It was a tug of war, fighting Summer. A tug of war, while juggling delicate porcelain plates. A tug of war while juggling delicate porcelain plates, while reciting Second verses, while also pulling espresso shots in perfect sequence. The only thing that kept them centered— that kept them as them, rather than the somehow-less-confusing but ironically-disparate her— was the fact that, very slowly, they were losing.
Weiss was incredible with her sword, a prodigy, by most any measure. Their left arm could wield that lovely sword with perfect grace and form— thrusting with the ease and accuracy of a rapier, slashing with the fluid-yet-calamitous force of a tidal wave— just as Weiss had when she so handsomely took her win against her partner. Her caution, too, was imprinted on their mind, taking them back after further exploit proved too risky, maneuvering them further into the cellar, knowing exactly which move to transition towards without ever wasting a moment on deliberation.
Ruby was a knower. She was painfully good at knowing things, especially things that belonged to her in the first place, especially things that'd been drilled into her by either (or both) of her subpar mothers. She knew the exact length of her stride. She knew the reach of her scythe— of Roseaster— she knew how Summer had taught her to wield it: how Summer herself fought. She knew how Summer's eyes tightened when she was going to fake a move. She knew how the woman's mouth pursed when she wasn't going to fake it. How else, such a long time ago, could she have given the world's greatest Huntress a nosebleed, while walking away with only a chipped tooth?
Because Summer didn't pay attention to people. She didn't listen. Not to her wife, not to her daughter, not to anybody who had blood in their veins and air in their lungs. Those people were all beneath her. She was a power on high, up with Seraphs and Drakes and Ur-Dragons, and nothing below would ever be her equal.
With two wills acting as one, Weiss' body sheathed their sword and flicked the selection chamber, gripping Roseaster in both hands as they quickly leapt back, feeling the wind of an overhead blow that would've cleft them. Summer let the massive head of her scythe hit the floor, rocked forward, and used it like a vaulting pole to launch herself forward, claws held out to gore.
With a sheer sound of sliding metal, they whipped the sword back out and slashed up at the woman, the blade burning bright orange with an imbuement of fire dust. Summer had to take the hit, cutting up the middle of Ruby's dress and setting the flammable material alight. The woman landed in a scramble, scythe clanging in her wake as she rolled, then grunted with frustration and ripped the garment off wholesale, leaving the Faunus' body in only a clinging thermal top and shorts, both boasting numerous burn-holes.
Oh. So We Can Be Hot. Or— I. Thee?
Don't overcomplicate it.
They rushed Summer down, expecting at least a brief moment of recovery from the woman, but she had herself in stance without a moment's hesitation.
Ruby's claws scraped the stone cellar as Summer turned, leg sweeping out at them, Weiss' body barely pulling back to avoid getting tripped— but it was a play. Summer shunted upwards suddenly, pushing the butt of her scythe up from its low guard to hammer her opponent in the diaphragm. A single, whooping hack expelled all the air from the smoked-out lungs of Weiss Schnee, sending them back with wild swings of both scythe and sword. The pain whitened their vision, blinding them as another strike of her haft split their chin open and chipped their front teeth against each other. They stumbled back, shaking their head desperately, but the vision now clear was one of grim portent.
Summer's scythe was falling towards them.
They were tired. They hurt. They were thrilled the bones, high as a fucking kite on adrenaline, so they didn't really feel the pain, but they knew they were hurting. They wanted the fight to be over. They wanted to lay down. Smoke a joint. Cuddle. Groan.
So when they saw the scythe was going to make a mortal blow, it was almost relieving.
Ah. Fuck.
Verily. Sorry We Did Ruin Our Last Chance To Bang.
'Tis Cool.
Cool.
Wait, Whose Thought Was That? Mine Or Thine?
Pray Tell The Difference.
Down came the scythe— the only thing they could move fast enough was their eye. At the very least they'd see it coming. Thus fell the guillotine.
Thus wavered the guillotine— clarity.
They surged forward and shouldered the woman, dropping the sword to take Roseaster in both hands as they pushed her with the haft, holding it high and snagging the woman's overly-huge weapon in their own crook. With a sound like a cartoon anvil, Belaflor Reaps Greatest Of The Lands Most Sullied fell to the floor, pried from Ruby's stolen, bloodless fingers. They kicked Summer in the chest, cackling.
"You dumb bitch! You forgot you're anemic!"
Summer sprang back up and shoved their shoulders with Aura-channeled force, sending them flying back— into the arms of Blake and Yang.
"H-holy shit, Weiss," Yang muttered, propping them up. "If that's— if you're not lying, holy shit."
"We're not lying," they gasped, feeling all the missed breaths catch up to her at once, rendering them into a heaving, coughing mess. "It's— it's really— huff— us."
The two individuals righted the double-individual. Blake chuckled unsurely, "Holup, so who's—" they motioned over Weiss' body. "You, ig."
"Yes," they answered decisively, enlightening nobody. "Also, Blake, to thee I dole my humblest apologies with thy, er… preferences. Pronounally."
Blake's honey skin warmed visibly. "L-lol. Lmao." They looked away, shuffled. "Stfu. Thx. But stfu. /pos."
The three/four of them returned their gazes to Summer, Weiss' muscles tensing as they prepared to go after the woman again, jumping as Summer lunged towards her fallen scythe, but a long, crackling blade stopped her.
"Summer," Raven said warningly. "Listen to me for once: don't. We can find some way to fix this— you're my wife. I'd—" she looked away, her voice returning quiet and thick. "I want you back. I always will. Just… let's figure things out, okay? Clearly, we need to talk."
Petals started to dissolve from Summer's shoulders, but stopped as Qrow swooped in and grabbed the giant scythe and Weiss' sword. "Come on," he bade, protectively curling over his bounty as he shuffled WBY's way. "You can be better than this, Summer."
"She really can't," Weiss and Ruby's voice mumbled disdainfully, their body gently nudging out of Yang's remaining hold before taking their sword back from Qrow. They rolled their shoulders, commanding, "Give the body back."
"This fight— this duel—" Summer spat out the word like it was poison. "Isn't over."
"Yeah, it is," they rebutted. "Keep beating me, relish in every single one of those ten seconds thou canst upright remain, and when you pass out, I'm going to kick your body-snatching ass out of my body."
They held out a hand, and soon found it filled with Weiss' sword once more— caught by instinct and thrown by one old Qrow.
"Come on then," urged the Bane of Wendigo and Nevermore, rolling their shoulders. "You don't have time to waste."
Summer straightened. She looked between her family (and also Blake). Echoing deep from the cellar, a bassy noise arose.
Summer Rose bolted.
I have read the Manuscript so many times, I see the forms behind my eyelids. I can feel the guards, just as Winter taught me, even if it is wrong to use those forms with this kind of short sword. Like her I move: One to Two, pivot Two to Three, swap to Four, raise to Five.
The "Scythe in Two Hands" can suck my balls. It's bullcrap. What even is a "weapon of Second Sanctity" besides a dumb excuse to carry a giant scythe around. You know what's cooler than a scythe? An axe. A sword. Do you know how much easier things would be if I had a normal weapon?
Yet, in my arm there is a yearning. I know the hand is a balancing tool and an option best left open, this knowledge is given me by a world-renowned champion, a duelist, but it is an itch with which these pages sympathize— somehow, I know this. It is in the margins, the spaces between lines and plays, faintly-drawn outlines in the yellowed corners: a want for more. For something exotic. The pages, are they missing? What are these omens between my ancestor's words?
I took mom's sword just to feel it. It's unreasonably big -EW RUBY- but it's… right? Kinda? It feels better. Almost. Is there something wrong with me? I mean, yeah, obviously, but, like… I dunno. I felt it, and it was right. It sat right in my hand, but now I want the scythe back? It makes me sick. It gives me friggin heartburn. I'm never happy with anything. I just want
That one did steeple his fingertips. He sighed into the space of his hands.
He was not good with stress. He was, in fact, historically terrible with stress. Literally in the history books. Er, the theist ones.
"Sir?"
Her eyes were sharper than usual. She knew something. Something that he did not know. He was the antithesis of the unknown, so he called her name with the 'I know you're hiding something' tone. Unfortunately, Glynda Goodwitch was immune to his ways by this point— consequences of rationality: 'Get one who'll challenge you,' the voices told him. 'Only free things can have no worth,' the voices claimed, which was stupidly reductive. 'You're not a thing which can go unchecked.'
The last point was the only good one.
Redirecting, Glynda instead assumed, "You're stressed."
"Me?"
His hands went for various things on his desk as he spoke: touching the orbitals of the human skull, lifting an ancient leather cover, squeezing a stress ball, checking the mug that he knew was empty.
"Me?" that one did repeat. "Stressed? Surely not, my darling— surely not!"
With the power of telekinesis, she chucked a book at his head. He'd never been like his oldest brother and/or sister, nor even his flanking siblings— always bookish and spectacled, no such freedom like them for even the most minor of changes— so it struck him squarely. He let his Aura remain uncoaxed, taking the impact and all the pain it was worth for little more than some minor comedic relief.
Glynda's soul was visibly soothed by his suffering. Which was fair.
With exaggerated groaning, he straightened in his chair and rubbed his purpling forehead. "Is that what we do now?" the headmaster bemoaned. "For the one always jabbering about 'HR complaints' and 'harassment', you're always the first to stoop to elder abuse."
Glynda's scoff was ice-cold. "If only I could."
"Is it finally my turn to lodge a formal issue? Or do I not get rights by virtue of being in leadership?"
The woman rolled her eyes. "God forbid I ask why my boss is very obviously stressed out."
"You assaulted me with a book."
"You took it."
"So now we're victim-blaming?"
"I reiterate that I would love for you to be my victim."
He chuckled, not at the idea itself being ridiculous, but rather the opposite. People— all people, even Glynda— thought he was above them. Just by virtue of being a mysterious old man, they thought he kept some well of power secret from the world, even if they didn't know what he was. Did his age really radiate such power? Did his Aura make him some god?
Stupid question. Regardless: by all means, Glynda could kill him with little effort. Despite his apparent appearances, he really was just an old, old man with an equally old, blessed soul. He felt age. He felt pain. The cane wasn't a front, nor was it a weapon; his hips were weak— mostly metal now— and the cane's trigger just deployed an umbrella. But, since being in the rain made his joints stiffen and ache, very few ever got to see that.
Waving off her wanton, misplaced hostilities, he said, "Yes, Glyn—"
His assistant snarled.
"—da," he smartly finished, then slumped onto his fingers and started worrying his temples. "I am stressed. My hypothesis is somewhere in that frozen hell, all my variables have been taken out of my hands, and this whole experiment is in jeopardy!" He pressed his face into his palms, sighed, and pulled the skin down until he felt his lids pop wetly away from their quarries. "Damned boy. He really thinks… well…"
Glynda cocked an eyebrow. Again, he released an aged sigh.
"I don't know what he thinks. Or if. The boy is just…" he waved a hand, a 'look at all this bullshit' gesture rather than a dismissive one. "You reap what you sow."
"And you've sown…"
He glared at her— a real glare, with real anger, real judgement, real disappointment that someone so close couldn't simply know his own thoughts. He opened his mouth.
Is this what you are now? A quick-mouthed hedonist?
If you study only from your ivory tower, where then will come your knowledge of its foundations?
That one did close his mouth.
You never were a particularly good leader.
He frowned, resting his chin on his steepled fingers once more. "Nothing good, I suppose. She always said I've got a black thumb."
"Oz," Glynda huffed. "Could you just say something outright for once?"
"Have you ever had a fever dream?" He asked, tapping the cover of that old, dusty tome again— Columns of the Third, some light Archivist esoterica. "Or a… vision? I wouldn't judge you if you said it was from narcotics— I've had my fill." He snorted. "Recently."
"You…" Glynda blinked as if he'd thrown a handful of flour at her. She was probably going to cap that off with a brilliant, insightful 'what?' before she thought better of herself. Instead, perhaps realizing this wasn't exactly a quick one-two convo, she sat across from him at the desk. "No. I haven't."
"When I was sick—"
Glynda's eyebrows shot to her hairline. She rapidly readjusted in her seat. Very much an 'oh shit, we're talking about this' gesture.
That one did smirk at his assistant, continuing banal, "I saw a great many things— mostly garbage. Black crowns, dead men, an unending reign of infinite darkness—"
"Now wait—"
"But who doesn't see those? The real interesting thing was the loneliness." He sighed— wistfully, which made Glynda cock her precious blonde head.
He tapped the petrified human skull with a fingernail (toktoktoktok), too quickly to be casual, too consistent to be nervous, and his voice resonated with withering age.
"Years and years and years up in that tower, while they all just… melt away from me. Even when he came back, when we had our moment in the sun— our retribution— what he said was right. The others didn't really understand, but… I did. Eventually they all faded away. And now it's just… me. Honestly, some days I wish I was sick again. That was what made them come back, after all."
"Oz—"
He raised a hand to cut her off. "I know, I know, not literally— just a reward-response— but knowing in your head isn't the same as knowing in your heart." A chuckle escaped him, rueful and sour. "I still haven't convinced my own."
"You're meandering," Goodwitch stated coldly. "What's this got to do with Ironwood."
Ozma's hands drifted back into his lap. His chair creaked as he reclined, staring at his assistant.
He could tell that she hadn't washed her hair in a few days— specks of white in her crown and under her fingernails, joining the amalgam of dusts and grime— she'd been working all day with her construction crews, always the diligent and helpful picture of a Huntress, getting to hand and knee just as eagerly as she flicked out the catalyst for her telekinesis. She was brilliant, beautiful, a mix of born talent and practiced skill that couldn't be replicated. Prodigal Huntress, shrewd assistant, honestly the real dean of Beacon.
He could tell the exact hexadecimal of her eyes. Just from looking, he could tell her exact age to the minute. He could see aspects of her Aura even she didn't know. He could see her heartbeat.
He could see tumors in her pancreas, shedding cancer into her bloodstream. She'd know soon. It was already too late.
It never did get easier, being alone. It only got harder, and your heart gets harder with it. Better to let die than play messianic; it was the natural way, anyways, and his days of medical practice were far, far behind him. Gone were the times of salves and humors, of magic, belief, and Semblance interwoven and respected in equal measure. Gone were the times of apothecary potions, of leeches, of ritual and prayer, of the things which, through their mysticism, leveraged real, tangible power.
Gone were the times of those above. Of the First and the Second. Of the Fourth.
Let reign the Third, the knower, the thinker. Let watch the Third from his tower atop the world. Let know the Third all things 'neath his vantage. Let warm the world 'round his Beacon. Let reign the Third. Let live the Third, that Arch everlasting, in his tall, tall lighthouse, forever. Alone. The golden eyes of an era long turned to dust and theory.
Glynda cleared her throat. "Oz?"
"I'm… lonely, Glynda. The Age of the Third is a tiresome one."
His words were slow, each one dutifully chewed before he spit them out. He raised his empty mug towards the veteran Huntress, beseeching.
"Mind getting daddy some sip?"