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silvokrent · 7 years ago

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All in the Job - 1

In which Glynda contemplates submitting her two weeks notice.

Of all the responsibilities she held, courtesy of her numerous job titles—Huntress, Professor, Academy Liaison, Deputy Headmistress of Beacon—there were some that Glynda could have done well without.

Which wasn’t to say she resented her job—far from it. Ruthlessly ambitious almost to a fault, Glynda relished a challenge, and would have never contented herself with anything short of what passed for the layperson as occupational masochism. Hence why she’d spent the majority of her career fine-tuning the ability to juggle her professional obligations, which included everything from organizing interdepartmental faculty meetings, to sorting out whatever problems Ozpin couldn’t (or didn’t want to) deal with that day. She had distinguished herself early on as a multitasker with a sharp mind, uniquely qualified for the task of corralling her students and putting out the (sometimes literal) fires that were as much a staple of the school year as the homework and detentions were.

No. Glynda enjoyed a challenge. And working at a school for trained killers presented no shortage of that. Destroying Grimm, dismantling crime syndicates, foiling terrorist plots: all occupational hazards, most with which she had minimal qualms.

The caveat, she’d discovered, well into her tenure and past the point of no return, was the political nature of her job. Something that Ozpin had conveniently “forgotten” to disclose when she’d first signed her contract.

Years later, and she had a pretty good idea as to why.

With no small amount of effort, Glynda dug through her handback and produced the necessary documents for the door greeter. “I’m here representing Beacon Academy, as is my employer,” she said. And that was as far as she got before she sneezed.

The porter recoiled, his face creased in disgust. That expression deepened when she none-too-subtly swallowed down the mouthful of phlegm that had dislodged itself from her lungs.

He held the invitation and license at arm’s length, delicately pinched between two fingers. “I should remind you,” he said, “that all guests in attendance are required to leave any weapons outside the building. That includes—”

“Yes, yes,” Glynda snapped, “I’m well aware. As you can see, I’m unarmed.” Unless one happened to look up her dress and notice the crop holstered against the inside of her leg, but really, what was the point of arguing semantics? “I hardly pose a threat to anyone here.”

“Not unless you cough on the buffet table,” he muttered, and Glynda made sure to fix him with her patented Disapproving Teacher Scowl. The porter flinched at the steel in her gaze.

“Your belongings.” He was quick to push the offending items back into her hands, then brush his palms down the front of his vest. “Enjoy the party, Professor Goodwitch.”

I most certainly won’t. But she kept that comment to herself. Glynda inclined her head, once. “Thank you for the—” and she stopped to give a dramatic intake of breath, lips curled in the beginnings of an unmistakable sneeze. She watched through half-narrowed eyes as he pinwheeled backward, nearly tripping over himself to escape the blast radius. Panic, quickly replaced with indignation, colored his face as Glynda delicately pinched the bridge of her nose. “False alarm,” she assured him, in a falsely-cheery voice. And with that said and done, Glynda turned and strode inside.

She blamed the vindictiveness on the store brand cough medicine, half of which she’d downed before leaving her apartment; then, as an afterthought, had shoved the rest of the bottle into her handbag. Given the circumstances, it felt warranted.

The reception, while not on par with the ostentatious standards upkept by Atlas’ and Mistral’s elite, was still headache-inducing. Embroidered, fabric banners canopied the ceiling, fluttering gently whenever the waitstaff scurried by. Backed against the far wall she spotted the aforementioned buffet, and it certainly was a spectacle, wafting clouds of steam from the assorted dishes and hors d'oeuvres. The guest tables were subject to the same lavish treatment, with ornate centerpieces encircled by dozens of candles that flickered whenever disturbed by the motions of a passing guest. Glynda scoffed. Of course they’d have no problem with fire hazards, but gods forbid she be permitted to walk around with an unbrandished riding crop.

And there, tying it all together, branded on every wall lest any of them forget why they were here, was Vale’s coat-of-arms.

The soirée was about the self-congratulatory pomp for the councilors as much as it was a display of gratitude for their sponsors. Election cycles ran on campaign promises as much as they did on bribes and charity, and not a single attendee was under any delusions otherwise. The post-election parties were little more than a formality at this point, a tradition kept alive because someone, somewhere, years ago had convinced themselves that these little displays of wealth and power were enough of a testimony their newly-reformed government wouldn’t relapse into an all-consuming bloodbath.

Glynda snorted aloud, only to regret the gesture when it sent her into a coughing fit.

As Ozpin’s intended successor, she was expected to attend. Sick or otherwise.

At least, she mused to herself, when Ozpin took leave of his office—by death or retirement, though almost certainly the former—she would be spared from the nightmare of having to run for reelection. It was an intentional quirk legislated by the King of Vale in the aftermath of the Great War: not only were the leaders of the Huntsmen Academies automatically granted Council seats, but they were immune to term limits and had to be nominated by a coalition of their peers. Decades later, and it was still something that politicians liked to moan about when gossip grew stale or Ozpin had done enough to piss off his colleagues.

Which was the second reason why she had dragged herself through the snow and consigned herself to this torture: because Ozpin had asked.

She thought “asked,” but truthfully, “begged” was more appropriate.

Ozpin was a great many things—cordial, shrewd, altruistic, and relentlessly devoted to his school—but even his patience had limits. The downside to his position was that while it granted him the political influence of a councilor, it also meant that he was working two jobs under the guise of one. Which wasn’t to say that Oz wasn’t qualified for the task—far from it—only that he was a Huntsman first, politician second. Training fledgling Hunters to defend humanity was something he was peerless at, and never a day passed where Glynda didn’t admire that trait, the circumstances of his curse notwithstanding.

What made these parties (and his job) so unbearable was that his colleagues were a bunch of donkey-faced bastards.

Ozpin disliked them for trying to interfere at Beacon. The other councilors despised him for being untouchable. Frankly, it was a miracle he hadn’t shoved his cane up their nether regions. And unlike Glynda, whose absence would be noted but otherwise inconsequential, Ozpin didn’t have the luxury of taking a sick day. She wasn’t merciless enough to leave him trapped here making small talk in this bureaucratic hellscape, so instead, she’d sucked up her cold and come.

A server extended a tray to her, and without thinking Glynda took the offered champagne flute.

“—gone too far this time! You’ve overstepped your boundaries, and I refuse to sanction this lunacy.”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t require your permission to proceed,” came the mild reply, “given that the school is under my jurisdiction.”

Speaking of which.

With a long-suffering sigh, Glynda moved on autopilot toward the conversation, the throng of people around her parting as she brushed past. There was an equal likelihood of that being due to the thunderous expression on her face as it was the mucus that she could feel glistening above her lips. For one treacherous moment, she lamented the fact she’d chosen a sleeveless dress. Her nose was starting to itch.

She spotted them by the windows. Ozpin stood with his left hand braced against the silver pommel of his cane, a half-empty coupe in his right. The man across from him showed his age, slightly hunched and half-balding, and with a rather unfortunate gut that the tweed suit and pleated shirt did nothing to hide.

“I fail to see why this has you so distraught,” Ozpin said. He tipped his head to one side. “We’ve used this procedure for years, and to my knowledge no one has voiced any objections.”

“Sometimes,” the councilman growled, “I wonder if you even bother to read the requisition forms your staff submits before you sign off on them. Otherwise, you’d fully understand my ‘objections.’”

“I review every document given to me, as you well know.” Ozpin raised the glass to his lips, his expression betraying nothing. “If you’d be so kind as to enlighten me on the issue, perhaps I can help mollify those concerns.”

“‘Concerns,’ he says.” The councilman sneered. “As if importing Alpha Beowolves is a mere trifle, and not a matter of kingdom defense!”

Glynda lurked just beyond Ozpin’s periphery. She’d bail him out if it became necessary. For now, though, she leaned against the nearby column, content to watch her friend verbally assassinate the other man.

“That’s what this is about?” A hint of surprise colored his inflection, and Glynda recognized it for the façade that it was. They would’ve been stupid to not anticipate a bit of an uproar over that particular request, which was why she’d offered to have it submitted during the tail-end of the elections. This time of year, overworked and success-drunk politicians tended to say “yes” to the mounting paperwork stack on their desk just to make it go away.

Burrell, bless his shriveled black heart, was apparently the exception.

“We’ve successfully handled live Grimm transport for years,” Ozpin pointed out. “Need I remind you that procurement is necessary for my students, so that they have ample training fodder?”

The other man’s complexion paled by a shade or two. “You’re telling me,” he said, in a disquieted tone, “that you regularly pit your students against high-level Grimm variants reserved for licensed Huntsmen?”

“Of course not.” Ozpin sounded amused. “We have Boarbatusks for that.”

Burrell’s jaw clenched.

“The far more dangerous subspecies, however, are necessary for the research conducted on-campus,” Ozpin amended. He regarded the wine in his glass. “Of which the Council has been made well aware in the past, so why the sudden protests? The containment facilities are up to code. If you’d like, I can produce the documents from last year’s inspection—”

“I don’t know what I find more disturbing,” he said. “The fact that you equate transporting Alphas with Boarbatusks, or your cavalier attitude regarding civilian endangerment.”

It was subtle, and to the untrained eye would have gone unnoticed. She didn’t miss the way Ozpin’s grip tightened on his cane.

“The risks involved haven’t changed, Burrell. Merely your overestimation of them.”

“Entirely unnecessary risks at that,” Burrell spat. “You run a combat school, not Merlot Industries. You’re supposed to be killing Grimm, not u-hauling them into Vale just so your staff can dissect them."

“The now-defunct Merlot Industries was the only global corporation with a scientific agenda concerning Grimm. Since their disbanding, there has been a gap in the field of Grimm research. Our ability to fight them is contingent on our understanding of them, which is why the school’s laboratory work is just as important as its field counterpart.” His expression hardened. “And if you would be so kind as to not equate Beacon Academy with that organization.”

“Why?” Burrell asked. “Because you think that what you’re doing is any saner? Care to explain to me the difference?”

Ozpin rested his glass on the table to their right, both hands now firmly clasped over the cane. “The difference,” he said, “is ethics. Dr. Merlot was a Machiavellian cultist whose obsession with the Grimm led to him no longer following safety protocol, so he could acquire more specimens faster. My staff adheres to a set of strict guidelines when conducting research, so that we may prevent catastrophes like Mountain Glenn.”

“It took the kingdom years to recover from that.” The councilman motioned with his drink. “The losses we endured at Mountain Glenn were substantial, never mind the resources we funneled into that project only for them to be wasted.” He went to take a draught from his glass.

“I’m relieved to see that your concerns about the lien weren’t misplaced. For a moment, I feared you might actually be worried about the casualties,” Ozpin said.

Glynda watched as Burrell proceeded to choke on his drink.

Ozpin waited until he resurfaced from his glass, his cheeks flushed and flecked with beads of wine. He glowered over the rim of his coupe, to bet met with a carefully-neutral expression by Oz.

“What,” he asked, “did you just say?”

“I could be off my mark,” Ozpin acknowledged, as though he were theorizing on the end of a charming novel, and not lampooning his colleague. “But as I understand, you spoke out at length against how much of Vale’s annual budget was allocated to my school. I believe the phrase you used was ‘indiscriminate black hole of lien.’ And while I can agree on a need to review funding distribution, strangely, you didn’t seem to have any suggestions for where that money could be spent otherwise.”

The councilman’s expression was slowly morphing through the entire color spectrum, from a sickly off-green to a now livid red.

“When one of my teachers first sought approval for capturing and transporting Grimm,” Ozpin continued, “we went through a significant amount of red tape. A committee was even formed to not only redefine Grimm trafficking and establish special research permits, but to investigate the motive behind the request. As I recall, you headed that committee.”

“I assume you’re getting to a point.”

Ozpin went to retrieve his glass. “I find it strange,” he admitted, “that after everything else we’ve brought to the school—Ursai, Creeps, Nevermores—you would suddenly object now. A more suspicious man might go so far as to note how coincidental it is that the approval period for the request coincides with Vale’s fiscal review. A timely opportunity to boycott the request on the premise of its potential dangers, and then take the lien that was diverted from us and spend it elsewhere. Some might go so far as to call it a conflict of interest.”

The look Burrell gave him was incendiary. Glynda was surprised Oz’s lapels hadn’t begun to smoke.

“This is all conjecture, of course. I would hate to implicate you in something so scandalous and unequivocally untrue, so shortly after you secured your Council seat. For your own sake, it may be in your best interest to defer to my judgment on the matter, lest more suspicious men subject you to their scrutiny.”

Ozpin raised his glass in a toast.

“You have no right—how dare you—I would never—” Eloquence deserted him. The councilman made a peculiar gargling sound in the back of his throat, like a blender full of rocks. “My concern,” he ground out through clenched teeth, “has and will always be the welfare of Vale’s people. If you think I’ll allow you to jeopardize that by letting one of your crackpot fool teachers hoard Grimm in the city—”

There was a subtle shift in Ozpin’s demeanor. Glynda stiffened. “The professor who oversees them is a highly esteemed and capable Huntsman. It is thanks to his work that major crises have been averted. You would do well to remember that.”

Indignation (and alcohol) did a lot to deaden a person to social cues, and Burrell continued to talk like a man who didn’t care if he woke up with a knife between his ribs. The intensity of Ozpin’s stare didn’t waver. “I remember him now. Fat bloke, rowdy, prone to self-aggrandizement. Rather hard to expect someone like him to manage Grimm when he can’t seem to manage his weight.”

Coming from the man that resembled a walrus in a suit.

But the councilman had found Ozpin’s trigger, and was twisting the knife with each word that left his mouth. “Yes,” he said, his speech slowing, becoming more deliberate. “Your subordinates were always a peculiar lot. For a prestigious academy, your staff does little to uphold its reputation. Trigger-happy celebrities with no sense of decorum”—he gestured to Ozpin’s green suit—“whose willingness to gamble with public safety borders on masturbatory, given how much of your career involves suicidal thrill-seeki—”

“Good evening, councilors.” Burrell jumped. Ozpin gave his own version of being startled, a fluttering tap-tap of his cane against the floor. His expression thawed somewhat as Glynda took up the spot to his left, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Burrell, I never had the chance to congratulate you on your reelection. The Council seat is lucky to find itself occupied by you once again.”

Burrell squinted at her, as if gauging the sincerity of her words. She could practically feel Ozpin’s eyebrows receding into his hairline, and she discreetly stepped on his foot.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” he said at last. He didn’t seem to begrudge the change in topic; not when it meant having a chance to talk about himself. “These last few weeks have been monstrously busy. One wonders how I’ve found the opportunity to rest. You would think insomnia were a prerequisite for the job.”

“A necessary evil. One that we’re all familiar with,” Glynda agreed. “Our work doesn’t sleep, and neither do we.”

“Which is exactly why we need events like this. To indulge and relax. An escape from the stress of our everyday lives.”

Or a source of additional stress, depending on who you asked.

“Not for all of us.” Glynda turned to Ozpin. “I was looking for you, actually. We need to discuss the travel arrangements for that upcoming mission in Atlas. I’m afraid it can’t wait until tomorrow.”

Ozpin made a noncommittal noise. “Too right you are, I suppose.” He accepted the arm she offered him, threading it through hers and giving Burrell the faintest inclination of his head. “Enjoy your evening.”

She ignored the glare that followed them as she steered Ozpin across the room. Waited until they’d put enough people between them before she leaned into her friend’s side.

“Play nice,” she murmured.

Ozpin sighed. “You say that as if I have no self-control.”

“I noticed they let you through the door with your cane. Were you planning on using it, or did I only imagine that look on your face back there?”

He carefully extricated himself from her grip. His arm free, Oz went to take another sip from his glass, his expression the closest she’d ever seen to guileless. “They wouldn’t part an old man from his walking stick, would they?” he mused.

Glynda fought the urge to roll her eyes. “If you keep talking like that you’ll only give Burrell another reason to call for your resignation.”

She didn’t miss that brief flicker of dislike. “Over my dead body.”

“He’d probably find that quite agreeable.” Out of habit, she went to pinch the bridge of her nose, only to belatedly peel her fingers away from the cartilage. Glynda pursed her lips at the tacky feeling. To her surprise, she suddenly found a napkin being pressed into her hand.

“Here,” Ozpin said. She murmured her thanks as she blew into the napkin, while Ozpin looked on, his face etched with worry. “You look like death warmed over, Glynda.”

“That’s putting it charitably.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t stay home.”

“Don’t change the subject,” she snapped, even as she felt the last dregs of chastisement slipping from her. Another sigh, this one a concession of defeat, as she wadded up the napkin and discarded it into a nearby bin. “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t come?” she asked instead.

Ozpin averted his gaze, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I merely wish you’d taken tonight to get well. Not that I don’t appreciate the company, only that I’d rather it not come at your expense.”

“It’s a cold, Ozpin, not the plague. I’m not about to be carried out on a stretcher by paramedics.” The sniffle at the end of her words belied her somewhat. “Besides,” said Glynda, ignoring the persistent itch climbing up the back of her throat. “Someone needed to be here to make sure you didn’t ‘accidentally’ maim one of your colleagues.”

The indulgent, vague amusement faded from Ozpin’s voice. “I think I’m capable of being out in public without a chaperone.”

Glynda stood with arms akimbo. “Even I wanted to individually break all of his fingers. I can only imagine what indecent thoughts were going through your head.”

“Then perhaps those thoughts are best left unsaid, for your peace of mind.” Which was about as much of an admission as she’d expected to get out of him, but even so, she wasn’t entirely surprised to see him frowning at his drink. “I’ve spent a lifetime having less-than-flattering comments hurdled at me. There’s very little one can say to me that I haven’t heard before, and even less that can genuinely upset me. But to so blatantly disrespect my staff, and expect me to stand by and tolerate it…”

Wordlessly, Glynda took her champagne flute and tipped its contents into his glass. The gesture of solidarity wasn’t lost on him, and he offered a grateful, albeit humorless smile.

Ozpin inspected the carbonated liquid. “There isn’t enough alcohol in this building,” he said wryly, “that can get me tipsy, let alone drunk.” Nevertheless, he polished it off in three long swallows.

“The downside to having a robust Aura and a magic liver,” Glynda said. That managed to elicit a soft laugh from Ozpin.

“The enhanced resistance to illness and injury is helpful,” he conceded. “Certain other side effects, however, I could do without.” He hailed one of the waitstaff and exchanged the empty coupe for a crystal goblet, fizzing with a burgundy liquid that Glynda couldn’t name. “Beacon’s medical staff are convinced I’m some sort of biological anomaly.”

“Which is code for, ‘they didn’t teach me this in graduate school, and now I’m questioning my education because the headmaster’s medical chart scares me.’” Curse or not, Ozpin’s ambiguous immortality had its share of perks: greater stamina, considerable pain tolerance, and an increased damage threshold for his Aura. It couldn’t protect him from everything, but as far as combat failsafes went, you couldn’t ask for much more.

Apart from asking to not be cursed in the first place, but thousands of years later and the gods didn’t seem inclined to budge on those terms.

“I think most of them have adopted the mindset of ‘the less I know, the better I’ll sleep at night.’ Something that I can’t entirely fault them for,” Ozpin added. He drained nearly a fourth of his glass in a single take. Idly, she wondered how many more of Qrow’s bad habits he planned on picking up.

“Is that actually doing anything to you?” Glynda asked instead.

He swirled the wine in his goblet. “I can become inebriated, if the alcohol is potent enough,” he said at last. “Or if I drink a considerable amount. But I doubt the drinks here have a high enough ethanol concentration to affect me. And as much as it would get me out of…mandatory socialization…I’d rather not spend the night running back and forth to the restroom.”

“If I didn’t know any better”—she did—“I’d say you were trying to get drunk from the placebo effect.”

“Trying,” said a familiar voice from behind, “and failing miserably by the looks of it.”

There was a delayed reaction on her part, where she turned to face the owner of said voice and found the neurons in her brain momentarily forgetting how to synapse. Brought on by a sudden bout of mental fatigue, and the slow-acting cough medicine that was probably doing more harm than good at this point.

“I know the suit looks bad, but you don’t need to give me that look,” he said in mock-affront.

Lucidity returned, and now Glynda partially understood the source of her muddled brain’s confusion. “What are you doing here, Qrow?”

Qrow rolled his eyes. “Nice to see you too.”

If the setting itself wasn’t throwing her off, then his attire certainly was, a worn khaki suit with gold accents that hung loosely around his shoulders and waist, perfecting the scruffy homeless look he had going. His presence here was dissonant enough, without having to contemplate his outfit and who he must have mugged to get it.

A sudden, nagging realization hit her.

Glynda rounded on Ozpin. “You liar. You thought I wasn’t coming.”

His composure faltered, if only for a heartbeat, smoothed over with the image of ageless tranquility and concern he’d long ago perfected (and she’d long ago stopped falling for). “That hardly seems like a fair accusation.”

She leveled him a flat look. “Branwen,” she repeated. “What are you doing here?”

Qrow took a swig from the flask that he’d somehow smuggled past security. “Plus one,” he said, with a sidelong smirk at Ozpin.

He had the grace to look sheepish.

“I can’t believe you.” Glynda couldn’t decide what annoyed her more: that he was so terrified by the prospect of being stranded here, with no one for company except the voice in his head, that he invited Qrow Branwen; or that she’d been replaced with Qrow Branwen. “After all the things I have willfully put myself through over the years for you, did you seriously think that a party was going to be my breaking point?”

“I can’t believe you volunteered to do this,” Qrow said, and Glynda didn’t imagine the brief flash of alarm on Ozpin’s face.

“Meaning?” she asked.

“Meaning you need to step up your negotiation tactics,” Qrow told her. “Because you’re out of your mind if you seriously think I agreed to do this out of the goodness of my heart.”

Tonight was clearly meant to test how much lower she could set the bar where her expectations were concerned. So far, it had yet to disappoint.

“You bribed him.” It wasn’t a question.

“I promised to compensate him as a thank you for going out of his way and doing me the favor,” Ozpin clarified, though he paused to give Qrow a look of mild exasperation. “Something which you seem determined to make me regret.”

Qrow shrugged. “My discretion costs extra. Not that I’m opposed to bargaining,” he said, with a grin that immediately sent a conga line of unholy thoughts through Glynda’s head. A hint of color crept into Ozpin’s face that had absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol in his hand.

She sighed. “I’m already feeling nauseous from the postnasal drip. Please don’t make me vomit, or I will aim for your suit.”

“It’s not mine, so be my guest.” He plucked at one of the sleeves. “A little splash of color would probably liven up the palette anyway.”

She watched as Qrow toyed with a loose thread on the cuff seam. “I know you disdain formalities, but even you have standards where appearance is concerned. You couldn’t have bothered to show up in something less—”

“Offensive?” Qrow offered. He flashed her a razorblade smile, taking the time to indulge in a stretch that showcased the outfit’s shabbiness. “Sorry I didn’t rob a boutique for the occasion. I had to borrow a suit from Tai at the last minute. It’s not like I keep fancy clothes lying around in my closet for formal events, at least not since—”

Not since Summer’s funeral.

An uncomfortable truth, one he clearly hadn’t meant to stumble upon so unwittingly if the way he cleared his throat was anything to go by. A hand reached up to comb through unkempt hair, an idiosyncrasy Glynda recognized for what it was: unease.

It was immediately countered by a second idiosyncrasy: a bracing nip from his flask, which he then pocketed as though nothing had happened.

“Y’know”—Qrow tossed an accusing look in Ozpin’s direction—“maybe if my boss paid me more I’d be able to afford a nice suit.”

“I’m noticing that tonight’s conversations have a theme,” Ozpin said. He was tactful enough to follow Qrow’s lead. “If you take issue with your salary then you’ll have to negotiate with your current employer. Though as I understand it, Signal pays its teachers relatively well.”

“Because my teaching gig isn’t a cover for my super-secret field job,” Qrow said, and he gave Ozpin a light jab in the shoulder. “Come off it, Oz. Like you don’t have a say in what goes on over there at that madhouse.”

“Madhouse?” Glynda asked, at the same time Ozpin said, “Last I checked, Signal has a headmaster that thankfully isn’t me.”

“And she regularly consults you on course content and staffing, which is the reason why I work there. Q.E.D.” He folded his arms over his chest. “You ever had to teach a classroom full of prepubescent kids? It’s like herding lemmings—the attention span of a rodent mixed with suicidal tendencies. You’d think they all have hero complexes with how often they try to throw themselves into the Grimms’ mouths.”

“If I recall, two of those ‘lemmings’ are your nieces,” Glynda pointed out, and she glared in Ozpin’s direction when he had the audacity to smile into his drink. Because enabling the man responsible for impressionable children was such a fantastic idea.

Again, he shrugged. “They’ve got good heads on their shoulders, and between the two of them I’m not worried. They’re not about to go do something stupid; Tai and I made sure of that. The rest of their classmates, on the other hand…” Long fingers reached up and kneaded at his temples. “You’d want a raise too if you had to deal with the bullshit I did.”

“Perhaps if you didn’t spend all of your paychecks on alcohol you could afford a new suit,” Glynda remarked, a tad waspishly. As if to prove her point, he froze mid-motion in the act of snatching an unattended flute from off one of the serving trays. Their gazes met, and he offered her a rakish grin that did nothing to impress, sidling back to Ozpin’s side now brandishing his prize.

“I teach, therefore I drink.” His eyes lingered on the headmaster long enough to at last goad a response out of him.

Ozpin adjusted his glasses. “I stand by my previous statement. And even if I were inclined to believe your salary was insufficient, I’d like to point out that procuring lien has become no less tedious an undertaking.” Qrow cocked a brow, and Ozpin suppressed a sound that bore some distant relation to a snort. “Do you think I have the ability to just magically will money into existence?”

“Yes,” said Qrow.

Glynda found herself making an expression that mirrored Ozpin’s own flat one.

“What?” he asked. “With all the weird fucking shit I’ve seen you do, you seriously expect me to stop suspending my disbelief now? After what you did to me and Raven—”

“Qrow,” Glynda warned.

His jaw shut with a near-audible click of teeth. “Anyone that hears us isn’t going to care, and anyone that would care can’t hear us.”

She grudgingly conceded that he had a point. The background ambiance created by the guests and the music on the speakers was as good of a smokescreen as any for their conversation. There were, admittedly, worse ways to tempt fate.

Didn’t mean she had to give him the satisfaction of being right.

“Unlike him, I’m not about to bargain for your discretion,” she muttered. “At least try to pretend you know what ‘subtlety’ means.”

“Perhaps we should relocate to the balcony,” Ozpin suggested, with a quelling look aimed at Qrow before he could continue to argue for argument’s sake. Years of loyalty won out, and the other man relented with a “yeah, okay” under his breath.

“Believe it or not, my abilities aren’t limited by imagination. They do come with certain constraints.” Ozpin began to herd them in the direction of the staircase. It didn’t escape her notice that he was scanning the crowd, no doubt checking that the coast was clear and they weren’t about to be ambushed by any marauding politicians. Evidently satisfied, he continued: “Even though it bypasses our traditional understanding of reality, magic still operates within definable parameters. No amount of wishful thinking can get around them, however convenient those powers appear.”

“Get back to me when you figure out how to turn water into wine,” Qrow said. “Then I’ll hear whatever you have to say about ‘definable parameters.’”

“He has a point, Oz.” Glynda had the momentary satisfaction of watching them both glance back over their shoulders to stare at her in surprise. “After all,” she continued, “you managed to turn a drunk into a bird.” Her gaze slid in Qrow’s direction. “Too bad you couldn’t give him the magical power of sobriety.”

Qrow flipped her off. “You’re hilarious.”

Ozpin turned to climb the stairs, but not before she caught his amused expression. “Let’s not go asking for miracles, Glynda.”

“It’s when you say stuff like that,” Qrow muttered. “What the hell qualifies as a miracle for someone who can literally break the fabric of reality?”

“It would be more accurate to say I ‘bend’ it,” Ozpin replied, and suddenly Glynda had a newfound insight for where he got his teaching philosophies from. “I thought you would have known that, seeing as we’ve had this conversation before.”

“We have?”

“On more than one occasion.”

“Weird how I don’t remember that.”

“As I’ve mentioned before,” Ozpin said, “the curse allows, and sometimes even requires, temporary violations of spacetime and conservation of mass. As for restrictions, some of them come from not just continuous and voluntary usage, but passive siphoning. With every reincarnation cycle, each new host receives fractionally less magic than before, which limits what I, my predecessors, and my successors are capable of—”

“Oh wait, I remember now.” Qrow mounted the last step and leaned against the handrail. “How do you make magic sound so boring.”

“The same way you make it sound absurd by suggesting I wave my hand and conjure lien from the ether,” Ozpin retorted. Glynda took up the spot to his right, watching the guests mill below the balcony.

“A part of me almost wishes you could, and I don’t mean that entirely in jest,” she said. “Ulterior motive or not, Burrell does have a say in funding. If he chooses to contest the matter we’ll have more to worry about than just Peter’s disappointment.”

“You already got cornered by that greasy jackass?” Qrow stopped fingering the lights wrapped around the balustrade to look at him. “No wonder you were meerkating the room. The hell did he want?”

“The same thing he always does,” Glynda muttered.

Ozpin propped his cane against the railing. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” he said, only to be met with a dubious noise from Glynda. “This isn’t the first time he’s attempted to sabotage me, and it won’t be the last. He loses a little credibility every time he pulls a stunt like this, and he knows it, so I don’t think he’s willing to press his luck. I suspect that tonight was about testing the chinks in my armor as much as it was antagonizing me for its own sake. His way of reminding me that he could be a…threat, if he so chose.”

“Please.” Qrow snorted. “My corgi could kick his ass.”

“Though I suppose,” he went on, in more airy tone, “if our budget was somehow cut, we’d be faced with the interesting dilemma of how to keep the lights on at the school. Of course the Grimm housed in the containment facilities would have to be either killed or released…”

“Transport’s a no-go,” Qrow said. “I mean, if we can’t afford to pay the electric bill for running the Atlas-tech enclosures, and Burrell’s tightening the regs on relocating Grimm, then we’d have to release them somewhere local.” There was a hint of menace in his smile. “How about his living room?”

Glynda opened her mouth, about to weigh in, when she noticed Qrow turn to look down the opposite end of the balcony. Something akin to resignation soured his expression, however briefly, before he sighed and went digging for his flask.

“Speaking of Atlas-tech,” Qrow said.

This time she didn’t have to suffer through the embarrassment of a delayed reaction. Though if she was being honest with herself, nothing short of amnesia could ever make James Ironwood unrecognizable to her. His aesthetic was memorable in a deliberately imposing way, a white tailcoat with navy accents atop a slate-gray military dress shirt. As he neared their posse, Glynda could make out the medals pinned to his uniform, and the Atlesian aiguillettes that denoted his status as a Council member.

“Ozpin!” He reached them in three long strides. The headmasters shook hands. “It’s been a few months. How have you been?”

“Not as well as I’d like, but better than you’d originally assumed,” Ozpin answered, a little cryptically.

Whatever that meant, James apparently understood, because his face lit up. “I’m pleased to hear it.” His gaze fell to her, and he smiled. “You look lovely, Glynda.”

“I have an upper respiratory tract infection and I’m currently coughing up enough mucus to drown a slug.” This time, Glynda did roll her eyes. “Flattery hasn’t worked on me in ten years, James. Try again.”

James held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Keep my distance. Message received.” At last his eyes lighted upon Qrow (who was in the middle of spiking his own glass with the contents of his flask), and his demeanor abruptly shifted. “I didn’t realize that these events were open to the public.”

“They aren’t, and I’m not ‘the public,’” Qrow said, eyes narrowed. “Oz invited me.”

James clasped his arms behind his back. “Glad to see that nothing’s changed since my last visit,” he said, with a pointed look at Qrow’s suit.

Qrow made a noise in the back of his throat. “I think I almost forgot how much I missed you, Jimmy.”

“Behave,” Glynda said. “Both of you.”

“I didn’t realize that you were going to be here,” Ozpin interrupted. He sipped at his drink. “Why didn’t you tell us that you were the Atlas Council’s representative? We would have met up with you upon your arrival.”

“It was a last-minute decision,” James admitted. “Originally we were going to send Hyland, but something came up and she wasn’t available. We couldn’t very well not send someone, so…” He shrugged. “We drew straws. I lost.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t jump at the chance to come, with how often you rave about Jacques Schnee’s parties,” Qrow said, unable to keep the contempt out of his voice.

James’ brow furrowed. “Attending his social functions is more of a formality at this point. He’s a useful ally, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“So this isn’t your kind of scene,” Qrow said.

“No.”

“Really. It’s stilted, boring, and mechanical—just like you.”

His jawline tightened. “At least my mere presence doesn’t endanger the people around me.”

Perhaps it was too much to hope for, Glynda thought brokenly, that they could go one night without antagonizing each other.

Qrow laughed, low and dark and devoid of mirth. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I thought my Semblance was going to bring down the building.”

Some of the combativeness faded from James’ expression, replaced with curiosity. “Then what are you doing here?” he asked. “Clearly you didn’t come for the drinks or conversation.”

“Yeah, no, fuck that. I’ve got all the drinks I want right here.” He lifted his flask and gave it an emphatic shake. “Like I said, invitation. I’m here to pull the fire alarm when Oz gives me the signal so we can make our little jailbreak and run for it.”

“You make me sound as incorrigible as the students,” Ozpin said. He pursed his lips. “If you’d be so kind as to refrain from anything that might get me fired, I’d appreciate it.”

Qrow smirked into his drink. “Is that an order or a request?”

“Qrow.” “Order it is, then.” He took a deep draught of whatever poison he’d mixed for himself, grimacing as it went down. “We still need to think of an exit strategy for later. I don’t suppose you can turn on the sprinkler system from here?” he asked James.

“Even if I wanted to,” the other man replied evenly, “my implants wouldn’t be able to remotely access them. They’re only meant to interface with my prostheses, which are a closed system.”

“Maybe that’s for the better,” Qrow mused. “I don’t think this venue has enough rice so we’re fucked if you get wet—”

“How’s Amber doing in Atlas?” Glynda pointedly asked, glaring at Qrow as she spoke. He mouthed a “it’s a valid concern” at her as he retreated into his alcohol.

Years of military conditioning had given him an ironclad grip on his temper, so James merely scowled at Qrow as opposed to dropkicking him off the balcony. “She’s settling in,” he said, his inflection considerably warming. “Though I think the climate is taking some getting used to. On her second day there she left the campus to go shopping in the city; something about blouses being ‘incompatible with the weather’…”

“I told her to pack warmly,” Glynda sighed. “Atlas’ winters aren’t Vale’s. She’s going to get sick.”

“Said the woman in the sleeveless dress.” Qrow arched a brow.

She debated the pros and cons of ignoring that remark, before realizing that he would find a way to lord it over her anyway. “Yes, I’m aware that I’m sick, thank you for stating the obvious. I’d like to point out that I had this cold before tonight.”

“Just saying.”

“Kindly don’t.”

“Is Amber keeping up with her training?” Ozpin politely inquired. He glanced between the two, as if debating whether to intervene, or ignore them and simply let nature take its course. He’d clearly opted for the latter.

“She’s currently enrolled in a few classes at the Academy, and I directly oversee her training whenever I can spare the time,” James assured. “I’ve also asked Winter to step in every so often and give her private sparring sessions.”

Ozpin frowned. “Is that wise, James? I know you place a good deal of trust in your subordinates, but the less people we involve, the safer it is.”

“Amber knows not to use her powers out in the open, and Winter’s only assisting with weapon proficiency. They can still train together if Amber relies solely on her staff. It’ll be good experience for her to spar against an older, more agile opponent.” He clapped a hand on Ozpin’s shoulder. “And even in the event of a worst-case scenario, you needn’t worry about Winter. Atlesian Special Operatives are trained to be discreet with handling sensitive information. I trust her.”

Ozpin considered this. “As long as certain precautions are taken, I’ll allow it.” His eyes crinkled in a smile. “You speak highly of her.”

“Why wouldn’t I? She graduated top of her class and is easily one of my best specialists,” James said. He straightened. “I couldn’t have asked for a better operative. She’s ambitious, loyal, a ruthless fencer—”

“—emotionally constipated, a frigid bitch,” Qrow added.

James closed his eyes and inhaled. “You know,” he said, in a voice clearly strained with effort, “I’m sure if you both sat down and talked about your problems like adults, you would get along.”

He cast him a sidelong look. “I’d rather have you shoot me.”

“That could be arranged.”

“Gentlemen,” Ozpin said, but it didn’t sound like a reprimand. Rather, his voice had taken on an apprehensive quality that Glynda couldn’t quite place. Only when she followed his line of sight toward the stairs did a sense of déjà vu creep over her.

“I wondered where you’d disappeared to,” said the newcomer, a woman in matching black slacks and blazer, with a long sheet of silvery-blonde hair. She regarded the headmasters with an expression that was unreadable, though not unfriendly. “How was your flight, General?”

“Uneventful, but I’m not complaining.” James dipped his head. “It’s good to see you again, Councilor Integra.”

“Likewise.”

Ozpin cleared his throat. “Did you need me for something, Integra?”

“For work? No. At least, nothing that can’t wait until next week,” she said, but with the casual evasiveness of a person who’d been waiting for an opportunity to get their foot in the door, and now had one. “But I did however receive a few concerns I need to address with you.”

“Concerns?” Ozpin echoed. “In regards to what?”

If Glynda had been expecting to hear Burrell’s name coming out of her mouth, she was sorely mistaken. “Do me the courtesy of not looming over the guests. Your combined presence is starting to unnerve people. Either disperse and mingle with the crowd or wallflower if you must, as long as you do it on the first floor.”

Not bothering to wait and see if they’d comply, she turned on her heel and swept back down the stairs.

“…a pity she’s retiring next year,” Ozpin said, after a moment. “I’ve always found her the most reasonable of Vale’s Council.”

James exhaled. “That was unlucky.”

“Well, it’s not like we were making an effort to hide,” Qrow said, his fingers wrapping around the banister. “And Huntsmen in groups do tend to draw attention, she’s not wrong about that.” He swore softly under his breath. “So much for waiting out the storm up here.”

Ozpin’s eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned into his cane. “We don’t need to stay for the full duration,” he murmured. “Merely another hour or so.”

“You make your job sound like an endurance test,” Qrow said.

James swapped a look with Ozpin. “It isn’t? That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Not the words I would have used,” Ozpin said, peering contemplatively at his glass, “but I suppose anything more accurate would involve profan—”

Glynda sneezed.

It took effort to not gag on the mucus sliding along the back of her throat. With a grimace, she coughed it back down, unable to suppress the knee-jerk shudder that followed. Lifting her head back up, she was caught off guard by Qrow’s rather intent expression, which was now disconcertingly closer than it had been a moment ago.

“Can I help you?” she asked. sandpaper.

He peered at her a heartbeat longer before declaring, somewhat unnecessarily, “You look terrible.”

“You don’t say,” she said through clenched teeth.

Her first thought was that he was clearly more drunk than he was letting on, only to then have that thought fizzle out like a wet firecracker when he reached forward and, before she could flinch out of range, graze his fingertips across her forehead.

She swatted his hand away. “What are you doing?”

“You look really terrible, Glynda.” He folded his arms across his chest, head tipped to the side in feigned deliberation. “I think you might have a fever. We should get you home so you can sleep.”

“For the last time, Branwen, it’s a cold, I’m not going to—” Her thoughts came to screeching halt and hastily backpedaled. “You can’t be serious.”

“I don’t see you coming up with any better ideas,” Qrow retorted. “Unless you want to stay here and eat shitty appetizers all night.” He turned to his superior. “You in?”

It spoke volumes of Ozpin’s loss of fucks to give via alcohol that he didn’t even try pretending to object. “James and I will notify Integra and the other kingdom representatives.”

“You’ll notify her,” James corrected him. “It makes sense for you to leave under the guise of taking her home, and Qrow’s not obligated to stay so no one will begrudge him leaving. But I can’t imagine anyone being happy if I left, too. You don’t need a three-man escort.” A rueful smile ghosted over his face. “See to it that you actually do get some rest.”

“You can see to it yourself,” Glynda insisted. There was a part of her that would, in retrospect, take the time to process everything she was saying. Right now, that part of her brain was taking backseat to twenty milligrams of cough medicine and an acute headache. Consequences be damned; she wasn’t about to abandon him. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she began, “but didn’t we just get done telling Burrell that we needed to finalize our preparations for the Atlas mission?”

Ozpin narrowed his eyes in thought. “We did,” he said.

“If I’m indisposed, you’ll need someone to step in and help oversee those plans,” she concluded. “And who better to take over than the Councilor in whose kingdom said mission will take place? We’re cutting it rather close with the deadline, so the sooner you two leave, the sooner you can prepare.”

She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen James gape. It was gratifying to know that her underhandedness ranked up there with the discovery that magic existed.

Qrow whistled. “Think it’ll work?”

James scrubbed at his face, before his hand came to rest at his chin. “Like you said, it’s not as if we have any other ideas.” But beneath the cool composure was an earnest hopefulness that he wasn’t quite able to mask, that betrayed just how miserable he would be at the prospect of the alternative.

It wasn’t her most eloquent plan, but desperate times…

“We’ll meet you outside.” A hand snaked around her shoulder before Glynda could protest, and she found herself being guided down the stairs. “Gotta make it look convincing if we want to sell it,” Qrow said by way of explanation. He discarded his partially-drained flute on a passing table. “Try coughing on one of the servers. That ought to do the trick.”

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused, without any heat.

“And you’re not? Don’t try to deny it,” he said, “you wanted an excuse to nope the fuck out of here as much as any of us.”

Even if she had the energy to deny it, she wouldn’t have bothered. It was late, she was sick, and gods, was it really that cold out? Glynda reflexively reached her hands up to wrap them around her arms as they stepped through the doorway. Crisp winter air burned in her lungs, and her breath fogged around her face. She stamped out the treasonous impulse to duck back inside the venue.

“What's taking them so long?” she heard Qrow mutter.

Then, not even fifteen seconds later, they appeared silhouetted against the building entrance. They stopped long enough to exchange words with the porter before crossing the street to join them.

“I can’t believe that worked,” James marveled. “I thought we’d have to—” His eyes jumped to Glynda when she failed to suppress a shiver. “Glynda, you’re freezing. Here”—he was already shrugging out of his overcoat—“I have a shirt on underneath, take my coat—”

“You don’t have to—” The protest died off as he draped the heavy fabric across her shoulders. The effect was immediate, and she allowed herself to sag into the garment, enjoying the residual warmth leftover from his body heat. “Thank you, James.”

His features softened. “Of course.”

Ozpin reached for his glasses. He’d produced an eyeglass cleaner from somewhere on his person, and was now running the cloth over the lens. “James and I were saying that we rarely have an opportunity to get together, outside of work. Would either of you be interested in getting dinner, now that our night is free?” He donned his spectacles, and in the lamplight his smile held a hint of mischief. “It’s the very least I can do for inconveniencing you both.”

Qrow shoved his hands in his pockets. “You paying?” he asked.

“I think I can manage to cover dinner,” he said. “My financial troubles notwithstanding.”

She caught James’ perplexed frown. “Don’t ask,” she sighed.

“It will have to be a restaurant where other guests won’t find us,” Ozpin added. “I imagine they wouldn’t take kindly to hearing that we…exaggerated your illness and used our jobs as Huntsmen to get out of a mandatory event.”

“Oh don’t worry, Oz.” Qrow smirked. “I know a place.”

I like to headcanon that the Wizard’s magic is a bit like the serum used on Steve Rogers, so Oz, his predecessors, and Oscar are all stuck with the side effect of magically-enforced sobriety.

For those of you that that were curious, and want to know what the chapter title translates to:

Latin: veni, vidi, vinavi – “I came, I saw, I drank.”

vīnum – “wine”

– > [ vīn- ] – stem – > [ vīn- ] + [ -āre ] – verb-forming suffix for the present infinitive, “to wine” or “to [drink] wine” – > [ vīnāre ] + [ -āvī ] – conjugated for first-person singular perfect active indicative, “I drank wine” = vinavi – final omission of macrons

I’m pretty sure that somewhere I just made a Latin enthusiast cry, but oh well.

#rwby #rwby fics #rwby thought dump #all in the job #ozpin #glynda goodwitch #james ironwood #qrow branwen #my posts #i speak #oh thank god it's fucking done #i don't even care anymore whether this fic is good or not #sorry for the wait guys

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brightlycoloredteacups · 8 years ago

Text

Tension

Series: Brynhilda’s Saga: Ivar x OFC

Warnings: Tends towards violent imagery, none for this specific chapter.

Brynhilda is convinced Odin put the Ragnarsson’s on Midgard to torture her. At the very least annoy her for the rest of her days. They refuse to leave her alone for too long. Ubbe was interested in her because she was the only woman in all of Kattegat that continually refused to bed him, Hvitserk was only interested because Ubbe was interested. And Sigurd liked her because she gave an uncommon amount of lip to Ivar and got away with. Ivar just liked having a slave around.

Ivar rarely used her during the day though, preferring to make her nights a living hell, so Aslaug still used her to do labor intensive tasks around the home. Gathering buckets of water, butchering the meat, she even had to catch and kill all the mice in the home, every last imaginary one. Today, Aslaug had her help an older woman bring bags of grain to the docks so she can ship them out to gods knew where.

She threw the last bag on the pile, groaning with relief. Before she could turn to the old woman and ask her if anything else needed to be done, Aslaug came up the beach, barking for her. “Brynhilda! Come!” Brynhilda nodded to the woman, who thanked her, and ran off. “You are to take Ivar to Floki’s.” She commanded. “And be gentle with him, I know how much you like to play rough.”

“Yes, your highness.” Brynhilda mutters, scurrying off to get Ivar.

When she finds him, he is bent over, tying his braces up, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His face is haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. “Where have you been?” He snapped, “I’ve been calling for you for ages.”

“I do have other duties to attend to outside of the house.” She informs him. “None of you lip today, I’m in no mood for it.” She scoffs but remains quiet. Watching as he finishes with his braces, she says, “How am I supposed to carry you if you don’t wrap your legs around me.”

“You won’t be carrying me you idiot!” He throws a bag to her, one she catches with ease. Crawling off his furs he heads for the door. Aslaug is watching her carefully. “I thought I told you to carry my so-” She begins, but Ivar cuts her off. “I’m not an invalid mother,” He snaps. “I don’t need some slave carrying me around like a child.”

“Are you sure, every other day you’d love to have me carry you.” Brynhilda says. He gives her a withering look. “I swear slave, today I will cut your tongue from you head.”

“My name,” She says, making sure to step on his hand as she steps over him. He snarls and swats at her. “Is Brynhilda.” She throws open the door and waits for him to crawl out.

By the time they get halfway to Floki’s hut, Brynhilda is sweating and struggling as much as Ivar is. “Maybe we should take a break.” She suggests, trying not to pant with the effort it takes to put one foot in front of the other. Ivar glares at her, “I don’t need a break.”

“Sure,” She says. “Neither do I. I’m good. I could go on for days.” They continue until they both come to a stop, pain becoming too great. Ivar presses his head into his forearm while Brynhilda drops to her knees. Both begin to gasp for air, trying their best to ride out their pain without the other taking too much notice. When they’re finished, Ivar peeks at her. “Can go on for days huh?” Brynhilda growls. “Don’t need anyone to carry you huh?” They stay like that, looking at each other for a long while. It isn’t a glare, it’s more of a curious stare, they want to know the extent of each other’s pain, they want to bond over it. Brynhilda gets back up, shouldering the bag and nods. “Lead the way oh mighty prince.” She says. Ivar begins once again to crawl.

By the time they reach Floki’s hut, Ivar pounding on the door calling for the man, both are drenched in sweat and nauseas with the effort of it all. The door is thrown open to reveal a mostly bald man, shirtless and looking very alarmed. He takes one look at Ivar and opens the door wider. Ivar enters the hut, Brynhilda merely hands Flokie the bag, figuring Ivar had her bring it for a reason. Floki takes it wordlessly. He gives her a long look, expecting her to follow Ivar. She doesn’t move from her spot. Not one to invite strangers in his home, he shuts the door in Brynhilda’s face.

She’s in the middle of getting off the grumpy old man’s front step when the door opens again. She looks to see Ivar’s disapproving face. “Well?” He says. “Get in here.” She does as she’s told, but does it slowly. As she passes him, she hears Ivar mutter ‘moron’. “And who’s this?” Floki asks, looking over her critically. “Her name is Brynhilda.” Ivar explains, pulling himself onto the bed.

“Undo my braces.” Ivar looks at Brynhilda expectantly. She stands there, glaring. “Well slave?”

“Give me a moment.” She snaps, seized with pain. His brows knit together as he looks at her, but he says nothing. For a few tense moments, she stands there, willing her legs to work. “The last time I check-” Ivar begins. “You keep your mouth shut.” Brynhilda snarls. “I will be there as soon as I can.”

“I’m the crippled one,” He snaps back. “Yes, but the entire world doesn’t revolve around you.” Ivar throws something at her, it bounces off her stomach. “You’re my slave, you should be taking care of me when I’m in pain.”

This spurs Brynhilda to his side. He’s smiling, thinking he’s triumphant, and in a way he is. Brynhilda can’t bring herself to hit him. Any other man, any other point in time and she would have gutted him like cow he is. Instead, she rips at his ties. He hisses in pain with the jerking of his legs, but doesn’t stop her. It’s like prey that’s smelled a predator but doesn’t know where it is, something instinctive inside tells him not to push too hard or he may not live to regret it.

When she’s done untying his braces she walks into a corner of the hut and slips to the ground, exhausted. As Floki and his, presumably wife, work on Ivar, Brynhilda grinds her teeth together. Breathing deep and letting it out slowly, she focuses on one of the lessons Eysteinn taught her. How to properly strong a bow. It isn’t complicated, but she drags out all the little details in her head for distraction.

When the pain abates, she uncurls herself. It worried her that she had seized up at all. If she was going to wage war on her enemies, she couldn’t let that stop her. There would be long, hard days of marching, hours of fighting, she’d need to be able to lift her shield and her sword, or else she’d fall. Weakness was not an option.

She chewed her lip as she thought of the actions she could take. She went through every idea she could, resting wasn’t an option, going to the Queen and telling her what Brynhilda was trying to do definitely wasn’t an option, getting one of the Ragnarssons to help her was unthinkable. She could train at night, when no one would bother her. No one traveled in the forest at night, they wouldn’t be able to figure her out. As much as she hated the thought, it was her only option.

She was pulled from her internal planning by Ivar throwing his bag at her. “Let’s go, slave,” He sneers. “My name,” she says, getting up and shouldering the bag, “Is Brynhilda.”

When Eysteinn had trained her during the summer, she hadn’t been in top form. He went easy on her as a result. She hadn’t complained then, wanting to soak up the technical aspect of training more than anything. Now, she planned on putting that training to good use. Ivar had gone to bed early, leaving her with an evening alone. It was the perfect time to start.

She didn’t dare dig up her sword and shield. They were far too precious, she couldn’t afford someone figuring out her little treasure chest. So, she took up a stick she found and began to go through the motions. Her back still ached, but she took it slow. The goal was to work on endurance, not kill herself.

She was just beginning to work up a sweat when she heard her name being called. She had chosen the spot where all the slaves went to relax when they had the rare day off, the only one she told was Sigrid. Expectedly, that was who burst from the tree line, looking panicked. “What’s wrong?” Brynhilda asked, trying to stay calm for the girl. “It’s Ivar,” Sigrid pants. “He’s looking for you.” Brynhilda rolls her eyes. Of course he is.

She walks up the bank to Sigrid, throwing the stick somewhere in the brush. “You’d better hurry,” Sigrid warns, grabbing Brynhilda’s hand. “He’s angry that you’ve disappeared.” Brynhilda grunted, not moving any faster as Sigrid tugged her along. “Let the little shit suffer.” She says. Sigrid says nothing.

They walk for some time, Sigrid keeping a tight hold on Brynhilda’s hand. Normally, Brynhilda would’ve brushed her off. She hated being touched, but it seemed she didn’t mind Sigrid. “Aren’t you afraid he’s going to kill you?” Sigrid finally asks. “No,” Brynhilda answers honestly. “Really?” Brynhilda completely misses the girl’s tone of awe. “Really. I’ve faced entire armies on my own before, Ivar doesn’t scare me at all.”

“You have not!” Sigrid says. Brynhilda grunts. “Alright, maybe a small warband, but the point was, there was one of me and a large number of them.”

“What did you do?” Sigrid asked. “I killed them.”

“I know that,” Sigrid says, giggling. “How did you kill them?”

“One by one,” Brynhilda tells her honestly. “It took me about a week.”

“Really, an entire week? You didn’t just fight them all?”

Brynhilda stops and looks at Sigird, trying to figure out if the girl is serious. “I’m not a god Sigrid, I can only do so much.”

“But it took you a week?”

“I had to remain hidden, I would’ve died otherwise.” Brynhilda says a little exasperated. Sigrid’s brows are furrowed, she’s trying to figure out how Brynhilda went about killing a bunch of men over the course of a week. “Maybe I’ll tell you the story one day, right now, let’s go and see what fresh torture Ivar has prepared for me.”

As they approach Kattegat, Sigrid continues asking her questions. “Are you a shieldmaiden?”

“I was,”

“What happened?”

“I was betrayed.”

“Who betrayed you?”

“People I thought my family.”

“Why did they betray you?”

“I was a pawn in a game I hadn’t realized was being played.” Sigrid was quiet for so long after that, they reached the Slave House before she spoke again. “Are you going to get revenge?” She whispered. Brynhilda lets go of Sigrid’s hand and bends to look her in the eye. Sigrid’s blue eyes are wide as her mouth as Brynhilda says, “Not even Odin can stop me from reaping my revenge on those that tried to bury me.” Sigrid takes a step back from the older woman, feeling chills run through her. Bryhilda straightens and turns towards the feast hall. As the girl steps into the slave house, Sigrid makes a promise not to get on Brynhilda’s bad side.

The moment Brynhilda opens the door, Aslaug is on her. “Where have you been?” She snaps. “Ivar has been calling for you,”

“I’m aware.” She brushes past the queen. “He is in a great deal of pain,” Aslaug says, running after her. “You will soothe it by any means necessary or-”

Brynhilda turns to the queen. “Or what?” She sneers. Aslaug backs up from her, clearly afraid. Brynhilda’s eyes are afire tonight, Aslaug knows better than to frustrate the girl, the Seer has told her as much. Pressing her lips together, she lifts her chin and looks down at her. “Just soothe my son’s pain.” She orders. “I will try my best, your highness.” Brynhilda mutters.

She leaves Aslaug in the feast hall and opens the door, only to be assaulted with a drinking horn. “Where have you been?” Ivar yells at her. “As far away from you as possible.” She mutters. Ivar ignores her smart answer and begins his tirade. “You are MY slave! You are to be where I can find you at all times!” Brynhilda drowns him out early on, trying to concentrate more on not strangling him. When there’s no sign of an end to his angry speech, she cuts him off, “Are you going to sit there and bitch all night, or are you going to tell me what to do?” Ivar seethes for a few moments. “Go fetch the healer. She’s an old woman that lives on the outskirts of Kattegat.”

“For the love of Odin!” Brynhilda throws her hands to the sky. “Any slave here could’ve done that, one of your brothers could’ve done that.”

“I want you to do it.” Ivar says, smirking. Brynhilda can’t believe it. This asshole really had her tracked down for a task anyone could’ve done. “Of all the idiotic-” She starts, turning from him and walking out of the room. Ivar only catches the end of her complaining, something about a ‘complete moron’. She ignores the cup that sails by her head.

#ivar the boneless #ivars heathen army #ivar ragnarsson #vikings #ivar fic #ivar and brynhilda #ivar x OFC

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seenashwrite · 8 years ago

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The Midwife: Part One

Status: Complete (1 of 4) Word Count: 3K Category: Mini-series; Behind-the-scenes canon compliant; Historical; Mystery; Teamwork; On-the-hunt Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Various O.C.s; References to familiar people/places Pairing(s): N/A Warnings: None Overall Summary: In the mid-1950s, a member of the New York City chapter of the Men of Letters is sent to the United Kingdom to assist with what appears to be another stack of cold case dead-ends, when he suddenly finds himself questioning one of his closest-held convictions.

*~* The Midwife : Master Post *~*

There was once a small pocket of unmoved time in Kansas, about half a century's worth, and it came to an end simply, no magic required. A turn of a key in a lock, two sets of steps across a threshold, then it was over, just like that. Simple maneuvers were in contrast with the Men of Letters' old hat routine but the new occupants of their abandoned shelter under Lebanon favored such actions when they had the option.

These legacies were not alone in that position, though they may have found the premise hard to swallow as the years went by, as their knowledge grew. Their encounters with a few of the more interesting members of their inherited fraternity would have done little to convince them otherwise. Seeing is believing, and what-have-you.

Proof. Tangibility. Something solid, something that could be held in the hand, studied, documented. Rumor meets research meets methodology. Hunter meets weapon meets monster. So, in that respect, more Men of Letters than not.

No one would have faulted the Winchester brothers for missing the typewriter at the very back of the lowest, farthest space, under the rotting table, inside the water-damaged and disintegrating box, completely covered by shadows and cobwebs in that brick-walled cellar of a storage room.

Perhaps some fault - they had lived there for years by the time the typewriter's keys began to move for the first time in decades - maybe that room should have long been discovered, its items sorted. The youngest would have found the books of value, slightly molded as they were. The eldest most assuredly would have found the vintage weaponry of interest, if not use.

Should they ever go hunting in their home, and should that hunt take them to the dark corner, and the box, and the rusted device, a yellowed paper wrapped on the roll, filled with words in faded ink would await them, though they'd need to be timely: things of such nature do eventually tend to fall to pieces.

Kendricks Academy, just outside London - 1956

I've heard it said that if you question your own sanity, then the thought in-and-of itself means you're not. Insane, that is. I found that reasonable, though I suspected many a lunatic had to have felt it creeping on, so reason, yes; comfort, no.

Burt flicked a tiny paper ball across the huge library table to get my attention, and I tilted my head slightly in his direction, met mischievous eyes with my own, ones I suspected were dull and glazed-over and a step shy of insanity. A small snicker was my confirmation, and it was quickly shifted into a mild throat-clearing when our monotone host glanced over his shoulder in our direction. Undeterred, the long, thin stick in his hand went back to pointing - poking, really - at the projected data on the wall, the droning getting right back on track.

This was how I'd die.

He was such a promising young man, they'd write. Twenty-four, taken long before his time, found still sitting up in the chair, his beloved research scattered around him. He is survived by an incredibly angry fiancée, bereft over the meticulously-yet-indecisively-planned wedding that shall never occur. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made in his name to the Men of Letters, United Kingdom Headquarters, London. Please earmark as funding for booze-filled credenzas in all meeting rooms.

It wasn't just the London chapter - my home chapter in New York City was filled with fellows who could bore with the best of them, and though I loved my job, this assignment was working my nerves. I'd thought my breaks in the cold cases department - especially the last one - would send me into the more active areas of our duties. Active without action, for the most part, but I would've happily taken it.

Instead they’d sent the Lily Sunder investigation on without me, then sent me across the pond, a stack of ice-colds awaiting me in the United Kingdom. And, of course, the not-so-brief briefings delivered in succession by brethren who grew increasingly brain-numbing. Thank heavens for Burt.

Per usual, he seemed to take everything in stride, easygoing to a fault. He was only around five years my senior, though his somewhat girthy physique and heavily balding scalp made him look older. And while he supported me in my desire to see what else our secret society had to offer, he seemed perfectly content languishing with the cold cases.

Even the fact that we'd been boarded at the school didn't seem to faze him, thin mattresses and bland food be damned. His pockets were always filled with candy, a bit grandfatherly, but I found myself grateful. I'd taken to munching whenever he did, and after almost three weeks, my waistband had started to protest - made sense why Burt was perpetually suspendered. Still, I took the offered piece of wax-wrapped taffy as we walked back to the dormitory.

"No more bubblegum?" I asked, pulling the sticky wad in two before I stuck it in my mouth.

"Nah," Burt replied, talking around an entire piece of taffy settled into his cheek, where it was causing a giant bulge. "Got in my mustache the other day."

"Stop blowing bubbles."

"Then what's the point, Jacky?"

"Got me."

"Say, you heard anything from home?"

"Colleen changed her bouquet again."

"I meant Lily."

"No, lilies were three bouquets ago."

"The Sunder case, you moron."

"Ah. No. Last time I asked, Peterson said it was now 'eyes only'." I capped off my response with rolled eyes, then went ahead and stuffed the other half of the taffy in my mouth. Burt knew better. I hated talking about it.

"Still makes me mad," he replied in a sympathetic tone.

"Nothing makes you mad."

"Well, that did! Jack, you're the one that found the lead, confirmed the Canada sighting---"

I sighed. "Burt---"

"And for pity's sake, the Nephi---"

I hocked my taffy into a nearby bush before I stopped in my tracks, turned, gripped his forearm. "Burt!" I hissed, glancing up and down the walkway.

Smatterings of students were still lingering and walking about, most headed into the common areas or their next class. And though we were outside, I still couldn't believe he was speaking so loudly, so casually. Saying that word aloud at all.

Burt's brow creased slightly and those always-rosy cheeks pinked up a notch, but then he swallowed his taffy and grinned. "Wanna skip that lukewarm, eighty-percent-dough-shepherd's pie in the canteen, head to a pub? I know one that serves actual hot meals, overfill the pints...." He trailed off in a slightly sing-song voice, wiggled his eyebrows so much they almost hit the rim of his cap.

I sighed again, then shrugged my shoulders. "Why not?"

It wasn't simply that they'd taken what I'd come to consider my case away from me. It was the nagging feeling I had that despite the fact Sunder had caused no harm to civilians to our knowledge - well, excepting herself - the Men of Letters' continued interest in her was more than just loose-end tying. No reason but the pangs in my gut to think it was some kind of vendetta. Then they'd allowed more and more access to the files once my early, modest hypothesis showed promise, and I'd stumbled upon quite the reason during a fact-finding mission to the chapter house in Kansas.

House. Ha. Basement, more accurately, and the cold case guru there, Haggerty, was so excited to have company he would've let us redecorate the place in pastels if we'd asked nicely enough. Anything to keep me and Burt there longer, keep him occupied.

He was one of the more enthusiastic members, reminded me a lot of my father, truth be told. More into the metaphysical than I was, sure, but with a logical mindset. I understood why I'd been ordered to consult with him, given the nature of Sunder's appearance in the grainy photograph we'd obtained. The professor hadn't aged a day since the time she'd disappeared from what was left of her life, and our working theory was witchcraft.

Witchcraft didn't just mean magic in my business; it was one of several sub-classifications under the magical umbrella. And if you wanted the skinny on the workings of witches, you called on Haggerty. Even though he'd retired not long after we'd met, he never hesitated to get back in touch with any thoughts he had on the ideas I'd written to him about, the more far-fetched ones I'd want to bounce off of someone before writing them up for field work consideration. Besides Burt, he was the most open-minded member of our little club. At least, that I'd ever encountered.

Which was why I was glad it was just Haggerty in the room with me when I'd had to sit down due to my shock, right there on the concrete floor, deep in the bowels of that small-town basement, just to the front of the rickety file cabinet I'd been plundering.

"You okay, kid? What's that you got there?" he'd asked.

In reply, I'd simply held out the folder to him when he'd come over and stooped down beside me.

He'd let out a low whistle, went from a stoop to taking a knee as he flipped through the papers. "This must've come from your neck of the woods, you know," he'd said cautiously. "Not sure I know how an old northeast recruitment file would've ended up here."

I knew.

They'd chalk it up to a mistake if I'd asked, a clerical error fifty-some-odd years gone, that the documentation should've gone to storage with anything else not germane to the ongoing nature of our work. Besides, they would say, it doesn't matter to the case, didn’t change the goal. Lily Sunder needed to answer for her meddling in otherworldly affairs, she needed to be monitored, needed to be questioned on her intentions.

But the truth was obvious - to me, to Burt, to Haggerty - that the real reason the file had been sent away from the New York house all those years ago was because they were embarrassed.

Sunder had refused no less than fourteen separate invitations to join the Men of Letters before the turn of the century. They'd been after her research talents since she was barely into adulthood, based on her early work in apocalyptic studies. They got more aggressive once her teaching career took off, and - judging by the verbiage in the copies of the letters they'd sent and the documentation of multiple recruitment trips to Maine - they were practically salivating over the thought of having a bonafide angel expert in their ranks.

"I still think it's why the Moles sent us here," Burt was saying, using our pet name for the ancient, die-instead-of-retire administrators in the Men of Letters.

He took large swig of beer to wash down the meat-and-two veg he'd just polished off. The rationing from the war had ended in the not-so-distant past, and it seemed all the cooks in the land - excepting the ones back at Kendricks, that is - were excited to get to do things up right again. Not that I had much of an appetite, but if we'd had to be banished, it had come at an ideal time, at least in that respect.

"We weren't banished."

Oh. I must've said that part aloud.

"Eat your food."

Burt was channeling his mother then - I knew because of the full British accent on all three words. His father was an American Mole, while his mother was the daughter of a very well-respected professor at Kendricks, not to mention all the uncles and cousins on both sides. Their family visited London for several months each year, so between that and hearing his mother every day, he was good for the occasional drift from American English, though he’d let loose around me from the jump.

There was some beef that kicked up off-and-on between the American and British leadership, and I never got invested, but a few of the older members in New York would dole out side-eyes and huffs at Burt's sporadic "pints" at "pubs", "mash" and "chips". It was more than the accent thing, though.

He kept close to the vest in general. I think because they weren’t shy about their resentment - some odd contempt for him for not being more of a go-getter, double legacy and all. Though about all that pedigree garbage, Burt couldn't have cared less.

They didn’t know how hard he worked behind the scenes, how much Burt cared about our mission. Not how I knew. And I also knew how much he cared for me.

So I obeyed, eating a few bites of some of the best fish I'd probably ever had, and he went on.

"I'm telling you, them pulling us out here right after Sunder? It's not a coincidence. Tell me you're not thinking the same thing."

I set down my fork, wiped my mouth, then looked at him as seriously as I could manage. "If I think too much about it, I'm going to get mad. Besides, she's not out here, and they know it. She may've been, but it's not as if there's any way to determine it - she's been running since Zeppelins were all the rage. I don't know what it is, but it's not Sunder."

Burt pulled his small, leather-bound notebook from his inside pocket and untied the strings, ready to make his case. I started stuffing carrots I didn't want into my mouth so I wouldn't slip from my current irritation at his pressing into that anger I'd just warned him about. My best friend was an absolute mule.

"Wales: Llandudno - old Liddell summer home location - nothing. Cairnholm - what was left of the Peregrine house - mild trace. You know how many kilometers we covered in Wales, total?"

"No idea, but I bet you---"

"Nine-hundred eighty-seven-point-eight, Jacko. You know how many miles that is?"

"Burt, are you going to be arriving at a point anytime in the near---"

"Then here," he continued, flipping a page. "Bloomsbury - former home of the Darlings - mild trace. All those random train depots - all the tunnels, ALL of them, Jack---"

"I was there," I said, downing the last quarter of my pint quicker than I should've, mentally crossing my fingers that his end point would have an actual theory behind it this time.

"---and we only confirmed potential - just potential - trace on one."

"You do recall when they ponied up about already knowing all this? I wanted to punch that guy."

"The short fella, the white-haired gentleman, who likely would've died on the spot if you had done?"

"Yup, that’s the one," I shot back casually, then glanced around. I caught our waitress' eye and held up my empty mug with what I hoped was a somewhat genuine smile. Burt was still going.

"All-in-all, not a definitive sign of an active hidey-hole to be found."

"I hate when you call them that."

"Window, door, aperture, passage, thinning, portal - still a hole. I stand by it."

"Fine."

"Kirke estate - every single room - not even a hint of anything."

"I'm going to rescind your best man status if you keep this up."

"Colleen can’t stand me, she'd be thrilled. Hell, Jack, make it her wedding present for all I care."

I frowned. “Jeez, Burt. What is with you?”

Then he frowned. “I was actually listening to their briefings. Were you?”

"Barely," I replied honestly. "They're sending us on follow-up field trips that first year initiates should be handling, and I actually miss our office and the city and my family and even that stupid tiny room in that overcrowded chapter house."

"And your fiancée."

I gave him a look. "I'm tired of chasing down what have always been children's stories with bits of truth in them somewhere. Bedtime tales that have been around long enough - plenty long enough - that if there were anything important to them, the Moles would've sussed it out when they were initiates."

Thankfully the waitress brought over our next round then, and I set into mine like a man just crawling in from the Sahara.

Burt huffed at that, then said, "Tomorrow's the first time we're going somewhere that's not a rehash. You didn't notice anything new and different about the briefing today?"

"That it's the closest I've gotten to empathizing with the undead."

He flipped his notebook around to face me and planted a finger above several sets of numbers. "Exact latitudes and longitudes, exact area of square kilometers to cover." He flipped another page. “And here's the inns we'll be staying in. We're gonna be gone for a few weeks, and I know it's not just a hop-skip from here, but this shouldn't take more than four or five days, give-or-take.”

I set my mug down slowly, scanning over the notes quickly. He was right. I raised my eyes to his. He grinned when he saw he finally had my interest.

“I think they might've been testing us with all this other stuff, make sure we were accurate on the traces we'd found, see how thorough we were in following up with any living witnesses, how detailed we were in reports. I think this trip is why we're here. Because if I wanted to whip up a nice little spread, keep people away from my hidey-hole? This is exactly the type of place I'd put it.”

I stared at him for a few moments, my normally whirring, ever-processing mind at a complete standstill.

Now he leaned in closer. “And I think I have an idea about how it connects to the Sunder case - to your theory.”

Burt wisely didn't say the word - though the volume of the pub's patrons would've likely drowned it out anyway - and instead just kept studying my face.

“Spit it out,” he finally ordered.

I inhaled and exhaled a deep breath, glancing down at the scribbled locales, then back up, obeying Burt once more.

“What in damnation do they think is out on the moors?"

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