2Qrowin Week 2019: Day Six: Scars
I obviously don't own RWBY. Nor the song this is based off. That honour belongs to Marcin Przybyłowicz of CD Project Red, and the creators of Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt.
It was a pleasantly cool night in the middle of August. The lazy, white clouds were swimming through the starlight sky, pushed by the slow breeze that was now, blowing through the white curtains in their room. Winter was wide awake, laying on the bed, sheets discarded and her arm on her forehead. She sighed and turned her head ever so slightly to look at Qrow, who was sleeping on the other side, with his back to her. In tha pale light of the broken moon, seeping inside she could see the many scars that littered his body. There was a short but wide one on his shoulder. Then there were the ones that had been done by bullets. These were clearly battle wounds. Not surprising, everyone's aure could be broken or deplate. She had many of such marks herself.
Her eyes weren't, however, were focused on a different set. Those were much, much older, and didn't come from Grimm or bullet or a sword. They were scratches from a whip, marks of bones broken by a hard blow to the back. And then...they were the brands. In different shapes, or rather symbols, she didn't quite understand. She never asked, afraid of crossing the line. As an abuse survivor herself she knew how difficult it could be to talk about your own family hurting you. Though her father preferred mind games and control. Like throwing you out of the house, refusing to aid you or cutting you off your means to live. Things that hurt and put you in a difficult situation. If he did get physical it was usually a slap to the face or shove
She gently reached out and ran her finger across one of the brands. A double circle, with a letter C inside it. Qrow's muscles twitched under her touch, before relaxing
"I've got this one because I refused to kill a defenceless kid," he said suddenly, causing her to almost jump out of her skin "there was this village...my and Raven's first real raid. We were like nine or ten. I kept mostly to the sidelines and stuck to looting whatever was left lying around after the occupants ran away. It usually was junk, like some knives or maybe cheap steel jewellery with fake stones. In one of the houses, however, there was no jewels or anything, just a small kid. She couldn't be more than four or five. I knew I was supposed to cut her down, she was a witness and she was a weakling. The weak die, strong live. Those are the rules"
He sighed
"But I just couldn't. I looked into her big, frightened eyes and saw her just frozen there like a small mouse in front of a snake. And I couldn't bring myself to harm her. So I told her how and where she should run to escape. I was sure it was safe. After all, it wasn't like anyone would know. I went in alone, and it's not like anyone knew or cared who and how many people lived in that village. I was wrong. One of the bandits followed inside, maybe not knowing I was already there and saw everything. They shot the poor kid dead"
He paused, swallowing and she put her hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him.
"When we returned everyone was informed of my cowardice and weakness. I've got a dressing down of a lifetime, a reminder of who I am and how Branwen clan is my family...and then they brought the hot iron with the symbol. It hurt like hell, and I think I passed out. When I woke up, the Chieftain was standing over me, and told me, straight up that I should follow orders and rules next time, and that I should be bloody grateful because they've been kind enough not to strike me dead the moment my semblance manifested. Like they should've because I only bring bad luck"
Winter's eyes filled with tears This was beyond cruel, to say that to a nine or ten-year-old. The story of the mark seemed to have broken some sort of damn within Qrow because he told her about each and every one of the Branwen marks. The tribe really did hate him, because most of the branding was done for bad things they've blamed him for. From stillbirths to storms that prevented raids. From anyone tripping from being too drunk to someone cheating on their partner. Talking about it was difficult, sometimes he would pause or let out a sob but he continued none the less. After all these years, he had to get it off his chest.
When he finished the last tale, there was silence, broken only by his heavy breathing. Winter watched him, not knowing what to say. She wanted to tell him how much she cared, how good he'd brought to her life, how he'd saved her from her father and her family so many times...how despite all the odds, all the differences and their past she'd found love in him. That she'd felt safe and at home with him. More than she had ever felt at her own, or even in the Military. But she wasn't very much of a talker and she didn't want to start rambling. So she did it with action, pressing her lips to the skin between his shoulderblades.
"I love you" she whispered "my good luck charm"
Finished. A bit late for my timeline but maybe for yours, it isn't yet. This was inspired by Wolven Storm from the Witcher. I don't think I'll do Colours tomorrow, but I'll do Wedding one...