cygnuswheel

[cygnuswheel]

“ you sound like you were there. ”

( post volume 7, episode 9. )

general ironwood might not have been the most perceptive man, but at least he had remembered what ozpin had told him all those years ago. the truth had been a hard one to swallow, the man of metal and blood pressing for as many details as possible of this ritualistic passing, how a soul would travel from one to the next for the next eternity if the world had not been brought back to peace by the time of the current vessel’s death.

it would only be a whisper at first. a strange feeling, a dream, a distant echo in the back of their mind at first. oscar had thought at first that maybe it had been a nightmare that had stuck too well to him, a lingering presence that watched silently as he went about his work. it was his imagination playing tricks on him, his worries mounting after the fall of a faraway kingdom followed him everywhere he went. vale had been the best of them, and even then it had still been bested. 

he doesn’t know when his hands stop feeling like his hands despite them being the same that they’ve always been since he was born. calloused, covered in scars, his dirty gloves a dear companion since he had taken up caring for the family farm after his aunt had decided to focus more on the cooking part of the job. running his fingers through his hair had given him pause, confused at the length of it and then growing frustrated as he tried to insist himself that it was as it had always been, if not just a smidgen longer. 

the grimm that had run itself onto the property had been all too easy to slay, the scythe in his hand feeling so achingly familiar as he cuts it down with ease and grace. he had locked himself up in his room for the rest of that night, trying figure out what had possessed him to raise the weapon and parry as opposed to dodging altogether. it didn’t... feel like him. it didn’t. 

“ hello! “

i’m professor ozpin. he had tried to ignore at first, to walk back into his usual routine and avoid whatever calling had supposedly snaked its way into him without his permission. but how can you run from something-- someone that lives inside of your head? of course it wouldn’t work. of course he would be eased out of the house he had lived in for years by the promise of glory, of making a difference in this vast and beautiful world. he had given him an opportunity to do everything that he wanted to do his entire life. why wouldn’t he take it? 

the truth is out, feeling so cold on the back of his neck, his forearms, his cheeks. the snow continues on without a care in the world as they he are condemned and they he manages to lock himself away, leaving him all alone. the echo of inevitability rings loud in his ears, quiet and defeated. he wishes that he could throw the familiar weight of the grip in his hand away, but no, he can’t. he holds it tightly and looks out into the tundra, a whisper of something better coming in time. 

did he want to be himself, anymore? oscar isn’t quite sure. he doesn’t know if he wants to find out, or to talk about it at all because the one person he would ever want to discuss this with had whisked himself out of the boy’s life, leaving him for dead in the story that should have ended ages ago. somehow, he still had made a promise. one to keep going, if only for the fact that he did not want to see everyone look so sadly at him whenever he had fallen into view.

the ghost in his head steers the airship down to safety, and then he is alone again. 

which is what he wants to say, but why does the cane sit so comfortably in his hands when he raises it against an adversary? why does his body move like he’s done this a million times before, as if his motions were routine and that he was more than a measly 14 years of age? he talks to himself nightly, a chiding reminder to both himself and the spirit in his mind that they were in this together, and that whatever happened would be for the sake of the greater good. ( qrow’s gaze still flickers when he sets eyes upon the freckled child, and while yang has taken a shine to him, sometimes he can spot the slightest tremble in a metal arm. ) ironwood’s utter shock hurts a part deep within him that he cannot describe, but he holds the weight well and extends his hand out.

“ he would be proud of you. “

the city in the sky has always been held to a higher standard, and so has the boy with a thousand souls residing within him. the general has little time to question him as he escapes from the room, finally taking a breath as he grips at his shirt. in, out, in, out. oscar leans against the wall and sinks down to the floor, staring at the ceiling for a while. he had done it. he had told the truth. the weight pressing down his chest has finally broken to pieces, and he was free again. 

“free”. as free as he could be, anyway. his gaze lingers on the bleached white of the schee estate, simply sitting for a while as he tries to rip the memory of a darkened hallway covered from head to toe with fire, tries to ignore the desire to look down at his hands and see a completely different person. oscar closes his eyes, eyebrows furrowing together as he shakes his head with a small smile. the static screams in his ears as he pushes away the distant ticking of a clock to a place where he couldn’t find it. just for now, he would grieve.

just for now, he would remember himself. 

“ you got me. “

[cygnuswheel]

he sits up with a start. “when will i disappear?” ozpin stirs, from a far off corner of the mind. oscar can feel the frown that takes over the other’s face, almost as if it belonged there. “i don’t know.” he says, giving a long pause. “...” "i'm sorry." oscar lies back down.

i’ll start a stopwatch.

[cygnuswheel]

“it’s such a heavy thing.” the boy throws his head back, a million lights reflecting in his eyes as the night sky passed by overhead, closer, closer to dawn. “is it always?” “the duty?” the ghost asks, and oscar shakes his head. “the feelings.” “...mm.” a pause. “yes, always.”

i’ll miss those days where i could spend my days looking out into the trees without a worry in the world.

[cygnuswheel]

not friends /

no, no /

family.

weiss schnee is ten years old when her parents declare that they do not love each other.

winter had looked on at her shocked face, eyebrows drawn with a silent hand of support placed on her back and rubbing soft circles into it. she does not recall the exact moment when she had started crying, tears hot against her cheeks as they spilled into her little brother’s handkerchief, his arms shaking with a tremble unspoken. 

when did her father storm out of the room, white suit soaked maroon and shining with the broken glass of a wine bottle? her mother had told her to stop with her tears, to shut up and behave, oh, aren’t you ten years old now? you certainly aren’t acting like it. how much more stress do you have to put on me? your family? we had all come together to celebrate what was supposed to be a tender moment. too bad that even that was for nothing, because even after all of this time, their child was still a brat, from head to toe.

when she turns eleven, weiss does not swing in her seat with joy as she had last year-- rather, her voice is silent. blue eyes had looked on at the closed doors of two opposite rooms, holding another dress within her hands gifted to her by her father. she performs  for an audience today, her voice a luring aria that did not invite gifts and love, instead serving as a hook for yet another business venture for the schnee dust company. they had struck a profitable deal this year. her father thanks her for her hard work, and she dons the sterling hairclip he had gifted her, not able to say a word other than “ of course, anything for you. ”

by twelve, her mother decides to invite her out for dinner, inviting the sour ire of her father, which willow can only reply to with a smirk and a graceful pour of red beringer’s into a drinking glass. the place she had picked for the two of them had been top class, chefs from all around the world hired to create something more akin to a museum artwork instead of a meal. weiss fails to speak again, instead slowly working away at the honeyed lamb before her, not daring to mention that not even three days prior, she had mentioned that she wanted to go to a mistralian cake shop to buy the hand-made cream puffs that they had shared together so many years ago. for the rest of the night, she hears tales and mournings of an old woman who had been abandoned for the jewels of the earth, a widow with a ring still sitting snugly on her finger.

thirteen, thirteen is quiet. both parents had been too busy to set aside time for the melancholic middle child, and instead she is left to her own devices with another cake, another new dress. her siblings look on with a certain sense of sadness, but dare not to go without the mask of a smile on their faces during their dear sister’s big day. perhaps it had been the last time that they were all allowed to be together, to enjoy each other’s presence. weiss does not cry on this day, instead pressing her fingers down upon smooth keys, playing a new melody that she had made for the ones dear to her. they all clap, whitley exclaiming that she was the most incredible musician to exist. winter watches on with a soft look, something that makes the birthday girl’s face extend in a smile. maybe this would be the beginning of something kinder. perhaps they could grow again together, without their parents’ tirade choking their hold on happiness. to make it past anything, ones had to work together, after all.

“ i’m leaving, weiss. ” winter says to the sleeping girl, pressing a gentle kiss upon the new heiress’ forehead. “ you’ll be alright. i promise. ” as the child stirs awake, the emptiness of the room embraces her, tears spilling down her cheeks once more as her hand curls around the metal hilt of a blade newly gifted. 

fourteen. klein takes her out this time, not that her family had bothered to bat an eye at her departure once they realized that they didn’t have to go out of their way to get her a gift when she was off to purchase one on her own. a new blazer, a white chiffon skirt. her butler-- no, her friend, ties the silk bow around her waist and lets her place a new headpiece upon her bun, a metallic frost that fully encapsulates her new self. a battler to be, a huntress in training. the holster of myrtenaster spins into place, the sound more comforting than her family’s voices a thousand times over.

fifteen. weiss dons on yet another dress that her father had gifted her, any hints of her aura as a graceful fighter carefully tucked away as he takes the whole family out to a concert of the schnee dust company’s own making. she had been training for this for months, this she knows, yet her voice comes out feeling much more dull than before. he scowls at her when she waives her hand in order to devolve into a quiet solo with the piano has her singular companion on the stage, words sweet and clear, sincerity pouring so deeply into her tone that tears the audience didn’t even know they were trying to hold back start to pour freely. sweeping her foot along the ground in a wide arc, she flicks her wrists, white glyphs summoning forth a gentle snow. a standing ovation. still, somehow, a pointed glare remains on her. 

he takes away her rapier in the night, leaving behind a scared yet not defenseless girl in her room, icy eyes burning with a new anger and rebellion.

when weiss nears the end of sixteen, she bleeds. the open wound pours into her eye, staining her already blurry gaze with red as the gigas armor dissipates in fractals of white. yet, even with the pain that radiates from her, she finds herself smiling. myrtenaster stabs itself into the ground as she tosses it aside, looking to the balcony above to see jacques with widened eyes and a palpable shock. “ i win. ” she says, wiping away the blood on her sleeve. here, she gains color. here, she finds her first taste of freedom.

“ thank you, father. ”

“ do you have to go? “ whitley asks with a certain whine that only little brothers could manage, looking to the side as yet another sparrow takes refuge on the gazebo. weiss sets aside the rest of the cream puff box on his end, seeing how he had been the one to eat his entire plate before she could even finish one. his voice is deeper now, his frame tall enough to loom over her (not to say that that was very hard to do), yet still, he looks so small. the heiress opens her mouth, tries to speak, but... in the end, only ends up going silent once more. 

he would still be here. with not even a semblance to his name, he would remain. something about the thought twinges a string in her heart, and, as her first act at the age of seventeen, she opens her arms and embraces him, rubbing his back the same way that her mother, the same way that winter, did when she was so much smaller. “ i’m sorry. “ she apologizes with a quiet whisper, a smile drawing itself across her solemn features. “ you’ll be alright, whitley. “ it feels empty.

“ you’ll be alright. “

she expects eighteen to be quiet, not at the fault of those around her, but for her own refusal to speak of the supposed personal holiday. was she afraid of starting a fuss? perhaps. did she not want to be asked what she wanted? maybe. was she hopelessly afraid that admitting it would make her suddenly become the little girl who had her heart broken when her parents left her and any semblance of a family she had in pieces? it was certainly a possibility. the only indication of any sort of celebration she has is getting a cream puff on the way back to the dorm room ( it wasn’t anything compared to what they had back in atlas, but the comfort of it remains all the same ), opening the door intending to work on an assignment for the history of mantle’s architecture--

“ surprise! “

weiss screams. the explosion of confetti and color has her throwing all of her things into the air as she puts her hands in front of her to protect herself, leaving a quick reflexed faunus to spring to action and snatch everything out of the air. they’re returned to the desk as ruby hops and fawns and sings and goes through her whole spiel of “ it’s your special day oh my god weiss you’re 18 are you gonna buy a scratch ticket i know you don’t need the money but also it’s what EVERYONE does and i wasn’t sure what to get you but like myrtenaster was looking a little dull so i polished it and adjusted it just a little bit so it could use dust more efficiently OH ALSO ALSO you’re going to LOVE this cake it’s the one that yang and my dad used to get me all the time for my birthday they make the dough and frosting from scratch they put little crunchy chocolate bits in the filling which like ELEVATES IT you know ohh weiss you’re eighteen do you know how big of a DEAL that it i-- “ 

the rest devolves into muffles and flailing arms, yang holding up the circular cake with one hand as the other devotes itself to quieting her sister for just a hot second. “ you know you can’t be sneaky with us, right, weissy? “ a smirk. “ you’re a celebrity after all. the tabloids used to be all over you. “ with a confused blink, weiss takes a step back, opening her mouth and then closing it again, before opening it... and closing it again. “ i-i-- “ she stammers, but hardly anything coherent comes up other than the silent flush of her face. rby watches on, smiling with the candlelight flickering in their eyes, slowly but surely, beginning to sing...

“ happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you... “

weiss is fairly certain that she knows what home feels like. it is not in a large manor, stark white walls looming over her as her parents lament over a family that had been ruined by things out of their control. it is not the arms of her sister that had told her that she was going on ahead, and that weiss would be alright managing on her own. it was not in the hands of her brother, something that she had held so tenderly when he himself was wondered where happiness was, the spark of a glyph failing to reach his fingertips as he pushed her away and told her to leave. she remembers how at some point, she vaguely recalled a time where she had felt as if the schnee name was a disease, something that wrapped around innocence with dark tendrils and an intent to drag someone down into hell. she thinks of whitley, standing all alone as a legacy grips his shoulders and tells him what to do. she thinks of winter, her back turned to the family emblem, promising to herself to run as far as she could in order to find the meaning in her own name. she thinks of her mother, locked away as she had given it away altogether to a man who did not deserve to own it, letting his power rise and rise and rise as she drank and drank and drank...

“ oh! maybe when you’re 20, you grow a second ponytail and learn to use your glyphs to beat up evil with your hair! “ nora’s exclamation snaps her out of her reverie, the stir fry temporarily forgotten as a long sheet of brownies enters the dinner table. weiss stares at the confection, eyebrows drawn together in thought as jaune plants candle by candle, humming to himself as everyone gathers around, only to have his sister whack him when he tries to wipe his hands on his pants. she looks to ruby, who smiles in the way that only she can, reaching over to take the ex-heiress’ hand and squeezing it gently. “ happy birthday, weiss. “ she whispers, the room warm with love and celebration. 

“ let’s keep at it, okay? “

by nineteen, weiss knows that home is not a place, but a group of people. a group of people that love and adore her for who she is, not what symbol is stitched into her back, but as her, weiss schnee, the redeemed rich girl who learned that there was more to life than being perfect. home is where happiness is, where fulfillment lies, where her family-- her real family-- awaited her. fate had brought them together, and now? it would never be able to take them apart ever again. “ make a wish. “ blake says, gesturing to the candles. weiss regards it for a moment, silent, thoughtful, before rolling her eyes. “ there’s no need to. “ the girl replies, blowing out the flames in one fell swoop. 

“ it’s already been granted. “

[cygnuswheel]

post volume 7, episode 7.

where does he go from here?

the vault’s door stands tall on its floating platform, so far away, yet so close to him. the ice and glaciate flickers with a light of magic and wonder that he had never truly understood until only recently, the sheer magnitude making even a pindrop feel like a roar that rocked through space and time. he had watched on in awe, only to have his hand taken and forced to reach for the ancient treasure. 

“ soon, you won’t be able to tell who’s who anymore. “ the statement echos in his ears, and something swirls in his mind-- a memory, or perhaps as a better description, a record of thoughts that had been forcefully taken and taped together, one by one, piece by piece. it details the story of a man who no longer truly existed, just a collection of goals, an amalgamation of feelings, a thousand lifetimes’ worth of regret. an apology embodied his presence, so soft and melancholy that it makes the boy’s very bones sink with its weight. 

oscar pine grips at his chest as eyes open wide and sweat pours down his forehead, a sharp inhale being taken in but never exhaled. he waits, listens, and grits his teeth, stopping the bubbling of tears from going any further than the base of his throat. a dream? or a memory? or perhaps was it a sign from the future of what’s to come?

“ soon, you won’t be able to tell who’s who anymore. “

he closes his eyes. the image of an ancient hero fighting for a girl in a tower flashes across the dark. he says nothing.

he says nothing, and he lets his heart drift away again, unsure of everything and accepting of a world that didn’t know how to save him. 

[cygnuswheel]

we’re the only ones left.

“ sara... do you pray? “

sara regards the question for a while, giving it more weight than it ever deserved. her hair is disheveled, her eyes staring at the ceiling endlessly. maybe she feels that there are stars up there, beyond her vision. something that will grant her wishes to have everything go away.

“ no. “ she says quietly, rolling over, away from nao. “ not anymore. “ the artisian’s arms pause here, hesitant, but, eventually, they wrap around the girl’s abdomen in a soft hug. her head presses against sara’s back, expression hidden from the other’s view. 

“ i see... “ fingers slowly intertwine together, a soft breath escaping from nao. “ me neither. “

“ sometimes i think about it, though. “ blankets shift and turn some, as she gets closer to her friend. “ what i should say, how many offerings i should bring. “ outside, the rain drops in small, small noises, barely above a whisper. ( it explains why the two of them were talking so quietly. ) “ who would listen to them. “

“ no one should. “ nao says, her hand retreating from the soft and lifeless hold as she returns to laying on her back, fingers curled just above her chest. “ no one ever should, not for me. “ sara doesn’t respond. her body lies stone still on her side of the cheap full sized mattress, not daring to do anything more than draw the slightest breath in and exhale smallest breath out. nao keeps talking anyway. there’s a smile on her face that can’t be wiped away, so empty, so melancholic. “ i know that the professor would try, but he shouldn’t. he can’t. it isn’t fair. “

“ i don’t know what i ever did to deserve his kindness. “ another breath, harsher this time. she’s trying to keep down something painful. “ i don’t know why he’d ever forgive someone who would think ‘i’m glad it wasn’t me’. “ a lock of hair comes loose and falls in front of sara’s eyes. she twitches. it’s such a minuscule reaction, but... it’s something. something heavy. something regretful. 

nao laughs. it’s a terrible, broken sound, almost completely breathless as she tries to keep down her tears, her trembling. “ i don’t know how anyone could see me as anything but a selfish coward. “ she musses with her hair some, vocal chords shaking with a pitched noise as her arms cross over her face. “ ... i still don’t want to die, sara. even after everything i did. “

“ i-is it because i gave up so much? because i made everyone else give up something so important just for me? “ another laugh. “ because all of them died just for me, nao egokoro, the failure of an art student living out her life with the one person who was trying to save us all? i don’t understand. i can’t understand. “ and finally, the tears begin to spill. she tries her best to quiet her sniffling as she lets her shirt sleeves soak in any tears, shoulders shaking with the weight of it. her chest feels like it’s going to explode, and god, god, god, there’s nothing she can do about it. “ i-i just-- “

then, sara takes her shoulder.

the now dropped out high schooler squeezes with a weak, barely visible strength, and nao hiccups, trying to look through the gaps between her arms to the other. sara is smiling, looking more a mess than before, whatnot with the bags under her eyes and clear lack of peace settled into her features. there are tear stains on her cheeks, but she brushes them away before lying down again, taking nao’s head into her arms, pulling her close.

“ it’s fine, nao. “ sara whispers, the sound of it sending a hollow sadness into nao’s chest. “ you don’t... have to shoulder this pain alone. “ she sounds so defeated, her coat hung up to collect dust as she lets all her responsibilities rot away with it. “ we made this choice together. “ 

“ i went with you. “ she continues on, and nao starts to raise her head to look at the girl, but sara doesn’t let her. her voice is wavering and so, so soft. nothing like her booming dominance in the trial room. it’s an echo, a shell of what used to be. “ i chose this, nao. i chose to keep on living with you. “ finally, she shuffles down some, arms releasing only to cup the sobbing woman’s face. “ so we have to live on... live on for them. “ a breath. their foreheads touch. “ we have to, because it’s the only thing we can do now. okay? “

nao’s lips tremble, her chest strained and jagged breaths escaping as the corners of her eyes begin once again to fill and overflow with her sorrow, her fervent pleas for absolution. unable to speak, she simply nods harshly-- once, twice-- before taking in a sharp breath, holding it for what feels like an eternity, before letting it go. her shoulders begin to settle. okay, she says in her silent agreement, as the rain outside begins to pick up into the beginnings of a monsoon. it almost feels as if the world is crying along with her. 

sara regards her friend with soft eyes, what was once a brilliant amethyst hue now only a dull purple. still, she smiles, threading her fingers through pink hair and giving reassuring strokes. she dares not let the other feel her broken heartbeat. thunder cracks with a loud boom-- distant, but still there.

( “you’re my best friend,” he said, and she had wanted so, so badly to scream no, not only because she didn’t want him to die, but because she didn’t want to go either. )

“ maybe i will pray. “ sara finally says, pulling the blanket up over them, letting everything else around the duo wash away. 

“ just this once. “

[cygnuswheel]

“ i’ll always be here for ya, sara. “ the words are spoken with incredible heart and hurt, his grip on the girl’s hand never wavering. for some reason, he can’t look back. he can’t look back because when he does, he’ll have to accept the truth of his actions. 

sara is still crying.

“ i promise. “

( at chapter 1′s end, the world divulges down a different path. a world with just two people, one way out, and nine souls’ hands clamped down firmly around their throats. )

sara chidouin was a strange girl, that was for sure. with her lopsided hair and tendency to speak in a more brusque manner, joe had no problem when it came to thinking that she was the coolest person in class. and, as a boy with no shame like him, why wouldn’t he approach her outright to talk? ( even if it had slammed him in the face, he would be able to say that he tried.and really, in the end, isn’t that all that matters? ) 

with a leap of faith and a smile armed to the teeth with pure sunshine, it had only been a matter of time before they had grown as thick as thieves, a pair of best friends that no one could deny. sara chidouin and joe tazuna. and ryoko too, actually. that makes three, doesn’t it? just a small group of high school kids trying their best to make it though life. wasn’t that idyllic? 

still, in a situation like this, joe can’t help but be relieved that it had only been the two of them that had been caught, leaving ryoko behind. sure, she would be confused, scared, and looking for them-- but that was on the outside of this prison. away from the traps, the doll limbs and the faulty lighting. it would only have to be one person he’d need to look after then. one friend is much easier to protect than two, no matter how lonely you feel.

so why was it that the world decided to give him the sacrifice of all things? a room that had once brought him comfort and solace strikes an undeniable chill that catches itself in his throat, as he can only stare and stare and stare and stare and stare. 

in what world... was this fair? what had he done wrong? was it a sin to care for others during a death game? had it considered him foolish? easy picking for the first crop that the floor master had to cull in order for the group to move forward? there are so many thoughts, so many questions, but no answers. joe ponders for what feels like days, but comes up with nothing. thinking hadn’t been his strong point, rather, that was reserved for his partner in this whole ordeal: sara.

surely, surely if sara saw it her own face would become pale as sheet, right? she would sob and beg and panic and give him all of the feelings that she had been trying so desperately to keep inside, for both everyone’s sake and her own. if she had lost her cool, everyone wouldn’t be able to trust her as they had already grown to do.

it’s like she herself was the sun, with everyone revolving around her. while joe had thought of sara as a unique person ( totally off the walls amazing! ), something about this situation had... awakened something, deep within her. a passionate flame, a charisma that none could imitate. she was absolutely breathtaking. what a ingenius best friend he had been blessed with.

which is why when she looks at him with fearful eyes and unwanted confidence, joe lets her point towards him to announce that he is the sage.

it must have been how he had been acting. a worried disposition twisted together with an unwavering faith in her declaration as keymaster, he had stayed by her side and supported her, through and through. it was only natural. sara wasn’t the type to lie-- and, well, if she was, it would all be for a greater cause in the end anyway. he knew that. deep in his heart, he could not find a single shred of disbelief attached to her shining countenance. if there ever had been, he had cast it aside long ago. he had already seen someone die, here. he wasn’t going to abandon her, never, never, never.

for a moment, he catches someone’s eye across the room-- a blank, neverending black, ladle pressed gently against his chin as he looks the boy down with a terrifying glare, his gaze never leaving for even a moment. does... does he know? he can’t know, right? sara had convinced everyone in the room of his role in this main game! it should be fine, right? right, kai satou? joe can already feel the sweat beginning to pill on his neck and face, starting to drip down and soak into his clothing.

liar. he’s a liar. that’s right, he was doing something wrong, something completely underhanded. something that could be considered to be pure evil. these people... were all human beings too, right? they had lives to go back to, dreams to fulfill, families and friends to reunite with. for a split second, joe sees ryoko, staring him down with large, fearful eyes, asking him over and over: “ what have you done? what have you done? what have you done? “ the homemaker’s gaze ushers his attention once more though, expression smooth and seemingly endless. 

... and then, kai nods.

what? ... what? he couldn’t have. no, that must have been a trick of the light-- something summoned from his panic to make him feel better, anything. he was getting psyched out, right? everyone’s eyes were on him, after all. there was no escaping their judgement, but still... he feels something. a message, a wish. something that kai wanted only him to know.

“ take care of her. “

when voting begins, joe can barely keep his head screwed on straight. the crowd assembled had been convinced that he was the safest option to keep their own hearts in their chests, their votes in tune with his heartbeat, a constant thump, thump, thump. he catches sara staring at him again, face drawn into a frown with a look of pure agony on her face. ( he wishes that he could reassure her-- but he had tried again and again, and only served to make her feel even worse. she had been the one to expose him, after all. ) the floor master watches on with delight, a certain glint in her eye that seems directed at him specifically. suddenly, she stands.

“ alright now, dear participants! “ miley exclaims with a sickening cheerfulness on her face, and all joe can think of at the sight of it is rotten candy. ( rotten, rotten, all of this was so rotten. none of this should have happened in the first place. if it hadn’t, she wouldn’t have forced him to become rotten himself. ) “ that would be the end of it. let us display the results now... “ 

god, god, god, the ringing in his head is so loud. he wants it to stop, he wants everything to stop. all he can think of right now are apologies, apologies to everyone looking at the screen right now, seeing the votes tally, tally, tally...

“ NO!! “

The scream is so loud compared to the silence that had overtaken the room mere moments earlier, and it repeats once more--

“ no!! p-please, not joe-- “ the rushed sound of footsteps. sara practically leaps onto her best friend, arms gripped so tightly around him that he can’t breathe. miley looks over, distaste apparent at the blatant display of attachment. ( deal with it, he thought as arms wrapped gently around the girl. you did this yourself. )

“ don’t worry, sara chidouin. you’ll both be fine. “ the phrase pushes everyone off balance, and they look about in confusion. their votes had said otherwise, right? “ for you see, the roles would be... “

when the first title spoken and claimed was sage, horror passes over everyone’s expressions, the blood draining from their face. he can feel it, now. everyone’s eyes on him as miley continues on with the keymaster. sara chidouin isn’t smiling at the confirmation of her claims, though; instead, she’s stone still in joe’s arms, unmoving, barely breathing. when the boy looks down, he sees clouded over purple irises staring back at him in complete terror. “ you lied to me, “ they seem to say.

“ you betrayed me. “

“ in a stunning turn of events, it appears that the sacrifice has won! their goal completed, they are allowed to walk free with a person of their choice. i believe that you have already decided who you will kill for... “ with a flare of the cards in her hand, the floor master fans hides her face behind the illustration of four skulls, the fifth middle card bearing the face of... “ isn’t that right, joe tazuna? “

the statement snaps something in him. in a flurry of movement, joe lets go of sara, pushing her away only to pull her back in again, this time with his hand grabbing hers and holding on with a steeled grip, and he runs.

he runs away from miley’s laughter down the hallway into the open stairwell, going up and up and up. but there’s no escaping it. as if the walls themselves are made of speakers, her cackle continues ever onward, as nao’s scream permeates through his skull and he hears a soft “ thank you “ from kai, before a large squelching noise blocks out any chance of him saying another word. everyone else joins in after that, and its in the most bone chilling way that he could imagine.

“ i’m sorry-- “ sara chokes out as she hears gin’s cry, struggling to keep up with joe’s ever quickening steps. “ i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry-- “ q-taro’s howl of pain rattles his chest, worming into his heart and making it all the harder to breathe. he can hear sou cursing, spiting the world itself as he promises that even from hell, he’ll find a way to kill a certain joe tazuna. “ i’m so sorry, i’m so-- “ was that a series of cracking with nao egokoro? her crying is so soft and so wet sounding, and she keeps repeating the phrase of “ i don’t want to die, i don’t want to die, i don’t want to die. “ “ i’m sorry-- “ keiji was such a stoic, easygoing type, joe didn’t think that he would be shaken by anything. but that impression stops as soon as he hears the other scream in pain, a certain ripping sound echoing and echoing and echoing god please please please make it stop. please stop making kanna cry, please stop calling her a sister killer, please please please. “ i-i-- “ why were reko and alice together? who would make them die together like this? just how far was the organization willing to go to stick to their sick rules? why would you leave gin all alone, a so, so, so small child to be the last one to go? why would you make it so slow, so painful, so sharp. “ i hate needles, mrow! “ he exclaims, as he cries and cries and cries. “ i-i hate big bro joe and big sis sara too! “ joe feels something wet in the corners of his eyes. “ i- i don’t want to die, woof! mom! mom--!! “ the boy is quick to wipe them away as they pick up the pace, closer and closer to that light, that salvation, that escape that they had wanted so desperately to get from the beginning. the girl isn’t saying anything anymore, but her footsteps finally fall into sync with his own, quick and desperate, and oh so sorry.

“ i-i’ll always be here for ya, sara. “ the words are spoken with incredible heart and hurt, his grip on the girl’s hand never wavering. for some reason, he can’t look back. he can’t look back because when he does, he’ll have to accept the truth of his actions.

sara is still crying.

“ i promise. “

[cygnuswheel]

“ boo. “

ozpin isn’t the type to startle easily, but when you’re trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible only to have two large hands clamp down firmly on your shoulders, it would be hard not to jump. the shock is clearly visible, that much is known by the tired chuckle that the headmaster can hear behind him, and he has to turn, looking to his company with a fearful-- but overall confused-- look. 

qrow takes his time walking around the recliner that the tiny ex-headmaster had hidden himself away in, red eyes regarding the other carefully. freckles didn’t really suit him, but it wasn’t as if he had a choice in the matter. oscar wore them much better-- which only raises the question why the boy himself wasn’t here. oz had never been good at playing the part of an unassuming farmhand ( something that the bird feels like he should work on, that sharp look seemed to be just a bit too knowing ), something that he seems deeply regretful of when face to face with his old friend. 

it makes sense. the last time they had seen each other, there had been the whole situation of one of them giving the best right hook of his life right into the other’s face. as if on cue, oz tilts his head slightly to the side in the silence, bringing to light the padded bandage on his cheek. oscar still wasn’t the best at using his aura to ward off these things, huh. qrow squints, stands stone still for a moment. and then, in a bold movement, he crosses one leg over the other while still upright, before falling into his seat on a nearby chair with a soft sound. and so the quiet continued.

ozpin isn’t sure what to make of it. his initial plan of excusing himself and leaving had flown out the window as soon as qrow established that he wanted to be there in that one fell swoop. escape wasn’t an option. so what did he want? to chew him out in excruciating detail? that wouldn’t be so bad. maybe he would yell at the wizard for being around in general and not allowing oscar to be himself? it would be hard to explain that oscar had been the one to tell him to get some fresh air. ( something about how “ mom told me that it’s my turn to use the mind space. “ ) whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. but even if it was absolutely, soul crushingly, tremendously terrible, he would have preferred to get it now compared to whatever amount of time qrow wanted to keep staring at him.

the bird seems to be relishing in his discomfort, really. and while he knows he deserves it, it still sucks, you know? after a few eternities, a couple nervous glances to the side, and nary a word spoken, qrow finally uncrosses his arms and leans forward, resting them on his knees. another pause. another incredulous expression from ozpin. and then, a smirk.

“ you used up the rest of the sugar makin’ your cocoa, didn’t you? “

sometimes, you go to the convenience store with your very-much-still-on-thin-ice-friend ( if you can call it that in atlas, everything’s outrageously expensive around here, there’s nothing convenient about it ) to replenish the house’s supplies before the kids wake up and have a crisis over not being able to make pancakes since your sweet tooth decided to go to town. the whole process is awkward, with neither of them talking very much at all save for the occasional question and comments. the wizard swears that whenever he looks away, he can feel the other’s gaze boring into his back. 

if ozpin tries to make another cup of hot chocolate in the future, he might notice that the sugar jar is at the top of the cabinets-- someplace so tall that only one person could reach it. one person that he knows very well. but that’s alright. he learned how to jump for a reason.

he learned the exact servings needed to make two mugs, too. 

[cygnuswheel]

no one’s here and no one’s going to save you. this is a nightmare waiting to happen, isn’t it? but he can’t wake up any more than he already has. everything’s spinning. it’s hopeless.

oscar sits in a bathroom, post volume 6.

( note: this was inspired by @flame-cat‘s recent comic that they posted on their art blog! i had a lot of thoughts about it and wanted to see where i’d go with one particular spin of mine. please make sure to check out their work!! )

oscar. oscar.

oscar, listen to me.

it’s a haze. the rush and the hurt and the panic can only lead to hyperventilation, to discomfort and to a hollowed spite. the air comes in and out, but he isn’t breathing. it’s like he’s drowning in his own presence.

what did this mean? how could he let this happen now, when everything was hinging tomorrow going perfectly? this isn’t the time for this. it was never the time for this, for the tears and the loathing and the absolute feeling of disgust. his thoughts are racing, trying so hard to come to some sort of conclusion, some way to feel better. yet, every time he tells himself to calm down, that his thoughts don’t matter and that this whole thing doesn’t matter, it comes back. a plague that sticks in his chest and summons forth a pain that sits in his torso, soaked by the sobs and heaves and chattering teeth. 

oscar.

it’s all useless. why even try this at all? the relic, the plan, the whole fate of the world-- why, none of it really seemed to be all that important anymore, but, at the same time, it’s the biggest thing that he’ll ever be a part of in his entire life. it matters. it doesn’t matter. everything matters. everything matters but you. how would he be able to contribute to this, to any of this? his job was to be a vessel, a messenger of higher thought and information that the team relied on, but everything’s been so out of order lately. the information is lies. the promises are lies. the bonds he formed with everyone was a lie. he’s nothing without this great and powerful curse placed upon him. he’s just a boy. a fourteen year old boy that doesn’t know how to do anything. and he would never know how to do anything.

stop.

the word grips him like a hand placed firmly upon the shoulder. oscar’s eyes are wide, lips pulled back to show a sorrowful grimace, a face full of tears. his chest feels like it’s going to burst from the pause. he looks from one side to the other, nothing. the bathroom is empty other than himself, light dimly illuminating his strife as the rest of the party slept, surely anxious enough that they didn’t need any of the shit that he could dump on them. it wasn’t worth it for them, surely. he was barely going to be around in the long run anyway. there’s no need to bond with some pathetic creature that didn’t have much time left in the world anyway. and it’s not like he was any fun to be around either, with misery wrapping around him like a homespun cape--

you’re not a miserable person to be around, oscar.

there it is again. the boy squeaks in surprise, voice cracking in a startled motion as he curls further into himself, breathing ragged and wetness beginning to soak into the cloth of his knees. really? right now? his throat is rubbed raw and even the very labor of getting a wheeze out feels like absolute agony, so verbal communication here doesn’t seem like an option that he can take right now. still, his thoughts are loud and clear, defensive and bitter and oh so sorry: what the fuck. what the fuck. what do you want?

... you already know, don’t you? a sigh escape’s ozpin’s lips, presence light and shy, clearly a bit sheepish at the fact that he was around at all. after that grand disappearing act ( something that everyone else labeled as unfair abandonment, though oscar has a slightly different opinion on that matter ), it’s only natural that the wizard is reluctant to be around. to be here for you, something that i had previously failed at quite spectacularly. oscar scoffs. right. that must be it. what a joke. it was already obvious to him, clear as day. they were bound together, linked by an unfortunate rope of fate that put one of the most powerful men on the planet with some pathetic weakling that can’t even do his job without getting cold feet--

oscar, please. it’s a pressing, imploring tone, edging out to something that could possibly be described as sad. ( it still feels euphoric. it’s an addicting sort of validation that only draws in guilt. he doesn’t deserve any of this if he’s practically begging for it through the use of a panic attack. how deplorable. ) ozpin continues on, quiet yet firm: you’ve done more than what anyone could have ever asked you to do. never mind the addition of your age or life circumstances-- this, to any human being, would have had them meet their breaking point much, much earlier than you.

you’ve been strong. liar. more than i could have ever expected from you. stop. stop. i’ve been alive for far too long to not be able to recognize your efforts. you’ve been overworking yourself. but he’s not, he’s really not. it wasn’t true. if he was, then--

‘ then why is everything i’m doing never enough? ‘

his breath hitches. oscar is forced to stare at the wall tiling, the vague image of a warped reflection looking all too brown and black. discomfort dancing from one organ to the next, he tries to imagine dark greens, soft silvers. it’s a warmth that he’s desperate to have. some guidance. some way to keep going forward so he can ignore this ugly mess inside of his chest. inside his mind, he feels from ozpin a sensation that could only be described as a forlorn look gazing down at him, unsure but all too familiar. what would be enough, oscar? tell me.

the question leaves the boy a strange sense of winded, eyebrows knitting together as the frown remains on his face. he sniffles, bare hand coming up to rub at his eyes, hiccuping as he forces out words, something to regain control of the conversation, to regain footing on his very own uncertainty. “ i-i-- i would have been able to, i don’t know, fix this easier. i would have been able to tell them what they could do so they d-didn’t have to risk their lives like this. i would have been strong enough to be able to lead them to wherever the lamp needed to go. “ it sounds ridiculous. he knows it is, but it keeps spilling out, as if someone had forcefully broken open his dam. “ i would h-have been able to tell him that you were gone, and that it was j-just me. “ ( while the pain has disappeared, he will never, ever forget the sensation of having his back shoved against that wall, fury in the blond’s eyes and the reach that oz had made during it. ruby had yelled at him, made him stop in his tracks. oscar hadn’t been able to do anything. anything at all. ) “ i-i would have known what to do-- “

i didn’t know what to do, oscar. ozpin interrupts, clearly not wanting to hear anything more from the boy at the moment. his presence is heavier now, closer to the surface and beside the child. vague instructions and sprinklings of hope. ha ha. it would be unfair of me to think that you would know either. another sigh. this time, it’s both of them in sync. oscar feels his heart rate begin to settle more and more. it still hurts. i left you. after all the measures i had taken to control you. a pause. ... both physically and mentally. 

i never stopped to think anything about praise and encouragement past our shared duty. i never celebrated you for who you were, simply a means to an end by my own action. but that was fine, oscar thinks, incredulous at the statement. it’s fine, because he won’t exist in time, so ozpin could do whatever he wanted, right? right? the wizard frowns. of course not. do you really think i’m above being held accountable for my actions? should miss xiao long and everyone else not been furious with me?

oscar pauses, swallowing a hard lump that had begun to grow in his throat during the conversation that he had neglected to pay any mind to earlier. he can’t say that. he can’t say that because he felt the very same anger right in the beginning, when he had dragged himself out of the depths of his mind and stopped ozpin from taking back the relic. he was angry because it was wrong. he was angry because he thought they were fighting for a justice that deserved honesty. he understood why his cheek had been sore for days after qrow had rushed ahead to give oz a strong right hook. they had been betrayed. 

you had been betrayed.

after i had insisted that you could trust me. it’s a wan, self-loathing sound that echoes through oscar’s mind. he isn’t used to this. this overt display of... well, anything human. it had stopped after the ex-headmaster had run away. his crying had been a phenomenon that oscar had not completely grown to accept as normal yet. whether or not i’m proud of my actions doesn’t excuse what i’ve done to everyone. you especially, oscar.

please don’t try to hold a burden that no single person should bear. oscar closes his eyes. please don’t ignore how much you’re hurting. he’s shaking. there’s tears again, reintroduced. please don’t make the same mistakes i did. 

“ i-i don’t know what else to do. “ the boy chokes out, no longer hyperventilating but so, so sad. he’s holding the cracking pieces of his spirit and begging for direction. “ there’s so much to do, w-we don’t have time for this. “

i do, oz says. i have more than enough ‘time for this’, oscar. especially after everything. a puzzled quirk of the child’s brow. i...

... i want you to be able to grow on your own, oscar. what a kind, gentle voice. my interruptions do little to help you with your autonomy. i’m enough of an overbearing presence already without the whole subject of possession. a sniff from the smaller one. i understand that it feels both too early and too late, with the complications i’ve thrown into the mix, but... you deserve to be able to mature into your own self. 

so please don’t ignore your own feelings, the entity pleads, and in that moment, oscar, more than anything, just wants to hug the other and not let go. it’s overwhelming. to be honest, i’d be insulted if you decided to go down the path of being as foolish as me. he feels a tingling in his arm, not too forceful but still a bit leading. he follows the sensation and, in a strange movement, ends up rubbing his own hair. a confused look. i can’t manage much more at the moment without being disrespectful, ozpin answers, letting the smallest suggestions of a smile begin to hint at his voice. but i’ve always been a good listener, if you ever need an ear from the local curse in your mind. 

something bubbles in him. oscar doesn’t know what until midway of it happening-- a chuckle. it doesn’t sound the most delicate, as his throat had recently been assaulted by his own dread, but it’s so much sweeter compared to all the previous panicked babble and anxiety coming from his own mouth. the corners of them are beginning to upturn into the smallest grin. “ o-okay. i’ll try. “

i’m yours for the rest of the night and always after, mister pine.

“ ... alright. “ 

in the unspoken recesses of his thoughts, he makes a promise, a tiny thing, but nevertheless dear and precious beyond anything else.

‘ i’ll try. ‘

[cygnuswheel]

hark! the mutter of the wind is soft, telling, all hearing and all knowing. there is the sound of feathers flapping against dust and moving on to new lands. he searches and searches and searches for the bird can see so much more from the sky, so much more light and love and hatred and darkness and hurt and hurt and hurt. he searches for meaning in the wind, the earth, the trees. they know. he just has to look in the right places. crows are bad luck, they say. he wants to do them one better.

i’m lost and found and confused all around. but i have to keep trying.

[cygnuswheel]

lucidsnake‌:

Here, have the Oscar-Ozpin development we were supposed to get.

Inspired by this post’s quote: http://devilcrowned.tumblr.com/post/158561585592/you-treat-me-like-a-human-being-can-you-let-me

This one I was planning for a long time but couldn’t figure out how to do it. I think there’s more I could try but I just want to draw the boys crying for now.

Still practicing on drawing the other RWBY cast. Yang’s outfit is… hard.

[cygnuswheel]

what happens when you bring back the dead? it’s a question that people have been asking since the beginning of time. the way to find the answer is simple-- ask someone who’s gone through it.

an exploration of resurrection from that scene in volume 6, episode 3.

it’s dark.

the cold is something that he’s grown used to over time, slowly but surely, because it seemed to be one of the things that one had to live and die with and continue existing with even after everything is said and done. he wonders if it would have been different if he had fallen in battle, or of old age. sickness never suited him well, but with the graininess of his head and the constantly pull and plow of his insides that had been going on for what seems to be an eternity, ozma supposes that he’ll just have to deal with it.

the afterlife should have had more accurate propaganda back in the waking world, whatnot with their drab decor of nothing with a side of void. there’s absolutely nothing noteworthy of it to report, unless people found comfort in knowing that when they died there was just an emptiness that would never leave. it’s a space to think, and only think, because he doesn’t even have a body to move around in. he just was. is. continues to be. ( it’s all the stranger to consider, seeing how he can feel the specific sources of his malignities back when he was alive, but can also distinctly feel the lack of everything along with it. )

so, not only does he have to continue the rest of his life as a ghost ( ??? is he one? or is this all a dream? if he acknowledges that this is just how spirits are, he’ll also have to note his disappointment at how boring it is, compared to his previous conceptions of it. ), he has to deal with the fact that when there’s a nothing, one’s intrinsic senses as a human being has to fill that nothing with something. 

at least, that’s what he thinks. why else would these glowing red eyes be staring back at him like this?

they appeared all of a sudden some day-- or maybe they’ve been there all along. ozma doesn’t have the best grasp of time or memory or anything, seeing how he has nothing to grasp with in the first place. if the soul had a hand, his would have been split into pieces of fingers and palm already, the carpals and muscle separated neatly and spread across all of remnant. such is the fate of everyone that dies, isn’t it? it just sounds a lot more poetic once you get a bard to say it. he gave up that career choice once he found out that he could wield magic in the way he could-- fighting had been natural, and probably the best use of his talents that he could manage. puppets, villains, and grimm had been no match to him-- perhaps that was why he was considered to be so “great”. it would have been nice that intelligence came with his strength.

grimm don’t have souls. yet, somehow, they’re here, before him, masks a stark white against the inken black of nothing, carved with intricate symbols that had, after a time, grown to be associated with fear and bloodshed. he hears a sharp growling, a few more anticipating shrieks. the vacuum is thick with a tension that he had not experienced before, not in his space of reminiscing and regret. ( he misses her. he misses her. he misses her. he’s so sorry. ) pain. anger. smite. sadness. agony and longing. it soaks into the atmosphere like water hitting a dry sponge, and suddenly he is drowning.

could he scream? no. could he fight back, defend himself? no. could he run away? no. the hatred rips through him like he’s wet tissue paper, muscles and carpals rushing past his being and being sliced anew. was there a color darker than black? he didn’t think so before, but there definitely had to be. what else could he be looking at while it cut and clawed and pulled and tore and bit and sliced and shot and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt--

could he feel pain?

yes.

it seems to be looking for something that’s already been found, moving and rearranging as ozma feels the worst agony that he has in his entire existence. he could have died a thousand times over before this and still find this to be the worst hell that he had ever experienced. what was happening? does evil never sleep? does it come for you even after you’re gone? he thought that everything was over. he thought that he had nothing left to give after he gave his life. 

( she cried so much, he remembers that well. and after some point, he couldn’t bring himself to smile to reassure her anymore. even the gentle squeeze of his hand couldn’t bring forth anything but pain for the both of them. he hated it so much. what a useless hero he was. ) 

no one cares what he thinks, here. his reputation had left him after illness took it. he hadn’t saved people in so long. maybe the grimm had heard the small sadness in his heart when he was still on hid deathbed, waiting for it to take him away. he didn’t expect to end that way, but maybe someone else did. maybe that’s why as the shreds of something that used to be called ozma drifted in the waters of his own loathing and regret, someone had reached down and picked him up out of the water. it smells of iron and flowers. 

“ there you are. “

so delicate, so soft. the touch is as gentle as a mother’s hand caressing her newborn child, but still, in these moments, ozma cannot bring himself to feel anything but fear. it’s all been put back together. he clenches his fists and stares back at red irises within black sclera as she stares back at him so kindly, so lovingly. the man’s breath catches in his throat and his muscles turn stiff as stone.

he knows that face.

she looks the same as she’s ever been, but changed entirely. never mind the bleached white skin, hair that’s so much paler than he last saw. nails are black like tar and matches with and abyssal hue that he feels should belong to a monster. but it doesn’t. it doesn’t. it never had been, because it was her and she was here and what happened did she die too did he do this to her was she okay what had he done he had already felt like the world ended when he had to acknowledge that he had to leave her behind--

she places her finger to his lips. he can only stare as she gives a smile back to his awful face. 

“ shh. it’s alright. “

it’s okay. it’s okay. it’s okay. the phrase repeats in his mind and wraps around him just as her arms do to him in a tender embrace. she’s crying again, tears soaking into his tunic and reducing her to desperate shaking, the mere sight of his breaking his newly reformed heart to pieces. what could he do, here? the only option in his mind is to fall back into routine, to run his hand over her head and hug her back with his own free arm, his nose buried into the crown of her head as he tries to come to term with that’s happening. 

this isn’t death. this is more than a memory. this is beyond anything of his comprehension. he’s seen the entire world, or, at least he thought he did. now he doesn’t know anything. nothing of death and nothing of life, and nothing of resurrection or love or how to comfort the one person in your life that meant everything to you and more. she smells of the flowers that he used to bring her back when he was healthy and able. there’s something else, too. something that he was familiar with. something like iron. 

how could you leave me?

despite the lack of vocalization, ozma can hear the phrase ringing in his ears, startling his head into silence. she doesn’t need to say it. he already knew from the time she had forced him into their bed after a prolonged coughing fit. their love had always been the thing that had kept him going. if only things like that could fight off silly little problems like germs and sickness. something did, though. something brought him back.

there’s a pain in his chest that wasn’t there before. it’s not the snarling, merciless brutality that he experienced what feels to be not even a moment ago. it’s deeper here-- like a seedling, deeply rooting itself into his ribs and beginning to sprout anew. but this is nothing kind like nature, nothing pure like freshly picked flowers. it’s tainted. it’s black. it’s brooding and it’s hell. and it’s growing all over them. he feels a wetness beginning to bloom from the center of his torso. the smell of iron has become so much stronger. the delusion of being able to be in love after death is so much clearer. she’s still crying. he wants to see her face. ozma pulls away, arms moving to gently hold either side of his beloved face, giving a soft hush. everything hurts. but he has to see her. he has to. he needs to see if she’s okay.

i can’t lose you again.

but the roots have taken a hold of her, spreading and growing in its corrupted black and unforgiveness, it stains from her heart and moves outward. suddenly, her hair is up, pulled into a bun that reminds ozma of a conqueror that he had encountered long ago, the accessories of kingdoms littered among her locks. her nails are claws now, dragging down his back and creating scars that no monsters could compare to. she’s holding on too tightly. he wants to scream, but all he can do is widen his eyes, part his mouth in a quiet “o” of shock. she holds his scepter with a smile, looking down at him with a kind face that he can’t recognize. red didn’t suit her. 

as she plunges the symbol of heroism through his chest, blood drips from the corners of her eyes onto his face, and the wind rushes past them as they both fall into the unknown. 

dark power crackles around him as he hits the floor, and he can feel the absolute smug satisfaction radiating from somewhere that was greater than him, greater than anything he had ever done with his life. this pain is different. the haze of the void is gone, and is instead replaced with the vague sight of a worried face looming above his. 

blue eyes. blonde hair. soft lips and gently calloused hands. it’s the love of his life right before him, the world of the air around them and everything returned. it’s what he’s wanted to see for all this time. he wouldn’t have agreed to be brought back by anyone else, for anyone else. he thought so, at least.

because all of a sudden, all he can see is black nails, black eyes, and a black heart. her hands are squeezing at his soul and carving her mark into his back. she can’t lose him again. she can’t. not again. he’s the only thing that was good in this godsforsaken world. they couldn’t again. she’d destroy anything that got in the way of her wish, no matter what. even if it was ozma himself, the object of her affection and obsession. it hurts so much. the faces switch back and forth, until it all blends together. 

as his heart beats out of tune, he gasps. one day, there would be no love behind her eyes anymore. one day.

he feels a chain that held the world together snap. 

“ where am i? “ he says, not knowing that this would be his last look at this beautiful, messed up world. her arms are around him, but all he can think of is how one day, in a different time with them as different people, those very same hands would be around his neck.

“ what is this? “ 

[cygnuswheel]

devilcrowned‌:

he’ll always be ready at the drop of a hat. however, oscar hasn’t even remotely been interested in wearing any kind of headgear, no matter how cold and murderous the world is.

hm.

so perhaps they’re about to die.

through vertigo and panic, the effort it takes to push past such intense and nauseating emotions is a considerable one, but doable nonetheless. with practice, he focuses on the area around them, surveys the angle of their unfortunate vehicle, and frowns to himself. 

Keep reading

hi i didn’t realize that i was gonna be valid writing this but also holy shit

[cygnuswheel]

godhood was at your fingertips, once. 

a macabre display of it, in the very least. you feel the light slip through your hands and return to the other, rising, rising, rising. returning to the world where they were meant to be. yet you remain here, weighed down by the stone in your chest. it hurts so much. you want to leave so bad but the hands reach out and pull you down anyway. the earth will always know you more intimately than the sky ever could. you never got a chance to introduce yourself.

you never will. you can’t die. not because you don’t want to, but because you chose to love a memory instead of accept reality for what it was. 

you’re a fool for thinking anything would ever work out. gods aren’t born with hearts, after all. she realized that much sooner than you did. some part of you wishes that you learned that faster.

[cygnuswheel]

it’s over. it’s over. it’s over.

and her arms are nothing like his, nothing like before, nothing like the world she tried so desperately to run away from.

no, she’s her own sun, a hearth that dedicates itself to her and only her, and nothing else. she feels no malice behind her kind touch, no fear from the metal pressed so gently against her cheek. 

the tears won’t stop falling. her chest heaves and she hiccups and holds in breaths in hopes of calming down, but everything is so fresh and raw and painful and oh my god  the look in his eyes when he ran towards her you remember when you were ready to sacrifice everything for him but he never gave back to you he only took and took and took and took and kept trying to take he almost took her he almost took her he almost took away everything she loved just like that it’s so it’s so it’s so-- 

she’s held closer despite the state of her face, the pain in her heart, the guilt that comes with relief ( she had killed him she had plunged her blade right into his chest and watched the realization spread across his face as she held firm because gods she just wanted him to stop she wanted everything to stop she wanted him gone she wanted him gone more than anything-- ), knowing that, after all of this time, it was done.

the ghost is gone, their hands are no longer around her throat trying to drag her down into the blood and sinew and death and despair. the presence that had been in her head, never resting and never-ending would never have the legs to run after her ever again. she didn’t need to run away anymore. she didn’t need to abandon people anymore. she was here. she was safe. she was home.

“ you’re okay. “ yang says, fingers running through the faunus’ hair. there is no judgement, no anger, no red and no fire, because it didn’t need to be there. because they had each other and nothing would ever change that ever again. blake hiccups again, wanting to rub away the wetness from her eyes but by the gods she can’t stop holding onto to the other like her life depended it, like everything would just disappear up in smoke if she even thought about running away ever again. 

there’s a small, tender feeling that the blonde rubs into blake’s shoulder with her thumb, mumbling sweet nothings even though she herself was on the brink of tears. ( they had both faced their demons, confronted them head on with their backs to a cliff, forced to fight or die in the flames. ) a kind feeling, one deeper than like and something past love--

trust.

“ you’re okay. we’re okay. “

blake nods fiercely, a choked laugh escaping her throat despite it all, hand squeezing yang’s prosthetic as she nods again and again and smiles. the tears and crying would take some time to settle, but that’s okay. 

( gods, she’s so beautiful. )

“ yeah. we’re okay. “

it’s okay because, after everything, they finally, finally have each other.

[cygnuswheel]

he’ll always be ready at the drop of a hat. however, oscar hasn’t even remotely been interested in wearing any kind of headgear, no matter how cold and murderous the world is.

hm.

so perhaps they’re about to die.

through vertigo and panic, the effort it takes to push past such intense and nauseating emotions is a considerable one, but doable nonetheless. with practice, he focuses on the area around them, surveys the angle of their unfortunate vehicle, and frowns to himself. 

if anything, oscar is doing relatively well when it comes to steering, seeing how the only thing that he recalls the boy being able to drive is a tractor. atlas airships are quite a ways off from all things familiar back at home, and it shows with the unwilling twitch of his hands and the rush of blood past freckled ears.

he’s too slow. if he had just grabbed onto the stick and pulled back, they could have avoided the whole shoreline altogether. the boy’s heart is beating much too fast for logic to come before emotion here, something that ozpin finds a bit relieving, even if this is hardly the time for it. ( it’s something that oscar would surely scold him for, if he had half the mind to pay attention to what was happening in his head right now. oz can’t help but snort at the amusement of it. )

the ex-headmaster could fall into place right now, drag himself out of whatever ditch he’s holed himself up in for the past few weeks and just do what’s natural. it would have been too easy to reach forward, grab ahold of oscar’s hands and use them as his own if he wanted to steer them out of danger. but the child wouldn’t like that, would he? after all, it was his body, he should at least be asked before any funny soul business went down. something about the prospect makes ozpin frown.

at this point in time, if he asked, oscar would surely say yes and give him full reign. desperation and fear can make even the most infuriating propositions appear as if they came from the holy saints above.  it should be an easy decision for the entity; this ship is their way to atlas, and there are two innocent passengers on board that could be killed if even the slightest misstep is made. the lights and sirens of the vehicle are already screeching, in critical position, but as his presence comes to hover above a panicked soul’s to amend the problem, he slows.

stop. rewind a few moments, a few days. faced with the eyes of many a tired and crazed searcher staring him down, oscar smiles and rubs at his neck, saying that he was home and here to stay as long as he could. ( he didn’t know when he was going to disappear, and, frankly? neither did ozpin. everything’s gone wrong since the fall of beacon. he had traveled to another vessel too fast, assimilated the boy to the horrors of the world too fast, reminded the boy that he would no longer be “just oscar” too fast. gods, he’s only 14. how’s that for fair company? ) a gentle flame shines with conviction in hazel eyes, and he feels the boy’s fist tighten and clench when no one is looking, hearing the constant mental mantra of ‘ just keep trying. ‘

that’s something that he had told himself over and over again in his millennia of existence, because trying meant something to someone. even if that someone was just himself. even if that someone was a million years in the future, living happily in peace without ever having heard the name ozma and his pathetic, tragic tale along with it. there was some payoff, somewhere out there, where one’s work would mean something. he’s put these puzzles together far too many times to deny that.

two seconds. 

he’ll give oscar two seconds before he asserts his presence to salvage the airship at the last possible moment. two seconds to recollect himself from absolute terror and alarm and drag himself out of this mess. ( even with all of his moping and sulking, it seems that, even here, ozpin can’t help himself but lean towards being an educator, a teacher. the boy has to learn if he wants to stand on his own two feet, doesn’t he? ) the child’s heart is beating out of his chest, his teeth clenched together and hands gripping at the steering stick for dear life.

one and a half seconds.

browsing through the kid’s mind, ozpin sees the process of oscar trying to write his own will. the feather pen has been dipped in ink and the parchment lay on the table, waiting for his jurisdiction, but it’s no use. the boy is stone still. he doesn’t know what he wants to do after he dies. ( he shouldn’t have to. he’s so, so small. but there’s nothing that oz can do about it. the gods had taught him that. )

one second.

the treeline is so much closer now. no one can see how the people on the cliffside are reacting, but ozpin can at least begin to guess how their reactions look. ( a particular set of red eyes strikes a pang in his core, making the frown descend into a scowl. ) there’s still time, and there’s still belief. he doesn’t want to pull the plug just yet, not here, not yet. there’s time. 

is there time?

half a second.

oscar’s eyes are still wide as saucers, mouth still slightly agape in a silent scream. if he doesn’t die from the crash, surely he’ll fall from an anxiety attack or something. ozpin wants to comfort him, encourage him, but talking in a moment like this would be deadly. they’d never even be able to get an argument in before theyre all scattered as flesh and blood among the metal and shrapnel, with himself rising elsewhere to another damned human being. 

a tenth of a second.

ozpin closes his eyes, sighs with the combined fatigue of tens of thousands of poor souls, before reaching out and--

--he watches as oscar pulls up.

there are many bumps and tumbles during the descent, but it’s here where ozpin, completely unharmed by whatever was going on with the boy, finds himself in a daze. oscar holds firmly, the flame returned to his gaze as he skirts and grazes past trees with the grace of a seal on land. it’s not pretty, but with split second calculations, ozpin can see that the other had just barely managed to pull off the perfect maneuver. 

he notices that his hand is still hovering over the boy’s own. how... startling. how bold. but with even all of the risk, ozpin can’t find a single injury that oscar hasn’t begun to attend to himself with his aura. he had been completely useless, an airbag that had stalled a tenth a second too slow.  huh. 

... so that’s who oscar pine is. 

there’s still work to do, and ol’ oz knows that, but he’ll sit back for just a bit longer, watching and waiting as the last resort that the boy probably doesn’t even need. ( ‘ we just did it our own way ‘, hm? well played, ruby. ) a sigh. observation. that’s something that he’s good at ( and boy, ozpin does not find those often ). he could manage to look on for a bit longer.

as the world returns, oscar’s eyelids flutter to the sound of a dying machine.

[cygnuswheel]

"children from the ages of 3 to 5 were supposed to have 10 to 13 hours of sleep a night." IS THIS ABOUT HIS KIDS DID YOU REALLY GO THERE OH MY GOD

who knows.................