Disclaimer: Don't own either Rwby or Type Moon. So enjoy or don't
Chapter 61: A Husband's Redemption
Jacques awoke to the muted glow of sunlight filtering through the opulent drapery that adorned the windows of his suite in the Schnee Mansion. The room—an epitome of grandiose design with its intricate carvings, polished silver fixtures, and the faint aroma of lavender—exuded an air of cold magnificence. Yet, for the first time, the grandeur of his surroundings felt hollow, a stark reminder of the life he had built on ambition and detachment.
His head throbbed faintly, but it was the torrent of memories flooding his mind that truly overwhelmed him. Each recollection came unbidden, sharp and unforgiving. He saw Weiss's tear-streaked face as he dismissed her aspirations, Winter's rigid composure born of a lifetime of his exacting expectations, and Whitley's tentative attempts to earn his approval, met only with cold indifference. Willow's silence, more damning than any words, echoed in his mind.
Sitting up, Jacques ran a trembling hand through his disheveled hair. His breath came in shallow gasps as he grappled with the enormity of his actions. "What have I done?" he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt. Tears spilled over, unbidden and unstoppable, as he buried his face in his hands. For years, he had justified his cruelty as necessary for the success of the Schnee name, but now those justifications lay in ruins, exposing the monstrous truth beneath.
The lavish room around him—its silk drapes, gilded furniture, and meticulously curated art—seemed to mock him. Each piece was a testament to his relentless pursuit of wealth and power, and each one now felt like a symbol of the emptiness he had cultivated in his family. The man who had once reveled in this opulence now found it suffocating, a gilded cage of his own making.
Desperation propelled Jacques from his bed. He pulled on a robe, the fine silk an incongruous reminder of the life he had prioritized over everything else. Barefoot, he strode into the hallway, the cold marble floors a sharp contrast to his fevered determination. The ancestral portraits lining the walls seemed to watch him, their painted gazes heavy with judgment. The chandeliers' crystalline facets caught the morning light, casting fractured reflections that mirrored his fractured soul. As Jacques moved through the mansion, his disheveled appearance caught the attention of the household staff. A maid paused mid-step, her feather duster clutched tightly. Nearby, a butler straightened from polishing a silver vase, his composed demeanor faltering. "Is that Mr. Schnee?" the maid whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief. The butler nodded slowly, his brow furrowing. "It is. But he looks… different." "Different?" she echoed, her eyes following Jacques' hurried form. "He looks… human." Jacques paid no heed to their murmurs, his focus singular: Willow. Each step through the familiar corridors brought forth more memories—moments of his indifference, his cold dismissal of her pain. He saw himself walking past her without a glance, her downcast eyes speaking volumes about the chasm between them. When he reached her door, he faltered. His hand hovered over the ornate handle, trembling. Doubts clawed at him. What if she refused to see him? What if he was too late? Swallowing hard, he pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges sounding like a herald of his shame. Willow sat by the window, her silhouette framed by the snow-covered grounds beyond. She held a delicate china teacup, its steam curling upward in ethereal patterns. The soft light from the window illuminated her features, highlighting the faint lines etched by years of sorrow and endurance. She appeared serene, yet there was an air of fragility about her, as though she were a porcelain figure that might shatter at the slightest touch. At the sound of the door, she turned, her gaze landing on Jacques. Her eyes widened, her usual guarded expression faltering. The man before her was unrecognizable. His face, streaked with tears, bore an earnestness she had not seen in decades. His robe hung awkwardly on his frame, and his disheveled hair spoke of a restless night. "Jacques?" she said, her voice cautious, tinged with disbelief. "What are you doing here?" Jacques stepped into the room, his movements hesitant, as though he feared he might shatter the fragile moment. "Willow," he began, his voice trembling, "I… I've come to apologize." Her gaze sharpened, and for a moment, her thoughts returned to the exorcism. She had watched as the dark entity—a malevolent presence that had clung to Jacques for years—was cast out. She had seen the light of Shirou's blade pierce through the darkness, and in its wake, something in Jacques had changed. Now, standing before her, that change was undeniable. "You've come to apologize?" she repeated, setting her teacup down with deliberate care. Her voice held a mixture of skepticism and curiosity. "Why now?" Jacques fell to his knees before her, his hands trembling as they reached for hers. His head bowed, and his voice broke with emotion. "Willow, I've been a monster," he confessed, the words tumbling out in a torrent. "I've hurt you, neglected our children, and betrayed the family I swore to protect. I let my ambition consume me, blind to the pain I caused." Willow's breath hitched, her heart pounding as she listened. She had dreamed of this moment—an acknowledgment of the pain he had inflicted—but now that it was here, she found herself unprepared. "You've… changed," she said softly, her voice wavering between skepticism and hope. "But how can I believe this isn't just another ploy?" Jacques lifted his tear-streaked face, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity she hadn't seen in years. "Because the lies are gone," he said simply. "The darkness that clouded my thoughts, the justifications I clung to… they're gone. I see now, Willow. And I see you. Truly see you." Tears welled in Willow's eyes as she knelt before him, her hands trembling as they cupped his face. "Jacques," she whispered, her voice breaking. "If you mean this… if you truly mean this, then perhaps we can start again."
For the first time in years, Jacques felt a glimmer of hope. He clasped her hands tightly, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "I swear to you, Willow," he said, his voice steady despite the tears streaming down his face. "I will spend every day proving myself to you and to our children. I will mend what I have broken."
Willow's fingers tightened around his, and she nodded, her lips trembling as she fought to maintain composure. "Then we'll take it one day at a time," she said.
They moved to the window, sitting side by side as they watched the snow fall outside. The silence between them was not empty but filled with an unspoken understanding that this was only the beginning. For Jacques, it was a fragile, tentative step toward redemption. For Willow, it was a cautious opening of a door she had long since closed. Together, they watched the world beyond the glass, the snow blanketing the ground like a promise of renewal.