Disclaimer: Don't own either Rwby or Type Moon. So enjoy or don't
Chapter 62: A Son's Discovery and Father's Resolve
The muffled resonance of anguished sobbing pierced the tranquility of Whitley Schnee's slumber, stirring him from the cocoon of warmth provided by his bed. Dawn's faint silver glow filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, casting elongated shadows across the room's opulent furnishings. Yet the pervasive silence, typically so comforting, was disrupted by the plaintive cries reverberating through the mansion's hallowed halls.
Startled, Whitley sat upright, the dissonance of the sound sending a chill down his spine. He rubbed his temples, trying to reconcile the interruption with his customary expectations of order and quietude. His irritation was palpable, but beneath it lingered an uncharacteristic thread of apprehension.
"What in Remnant could this be?" he muttered, his voice tinged with unease as his gaze swept the dimly lit room. These sobs, so profoundly raw and desperate, seemed incongruous with the meticulously controlled world he inhabited. As he strained his ears, he discerned that the source of the commotion emanated from the direction of his mother's wing.
Donning a robe, he rose and ventured into the shadowed corridor. The mansion was preternaturally still, save for the heart-wrenching sobs that grew increasingly distinct, each note laden with anguish.
Navigating the labyrinthine corridors of the Schnee estate, Whitley's footfalls were muffled by the plush carpeting that lined the halls. The dim glow of wall sconces cast flickering shadows, accentuating the mansion's imposing grandeur. As he passed, members of the household staff crossed his path, their expressions betraying a range of emotions from trepidation to sympathy. Their typically deferential demeanor was tempered by an unusual air of gravity.
A maid carrying a silver tray hesitated mid-step as she caught sight of him. Her anxious gaze lingered briefly before she averted her eyes and continued briskly on her way. An aging butler, whose stoic presence had long been a fixture of the household, paused momentarily. His eyes, filled with an uncommon blend of knowing and pity, seemed to speak volumes. These unspoken exchanges only heightened Whitley's sense of foreboding.
As he approached his mother's quarters, the sobs became unmistakably clear, their resonance amplified by the cavernous corridors. Interwoven with them was another voice—a voice that stopped Whitley in his tracks. It was his father's voice, but not as he had ever known it. Fractured and laden with remorse, it carried words he had never thought to hear.
"I'm sorry… for everything… I failed you, all of you…"
The timbre of Jacques Schnee's voice, imbued with an uncharacteristic vulnerability, sent a shiver through Whitley. He froze, his mind grappling with the incongruity of what he was hearing.
For a moment, Whitley's hand hovered over the ornate doorknob, hesitation rooting him in place. Finally, summoning his resolve, he pushed the door ajar. Its heavy hinges groaned softly, yielding to reveal a scene that defied comprehension.
Within the room, Jacques Schnee knelt on the polished floor, a man unmoored from the imperious figure Whitley had always known. His once-pristine robe was rumpled, his usually impeccable composure replaced by tear-streaked cheeks and trembling hands. He clutched Willow's hands with a desperation that bordered on reverence, his entire demeanor a stark departure from the calculated authority he once wielded.
Willow sat by the frost-covered window, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of dawn filtering through the glass. The morning light lent an ethereal quality to her pale features, which bore an expression of quiet sadness tempered by a fragile warmth. Her customary detachment had given way to a tentative openness, as if the ice encasing her heart had begun to thaw.
Whitley stood frozen, the scene before him fracturing the carefully constructed image he held of his parents. In this vulnerable tableau, the fortress of Schnee authority lay in ruins, revealing an unfamiliar humanity.
Jacques, sensing another presence, turned toward the doorway. His reddened eyes met Whitley's, and a new wave of guilt seemed to wash over him. Rising to his feet with hesitant movements, Jacques addressed his son, his voice trembling with unspoken regret.
"Whitley," he began, his tone unsteady but earnest. "I… I've wronged you in ways I can scarcely comprehend. As a father, I've been blind to your needs, to the harm I've inflicted. But I am determined to change that… if you'll let me."
Whitley's mind raced, the man before him an enigma. This broken figure bore little resemblance to the commanding patriarch he had known. Taking a cautious step forward, he demanded clarity.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice both incredulous and guarded. "Why now? What's changed?"
Jacques's composure faltered further, and he lowered his gaze. "I've spent years blinded by ambition, consumed by power," he admitted, his voice heavy with contrition. "But I've come to understand the cost. The damage I've wrought upon this family is… irreparable. And yet, I must try to mend it."
The gravity of his words struck Whitley profoundly. His father's eyes, once cold and unyielding, now brimmed with genuine remorse. Yet skepticism lingered, a barrier erected by years of disillusionment and emotional distance.
"You want forgiveness?" Whitley's voice sharpened with disbelief. "After all these years? After all the harm?"
Jacques nodded solemnly. "I do not presume to deserve it," he replied. "But I hope, in time, to earn it."
At this, Willow rose from her seat, her movements imbued with a quiet grace. She placed a steadying hand on Whitley's shoulder, her touch gentle yet firm.
"Your father is trying," she said softly, her voice carrying a calm authority. "It may not erase the past, but it's a start. And that is more than we've had in a long time."
Whitley turned to her, searching her face for affirmation. The sincerity in her eyes prompted a subtle shift within him. Slowly, he nodded, his posture relaxing marginally.
Jacques, though visibly shaken, managed a faint, tentative smile. "Thank you," he murmured, his gratitude unmistakable.
The three Schnees settled into a quiet tableau by the window, the frosted glass framing the snow-covered expanse beyond. No words were exchanged; the silence, though laden with unspoken complexities, was not devoid of hope. For the first time in years, a fragile thread of connection began to weave itself through the fragmented fabric of their family.
Outside, snow fell in soft cascades, blanketing the world in a pristine white. Within the mansion, the faint stirrings of reconciliation hinted at the possibility of renewal—a tentative but profound step forward for the Schnee family.
Jacques Schnee's trembling composure gave way to a determined resolve as he addressed Willow and Whitley in the quiet aftermath of their emotional reconciliation. Standing near the frost-dappled window of Willow's room, Jacques's voice carried a newfound gravity, underscored by years of regret finally bubbling to the surface.
"I need to see Winter and Weiss," he said firmly, his tone tinged with both urgency and vulnerability. "I can't begin to fix what I've broken without them."
Willow regarded him silently for a moment, her expression a mixture of caution and faint encouragement. "It won't be easy, Jacques. They've borne the weight of your choices for years."
Jacques's face tightened briefly as he absorbed her words, the reality of his past mistakes pressing heavily on him. Still, he nodded with quiet determination. He turned to Whitley, whose hesitation was evident in the way his eyes darted toward the floor. Yet, after a moment of visible internal conflict, Whitley offered a small nod of encouragement.
"Do what you need to," Whitley said quietly, his tone carrying a mix of uncertainty and hope, as though daring to believe in the possibility of change.
The Schnee family left the mansion together for the first time in years. Jacques, Willow, and Whitley, once bound by fragile and often cold familial ties, now moved forward with a sense of tentative unity. The estate's gates closed behind them as their airship ascended toward Atlas Academy, cutting through the pale morning light that bathed the city.
The journey was quiet, the weight of unspoken thoughts filling the cabin. Jacques's gaze remained fixed on the cityscape below, his thoughts a whirlwind of memories and regret. Willow, seated beside him, observed her husband with an inscrutable expression, while her hand rested lightly on Whitley's shoulder, offering silent reassurance as he stared out at the distant horizon.
Upon arrival at Atlas Academy, General James Ironwood was waiting at the docking bay. His expression betrayed both surprise and a flicker of approval as Jacques disembarked, looking more composed and present than Ironwood had seen in years.
"It's good to see you looking well, Jacques," Ironwood greeted, extending a hand. His tone was measured, but there was a note of genuine warmth beneath it.
Jacques shook it firmly, meeting Ironwood's gaze with sincerity. "Thank you, James. I owe you and Winter more than I can express."
Ironwood's brow lifted slightly in acknowledgment before he gestured for them to follow. "Come with me. They're all at the dorms. But I should warn you—this won't be easy."
Jacques nodded silently, his thoughts already turning to what lay ahead.
The walk through the academy was fraught with tension. Jacques's steps were measured, but his hands betrayed his nerves, clenching and unclenching as they moved through the corridors. Willow's quiet presence beside him provided an unspoken anchor, while Whitley trailed slightly behind, his expression impassive but observant, his gaze darting from his father to the unfamiliar surroundings.
Ironwood, ever perceptive, leaned closer to Jacques as they approached the dormitory wing. "They're good people, Jacques. Honest. If your intentions are sincere, they'll see it."
Jacques gave a brief nod, though his tightened jaw betrayed the storm of emotions roiling beneath the surface. As they neared the dormitory, the sounds of laughter and conversation became audible, contrasting sharply with the tension enveloping the Schnees.
Ironwood rapped lightly on the door of Team RWBY and JNPR's dorm section. The door opened to reveal Shirou Emiya, clad in a casual apron, his hands dusted lightly with flour. Behind him, the cheerful cacophony of breakfast chatter echoed warmly, a comforting backdrop to the otherwise charged moment.
"General Ironwood," Shirou greeted with a welcoming smile. His gaze shifted to the Schnees, and his expression sobered slightly. "And… Mr. Schnee?"
Jacques inclined his head slightly, his voice carefully measured. "I… hope I'm not intruding."
Shirou's eyes flickered with curiosity but without judgment. He stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter. "Of course. Come in."
Inside, the dining area was alive with the aroma of freshly cooked food and the vibrant energy of its occupants. Team RWBY, JNPR, Penny, and Winter were gathered around the table, their breakfast interrupted by the unexpected arrival. Conversations faltered, and a charged silence descended as Jacques entered, flanked by Willow and Whitley.
Winter stood abruptly, her military posture rigid and her expression a careful mask of suspicion. The tension in her movements was palpable, as though bracing for a confrontation.
"Father," she said stiffly, her voice carrying both shock and restraint. The word hung in the air like an accusation, laden with years of pain and disappointment.
Jacques met her gaze, his eyes filled with a sorrow she had not seen before. "Winter," he began, his voice heavy with emotion. "I owe you an apology, but more than that, I need your help."
Weiss, seated across from Winter, appeared equally stunned. Her fork hovered mid-air, her wide eyes locked on her father as if struggling to reconcile his presence with the man she remembered.
Jacques took a steadying breath, addressing both of his daughters directly. "I've wronged both of you in ways I can never undo. My ambition, my selfishness… it blinded me to what truly mattered. But I want to change. I need to."
He paused, his gaze shifting between Winter and Weiss. "I can't erase the harm I've caused. But I'm asking for your help to make things right. For our family."
Winter's expression remained guarded, though a flicker of something—confusion, perhaps even hope—crossed her features. Her military demeanor softened just slightly, a subtle sign that his words were reaching her. Weiss, meanwhile, seemed caught in a storm of conflicting emotions, her hands tightening around her napkin as her eyes searched her father's face for sincerity.
"I don't expect forgiveness," Jacques continued, his voice trembling with sincerity. "Not now. Maybe not ever. But I'm asking for a chance—to earn it, to prove that I can be better."
The room remained silent as Jacques's words hung heavily in the air. The assembled group, from Ruby's empathetic gaze to Yang's skeptical frown, watched the unfolding drama with bated breath. Even Penny, normally bright and exuberant, seemed subdued, her curious eyes darting between the Schnees.
The tension in the room was palpable, the weight of years of pain and betrayal pressing down on everyone present. Weiss and Winter exchanged a glance, their unspoken thoughts passing in the briefest of moments. Neither spoke immediately, their silence a testament to the complexity of their emotions.
Jacques, standing vulnerably before them, appeared smaller than he ever had in their eyes. Yet there was a strength in his resolve, a glimmer of hope that refused to be extinguished.