick she might have tried to hit him. She found Haven's lazy, ineffective negotiation with the council somehow even more infuriating than Vacuo's blatant cruelty. He had the nerve to act like asking politely for them to please stop killing his students dragons, so long as it wasn't too inconvenient, meant anything?

Slowly, she thought. Slowly. "You said you'd help her. What are you going to do?"

Rivers adjusted his glasses. "We'll start with a proper physical. I can move up the date if you like—"

"No," she said hastily, groping for an excuse. "If they come here, I want them to have to wait for the physical before they decide to..."

"Smart."

There was a pause.

"And?" Emerald prompted. Rivers blinked at her.

"Yes?"

"What are you going to do after the physical?"

"If all goes well, they'll prescribe some antibiotics. If it is congenital... there are still options. We can petition for her to be moved to a broodery that would accommodate her. There are still a few places left at Northfield—"

"She doesn't need to be sent away!"

"She'd be safe." His tone was clipped, now. Terse. "As cruel as it would be to cull her, it's hardly better to send her to fight Grimm with faulty lungs." Jade wheezed pitifully. Emerald started to worry she might lay it on too thick and give the game away.

"Okay." She almost scowled at the look on his face. Like he was proud that he'd just educated a child on the proper care and protection of dragons. It was important to let him have these moments, of course, so he'd be more likely to listen to her... but still irritating. "And the council will agree to that?" She blinked innocently at him, and watched as he grimaced like someone had just shoved his hand into a bucket of ice water.

"They often do. Your dragon—"

"Jade."

"Yes. So long as Jade doesn't have any record of violent tendencies, I'm almost certain they'd approve the request."

"Almost?"

"Well... they don't universally approve these requests, but the chances—"

"I don't want to take chances!"

"I know. The situation isn't ideal, but I swear to you that you have every reason to expect—"

"What are you going to do if they refuse?"

"There are alternatives we could look into. Sometimes private stable owners will take on dragons that have had successes in competitions."

Yeah. Time to go for the throat.

"What are you going to do?" She crossed her arms and squared her jaw, imagined a world where Jade really was sick and this useless excuse for a teacher was the one protecting her instead of Cinder. "You keep talking about sending more letters. There are dozens of us. I've talked to people. We can't all get lucky hoping the council will decide to send our partners to a farm somewhere instead of murdering them!"

"We're doing everything we can."

"Everything that keeps you safe," she spat. "Everything except fighting back."

"This sort of thing takes time," Rivers insisted. "We're gaining ground in the council, new moderates have joined their ranks. It's all a matter of..."

"Being patient?"

He squeezed his eyes shut as if he was in pain. "I'm sorry. That was... I know future progress means nothing to you when you're in danger now. But we have a responsibility as riders to think about the big picture, and in the big picture attacking the council only gives more weight to those who suggest—" he cut himself off. "I can't discuss details, but as hard as I'm sure it is for you to believe it can get worse than this."

"Maybe," she said. "Maybe in thirty years you and Lionheart will change the law so they don't kill as many dragons. But maybe you only think what you're doing is enough because it's not your partner on the line."

She could see the moment when he started to waver, even as he tried to hide it.

"I can't force you to see our side of the problem. I can only hope that as you get older—"

"I'll decide one dragon doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things?"

"Of course they matter." He was angry now, but she sensed he was on the edge. Wobbling. Ready to tip over onto their side. "They always matter. But the council are changing."

"No they aren't." Emerald put a hand on Jade's shoulder and they glared at him together. "A council that kills less hatchlings for problems way out of their control isn't something to wish for. It's a world where that never happens. Where no one would even consider it."

He didn't respond. She could see him foundering, groping for something to say. And then, without thinking, she gave him a final push. "Would Rosie want you to—"

"Where did you hear that name?"

The hesitation was gone. In its place was rage—not the frustration and anger from before but something cold and utterly inflexible.

Shit. Shit! Everything Cinder had told her about Rivers was public record... but that was not the same thing as common knowledge.

"I... I looked it up, I thought—"

"Get out."

"But Professor—"

"I won't hold this against your dragon. I will do everything in my power to protect her. But you need to leave. Now."

The door slammed in her face the second she backed out of his office. She was left standing there, frozen, the bottom dropping out of her stomach as the words, "I'm trusting you," burned inside her mind.

"It's only been three days. What do you want?"

The voice broke the silence of the gloom of the Emerald Forest. It was deep twilight, that time of night when the sky is finally going from indigo to black. Earlier than usual for these meetings, but Sienna wanted to get this over with.

"I have a message." She stretched out a hand, offered him a scrap of paper. "Leave it in the hybrid's stall."

The stable hand plucked it from her fingers and unfolded it, reading the message inside. Sienna fought back a grimace. It only took a moment—the message was short.

"Yeah, no." He folded his arms and glared at her. "I'm not leading Blake into an ambush."

"We're not going to harm—"

The human laughed in her face. "Look, I'll tell you whatever you want about Beacon in general. I don't owe them shit, if you wanna fuck them up you can be my guest. But not the students. And definitely not Pit." He crumpled up the paper and tossed it to the ground. "Kindly fuck off."

He turned and stalked back the way he'd come without another word. Sienna stood there for a long moment, breathing deeply. The stable hand was still useful, even if he had been... belligerent, lately.

"Damn it, Adam."

It kept coming back to that. His foolish obsession was the reason she needed the deserter in the first place. Grimacing, Sienna picked up the crumpled message and slipped it into her pocket. She supposed she'd have to deal with this herself.

Damn Hazel, too. This was a complete waste of time, but she didn't want to make working with him any more difficult than it already was. And he'd made it very clear that he wasn't going to budge.

She didn't bother going back for the map of Beacon's patrols. If the Headmaster had half a brain they'd been changed already. Hopefully they'd at least been reduced since Adam had died.

By the time Sienna reached the dragonry's grounds, it was well and truly dark. She hadn't gone on a field mission in a while, but she only encountered one dragon on her way in. It wasn't exactly inconspicuous—she saw it long before it could have seen her. Circling around it took longer than she would have liked, but she slowly picked her way towards the center of the campus.

Keeping all four ears peeled for dragons or students, Sienna wandered the grounds. At first she was worried she wouldn't be able to single out the earth stables—how had Adam found them in the first place? Then she walked around the side of a dormitory, and it became trivially obvious. There were several sets of long, blocky buildings. She assumed the one that was covered in scorch marks was probably for fire dragons, passed it, and set her sights on the next row, where she could see mud wallowing pits.

Finally she stopped dead, staring at the shadowy alleyway formed between two of the stables. There was a pile of hay bales, a few rakes leaning against the wall... and a few scattered dents in one wall. Bullet holes.

Sienna stared at the ground there much longer than was wise. This was where he died—where the mess started. She clenched a fist. Time to start cleaning it up.

There was one stable hand still awake—not the human she and Hazel dealt with, but a raccoon faunus in his late twenties. She wasn't sure if he was supposed to be a night guard or if his heritage had just given him irregular sleep patterns, but either way she avoided him. While he swept the floor of one stable she checked the other two, peering at the names on the walls. A few times the dragons stirred in their pens. One woke up and peered into the darkness with moss-green eyes, but by then Sienna had moved past its stable. She crouched silently behind a bale of hay until it grumbled quietly and went back to sleep.

Finally the stable hand moved from the first barn to the second. She entered the building he'd just left through the opposite door, and within a minute she'd found the stall with Pit's name on it. Slowly, carefully, she retrieved her message, uncrumpled it, and slid it under the door.

He stirred.

Sienna froze, her heart pounding in her throat, staring as his tail twitched and his ears flicked. She eased herself back down the length of the barn, so that at the very least he wouldn't be able to see her. Then she heard a low growl, and the door started to move. She sprinted the last few steps and slipped out into the night. Heavy footsteps followed behind her, and she ducked into the narrow, shadowy place between the two buildings.

A heavy square head poked outside. Sienna's heartbeat thundered in her ears. Adam had been killed right here, maybe even by that dragon.

Pit sniffed, twice. Then, after a long moment, he retreated into the barn.

Sienna left the grounds with no one the wiser—only a pair of dragons wondering, each in their own separate stalls, who that new smell had belonged to.