#Spinning And Sinking And Weakening (Canon | Vacuo Arc | Willow)

[ein-schnee-sturm]

@skidqrow continued from here

“Much of anything, in general, but spent time with someone I have romantic feelings for, specifically.” Gaze cast upward, Willow leaned over a bit, to rest her head on Qrow’s shoulder for a moment. Absentmindedly, she turned the handle of the parasol in her grip, holding it with the hand opposite the arm looped through the Huntsman’s own. (Technically, it belonged to Whitley, but she had asked to borrow it for the afternoon.)

Sunscreen and the lattice of pale purple lace mostly shielded her from Vacuo’s harsh desert sunlight, while a combination of her aura and the silver-blue knee-length halter dress the Atlesian woman wore kept her from overheating. At first, Willow had been deeply self-conscious about her back — about the two long surgical scars that characterized it — but neither Qrow nor others had commented yet, and so the owl had done her best not to think about it.

“I was twenty-two, when I started drinking to cope, after Mama died; it was all downhill from there because everything just got worse. Papa had Dust Lung, and Jacques… told me to stop crying and hurry up with giving him an heir that wasn’t — I won’t repeat what he said, but suffice to say he used slurs regarding Winter’s autism and gender identity.” Her weakness — and that Jacques of all people had realized that Winter was transgender — was a deep source of shame for Willow…

But Qrow understood, in ways few others did.

[ein-schnee-sturm]

Not even the deeply nostalgic rasp of a whetstone could lighten Willow’s present mood; though they twitched a bit, memories of Papa and a pair of swords she hadn’t seen in decades coming to her, her ear feathers didn’t lift from their drooped position. (Had she not been wearing her hair in a bun, similar to Winter’s, her Faunus trait would’ve been nearly invisible against the curling mass of snow-white hair.) As for seeking out Winter, here and now, for answers and perhaps more… Her children — not all wanted, but all loved as best she was able, no matter how pitiful the attempts — had inherited Mama’s steel spine and spirit, along with Papa’s compassionate convictions; traits that seemed to have skipped Willow herself, entirely. Even in the throes of drink, and now in the welcomed talons of the beginning of recovery, the Schnee Matriarch (Duchess, some still called her, to her great discomfort) had always known that Winter was the only one of her three children who would dispense with emotion entirely to answer her with facts and truth alone.

(He had taught Whitley to lie and manipulate like a second language, while Weiss… earnest though they were, their autism had served as yet another barrier between them.) As though her thoughts had conjured him — what was the Common phrase? ‘Speak of the devil’? — Winter’s dispassionate statement that he was dead made the snowy owl release a shudderingly relieved sigh, one she hadn’t known she was holding in. In some sense, she was free now, but still Willow’s mood remained somber; too much had been lost by too many… and the only way she knew how to celebrate something was with a drink, which she had resolved to never touch again. In the three days Winter had been venting at least some of her grief by slaughtering Grimm by the thousands, her mother had been helping as much as she could with organizing her fellow Atlesian refugees, doing whatever was needed that she could; if nothing else, it had served as a distraction from the nausea and headaches brought on by the beginning of detox. But then Winter continued, in a voice more fragile than Willow had ever heard, to say that she hadn’t been able to get to her sibling in time.

That whether Weiss was dead or simply elsewhere didn’t make a difference without the Staff of Creation (that was what the relic had been called during the broadcast, hadn’t it?). With another shuddering breath, this time inhaling rather than exhaling, the older woman marshaled herself as best she could — even if her hands, clasped in front of her as was proper etiquette, had begun to shake for a multitude of reasons. Somehow, somewhere, she found her voice… and even just a fraction of Wilhelmine von Adalbrecht-Schnee’s steel. “…Thank you, Winter,” Willow managed at last, forcing her shoulders to straighten and her gaze to not leave her daughter’s face. “I don’t… mean to patronize you,” she continued, trying to give even a shred of composure in return, “only that… you are so very strong… but, Mama used to say… the world goes as it will, not… not as you or I would have it. Some… some things happen, for… for reasons we might… never understand.” Gods Above and Below, what a pathetic excuse for a person she was…

She wanted a drink so badly, she almost couldn’t breathe.

[ @ein-schnee-sturm | willow // winter ]

“…Well.”

Her voice came out stiff and unnatural even by Winter’s habitual standard; she drew the whetstone along the blade of her main-gauche without looking up to acknowledge her mother’s hovering, nervous presence. The oiled hum of the stone against steel seemed to fill the whole room, leaving no room for an answer to Willow’s question.

(Winter hadn’t spoken to her mother in years. Not since leaving for Atlas Academy. She couldn’t say that she wanted to break that silence now, particularly. Her feelings had calcified long since into a mixture of disdainful pity and resentment.)

“Father is dead,” she said at last, in the bloodless, matter-of-fact tone she would use to report an operation’s outcome to her commanding officer. “Left behind in Atlas after all. Weiss–”

Jaw tightening, Winter set the whetstone aside and took a deep breath. For three days, grimm had attacked the city day and night, an unrelenting onslaught branded into her memory as a dreamlike maelstrom of violence, ice, hatred, ash. Magic.

She still felt—eviscerated. No matter how many grimm she tore apart, she couldn’t save Weiss.

“—fell,” Winter said, brittle. “I couldn’t reach them in time. Whether they’re dead or stranded in some other realm is unknown, and without the staff, likely a semantic distinction. That is all I can tell you, mother.”

[ein-schnee-sturm]

"What would you say is your happiest memory?" || from Qrow to Willow

Blinking, Willow sipped at her water for a moment, mulling her friend’s question over. (Making friends? At her age? She would’ve thought such a thing preposterous and improbable, before they all arrived in the desert.) Swallowing, the owl hummed thoughtfully, ear feathers twitching a bit. “…It feels — selfish, but…

“My happiest memory is of my sixteenth birthday. Normally, I would’ve started familiarizing myself with Myrtenaster, for the year until I took it with me to the Academy; it’s been a tradition in my mother’s family for centuries. Instead, Papa had convinced Mama to let me design my own weapon, with the understanding that I would still pass down Myrtenaster to my oldest as per tradition.”

Pausing, she drank more water, bitterly wishing it were something stronger for a moment. Shoving away the impulse, the Faunus continued. “I was — so proud of my swords… but I never got to use them, and for all I know, they may’ve been sold long before Atlas came crashing down.”

If she were bitter, it was understandable.

@skidqrow

[ein-schnee-sturm]

@skidqrow continued from here

Taking a deep breath, the Schnee Matriarch — Duchess von Adalbrecht, some still called her, no matter how many times she asked them to stop — exhaled slowly, the feathers that replaced Human ears twitching. “I’m sorry, Qrow,” Willow eventually sighed, rubbing her temples and unintentionally displacing her large sun hat in the process. “I shouldn’t have snapped, it was uncalled for.” (Irritation, from withdrawal and the heat.)

Fixing her hat, glad that it provided her at least some protection, the blue-eyed woman continued. “I may have not known you and my child’s friends for long, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize that Ruby isn’t your niece.” Though frank, the Snowy Owl Faunus’ words were soft; no need to antagonize him, and it wasn’t her secret to tell. “You have similar face and eye shapes, you speak with similar cadence, that sort of thing.”

She tried to smile, but didn’t quite manage it.

[ein-schnee-sturm]

"there you are, darling" || Qrow to Willow

…Qrow was so different from Jacques, it was bitterly laughable. His voice, his presence, his character, his touch — by the Gods, his touch. It wasn’t a sexual feeling that curled down Willow’s spine when his arm curled around her waist; even with Jacques (specifically before everything had gone to Hell), the Faunus woman had never quite felt what others and books described as sexual desire.

No, this feeling was grounding, was shielding, was comforting. Feeling safe being touched by a man who wasn’t (blood) family for the first time in almost twenty years, the Snowy Owl made a soft cooing sound, as she naturally curled into Qrow’s side. Feeling secure, the situation that had prompted the action was entirely forgotten — and could anyone blame her, really?

“Hello, mein Schatz,” she cooed in return.

@skidqrow

[ein-schnee-sturm]

well, i hope you like the room. - weiss for willow

Weiss wasn’t the first to show the Schnee Matriarch to where she and Whitley would be staying, but the guidance had much more genuine emotion in it… and it was obviously of higher quality because it was her daughter showing her. But was she allowed to think like that, after everything she had done — and perhaps especially after everything she hadn’t done? Did she deserve even Weiss’ attention, or thoughtfulness, after how completely she had broken and failed?

Pushing the dark thoughts away as best she could, without realizing that her ear tufts had drooped in response to her morose emotions, Willow at least tried to give her younger daughter a smile. “Thank you, Weiss,” the Owl Faunus bit down on mein Schatz or, gods forbid, Schatzi); it had been too long, and was probably too much, as of now.

“It’s clean, and nothing is broken, which is as much as your sibling and I could ask for.” (She hadn’t seen Whitley, yet, so she wasn’t sure what pronouns her youngest was using.) Then her smile faded, and her shoulders drooped along with the feathers that replaced Human ears. “…Anything is better than the Manor,” Willow admitted, sadly.

It hadn’t been her home since Papa died.

She wanted wine, or vodka, or anything —

@onlyheartaches

[ein-schnee-sturm]

“Knowing your Semblance and situation,” Willow murmured, instinctively making soft cooing sounds to try to soothe the hurt she had brought up, “I can’t say I blame you for being worried.” A constant field of misfortune, which had the potential of even leading to the death of loved ones, which could (almost) never be negated? Added to the stresses of single parenthood, being part of the late Beacon Headmaster’s Inner Circle, and with unaddressed childhood trauma? Such burdens could drive even the strongest to drink. In comparison…

In comparison, Willow’s experiences felt like they paled when placed against those of Qrow, or her children. And although Gwenn had made it clear that comparing her pain and trauma against others’ would only hinder her progress and just hurt her more, Willow couldn’t help it; even since childhood, she was prone to minimizing her pain, so she wouldn’t burden others. I did not grow up in an abusive home — I am one. (Though her daughter’s former Teammate wasn’t a psychiatrist, she filed the role for anyone who asked; she did so for Winter, and now Willow as well.)

Feeling her hands begin to tremble, the snowy owl spoke without thinking, desperately trying not to get lost in her own head. (Before, her remedy was to drink until she passed into a semi-dreamless sleep.) “I — I was — I was born with wings,” she managed, unable to look at Qrow, trying to calm down enough to stop shaking. “They weren’t — I couldn’t — I couldn’t fly, but — but they were still mine.” Disentangling her arm from Qrow’s, she reached up to hide her tears and her face. “After Whitley was born — and Papa died — Jacques didn’t just clip my wings,” she whispered.

“He took them from me.”

@skidqrow continued from here

“Much of anything, in general, but spent time with someone I have romantic feelings for, specifically.” Gaze cast upward, Willow leaned over a bit, to rest her head on Qrow’s shoulder for a moment. Absentmindedly, she turned the handle of the parasol in her grip, holding it with the hand opposite the arm looped through the Huntsman’s own. (Technically, it belonged to Whitley, but she had asked to borrow it for the afternoon.)

Sunscreen and the lattice of pale purple lace mostly shielded her from Vacuo’s harsh desert sunlight, while a combination of her aura and the silver-blue knee-length halter dress the Atlesian woman wore kept her from overheating. At first, Willow had been deeply self-conscious about her back — about the two long surgical scars that characterized it — but neither Qrow nor others had commented yet, and so the owl had done her best not to think about it.

“I was twenty-two, when I started drinking to cope, after Mama died; it was all downhill from there because everything just got worse. Papa had Dust Lung, and Jacques… told me to stop crying and hurry up with giving him an heir that wasn’t — I won’t repeat what he said, but suffice to say he used slurs regarding Winter’s autism and gender identity.” Her weakness — and that Jacques of all people had realized that Winter was transgender — was a deep source of shame for Willow…

But Qrow understood, in ways few others did.