Chapter Text
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Winter hath taken the Kingdom of Atlas, and her breath reigns longer than any king, weaving a webspan frost upon the windows and becoming the snow against the door. Indeed, like every day before it, this one is cold. It’s of course to be expected when the Kingdom exists upon the northern continent of Solitas, and it does offer some limited protection against Creatures of Grimm, but Weiss has, to some extent, tired of the dreary, grey days passing by aimlessly, like a chain of dominos falling without a satisfying ending. At the very least she’ll be gone soon enough. Vale is supposed to be far more temperate, and the mountains are meant to be stunning, like living under the corpses of giants. Provided she gets the grade from her practical examination her path is blazed and ready to walk, especially since she already aced the theory part of the final exams. In fact, there’s no doubt in her mind that she’ll ace the practical exam too and be out of Calypso Combat School before anyone can say ‘bad home life.’
Her home life being one of the main reasons she wants to leave, not that she’ll admit that, for now she’ll play the part of the perfect doll, fashioned into father’s favourite little heiress for his corporate empire of Dust, which is the greatest resource man can covet, used as fuel, ammo and the propellant to modern aeronautics. It’s the resource the world is founded upon, and the one grace given to mankind.
Weiss glances over the streets of Atlas from her balcony. The blizzard is heavy today, and a red glow soaks the city in an attempt to defeat it. It’ll be too dangerous to take the car today, so she’ll have to walk. Her mouth folds into a frustrated frown, and she pulls the school’s crimson blazer over her shoulders. On her bedside is an affectionately made cupcake (A special treat for a stressful day, made by a man who blurs the line between servant and friend.), Weiss can’t help but grin ever so slightly when she sees it, though it’s weak and half-present. With a sigh she takes a bite, feeling the frosting melt into an overpoweringly sweet taste, like snow turning to sugar.
When she steps out into the hallway it’s empty, bar a few haunting portraits of Schnee family members and historical figures. Most have gaunt, pallid hands and eyes set too far into their skull, like a sheet of skin stretched too thinly over a skeleton. As a child she would have nightmares about them, gaunt phantoms stalking her around the mansion. Sometimes she still does. Weiss marches past them, defying their presence and walking to the entrance. It’s overly grand to be honest. An impeding set of stairs leading from the first floor to the ground level, rimmed by a balcony and preceded over by a chandelier that looks like a crown made from ice and candlelight. No one calls to say goodbye or to wish her luck as she leaves. No sound fills the room except for the clicking of her polished penny loafers against the cold floor. With a final sigh she grabs her coat from the rack, pulling it tight over herself. It’s white, not especially daring for her, and filled with cotton candy-esque fluff.
With a deep and solemn breath, she takes her first step onto the Atlesian streets, feeling the blizzard rage above her and the street heaters tickle her legs. The idea is that by heating the lowest levels of the city first the heat will rise up and warm the rest most efficiently. She takes her first few steps onto the pavement, watching people pass by on the opposite side of the street. Most citizens will stay inside today, except for the businessmen and the emergency workers, those who can’t really afford to miss work, or who are too miserly over any lost profits. A few of them look like her father, a predatory look to the eyes and a perpetual scowl that becomes a smile only when beneficial. Weiss’ heart mangles itself with an emotion she can’t quite understand. Maybe it’s many masquerading as one: disappointment, anger, regret, sadness, hate. Sometimes it can hard to tell when one ends and another takes crooked form.
She turns another corner, entering the older part of the city, where much of the older architecture can display itself. It’s much more elaborate than newer designs, with flowers and snowflakes intricately hidden in the curves of the buildings and where large sloping roofs and paned glass are common features. It’s like being in a small snapshot of the past dragged forward. She finds it more beautiful than the plain white look of modern Atlas, it has more character and style at the very least.
Ahead is Calypso Combat School, about as old as it is prestigious. All of the city’s most affluent and young Huntsmen and Huntresses have places here, and it has an intimate relationship with Atlas Academy, practically guaranteeing a spot there. Its entrance door is ancient and heavy, painted a bright red to stand out against the snow. Weiss barges inside, struggling to close it once it’s open. The blizzard winds struggle against her, wailing and pushing like a lunatic. Once it’s closed, she sighs in relief, unzipping her coat. The hall is mostly empty, bereft of students and staff. She knows where they’ll be clotting though.
Her legs set out almost without her permission, and she marches toward the centre foyer of the school, where all the students are clamouring over a (Newly installed.) holographic board. Upon it is the very detail that could make or break a grade: your partner. It’s going to be impossible to seep through the flock of students, so Weiss hangs on the periphery, like a fox amongst dogs.
“Good morning, Weiss.” She spins around to face the voice, meeting it with a well-prepared smile. Elise de la Ivoire is one of Weiss’ friends at the school, and the daughter of a Huntsman as famous as her own father. Like Weiss she wears the same crimson blazer and long, dark skirt.
“Elise, good to see you,” Weiss recites, as they do every morning. Both were taught to act in perfect etiquette for the sake of their parent’s public appearances. Elise nods, curling a lock of short, silver hair around her fingers. It contrasts quite well against her dark skin, unlike Weiss, who’s entire body could be mistaken for a marble statue.
“Are you nervous?” She asks, looking slightly unsettled herself.
“Not at all,” Weiss replies in equal parts confidence to arrogance. “My talent will amend whatever deficiencies my partner has.”
“Mhm? Even if you get someone like Tyto?”
“Ugh,” Weiss replies. “He should have been expelled years ago; he can hardly kill a Beowulf.”
Elise giggles, gently swaying back on forth on the balls of her feet. “Yeah, probably. I hear his mother is an important officer in the army.”
“Well, that just goes to show that skill is not inherited,” Weiss replies indignantly. It’s hypocritical of her to say that though, when her own semblance is inherited from her mother. Semblances are, for the uninitiated, reflections of your soul turned into a manifested action on the world. Someone who’s exceptionally shy might be able to turn invisible, for instance.
As they talk to kill time, someone approaches from behind them, sneaking up like a serpent in human skin. His mouth turns to a crooked grin as he pounces, smacking the two on the back with a mock roar.
“Ah!” They both exclaim, backing away from him.
“Max!” Elise exclaims, playfully smacking his shoulder. Weiss just opts to scowl like a wolf. Maximilian Maroon is the last member of their little triad, and also the child of a prominent weapons manufacturing company. Weiss has known him since childhood, as their parents always seemed eager to have a lucrative arrangement between Schnee Dust Company and Maroon Industries. He looks more plain than the other two: slightly tan skin, brown hair cut very professionally and brown eyes. Plain but handsome in a clean, princely way.
“You two got your partners yet?” He asks.
“No. We’re waiting for the rabble to leave,” Weiss replies, looking over the horde of students.
“Ah. I see. No accounting for the unwashed masses, mhm?” He jokes, making the other two giggle. Weiss knows it’s cruel, but sometimes you have to care more about fitting in than being moral or kind. That’s her father’s entire mindset when it comes to business, and as his successor it’s imperative she follows the mould.
“Gods, sometimes I wish the teachers would give us the grades they know we’re gonna get,” Elise moans.
“Well, exams are more for people who actually have to try to get good grades,” Weiss replies, sounding smugger every syllable.
“Yeah, it’s kinda like watching dogs climb a ladder. Funny in a pathetic kind of way,” Max adds. “Hey, they’re thinning out, wanna go seal our fates?”
The other two nod and approach the board. Weiss moves toward the middle, where ‘s’ is found. Her eyes prowl along the screen, scanning for her name. When she sees the one it’s next to, the world seems to fade into a muffled silence. It’s like being in the final moments of a car crash or falling down a cliff. In the background she can vaguely hear the sound of Elise and Max celebrating. They’ve been partnered together. That’s unfair, she thinks to herself as anger and frustration swell in her cold heart.
'Weiss Schnee/(Y/N) Sommerhaut.'
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You absently sit upon a table in the training room, swinging your legs backward and forward. The view from the windows in a stunning vista of Atlas, cloaked in mist a snow. It looks like an oil painting to be honest, and you can’t help but appreciate it, especially with the morning sun shining overhead. Its rays reach out from the centre, creating a cross of light that haunts the air.
You got in exceptionally early, fully aware you’d have to deal with the crowd otherwise. And crowds are not something you deal well with. It also meant no one made any comments about your partnership, which is sure to raise some controversy. The girl who’s nigh perfect with the slacker who barely passed the theory exam. No doubt she’ll have some unpleasant comments to make about that too. Probably some waspish insults and languishing. After all, you know her type, not that you’ve ever spoken to her. She always sat at the front of the class and thought herself above the generic and unimpressive like you, who lurked near the window and at the back. Most days you were more focused on appreciating the nuances of the outside world. But all you want is to pass and be allowed to leave this school for good, so your plan is to be a meek pushover and let her dictate whatever tyrannical ideas she has until the day of examination comes, and then hopefully never have to see her again, so just bare whatever comments she has to say, do whatever she wants to do, graduate without an issue. Easy as?
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“This is outrageous,” Weiss says plainly. She has no time for flowery comments nor dressing up her words. She’s bearing her opinion like a weapon and firing words like bullets. “This is deliberate sabotage.”
Mr. Salian doesn’t show signs of weakness; indeed, he doesn’t take well to anyone accusing him or his school of unprofessional conduct. The man’s a perfectionist.
“Schnee,” he pulls a hand through his thinning, wispy grey hairs, combed finely. “You understand that the practical examination is done precisely to test your ability in unpredictable, unorthodox scenarios, as well as your ability to function cooperatively?”
Weiss’ jaw tightens, and she nods reluctantly.
“Good. Then you understand why this is a perfectly acceptable partnership.”
She nods again. Against a teacher she won’t dare threaten, so all she can do now is accept.
“And furthermore, regarding your accusation of sabotage, these pairings are made randomly, with no human input, as per Atlas Academy’s request.”
Weiss nods a final time. She’s not quite ready to let this lie, but at this point only money can change things. And her father is the only one with that weapon ready to deploy.
“I see,” she mumbles.
“This morning Sommerhaut was in room C710. I trust you’ll find him there.”
“Of course,” Weiss says, putting on her mask of pride.
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You wonder what Weiss thought when she saw your name next to her. It must have been a shock, perhaps it even felt like a condemnation or an insult. Especially when you’re notorious for being by far the worst student in not just this year but the entire school.
‘Click, click,’ you hear the sound of heels coming down the hallway, sounding like a terrifying countdown. Your eyes flick to the door, waiting for the moment it flies open. The clicking stops. You can tell she’s on the other side of the door, waiting, preparing. Her aura burns on the other side. Your own blooms in response, albeit weaker.
It opens, not suddenly or violently, nor shyly or tepidly. It just opens, like any door would. Blue eyes emerge from behind, meeting your’s. She stops, still holding the door in one hand. Should you say something? You open your mouth, but it’s dry and filled with ash, unable to perform the complex movements needed to create sound. She frowns, already upset by your mute display.
“Good morning,” she says simply, with a suppressed twinge of disgust and disappointment to her voice.
“Good morning,” you say back, meeker and quieter, sounding like her echo. She walks up to the table you’re sitting on and places down a book and some sheets of paper notes, you assume it’s something important like notes on fighting strategy. In reality she’s just pretending to have something to be looking at to avoid engaging in small talk.
“How do you want to start?” She says after a moment of silence and paper shuffling. You’re surprised she’s deferred to you, especially since you assumed she would have a plan she’d die to follow.
“I- I don’t know,” you curse yourself for stuttering. Her sharp eyes flick to you accusingly.
“What? You’ve been here an hour just sitting around?” She stands up straight and crosses her arms. Despite her small stature you feel like you’re under the gaze of a giant.
“Oh, w-well I had assumed you had a plan,” you mutter, shying away from her gaze. Already you’re messing this up. Impressive, to some extent. She sighs, resting a hand on her hips.
“Look, first things first, I’m not going to do all the work, so don’t be lazy. I’m not your ticket to an easy grade.”
You feel a burning heat bloom in the pit of your stomach, rising up to hang onto your ribs and rap around your heart. Despite the cold, sweat begins to seal your skin to your clothes. Already you’ve made a stupid assumption and made yourself look worse in her eyes.
“Sorry. I-it’s just that I assumed you were the type who likes to lead,” you mumble, trying to wish away the nervous, embarrassed warmth that pervades your entire body. She rolls her eyes and returns her attention to her notes. People have made assumptions about her all her life. Generally, they think she’s either a pretentious, narcissistic bitch or a frail statuette of glass. Both are right in certain degrees, but neither are accurate.
“Yes, well, I’m not sure where you would’ve gotten that belief.”
“Well, we’ve never really spoken before,” you say, making her pause and look at you. She tries to recall any time you’ve spoken, but in truth there are little, and you are correct. She’s not incredibly gregarious but she does make an effort to maintain cordial relations with people in her class (Practice for the world of high business, where everything can rely on profit and vapid mimicries of friendship.) but you’ve always been on the periphery of people’s attention, in no friend group nor especially friendly with anyone. To some extent she’s never considered you important enough, and now that’s coming back to make things harder for her when it matters most. God maintains a strange sense of humour. The practical exam will no doubt emphasise communication and teamwork, and compared to almost every other partnership she’s already shot in the hamstring.
“We should start with each other’s fighting styles,” she says assertively. Despite what she said earlier about assumptions she is actually eager to take charge.
“Okay, my sty-“ you start talking, finding yourself in a topic you’re more comfortable in, but she quickly stops you by holding her hand up.
“I already know the basics, I’ve watched you fight before, and we’ve been placed against each other before.”
“Uh, yes, of course,” you nod sheepishly.
“We’ll get a better idea in a warmup duel,” she says, popping the locks on her briefcase, revealing an impeccably made and polished rapier. A heavy revolving chamber is set into the cross guard, just above the handle. It’s the peak of modernity, sleek and clean, a fusion of old aristocracy and new corporate power. She slips a few dust cartridges into the various chambers. You’ve seen her use them sometimes, to either shoot elemental projectiles from her gun or augment her semblance, which is one of her most impressive gifts. It’s the nearest thing you’ve ever seen to magic: summoning, both of glyphs and slain creatures. (Though you’ve never seen her do that part.)
You don’t have any sort of briefcase for your weapon, just its scabbard wrapped in flimsy cloth you’ve salvaged from old clothes and blankets. You unwrap what’s bound around the handle, revealing its fine craftsmanship. Compared to Weiss’ weapon your’s is far older, more ancient than the Great War in fact, and it shows the illustrious design philosophy of its era. Every part of it is decorated in traditional illustrations and the characters of an ancient Mistrali language, detailing an ancient fable that’s too hard to to decipher from the weapon alone. Sadly, age has taken its toll. You draw the blade from the decoloured scabbard, revealing the chipped and nicked blade. It’s a jian, from Mistral: long, straight and thin. The blade itself is eighty centimetres long, and the whole thing is advantageously just under a kilogram. Compared to a lot of other fighters you can adopt a fluid and dance like style, using the weapon’s own weight and momentum instead of overcoming it.
“Is it just a blade?” Weiss asks. She’s seen it before, but still struggles to comprehend how unimpressive it is. Many weapons in the modern era double as guns or can transform. Her own Myrtenaster doubles as a dust revolver.
“Yes,” you hold up Funeral, letting the dull, darkened blade catch what light it can. The two weapons are polar opposites. Weiss’ is modern, sleek and simplified. Your’s is antique, covered in detail.
“Okay,” Weiss says uncertainly, standing at one side of the rectangular, empty room. It’s large enough for a small duel, with all the chairs and tables pushed up to one side. You take a position opposite her, removing your shoes first. Your eyes lock with her’s, and a second passes, during which your aura flares to life, like a match being lit.
“Begin!” She declares, giving you no leave and taking full advantage. Despite the weight of her weapon, she can dash forward, becoming a blur when propelled by her glyph. If not for the fact you’ve seen this before your heart might be pierced by the tip of her blade, but you predict it perfectly. You slide out of the way, like water draining from one glass to another. She soars past, pulling the air behind her in a shockwave. Immediately she uses a glyph to halt herself, then spins around to lunge again. You see it coming and shift out of the way just enough to avoid her attack, while also slipping your leg out to trip her up.
“Ah!” She exclaims as she trips over your foot and stumbles forward, her heels creating a quick series of clicks. You’re not sure why she insists on wearing them, but you assume it’s her impressively short height. She regathers herself, standing up as straight as she can on her buckled knees. She dips into a stance you assume is some prestigious rapier technique, before launching into a flurry of jabs. You barely have time to see the tip twinkle with silver light before dodging. She’s fast, but rigid, and you’ve seen her fight a thousand times before in other classes. As she attacks you take your jian and hit her firmly in the stomach with the pommel of your sword, making her stumble backward and clutch herself. You too make more space betwixt you both, holding the blade in front of you.
“Why aren’t you truly fighting back?” She asks, glaring at you through her snowy bangs.
“Waiting for a better opportunity,” you reply simply. She grits her teeth. Part of her feels mocked by your dodging and reluctance to actually attack.
Her spare hand’s ring finger, little finger and thumb fold flat against her palm, and she manifests her aura to summon a glyph, augmented by fire dust. You recognise what she’s doing and spin your head around, trying to find the glyph, but you can’t see what the glowing red circle should be.
“Wha-“ you barely have time to voice your confusion before you notice the spinning disk under you, directly below your feet. “Oh no.”
The glyph bursts into flame and smoke, choking you with fumes and burning your aura. You emerge from the smoke with white light sparking around you, your aura fizzing and popping under the blaze. Despite it, your soul remains strong, singing a shield to life stronger than steel. Weiss doesn’t let the opportunity pass, moving forward like a blitz. You’re forced to make a split-second decision, dropping your weapon to clutch the end of her rapier. Your heart pumps hard as the rapier’s point hovers just above your right eye. Weiss struggles to push it those few centimetres forward, and although it doesn’t pierce your skin, it does dig through your aura, steadily decreasing it to a fourth… an eighth… a sixteenth…
Your aura shimmers, like white glass, then shatters, sending little pieces of energy bouncing around the floor, before fading to dust.
Weiss skilfully pulls her rapier from your hand, looking plenty satisfied with herself.
“Well…” she says, stretching her back, before staring at you with a harsh gaze. “That was disappointing.”
“Fair… fair…” you mumble, trying to catch your breath. You pick up your blade, meeting Weiss’ gaze. A brief, phantom moment of tense silence passes.
“We’ll start with universal movements,” she says, which makes your brow furrow.
“Is that not the basics?” You ask. Universal movements are the techniques that are applicable for basically any weapon or fighting style. She’s basically just implied that she wants to teach you the entirety of sword fighting from the ground up. Firstly, you don’t need that. Secondly, you don’t have time to do that.
“Well, after that display I think it’s necessary,” she says indignantly, placing her hands on her hips.
“I can fight perfectly fine,” you reply, just as stubbornly as her but with a tonality of calmness that Weiss lacks.
“And I don’t mean to offend but that’s blatantly wrong,” Weiss says, pointing an accusatory and pallid finger at you. “You lack the skill required. You should be glad I’m wasting my time teaching you.”
“It’s unnecessary.”
“It is if I want a decent grade.”
“Fine. Round two.”
“Rou-? I’m sorry, what?” She barely has time to turn to you before your blade soars over her head, which barely ducks under the blade. A few white hairs dance through the air as you cut them from her head.
“Hey!” She exclaims, backing away. Instinctually she goes to grab Mytenaster, but you get to it first, deftly throwing it away. “That’s unfair!” She continues, raising her small fists to in a facsimile of a brawling stance. She’s quite clearly only had the minimum training when it comes to unarmed combat.
You advance forward, using your blade’s reach and lightness to create a flurry of slashes. That last fight drained your aura, and you barely let a single percent recharge before attacking her again, so she only needs to tap you to win again,
She grits her teeth and holds out her hands in front of her, conjuring a glyph which your sword bluntly hits against. It gives her the opportunity to summon smaller glyphs all around the room, which spin and glow a blizzardish shade. You mumble a quick curse as ice shards fly at you from every angle. With no choice you loosen your muscles and flow like water, swiftly avoiding most of the projectiles. A few you must cut away with your blade, turning the shards to clusters of glassy sparkles, which catch the light like stars.
As you’re deflecting ice, you notice Weiss dash toward the weapon you discarded. If she gets it back, then you’ve already lost. In an all or nothing move you throw Funeral at her, and it cuts through the air toward her. You watch hopefully as it hits her, cleaving through her aura. It shimmers and sparks, a similar colour to your own, and although she stumbles and trips, the shattering you want for never comes. You look on, disheartened, not noticing as a blade of ice cuts by your face, breaking your aura for the second time today.
Once again, you’ve lost. You sigh and let yourself fall to the floor, putting yourself into crossed-leg position, still heaving deeply. Weiss stands over you, scowling. Her eyes burn with a cold fire that reminds you of being trapped in a snowstorm.
“That was inappropriate, immature and doltish,” she growls. You look up at her weakly, hollow-eyed and crestfallen.
“Yeah, I guess so,” you mumble. Some part of you feels humiliated by losing to her twice in barely ten minutes. The other part of you thinks that childish. In summary, you feel completely self-loathing. She frowns at your loss of heart, and roughly places her foot against your chest.
“Get back up. We’re going over universal movements,” she jabs you with her heel, making you budge lethargically.
“Yeah, sure,” you say, barely above a whisper, before pulling yourself up. She walks toward your weapon on the way to her own, pushing Funeral toward you with a careless kick. It suddenly doesn’t feel as precious as it used to. Weiss stands in front of you, holding Myrtenaster in her left hand. She effortlessly drops into a clearly practiced stance, placing her left foot before and perpendicular to her right.
“Dominant foot forward,” she instructs. You stand, half-heartedly, and mimic what she does, lacking any of the gusto or refinement she possesses. You follow her motions hollowly, like a robot imitating human life. Any swipe she does or step she takes you imitate without any precision. It’s almost mocking her, and she notices. Her frustration builds like lightning, festering in dark clouds before flashing in a brilliantly sinister colour.
“Take this seriously,” she suddenly instructs, taking herself out of her stance.
“I am,” you reply lowly.
“No, you’re not, and you know you’re not,” she refuses to yield or surrender on any point.
“It’s hard to care when I’m being made to go through the basics of sword fighting.”
“Hard to care? You understand this is our final practical grade, yes? Everything hinges on this!”
You already know, which makes it all the more tedious than she insists on going over things which you already know.
“I’m very aware, just not sure why we’re wasting time doing basic techniques.”
“Because you showed no professional manoeuvres during our duels.”
“You mean I don’t bother with over rehearsed dodges written down three hundred years ago. My fighting style is eloquent and effective regardless.”
“And yet you still lost!”
“Because I don’t have a semblance!” You shout back, as the storm howls outside, rattling the windows and joining the argument. Weiss is stunned. It’s not alien for people to not know their semblances, but it is generally considered to be unheard of among huntsmen. Almost all people like that drop out if they can’t find it by the time they’re fifteen, because it’s generally considered a death sentence.
“You don’t?” She asks, more unnerved than angry. Her grade and future as a huntress hangs on you, you’re the limiting factor to her only chance of escaping the cold walls of her home. It’s as though she’s trapped in a cage watching you unable to find the keys to the lock.
“No. If I knew what I was I would’ve used it,” you respond, losing the angry fire behind your voice, returning to the melancholy calmness it usually has. It’s a lie to say you don’t feel ashamed, emasculated and pathetic. It’s hard to admit but she does outclass you in every way, superior swordsmanship, superior weapons, superior soul. You feel like a child compared to her.
“Well…” she lets her sentence trail off, without am ending. Neither of you really know what to say next. Weiss can’t pep talk or bully your semblance into manifesting (She can try, I suppose.), at most she can hope that it reveals itself in the two months you have to prepare for the practical exam. An awkward silence prevails, mixing with the wailing of wind and the rattling of the windows.
“That’s… great, just great,” she mumbles, turning away from you. Though her words drip with deadly sarcasm, they sound like glass on the verge of shattering. She grabs her blade and her bag before marching out of the room, leaving you alone in your piteous state. You sigh, not that you do much more. Despite the fact she’s left, there’s a certain lingering cold in the air, biting at the edges of your fingertips; deadly and wispish.