Chapter Text
Branches whipped at Clover’s face, their leaves spattering him with moisture. A slow, cool drizzle specked his clothes, adding to the sudden damp sensation. Beneath him, a strange, gray beast was racing through the forest’s underbrush. It had four legs, a long neck from which sprouted a sleek, black mane, and its feet made a sharp ‘clopping’ sound as they struck the ground. Clover realized that he was sitting on a leather seat of some sort, and seemed to be rising and falling against it in rhythm with the beast’s gallop. Long leather straps stretched from the beast’s head to his hands. As soon as he began to think about it, however, he realized he had no idea what he was doing--and as the creature--a ‘horse’, he now realized he knew--weaved around a tree, he lost his balance and felt himself begin to slide off the leather seat, losing his grip on the--the reins--in his surprise.
Clover tried to dive for the reins as they fell away, but only threw himself further from the saddle, and as the horse leaped over a small gully, he felt open air, and then he was on the ground, rolling and tumbling over stones, leaves, and branches. He came to rest against a small shrub, gasping for breath. He felt a dull ache in his side--probably from the fall. Hopefully it was only a bruise.
Clover slowly pushed himself up off the cold, wet forest floor. His hands were grimy, coming away from the ground with bits of dead leaves and twigs stuck to them. He swore. His uniform may have been wrinkle-free, but that was no protection against mud. He looked down to brush himself off, however, and realized he wasn’t wearing his flight uniform. He wore soft gray trousers, made of a fabric that definitely was not wrinkle-free, and looked like it may have been hand-woven, the seams along the sides very slightly not straight. The ends of the trousers were tucked into tall black leather boots. And instead of his zippered vest, he wore a simple tan leather jacket, fastened down the front with buttons. Still no sleeves--so that at least made sense. The necklace hung from his neck, the green amulet tucked into the vest on its silver chain. And his red armband was still on his bicep, though this armband was tied in a knot.
Where was he? Clover rose to his feet, and looked around. His horse--Kingfisher, he remembered--had been galloping at speed through the forest. From what? He turned and looked back in the direction from which he had come. A short ways away, a wide rock face rose from the forest floor, stretching up high above the treetops. The rock was a smooth, dark grey. Long, glittering seams of pink quartz wound sinuously through the rock, meeting in a large cluster near the ground.
The portal. He had been travelling through a portal, to find Qrow. But he had been in… a metal vessel of some sort. He recalled foggily memories of bright lights shooting in straight lines through a large, empty black space, enormous fires that blazed impossibly briefly. And at the center of the memories, Qrow.
Clover’s head swirled. Where was he? What were these memories? He… he knew Qrow. Qrow was his companion, his friend. They lived on a farm. He remembered that now. They had known each other for several years, and yes, he had been away. The memories came back now, and Clover heaved a sigh of relief. He must have hit his head when he fell from Kingfisher, or perhaps an errant tree branch had struck him and thrown him. Yes. All was clear now. He was returning from a year away, serving in the King’s Army. And he was coming home to his farm with Qrow. And he certainly knew how to ride a horse.
Clover picked his way through the damp underbrush of the forest, retracing his steps to where he had fallen, being careful to avoid slipping once more into the mud as he crossed the gully. The rain felt cool on his skin--the air was warm, and he had been exerting himself. The trees thinned not far ahead, and Clover pushed through a thick stand of bushes, emerging at the edge of a wide field. A small earthen path cut through the field not far from where he stood, and to his left, he saw Kingfisher, grazing on a patch of leafy weeds that had sprouted at the edges of the forest.
He walked up to Kingfisher, and extended a hand toward the horse’s neck. Kingfisher raised his head from his snack, and nickered gently to Clover. Clover pressed his hand to the horse’s neck, feeling the familiar, soft warmth.
“Hey, boy. Hey,” he said. “Sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.”
The horse’s large, brown eye gazed at him, and turned his head toward Clover, nudging him and nuzzling at his ear. Clover laughed and ran his other hand affectionately along Kingfisher’s head.
“What do you say we head home?” Clover said. He reached back and collected the reins, carrying them over to the pommel of the saddle. He wrapped them around the horn, and checked the saddlebags--they appeared well-secured. Satisfied, he placed a foot in the stirrup, and vaulted easily up and into the saddle--a smooth, practiced motion. He had of course done this many times, since he was a boy on his mother’s farm. He nudged Kingfisher into motion with his heels, guiding him toward the earthen trail, and the direction of his farm.
--
The rain had eased as Clover arrived at the farm, and golden rays of the setting sun’s light shown through the patchy remains of the clouds. Clover’s heart filled with warmth as his home came into view--a small, stone cottage with a thatched roof, nestled alongside several earthen storehouses. A pen for the chickens lay beside the storehouses, the coop just as he remembered it, a small wooden building at the far end. Several of the white birds milled calmly in the yard, clucking to themselves. Next to the coop stood the stables, and then there were the fields--doing well, he saw. A small, lush vegetable garden abutted the house, and beyond it a large field of potatoes, full of bushy, green plants. Beyond the potatoes, golden wheat fields stretched out to the distant tree-line. Qrow had done well in his absence.
The cottage door opened with a creak as Clover dismounted. Clover turned, and there was Qrow--striding towards him. A large apron hung from his neck, tied firmly around his waist, over a loose-fitting black linen shirt. Clover noted with satisfaction that Qrow appeared to be in good health--his cheeks were full of color, and even beneath the loose shirt, he could see firm, toned muscles.
“Welcome back, my friend,” Qrow said with a grin, as he threw his arms around Clover in a tight embrace.
“It’s good to see you, Qrow,” Clover replied with a laugh. He pulled back and clapped a hand on Qrow’s shoulder. “The farm looks wonderful--you’ve done an excellent job without me!”
Qrow’s cheeks colored slightly. “You know I couldn’t have let things run down while you were away--ever since you took me in those years ago, I have been indebted to you.”
Clover remembered--Qrow had come knocking at his door one night, thin, pale, and hungry. His village had been decimated by the Grimm, and he needed a meal and a place to rest for the night. He had no money, but had offered a few days’ work in the fields as repayment. Clover had immediately urged him in, and fed him as much as his stores could allow--not allowing him to begin helping in the fields until he had regained some health. As they had worked together, they had found they got along well, and Clover had told Qrow that he was welcome to stay if he wished, and help Clover run the farm. Qrow had been reluctant, at first--he feared that his village’s demise was his own fault, that he had been cursed with misfortune. He refused to bring that curse to Clover’s farm. Clover had insisted, though--he had always had bountiful yields on this farm, so perhaps he had been blessed with good fortune--and at worst the two would balance each other. Qrow had finally agreed to stay, and to his surprise and delight, the farm had continued to produce well.
“Come now,” Clover said. “You have done your fair share--the farm is as much yours as mine these past few years. There is no debt.”
“Well, you know we disagree on that,” Qrow said. He looked suddenly concerned. “And the war in the South? It went well?”
Clover furrowed his brow. He knew he had gone away to help in the war. One of the King’s men had come knocking a year ago, looking for recruits. Clover had felt that it would be an opportunity to make a name for himself as something more than a farmer, and that Qrow had learned enough of the farm’s operations to run things himself. But he found that he could not recall any details of the war. He remembered...the tempo of battle, the sounds of steel, and the frenzied fear that came with a close fight. He remembered loss, and victory. But he could not recall any specific battles, nor anyone he had fought alongside.
“I…I think so,” Clover replied. “To be honest, my memory is a little fuzzy. I fell from Kingfisher on the ride home, and may have hit my head. But I’m here, and I’m unharmed.”
Qrow nodded in relief. “And the Grimm? Any news from the journey home?”
Images flashed in his head--large, black beasts with red eyes, then strange black metal contraptions with red glowing orbs, transforming and shapeshifting as they hung against a black, starry sky, spitting fire from within. He shook himself. He had never encountered such monsters. The Grimm was invisible--a fog of wrongness that drifted over the land, unseen, but felt. Those who didn’t evade its influence entered a deep stupor, and then catatonia. Invariably, they would waste away and perish. Clover remembered that he had played games as a child that were meant to teach children to avoid the influences of the Grimm--and he even remembered a refrain from a nursery rhyme his mother had sung:
Run, run, run along;
Your, your head is all wrong.
Run, run, run in the rain;
Rain, rain ends the pain.
Nobody knew how to fight the Grimm--all that was known was that a sense of wrongness filled the brain when the Grimm was near, and many felt headaches as the Grimm began to spread over the land. Rain seemed to either drive the Grimm away or cause it to dissipate. Those who were smart, and aware, would turn back and flee as soon as they felt that discordant sensation, or would try only to travel when it rained.
“Well?” Qrow asked.
“I… not that I recall. I don’t think I stopped in many villages,” Clover responded, uncertainly. How could he not remember, either the war, or the Grimm?
Qrow shrugged. “Well, it has encroached more and more often here. Just last month, Robyn Hill’s husband was taken unawares in their field. She hasn’t been the same since she buried him--gone is that cheerful demeanor. I’ve been bringing her vegetables from our garden, and she has this icy stare a mile long. You’d think she was ready to fight the world.”
“That’s horrible,” Clover said. Robyn Hill had been an old friend of his--they had known each other as schoolchildren. To lose her husband must have been devastating. But there was no way to fight the Grimm. He understood her resolve, but where would she direct it, without an enemy to fight? He shook his head, sadly.
“Well...anyway,” Qrow said, pulling away and beginning to walk toward the house. “We have avoided it here so far. Your timing is perfect, by the way. Supper is almost ready. I’m making stew, and sourdough. We should be ready to sit down by the time you have Kingfisher stabled. And then tomorrow, I was thinking of beginning the wheat harvest.”
Clover smiled, and began leading Kingfisher toward the stables. “Lucky me, then!” he called over his shoulder. “After so many months eating army rations, that sounds delightful. And it will be good to return to the fields.”