'Summer Rose - Thus kindly, I scatter,'

Snowflakes danced in a light; a choreographed ballet conducted by the gentle wind. Blood red petals, produced from a rose-red clock, fluttered toward the inky sky – joining the wind and snow in their dance. Under the steady glow of the full moon, the words etched into the tombstone nipped at the heart as the air nipped at pale skin. The headstone, personalised with a stylised rose engraving above the verse, lay at the summit of a cliff. Nature's paws attempted to ensnare it, but love and dedication kept its grasp at bay. It was the memoir of a warrior, full of stories of love and anguish. A reminder lover and protector of life and hope. A reminder of a loving wife and dedicated mother.

A possibly dead mother now. But the love she left and the example she set was as stone as her empty grave.

Withered white roses lay at the base. Few petals could escape their stems, but it was no matter. A gothic figure, a young boy and barer of the cloak, held new flowers in his fingerless gloved hands – the moonlight enhanced the glow of the bouquet. He chucked the decaying roses off the cliff and gently replaced the new ones. From his Silver Eyes, a tear slipped, but he held a watery smile on his face. He removed his hood in respect. His hands fidgeted and mouth gaped like a fish, unsure of where to start. Deciding to sit down on the frigid ground, he settled on what to say.

"Hey, Mom."

The boy - Ruben Rose's form relaxed, and he swiped away his tear mark.

"Yang couldn't be here today, she said she had to go Vale for something, hopefully, nothing illegal," He rambled, "but she'll say goodbye before she leaves, I promise!"

Ruben fidgeted in excitement, "She's going to an awesome Huntress, knocking out Grimm with a little one-two! Oh, and I lined Ember Celica's chambers with Flame Dust to give the bullets some extra kick!"

He paused, placing thumb and finger to on chin.

"Well, as long as she doesn't put Wind Dust bullets in there, she might lose her hands; if she does it will be the Armageddon for me, eh?"

The wind whistled in his ears.

"Yeah, I'll leave the jokes to her." The boy cringed before his face brightened up, "You'd be so proud of her– and Dad too - he's gotten much better, less like Uncle Qrow in the 'how fast can I destroy my liver' race, though he still finds it hard to get up sometimes."

Ruben's voice wavered, "I do too when I remember-"

The boy locked his jaw and his wolf-ears flattened against his skull. Roughly, he swallowed his emotions. Then he raised himself to a knee and kissed his fingers. As he rested them on the stone, he stood tall.

"I'm sorry, this was supposed to be a happy visit, I didn't mean to ruin it."

With the flick of his wrist, Ruben's face hidden by the cloak's hood.

"Love you, Mom."

The noises of the world melded into a single melody as the boy stared at the tomb.

He waited.

He hoped for a sign - anything to prove that his mother was still around, one way or another.

Patient, as he let the bitter wind ripple through his black clothes and make the chrome accents to chink and frost over. His poor toes in his black leather boots stiffened. His chrome bracers froze and tightened. No force would break his concentration. But no sign came, like the years before, and he walked away. Right into the black of the woods. The bare branches spiked into the sky - no sign of life to be found anywhere. Only the faint glow of the snow and his heightened animal senses could guide the boy through the dark. Small sounds of rustling bushes and the howl of the wind echoed. Ruben knew that despite the overall silence of the woods, his journey would be anything but peaceful. Perhaps it could be if he kept calm and left his emotions at the gravesite.

Perhaps he would be less miserable if he wore something under his waistcoat.

But melancholy is the cloak one can't just shed. It clings on, yet it refuses to provide warmth or comfort. It always dragged him down to the point of heartache. Summer taught him to think of his emotions like a great orchestra. Sometimes it was quiet and allowed him to function, at other times the violins would play and he would be sad, then at other times it would rise to a crescendo and the anger would burst from his chest in a vicious shout of anguish. During his trek through the woods, a soft guitar and thundering drum harmonised in the depths of his mind, and he could remember her with fondness. However, with each memory the cape of sorrow got-

Twigs snapped.

Faunus ears twitched. Ruben walked onwards. The music became daunting.

Then, growling. Unnatural, tainting the soul with the coarse, icky sound alone, growing in commotion as Ruben neared a snow-dressed clearing. The noise gained form. Immune to the bitter wind that cut into the skin of their prey thanks to the ink void that was their fur. It made it difficult to decide where the beast began, and the silhouette ended. Sharp and shining candies lay bare before the boy as barks and grunts rang out, communicating that they should spread out, circle around, and cut off any means of escape. The boy tilted his head at the action. And he walked on. Seemingly angry at the nonchalance of their prey, the eldest of the pack jumped to strike. His large paw striking true upon the boy's head.

Until it didn't.

Instead, rose petal fluttered in the breeze. The pack scoured for their prey and one looked towards the moon. The black cherry-haired male was there, eyes closed, and a silver Aura shimmered over him. Surrounded by fallen rose petals – gravity pulling them all down. Ruben didn't emote as he looked down at his predators. Not even as he whipped out a thick, compact rifle and cleaved the head off one of them. The beat of the melody changed; upbeat and rapid, silencing the ringing gunshot. Rose rolled into a gunner position. Hand steady on the bolt. Fingers poised to press. The Grimm pack stormed towards him.

The leading wolf?

Dead in two shots.

Dashing through the fading corpse, the Faunus shot one round into the chest of a beast. He fought against the recoil with his speed and slid on the ice to keep momentum. With one more shot, he killed the aggressor, then fell on his back to slip between the legs of another. He heel-kicked into a spin, sending up a storm of red roses.

Six shots fired.

Three Grimm dead.

His wolf-ears twitched, and he blocked a strike. As the force of the impact shoved him backwards, he pressed a black button, switching his rifle into a single-edged-double-bladed greatsword. Better known as Crescent Rose Blossom (CRB or Crescent Rose +B). The steel flashed like the eyes of its wielder, eager to stamp out the darkness. More Grimm swarmed the area in response. Once more, Ruben rushed into the fray. Hemet any attempt at an attack with a slice to the stomach or dismemberment. The beast he was aiming for got its arm pinned towards its chest by CRB's dagger-like crossguard and the tip of the blade logged in his chest.

The Beowolf glared.

The boy smirked; the rhythm had picked up in tone.

With the press of a trigger and the recoil of a gun, CRB carved its way out of the Grimm. Chunks of blood, fur, and rose petals flew onto the field.

Ruben's grin grew.

Crescent Rose +B flourished, spinning with its master in an intricate dance. Silver bullets rained down from the sky and sprouted from the ground. Limbs and corpses faded with the winter gale. Red roses sprayed across the snowfields. The red cloak danced like a ribbon caught in a gale. Silver eyes flashed in joy – almost manic, but a powerful element of an analysis of his situation. Ruben backflipped away and bowed; he beckoned the Grimm closer with a cheeky finger. Falling for the bait, the Grimm drew near as the boy strolled without care towards them. Once again, he slid under the legs of a Beowolf, cutting its leg off. Rose smirks as the others get into a tizzy. A few more cuts and Ruben uses the recoil to slide away, pressing the button again. The sword shifted once again to form a scythe twice his size. Crescent Rose: Full Bloom (CRFB or CR: FB).

At that point, the Fledglings should have given up, but young Grimm aren't known for their intelligence.

Strings and brass fused into the orchestra, slamming the soul with the rhythm of battle. Music soared through the air like an eagle on an updraft, taking with it the very souls of the listening audience. Not a difference could be made between the strums of the guitar and the swing of the scythe. Gunshots and air whips called more Grimm to the battle but no force could conquer the whirlwind that was Ruben Rose and his beloved scythe. The music turned serious as a few slashes were too close for comfort despite Ruben's best attempts to maintain distance. But one snagged him - his arrogance swiftly punished. Pain shuddered through Ruben as he flew backwards, rolling through the snow. As he skidded to a stop, his eyes widened. A horde of Fledgling Beowolves had gathered, feral and riotous. Despite the impending feast that they would make out of him, he paid the monsters no mind.

'They actually got a hit on me.'

Shocked, gloved hands caressed the injured spot. Thanks to his Aura, there was no damage to his body (he should really get an undershirt – his family's style of clothing was many things, practical isn't one of them) and his cloak-

The cloak was torn – from the clasp to the hood.

They tore it.

Silence – no music, not a noise.

Burning rage hissed through the boy's body like deathly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of unwanted violence. It was like a volcano erupting; fury sweeping off him like ferocious waves. Pure Silver-Eyes were the window to the dangerous swarm inside and, for the smallest instance, they shone. Subdued in the presence in such power – the Grimm backed away.

'Too late for that now!'

Ruben ripped out the empty magazine – replacing it with a Gravity Dust mag. And pressed the trigger. Like his rounds he shot forward at the horde, struggling to keep his speeding feet on the ground. With one last shift, the tool extended into a war scythe allowing for eardrum-shattering speeds.

In a single twirl, four Grimm got decimated.

Then five. And a few more.

Eventually, Rose stopped counting as he let out his rage onto the unfeeling monsters, whipping his weapon in tandem with his mind, the music and his emotion. He slid along the ice for the final stretch then plunged the end of the scythe into the ground. Ruben kicked away the idiotic demon wolf before decapitating it with a series of spins. It rained bullets and rose petal snow. Appendages and carcasses that littered the field faded into Dust. All that could be heard was the tired huffs of a boy and the daunting silence of a forest.

Not a Grimm in sight.

And the Silver-Eyed boy?

He smiled.