#edelwrites

[a-mellowtea]

I'd say that this RWBY AU in my head is cooking, but it's more like a witch's cauldron that I keep tossing random ingredients into as I cackle in maniacal glee...

#rwby #edelwrites #help. me.

[a-mellowtea]

🌹

"At least I wasn't a walking Commodore 64, then. Small mercies."

From my WIP Chapter 1 of Fate Is Kind. The chapter title is "Death, And Other Inconveniences".

#edelwrites #ask answer

[a-mellowtea]

"shh, shh. you were having a nightmare" for --you guessed it-- ironqrow? 👉👈

ask meme / accepting!

When James startles awake, it's to the sound of the world ending.

At least, that's what the sudden crack, the rumble, the flash of pure, blinding white light feels like. All around him are screams, gunfire, the impossible cacophony of reality being flipped squarely on its head. The sulfuric linger of Dust is in his nose, his lungs, and it's hot — searing, dripping, like he's being drowned in blood and burned from the inside out. He can't breathe, can't see, can't think beyond the instinctual grab he makes for Due Process, but the twin pistols aren't where they should be. James chokes, twists desperately, trying to get his feet under him, only to find that his legs are ensnared. He kicks—

—and falls straight off the bed.

It hurts, but it's the jolt that brings him back, that shoves the little breath he managed to take from him and leaves him gasping. He's on his side, staring across soft carpeting, the dim glow of a small nightlight glaring from low on the wall. He's in his apartment, in the Academy, in Atlas. There's no fire, no screams, no Brothers-forsaken battlefield.

Every inch of him shaking, James lowers his head to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut. He can't tell if the sting is tears or sweat. The sob that escapes him is painfully loud.

"James?"

For a heartbeat, the voice doesn't register, and terror freezes James in place. Then he rolls over by half, looks up, and meets familiar crimson eyes. His relief could have powered the entire Kingdom.

"Qrow," he whispers, hoarse and breathless and so not like him that he flinches. 

Qrow slides off the bed and sinks down next to him, settling a hand low on James’ chest. His fingers twitch with the urge to cover it with his own, but everything’s so heavy and moving at all right now feels like a hopeless endeavor, so instead he closes his eyes again and struggles for a steady breath.

"Hey..." Qrow soothes, rough with sleep but gentle. Cool fingers brush James’ hair from his forehead. "Shh, shh. You were having a nightmare."

Oh. Yes, that explains it. He blinks, and turns his head to look past Qrow, under the bed, out the windows. He can see the twirling tempest of a blizzard; can hear the whistle of the wind if he listens for it. Thundersnow is rare, especially in Atlas. That probably hadn’t helped.

And yet...

"I can't remember," murmurs James.

The room lights up again, but the rumbling that follows is quieter. Qrow doesn't say that it's probably best that he doesn't, that it was nothing, just a bad dream — they both know 'just' never applies to either of their terrors. He rubs small circles against James' chest, breathing slow and even. James finds himself matching the rhythm without even meaning to.

They sit in an easy silence. The last skips of adrenaline drain away, and James becomes aware of a pain in his right wrist. It’s not terrible or sharp, and he can’t think of what caused it — definitely not tumbling off the bed — but it makes him wince all the same. Qrow stills.

"You hurt yourself?"

James scoffs a dry laugh and shakes his head. It's residual, a phantom ache, like the haze in his head, and the ghosts, and the rest of it. Qrow shifts, and reaches for his hand anyways. James can just make out the way his brows are furrowed, the concern in his eyes.

"Lemme see."

James lets him. He expects him to be analytical, to check the joint for damage or something knocked out of alignment, but all Qrow does is weave their fingers together and hold tight. The warmth chases off the tension, the echo of anguish, and James huffs a breath that rasps barely shy of another sob.

He doesn’t realize his eyes have slipped shut once more until Qrow’s tapping his chest. There’s a touch of amusement to the way his lips have quirked, behind the tenderness and worry.

"You wanna get up?"

James considers it a moment. The world's still spinning, and he's still trembling, and he really doesn't trust himself to move.

"Not yet," he croaks, still no louder than a breath. Qrow nods without hesitation.

"Okay."

He swivels, and for a moment James thinks he’s going to climb back into bed. But then Qrow tugs down two pillows, and the heavy duvet, and is suddenly curled up next to him on the floor, one arm beneath his head, the other snaking around James to pull himself close. It’s a less sudden thing, the feeling of safe that tucks itself neatly behind James’ ribs, but when it finally resolves and beats alongside the machine-steady pulse of his heart, it’s overwhelming.

James feels more than hears Qrow’s hum when he wraps his arms around him in return, burying his face — and the tears — in feather-soft hair.

"Shh. You're here, Jim. You're right here."

#rwby #edelwrites #ironqrow #james ironwood #qrow branwen #BLESS YOUR HEART JAMEZ #I'M SORRY IT TOOK A WHILE #i totally didn't stay at work off the clock to finish this #totally not

[a-mellowtea]

This was brought up in a Discord server I’m in, and I was going to -- and at some point probably will -- write a proper mini-fic for it (it’s still in my drafts), but I want to paint a scene first, because it’s stuck in my head.

It’s Atlas Academy. It’s students, around the same age as our heroes; young warriors, with families and friends and dreams of helping the world and their Kingdom, like every student of Beacon was. Things were shaken a bit when Vale fell and the CCT went down, but life went back to a slightly-adjusted normal pretty quickly. The new semester started, classes resumed. Amity Colosseum drifted its way home, and there’s a buzz in the halls about the newly-dubbed “Protector of Mantle” -- Doctor Polendina’s creation, restored. Any unease about her nature lessens within a week of her presence on campus as students bump into her, and disappears completely when the first reports of sector security in Mantle come in; the highest its been in decades. 

Things aren’t perfect -- the Academy’s rationing Dust and there’s disquiet about the increased military presence in Mantle, no matter how many reassurances the undercity students are given -- but they’re stable. Safe.

And then Mantle is attacked. They’re ordered to their dorms; upperclassmen and faculty providing what guidance they can as they lock down the school. There are whispers that some students saw Specialist Schnee leave for the military compound in a panic, but there are no answers. All they can do is trust. Trust the military. Trust their Headmaster-General. Trust that they have the situation under control, and that they’d just get in the way if they tried to help, and that this storm will blow over even as the name “Salem” rings in their ears and General Ironwood tells them all that she’s what they’re really fighting. It’ll be okay. Amity Colosseum is ready; the whole world will be able to fight back, together. Atlas is strong. They’re strong. It’ll be okay.

And then evacuations from Mantle are halted. A few teams nervously ask their Professors about gunfire in the hallways. There’s a storm outside, red lightning arcing through the clouds. Sometimes it’s bright enough to illuminate what looks like a giant whale -- the upperclassmen say that that’s ridiculous. There are no Grimm like that. There is a horde out on the tundra, though; sitting there, waiting. The students of Atlas Academy sit and wait too. No one’s heard from General Ironwood. The Kingdom’s shield is raised. They’re told to stay in the dorms.

Then, suddenly, in the painfully early hours of the morning, Scrolls start beeping. It’s a video; a message, on Atlas’ Emergency Broadcast Channel. A young girl -- she can’t be older than a first-year student -- is on every screen. She smiles awkwardly and waves. She tells them all her name is Ruby Rose, and she’s a Huntress. She says Atlas is under attack by Salem, and that they need help. Whispers start -- why isn’t General Ironwood the one making this announcement? -- but are quickly hushed so that the rest of the broadcast can be heard. She asks them to try not to panic. The name “Salem” is said again; this time to the whole world. It must be; must be from Amity. They’re connected again! Even if things are dire, they can hold out. They can rally the Kingdoms, the people, organize a fight-

And then this Ruby Rose starts talking about magic. About Maidens and Relics and what Salem’s truly after. She says the Headmistress of Beacon and the Headmaster of Shade Academy -- why is there no mention of Haven? The rumors must be true, Headmaster Lionheart must have died defending it -- can verify what she’s telling them, and maybe even organize a way to fight back. She tells them their Headmaster-General can no longer be trusted. The whispers start again. And then that name -- “Salem” -- is tied to a word.

“Immortal”.

No one speaks. No one moves. Ruby Rose confidently tells Remnant that just because she can’t be destroyed doesn’t mean she can’t be defeated. She says “even if Atlas falls”. She says nothing of an immediate plan, of how they’re going to keep Atlas and Mantle alive in the days, maybe weeks until help arrives, if it will at all; just about banding together and not giving up.

And then the broadcast cuts out. The signal is lost. They’re alone.

It’s pandemonium. Students in the halls and their dorms desperately try to figure out what's going on. Snippets of frenzied conversations - "Who was that girl?"; "I think I've seen her around with the Ace Ops."; "Aren't they from Beacon?"; "But the General said we were going to fight, right?" - try to rationalize it all. Some are arguing, furious and confused. Some are crying. Some want to fight. Some are just staring vacantly out at the storm. There are screams; walls painted dripping crimson -- those are few, but more than one: some still had family in Mantle, and for some it’s all just too much. A handful cling to enough calm to go looking for their Professors for answers. It takes until finding them to realize:

No one has any.

The storm rumbles on.

#rwby volume 8 spoilers #rwby spoilers #edelwrites #this probably won't end up being the case #or just won't be touched on #but can you even imagine? #gosh you know i think they might've miscalculated on this one

[a-mellowtea]

predisposition

->

Omega watches.

It's one of the things she is very, very good at. She observes, and analyzes, and takes note of all the little things that would slip beneath the notice of those around her. The holos and hallways of Tipoca City practically sing for her, and a beautiful melody at that, carrying her insatiable curiosity on a neverending current. It's uncanny how quickly it lets her learn: borderline unnatural, and she can't explain it, but it comes as easily as breathing. She's half certain that it's the main reason, beyond being the Kaminoan's creation, that Nala Sae has stayed so patient with her.

It's a blessing and a curse. As surely as she knows the secrets of the city, the ins and outs of the science, she picks up on every word, every snicker and jibe from men who are, genetically speaking, family. And it hurts, but she's learned to roll with the punches. Usually by countering with her own, albeit in quiet and creative ways.

Sometimes Omega watches a little too closely, and almost thinks she catches onto things before they happen, but that's silly. Too much time spent staring at sterile laboratory walls. What was it called? An imagination?

She dearly wishes the last few days could've been chalked up to that. If only so then she wouldn't already know exactly what was happening to the tired soldier -- brother, he's my brother -- sitting across the cell from her.

She watched the tremors and headaches filter through the examination rooms, listened to the horrible murmurs and cries of nightmares played out on medbay cots. She's seen what these inhibitors, this order, have done. She feels it. It echoes in her ears, faintly, like the pulse of her own heartbeat, and it makes her cold in a way even the clean of pristine white corridors can't.

So, when Crosshair puts a hand to his temple, closing his eyes on an uneven sigh, and looks so defeated, so lost, Omega stops watching and gets to her feet.

It's so much worse to witness it play out in slow motion.

"You're angry," she says, just to get his attention. She scoots onto the bench beside him, bitter metal biting her palms, and leans forward to catch his eye as he affords her a rather withering glance. She doesn't take it personally.

"Very perceptive." 

He slouches away, chin propped up on his fist, but neither that nor the attempt at his as-yet usual clipped sarcastic monotone do anything to hide the shaking. It's fine and wiry and she's sure none of the others have looked close enough to notice, yet sitting next to him it's impossible not to. This close, it's like standing in the maelstrom of Kamino, violent and turbulent.

Angry.

Confused.

Scared.

Omega raises a hand to his shoulder, as confident as she is desperately gentle. The blacks under her fingers are warm, and she hopes it's not imagination that she feels him steady eversoslightly. 

"I know what you're going to do, but please. Don't." 

Keep fighting it, she implores, because she knows -- stars save him, she knows -- that he is, but it doesn't gain a voice. She can't think of a way to say it bluntly, to tell him that he's losing himself, that won't frighten him more.

He regards her a moment, eyes still harsh. Not nearly to the degree they were a minute ago, though, Omega decides.

"What do you know?"

Far too much, she thinks, and it makes her lips twitch into a sad smile.

"I know it's not your fault," she tells him, softly. Someone has to. "You can't help it."

He blinks at her, once, surprised for a scant heartbeat, and in that moment, she hears it. Hears him, as surely as the hum of the walls, and that's what it must be, because something in his eyes shifts, nearly shatters, in that same instant.

Then it vanishes, and he tenses. There's another reassurance on her tongue, but it dies when red enters her peripheral, and she drops her hand when she would have -- should have -- held on. The exchange is too quick, and he's gone; marched away by shocktroopers to a fate she's already guessed. Already knows.

The space next to her is cold. She feels it down to her bones.

Later, when there's a blaster in her hands and a perfect shot down the sights, when it would maybe be kinder, she knocks the rifle from his grasp instead. Because it's not his fault, and even this far away, even though it's so much quieter, in the moment of stillness that follows, she can hear him.

He's screaming.

#star wars #star wars the bad batch #the bad batch #edelwrites #WHOOPS that's me up at 5am writing feels instead of sleeping again #god dammit filoni i swear #if you kill any of my boys i will throw a fucking fit #also omega is a darling and i love her

[a-mellowtea]

🌹 💜

"Of course, because the stars in the sky would sooner go dark than James admit to wanting anything even halfway, as he'd put it, 'indecent'."

#edelwrites #ask answer #lmao this sounds a lot more suggestive out of context than i meant it to?? #whoops #💜💜

[a-mellowtea]

A month after his world fell apart -- after everything he knew and called home had to be left behind, after his sister was lost to the darkness of a magical void and his other sister appeared with tears and blue flames battling in her eyes, after they all stumbled into the lap of an uncaring desert and unprepared Kingdom -- Whitley slams his palms down on the lacquered wood of a table in a Vacuo bar.

He’s sick of the looks. He’s tired of the whispers, and the truth within them. He’s through with being a Schnee, and a useless one at that. He can’t stand it anymore; not when Weiss is gone, and Winter’s gaze is far away when she’s not venting her grief on Grimm, and there’s a boy his age with a stick for a weapon who’s doing more than he is.

He doesn’t ask. He demands. 

���Teach me how to be a Huntsman.”

#rwby #whitley schnee #edelwrites #teeny tiny little something that smacked me in the face earlier #come ooon it'd be so gooood

[a-mellowtea]

🌹 uwu

"Weiss doesn’t realize that Blake’s followed her until they’re standing shoulder to shoulder, the closed doors of the elevator reflecting their tired faces."

#edelwrites #ask answer #well this is a fun one #i'll let you guess the context ;)

[a-mellowtea]

🌹

"They stared at each other for a long, silent moment before it became painfully obvious that neither of them had any idea what to say."

#edelwrites #ask answer #umm welp #hehe

[a-mellowtea]

“Problem, the first: Salem. Problem, the second: I felt about as inclined as a certain reincarnating wizard to tell anyone of importance, least of all General James Ironwood, ‘funny thing: the evil witch lady you’ve devoted your life to fighting? She’s immortal!’. At least, not without a plan. Which was not currently forthcoming.

What was more likely to yield first: the wall, or my forehead?”

r/RWBY bit me with an Isekai-tis bug about a month ago, which has led to this fic, tentatively titled “Fate Is Kind” you get a cookie if you understood that reference, in which a poor darling fan is reincarnated in Penny’s body.

Yeah, I can’t unironically label the sub as anything but ‘peculiar’.

#rwby #edelart #edelwrites #yeah not gonna tag this with characters #but it did give me an excuse to draw both james and v1 ruby #so bless #this fic is also super super fun to write #the question of how someone would realistically react #to being thrown into a world where they not only know the future #but are in a position to very directly influence it #and having to grapple with how to go about that #without making things worse #is a really interesting one #i also just love this OC version of Penny? #her name's Iris

[a-mellowtea]

I got bit by the fanfic AU bug and now I’m staring at the pile of other projects I’ve got to work on like “I can put these aside for a little bit, right? It wouldn’t hurt, right??”

#edelwrites #it's uhhh yeah it's #ironqrow #maybe i'll crack off a quick chapter just to see how i actually like writing it #'cause i at least think it's a fun idea

[a-mellowtea]

“don’t do that. don’t shut me out” or “there’s nothing wrong with asking for help” for Wishbone (Clover/Marrow)? Marrow is a concerned boyfriend. 🥺

ask meme / accepting!

"There's nothing wrong with asking for help."

The words are soft, a brush of breath across his arm. There's no malice behind them, nothing more than a slight tinge of judgment, of frustration born from worry, but Clover can't quite blame his wince on the jagged wound Marrow is oh-so-careful binding.

A million things had gone wrong. Their position, the weather, the projection of Grimm in the area. It happened, and he knew it, but it didn't happen to them. At least, not since Tortuga. They were careful, they were precise, and where that fell short, they were lucky. Yet, what should have been a simple recon mission had turned into a six-hour adrenaline-filled blur of snow and ice and chance; one that Clover is still having a hard time remembering a good half of.

Warmth brings him back around to the present, to where Marrow's hand has settled against the crook of his elbow.

"Hey," he says, and Clover glances at him on instinct. "It could've been any of us."

Yes, it could have been. It could also have been so much worse. It is by chance--by luck--that they're all in one piece; just not his. No, he'd lost that along with his Aura, shattered by a Beowulf pouncing through the whiteout. They'd been at the mercy of the tundra, and if the mission had been farther from the old mines, if the storm hadn't let up enough for their flare to billow through, if the Ursa's aim had been inches truer...

Sheer, dumb, blind luck. That's all he can think to thank.

Clover returns his gaze to the window. Beyond the frost-laced panes, the last of the storm has settled into a calm spring snowfall. His voice is a lot steadier than he feels.

"I'm supposed to be the one getting us out of situations like that."

Marrow squeezes, gently, then goes back to tying off the bandages. "Not just you," he replies. There's a conviction in his tone that should be comforting, but the words don't fully register. "We're a team, aren't we? You can't expect that we depend on you to do everything."

He pauses. His hands move away, and Clover immediately misses the warmth.

"You don't, right?"

Clover rolls his shoulder; a spike of pain dances down his arm, but nothing incapacitating, and certainly nothing his Aura won't take care of. He swivels on the bed, away from the snow, but only looks at Marrow for a moment, long enough to flash his partner a half-hearted smirk. The concern he sees ties his stomach in knots.

"Who's the walking good luck charm?"

Marrow rolls his eyes, lips briefly quirking at the corners. He shifts, and sits forward on the chair so that he's clearly in sight, and crosses his arms in a way Clover knows he picked up from Elm.

"Luck doesn't mean infallibility, you know. Balance of probability only gets us maybe halfway. The rest?" He lifts a hand and ticks off on his fingers, "Skill, discipline, trust."

They're words he's heard before, and Clover can't help a proper smile.

"Careful. You're starting to sound like James."

A dismissive hand is waved in his direction. "Ah, it was in the recruitment brochure or something." Marrow's voice dips softer, and he frowns, but it's more considering than condescending. "It's true, though. We depend on you as our leader, and your Semblance is super handy, but we're still here."

He reaches out. After a heartbeat's worth of hesitation, Clover meets him halfway, and he weaves their fingers together. "I'm still here. You don't have to do it all. And don't take something like this as your failing, alright?" Marrow nods to the bandages on his arm. "There's nothing to be punishing yourself for."

And that's the kicker. Of course, he knows; probably figured out the moment Doctor Bruna told him he hadn't been by to have the injury looked at. Marrow's perceptive--one of the many, many things Clover adores him for. The lop-sided, confident grin that brightens his expression a moment later is on that list too.

"We're in this together."

When Clover repeats it, he believes it.

"Together."

#rwby #wishbone #clover ebi #marrow amin #edelwrites #okay but this ship is super cute?? #don't think i thought much of it before now #so thanks!!

[a-mellowtea]

Divergence

n. A point of separation; where routes split and go in a different direction.

She knows they can’t stay together.

She’s sure he knows it too, though he won’t be the one to say it. He doesn’t say much of anything, anymore. The weeks that have passed since they left Berelith have been filled with strained silence, heavy and cold and, as much as she hates it, she understands. He’s still grieving. They both are. She wonders if they’ll ever really stop.

She wonders about a lot of things, now. She tries not to - it won’t do her any good - but the reality of it all seeps in anyways. The Force is quiet too, frayed and dark and bloodstained at the edges. She’s afraid to reach for it; afraid of the raw emptiness that she knows is waiting in the places her friends and fellow Jedi used to be. She wonders how they died; if they were afraid, and in pain, or if it was quick. Had they been shown mercy? Had they even had a moment to realize what was happening?

She thinks, sometimes, on the nights without dreams, that she can still feel some of them. She never knows who. Maybe it’s someone familiar, like Master Kenobi or Master Plo. Maybe it’s a Jedi she’s never met, searching the Force for survivors, for some reassurance that they’re not alone. Some nights, she almost reaches back.

But then she remembers. They are alone. The Order is gone. Their home, the Temple, is gone. And Anakin - the bright warmth at the other end of their bond - is gone. For all she knows, they’re just echoes, and she can’t afford to lose herself in chasing them.

The Jedi are all but extinct. And the galaxy is a much scarier place without them.

They’ve only stopped a few times. First, to go to ground. A Y-Wing would attract too much attention, and there was already chatter about the new Empire’s plans to phase out the older ship models. So, she had risked everything, one more time, and had gone back to Trace and Rafa Martez. The gamble had paid off. The sisters had given them a place to stay, and it had been them - not her and Rex - to sell the Y-Wing for scrap. A few days later, and they had a new ship; shaky, but serviceable. She’d almost gotten Rex to smile when she’d suggested they name it the “Twilight”.

Trace had asked her if it was true; if the Jedi really had betrayed the Republic. She hadn’t had an answer - not one she was confident in, anyways - but she’d given one. Even if they had, even if she truly believed that the Council would have ever gone that far and done the things Sidious claimed, they hadn’t deserved to be slaughtered. Not so dispassionately, not so indiscriminately, and not by the Clones - the men - they had stood and fought beside for so long. Men they’d trusted. Men who hadn’t been given a choice.

She had been glad to leave Coruscant behind.

She wonders about them, too. The rest of the 501st, and the 212th, and the 104th. She can’t bear to do it for long, otherwise she finds herself back there: on Berelith, standing before row upon row of graves filled with the bodies of good men. She wonders if anyone else would have bothered to bury them. She wonders how many they left, corpses twisted and trapped in the wreckage where nothing and no one will ever reach. And sometimes, she wonders if she had had any right to leave her lightsaber there amongst them: men she had not wanted to hurt, but who had died anyways. She likes to think, maybe, they would have allowed her that privilege; to lay herself, and everything she had been, to rest alongside the fellow soldiers who had given her so much.

Ahsoka Tano is, for all intents and purposes, dead. So is Commander Rex. Two more names added to a list: the ten thousand that died, and the six million that died with them.

Which is part of what makes this so hard.

She doesn’t want to leave; to lose what little stability they have left in the turbulence of a changing galaxy. She fought to keep him by her side. He fought to do the very same in return. But if they stay together, that’s what it will be forever: a fight. They’re both soldiers, but he deserves better than that. His war is over. Hers will never be.

The night they reach Adarlon, she decides it’s time. The Minos Cluster is as good a place to disappear as any in the Outer Rim. Without her lightsabers, without her gear, no one will pay her any mind. Looking out over the bustling market from the wall of the spaceport, she imagines herself as one of them, just a face in the crowd, and almost convinces herself it could be her new normal.

Footsteps hit the durasteel ladder. She closes her eyes. It will hurt, for both of them, but it is the right thing to do. The certainty gives her courage.

“Supplies are onboard. Ready to get going?”

Ahsoka takes a breath. Lets it out slowly.

“I’m not coming with you, Rex,” she says. He sighs, so heavily it sounds painful, and sits next to her. She thinks for a moment he might try to dissuade her, but all he does is put a hand on her shoulder. The grounding gesture and the warmth - the acceptance - that radiates from it is somehow worse.

“I know,” he says, and squeezes lightly before drawing away. They’re both silent, but this time, it’s like it used to be. The kind of silence they had learned to read where words didn’t cut it.

“What are you going to do?” He asks, finally.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Not yet. But I think...” She stops and considers how to put it. “I think it would be best to get lost, for a while.”

“You tried that before.”

Ahsoka stiffens at his dry tone, but when she glances at him, the anger she expects isn’t there. He’s smirking. She relaxes on a huff of laughter. The snark is new from him, but welcome.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m not very good at it.” Another gentle quiet, where the sounds of the city and the crowds below wash over them both. She raps her knuckles on the duracrete and grimaces. “I wish I was.”

“I don’t.” He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to. Ahsoka smiles; small, and tired, but real. It fades quickly.

“I’ll get you in too much trouble if I stick around. They’ll be looking for those that are left.”

“You could let me help.”

It’s not quite an accusation, but she hears one anyways, and just barely fights back a wince. It is his choice. She would never dream of taking that away from him; especially not now, after everything. But she has to make him understand that she’s making hers. So, she straightens a little and nods and finally faces him. Her voice is deceptively even.

“I know. I could also end up getting you killed.” It’s true, and she knows he knows it. He frowns, but she continues before he can protest, tone dipping with the weight of the weeks they’ve spent running and the years of it she knows will be ahead. “I need to know someone’s made it out of this, Rex. That someone lived.”

“So do I.”

“And I did,” she says. It’s not a lie, but it’s also not entirely the truth either, so she amends it a heartbeat later. “I will.”

He looks away. She watches him struggle; turn his own thoughts over and over in his mind, a private war raging behind eyes that have seen far too much yet so little. There are places she wants to tell him to go, things she’s read about in books at the Temple. The galaxy, even under the Empire, has things to offer him, but she’s not sure he wants them to begin with.

As if reading her mind, he shakes his head. “I was bred for war, Ahsoka,” he says, so softly it’s almost lost to the din of the spaceport. “Without it... I don’t know what I am.”

“Then go find out.” She can’t keep the sharpness out of her tone, but it’s one that borders on a plea. Rex sighs again, trembling somewhere just shy of a sob. She finally gives in and reaches out, fingers brushing the stubble lining his jaw.

“Live a life you choose to, Rex. If not for me, then for all of the people who can’t anymore.”

It’s maybe not a fair request, and it sits aching in her chest even as she says it. She’s not trying to be fair, though, because she knows he’d stay, if she asked him to. Watch her back, like he always has. He’d follow her anywhere. He’s also the only bright spot she can see in all the encroaching darkness and, even if by this she dims it, she cannot - she will not - be the reason that light dies.

He meets her gaze. “But not one that keeps me with you.”

It’s not a question. “No,” she replies. “I’m sorry.”

He falls silent. A breeze caresses her face. For one desperate moment, Ahsoka hesitates, and nearly changes her mind. Then, Rex nods, and reaches for the bag slung over his shoulder. He takes her hand and stands, pulling her with him, and then presses something into her palm. She blinks at the device glinting up at her for a long minute before realizing what it is.

“Keep it on you,” he says, gesturing to the comlink. For a second, she recognizes him - the Captain of the 501st, unwavering in his determination - and how much she’ll miss him threatens to overwhelm her. “If you ever need anything... I’ll find you.”

There’s a promise in those words, and Ahsoka smiles again. “I’ll hold you to that.”

She steps forward, movements sure, and wraps her arms around him. She feels him tense, but the next moment, the embrace is returned, strong and warm and safe, and she revels in it one last time.

“We’ll see each other again,” she whispers. “Believe that.” His hold tightens. He says nothing; makes no sound as damp seeps into the fabric at her shoulder. Her own eyes grow watery, and she swallows past the lump in her throat.

She can’t call herself a Jedi anymore, but it takes the will of one to finally, slowly, let go.

She steps away, a hand sliding to his shoulder, then back to her side. “Good luck.”

He smiles, and her heart clenches. It doesn’t ease as they climb back down to the platform, nor as she watches him walk up the ramp into the ship. She takes one more look at him, then turns and heads for the doors that will lead her into the market.

“Ahsoka.”

She stops, and looks back. His hand is raised in farewell. “May the Force be with you.”

She waits and watches until the ship has lifted off, and the crackle of the engine has faded, and she can just barely track the glittering speck careening off to join the stars. The words tumble from her lips softly, carried off into the night with the last reminder of a life she had once called home.

“May the Force be with you.”

#star wars #the clone wars #star wars the clone wars #ahsoka tano #captain rex #swtcw #edelwrites #this is uh... #well basically my love letter to the show #just a little continuation #i couldn't decide on an ending so #went with something simple #i still honestly cannot believe it's actually over

[a-mellowtea]

does it not hurt, dear Atlas? this burden you bear the heavens aloft for everyone else but your head is bowed and your shoulders tremble - too much! too much! how terrible to not see the stars

When James comes to, the first thing he feels is pain.

It's an ache; raw and broiling like embers, and just enough that he can't quite stop the low groan that rises from his throat. He shifts, digging a heel against the thin mattress, trying to focus on his sharpening senses: the hum of Dust, and the beep of equipment -- anything that's not acknowledging exactly where he is. He knows the discomfort is his fault. He'd asked for the least anesthetic they could safely administer. Same with the sedative. He can't afford to be slowed by anything. There's too much to do, and too little time. Not a second can be wasted.

Besides, this much is a familiar friend.

A familiar scene as well, he thinks, but he's hard pressed to believe that Pietro will be waiting by his side this time. That brings a fissure of something cold, and he sighs.

Gods, he doesn't want to open his eyes.

Yes, he remembers. Pietro is with Penny. Penny, the new winter Maiden. They both left, alongside Team RRAYNBOW, taking the Maiden's power with them. The protector of Mantle, Atlas' only hope. There's an irony to that.

Somewhere past the anger and betrayal, past the possible tactics already formulating to bring her back, James knows that that's his fault as well. Knows that there were things he said, things he didn't consider, that drove the young girl away when it mattered most. The regret -- the loss, the loneliness -- strikes deep, cutting and twisting with the tenderness of a knife, and James raises his left hand to his face.

A heartbeat too late, he realizes his mistake.

The agony slams into him like a stampeding Megoliath, piercing upward through his arm. It's merciless. The very idea of breath is stolen from his lungs, leaving him choking, heaving. His head snaps against the pillow, back arching, mouth open to a voiceless scream lodged somewhere in his chest. A tundra blizzard is in his veins, pounding in his head; ice and needles and white-hot burning. The pain writhes along with him as he desperately clamps his other hand down on the new limb, but it only makes it worse, and all that keeps him from tearing it off is the cruelly coherent knowledge that that won't help either.

A dozen names to call out to -- "WinterCloverPietroQrowOzpin help me! Gods, please, make it stop!" -- fall heavy on his tongue. All that makes it out is a sob, finally letting him gasp for air. He rolls over, curls in on himself, clutches tighter, bites his tongue. It's pathetic, he knows, but Brothers save him it hurts -- it hurts so bad.

Last time this hadn't happened. At least, not all at once, not even on the worst days. Last time it had been slower; nauseating, but manageable, with copious amounts of painkillers and a torturous recovery.

James shudders. He can't do that again. He won't.

Instinct kicks in. He just barely manages to blink away the tears long enough to watch his Aura activate, blue aurora crawling against black. It's weak, still recharging, but steady. It’s enough.

The relief his Semblance offers is instantaneous and another, trembling sob breaks past his lips. He can breathe easier, and he does. The pain is still there -- a thrumming, churning lava -- but it no longer consumes everything. Each shaking exhale chases it away; pushes it back towards that phantom ache. Slowly, he lets go of his arm.

He lays there for what feels like hours (but in reality must only be a fraction of that time) until he can think clearly. A prod, a push in the back of his mind -- focus, it's time to move -- and James relents, rolling himself upright. Water stings his eyes, gathered at the corners, and he impatiently brushes it away. Everything in the room is too bright, too loud, too much, but it’s possible to endure it now. He grasps the edge of the cot with both hands. He feels the metal beneath his right hand, registers the pressure. His left--

Nothing.

There's nothing.

Panic tightens his chest. He swallows it down, hard and bitter, and hesitantly raises his arm. The black and grey of exposed cables are matte in the bright light. A sliver of white catches his attention, and it takes a moment to realize that he’s looking clean through the wiring. Bile rises in his throat again, and he closes his eyes. Definitely not Pietro’s work.

Could something have gone wrong? Could the overload have shorted some connection? It’s a possibility; one he can’t ignore. So, carefully, James tries again, closing his fist, and forces himself to watch. It responds perfectly, smoothly, but where there should be feedback, there’s... There, yes. A slight tingle, a vague idea of pressure if he concentrates, but not what it should be. Not what he's used to.

He lets his arm drop and leans forward, passing his other hand over his face. He hates it. He hates it, but that doesn't matter. There's no time to adjust; no time for uncertainty, for hesitation, for the fear and nausea he can feel coiling in his gut. It'll have to do. It'll all have to do.

Mettle makes that easier. It lets him stand though, honestly, he can't really feel the sturdiness of the floor. Lets him gather his holsters, and shrug on a new jacket someone has left for him; one that leaves his arm exposed. He wavers, just a moment. Focuses on the wall, pristine and washed white, and doesn't look down, even as a wiry tremble crawls up to his shoulders. When he picks up his Scroll, there are three messages.

Pietro. Penny. Winter.

He decidedly ignores the first two, making a note that at least the lines of communication are still open. Winter's message is short.

“M-019, M-020.”

Mortuary.

James stumbles on his first step towards the door. Two rooms. Two corpses. Two more people precious to him, gone. He can see them already, with painful clarity. They’ll look like they’re sleeping; everything about them serene and still. Not to wake as the world crashes down around those unfortunate enough to have been left behind.

The bodies will have to be burned.

He finds the doorframe for support. The hallways are empty, though he thinks he can hear the echo of conversation from somewhere further down under the ringing in his ears. He doubts they expected him to be awake.

He checks the other messages.

From Pietro: “What are you doing?”

And from Penny: “I'm sorry, sir.”

The words glare up at him, plain and unforgiving, and he stares back until they blur on the screen. Then, he shoves the device in his pocket and wills his legs to carry him forward: toward the fight, toward them, toward her.

Together, the answers sit unheeded in a tempered corner of his thoughts.

I don't know. So am I.

#rwby #james ironwood #edelwrites #holy shit i actually wrote something for rwby #huzzah! #guess who's back on her angst bullshit #this entire piece was an exercise in 'how mean can i be?' #including but not limited to the 'fria ironwood' headcanon #aahaaaaaaaaaaa... #i need a hug #so does james #and for someone to tell him to sit the fuck down for two seconds jfc #just to be clear i was trying to frame his Semblance as a bad thing #'cause if it lets him push through the pain and stress passively #that shit's not gonna be pretty when his Aura breaks

[a-mellowtea]

oh my dear Atlas you are weary; you are falling crumbled stone and cracking glass shake the dust from your shoulders - awake! arise! this weight is killing you will you not lay it down?

not yet hush - endure not yet

you were once among them if memory is kind and oh Zeus kinder still perhaps you hear its echo the laughter of your children of all you could have had

does it not hurt, dear Atlas? this burden you bear the heavens aloft for everyone else but your head is bowed and your shoulders tremble - too much! too much! how terrible to not see the stars

the men who admire and those who ponder do not recall that it is you who stands steady as marble, fissures and aches timeless as the tide, shivers and tears a punishment just? i cannot tell

all i know is that were my heart relieved of the fickle plights and sorrows of the to and fro and spin of our trodden mother i would stop and lift my eyes, perchance, to the skies to the tapestry of the divine and marvel in its horrible wonder

and i think i would pity you

yet like all else nothing eternal when the starlight fades and there is naught but an ocean of what was and what may have been it will still reflect in your eyes the pain of infinity

and you will fall dearest Atlas you will rest at last

#poetry #greek mythology #rwby #james ironwood #edelwrites #catch me jolting up at 1am to post this #I FOUND IT #it wasn't INTENDED for james mind you #i wrote this a fuck of a while ago #was am and will always be in love with greek mythology #but it works too well

[a-mellowtea]

'cause when Atlas shrugs whose back is breaking? and I know how it feels to thе hands; heavy as the Heavens, a weight that could fold you to keep holding.

- Glowing, The Oh Hellos

One-hundred and forty two.

There were one-hundred and forty two steps between the top-most floor of Atlas Academy and the small mortuary wing of the medical ward. James had taken to counting the third time he’d been called to make the torturous walk, shoulders weighed down by the circumstance of another life ended. The softly-lit halls always seemed to stretch longer, the walls closing in; leaning on the verge, waiting to crumble. His men, his Specialists -- Brothers forbid, his students: it never got easier. 

It was usually to Grimm, and grim was the resolve that those losses brought about, because they wouldn’t stop. Not until she could be stopped. Even then, some days the doubt crept in that that wouldn’t end the bloodshed entirely. He could feel it, on those rare occasions: the blood of the good and the brave and those who should have known peace, seeping through his gloves, staining flesh and metal. And with it, ultimately, the question: wasn’t it as much his fault, for sending them out to face her?

Wasn’t this as much his fault?

Today, it was a meagre fifty seven steps. Each took every ounce of his willpower. Each tightened the knot of dread in his stomach with sickening jolts. And still, he counted each that it took to walk from the recovery room to where they waited.

Today, the walls were still, and the distance was as it was meant to be. Somehow, that made it harder to keep moving. It allowed his thoughts to wander, his feet to trail and stumble, where there otherwise should have been naught but focus and steady resolve.

Today, it hadn’t been the Grimm.

James could remember with horrible clarity the first time it had been a child. Lost in a white-out, Scroll signal non-existent, unable to call for help. She’d drowned in the snow; in the crystal and bitter winds, left to sit until her Aura had withered away, and hypothermia had claimed her. An accident, but one that had been entirely avoidable. He’d stood silently in a painfully white room, watching a man weep over the waxy black-and-blue body of his daughter, and sworn to do better. Nothing could justify it: not duty, not necessity, not Ozpin -- though the latter refused to agree. Whether his students or his soldiers; if they were going out there to fight, then he was going to do everything in his power to see to it they all made it back.

It had never been enough.

He had never been enough.

And today, that was all too clear.

When he finally made it, he found Operative Ederne in the hallway. Her arms were crossed, gaze fixed on the tiled floor, expression split in a restrained echo of the grief he remembered so well. Of the team, Elm and Clover had had the closest thing resembling proper, amicable friendship. What felt like a lifetime ago, he’d been concerned that any breakdown of that sort of personal relationship would affect their ability to act professionally; now, he only hoped that it would give her some degree of comfort amidst the pain. 

Glassy eyes were turned his way, and there was a moment of hesitation. He could think of nothing; no condolence, no reassurance, no determination. Elm straightened -- a nod, a tight “Sir”, and she disappeared into the room marked M-019. He caught a glimpse of the rest of the Ace Ops, as the door slid shut; of solemn silence and faux-firm stances and a body on a cot.

James took a shuddering breath. He turned aside -- they deserved more time to mourn without intrusion, as little of that time as they had -- and faced the opposite room instead. M-020. He had to see her. He had to know.

It took conscious effort to force himself through the doorway.

She looked like she was sleeping, the faintest linger of strain and anguish caught on her still features. She was pale; a waif of a woman, nothing left of the strength and adamantine he remembered. He reached for her, and laid a hand on the wrist that had been draped over her stomach. He couldn’t feel it, but his mind unkindly filled in the absence of warmth anyways. His eyes burned, and he swallowed past the bile in his throat, and wished to-- whichever sort of deity that may have chosen to keep watch over them, that she’d stir. That she’d wake, with familiar blue eyes and a tired but gentle smile, and tell him about the tea she’d had that morning or her latest painting.

Her paintings...

James tore his gaze up and scanned the room, half a moment of desperation seizing him. There hadn’t been much he’d been able to give Fria to make her comfortable in her last days, but she had loved art well before her mind had begun to fray. It had seemed the least he could do. The thought of them being lost as well bent something in him; twisted, unrelentingly. It was ridiculous, but that hardly registered. Things had finally crumbled: he just wanted there to be something left.

His search ended on a stack of canvas, leaned beneath the window. He stepped away from her body and rounded to where they sat. On closer inspection, it appeared as though some of them had been charred, the fabric dotted with burns from sparks. A result of Cinder’s initial attack, no doubt. Carefully, ever so carefully, he turned one to face the light. 

The landscape that stared back up at him was one he didn’t know, but it was Solitas: a snowy mountain river, caught in the morning light. Something between a laugh and a sob caught in his throat. Her power may have moved on, and it may have taken a piece of her with it, but these... these were Fria’s soul. The beauty she had continued to see despite her worsening condition, and no matter her state of mind.

A beauty that was about to be destroyed.

Teetering, shoulders shaking on shallow, uneven breaths, he lifted his head to look out through the window. The Ace Ops had barely moved, and hid most of the body behind them, but he could see enough. The torn uniform. The blood. The eyes, closed by a doctor’s hand.

And the report said that Qrow had--...

James pressed a hand over his mouth. Brothers, he felt sick. He felt lost, and alone and, underneath, so impossibly afraid, and worse was that he didn’t know what to do with it. With this.

He thought he’d turned it all to steel long ago. Pushed it aside to stop her, and save Remnant.

Things might’ve been easier were that the truth.

#rwby #james ironwood #edelwrites #sorry #this is... yeah #it's kinda a vent piece? #the last lines are something my dad said to me today #he and my mom lost an old military friend last night #and i haven't been able to get his words out of my head #idk i might get rid of this one later