Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Weiss Schnee regarded the makeup products before her as if they'd done her a personal wrong.

That was illogical, she knew. Makeup was just a tool. It had no purpose or agency of its own. It was no more good or bad than the hands that wielded it.

The thought didn't help. It didn't touch how she felt.

She was aware that she was externalizing. It was a bad habit of hers. Feeling uncertain and nervous about your situation? Focus on the shortcomings of others. Can't meet your own standard of perfection? Something or someone cheated you.

Don't know what image you want to present to the world? That awful, useless makeup is to blame.

Her eyes drifted upwards from the vanity, taking in her own image in the mirror, and she wondered why she didn't like it more. Her dress was beautiful, the loveliest money could buy. She was objectively pretty: porcelain-fair skin, appealing features, striking eyes—

Her gaze halted and her thoughts faltered.

That scar, though… was not 'objectively pretty'. Which meant she wasn't.

Was that why Neptune had…?

She ejected that thought from her mind, but she still felt it, lurking beneath the surface and clawing at her heart. She'd lost something, that day back in Atlas. The scar was more than skin-deep.

She raised her hand towards the ruined flesh, traced it down her face. The motion wasn't a habit; with her ironclad Schnee self-discipline, she'd kept herself free of any such tics. She was aware of what she was doing. She was aware of the scar.

It shouldn't have been there. The fight with the Arma Gigas had been going so well, and she'd indulged the notion that it wasn't such a big deal after all. Then its fist had come around quicker than she'd expected, with so much power behind it her aura hadn't been able to contain the blow. Then she'd needed the last dregs of that same aura to finish the battle, leaving none available to heal the wound properly.

The scar was a reminder of her flaws. Of her carelessness. She hated it for that. She hated how unavoidable it was, how on display it was. A Schnee needed to be perfect. The scar showed she wasn't.

She traced it again, top to bottom, finger skipping across her eye. She imagined her finger was like a tear falling from the eye, rather than the blood that had actually dripped there. What an absurd image. She hadn't genuinely cried in years. Crying was pauper behavior, her father had scoffed. Indulging your sorrows when there was work to be done? The poor were poor for a reason, he'd always said.

He'd also said she'd never make it on her own… yet here she was.

If Weiss wasn't just a Schnee, if she was more than a name—if she was someone who could become a Huntress on her own strength, and not on her family's standing—wasn't the scar proof? Wasn't it a declaration that she had faced danger, that she had earned her way here? Her father always insisted on seeing receipts. Weiss' were worn on her face.

Imperfect, but here. That's what Weiss was, right?

Well… in a general sense, she supposed. Not right this moment. Right this moment, she was supposed to be preparing for the Vytal Ball, not loitering in a bathroom. Yang, no doubt, was wondering where she was. Weiss could imagine Yang getting irritated that Weiss wasn't holding up her share of the work. What a slacker, she was.

Yang would probably punish Weiss by smuggling in a fog machine.

Yet here Weiss was, still staring at her reflection, as if it held the answers.

Weiss' lips pursed. It did not make her reflection look prettier.

Weiss felt a touch of despair, rising higher the longer she lingered. Even so simple a thing as leaving her father's house had left her permanently disfigured. What would the cost of freedom be?

Stupid scar. Stupid feelings about her scar. Why couldn't it just be one thing? Why did it have to be complicated?

Well. If it was complicated, best get it out of the way. Some out of the way, at least.

Grabbing at the makeup at last, she began to powder down her scar. If she couldn't be rid of the thing, she'd obscure it. She'd minimize it. She'd…

"Yang's looking for you!"

The voice came almost before the bathroom door banged open. Without warning Weiss' vision was full of Ruby. "Stop doing that!" she protested, warding the younger girl off.

"What?" asked Ruby, nonplussed.

Weiss took a breath to steady herself. Ruby seemed to alternate between fading into the background and being right in Weiss' face, with little in-between. If there was one place Weiss didn't want Ruby at a time like this, it was in her face. "Just clear out for a few minutes," Weiss said. "Let me finish getting ready."

Ruby's eyes flicked over the scene. "You need privacy to do your makeup?"

"I would appreciate some, yes," Weiss said.

Ruby leaned closer, giving Weiss the opposite of privacy. "You're trying to cover up your scar?"

"No," Weiss retorted instinctively. She didn't need to see Ruby's skeptical look before she winced. The only powdering she'd gotten done was in the area of her scar, which just created more contrast with her otherwise pale face. "Maybe," she amended.

Ruby scoffed. "Why?"

"I thought I asked you to leave," said Weiss, but Ruby still didn't, and Weiss gave up hope that she would. "Since you insist… I have complicated feelings about my scar. It is… complicated." Complicated enough to thwart Weiss' otherwise varied vocabulary, she thought with a cringe.

She could see Ruby trying to wrap her head around this. The girl's head cocked slightly as she blinked, looking puppy-like for a moment. "Why would you hide it, though? It's awesome, and it means you're awesome."

Weiss frowned; a mixture of fear and anger swelled up inside of her. "How do you know that? I never told you how I got this."

"You will when you're ready," said Ruby with unflappable certainty. It would have been infuriating if it weren't so sincere. "I know it's a great story."

"Don't be so sure," Weiss mumbled.

"Oh, right!" said Ruby brightly. "You don't know!"

"Don't know what?" said Weiss indignantly. The idea of Ruby knowing something she didn't…

"You weren't raised by Huntsmen," Ruby said, matter-of-fact as you please. "How many scars have you seen up in Atlas?"

Scars? Inside that bubble of safety, idealized beauty, and unlimited plastic surgery budgets? A world where people wore white gloves to signal that they were literally above labor and danger? "None."

"Sounds boring," said Ruby. "Yang and I, we lived around Huntsmen our whole lives. They have a different take on scars."

"Do they?" said Weiss testily.

"They say scars are cool," said Ruby. She was as undeterred as ever by Weiss' temper, and had edged closer to get a clearer look at Weiss' reflection. "They say, you know a Huntress has really been doing it if they have scars. Every scar has a story, and a Huntress who tells you the story must like you."

Weiss hmphed. "Well, I certainly won't be telling you my story, then."

Ruby rolled right along. "Being a Huntress is so dangerous that if you take a hit bad enough to scar you, most of the time you don't walk away. If you get scarred and survive the fight, you must be really stubborn, and strong, and hardcore."

Ruby was standing next to Weiss now, close enough to feel alongside. They were looking at each other's reflection in the mirror, seeing eye-to-eye via the glass. "Huntsmen dig scars," Ruby said, more quietly.

Weiss swallowed. It was harder than she'd expected. "Do they?"

"Totally," Ruby said reassuringly. "Back at Signal, kids would get these crazy ideas in their heads about scarring themselves to look good. Dad was always having to break 'em up before they hurt themselves."

Scars… looking good. It was hard for Weiss to handle the notion. It kept slipping through her fingers. She would have thought it all a joke, but there was no hint of that in Ruby's face. She was, as ever, painfully open and bright.

Weiss gathered herself. "You're saying you think the scar makes me look prettier?"

"To a Huntsman," Ruby said with a nod. "Which means this is the right place for you to be!"

"Well, I knew that," said Weiss, trying for flippant in pure self-defense.

It didn't deflect Ruby, and Weiss was beginning to wonder if anything could. "Uncle Qrow always said, a gal with a scar must be one bad mother!"

Having heard tales of this 'Qrow', Weiss strongly doubted those were his exact words. That thought, though, was a distant one, because Ruby's eyes had drifted to Weiss' scar, and lingered there. Weiss felt exposed, open before that gaze. Self-discipline kept her in place, but her insides writhed.

Yet Ruby's face didn't look like others' had when they looked at her scar. Her gaze was not an Atlesian gaze. There was no hint of horror, revulsion, distaste, pity… none of that. There was only intrigue, and maybe a hint of admiration.

Ruby looked away from the mirror; Weiss suddenly remembered about breathing. She blinked twice, and saw Ruby putting the powder away. "Don't hide your scar," she admonished gently, before turning to face Weiss directly and making Weiss feel, if anything, even more naked than before. "I think it's your best feature."

And now Weiss felt like she was gripped by the same metal fist that had scarred her in the first place.

"Ruby Rose," she said determinedly, even though it felt like her mouth was full of ashes, "are you… flirting with me?"

At that, Ruby flinched. She blinked rapidly. "What? No! Of course not. I mean… uh… yeah. You didn't know, so… I told you! Right."

Weiss nodded, which was surprisingly easy; she felt light-headed, and her ears were full of buzzing. "Right. Of course."

Ruby took a step backwards, wobbling uncertainly on unfamiliar high-heels. "Oh! And my sister—Yang—you know she's Yang—she was looking for you! So… now you know!"

And she was out the door in a flurry of rose petals.

Weiss shook her head, as if trying to clear it after whatever had just happened. She wasn't sure she could put a name to it. All she knew was that her heart was galloping, and she felt a strange warmth in her chest, and she didn't hate her scar as much.

She looked in the mirror again. She saw her reflection smile slightly.

One bad mother.

It was laughable for someone to self-censor that much, yet, somehow, for Ruby it worked. The point still got across. Against all odds, it took root.

Weiss righted her posture. Chin up. Back straight. Shoulders slightly back. There she was. There was Weiss Schnee, scar and all.

Maybe she wasn't objectively beautiful after all. But she was subjectively beautiful to the people who mattered. To them, she wasn't beautiful in spite of the scar, but because of the scar. The people who couldn't see that? Well, who cared what they thought!

If Neptune couldn't see that, he was a fool. He didn't know what he was missing. She'd stick with the people who could.

Her heartrate didn't slow as her thoughts drifted.

The people who could…

Next time: Bite the Hand

Chapter Text

Over the years—and especially since her first day at Beacon—Weiss had become increasingly aware of the gap between what she thought and what she felt. Other people… people she hardly dared think about these days, lest the pain of missing them grow too acute… didn't have that gap, or had less of one. Weiss did.

She knew, intellectually, that there were worse places to be than her current position. Prison. The bottom of the ocean. Wherever the grimm came from. Each of those had their bad points, and she could recite them in an abstract way.

At the same time, she felt like she'd rather be anywhere than here.

Another mirror. Another array of makeup. An expectant crowd waiting for her to sing, and an even more expectant father waiting to levy judgement.

It wasn't even the music that he cared about. Her father had no musical inclinations to speak of and a tin ear to boot. He only cared that other people cared, which gave him opportunities to get more wealth, influence, and power.

So long as she expanded those opportunities rather than threatened them, he didn't gave a rat's ass about the music.

She'd only ever sung at his whims, she realized. She'd never sung at Beacon. She'd been so happy to be away from that, to not have to sing, that she'd refused to sing on principle. Even during the short-lived "Puns and Roses" debacle, she'd played piano rather than sung, when piano was Whitley's specialty, not hers.

That'd been a mistake. She should have sung at Beacon while she had the chance. They would have liked that. Ruby would have liked that.

If only she'd known her time with them, with Ruby, would be over almost before it began. If only she'd known how few chances she'd have, how precious those missed opportunities would be…

Weiss' hands balled up so tightly she felt the prick of her nails digging in.

If the makeup artist noticed, she gave no sign, preoccupied as she was. The woman—Löwenzahn, or "Ms. Lowe" as she'd asked to be called—was bustling about. She was a round woman with graying hair, and a face that was probably kindly when it wasn't so tense it hurt to look at. Her fingers, though, were dexterous and true, and her motions both careful and precise.

"Now the lips," she was saying, and Weiss obeyed, falling into the routine easily. This was old ground—though this was a new partner. Weiss had never seen this woman before. Someone else had done her makeup back before she'd left.

The implications of that thought were troubling.

"Now your cheeks," Ms. Lowe continued. This didn't require Weiss to do anything but sit still, but she supposed it was easier for Ms. Lowe to talk her way through every step than a selection of them. "And we're done there, so now close your eyes."

That was a break in the routine—a clanging chord interrupting an aria. "What for?" snapped Weiss.

If Ms. Lowe had looked unbearably tense before, she looked paralyzed by fright now. "W-well, one eye, at least," she said. "Just the left is f-fine, if you want to keep the other open."

Said eyes narrowed but did not close. "What. For?"

Ms. Lowe couldn't help herself. Her eyes flicked at Weiss' scar.

Weiss felt her voice dropping a register. "I see. No, we won't be doing that."

Ms. Lowe began to protest, but Weiss cut her off with a raised finger before she could get going. "We are not going to obscure this or play it down," Weiss said. "If anything, I want it emphasized."

The words left Ms. Lowe stricken. "Emphasized? Ma'am, that's… that's against my instructions."

"My father's instructions." It was not a question; who else's could they be?

Ms. Lowe gave quick, shallow nods. "He said it was un… unbefitting. He wanted it…"

"I can guess," said Weiss, sparing the makeup artist having to spell it out. She sighed. "And I'm guessing he went a bit further than that? Something along the lines of, 'Do a good job and more work might be coming, mess it up and you'll never work in this town again'?"

A squeak escaped Ms. Lowe before, blushing furiously, she crushed her lips shut.

In turn, Weiss knew, that made her responsible. This woman's employment depended on Weiss' cooperation. How like her father to hold everyone around him ransom.

"We'll blame me."

The words were out of her mouth before they hit her brain—her feelings and thoughts were working on separate tracks again. When Ms. Lowe just kept on looking petrified, Weiss' mind caught up with her intent. "We'll emphasize my scar, and then we'll blame me," Weiss explained. "If anyone asks, we'll say you did the job properly, but I messed it up before my performance."

"Lie to Master Schnee?" said Ms. Lowe, as a sheen of sweat broke out at her brow.

Master… if she hadn't been dead-set on defiance before, that word fixed Weiss' course. "It's not a lie," she said smugly. "It's the truth. I am messing it up. I don't like doing things just because my father says, and I don't think you do, either."

"He's the customer," Ms. Lowe bleated. "The customer is always right!"

"Not always, and you know it." Weiss took the pressure off a bit; she sat back in her chair and tossed her head in a way that pushed the left side of her face closer to the artist. "Stage makeup is supposed to enhance contrast and help details stand out. Why would we smudge them up? Am I supposed to look like an indistinct blur?"

"I-if that's what's called for," said Ms. Lowe, but her face looked as troubled as it did scared.

"That's not what either of us want, though," Weiss said keenly. "We want this to be seen. It's special. It's unique to me. You don't often get a chance to work with this sort of feature, do you?"

"No," said Ms. Lowe, but it was almost automatic. Her eyes were scanning Weiss' face. Weiss could almost see the gears turning in Ms. Lowe's head.

"There's opportunity here," Weiss pressed. "You get to do something new and different. You get to present this face, this scar. Who else has had that chance?"

Ms. Lowe's cheeks dimpled; the woman was biting the insides of them in her nervousness. "It is… striking," she allowed.

It means I'm one bad mother. An upsurge of feeling hit Weiss, a dozen different emotions all together, loneliness and longing, affection and annoyance, sorrow and joy. She was surrounded by the smell of roses.

"I've been told," she said, voice quavering, "that it's my best feature."

Ms. Lowe gave another set of herky-jerky nods.

"So," said Weiss, leaning forward conspiratorially, "do you want to help me flaunt this, and stick it to 'master Schnee' in the process?"

The ghost of a smile flickered across Ms. Lowe's face.

Weiss looked back in the mirror, and saw it smiling back at her. Her eyes traced down the scar, the scar that showed her own agency, her own will.

"Good."

Weiss thought she could hear Ruby cheering her on.

Next time: Share the Wealth

Chapter Text

It caught Weiss' attention when she saw it. She would have been forgiven for missing it. Just the fact of Blake's return was overwhelming, never mind the circumstances of that return, on top of everything else that happened that violent night, like almost dying.

Exhausted though Weiss was, she still noticed the mark on Blake's abdomen.

There wasn't much occasion to talk about it in the whirlwind days that followed the Battle of Haven. There were a million tasks to occupy their little Save-the-World Squad. They knew they needed to get to Atlas as soon as possible to secure the Lamp. At the same time, they couldn't just abandon Mistral. With Lionheart a traitor and the extent of his treachery still unknown, with race relations in total upheaval, with the Kingdom largely denuded of Huntsmen, there was enough work to occupy RWBY for years to come.

Ozpin gave them five days.

That left scant "personal time" for the members of Weiss' surrogate family to catch their breath, decompress, and reconnect. Even having noticed the mark, Weiss never had an opportunity to ask her friend about it. (She hoped Blake was still a friend, at least; so many things were up in the air. One more thing to talk about, if they ever got the chance.)

The fourth night found everyone packing up and preparing to move on. This had taken Weiss an embarrassingly short time to accomplish. She'd escaped from the Branwen bandits with little more than Myrtenaster and the clothes on her back. The group had a small amount of lien to fund entirely too many world-saving activities; of the tiny portion allotted to Weiss, most of it went to Dust and a single set of pajamas.

She finished well before the others, especially since she didn't have the personal connections the others had. Not in this city, anyway. With her part done and the rest of the place in bedlam, Weiss decided to try to stay out of the way. This gave her an opportunity to check something that'd been bothering her.

She stood in the bathroom in her pajamas, looking in the mirror, intensely self-aware. At least there wasn't any makeup around (they couldn't afford it); the déjà vu would have been intense.

Slowly, she lifted the hem of her shirt, and looked at the reflection of her exposed skin above the waist on her right side.

Nothing.

Nothing but a smooth plain of seemingly untouched skin.

She let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

There was a knock on the door. "Anyone in there?"

"It's fine," Weiss called back, even as her fingers ran over her skin. Not even a hint of what had been, according to Jaune, a rather sizeable hole punched in her body.

The door eased open and Blake snuck in. She froze when she saw Weiss; her faunus ears flattened against her skull. "I'll come back later," she mumbled.

"I said already, it's fine," said Weiss with a dismissive wave. "In fact, I could use some help."

Blake's ears perked slightly. Weiss felt an urge to giggle. Blake had hidden more than her faunus heritage with that little black bow. "You could?"

"I can't quite see behind me," Weiss said, twisting in the mirror, trying to get a good look at her back. "Could you look back here and tell me if there's a scar?"

Her fingers circled an area of her back that—again, relying on her teammates' memories of the battle—had been the impact point of that blind-siding spear.

Blake frowned, but obliged. She entered the bathroom and shut the door behind her; Weiss immediately saw her lose some of her tension as soon as the door clicked shut. Obligingly, Blake walked to where she could see Weiss' back and peered closely. "Nothing," she said.

"Hm," said Weiss. "You know? I'm almost disappointed."

"With what?" said Blake, surprised.

"You'd think that, if you were impaled and survived, there'd be some lasting mark."

All color left Blake's face. "You were impaled?"

"That's what they told me," said Weiss, tracing her fingers again over her side. "I don't really remember it. It was a sneak attack while I was fighting someone else, and I passed out on the spot. When I woke up, it was already healing over, thanks to Jaune."

Blake goggled harder. "I knew I'd miss things while I was gone, and I'm sorry, but I missed how much? You got impaled and Jaune saved you? Next you'll be telling me, I don't know, that you can summon giant ice monsters, or that Yang actually found her mom."

Weiss smiled.

Blake groaned and let her head droop. "Which one?"

"Both." Weiss chuckled. "We have got to get you caught up. Those were the little things."

Another groan, followed by Blake partially lifting her head. "Next to all of that, you getting impaled four days ago and shaking it off is downright believable."

"It is funny how our minds work," Weiss said, looking at the wound point in the mirror. "Other bad things have happened to me, but I remember them. I had to smuggle myself out of Atlas, and my airship crashed after a grimm attack, and bandits picked me out of the wreckage. I had nightmares about all of that off and on for weeks. After the Fall…"

She paused, feeling like she'd gone too far. Blake had flinched, and her ears were once more dropping low.

Weiss skipped over it. "This time, though? I can barely remember it when I'm awake, let alone asleep. I know it happened, but I don't feel it." She looked at Blake curiously. "Have you been like that before? Where your head is telling you one thing, but your heart feels something else?"

Blake managed a wry smile. "I think everyone feels like that, sometimes."

"Ruby doesn't," Weiss said, as reflexively as the jerk of a knee. She opened her mouth to follow up, but hesitated, wondering if she should go any further.

She decided to plough onwards. She was not about to let this become a minefield, where mentioning her teammates' partners to their partners was hazardous ground. "Yang doesn't, either."

Blake looked like she wanted to say a dozen different things, except they all got jammed up on the way to her mouth. She stood still and squirmed instead.

Weiss valiantly resisted rolling her eyes. "Anyway, if I had a scar, I'd at least know that it'd happened, that it was real, and that I'd walked away from it. That's worth remembering, I think."

Blake's eyes went out of focus. Apparently without thinking about it, one of her hands went to her own side, to the strangely-shaped mark there. "You think so?" she murmured.

"Of course. It means…"

She stopped so suddenly she gave herself whiplash. Blake's look of surprise mirrored her own. "It means what?" she asked.

Weiss gathered herself. "I just realized," she said, "that I'm repeating words I've heard before. I guess, somewhere along the line, I started to believe them."

Blake swallowed. Weiss remembered enough about the "mentor" in Blake's past to know her worries, hearing Weiss say that. Blake had been a prisoner of words before, as much as Weiss had been a prisoner of her father. She wouldn't want anyone else to suffer the same fate.

"Is it… okay?" Blake asked, tentatively and ambiguously. 'It' could mean so many things.

The air around Weiss smelled of roses. "Yes," she said definitely. "This is a Huntress idea. I heard it from a reliable source."

Blake relaxed infinitesimally.

"Think how stubborn and strong you have to be," Weiss said, looking at her own reflection, "to take a hit bad enough to scar, and come back for more."

"Is that how you feel?" Blake asked.

"It wasn't at first," Weiss admitted, and her fingers traced down her face. "But someone changed my mind. Ruby Rose can be quite persuasive."

Blake gave a slight smile. "She can."

Weiss felt herself growing warm as the smell around her got stronger. This, she was amazed to realize, was how powerful Ruby was. She'd given Weiss strength, helped her to love this part of herself—so much strength and love that Weiss had enough to share with Blake when she needed it.

"I decided that she's right," Weiss said, and she turned to face Blake head-on. "So however you got that—and, just so we're clear, I don't intend to pry but I find it fascinating—it speaks well of you. I'm proud of my scar. You should be proud of yours."

"It happened during the Fall."

Blake had blurted out the words, and seemed to regret it; she shrank away, folding in on herself in the way that made her seem half her actual size.

Weiss nodded as she thought back. Yes—that was the wound Blake had been sporting as she'd laid by Yang's unconscious body, sobbing about how sorry she was. Blake must have run off right after, burning what little aura she could muster to flee rather than heal properly.

That told her when she'd gotten the scar, but not how. The way Blake was holding herself suggested that the 'how' was important—and was keeping Blake from feeling as positive about her scar as Weiss suggested.

"And it was after that," Blake said, stumbling, "because of that, that I… I ran off, like a-"

"Stop."

The word was out of Weiss' mouth before she'd let Blake complete that sentence, and a finger was raised in admonition.

"You are not speaking ill of yourself in my presence," Weiss went on, while Blake was still wrapped up in her emotions. "This is a No-Self-Loathing Zone."

Blake huffed mirthlessly. "Well, I guess I'd better leave, then."

"Only after you hear me out," Weiss said, her finger dropping to put a hand on her hips. "Yes, you left. And yes, that hit Yang right in the one soft spot in her tough-gal act. Maybe, when you see the scar, you think it's somehow a reminder of that bad decision you made.

"But!" she went on, not giving Blake a chance to interrupt. "You did something her mother never did, the one and only thing that could fix it. You came back." Exactly as I told Yang you would, she added to herself. "Whatever awfulness happened, whatever drove you to make that decision, you're past it now. You chose something different, something better."

She could see Blake wavering, uncertain. Was this how I looked? Weiss wondered. Was this how Ruby saw me? As someone who had the strength but didn't feel it? Who had done well but didn't realize it?

"That's what your scar means to me," she told Blake. "It means you're stronger than your fear."

Blake sucked in a breath, and Weiss recognized that this comment, at least, had hit home. As Blake's eyes went out of focus, she murmured, possibly to herself, "I wonder if she sees it like that."

There was only one 'she' Blake could mean. Weiss sighed. She wanted to tell Blake "Just ask and see what she says". She knew Blake wouldn't do that.

"If nothing else," she said instead, "you can count on her having the same education as Ruby, so she probably thinks the same way about these things. And if she does, then when she sees that scar, she sees one bad mother."

The words left Weiss' lips before she really thought about it. Mortification gripped her the moment her brain caught up. She could see Blake mouthing the words in confusion.

Weiss had no choice but to hide her face in her hand. "That girl must be rubbing off on me," she muttered. "She has me speaking in Dolt."

She expected some scathing or sarcastic remark, or at least some friendly ribbing. That wasn't what she got. At first she thought there was no sound at all. It started to pick up quickly, though, becoming louder and less abashed.

Blake's laughter.

Not a shy giggle or a restrained huff like she'd made so often before, that Weiss had every right to expect, but an actual, honest-to-goodness laugh.

It was a minor miracle.

Against her will, Weiss caught the bug, and though she didn't laugh her mouth did quirk up. "It wasn't that funny," she said. "I wasn't even trying!"

Blake recovered herself enough to say, "Your not trying is part of what makes it funny."

"Whatever you say," Weiss said, but there was no bitterness there. This was easy. This was fine. 'Whatever' was the truth.

"It's been so long," Blake said, looking down modestly, as if embarrassed by what she'd just done. "I can't remember the last time I really laughed."

"Then it's been too long," Weiss declared. "I suppose it's just as well you're back."

"I… suppose," Blake said, and her face fell. Weiss could see Blake retreating into her memories once more.

Nope. Weiss was not letting that happen again. "That's enough wallowing," she declared, catching Blake's attention. "Let me share something with you, that I haven't shared with anyone else. All the time I was held captive in my own home, I didn't have anything else to think about but the past. I spent days, weeks even, doing little more than wading through my memories. On the day I realized I'd been gone from Beacon longer than I'd been there, I didn't get out of bed all day.

"But you did better than me," she said, taking Blake by surprise. "You kept moving. You kept doing. Even if you didn't spend all your time productively, at least you were able to keep in motion. And whatever did that—" she pointed at Blake's scar again, "—wasn't enough to stop you. I think that's awfully impressive, Blake Belladonna."

Weiss saw Blake rock back at the words. Trembling, Blake managed a smile. "Well, now I know I've truly made it in the world. I have the approval of the great Weiss Schnee."

"It's a precious commodity," Weiss said with a grin. "Rarely given and jealously guarded." She dropped the faux-haughty demeanor that had become a joke between the two. "You sounded almost playful there for a minute, Blake. It suits you."

The taller girl took a shuddering breath. "Thanks. I needed this. All…" she waved vaguely at the mirror. "…all of this."

"Happy to help. Now that you're feeling a little better, and have a little of your playfulness back, why don't you go back out there? There are some people who'll really appreciate that."

For a moment it looked like Blake would regress, shrink down again. Instead, she nodded once to herself and braced. "Right. No, you're right. I should."

She glanced up, as if looking at her own faunus ears. "There are times when I almost wish for the bow, though."

Weiss gave a put-upon sigh. "I completely understand. This crowd can be a bit much even for two ears. Why do you suppose I was in here? But," she added, "they are worth it."

Blake's response was a smile so full of fondness it almost made Weiss sweet-sick. "That they are. Excuse me."

She turned and left the bathroom.

In her wake, Ruby appeared in the doorway. She flashed Weiss a brilliant smile and a thumbs-up. Then she vanished.

Weiss thought she might never stop blushing.

It was late, Weiss was tired, and her head was pounding.

Something Winter had never mentioned—and which her own semblance training had never revealed—was how hard it was to maintain split attention after a while. Controlling her own motions and that of her summons simultaneously always took a lot of mental gymnastics. Doing so across multiple extended battles was the mental equivalent of running a marathon while juggling.

A headache, though, was such a trifling thing at a time like this. All around her, her friends were weary but triumphant. The small airship, plain and uncomfortable as it was, nevertheless felt full of emotion.

They'd done it. Giant robots, even larger grimm, and vengeful ex-boyfriends be damned, they'd done it. They were one step closer to securing the Lamp.

Even if it meant returning to Atlas.

Weiss shook that unwelcome thought away. She was going with her team, her family, and they'd promised her she'd never be alone. That was more than enough comfort for her.

It was funny, she thought as she watched them recounting their various roles in the day's battles. Weiss felt more damaged by her stay in her ancestral home than any fight she'd been in, and that damage was the sort that didn't leave a scar.

Speaking of scars… She looked to the side of the airship, where Blake and Yang sat together, partially wrapped up in each other. Somewhere along the line, Blake had lost her white jacket. Without it, there wasn't even partial concealment for her scar.

Yang's fingers were tracing over that old wound.

Weiss couldn't quite hear what Yang was saying to her partner. That was okay. Weiss felt it was a conversation they'd rather be having in private, only there was no privacy to be had.

Even so, Weiss could very easily get the gist. The tender expressions the two had, the way they seemed to keep an arm on each other as if afraid the other would fly away, and, of course, the way Yang's fingers flowed over Blake's scar.

Weiss just made out one thing Yang said to Blake.

She lightly blushed.

If it were Ruby saying those words, she would have said, "One bad mother". Seeing as it was Yang doing the talking, those were not exactly the words she said.

The meaning was the same.

Weiss smiled.

Next time: Risk the Fall

Chapter Text

Hot tears flowed down puckered flesh where once ran blood.

Weiss hated the tears. They spoiled her aim.

Another shot, and another, plinking against a too-strong aura. Still the tears flowed true. She hadn't shed tears since childhood, but now, now she couldn't help it. Her grief followed the path of her scar. If she'd had time to think poetically, she'd have thought it appropriate.

If it was to mourn those beautiful people who'd helped her love her scar, the part of her she'd thought so ugly…

Another shot. Another.

Pistols weren't Weiss' first choice of weapon, but the one in her hand was precious. It was all she had left.

Blake…

Yang…

Ruby…

Her accurate fire finally got a response. All at once, Cinder was there, hateful as she was, riding high on spite and triumph. The impact was shattering. Weiss' world spun; the world was a blur of colors and pain, whirling and breathless. Even when her body came to a stop her head kept spinning.

Cinder was talking, saying something vile no doubt, but Weiss could barely hear her, could barely hear anything. Exhaustion beyond measure was wearing her down; three days of ever-worsening catastrophes, of increasingly desperate battles on no sleep and less relief, culminating in this monstrous crime in some interdimensional hell-space…

She tried to breathe. Her lungs refused.

A flare of brightness—

She winced away, instinctively, and to her amazement the flames never reached her. Finally she managed a gasping breath, then another.

Her body wanted to live, even if she didn't, even if there wasn't any more point…

Her fingers tightened on the pistol. A Huntress' sword is her soul. Literal truth, on Remnant—just as Weiss had poured her aura into Myrtenaster, Blake's aura was infused into Gambol. That small piece of her spirit remained with Weiss.

She wished she had some piece of Yang, some piece of Ruby… but this would have to be enough. They were with her how it mattered.

She dragged herself to a standing position, sluggish muscles protesting every movement, aching body screaming at her to rest. Not yet, she told them. There'd be plenty of time for that later.

Because that was Cinder flying there, at the peak of her powers, and Weiss was barely able to dreg up enough aura to stand.

Didn't matter. She had her team—her family—waiting for her. She would give all she had left for their sake, to finish this accursed mission, before she rejoined them. One more tear fell down the path of Weiss' scar, the scar she'd hated, that Ruby had admired—an offering to those she loved.

She triggered the mechanism to shift Gambol to sword mode, an intimate detail only a member of Team RWBY would have known, and prepared to throw herself at that bitch, come what may.

Ruby had said it best, after all, a lifetime ago in a time of innocence. She'd seen Weiss more clearly while looking in a mirror than anyone else ever had.

Weiss took aim at the Fall Maiden and lunged, holding nothing back.

Because she was one…

…bad…

…mother.