Chapter Text
Snow did not cushion their fall. It was all over the ground, but as they bounced down the slope through snow burdened hedges on iced over ground, there was very little cushioning. Clover engaged his aura to take the worst of the fall; glad he hadn’t lost too much of it in the fight on the train beforehand. They'd been sent as protection for the cargo, seeing how many of these trains had been hit and their goods lifted as it rumbled through bandit country in remote parts of Anima. It was part of an alliance between Mistral and Atlas, designed to protect their trade. Sure enough, the bandits had attacked, and they’d fought in the train, then on top of it, then... well, then air, tree, snow, grass, bush, ice, stop.
The train rumbled on without them, and his opponent groaned somewhere in the bushes near him.
Shit.
Clover pulled himself up quickly, he couldn’t risk losing his opponent now, or the fight restarting. His aura was intact, but he doubted he had much left. Unlike the rest of the bandits, this guy packed a punch. His weapon had been specialised, and he’d known how to use it. He couldn’t see it anywhere in the snow around them, and had the feeling it was still somewhere on the train.
For what felt like the first time since the bandits landed on the train, his luck held, the man was still trying to get his bearings, groaning on the ground, and didn’t have the time to put up much of a fight before Clover locked the cuffs around his wrists behind his back.
“Oh come on, really?”
“Qrow Branwen, you are under arrest, you will be transported to Atlas to be tried for your crimes.”
“Ughhhhhhh.” he dropped his face back into the snow, “Just my luck.”
Clover took a second to observe the man.
Qrow Branwen. Leader of the Branwen Tribe. The Bandit King of Mistral.
Scruffy greying black hair, dotted with feathers and hiding a glinting silver band, slight scruff of a beard over pale skin revealed now his mask was cracked and broken a few paces away, along with shining pale red eyes. His outfit was remarkably mundane for someone who held the title of king, black trousers, a grey shirt, maroon jacket and flowing grey overcoat. Even the scattered rings tended to be plain metal rather than gaudy, gem encrusted things, his wristbands were simple black leather. He supposed it made sense, the man was supposed to be a warrior leader, but none the less, it caught him a little off guard. And he was young, good gods he was young, probably not much older than he was, probably why he wore the mask.
The nevermore themed mask that was easily the most imposing part of the outfit.
“Want to help me up, pretty boy?”
“Ebi, Atlas Specialist Clover Ebi.”
“Good to know, when I ransom you back to Atlas, I'll know who to tell them I have.”
“You’re the one in cuffs here.”
“You’re in my territory.”
His stomach sank slightly as he gripped the man’s wrists and shoulders and pulled him upright. He was right, they were in the middle of nowhere, the heart of rural Anima, and deep into Branwen territory. The train moved fast, but chances were Branwen’s allies were closer than his, and chances are his camp was closer than any sort of town. Even if there was signal out this far, his scroll was rattling it’s way onwards on the train. Mistral wasn’t Atlas, Anima wasn’t Solitas, but winter here still wasn’t to be messed with. The storms could pick up from nowhere, whip through the hills, biting winds and snow blindness, with the bonus of trees and rivers and other hazards to navigate. With a prisoner. And no backup.
Not ideal.
Not remotely ideal.
“Atlesian Huntsman, hmm? Means you’re one of Jimmy’s, right?” Branwen shook his head in annoyance, “Damnit, he’s supposed to keep his huntsmen out of my business.”
“Excuse me?”
What the hell did that mean? One of Jimmy’s, did he mean Commander Ironwood? He must, Ironwood ran the Specialists and within that the Aces, the team he had been selected for, but how on earth could some Mistrali bandit know James Ironwood. And what did he mean about keeping huntsmen out of his business? He couldn’t possibly be implying the commander was in some way a traitor, could he?
Clover pushed the thought aside. James Ironwood was one of the greatest men he’d ever met, he could not think of a man more loyal to Atlas. Branwen was just trying to get into his head or something, his promotion to Commander of the Specialists hadn’t been a secret and Clover had introduced himself as such. It was mind games.
He wished the file on the man had been longer. More than a few paragraphs, more than rumour and hearsay. Some of it almost felt redacted, though there was nothing obviously blanked our or missing. It was just... how could they have so little information on someone with his reputation? They didn’t even have a birth certificate, no real age, no medical records, no semblance, nothing. It was like he didn’t exist, save blurry photos and videos and witness statements. Except, why would they redact that information if they did have it? What reason could they possibly have?
Branwen didn’t answer his indignant protest, instead rolling his eyes and flexing his wrists against the bonds slightly. He wasn’t sure if the man was impressed or annoyed or what.
“Well, come on then, soldier boy.”
Branwen wandered off into the trees and Clover blinked for a second before his brain caught up and he ran after, snagging the cuffed wrists and pulling him to a stop.
“Woah, wait, what the hell? Where do you think you’re going?”
“It’s winter in Mistral, we have like six hours of daylight left, and we’re in the middle of nowhere. You want to freeze to death, or should we get moving? This way, come on.”
He planted his feet and kept his grip tight. The willowy man was strong, but he wasn’t stronger than Clover, and Clover needed a moment to think.
Which direction was best, or did they wait and hope his allies circled back? Of course, that relied on his allies making it to safety, knowing where he’d fallen off. They might not even be able to retrace until they made it to a destination, and even at train speed they were a day and a night away from any cities. Could they risk waiting that long in these conditions? But he didn’t know these woods. They could follow the train tracks as best they could, but there would be places where the terrain wouldn’t allow that, or towns miles away they might walk right past. Or maybe there were no settlements around here at all, except perhaps the ones the Branwen’s must have set up near here, either permanent or temporary, in order to attack the train. Branwen had seemed pretty confident on which was they should go. Should he trust Branwen’s knowledge of this area?
Could he risk Branwen walking him right into a trap following him through the woods?
“We follow the tracks,” he decided, “and head towards the train’s destination.”
Branwen raised an eyebrow for a second, before rolling his shoulders and setting off in that direction. They didn’t bother trying to scramble back up the drop to where the tracks were, instead staying down in the forest. They could follow the route, without having to drag a bound Branwen up a near sheer rock face.
He was clearly more practiced in this terrain than Clover, who was adept in the snow, but the barren tundra and bare mountains and caves of Solitas, not the forests of Mistral. Back in Atlas, the snow was thick and packed over ice and frozen soil, meters of it, easy to crunch over, or occasionally wade through. Here was far more uneven. There were tree roots that hid out of view along with animal holes, low branches that dropped snow or dipped into their paths, animals that skittered around nervously, though not a single grimm in their first few hours. At one point a little after noon the sun broke out behind the clouds, the biting wind lightened and the air warmed notably.
It made the landscape look utterly gorgeous, greens and browns blending into the whites and blues that glinted in the sun, like something out of a fairytale.
With limited supplies, they did their best to conserve their energy, though Branwen insisted half the berries and leaves they passed were edible if they wanted. He leant forwards and snagged a few with his teeth as they went, but he didn’t try to run or escape as they followed their railway line as best they could through the landscape. The first hour, he’d been holding Branwen’s wrists, but between his own hands getting cold and them both stumbling and tripping a lot, it had become clear that it was easier not to be connected. He'd considered using Kingfisher to keep him on a line, but he wanted his weapon available.
After a few hours of walking, it was Branwen who stopped. The so-called king had veered off to the edge of a cave that cut into the rock about twenty meters under the railway tracks, mouth open to catch the streams of water trickling from icicles melting in the direct afternoon sun. Clovers own dry mouth begged to do the same, but he didn’t know how clean that water was, what it might have run through before freezing there, and the last thing he needed to risk was getting sick out here. The snow melting in his own bottle would have to suffice, once it finished melting. Maybe Branwen’s stomach was more attuned to potentially contaminated water, or maybe he just didn’t care.
He tried not to let his eyes linger on the sight of his parted lips, his cold flushed cheeks, the smooth ripple of his throat, the way his eyes fell shut as he gulped the water down.
A little professionalism, Ebi, he scolded himself, in what was oddly more Hare’s voice than his own.
“Unless you want to die out here, I suggest we keep walking, your highness. Though I'm still not sure how a bandit is in any way a king.”
Branwen pulled back from the water, turning back to him with a grin.
“Well, it’s quite interesting, really.”