He has long lost count of how often he has seen this one sight.
The snowy expanse stretches on for miles around them, Mantle a harsh distant blot of darkness against the white of the tundra. Mouth pressed into a thin line, Clover meets his gaze with eyes full of resolve, just as he always does. The two circle each other slowly, weapons drawn in preparation for combat. He knows how this will go; he's gone through the motions far too many times now. No matter what he does, what choices he makes out here in this frigid prison, how hard he tries to turn the tide of the battle, the outcome will always be the same. Harbinger will erupt from Clover's chest with no warning, a pained gasp coming from him as he is run through. The man will stumble as blood pours from the wound carved into him, staining his clothes and the hand that clings to the hole in vain. Golden eyes will lock onto his, aiming a twisted grin at him that leaves his stomach rolling. Those same words that have been spoken to him each time around will be repeated, a constant knife that pierces and twists inside his heart.
"Like you just killed Clover?"
And he will look down at Harbinger, coated in blood, fury and shame rising in his throat as it always does.
Except this time is different. It does not register in his mind that it is—that something in this never-ending spiral has shifted—until after he slams the full weight of his body against Clover. He has made this same attempt again and again, an act of desperation that ultimately ends in his failure.
This time it works.
He does not see the charismatic man impaled on Harbinger. He does not see Clover collapse into the snow, gasping while a pool of blood spills into the snow around him. He does not see the light fade from those pristine teal eyes.
Pain blossoms from his torso. The tip of Harbinger, now painted a striking red, mockingly sits in the center of his vision. As the seconds tick by, his gaze drifts to meet Clover's widened eyes. It is surreal, seeing him crouching there in the snow. Everything in this moment is wrong, something that should not be happening, yet a feeling of satisfaction stirs in him at the life in those eyes. They have not been extinguished as they had countless times before. Instead they shine, even if the only thing he can see in them is horror.
The blade is pulled back. He feels it slide out and stumbles, hand drifting to the hole to press against it. A futile effort, he muses, streams of blood gushing over his fingers. When his strength fails him he collapses onto his back, weakly gasping for air. Clover shouts. Tyrian laughs. The sounds are muted, his ears full of cotton. Despite the biting cold that surrounds him, his chest burns. His head swims. Frozen needles prick his lungs with every inhale.
Was this how Clover had felt all those times he lay dying?
A shape appears above him. He forces himself to focus, to see the shimmering teal eyes that stare down at him. Clover reaches out to lightly touch his bloodied hand.
"Qrow," Clover says softly. It is the first time he has ever heard the ace's voice crack.
It hurts to breathe.
What he says will not matter. He has come to understand that through these painful cycles. Yet seeing the misery etched on Clover's face pushes him on. He must say something to at least try to ease the man's suffering, even if it doesn't work. Even if it is useless. Even though there is no point in any of it.
So he does his best to take in a breath despite the agony permeating through him and wills out the words.
"Look after them."
Clover closes his eyes for a moment, still trying to fight back against the tears threatening to spill, and nods. "I will. I swear, I will."
The man will not get the chance to. He continues on despite that fact.
"Thank you...for sticking around. For being a friend."
For being so much more is left unsaid. He does not need to say it. Clover already knows.
He feels at peace, much to his surprise. Unlike so many times before, he is not alone in his final moments. Someone dear to him is there to see him off.
Clover chokes out his name again, voice breaking from grief.
The world around him begins to grow dark even as the sun rises.
Qrow only wishes he could comfort the weeping man.
~0~
Just as he has at the end of every cycle, Qrow jerks awake in his bed. Chest heaving, he drops his arm to lamely feel around for the bottle of water that sits on the floor nearby. When his fingers finally brush against it, he curls them around it and picks it up. It will not numb the lingering remnants of pain, nor will it blur the vision of Clover's teary eyes. Nevertheless he downs the water, a deep part of him wishing that he could bury the ache in his soul with a drink that burns his throat. He will continue to refuse himself that false comfort, his niece's pleas for him to stop and better himself just as fresh in his memory as the day this all began. He will not return to drinking, no matter what. He will not let himself become a liability again in spite of the intense desire to drown himself in alcohol.
With a sigh, he lays his arm over his face.
He knows when he turns his head, he will see the clock display the same time it has dozens of times.
So he looks.
It reads 3 AM.