Why
"I said, leave."
"Fine, fine."
He turned to walk out the door, sensing he had needled his sister as much as she would allow before bodily tossing him out of the room, but a thought caught him. It was something he had been wondering since last night, since she had accused him of somehow planning this entire incident. Offering up this question might actually get him a physical reaction, but if she was allowed to question his motives, then the same should be true for him.
"Why do you care?"
For the first time since he had walked in the room, he saw the grip on her rapier slacken. "What?" She tried to hide it, but he could hear the confusion in her voice.
"Why do you care about being the heiress?" He elaborated. "You never have in the past; why should you start now?"
"That's not true! I have always devoted myself to the Schnee name." Her eyes narrowed. Ah, back to anger.
"Really?" He feigned interest. "That's why you have never spent an iota more of time studying business than Father required? Why you never choose to listen in on company meetings regardless of their importance? Why, instead of staying here in Atlas so you can begin learning how to run the company, you ran off to Vale to be as far away from here as possible?"
"I did not run away. I went to complete my training."
"Something you could very easily have done at Atlas, while still keeping up your duties as heiress."
"Beacon is -"
"Yes, yes, far more superior in producing capable Huntsmen than Atlas, I know." He had overheard the argument more than enough times. "But it is not incapable; surely Winter is proof enough."
He could see the irritation building in her stance. His sister had truly grown rusty in the art of hiding emotions. "Where I chose to study has no effect on my ability to act as the next head of the Schnee Dust Company."
He rocked back on his heels, quirking his lips in a sly smile. "Actually, dear sister, it does. Can you honestly tell me anything about how the company operates? Who's on the board of directors? Do you know what any of our policies about Dust standards? About labor management? About marketing differences across the kingdoms?" His grin grew sharp. "Do you know anything at all about running a company as large and complex as the SDC?"
He could practically see the steam venting from her ears; he choked back a laugh. When had Weiss become so easy to provoke?
"What is your point?" She ground out.
"My point is that you don't care about the SDC -" he raised a hand to cut off her opening mouth " - ah, ah, let me finish. You don't care about running the SDC; you care about becoming a huntress, because you somehow believe that doing so will fix all of Remnant's problems with our family and our power. Therefore, I'm curious as to why you care so much about Father passing the responsibility onto me."
"You stole it from me!"
He blinked, then narrowed his own eyes. Oh, was that the reason?
"Really." It wasn't a question. "You'll have to tell me when that was, because I certainly don't remember that happening. What I remember happening is you attempting to murder someone at a public gala."
"I wasn't going to -"
"If the general hadn't stepped in, could you honestly say that that Grimm wouldn't have impaled that woman?"
"I -" But for the first time, Weiss looked uncertain. Finally, he was getting through. Finally, she was paying him some attention.
He pressed the advantage. "Say what you will about me and my abilities, but I have never attempted public murder. That is the reason that Father made me the heir. Right now, you are a PR liability. Did you know that the woman is threatening to press charges? Father is scheduled for meetings with lawyers for weeks now, making sure that you aren't arrested."
"It was an accident. She provoked me." It was a half-hearted attempt at best. Her free hand was rubbing her sword arm, as if trying to warm herself.
"She wasn't even talking to you." He said coldly. "Yes, what she said was very insensitive, especially considering you were actually at Beacon, but that doesn't excuse such extreme action."
He wouldn't lie; it was very much satisfying to watch his sister finally seem to realize that her actions had consequences.
"You brought this on yourself. If you had kept your head, just let the drunk woman run her mouth and ignored her, you would most likely still be the heiress, and then, you wouldn't be stuck here." A twist of a smirk that he couldn't quite keep down. "But don't worry. I've been stuck here all my life. It's not so bad, once you get used to the fact that there's no pleasant company to be had."
That got her attention. "Whitley -"
He waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, wait. You're already planning your escape, aren't you? Well, then ignore me. You'll be gone before the week's end. Just do try to warn me before you leave, so I can lock my doors when Father flies into his inevitable rage."
"He - He's not that bad." She said feebly, looking at him with something he couldn't quite identify in her eyes. The knife had met its mark.
"Well, no, he wasn't, not when you left." And, twist. "But you've been gone, dear sister, and things don't just stop when you leave."
Unconsciously, a hand made its way to his stomach, brushing tender ribs, imagining the sickly yellow and green that stained his skin beneath his clothes. The hand behind his back clenched into a fist, and he didn't bother to try to hide the anger he felt churning in his chest as he glared at the marble floor.
"Did you really think that he would just brush off all your snubs? That he would be content to just wait by the phone for a call that would never come? That with every call you ignored he would just let it go?"
He was practically snarling the words under his breath. He hadn't expected to say any of this when he had come to gloat over the fact that she was getting a taste of what he had gone through, but it was far too late to stop himself now.
"Our father is a proud man, a controlling one. He does not forgive injuries to his ego, no matter how small or who from. You were gone. Who do you think took your place?"
He lifted his gaze to meet his sister's. "You asked why I hate you. I don't; I've never hated you. What I hate is that you think you can do whatever you'd like, and that there aren't consequences. That nothing comes of ignoring your responsibilities, of angering Father and then running away from the fallout. There are always consequences, and now that you are finally feeling the repercussions of your actions, you dare blame me?"
He didn't give her the opportunity to speak. "But I should be thanking you. You forced Father to pass the reins over to me. Now, maybe I'll be able to leave the house every once in a while. Maybe Father will actually notice that I like business, that I'm good at it. Maybe I'll be allowed to go to a school myself. I've always been interested in the business courses at Atlas."
And if I'm allowed in public, then maybe Father will not be able to visibly injure me.
"But what am I doing? Father is waiting, and you were training." He turned swiftly on his heel. "Goodbye, sister."
"Whitley, wait!"
But this time, it was his turn to leave her behind. He took a petty satisfaction in slamming the door in her face.
Nightfall
This is easily the worst part of his day.
The sun is beginning to set, and all life in the manor begins to die with it. The window shutters are closed and the curtains are drawn, the lights are turned down low, and shadows begin to coat the floors and cling to the walls. The maids and the cooks and the gardeners begin to retreat from the house as they go back to their own homes. The live-in staff inquire if anything is needed, then quickly perform their last minute duties before secluding themselves in their rooms. His father is in his study or his bedroom, and his sisters are gone. The halls fall dark and silent, and the only ones left are him . . . and his mother.
He walks silently through the manor, eyes scanning for any hint of where she may be tonight. The best-case scenario, her bedroom, is his first stop, but just as it is most nights, she's not there. So as he does most nights, he takes it upon himself to find her latest haunting ground. The dining hall is empty, as is the foyer, and he has enough faith in the staff that she would not have been left in the garden for the night. A quick traipse to the library reveals no one lurking between its shelves, and the dust in Weiss's music room is utterly undisturbed.
He must search for nearly an hour, growing ever more concerned as he does so, before he catches a hint of sound from a out-of-the way stairwell in the old part of the house. He climbs the narrow and rickety stairs, and sees fresh tracks on the dust-covered stair treads. A good sign, definitely the most promising he's seen all night. At the top of the stairs is an old wooden door that he has rarely visited. This is the entrance to the attic, an area of the house so out of the way of everything else that it has been nearly forgotten. Or at least, that is what he had thought. The fact that the door is cracked and a light has been turned on inside says that he is not the only one that remembered the room exists.
He slowly pushes the door open, flinching at the creak of the hinges as he peers inside the room.
It's a disaster; boxes are flung all over the room, their contents spilling out onto every surface. Storage closets line the walls, and every single one of them has its doors open and clothing strewn in piles on the floor. A bottle of wine has been smashed on the floor, but hardly a drop of alcohol had been left inside to stain the floorboards. Chests and trunks are scattered around the narrow space, and their lids all show signs of being thrown open with considerable force. It's a veritable war zone of clothing and trinkets, and in the middle of it all sits his mother, clutching something long and white in her lap as she sobs into it.
He winces. He was hoping that she would be at least somewhat willing to come with him; she may rarely ever be conscious of who he was, but most nights she was coherent enough to be guided back to her room. Not like this, though. When she was weepy like this, she was more stubborn then his sisters.
Carefully, he picks his way through the rubble of Mother's rampage and comes to kneel in front of her.
"Mother?" He whispers. She doesn't even flinch at his call.
He tries again. "Willow?"
Her breath hitches as she sobs, and she turns red-rimmed eyes to him.
"Are you alright?" He asks softly.
She shakes her head as she grips the white item strong enough to tear in her grip. "I don't want to do it anymore."
"Do what?" He plays along. He's found that to be the best way to handle these nights.
"Can't you call it off, Papa?" She cries, wringing the fabric tightly in her fists. He takes a closer look, and finally realizes what it is that she is holding. It's a wedding dress.
"I don't want to marry him anymore. It's -" she hiccups, "- it's going to be awful."
He doesn't know what to say. This - this has never happened before.
"Mo-, Willow," He begins.
"Papa, please." She cries, believing that the one in front of her is her father, not her son. "He's a horrible man, I just know it! If we get married, then - then -" She breaks off, overwhelmed, and goes back to sobbing into the dress.
He doesn't know what to do. She's never done this before; never taken him for someone other than a stranger, never talked about her wedding like this. He's shaking, he notices, and he's half-tempted to just stand up and run away from here. Let his mother lock herself away with the dress and the memories and the keepsakes from another life. Let someone else find her and deal with it.
But he can't do that. He knows he can't.
"Alright," he tells her. Her sniffling halts, and she looks pleadingly at him.
"Wh-what?"
"You don't have to marry him. I'll stop him; I promise." The lie tastes bitter on his tongue, and it makes it all the worse to see the hope in his mother's glazed eyes.
"Really? You'd do that, Papa?"
Heat is building behind his eyes, and he blinks it away. He can't show weakness; he will not become his mother.
"Of course, Mo-Willow. Anything for you."
She lunges forward, dripping the dress in her lap and enveloping him in a hug. "Oh, thank you, Papa! Thank you!" Her voice cracks, and he can hear the desperate relief at the idea of avoiding his father, at the thought of not being confined to her fate.
He does not hug her, can not bring himself to return the affection that isn't meant for him and is brought on by a lie.
Instead he pats her back, and rises out of her arms to stand. "Come on. Come back to your room. I'll tell Fa-Jacques that the wedding is off."
She stands readily, already brushing away the tears, eager to move on. She takes his offered hand, and teeters drunkenly after him like a clumsy puppy as he leads her down the stairs, through the silent halls of the manor, and into her bedroom.
She collapses on her bed, not bothering to try to change into less formal wear, instead falling into a peacefully slumber. He pulls the comforter up, picks up the bottles on the floor and throws them in the trash, and closes the door silently.
This is easily the worst part of his day.
