Chapter 17
Baby, It's Cold Outside
XXXXX
Schnee Manor was beautiful, resplendent, and stocked to the brim with every last luxury a man could desire. It was paradise. Sadly, even paradise had its flaws.
Even from his office, Jacques Schnee could hear his wife wailing from the courtyard. Apparently, he should have told her before calling a press conference. Yes, the alcoholic who drank herself into self-pity fueled stupors, on his dime, needed to know what had happened to their failure of an eldest child. She had been livid at first, storming into his office, when he had made it quite clear he was not to be disturbed. He vaguely recalled being accused of driving Winter away or some other nonsense the delusional woman had spun up. He had been focused on more important things, penning letters to organizations to arrange charities that would boost the image of the company.
The Winter Schnee Charity Ball was already in the works, and he would offer up a seed investment of one million Lien to draw in other men and women of means. Stock values for SDC would skyrocket from all the publicity and good faith exposure, all of it bought at a pittance. Weiss singing for the event would be the perfect cap to the event, he would just need to follow it up with a speech. What were the proceeds going towards again? Something about families of fallen soldiers? Didn't that mean he was owed some of it?
So, with these important matters on his mind, he has been forced to be terse with his wife. Normally he would've preferred a more direct approach, but this time he had settled for a choice comment about Whitely. That had done it. All of her impotent rage had vanished as she remembered both her place and who held all the power. She had stood there, spluttering for a minute, before devolving into tears. It was what she always did. He had been free to return to his work while she ran off to cower and hide at the bottom of a bottle.
Morbid curiosity getting the better of him, the same part of the mind that made you pick at scabs, he glanced out the window. She was doubled over in her chair, hands buried in her hands, empty bottles strewn around her. A servant with short, brown hair was next to her, patting her on the back. Her tray of drinks had been carelessly placed on the ground. One of them had spilled. Jacques frowned. Two days ago, he had hired a new batch of servants and guards. The pay was below minimum wage, but many of them could not find work elsewhere, and he expected new employees to start the next day. It was a good incentive for those who needed money and needed it yesterday. Still, that did not mean he had no standards. If the woman was going to waste the wine he bought, she could find another career.
"How romantic Jacques. Concerned for your wife?" The Schnee patriarch's attention turned back to the other man in the room, who was idly swirling a glass of brandy. Arthur Watts. A lanky man with an elegantly groomed mustache, a finely tailored gray coat with a fine fur collar, and a crisp yellow dress shirt with a neatly done black tie just barely visible. It took a lot to startle Jacques, so it spoke volumes that Watts appearing, unannounced and very much not dead, in his study earlier today had left him speechless. One of Atlas's greatest minds, long thought lost, had appeared in his study as if he had simply walked in. But Watts had come bearing gifts and Jacques was never one to turn down an opportunity. And this opportunity in particular had been a gold mine of opportunity.
He didn't know how Watts had survived the Paladin Incident. He also didn't know how Watts knew that Winter had been kidnapped by unknown assailants or why Watts wanted him to know. He also didn't know if his daughter was still alive, something Watts admitted to as well, though that last one didn't bother him as much. None of it mattered though, Winter was gone and no one knew where he was, and so many possibilities were open to him now.
"In a way," Jacques said, turning back and sitting down across from Watts. It was true, he was quite concerned the woman would do something stupid to ruin everything for him. Vigilance would be needed in the coming days. "Now, what is it you want in return? I have my window of growth and national attention. It would take me hundreds of millions to grow something like this on my own. Why would you give it to me for free? How much do you want?" His gaze locked into Watts, examining him for the slightest twitch that would betray hidden intentions
"It's true that I'm no altruist, but money?" Watts snorted as he slouched into his chair, sipping the brandy. "That's your department. I have my own desires and goals, and I intend to keep them close to the chest. I'll share two things I want from you, but the rest is my business. First, I want Ironwood's name dragged through the mud. It seems I've already gotten my wish. You've done me the kindness of making him look like the incompetent buffoon that he is on the national level. Make it global if you can, but that'll just be extra. The second thing? I'm still dead. You never saw me. Keep the anonymous whistleblower angle."
Jacques relaxed. A satisfied smirk played across his face. Watts leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. At that moment, a cold sweat that Jacques had never felt in his life trickled down his back. Watts was a scientist who preferred fancy clothes and looked as if a stiff breeze would blow him over, what reason did he have to be scared?
"And Jacques? This is non-negotiable." Watts's voice didn't change in tone, but there was an underlying tone of hardness to it. Jacques couldn't place it, couldn't quite pin it down, but he could tell it was all too real. "I am dead. I've been dead for a long time. I'm certain you have some sort of oh so clever scheme cooked up to capitalize on this. Don't. You'll be courting disaster in ways you can barely imagine." Reaching out, he flexed his free hand. Bright blue rings shone brightly on each of his fingers, electronic LEDs glowing beneath the surface. Jacques's computer, resting on the ornate wooden desk behind him, chimed loudly. The unspoken implication echoed with a deafening force. "This little bit of dirt on Ironwood? Child's play compared to what me and mine can do now. You don't want to know what I can do when I put my back into it. So. Remember. I'm dead."
With that, he stood up, stretching. As he did, his coat shifted. Jacques briefly saw an overdesigned, ornate revolver, plated with shining gold and centered around a pair of bulging, oversized cylinders. Jacques was almost certain such a thing shouldn't work, but a creeping feeling told him Watts hadn't let him see it by accident. "You're a smart man Jacques. Not as smart as me of course, but I know you'll make the right decision. Thank you for the brandy. I'll show myself out." Still carrying the half-full glass, he left Jacques's office, a satisfied smile on his face.
Jacques slumped in his chair. He would have no evidence of Watts being in the manor. Whatever tricks the man had, he had managed to avoid appearing on any of his cameras on the way in, and would doubtless do the same on the way out. Irrational fear prickled at the back of his mind. What did Watts mean by him and his? He shook his head. It didn't matter. Whatever potential gains there were in exploiting Watts, they were minimal and not worth the risk. Best to focus on the true prize in front of him. Finishing off his drink, he stood up and left his study.
As he left, he idly glanced at two janitors in dark blue jumpsuits that were mopping the floor not far from his office. One wore a pair of worn, beaten sunglasses on the neck of his jumpsuit, had a bare head dotted by only the faintest of peach fuzz, and his clean-shaven face was dominated by hard, cold eyes. He didn't look like the rest of Jacques's employees, he was much more muscular than most of them, with his jumpsuit's sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms. Thinking about it, the man had the posture of a professional. His mop was moving back and forth with absolute precision, not leaving a speck of floor untouched. Jacques smiled. At least he had some talent in this mansion. This one would last at least a year.
He walked past them. The second cleaner, the one the Schnee patriarch had not paid much heed to, shifted and began to speak to the shaved one. "Mala tempora currunt. We'll never find him at this rate. And you know what that means for us." The bald janitor grunted, not moving from his mopping.
"We'll take whatever punishment we have to," he said. "Failure has consequences. Just keep your eyes open. Besides. We're closer than we ever have been. Coming here was the ultimate stroke of luck. We're getting ten times what we thought we would. This isn't just a random lead anymore."
The other one nodded. "We're as good as dead if we let him slip through our fingers again. We can't have a repeat of Vale."
Jacques found himself unable to care. If anything had drawn his attention, it's that these two sounded like they were in a gang, looking for someone to kill. As long as they got themselves shot on their own time, it wasn't his problem. It would've been a security concern if there was a chance of weapons being smuggled in, but ever since the White Fang had started attacking SDC owned facilities, he had taken precautions. Anyone coming in through the servant's entrance, and servants coming through the main door were instantly escorted off the premises, were subjected to strict screenings by well paid, well-trained guards. It didn't matter though. All he cared was that they cleaned his floors and kept their dirty laundry off his property. He strode forward.
He had a financial empire to maintain and expand.
XXXXX
Pyrrha felt the words reverberate in her very body, rattling her bones. Everyone else felt it too, she could see them all visibly wince. She, her team, and a dozen Atlas infantry were in a Bullhead that was nearing their LZ at the back of the Legion/White Fang formation. They were sixty seconds out when that alien language had hit, and everyone was staring at each other in confusion. Pyrrha could see the same question in the eyes of her team and the soldiers, "What just happened?" For whatever reason though, it was not spoken out loud. Perhaps they were all afraid of hearing the answer.
"I've delivered my payload!" the pilot called from the cockpit. Her voice was level and professional, but a hint of stress weighed on it. Pyrrha didn't blame her. Something felt fundamentally wrong. There was a weight in the air that had been left in the aftermath of the wave caused by the voice. "I'm gonna drop you off then maintain coverage. Grunts, you know the drill on marking, don't let me run out of targets."
The soldiers stiffened and barked confirmations. Their sergeant ordered a final weapons check, which they instantly busied themselves with. Magazines, safeties, and overall qualities were all checked. Jaune, who was right next to Pyrrha, let out a nervous yelp. "Uh, same goes for us team! Ready up!" Pyrrha blinked in confusion but gave Miló and Akoúo̱ a quick inspection. Everything was in tip-top shape. Judging by their reactions, Nora's and Ren's weapons were in equally fine condition. And her puzzlement at Jaune was reflected in them, as both of them were giving him odd stares.
He was panicking. It wasn't an overt, all-consuming panic, but it could grow. Smiling as best she could, she put her hand into his and squeezed. Jumping, he looked at her, startled. "We're gonna be ok," she said, wanting to believe it. "We've taken them before. We'll do it again." Again, she squeezed his hand. Slowly, his body relaxed. Swallowing, he started to speak.
Jaune's words were drowned out.
Heat, force, and sound enveloped Pyrrha in an all-encompassing bubble that pressed down on her. Her mind screeched, trying to process all the stimuli and understand where they had come from. It took three crucial seconds to recover from the shock, and as she did a horrible truth dawned on her. She was no longer inside the Bullhead. The open sky and frosted forest were all that she could see as she fell. Craning her neck up, she saw the Bullhead, fire streaming from it like a ribbon, groaning as it struggled to stay airborne.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she fell, the ground coming up to meet her fast. Even if the impact wouldn't kill her, the depletion for her Aura would be a death sentence in the middle of a combat zone. Mercifully, years of training and instincts kicked in, and her spear and shield were in hand. With a flick, Miló assumed its rifle form, Pyrrha following up on that by firing a pair of shots with it. It wasn't enough to stop her rapid descent, but it took the edge off. More importantly, it slowed her just enough to give her a sharper look at the snow encrusted forest below her.
Tilting her body to the side, she adjusted her fall just enough so that she would be directly perpendicular to a particularly tall tree. Transforming Miló back into its spear form, she drove it into the trunk of the towering plant. Cracking wood and falling snow filled her ears as she continued downward, but her speed was draining rapidly. Gritting her teeth, she took her spear in both hands and drove her heeled boots hard into her only anchor from a free fall. They pierced the tree, jolting her body as her legs were now joining Miló in preventing her fall, but that had did it. Nearly at once, she came to a full stop.
Exhaling, she glanced upward. She could still see the Bullhead, veering out of sight, starting to list downward. Pyrrha was no aviation expert, but she couldn't help but think that the VTOL didn't appear to be in an uncontrollable crash. If anything it looked surprisingly intact, but still too badly damaged to stay in the air. As she watched, the craft slid downward, below the treeline and out of sight. There was the sound of trees groaning and snapping, but no deafening explosion. Pulling her boots and then her spear out of the tree that had saved her, she let herself fall the remaining twenty feet to the ground where she landed gracefully. They had to have landed nearby, there was no time to waste.
"Well. Look at that. Meat." Pyrrha's blood ran cold. So much of her attention had been on landing and the Bullhead that she had completely neglected her surroundings. Slowly, she looked around herself. Dozens of figures in White Fang armor were on all sides of her, readying weapons. Yet, tiny signs here and there pointed to something being not quite right. All of them carried weapons Pyrrha didn't recognize. They weren't the boxy SMGs and rifles the White Fang used. All of their weapons were older looking, cruder. Repeating rifles, revolvers, and a few belt-fed weapons carried by some of the more muscle-bound members. One was holding a large, gray, smoking rocket launcher that had doubtless been what had hit the Bullhead. That, combined with the scarlet strips, white and red feathers, and painted marks on the armor here and there told a horrifying take. All of them were Legion. And judging by the myriad of colors that were cloaking them as they slowly advanced, all of them had active Aura.
Her breath was heavy as she took them all in, dread creeping into her. For days now she had tried to put off the horrible inevitability of her situation out of her head. Now, she couldn't put it off until tomorrow, couldn't distract herself by thinking of Jaune. Its evil nature was looking her right in the face, mocking her, taunting her. She had wanted to be a hero, to save lives and protect those who couldn't protect themselves. And this is what she had been forced to do to get there. Why? Why did things have to be this way?
"If you throw down your weapons and surrender, I promise you won't be harmed!" she shouted, doing her best to sound strong and imposing. Privately, she doubted it would work. From what they knew about legionaries, they didn't surrender. But even if they did, a single Huntress who was struggling to keep her voice from cracking wouldn't do the trick. Sure enough, her proposal was met with scattered laughter.
"Oh, you're cute, meat," one of the nearer ones called out. "You think you can hurt us? Now? We'll make you a counteroffer. Stop waving around those toys and we won't be too rough with you."
Pyrrha's stomach tightened. They had no idea what they were doing. Most of them had only known Remnant had existed for months, and the rest even less. Had it all come to this? Was there no other way out? As she thought, words echoed in her mind. James's words. "Sometimes you wonder if you made the right call. All you can do is do what you think is best. Even if it hurts."
This would hurt. It had been hurting ever since her entire world had been turned upside down. But no matter how hard she tried, she had been unable to find another way out. Her only option left was forward. Ruefully, she reflected that this was a decision that had already been made, she had simply wanted to forget. And now she couldn't.
Her wrist flicked, her shield became a blur of bronze and slammed into the face of the legionary that had taunted her. A yelp escaped his mouth as he crumpled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. Deftly, she caught her shield, holding it defensively. His Aura hadn't been up, a rookie mistake. None of them had mastered the use of their Aura. She could use this.
"Kill the bitch! We can't keep Tiberius waiting!" a legionary wearing a feathered helmet shouted. "Die to a woman and I'll feed your corpse to the fucking dogs!" Some of them charged, drawing short swords and crude shields as they did. Most readied their firearms. Shifting her fingers, Pyrrha flicked them towards her. Black fuzz covered the weapons of the legionaries in front of her as they jerked forward. Half of them found themselves disarmed, their weapons falling to the ground, and leaving them defenseless. Even those who had kept their grips steady were knocked off balance, stumbling and reeling to right themselves as their weapons jerked forward in their hands.
Pyrrha didn't hesitate, the time for that had passed. She charged, spear and shield in hand, crashing right into their front lines. Stabbing out, she caught a legionary in the throat as he fumbled to retrieve his revolver, her superhuman strength piercing the man's throat with ease. Crimson blood poured out, splattering the ground and staining the gold edges of her spear. Nausea surged in her stomach. She had never taken another human being's life before, it had always been training or Grimm. But she couldn't stop now. If she stopped they would kill her, kill her friends, kill everyone she ever loved. So she didn't falter, she ripped her spear out, the man tumbling to the ground as she moved on, even as she wanted to be sick.
"Aura up! Keep it up! Or is every last one of you a cinaedus!?" the man with the feathers roared. He had managed to keep a grip on his weapon and was aiming at her. A pump-action shotgun, one he handled and aimed well. He had to be a veteran, and an officer too. And a shotgun would be tricky to deal with, even with her shield and Semblance. It was all too easy for a pellet or two to sneak around either. So she went on the offensive, flicking her short spear into its level action mode, firing a trio of shots center mass on the leader.
His breath caught and he staggered back, but no blood burst from his chest. Maybe he hadn't had his Aura activated with the rest of the Legion forces, or maybe he had simply listened to orders on how to fight with it better. Either way, he hadn't made the same mistake as the warrior that was now dead on the ground. Visibly fighting back from doubling over, the officer leveled his shotgun and fired. Pyrrha, however, had not been idle in the precious seconds that he had been knocked off-balance. Throwing herself into a slide, she fired her rifle behind her and sped along hugging the ground, well below the blast from the shotgun.
Pumping his weapon, the legionary swore as he attempted to adjust his aim. But Pyrrha, her speed increased by her weapons kickback, was already at his feet. Adjusting her rifle so it was aiming at the ground, Pyrrha fired and brought herself rocketing back up to a standing position. And as she did, she brought the rim of her shield crashing into the officer's solar plexus. Pyrrha heard a dry wheeze and a faint crack as, even through Aura, the legionary doubled over. Breath had abandoned him, only shallow, fruitless gasps were escaping his mouth. They sounded wet. It was all horrifying to Pyrrha. How was the human body capable of such noises? She pushed it out of her mind. This man would do all sorts of unspeakable things to her if given the chance.
With him doubled over, he was easy prey for another blow from her shield. This one she landed on his stomach from below, and as she did, she heaved. She had no intention of knocking him onto his back, she had another destination in mind. Her muscles straining as she forced them into action, Pyrrha sent the man flying, a clean twenty feet into the air. Flipping it as soon as he cleared the ground, she aimed her rifle up and emptied the magazine into the man's torso. Halfway through, there was a sound of shattering glass and a bright yellow aura appeared, then faded. The last of the bullets found armor and flesh instead of a barrier, tearing through and earning Pyrrha spurts of blood in return.
Through the sounds of her gunfire and the screams of legionaries attempting to recover after Pyrrha had thrown them off, it was hard to hear much else. But she was certain that the officer above her let out a solemn, pitiful cry. It was impossible to say for sure, with his voice barely functional, but Pyrrha struggled to think what else it could be. Pity took hold of Pyrrha, almost enough to make her want to relent on her follow up approach to her magazine dump. It made little difference in the end.. Through her conflicting feelings, her body was acting. Miló, converted back to its spear form, was in her hand.
Her grip was tight, and the legionary was only fifteen feet above her at this point. She had made simpler shots than this when she was twelve. Nothing about this was easy, but there had always been a difference between easy and simple. She was sorely tempted to close her eyes and shield herself from what was about to transpire. But this wasn't the first life she would take tonight, and a dreadful, horrible feeling creeping down her spin told her it wouldn't be the last either. She forced herself to watch as Miló arced upward and impaled the legionary in the gut. He went very silent, only letting out a final, involuntary gasp as his body went limp.
Landing and sprawling onto the ground like a doll, the man came to a stop. Broken was the only fitting word for what she saw. She had broken this man, snuffed out every last thought, feeling, and memory that had made him unique. There would never be another man like him. Part of her argued that this was a positive; he had been a cruel, chauvinistic, invader. He and others liked him had already killed dozens of innocent people, would kill more, and entertained dark and horrific thoughts of abusing and raping women. Yet she could not bring herself to take any pleasure in or feel less disgust at his death.
She looked around. Half of the legionaries were still recovering their weapons, only just now righting themselves. The rest of them were staring at her in disbelief, no doubt they had never seen a trained Aura user openly hostile to them before. One of them, dumbfounded, said "She killed Varus." A small spark of hope rose up in her. Would killing their leader demoralize their will to fight?
"Please! Throw down your weapons!" she called out. "It doesn't have to-" a crack echoed out from behind her and something slammed into the back of her head. Dull pain spreading out from the impact point, Pyrrha was all too certain she had just been shot. If she had not kept her Aura up, her brains would've been splattered all over the grass.
The shot kicked off a domino effect. The legionaries with guns opened fire, those without charged forward. Their hesitation was gone, replaced by cries of "Retribution!" Pyrrha guarded herself with her shield, but she was being fired on from so many angles that what felt like a dozen shots found their mark. Hot tears stung at her eyes. Did they hate her this much? Or was it pride in their cause that drove them forward? There was always a chance they were caught in their primal fight or flight instincts? She didn't know, she wasn't sure she could know.
A tear leaked from her eye, doubtless the first of many. She had already made her choice, as they had made theirs. Now they would both have to live with the consequences.
XXXXX
Today was the worst day of Willow's life in this miserable, hellhole of a prison that she called home. On a good day, when properly numbed up, she could get through the day with something that resembled tolerance. But she had a limited pain tolerance, one that could easily be bent and broken if her husband was feeling particularly vindictive, or life simply went wrong. And it had gone very wrong today.
Winter was gone, maybe even dead. Her eldest, her baby girl, and no one knew where she was. Another wave of sobs overtook her, choking her, crushing her, constructing her until crying was all that she could do. "Ma'am? Ma'am, I promise you it'll be ok. People are looking for her right now, I'm sure of it!" Blinking through her tears, she tried to remember where she was. The paintings on the walls looked vaguely familiar. Oh right, they were the ones near her room.
The one blessing in her marriage was that, after three children, Jacques had lost all interest in her sexually. In truth, he might have only ever seen sex as a tool, financial and personal. So out of all of his demands of her, sharing a bedroom was not one of them. So at least she had eight hours to herself at night, a safe haven. Though even then, Jacques reserved the right to intrude when he pleased. More than once he had barged in when he was in the thick of a particularly bad rage and she had been left with her back to a wall. Even her only refugee was tainted by him.
"This way ma'am?" Blinking slowly, still trying to remember, she glanced to her left. One of the servers was half carrying, half dragging her down the hallway. That didn't make sense. She only needed help back to her room when she had gotten particularly drunk, and that couldn't be the case. Tears were streaming down her face and an awful, consuming guilt was still tearing and clawing at her insides. She would be too numb to hurt if she couldn't walk. But all she could think of was Winter, the child she had failed. "Ma'am?"
Blinking through the tears, she looked around. The icy white marble halls, coated with coldly blue carpets, all looked the same if you didn't know the identifying details to pick out. Jacques had a mockery of a suit of armor by his study, about as respectful as spitting on her father's grave. The kitchens had an array of portraits of the Schnee family near them, none of them with Winter's image. But the hallway near her room had a picture of Weiss singing and Whitely playing the piano. At one point, there had been one of Winter playing the violin there, but her husband had been so furious when Winter had walked out on them that she hadn't felt safe leaving it up.
Weiss. Where was she right now? Everything about her children was bittersweet at best nowadays. She had been proud of Weiss when she had left, even if it had hurt to see another daughter leave. Weiss's last look back at her had not been the glare of hatred and disgust that she had seen in Winter's eyes, but there had been a sadness that had hurt nearly just as much. But now Weiss was out there, exposed to the same horrors that had stolen away Winter, and Jacques wanted to bring her home. It all left Willow torn between two evils. Weiss either stayed out there and risked sharing Winter's fate, or she came home and beyond all certainty joined Whitely's.
Whitely. She had failed to protect all of her children, but with Whitely, in ways, she had failed the most. Jacques's poison was inside him now. Winter had run without looking back and Weiss was yearning to break free, but she had truly lost her son to that bastard. He smiled at every comment Jacques said, nodded in agreement without question, and worshipped the ground he walked on. He would never want to leave his father's side the way his sisters had, but his obedience didn't bring him safety. It simply made him the least preferred target, something Jacques had recently made clear he would change if pushed. Another wave of sorrow and self-loathing built up inside her.
Whitely was a willing prisoner here, trapped with two awful parents.
"Ma'am, please, I can't do this alone." Willow weakly nodded her head, pointing with a limp finger at her door. Sighing in relief, the servant awkwardly opened the door with full hands, dragging her in. With little grace, she found herself deposited on her bed, where she flopped to her side. Part of her would've been content to just lie there, letting the tears continue until the all too short void of unconsciousness finally came for her. But she felt the bed sink to her side. She looked up and was surprised to see the servant sitting there, looking concerned. "You can go now," Willow croaked out.
"I...don't think that would be a good idea," the younger woman said, looking down at her with concern. "I'm so sorry about your daughter ma'am. Do they have any idea where she might be? Her and the man she was traveling with?" Even though her brain was addled with far too much alcohol, Willow was certain she had heard a slight increase in pitch when the woman had asked about her daughter's companion. There were enough wits left about her for her to recognize that as odd. But try as she may, she found herself unable to take it any further.
"Nothing. Maybe. I don't know," Willow said, her voice pathetically frail. "No one told me anything." Clumsily, she pulled herself into a sitting position, her legs hanging off the side of her king-sized bed. It was an indulgent thing, covered in delightfully smooth silk sheets, a dozen puffy pillows dotting the far end, and a mattress that even now was trying to draw Willow in with succulent comfort. All of these amounted to little more than temporary distractions, however, and at the moment they were unable to provide even that. "I only learned when Jacques announced it. He didn't feel the need to tell me anything in person. Assuming he even knows, because he might not have cared to ask."
For the briefest of moments, anger spiked in her. Years of sweet empty promises and slowly escalating deceits flashed before her eyes. She hated the man in ways she hadn't thought possible. But, just as fast as it had come, the fury slipped away. "He still has Whitely," she said, more to herself than the other woman. "And he never fully let go of Weiss. Winter was the only one who truly got away from him." Her jaw tightened, a fresh wave of tears began to form in her eyes. Every second she thought about it was another angle that she was being pulled apart from. "Why? What did they do to deserve this?"
Losing herself to her emotions, she gripped her head with her hands, seizing handfuls of her snowy white hair. A fresh wave of tears poured down her face as soul-crushing guilt bore down on her. She had to do something, anything. Anything that would mean she wouldn't have to be alone with these terrible, soul-crushing thoughts. Drink might've done the job if it hadn't already failed her. That left her considering more drastic options.
Before she could get too far, however, something happened to derail her train of thought. Two arms wrapped themselves around her and she was pulled close to someone else. Her server was holding her tight, Willow's face perched on the younger woman's shoulder. The Schnee matriarch found herself at a loss for words. She had no idea who this woman's name was, yet she was hugging her like a dear friend or family. Her muscles were pulled tight, surprisingly powerful, and rough, calloused hands gently stroked Willow's back.
Warmth sparked inside Willow. It was a brief, tiny thing, one that flickered and died. Truth be told, part of her wondered if she had mistaken surprise for warmth. All she knew for certain was that it had been years since someone had hugged her and meant it. But that was nothing compared to what followed.
"I'll break his face if you want." Willow's mouth opened but she found herself unable to form words. Her mind had been cleared of everything except for shock and confusion. This woman had to know how dangerous talking like this was, Jacques could fire her with a snap of his fingers if he wanted. Everyone who worked at the manor had to know the kind of power he had over them. Did this woman just not understand?
"I'm not joking." The woman pulled back, looking at Willow with a steely hardness in her eyes. Willow recognized it all too well. It was hatred, hot burning hatred. "I can't stand the look on his smug face or the crocodile tears. Say the word and I'll make something crack." Something whirred back to life in Willow's mind, fighting through the disbelief and alcohol.
"Don't!" she screamed, causing the woman to jump. Panic was running through her now, raw and intense. "It won't work, it never works, he always ducks everything thrown at him!" She had tried, did no one realize she had spent years trying to get herself and her children away from him? Divorce papers had been buried, bruises explained away, or placed where no one would see them, all assets she could've possibly used had been placed in his name. Nothing worked, and every time she tried Jacques took out his frustrations on her and her children. There was no winning against him. "And my son...when he's angry my son is-" she couldn't finish the sentence, sobs had consumed her again.
"Oh, shit," the servant swore, pulling Willow into a hug again. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know." This time, Willow returned the hug, burying her face into the front of the server's jacket. It started all over again, her body convulsed with fresh sobs. Once again, she was drowning in the pressure of it all, trapped deep below the surface with no escape. Awkwardly, the woman started patting her on her back.
Minutes slowly ticked by as the two of them stayed there, Willow seized by her emotions, the woman softly holding her. Eventually, her body reached its biological limits. Deep sobs turned to shallow, dry coughs. All throughout it, the woman never let go of her. Willow didn't understand. None of the other servants were like this, they were all too scared of her husband. What was happening here? Why was she showing a sad wreck such care?
"Do you want me to stay with you?" The server asked softly. "I have a friend who can cover for me. And I don't think you should be alone right now." The unspoken words, "because you might do something to hurt yourself," were not lost on Willow. It was a stinging insinuation, only made worse by it being a legitimate concern. But what was she supposed to say? Yes? No?
"Why?" She croaked out the words. "Why do you care?"
The woman gently pushed her back so that they were face to face. There was a soft smile on her face. "Because you need help. Do I need anything more than that?" She paused, then her eyes lit up. "Do you know how your husband learned about your daughter's disappearance? Maybe you saw who told him? I know people who could try and look into it, maybe find her. Is there anything you have that they can work on? Anything at all?"
"I-what?" Willow said. Her mind was reeling. Who was this woman? Was she more than a down on her luck soul, forced to scrape a living at Schnee manor? "I-I didn't see anyone. This all just came out of nowhere."
The server frowned. "Ok. Plan B then. Where's his office? And do you have a key? It'd draw attention if I forced it." Willow simply stared in disbelief. This woman had to be sheltered and naive to think any of this was possible, let alone a good idea.
"You can't be serious," Willow whispered. "You don't know what he'll do to you." A raw panic was slowing working its way up from a small burn to a raging inferno inside her. But for once it wasn't for her or her children, but this stranger. "He'll ruin you."
The woman patted Willow on the shoulder, flashing a cocky grin. "Better men than him have tried and failed. Let me take the risk. I have an escape route if things get bad and it's a chance to help Winter. Do you have a key?"
Willow saw kindness in the woman's eyes, but also resolve. Between that and the calloused hands, she couldn't have led an easy life. Why? Why? "He leaves it unlocked," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Now it was the servant's turn to look confused. "Wait, really? I thought he was supposed to be smart. So he's one of those 'geniuses' that's too good for common sense?" Willow gave a weak shrug. Jacques let his guard down in odd ways in the sanctity of the manor. "Oh well, his loss. I don't operate under the laws of ego." Swinging her legs off the bed, the woman stood up. Then she paused, staring at the far wall.
On it was a framed, silver-lined case, holding a shining white sword with a hilt wrapped in black leather and a guard made out of rotating Dust chambers. It was an estoc, one designed with use by a Huntress in mind. The case was elegant, its contents beautiful, and it was covered in a thick layer of dust. Above it, however, was the true focus of the servant's attention.
A photograph, blown up and fitted in a frame, hung above it. Willow's own face looked back down at her, a younger her that was smiling with unrestrained glee. The estoc was slung over her back, one hand was dabbing at happy tears that were running down her face, and the other held up a framed document. Her Huntress license shone in the picture, back when they had been massive, artfully written files. Digital licenses had been a decade away from that day.
Willow idly remembered that day. Her mother had taken that picture while her father had beamed with pride. They had ended up in a massive hug as she cried her eyes out. After so long, she had graduated, and with honors. She had been ready to go out and protect civilization. Then five years later, her parents had gotten sick. The company had been struggling, and she had been scrambling to keep it afloat. Jacques entered her life not long after. Back then he had seemed sweet, charming, worthy of love. He had helped her bear the burden that had been slowly crushing her. How naive she had been.
"That's you?" the servant asked.
"Was." That had been a pathetic, self-pitying statement to make. It was the sort of thing you said when you wanted everyone to look at you and feel sorry for you, even though you didn't deserve it. So when the woman's eyes flicked onto her, wide with shock and sympathy, Willow turned her head away in shame. Winter was missing, this woman wanted to find her, and she was crying over how bad she felt about herself.
Winter had been right. She was a waste.
"I think maybe I should stay here a little longer." The server walked back towards her, sitting down and trying to wrap Willow in a hug. Willow tried to push her away.
"I don't-Winter," she blubbered, not even sure what she was trying to say anymore. She was an event horizon of misery that sucked everyone around her into it, why was this woman giving her the time of day? But she did not relent, and her arms snaked their way tightly around her. Before she could object, Willow was pulled into a tight hug. "Why?" she rasped. "Winter needs your help."
"So do you," the woman whispered back. "I'll check his office as soon as I'm done here. But I can spare five minutes for you.." Something inside of Willow broke. The abuse, cruel words, and loveless marriage, she despised them all, but she had built up somewhat of a tolerance for them. Not enough to endure them, but enough so that she could numb herself to them just a little bit. But this? Kindness she had done nothing to earn? It twisted her, warped her, and bent her until something snapped.
Her crying started all over again, regaining any steam she had lost from tiring herself out. The only thing that she saw, aside from a brief flash of the other woman's lovely hazel eyes, was the black of the jacket she was now crying into.
XXXXX
Author's Note: I had a genuinely smart idea to start writing shorter chapters. My style had gotten a little bloated and while there's merits to smart chapters, if I can make a chapter shorter and still get everything I wanted out of it, well, I should do just that. That way it's less of a risk of burning out on me and you guys can get them more quickly. In theory anyway, I still need to sit my ass down and write, which I've been struggling with as of late. Part of it is me working a lot of overtime lately (student loans don't pay themselves off), experiencing a lot of stress (2020 has been ONE HELL OF A FUCKING YEAR and it's still got one third left!) and, on a more positive note, I've reignited my passion for TTRPGs and I'm currently in three active games which eats up a lot of time. All of that just leaves me wanting to relax when I'm in front of a PC. Yeah there's a reason I closed my , I don't feel like my output is anywhere near high enough to be taking money for it anymore. Still, I hope to get that output back up and push myself harder that I've been doing in the past.
Also there's one thing that I always found frustrating about RWBY when converting into fanfiction. Have Team RWBY and JNPR killed people? Actual flesh and blood people? It's hard to say. When they fight the White Fang, it kind of plays it fast and loose where you don't really know if the Fang die or if they just get badly beat up. The death of innocence wham moment is saved for Volume 3, with the Fall of Beacon, and I feel it doesn't work that well if RWBY slaughtered half a train full of terrorists. So I'm going with that, unsatisfying as it may be, because I find balancing the student Huntsmen out with the cruelty and barbarism of the Legion to be compelling. Pyrrha keeping her cool and just killing them with no problem would just feel wrong.
I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
I would like to thank my legacy Patrons, SuperFeatherYoshi, xXNanamiXx, RaptorusMaximus, Davis Swinney, Mackenzie Buckle, Ryan Van Schaack, ChaosSpartan575, and LordofNaught for their amazing support.