RWBY: The Last Stand
W.T. Roberts
3
Cinder lounged at a booth at the café, nursing a drink. She marveled at the man across from her, and how he mannered. She gazed into his flaxen eyes, and how they burst with emotion. Still, he was not unhandsome, and Cinder found herself drawn to him, in her own way. Yet she shoved the thought down into the depths of her mind, hoping it would never resurface. Once again, came that face; the memory was more focused this time, revealing facial scars. Even so, Cinder chose to ignore the recollection, instead opting to attend to the here and now. The huntsman, if that's what he was, declined an offer for refreshment; he busied himself with sharpening and polishing his blades. "You seem like someone I used to know." Cinder declared, finally breaking the silence. The huntsman glanced up from the toning of his weapons, eyebrows raised, but spoke nothing. "You know, a man like you would do well, serving my master." Cinder offered. At that remark, the hunter sheathed his weapons, saying, "Why would I do that?" "Because you can receive what you most desire." Cinder sipped her drink. The man sighed. "All I am concerned with is delivering my people out of bondage, as well as bringing one I love home." "Salem can promise you both." Cinder hinted. The huntsman stood. "Like I said before, why would I do that, when the legends foretell that Salem is more malicious than all the Grimm in Remnant?" "Because she created them." Cinder said. The huntsman sauntered off, tossing the café owner a few lien. Cinder sat back in her booth, smiling with satisfaction. The seeds of doubt have been planted.
The hunter marched over to the shack he rented, unlocked the door, and entered. He shed his cloak, placing it on a rickety chair in front of the desk. He proceeded to rinse off, but a framed portrait stopped him. He held the picture up, a tear welling in his eye. One of the two persons in the image was him, at a much younger age; the other, a young Cinder, when she was once known as Ella. Words were scrawled on the painting; they read: Ella and Haken: By Ella. Haken wiped away a falling tear, tossing the portrait onto the nightstand. As he entered the washroom, the framed picture crashed to the floor, shattering.
Cinder cascaded the lien into the stable owner's hand. "Why don't you hire an airship?" the barnsman inquired. "Atlas is a long way from here." Cinder mounted her steed. "This will be more than adequate." She gazed out at the horizon, smiling slightly.
Haken finished lacing his Grimm-leather boots , and stood. He had sworn some time ago to never wear his colors, yet these were desperate times. The huntsman knelt at the foot of his bed, opened the chest, and hauled up its contents. A long, heavy musket, elegant yet functional, with a cord strap attached. Haken flicked a switch, and the gun shifted to its Tarkatan blade form. Haken, the Guardian of Maidens, had returned.
Haken locked the door of his ramshackle house, sighing heavily. Ever since his accident that had left him scarred beyond recognition, both physically and mentally, Haken had vowed to devote his life to the Maidens. Yet he never considered… this. How and where he would discover the strength, the sheer willpower, to kill the one he held most dear, Haken knew not. There has to be another way. Those words were swimming around in the back of his mind; he dared not stuff them down. He shuffled over to the rickety gate of the settlement, waiting patiently. However, the door did not swing open; Haken turned about to find all the townsfolk, every last man, standing behind him, armed to the teeth. They stood as still and straight as aspens, as if they were expecting to be given orders. Haken gazed into their eyes, shaking his head. "I did not ask you to follow me," he called over them. The pack's leader, a wrinkled, husky man, stepped up to the plate. "And we did not deplore you to leave," he croaked. "You know there is only death for you at Atlas," Haken reminded ominously. "We understand." the crowd's spokesman assured Haken. "And we will die, not for glory, but for honor." A man in the back cried, and the approving shouts of the others bore this out. "Very well," Haken smiled grimly. "We go to Atlas!" he thundered. The band of rebels cheered. "Not because it is our wish, but because it is our duty!" he roared. The warriors cried louder. "And when we reach our goal, we will fight!" The crowd roared. "Not because it is our duty, but because it is our destiny!" Haken began bounding out into the desert sand; his allies followed, right behind him.