Any good partnership of Hunters has to save their partner from the clutches of some weirdo eventually. It is almost as if Ozpin hires criminal groups specifically to give his carefully selected partnerships a trial-by-fire, and I honestly wouldn't be surprised if that were the case. Ozpin seems like that type of asshole.
"She's going to Central to get Weiss," I say absently into my phone, the words feeling like they're from someone else's mouth. "I'll come to meet you at the docks, that way we can teleport to her together if she needs it."
I don't want to do that. I want to follow our kid. I want to fight by her side— my blood is screaming that I need to fight with her— but letting my heart guide me has historically been a shit idea. Instead, I listen to my head.
Ruby's capable. She's capable as hell, I can attest to that myself. She's got the scythe. She's got her own scythe. She's got drive.
I remember when we got hit with the 2-for-1 in terms of kidnapping: you and Qrow, somehow both snatched up while on patrol. I remember that feeling: the anger, the possessiveness, the fear making me giddy and fast. I remember the lightning surge in my brain when I learned exactly where you were being held. I remember storming out of our room, Tai right behind me cracking his knuckles like he wanted to break them. I remember that time like it was yesterday. Hell, I still see it in my dreams.
I don't remember finding that hideout— I don't even remember which gang it was— but I remember finding you. You, Summer fucking Rose, you. You were thrashing on the ground, straining, crying out and snarling like an animal. You were bleeding from your wrists, your ankles, your neck, from the shackles they had around you, biting into your skin. The shackles, the collar on chains. You were stretching them. I thought I'd find you collapsed on your knees, slumped forward like some mournful art piece. You looked instead like a starving wolf on pulvis, foaming at the mouth. You looked like you didn't need me.
Qrow, by comparison, looked downright peaceful. He was sitting cross-legged, watching you with something like a fond smile, like how you're supposed to look at your kids. He had ropes on him. You had chains on you.
When I got down to free you, you bit me. You bit the fuck out of me. You broke my fucking hand between your teeth. I think I cried? I hadn't broken my hand before. You turned, like, at least half my carpal bones to splinters. You fucking psycho.
Then you looked up at me— me seething and crying about my broken fucking hand. You had the gall to say 'Oh. About time. Lemme out.' and I came this fucking close to running you through right there. You told me they had some paralysis Semblance or something— only a second or two of forced stillness— evidently enough to get you tranquilized. Your mouth and teeth were stained red. It wasn't lipstick. You'd told me that you bit that paralyzer-guy's jugular out, which was fucking crazy. You'd even defended that it was in self-defense, as if I would ever give either a walking, running, or flying fuck about you killing some mafia loser.
I remember our third year, when it was me who was captured. Someone put some shit in my ash and nabbed me. You knew you couldn't trust me to go out on my own— you were smart like that— and you'd sneakily installed a tracker on my phone. When I didn't answer your text (summerrose123: where are you) you must've had such a fit. You must've torn yourself apart hiding it from Qrow and Tai. They didn't even know I was gone until we came back.
I remember when you ripped that blindfold off. You had a XXL t-shirt on and some running shorts. No shoes. The shirt was supposed to be white. It was red, then.
You didn't even bring your scythe. Your knuckles were bleeding. You were missing three fingernails. Your eyes were dark and baggy as if you'd just woken up, or as if you'd woken yourself up in the middle of the night just to check on me. You looked at me like you looked at everything else, but I could see you then. I'd spent enough time to see the little squint you do when you look at me, as if scrutinizing to make sure I'm still yours (I am). I could see how your breathing slowed. You looked like you didn't care, but if you really didn't care you wouldn't have wiped all that blood off your face with your shirt. I've watched you. I know when you don't care.
How you must've looked, barreling through that dark, musty house. Did you catch them sleeping, or did they jump to meet you? Did you try not to kill them? You were so bloody I doubt it. I know you don't like it— see it as a besmirchment on your perfect Huntress performance, a sign of desperation— but you were desperate, weren't you? There was a long time between you bashing that door open and you taking off my blindfold. How long did you stand there, feeling the blood in your clothes, on your skin. How long did you watch me, waiting for my shoulders to rise, fall?
I remember when I looked at you. The sight stung my sinuses. I felt the sight of you as a watery film over my eyes. I tried so hard not to cry, but I sobbed into that dirty rag-gag like a little bitch. And you were there. You took the gag out and you pulled me in. Your face didn't change at all. If it did, it was after you had my face in your neck and in your shoulder, and I breathed you in because I was scared.
I'm glad now, and I was glad then that you didn't untie me. I would've pushed you away. I never would've let someone like you hold me; you'd humiliated me enough just by existing, just by being better. Worlds better. Galaxies better. I wanted to hate you so much, you know. Sometimes I still do. I want to hate you, for being better, for being you, for dying, but right now I just want your dead face here to remind me that I had seen you thrashing like a dog. I— me— I had seen you wailing and biting and foaming, I had seen you the one time you weren't in control. I want to see you now. I want to see your cold eyes and your lifeless expression, because then I'd know you're in control, and everything's gonna be okay.
But I don't know if things are gonna be okay, and I have to live with that. I have to watch Ruby go and I have to let her. She's capable. She'll find a way. The smart thing to do, the thing I should do, is wait until the others land. If Ruby gets in a situation, there's no guarantee that I'm gonna be enough. I'm not you. I need backup. I need to be sure. If she's in mortal danger before they get here, I'll go to her, but if not I have to wait. I want to be a better mother, and I know a good mother would go after her kid, but a smart mother would wait.
So I'm waiting. I'm waiting for my backup. I'm waiting for Ruby to be in danger. I kinda hope she will just so I can join her. Besides protectiveness, I want to fight.
Instead, I go back to our hotel rooms and bring her stuff into mine. I've never packed my own kid's things before. I don't know how she likes them organized. I don't know how you like your stuff organized, because I'm sure that's how she organizes her stuff. I guess I only ever did things for myself, I never paid attention, but I'm trying now. I'm sorry it took me so long. Maybe you'd still be alive if I'd tried harder.
No. It doesn't matter. You'd still be dead, wouldn't you? Did you even have to die to that Ur-Dragon? I've seen you fight one before. Sure, this one was bigger, but I've seen you fight one of those and win. You killed Seraphs like they were Imps, you really couldn't have found a way to live? Was that really just 'your time'? You told me once you'd never die until you wanted to. Until it was a good time. Which was it, then? Did you want to?
Because it wasn't a good time. It was a bad time. It was the worst time. Couldn't you have died in a few months? After I pull Ruby out? After I get in the mother-of-all legal fights against our boss? Did you really mean it when you said you were bored of me?
I fold our daughter's clothes the way I do my own: poorly. Only now you don't push me aside and do it yourself. Because you're dead. You didn't even let me see you die, even though your life was mine and mine is yours. You never cared about that, did you?
You left me with our kid, and it's like you died just so you could escape figuring out how to be a good mom. Did you see me buying the books and think I was pregnant? Or did you figure out that it was for Ruby? Or did you just die to die, and I'm making everything up like a fresh widow who hasn't had time to mourn?
I wish I could hate you, but all I want is—
No. I've got my daughter to look after. I'm gonna make sure she gets her girlfriend, gets out, and goes to college. College-college. Not this Hunter wank. And Weiss can come over whenever she wants; she'll make sure Ruby doesn't lose her martial touch— that'll be cute to see. And Yang's going to come over, too, and her partner (if he/she wants to, so long as they're not weird). It'll be nice. I'll make dinner. Hopefully the girls like spice.
Oh god, do I need to get games? Shit. I think I need to get games. The hell do kids play these days? I used to just throw Ruby into the woods and let her find the fun. Would they enjoy that?
No, wait, they're in the 18-21 range, is that too old for games? The fuck was I doing for fun at that age?
Oh, right. Drugs.
Maybe…
Is it bad to get them drugs? Why didn't I bring any of my parenting books?
I finish 'folding' Ruby's clothes really quickly because it's literally just the stuff she wore in here— rent threadbare as it is— but I have no suitcase to put it in because I'm an idiot. I go and buy two, bring them back, and realize there are more things I should've gotten (deodorant, tooth paste, etc.) so I go back and get those, too, only it's almost midnight so I'm wandering about Mantle, lost, gazing down at my phone's map like a holy fucking scripture— it might as well be, considering it's all I can read in this consonant-laden Mant-hell— hoping that the next grocery store is gonna be a 24-hour one.
By the time I'm back at the hotel, my forearms are on the verge of exploding from the myriad grocery bags I've lugged halfway across the fucking city. Ruby hasn't pinged my Semblance once. I don't know if that's good or not.
I stock up the shitty hotel fridge. It doesn't fit everything, so I store the extra in Ruby's room. I sit on my bed and try to sleep. I can't. I sit there. Waiting. Either Ruby's gonna start dying or Yang's gonna call. Or Qrow. I don't know which one I want to come first.
Ways to Central district… airship: too dangerous, unreliable (as recently attested); elevator: small space, sudden vertical ascent might drop all the blood outta my head, plus the altitude…
Shit, the altitude. I'll steal some air cans or something on the way.
But how the hell am I gonna get on the elevator…
For the record: I did not name you after the scythe. I named you after the Saint. I would never name you after a scythe, that's stupid. There's nothing to aspire towards about a scythe. There's nothing to become. But you can aspire to be Saint Belaflor.
You don't know about her, do you? You never did study enough. Devotion is important. You always need a reason. A point. A moral guide. Otherwise, how are you supposed to act?
But you're not listening. I'm speaking to the wall, into the waters of your turbulent spirit. Shouting into the baptism.
That's fine. I'll tell it. Maybe, for once, you'll find yourself listening. Instead of… whatever this is supposed to be, this asinine distraction. You probably think it's an act of chivalry. I thought I raised you smarter.
Cables. The platform's tied down with cables— I'll run up one. Doesn't look too hard. I mean, it looks really hard, but not too hard. Mom's made me do worse.
I hope mom's okay.
No time for hoping— Weiss time.
Gonna kiss the fuck outta that bony bitch.
No, wait, duel first. Fight, then f—
Focus on your stupid mission. I don't want to hear you foaming over your girlfriend.
Oh, shut up. You're the one that keeps thinking weird shit around mom. You know how gross that is?
You can hear that?
Despite my best efforts, yeah. I can.
Good. That means you can listen to the story of our Sanctified Belaflor.
Oh god, please don't—
You know of the 'Lost Continent', right? Draconis?
Focus on the cables. There's one close enough. Don't listen to mum. She's trying to distract you.
I'm trying to enlighten you.
Cables. The cables.
You'll listen, I know you will.
The sect of the Second— our sect, your sect— isn't a fighter's sect. It's not supposed to be. But here we are. We've got her to thank for that.
'I did only that which I knew to be right, and just. It is in this endowment of kindness and gentle spirit that I know I am an Archivist of mine Arch the Second. It is in mine arms that I know I have served god well.' - Sanctified Second Belaflor Sanguiverdarius, attributed 1F-29.
Your grandfather was a Huntsman, you know. He and your grandmother were a classic union— First and Second, respectively— arranged by their churches as an act of divine matchmaking.
Dad was a Huntsman's Huntsman— Mantle-born (have I ever told you that?), the only worthwhile Hunter to ever come out of that continent, honestly— but he idolized St. Belaflor. We had little statues of her. Dad liked to paint landscapes, and he'd always hide a Belaflor in there, tiny, only visible by her scythe or cape.
He always told mom she should be like Belaflor. She should've been a Huntress. She would've understood him better— been a better wife, a better woman. He was the perfect First, why wasn't she like the most perfect Second?
'It is in this place we will carve you a home anew. It is in this place I will stand with you. It is from this place I will protect you. This is my promise. This is my vow, and I will keep it so long as you keep yours, for it is in this way that we will be as one— or, I should say, as Two!' - Sanctified Second Belaflor Sanguiverdarius, her famous humor shown, attributed 1F-51.
He wasn't happy to take me on Hunts, at first. Mom made him after I was suspended for pushing a girl off the swings. I kept relieving my boredom during suspension by killing squirrels with a slingshot and skinning their arms, working their little wrists so I could see what their tendons did. I had a very curious mind, then, and mom knew that energy needed refinement. That, or she wanted to occupy me so she didn't have to clean up little squirrel corpses anymore. Either way, I went with dad.
I grew on him quickly. I was quiet, and I paid attention, and he didn't have to tell me what he was doing. I snuck around just like him. I tracked just like him. Everything had a way to do it, a way to work, an optimal path, and he knew all of them. He was so smart.
Once, he took me hunting (for deer) with a bow and arrow. He told me to be calm. That it's an animal, that I didn't need to feel bad, but I shot it without feeling anything. I think that surprised him. He looked at me with shock. He looked at me with pride. He told me he thought I was weak and strange, but being like this more often would make up for it. It felt good.
I joined him on more outings. I rarely spent time with my mom— sometimes I didn't come home for days, tracking Grimm with my dad instead— but that was good. She always seemed happy when we came home. She always had dinner ready. She'd never done big dinners before then.
He told me I was so much like his hero. Like Belaflor.
'We stand at the birthplace of our greatest mortal foe. We have made it our own. My flock grows its crop along the great rifts of the world— each day I awake to see them, our spite lush and verdant along the riven lands— and I know that it is through this trial that we are blessed by our great and loving Arch. The bond of our flock is so great that we liven this bare and blackened silt to virile loam. It is through my care for them that we are united, and that we are guided, and it is through their care and their trust for me that we hold steadfast against the dark.
It is ours that is a unity greater than any kingdom or empire, our bond of trust more thick-set than the will of any king or autocrat. It is by the strength of this bond that I, and we, have elected to cultivate our greatness, rather than participate in foul bloodshed.' - Sanctified Second Belaflor Sanguiverdarius, attributed 1F(0).
She's my hero. To think that the greatest Huntress in the world would be a Second. I wanted to be like her as soon as dad told me, like I was always meant to be her and I now knew it. I wore a cloak. I grew my Mantle hair to be just like hers, even if the color would never be like her legendary gold.
Dad painted so many more landscapes once mom left. His hidden little Belaflors started having black hair. I was loved, and I had one woman to thank.
I built a scythe like hers, a sleek and beautiful thing. When I lost it, my dad beat me so bad I had to go stay home for the wounds to heal. He made sure I made one I would never forget. He made sure the burden would be so great I'd never forget, so large it'd never leave my sight, and he named it for me.
More than three decades I've had that.
How many weapons have you been through? How much experience do you have with your little scythe, how many Seraphs, how many Ur-Dragons have you fed to it? Why do you keep slapping these things together when you could honor one weapon? Feel its weight, its age— isn't it good? Isn't it right? Don't you care?
I made you into so much, you're as strong as that namesake demands! You can't throw it away for selfish desire! Who cares what you want when you could be so much more by doing as you should! Why did I do anything if not for you to pick it up and carry along!
Well. Damn. Honestly thought it'd be harder, but hey, benefits of claws, I guess. Giant tethers are my bitch.
You're not listening.
Of course you're not. You just care about that stupid girl.