Chapter Text
Though the battle is over, the reverberations of ice on metal echo in her mind even now. Where had she gone so wrong? So many places. Her stance, her dust choices, her split-second evasions, her parries, her lunges— each had a laundry list of issues she'd failed to fix before taking on the Arma Gigas. It may have been a 'now or never' situation, but it still stings.
I'll wear that failure on my face forever, she thinks bitterly, grasping the arms of her chair tight. Klein hasn't told her it will scar yet; he's too sweet for that. Weiss doesn't need him to say it aloud anyway.
Weiss watches Klein's expression with her right eye as he dabs ointment on the stinging, scabbing wound that runs from her browline to her cheek, down across her left eyelid.
"It's a good thing you were fast enough to avoid worse damage, Miss Schnee. Losing an eye is not something an aura can repair." His amber eyes regard her sternly. "Though the fault lies with your father for requiring such a task of you."
"I won though," Weiss murmurs, trying to move her lips scarcely so she doesn't crack the drying ointment on her cheek.
"That you did, my little snowflake," Klein says softly, patting her unblemished cheek. "And it's off to Beacon Academy with you in the morning."
Twenty-four hours. No, less than that. I'll be on my way to freedom, just like Winter… but better.
"I won't miss this place," Weiss grumbles, looking around her blindingly white room, "but… I will miss you, Klein."
He smiles at her, his pink irises glimmering in the morning light. "The feeling is mutual, Miss Schnee."
After Klein takes his leave, Weiss tries to get used to having one eye, since the gauze covering the injured side of her face tapes her eye shut. Curious, she practices walking around the room, heels clicking against the marble floor. She makes it from the window to the door and back without tripping, then throws herself backward onto her bed. She swings her legs up so she can unstrap her shoes, then flings them across the room with luxurious kicks. She hears them clatter somewhere, but for once she doesn't care.
This time tomorrow, I'll be over Anima, on my way to Vale, to Beacon Academy.
The thought is enough to lull her into a light sleep with a rare smile on her face.
By the time Weiss has finished singing and the guests have finished swarming her with equal amounts of condemnations and commendations, her throat burns. She stands tall though, newly-healed scar and all.
Unbeknownst to her guests, this brunch reveal party was always meant to humiliate her after her inevitable loss, publically rub her nose in the fact she'd be attending Atlas Academy after all. To those closest to the Schnees, the rumored reveal-to-be was that she'd be choosing to follow in her sister's footsteps. There was no other option, or at least, that's what they'd thought.
From her spot at the back of the ballroom, she catches sight of her father schmoozing with some guests, posture rigid. He clinks a champagne flute with them, laughing jovially. His free hand flexes and grasps fruitlessly behind his back.
I wonder how much he spent to change all the banners on such short notice…
"Congratulations, sister."
Weiss draws her gaze from the Good Luck at Beacon Academy, Weiss! banner, down to eye level, then makes a conspicuous show of tilting her head down to look Whitley in the eye.
"Oh, Whitley. I didn't see you there."
"Don't be rude, Weiss," he wrinkles his nose, stepping neatly to stand next to her. With their backs to the wall, they survey the room together. "You're short too."
"Not as short as you," Weiss rolls her eyes, wincing slightly when the motion tugs at the barely-healed scar. "What do you want?"
"I can't congratulate my big sister on her moving onto greener, southern pastures?" Whitley snorts, then sips at his drink.
"What is that?" The question slips out, sharp, before she can stop it.
"Sparkling cider, duh. Nothing on those trays is alcoholic. It's just past noon."
She could comment that just because his drink was non-alcoholic didn't mean they all were. Certain butlers were usually paid well to attend specifically to the Schnee children while pretending to not be doing so. It was the rich person's version of a kiddie table. However, it seemed a little cruel, even for her, to burst his childish bubble. At just thirteen years old, he seemed much older, happy in their father's shadow- or at least happier than she's ever been.
So Weiss just rolls her eyes.
"How nice of Father to throw you a going away party." He gestures to the guests milling around, talking and chatting with one another. To celebrate the end of summer, most people were dressed in cool colors- whites, blues, periwinkles, the occasional mint or taupe- and ignoring the lethargic piano playing, tired orchestra, and the empty dance floor in the hopes of making some business or political connections through stifling small talk.
"It's nothing to do with me. He's just showing off."
Now Whitley makes a show of looking up at the banner.
It hangs above the dais where Weiss had sung to kick off the celebratory brunch, only unfurling once she'd curtsied. The polite and enthusiastic applause had subsided into shocked silence. Weiss had looked up in confusion, right into her father's smug expression. He had stood directly in front of the dais and glowered at her throughout the entire performance, but at that moment, he'd put on a grim smile and began to clap. The crowd followed suit, somewhat uneasily. As soon as the lights came up though, the whispers had caught like sparks on the taiga.
Beacon? Why would she-? That's very odd-? Maybe her sister-? What would Ironwood-? Did something go wrong-?
Weiss snags a flute from a passing butler and knocks back half of its bubbly contents in one swallow. The carbonation burns in her throat, doing little to slake her thirst. She can feel her brother staring at her.
"It's just cider, Whitley."
It's a perfect moment to make a snide comment comparing her to their conspicuously absent mother, but Whitley retains some tact at least. As acerbic as he is, he hasn't absorbed all of their father's cruelty.
He sips at his own drink again. "Anyway, I am ninety-five percent certain he made the cooks scrape 'Atlas' off the cake and rewrite 'Beacon' on it. There's spots where the icing isn't as even and the letters are crowded. Shoddy craftsmanship, if you ask me."
Weiss casts a side glance toward the banquet tables several feet away and the three-tiered cake in their center. Even from where she's standing she can tell the 'con' in Beacon is a bit crowded.
Weiss sighs. "Is it at least lemon cake?"
The noise that escapes her brother's mouth is somewhere between a laugh, a choke, and a gurgle. He'd been finishing his drink, preparing to place the empty flute on the tray of an approaching butler; he does manage to do so with one hand. Then he grabs his handkerchief with the other, coughing into it until he can breathe properly again. Weiss just crosses her arms, unimpressed.
"Dear sister, are you not the older of us both? You know our father," Whitley says with a pitiless smirk and a shrug. "It's chocolate."
Weiss watches him melt into the crowd. She unclenches her jaw and sips her drink again, trying to enjoy the last moments of quiet before stray guests notice the sibling conversation has ended and approach her to dispatch more thinly-veiled insults and polite befuddlement.
"Chocolate," she mutters under her breath. "Of course."
Weiss hates chocolate.
One last time, Weiss thinks, as a butler pulls out her chair. Most of the long dining room table remains unset, with only placemats in front of the majority of the dozen chairs. However, the head of the table, two chairs to its right, and two to its left are prepared for their rarest guests- the Schnee family.
Whitley has changed out of his formal light blues into his formal light grays, she notices, as he sits down across from her. Weiss hasn't changed since brunch.
"I suppose I'll have your seat when you're gone," Whitley raises his eyebrows.
"Not my seat."
Weiss looks to her left, the spot closer to the head of the table. Its place is less set than the others with only a simple napkin in a ring, a single plate, and an upturned wine glass.
Winter's place.
She'd been eleven when Winter quietly and suddenly joined Atlas Academy, leaving no room for argument. When he'd informally named her as the new heiress at dinner that night, Jacques had ordered her to sit in Winter's spot. Judging by the expression on Whitley's face, he remembers the resounding slap she'd received in response to her refusal. Her cheek remembers just as well, aching with a phantom pain. She resists the urge to reach up and soothe her face; instead, she raises her eyebrows back at him.
"Plus you'd have to do something worthy of a family dinner first," Weiss replies primly.
She can count on her fingers how many times all four of them had convened for a family dinner in this room since that day. At every one of them, her mother comes in just a few minutes before her father, gently strokes the base of Winter's theoretical wine glass, and takes her place next to Whitley. She does that now and Weiss and Whitley fall silent, watching the ritual.
There are only a few things that Weiss thinks her mother has done right in her life. One of them is keeping Winter's place at the table.
Will she keep mine too? Or will Father get his way finally?
Willow sits down, already reaching for a bottle of wine even before she readies her glass.
"Well, well, what a lovely occasion we have to celebrate." Jacques' voice rings out as he enters the room. A butler follows closely behind, pulling his chair out and helping him settle in. "Weiss' last dinner before she heads off to Beacon Academy. I must say Weiss, you will be missed."
Don't strain yourself.
He raises his glass and the butler fills it with red wine. Another fills her and Whitley's with cranberry juice. Willow's is already half empty, but she waves off an attempt to fill it.
"To Weiss' safe journey and safe return." Jacques stands and raises his glass. The three of them do the same. "May you find success at Beacon."
"Yes, of course," Willow says softly and lifts her glass to her lips. Her next words are a whisper. "Far, far away."
Whitley gives their mother a sidelong glance, then meets Weiss' eyes in confusion.
Weiss doesn't really have a whole lot to say to that, so she says nothing at all. She only nods and takes a sip of her cranberry juice. The kitchen staff begin to roll out the trays of dinner, like silent ants. Delicious aromas arise from the tureens.
Is this actually… something I like?
As she sits again, the butler places a covered plate in front of her, then unveils the dinner fare: soft yeast rolls, a light celery and leek soup, salisbury steak, bitter garlic greens, and mashed potatoes delicately drizzled with the same savory, brown gravy that drowns the steak.
Her surprise must show on her face somewhat.
"Your mother insisted we have your favorite, rather than something fancy," Jacques sneers as he tucks his napkin into his collar. Weiss looks at her mother. Any smile is hidden behind her wine, but the corners of her eyes crinkle just a little.
"Thank you," Weiss says, her surprise thawing her tone more than she intends. Her mother nods and returns her attention to her plate.
Considering she hadn't had anything today but a handful of the least offensive of brunch hor d'oeuvres, Weiss actually eats her meal. She savors the bitterness of the greens and the robust earthiness of the potatoes. They pair so well with the lean beef patties that melt in her mouth. The soup's grassy melody chases it down, mingling flavours without erasing them. Not a hint of sweetness to be found; it's all savory. Before she realizes it, her plate is clean.
Maybe at Beacon… I can learn to cook this for myself.
She dabs at her mouth with a napkin as an anonymous gloved hand clears her plate away. Dessert would probably be leftover cake, but it hardly bothered her now.
Her father swirls his wine absently, content with the glum silence that characterizes family dinners. Whitley picks around his greens, ignoring their mother's half-hearted gestures indicating that he should eat them.
"As requested, for the lady of the hour," says a familiar voice over Weiss' shoulder. She dare not turn around to gawk at Klein, who never interferes with kitchen matters.
Her mother smiles at him though and echoes her thoughts with a quiet, "Thank you very much, Klein."
He places a dessert plate in front of Weiss and his footsteps recede. Delicately decorated with a sprig of mint and a candied lemon slice is a wedge of lemon meringue pie.
"Your father forgets, dear," Willow says as she gestures to one of the attendants who takes her half-finished plate away. A slice of Weiss' celebratory cake arrives in its place. "I thought you would like that better. Don't you?"
Weiss picks up her dessert fork and takes a small, precious bite of the pie.
"I do. It's perfect." She takes another small bite, trying to savor it. The tartness of the lemon cuts perfectly with the graham crust's light spice. The sourness makes her mouth tighten just a bit around the fork. She can't help but close her eyes and lose herself in the taste. It tastes like bitter birthdays and a large collection of small regrets over the years. It's perfect for her last night at Schnee Manor.
She hears her father scoff, a childish pah! that echoes in the huge hall. She ignores him, only opening her eyes to find another bite of her dessert.
As she eats, her mother refills her wine glass and even allows Whitley to have his dessert as well. Weiss makes it through all but two bites of pie before the silence is broken once again.
"It's a shame your sister didn't come to see you off, Weiss." Jacques raises his bushy eyebrows. "Though I suppose she's made her choice."
She pauses with her fork hovering over the pie.
What can I say to that?
"And you've made yours," he mutters darkly.
Weiss slices into what's left of her pie with too much force. Her fork clinks into the porcelain, loud as a gunshot in the quiet room. In her lap, she fists her hand into the hem of her skirt. She breathes in, breathes out, allows herself one slow blink. It's tremendously difficult to think past the anger toward her father as the feeling threatens to ruin her contentment from the meal. Nonetheless, she lifts the bite to her lips and chews it, swallows it.
Winter would be here if it weren't for you.
"Thank you for brunch, father." She takes the last bite and sets her fork down. "Dinner was lovely, mother. I appreciate you all taking time out of your busy schedules to spend time with me before my departure. May I be excused?"
Jacques sputters but Willow raises her glass in another toast. Weiss pushes her chair back and waits expectantly.
"You'll make us proud, Weiss."
Not a question, not a command. An expectation, with no room for error and little room for interpretation.
Weiss sips her juice and hands the glass to the attendant before standing and leaving the table behind, hopefully for the last time.
The Schnee family manor is larger than all but a few mansions in Atlas. Its marble halls stretch out ahead before her as attendants open the grand doors for her.
She forces herself to keep her eyes forward.
Never has her home felt this large. Her usual brisk clip slows to a sluggish walk as she heads for the center foyer. Paintings along the walls loom over her, following her progress with narrowed eyes.
Why is our dining hall on the opposite wing from our bedrooms anyway? Weiss thinks grumpily as she takes a moment to lean against the bottom of the grand staircase bannister.
By the time she makes it up the stairs, Weiss is drowsy with exhaustion. Between the fight, her slowly replenishing aura, the long brunch, and her injuries, the trek to her bedroom seems longer than ever.
When she reaches her room, she stumbles inside and flops face first onto her bed, only to realize she hasn't locked the door.
Oh, for brothers' sake—
She flicks out a hand, summoning a tiny glyph that flicks the deadbolt into the locked position. This way, no one would bother her for taking a nap so early in the evening or any other reason.
Despite being so small, the task drains her already-weak aura. Her plush bed is more than happy to swallow her up. This time she only manages to tug off one shoe before slipping down, down, down into a dreamless sleep.