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darkobssessions · 4 years

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Coping Tips for Autistic Women

I am compiling a list of resources for aspie women along with tips to manage symptoms and navigate the world. Regretably, most of my personal experience comes from living undiagnosed and unaware about this for the last 27 years. There was a giant elephant in the room with everything, and I have only recently worked it out. This means that most of my habits prior to this point were ones attempting to cope with a giant unknown, the limits of which were unclear. But they more or less worked, because, as I am realising, there’s always been something they are attempting to address.

With other diagnoses and ways I attempted to explain and understand my difficulties, there were finite causes and treatments. I should have been improving if I tried x, y, or z. And I did improve my symptoms in many ways, but there was something missing from the picture. That is that autism is my personality, my state of being, how I process and view the world. And no tool, medication, process or treatment was ever going to change who I really was. Being misdiagnosed (or being missed and failing to receive the autism diagnosis) means that I have been trying to correct something that you cant ‘correct’, and shaming myself for something fundamentally me.

Some of the tips I learned over time, from how I am as a person, without the framework of reference of neurodivergence or autism:

Sensory:

My sensitivity has always been a big waving flag. I felt and saw things others didn’t. I felt more deeply. I sensed the microeffects and changes in everything. I responded harder and faster to any chemical, environmental shift, any positive or negative event, As we all do on the spectrum, we attempt to navigate our sensory environment. And we come up with coping mechanisms, good or bad, before or after we realise we are on the spectrum. For me this was a strong aversion to the things that upset me, that disturbed my senses. It was an orienting of myself in a way to avoid the disturbances, going inwards, withdrawing and even shutting down. I learned that I could not and did not want to handle crowds, loud places, supermarkets. I lived in a giant simulation attempting to minimise and avoid as much as possible the things that hurt. I learned that I was extremely sensitive, no one else seemed to be, and I just had to manage it. Since discovering autism in the last weeks, I am able to embrace the fact that sensory overload is a thing, and I really do feel pain in my body when things are too much and too loud, and just wearing earplugs has mitigated so much of this. I was gas lighting myself before about feeling a certain way because there was no explanation, that I was aware of anyway.

Physical:

I have had so many problems over the years, since I was a young girl. I used to get food poisoning symptoms really easily. I had hidden allergies. I remember a lot of my childhood spent doubled up with stomach pains, or having a fever. My family didn’t know any better and fed me and treated me as they did every other member. I was not the same, I did not feel the same, but I took it all in. By the time I was in my early teen years, I had cemented my aversion to certain foods, taken the only control I had at the time against an encroaching and controlling mother and turned it into anorexia. I avoided things I didn’t like, again, and set up a system of control that made more sense than the gaping wounds and confusion within me. Starvation triggered bulimia. And a viscous cycle of malnourishment and dysregulation unfolded. I didn’t learn until many, many years later that my system was so sensitive and damaged that if I tried to go back to how I used to eat as a child, I would get terrible symptoms. So my coping tips as I have healed from the eating disorders and become more aware is to figure out what the triggers are, what hurts, and to avoid it. This along with adding in nutrient dense foods and working on the deficiencies has done wonders for me. I’ve done tremendous work on my autoimmune conditions, gut problems, sensitivities and inflammation levels and the difference is like night and day. That I can induce psychotic symptoms by deviating or introducing foods I am intolerant to is no joke. The tip I can share is elimination diets truly do work, the keto diet is recommended, and eating the carnivorous way saved my life. My eating disorders for almost 15 years INCLUDING the 7.5 years I was a vegan, mostly high raw and fruitarian depleted my nutrients so badly that every symptom was enhanced 100% and I was eating pretty much ONLY food I was actually intolerant to. Ahem, plants, I’m talking to you. The peace I feel, the nourishment and rest on a nervous system level having eliminated them is unreal.

Social:

I have always known I was different, in a deep, visceral way. How the adults in my life answered questions was inadequate. I saw through people and things. I was far too intense and serious. I learned to watch and observe humans and pick up cues so as to attempt to fit in. I spent the majority of my life masking, something I am only now finding out about and unraveling. I kept notes on the human experience, and saved colours, sounds, feelings, because I felt like I couldn’t communicate the truth of myself otherwise. Over the course of my life there have been inexplicable (until now) events. Lost friendships and relationships, strings of broken promises, people not acting on what they say, confusions and miscommunications, and many dangerous situations and predatory bonds. I made what sense I could of it from whatever lens I could find. It was the trauma, it was my soul contract, it was what I deserved, it was being targeted- all close, but not quite within the realm of being so naive, open and fundamentally different as you are on the spectrum. I just always assumed everybody was like me. I had to learn the very extremely hard way that not everyone felt and thought in the same way, nor had good intentions. I still struggle with the fact that humans don’t tell the truth. It is of no relevance whether they secretly know it. Most people are more comfortable with illusions. I always knew this, but the diagnosis gives me a lot more peace around it. It’s allowing me to accept the fact that if I look around the majority of the people I see are not walking around processing and over-analysing everything, feeling sounds, decoding patterns and obsessed with hacking the code of reality. Less pressure that way, and more in the way of what can be viewed as natural interaction on my part. I will solve the mystery of the universe out loud otherwise, and get the blank looks and the discomfort. I have found my people, a tribe of likeminded individuals, I have gathered friends over the years that didn’t run from my weirdness. But I am mostly content to be on my own, knowing that I can only use what is around me to try to convey how I feel and who I really am. And that will probably be a book, a movie or a work of art, much better than a 2pm rendezvous when I can’t stop talking about the hidden signs.

Emotional:

With the intensity of my emotions I have developed borderline personality disorder as a means to cope with being autistic and not knowing. I have been diagnosed with both that and bipolar because I have intense stints of emotions. They come and go in waves, lasting hours, lasting days and weeks. I consider it to be an energy management system to cope with the demands and stressors of modern day living. Creatives always withdraw and hibernate, and come out with new insights and art to share. The way that I feel and view the world is special. It’s at the basis of my writing, what I choose to engage with and how. My emotions make me who I am. I feel intensely, I share passionately about how I feel. I snap, I break, I shutdown, I come out again and I am a bright, shooting star. There is an excited little animal that lives within me and it is the strongest most passionate thing known to man. I thought that my negative experiences or trauma killed it, but this is before I knew it IS me and cannot die. So I have stopped trying to cram these emotions in or explain them. Stopped trying to attribute them to whatever script people were following when they dealt with me. Throwing me into the depressive, anxious, panic stricken, eating disordered basket case category. The missing piece now makes so much sense. The ways I responded to being autistic were coping mechanisms, such as developing a personality disorder, to deal with the pressure. My psyche splintered under the weight. My tip here is in embracing your inner life and world, embracing that you are different, so that all of the mental and emotional acrobatics needed to attempt to explain the issues or fit in can be put to rest.

Spiritual:

Being different and feeling differently means I naturally saw and expressed things in quite a strange way. I was convinced of a secret world to reality, behind reality, living on behind a paper shell, so to speak, that would rip if only I could reach out and tear it aside. That conviction was rewarded as year after year my awareness grew, my gifts multiplied, and the experiences I had revealed to me the hidden hand of god. There was very much design to the universe, a pattern, weaving through all things. And i was a part of it, not some discarded afterthought or simple byproduct that had no place. In the early years, I kept my convictions to myself, nursed them with experience. I died a thousand deaths in dark nights of the soul, crashing against the turf of my ignorance. I broke open, and everything I had been so sure of as a child was revealed to me again and again. I was convinced I had a purpose, I could feel the deep tides of human emotion and motion, could feel into the genetic sequence that had birthed me. I felt like an alien, but that slowly over time the map of my operation was being revealed to me. This is what it feels like so many years later to stand here and find out about being autistic and realise that how I felt in my soul all these years was real, and that I can begin to truly fulfill this mission now, to share my experience in words I know others will understand because they feel the same way too. It was the challenges that I never understood, while the gifts were the reason to stay alive. My message to myself and others now is that there is a point, a reason to persevere and understand yourself more. The suffering reveals so much of the true state of things, so that we can protect our tender hearts and build new things that honour who we really are, our souls.

Resources, movies, literature to follow. I just wanted to share something of a summary now of my realisations since coming home to myself.

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the-observant-frisbeetarian · 5 years

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Chapter 7

We’ll Meet Again by George deValier

Arthur very slowly came to the realisation that the surface beneath him was no longer hard and cold, but soft and warm. The world was no longer pitch dark and the room seemed bright on the other side of his eyelids. He finally opened them and quickly realised he was lying in his bed. And that he felt extremely, awfully sick. Turning his head he saw a glass of water on the bedside table and grasped for it greedily. He swiftly finished the whole thing before falling back into the soft nest of pillows.

He could barely remember anything. He had started drinking… Why? Oh. Alfred. He had wanted to get rid of the pain. Well, it seemed to have worked for a while… but now it was flooding him again, and with it came the additional pain of his stomach turning itself in knots and his brain pounding against his skull. Arthur shut his eyes and tried determinedly to fall back asleep. It did not take long.

When Arthur opened his eyes again, the light was not so bright, and his head was not quite so close to exploding. He managed to drag himself to his dresser mirror, but blinked in surprise at the person who stared back at him. He could not remember the last time he had looked in a mirror. His eyes were dark, sunken. His hair was a matted mess. His lips were flakily dry and a large red cut ran across his cheek. He raised a hand hesitantly to his unshaven face, noticing more small cuts beneath the stubble. In short, he looked terrible.

Fragments of images flashed through his memory: glass smashing against a wall, bottles falling empty beside him, the stone floor of the cellar rising up to meet him… Arthur closed his eyes against his reflection, against the memories, and forced himself to get dressed.

Despite his pounding head, Arthur managed to make it downstairs. The first thing he noticed was an empty glass of bourbon on the mantelpiece. But he had left it full… Arthur's stomach flipped. Noticing a note under the glass, he quickly hurried over and grabbed it.

Alfred would not want this. Matthew.

Matthew. Of course. The last thing he'd seen in that cellar wasn't Alfred's face at all; but apparently it hadn't been a dream, either.

Arthur felt a wave of anger overwhelm him. He glared angrily at the note before ripping it to pieces and throwing it into the fireplace. How dare Matthew? How the hell did he know what Alfred wanted? Alfred was dead. As soon as he thought it, Arthur's knees nearly buckled beneath him. Dead. Dead. Alfred was dead.

"Of course he's bloody dead," Arthur whispered to himself. He knew that. So why was it like a punch to the stomach to finally think the words? Arthur breathed deeply, picked up the glass, and took it over to the sink. Back to work. What else could he do?

A week passed in the empty, grey, lifeless existence Arthur had quickly become accustomed to. He was waiting for it to get easier at some point, but at the same time expecting it not to, and somehow also hoping that it wouldn't. As the daily life of the pub went on around him, Arthur remained unmoving and lost in the centre of it. Business had once again slowed down, and today Arthur was left with little to do besides stand behind the bar polishing every glass one by one. It was the kind of mind-numbing task he almost enjoyed doing these days.

"How are you feeling?"

Arthur looked up from polishing the forty-eighth glass to see Matthew standing at the bar, in full dress uniform with his cap in hand. And of course, his polar bear attached to his lapel. Arthur suddenly wondered how he could have ever mistaken him... or anyone... for Alfred. "Better."

"Good. I was worried."

Arthur shrugged. "Why ever should you be worried?"

Matthew fixed him with a slightly disbelieving stare. "You were in that cellar for over a day."

"I was?" Arthur said it flatly.

Matthew fidgeted with his hat. He looked tired and drained. "That night, I came to see how you were doing, and the pub was closed…"

"If it was closed, how did you get in?" Arthur interrupted.

Matthew almost smiled. "You need to start remembering to lock your doors."

"Oh."

A silence fell, then Matthew took a long, steadying breath. "What were you doing, Arthur?" His eyes seemed to burn into Arthur's, almost scary in their perceptiveness. "I walked in and you were lying in a pool of broken glass and bourbon. There must have been six empty bottles next to you, not counting the broken ones."

Arthur shrugged again, expressionless. "I was thirsty."

Matthew's expression was unreadable, but seemed tinged with sadness. "Arthur, you could have killed your..."

Arthur quickly interrupted him. "Forgive me, though I know it was unforgivable to cause you such trouble. Please, accept my apologies."

Matthew smiled kindly and shook his head. "You do not need to apologise, Arthur."

"Nevertheless." Arthur did feel awful for being such a nuisance to Matthew. He was also incredibly embarrassed, and rather uncomfortable. As if he didn't have enough to feel awful about. He just wished he had been left to crawl out of that cellar himself - or simply left there for good. Perhaps that might have been best.

Matthew paused, seemingly at a loss for words. "We are leaving for France. In fact I am already late. I told you I would come say goodbye, so…" Matthew spread his hands.

As he looked across at the kind, young Canadian, Arthur felt another crushing wave of sadness. He liked Matthew. He could imagine being friends with him - in another life. Arthur swallowed heavily. He didn't expect Matthew to come back. "Matthew. I'm afraid I never was terribly good with goodbyes."

Matthew just nodded. "I thought as much. And I understand. I just wanted to… make sure you would be all right. You will be, won't you?"

Of course not. "Yes, of course."

"Good… Good." Matthew held his hand out over the bar. "Goodbye, Arthur."

Arthur took Matthew's hand in a warm handshake. "Goodbye, Matthew. Good luck."

Matthew gripped his hand tightly, his eyes kind but stern. "And don't do that again."

Arthur nodded. When his hand was released, he turned his back and closed his eyes. Would he ever stop feeling like this? Like the world kept ending around him? Even when he tried to help, all Matthew did was unwittingly cause him pain; and now by leaving he was causing more. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. But there it was. Behind him he heard Matthew walk to the door. "Matthew."

Silence.

"Please… please be careful."

"You too, Arthur."

Arthur kept his eyes closed and waited for the sound of the door shutting. Instead he heard an unfamiliar voice behind him.

"Well, bonjour Monsieur!"

Matthew responded uncertainly. "Uh, bonjour."

"Forgive me, you seem very familiar… we have not met before?"

"I do not think so."

"Then please, we must meet now. Let me buy you a drink… for you are the loveliest thing I have seen since I arrived in England!"

"I… uh..." Matthew coughed softly. "Pardon, mais pas maintenant. Peut-être une autre fois."

"Ah, and he speaks French! Be still my heart!"

Matthew gave a tiny, uncomfortable laugh. "Monsieur, we are not in Paris. You may wish to be more careful with your words here. Not all would take kindly to them, and I am sure the last thing you would wish is a jail sentence in England."

The voice scoffed lightly. "Please, my dear, I can tell a likeminded soul from a street away. So come, drink with me, you must not leave!"

Matthew sounded a little thrown. "As luck would have it, Monsieur, I am just now on my way to France."

"Ah, how cruel the fates can be… for that is where my heart desires to go yet I cannot, and though I wish for you to stay you are leaving in my place! Perhaps one day, if we are lucky, we shall meet again."

Matthew laughed dismissively. "We shall see. Au revoir, Monsieur."

Arthur turned once he heard the door finally shut. He almost groaned when the Frenchman approached the bar. Bloody marvellous. First he had to deal with the Yanks, now he had to deal with the Frogs. The man was dressed in a French officer's uniform. His blond hair fell to his shoulders - rather long for a military cut – a light down of stubble covered his chin, and his right arm was bandaged from armpit to wrist. "Ah, how quaint. A little English pub." His voice was heavily accented.

"How can I help?" asked Arthur sullenly.

The Frenchman leant on the bar and smiled brightly. "Yes, please bring me a bottle of your best red wine. French, if you have it. Not to be rude, but your English wine is, how would you say it… disgusting."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. He retrieved a bottle of wine from a glass cabinet behind him and slammed it down in front of the Frenchman. "Merlot. Best we've got. Incredibly old, perfectly cellared, simply one of the best wines in the country. One hundred pounds. Oh, and it's English."

The Frenchman wrinkled his nose. "Perhaps I will just have a glass of brandy."

Arthur shrugged. "Suit yourself." He replaced the wine and reached for a brandy bottle instead.

The Frenchman took a seat at a barstool, carefully leaning his bandaged arm on the bar. "So, what is this little pub of yours called, Englishman?"

Arthur gritted his teeth. Arrogant Frog. "The Emerald Lion."

The Frenchman furrowed his brows and tapped his chin. "Le lion vert. Hmm. The name is familiar for some reason." He nodded as Arthur placed a glass of brandy before him. "Merci, mon ami."

"My name is Arthur. And kindly refrain from calling me your ami." Arthur was hit by a sudden memory… "And kindly refrain from calling me your buddy." "All right, sorry Art. Thur." Just like that, the sudden despair of remembrance engulfed him once again.

"Very well." A smile played at the Frenchman's lips as he gazed at Arthur with intense blue eyes. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Arthur. My name is Francis. Won't you join me in a drink?"

Arthur rolled his eyes in annoyance. "No, thank you. I'm working."

Francis shrugged. "Santé." He held his drink up in a toast. Arthur noticed that two of his fingers were missing and felt a sudden stab of guilt. After all, Francis had fought for the same thing as Alfred. Whatever that meant these days.

"What do you think of the brandy?" Arthur decided it would only be polite to attempt sociability.

"This is the first drink I've had in two months." Francis took a deep sip, his expression pleasantly surprised. "And I must say, it is excellent."

"It's English," said Arthur with a tiny smile.

Francis smirked lightly. "Well, I suppose everyone gets it right once in a while." He took another sip and glanced around the pub curiously. "This certainly does bring back memories. It has been years since I have been in an English pub."

"This is not your first time in England?"

"Oh, no. I used to visit regularly, actually, with two friends of mine. We were even thinking of studying at university here, before the war. In fact…" Francis smiled wistfully, his eyes suddenly glazed and faraway. "London was the very first place we travelled together." Then he blinked it away. "But that was a lifetime ago." Francis finished his glass with a flourish. "I must apologise. I do not normally drink so fast."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry… you should see the Americans we get in here." Arthur laughed under his breath as he refilled the glass.

"Ah, the Americans." Francis nodded knowingly. "The young gentleman who passed me at the door earlier… do you know him? He is not an American?"

"Yes, I know him. And he's Canadian."

"Of course - the polar bear. Ah, what terrible timing; what a twist of fate." Francis raised his eyes and sighed melodramatically. "What a tragedy."

Arthur suppressed a laugh. It was the most he had smiled in weeks. "So Francis, whatever brings you to England this time around?" Arthur picked up where he had left off earlier, polishing glasses. He was actually starting to feel rather grateful to this French soldier for the distraction.

"An English hospital ship, actually."

"Oh. Were you wounded in Europe?"

Francis answered slowly. "I was captured in Italy."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Arthur stared at the bar top. He didn't want to know how Francis had lost those fingers. But his curiosity was overwhelming. He thought of Alfred, captured, and what he had gone through. So much for distraction. "Was it… was it very terrible?"

Francis dropped his gaze to his glass, his eyes suddenly dark and hollow. "You really do not wish to know," he said softly.

"I'm sorry," said Arthur again. He felt rather ill. "But you escaped… did many soldiers manage to escape?" A foolish hope.

"Not from those who captured me." Arthur looked at him inquisitively and Francis clarified, "Gestapo. Let's just say that I was incredibly lucky. I have a... how would you say it... a gift for escaping."

"Oh." Arthur reproached himself for even daring to hope about Alfred under those circumstances.

"If I may ask…" Francis peered intently at Arthur over his brandy glass. "You seem very interested in this. Why?"

Arthur paused, then without knowing why he was telling this strange Frenchman, explained, "I know someone who was captured by the SS."

Francis placed his glass down and sighed. "Ah, mon Dieu. I should not have…"

Arthur shook his head. "It's quite all right, I assure you. I did ask, after all."

"This person… he was a relative? A brother?"

"No, he was an American. He was… he was…" Arthur bowed his head, unsure how to finish the sentence. He was inimitable... he was mad... he was everything…

There was a brief moment of silence before Francis spoke softly. "I see. I am sorry."

Arthur shook his head again, blinking rapidly. "This is wartime. What can we do?"

Francis laughed at that, soft and humourlessly. "What indeed."

"Do you know Francis…" Arthur took a deep breath, looked up at the Frenchman, and smiled. "I think I will join you in a drink."

A few brandies later and thankfully the conversation veered away from such painful topics. Arthur knocked back another glass as Francis stared at him wide-eyed.

"You may speak of the Americans, but I have never seen someone drink like you, my friend."

Arthur waved a hand. "I'm used to it. I can hold my liquor." He immediately knocked over the bottle and decided to ignore Francis' laughter. As though the Frog could talk - he was already on his fourth glass. "And it is terribly rude to compare me to a Yank." Arthur and Francis seemed to have found common ground in their mutual exasperation with Americans.

"No class, whatsoever!" said Francis through his laughter. "And such a terrible sense of fashion!"

Arthur nodded in earnest agreement. "And have you ever tried to play baseball? Absolute bollocks! No bloody sense, none at all."

Francis leant forward eagerly. "Mon ami, but you should see the Americans in Paris! They seem to think that the entire world speaks English!"

"English, ha!" scoffed Arthur. "What they speak is not English. And what they spell certainly isn't, either."

Francis laughed loudly. They were quickly drawing stares from other customers in the pub, but Arthur couldn't care less. This was the most lighthearted he had felt in weeks. "And their food," continued Francis in a horrified tone. "It is worse than the English!"

Arthur ignored that last jab. "Their chocolate is rather good." He paused, lost in thought for a moment. "And they're so… eager. Energetic. And cheerful, despite everything. Actually… they're really not that bad at all, old chap."

Francis placed his empty glass down on the bar. "Oui, I suppose this is true. I have been two weeks in the hospital not far from here, stuck in a bed next to an American… Funny, friendly, but mon Dieu, he could simply not shut up!"

"I know exactly what you mean," said Arthur, remembering Alfred's inability to keep his mouth shut. He hadn't seemed to know how.

Francis waved a hand. "Fighter pilots. They are all the same."

Arthur smiled grimly. "It rather seems like it."

Francis glanced towards the ceiling, his expression fondly amused. "Ah la la, but this pilot was an odd one. When he was not sedated he spent the rest of the time pulling off his bandages, fighting the staff, and trying to escape the place. We had a little bet going to see who could get out first. As I said to him, if I can escape the Germans, I can escape the English." Francis raised his drink again.

Arthur hesitated. "Why was he trying to leave?"

"He kept saying he had to see someone…" Francis trailed off and looked at Arthur curiously. "Attend, I am sure this is where I have heard the name of this pub… Ah, these painkillers they have given me, they mess with the mind." Francis narrowed his eyes calculatedly. "What did you say was your name again?"

Arthur clutched his glass so hard he could feel it cracking. "Arthur," he responded in a very small voice. The air seemed to grow heavy around him.

Francis' eyes grew bright and wide. "Of course! Arthur from the Emerald Lion!"

Arthur froze in shock. He didn't dare to think. He didn't dare to breathe. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. "What was his name?" Arthur asked slowly, breathlessly. "This American fighter pilot?"

"Alfred. Lieutenant Alfred Jones."

Arthur dropped the glass. He ignored it shattering at his feet. The world seemed to fall apart and remake itself around him. His heart stopped, leapt in his chest, then thundered rapidly. He stared unseeing, unbelieving, and though he could see Francis' lips moving he could not hear a word. The sudden silence was followed by a deafening crash in his ears. When Arthur could finally move, when he could finally breathe, he managed to speak in a whisper. "Where did you say that hospital was?"

Next Chapter

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

#We’ll Meet Again chapter 7

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polandspringz · 5 years

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Home- RWBY Fic

Four years after their victory, Beacon is rebuilt. New students will come and go, things are to move forward not as if the Fall never happened, but it has faded behind them in way of a new path.

Inside his tower, the headmaster watches and recalls how his world has changed since that day the Gods returned.

This is based on a few discussions with @soulbvrden and their post about Ozma fading away! You can read that on this post , read my take on Ozpin vs. Ozma in V1-3, and read this fic on AO3 here! Maybe we will one day make an actual post for all our thoughts about which soul is actually residing inside of Oscar.

It was nice, being able to breathe again, he bemused.

At first, it was hard to believe that only a few years had passed since a conflict lasting several millenniums had ceased. Although he had only been involved in it for a little more than a year when it closed, he had seen through the memories of his other half how many had died in this struggle, how many left this world thinking it was all for a noble cause. He too had once thought that, growing up with tales of huntsmen and huntresses, but now, he knew they had just died in ignorance, due to a lie an old part of him had spun.

His hands tightened into fists at the thought of those men and women he had deceived into going into battle.

It wasn’t you, he reminded himself, it was never you. That was something he found he was never going to grow accustomed to, he thought. The reality that his other half was gone.

When all the relics had been brought together and their mangled together team stood as the only line of defense between the world and the frightening unknown rushing across the universe greet them, he stood tall on his shaking legs. The soul inside of him quivered and yet remained deathly still, panicked that this would fail, that somehow they had missed something and everyone, including himself would be vaporized. Even if Salem died then and there, her wish would come true, complete and utter destruction.

That was why, when the gods appeared and smiled down at Ozma, he fell to his knees and wept.

A hand was offered to him and the Brothers told him-

“You have done your task well. You have done nothing but good on this planet.”

“Forgive us.”

He remembered his friends surrounding him, supporting his weight as he held a hand from each of the Brothers and- gods how he tried not to openly beg- asked if he would at last be freed, if he could rest. He knew he had accepted this job willingly but he was so very tired and he just wanted to-

“Didn’t you realize it? Ozma left this world long ago.”

His legs grew heavier and he fell against Ruby, an apology somewhere in the back of his mind as he knew she was still bleeding badly. He shouldn’t be leaning on her, she should be sitting down, getting bandaged, healed- He should ask the God of Light to-

“What are you talking about? He’s- I’m- Ozma has been reincarnating for centuries! You gave him this mission! He’s been waiting for this day so he can be set free. Are you going to let him keep suffering even now-”

“My child, you are mistaken. Ozma we did task with this mission but-”

He still remembered the chill that ran down his spine at their next words.

“You are no longer Ozma, are you?”

“I don’t… I don’t understand. How did I see everything though? How did I know everything about Haven Academy when he came to me in the farm? How did I know what Beacon looked like? Leo! Glynda! Ironwood! We fused! Our souls we were likeminded he said-!”

“That is correct. However, the last time the body Ozma shared fell…. He came back to us. Not all of him, but pieces at a time.”

The God of Darkness waved his hand and the wound on Ruby’s leg closed up. His brother and him helped pull Ozma away from the group so they could hold him properly.

“We know you must be tired. You had to learn so much in such a small amount of time.”

He felt empty. He didn’t understand. He stared blankly at the ground, eyes wide as he tried to take in something, anything that would bring clarity.

“He was there though. I’m not crazy! He’s there! We could trade places and speak and-”

“My child, no one ever said you were alone.”

“But… But who else-”

“Don’t you go by a different name besides Ozma?”

He took a sip of his coffee and looked out the large window, down on the campus grounds. It was the second day of the new semester. Students were running around the cobblestone pathways, a huntswoman with graying blonde hair tapped a crop against her palm as she spoke sternly to a group of first years, covered in food from the cafeteria splotching their uniforms. He smiled over the edge of his mug.

The gears built into the tower clicked and turned behind a pane of glass beneath his feet. It would never be quite the same as what he recalled from his days at Beacon, but it brought him some comfort. Closer to a piece of him he was thankful to have gotten to know even if it was so late in their life.

“I…”

It was the students who spoke for him. He heard one of them gasp, and then Weiss whisper-

“Ozpin.”

“But he- I thought he was left behind and Ozma had-”

“We can read your soul as clear as day. Ozma, the only piece he passed on to you and him was his mission. It seems... It seems that he felt that he would weigh you down.”

“When the pieces started coming,” The God of Darkness said, “he told us what was happening. He claimed you were too innocent, too pure. He was never good at teaching, but his other self would be fine.”

“He asked us to forgive him, and it was then we considered coming back but… the last piece that came to us, it told us to wait. He had left everything behind with the two he trusted the most.”

He was drawn out of his thoughts for a moment by his scroll buzzing on his desk. He walked back and set his cup down, circling around as his hand brushed the surface. This had been salvaged from the fall, at the very least. He had witnessed many things in a room just like this one, looking out his window or from the bickering of his inner circle of trusted colleagues, but this was the desk where he had sat and stood behind observing it all. His palm jumped from the glass to pick up the small device. The glass had to be replaced, but the frame was the same. Old but sturdy. It was still good.

A message from a truly dusty old crow by this point. He grinned down at it and felt his face pull at the smile lines. He was still trying to get used to being an adult truly, he had no right to feel older than his guests that were on their way.

But, it was nice that after everything, his friendship had managed to survive.

He was pulled away from the two suddenly. Warm, strong arms came up to wrap around him, tugging his smaller frame up so he was on his toes. His head was cradled against the neck of someone with coarse, rough stubble and the faintest hint of whiskey that seemed baked into their clothes. One part of him melted into the embrace of what felt like a father. The other part stiffened and froze, still believing it too good to be true.

“Oz…” The gruff voice hummed, and he could hear the man swallow with guilt before that deep voice broke and the hug was tighter now, “I’m sorry.”

More bodies circled him. They placed a hand on him and smiled, their eyes warm and shimmering with tears. It was over. It was over. Everything was okay and-

It felt nice to be loved again.

“We’re in this together, old friend,” he chuckled to no one in particular, “You know that better than anyone.”

He slid the scroll into his pocket and walked slowly towards the window where he watched for a few more minutes. Arms folded behind his back, the suit jacket stretched uncomfortably, but he was growing used to looking this professional. He had managed to survive giving a speech at the opening ceremony, at initiation, when explaining missions. Dressing the part was just as important in these times of recovery.

After some time had passed, the elevator to his office dinged, and four people walked out. He could hear the difference in each of their strides, something unchanged since their childhood. Warmth began to blossom within his chest.

Miss Xiao Long’s footsteps were heavy and sudden. He could hear her cracking her knuckles and Ember Celica’s bullets rustling around.

Miss Belladonna’s walked forward with certainty and her head held high. From her heel to her toe, she took long steps forward with minimum noise.

Miss Schnee still had some proprietary built into her, but the most notable detail was her high pitch voice shushing their leader for making a joke at what she thought to be an inappropriate time.

And Miss Rose. Her boots made a flat, solid sound against his glass floor as walked a little bit quicker to stand a few feet in front of her team. He heard her take two extra steps before her feet settled in a stance she was comfortable with, and then he heard her messing with Crescent Rose.

“Ruby, you shouldn’t take it out when we’re in here!”

“Yang always has her weapon out though. It’s fine, besides, I want to show off my new upgrades.”

“Let her be, Weiss.”

“You could wait a moment longer though. He hasn’t even turned around to greet us yet.” Blake’s voice smiled with the word as she stopped the bickering. The clanking of metal stopped at that, and he waited patiently for them.

That was a lie, he was busy composing himself.

“It’s nice to be back here,” her voice rang with that childish squeak even now. It brought a smile to his lips, “I told you that coming here was my dream. We didn’t get to spend much time here but… I know the new students will have the time of their lives under your guidance.”

“I don’t know about that,” he chuckled, “I think we all could agree that any repeats of our adventures together would be undesirable.”

He kept his eyes towards the sunset. Somehow, it had gotten this late in the day already. That would explain why Dr. Oobleck and Port were ushering students back towards the dorms now.

“So, we finished that last mission you left for us,” Ruby continued, her boots squeaking a bit as she fidgeted around.

“Could’ve given it to us in person though,” Yang scoffed, but it lacked any bite.

“Now, now. Where’s the fun in that? You were scattered all over with recovery efforts. I didn’t want to take up any of your time for something so minor,” he chided.

“If a friend calls for us, it’s important.”

He hated to admit how much his soul shivered at those words.

“You know that, don’t you? Headmaster Ozpin?”

He managed to straighten his back and push the glasses up so they sat properly on his face (not that he really needed such small spectacles anyway). Slowly he turned around, and gave the four women a smile as the orange sun burst through the window and cast their figures aglow with such warmth.

“It is good to see you again, students. However, I hope you know that these days, I am more Oscar than anyone else.”

Ruby merely tugged something off her belt and tossed it towards him. He caught the cane easily in his hand, the motions mastered for centuries as it soared through the air in his hold, opening up with a click of a button and extending before touching the ground lightly. His hands folded over top of it gingerly. Behind silver hair, eyes swirling green and orange reflected thankfulness as he bowed his head. A green glow washed over him before it fizzled out. Oscar’s eyes remained unchanged, except for the hint of extra fondness that seemed to smile within them as he spoke.

“Although, he would like to thank you for… for not forgetting him.”

The four of them looked at him with gentleness. Ruby walked forward and cupped his cheek. She was shorter than him now, but she gave him a motherly gaze as she ruffled his hair.

“You’ve done so much for us. It’s the least we could do.”

“I’m sorry,” he confessed, looking away.

“Don’t be. You’ve done so much to make everything right, I don’t want to hear another apology until the two of you are gone.”

“Hopefully that’s not before you, Miss Rose.”

“Oh knock it off,” she lightly slapped the side of his head, “You wouldn’t want to stick around when I’m old.”

“Yeah, she’s going to be another Maria,” Weiss snorted, crossing her arms.

“Well, students-”

“Huntresses,” Blake corrected, to which the man smiled.

“-Huntresses, yes. I have another job for you, although it might be a bit too much for you to handle. It’s a bit of a permanent position, and you won’t get to travel that much as your used to, which might be a downside but I assure you there are benefits to-”

“We accept.”

He stuttered, “Are you certain? I don’t want to bog you down with something-”

“You already asked JNPR about it, right? We heard on our way back from the Spring with that,” Weiss pointed at his cane.

“There’s still Grimm and people who need help. We’ve had our fair share of adventure, it’s time for someone else to take up the mantle,” Ruby bubbled, and Oscar scanned the group for the consensus. Yang knocked her fists together, flaring up Ember Celica, Blake reached behind her to grab the hilt of Gambol Shroud. Weiss lifted Myrtenaster and crossed it over her chest, inspecting it for a moment before she smirked at him and tilted her head. Ruby picked up Crescent Rose and gave him a fierce, determined gaze from underneath her fringe.

He smiled, “Very well. I’m happy to hear the four of you ladies will be joining us-”

He had circled back towards his desk, but he was stopped by the clatter of metal on the floor and then he was attacked by the arms of the four girls, pulling him back down to the floor into a large hug. He saw their weapons in a heal a few feet away from in between the arms that were circling his face.

“Now, what’s all this for?” He asked, trying to hide the stunned feeling making his heart flutter.

“For you, Oscar. For you,” Yang said. She was the tallest, and sitting up on her knees, she tucked his head underneath her chin as she looked towards the window.

“And Ozpin, but mostly you. We know that we’ll reach at least one part of you,” Ruby chirped as she loosely hung her arms around his waist, leaning against his side. Weiss was trying to hide the blush on her face as she kept glancing away.

“There’s four of us, so we thought-”

“Two for each of you,” Blake interrupted, “If all four hugged you, then both parts of you would get two hugs.”

The cane slipped out of Oscar’s hand momentarily as they pressed in closer, he caught it but his grip was loosening.

“I… I don’t-”

He didn’t know what to do. He had never felt this much-

“Don’t say anything. We told you, we’re your friends, okay?”

The cane clattered to the ground as it rolled out of the way of their feet, joining the pile of weapons in the center of the room. The eighteen year old waited one beat, then two- before he felt his tears began to pour he pressed his face against one of their arms and wept. He inhaled the familiar scent of Weiss’s hair, felt Ruby’s hand combing through his own. Blake’s nose touched his neck as she sang softly to him. Slowly, as the tears began to fade, exhaustion overtook him and Yang helped lower him down to rest his head on her lap, and surrounded by the four girls, he shut his eyes and blinked away the last of his years of tears.

And at last, his soul was whole.

#rwby #my writing #oscar pine #ozpin #ozma #rwby ozma #ruby rose #team rwby #weiss schnee #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #writing #fic

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