Chapter XV - The Ashes of Our Fathers
Blake
When Blake blinked open her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the rococo motifs of ivy creepers swirling across the ceiling.
Secondly, she was aware that she was alone in the room; Yang had gone, and that a metal bar was pressing in her back. She sat up with a wince, rubbed her shoulders ruefully, and looked around.
The infirmary, she realized; it was larger than she had imagined. She’d never been in the place. Had never needed help so direly. Lines of neat, plain cots went up and down warm, honey colored walls. The ceiling was lofty and arching, painted elaborately; windows let light stream down on each cot. A simple nightstand was by each cot. She hadn’t looked around yesterday to see where she was — she was still in blinding pain, though she had hidden that fact from Yang, and the Bonding ritual demanded her full, undivided attention. Blake closed her eyes, reached out mentally — and like a golden thread bestowed from Ariadne into Daedalus’s labyrinth, it connected. Her partner was asleep in the dorms, dreaming of something peaceful. A sense of wellbeing that was not Blake’s own flooded her.
Blake sat up, sending pain stabbing through her bruised body. She was exhausted, mentally and physically, and emotionally too — the idea that Yang had some idea now, of how much effect she had on Blake, was daunting, to say the least.
“At last, you wake. Thank the gods. I was growing concerned.”
Blake stiffened as a voice rang out in the room and a girl stepped through the door of the infirmary.
“How are you feeling?” Her voice was lustrous, warm; Blake thought of fire, which inevitably led to her thinking of Yang— all she’d been able to do lately. Her sunny smile, chipper voice, eternal optimism. She was, to use a colloquialism, the flame, and Blake felt like a moth drawn to the fire. Scolding herself, she shoved the thoughts away and sat up, ignoring the twinge of protest from her bruised joints.
“Well enough,” Blake said, which was true; she no longer burned with a fiery pain like she had after she had gotten smashed into the ground and felt darkness eating away like acid at the edge of her vision. “Who— who are you?”
The pain had been to save Yang, though. That was all Blake could ever ask of herself.
As the visitor emerged from the shade and into a wide pool of sunlight, Blake got a good look at her. She was tall and willowy, her hair tumbling over her shoulders in silvery-white waves, like the color of snow. Her eyes were two different colors: one a dark gold, the other an icy blue, and they regarded Blake with sadness. But she looked familiar, somehow— the regal set of her jaw, the heart-shaped curve of her face, and then, unchecked and unbidden, the two ears of a Faunus emerging from the top of her head.
She looked, Blake thought, somehow— somehow— like her own father.
“I am Khione,” she said, and even her voice shifted and seemed somehow similar to something, somewhere, that Blake had forgotten— silvery, polished and melodious, “Khione Belladonna.”
Blake’s heart jumped at that. “Your surname — it’s— ”
Khione smiled slightly, though there was no happiness in it, only a faint regret. “You are not the only survivor of your line, I’m afraid. I am your father’s sister, and I, too, am a renegade of the White Fang.”
“You’re—?” Blake halted as the words sank in, and she shrank back, cold. So many years, she had believed in lies. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
She laughed, a brief flash of amusement crossing her face. “Every bit of suspicion, you are, just like my brother. I do not require you believe me, of course, only that you hear me out. But I assure you, I do not make false to you of my blood. Headmaster Ozpin is a good man, and he did not discern a lie from me.” Her eyes grew sorrowful and she tilted her head, those odd two-toned eyes scrutinizing Blake. “Forgive me if seeing you brings up… memories. It is difficult to be here. You look a great deal like your parents, and I— I miss them very much.”
Ozpin let this girl in here, then. Blake swallowed at her puzzling words and bit back all the questions gathering on her tongue, starting with the first. “Why are you here?”
“A just question. Blake, there are many things you have yet to learn of your past. Your father,” Khione said softly, “knew that I was going to leave the White Fang. I grew tired of their cruelty and bold plans, and so, I left. I have not been hunted down— they did not decide I was worth the effort, unlike Tukson, of whom was higher ranking than I— and so Brian sought me out before he departed with his army to fight. He, too, had grown disillusioned with the ideals of the White Fang, but he— he was in too deep, too deep with their plans and plots and ranks, to leave, and he was afraid to tell your mother, Maria, of the secrets he had discovered. He told me he would write Maria a letter, once he had discovered more of the White Fang’s plans. Maria would then pass that letter on to me, imparting these secrets— vital, he assured me, to the well-being of Remnant— finally to you, his daughter. Your mother knew she was going to die, and your father knew he was going to die. There was no way Ayran would let them live with all they had discovered— but they both wanted you to live. Unfortunately, you…” Guilt glimmered in her eyes. “You remained with the White Fang, until you left, too, of your own accords. Your father had previously bade me to seek you out on the zenith of your seventeenth year, wherever you where, and to give unto you a letter. It took me longer than I would have liked— you evade records very well, Blake, and you are a difficult one to find, thus why I am here months after you have passed into seventeen— but I found you here.” She paused, looking around the grandeur around them with a faint surprise. “Admittedly, a place I did not expect to ever see…”
Head spinning, Blake croaked out, “So I was never supposed to be in the White Fang. My parents— they both knew they were going to die? And they accepted that?
“Yes, Blake. I’m sorry.”
A growl hissed lowly in her throat. “That’s all you have for me— a letter from a dead man who didn’t even have the courage to flee?”
Khione’s eyes sparked with an unexpected anger, like sunlight blinding off of snow. She frowned. “Brian Belladonna was a brave man, Blake. Your father gave his life in pursuit of stopping Ayran’s madness. Do not slight him. He had the courage to walk into a war and know he would not return, but he still did what he could to give you a warning passed through time.”
Blake’s teeth ground together. “What did he say in the letter?”
“I do not know what it contains, for he beseeched me to leave it for you, unmarred. And so I honored his wishes.” She thrust it hastily at Blake, hand shaking, a rolled scroll bound with a tattered string. “You must know— for my brother, I would have done anything. But there are dark plans transpiring, and the White Fang is once again rising to the former glory it once held, twelve years past.” She looked Blake in the eye, pleading. “Do right by my brother,” she said, “what he would have wanted. And, Blake…”
“What?”
“‘Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied; a vice sometime by action dignified.’” Khione’s eyes were as unreadable as the movement of snowfall. “You would do many things in the name of love, Blake Belladonna, many things, would you not?”
“I don’t—”
“Just as treasonous acts are committed in the intention of pureness, good things are done in the name of evil. The White Fang are corrupt, but even they started out with pure intentions. Virtues and vice are brother and sister, like night and day, light and dark. It simply means that using good deeds for bad reasons transforms those good deeds into bad deeds. And that bad deeds can sometimes be honourable, if they are done for the right reasons. Sacrifice and honor. They mean something.” She leaned forward and brushed a lock of hair from Blake’s forehead, eyes sorrowful. “I wish you luck. I’m sorry you have suffered so much, been dealt such a hand in your years. You are wise, Blake, and you are strong, but times are coming when we will all be pushed beyond our limits. It is then that true heroes will rise, and the damned will fall. But pay heed— let no one hinder you from pursuing Fate.”
And then she was gone.
Even with the sunlight pouring down through the windows, Blake was chilled straight to her heart.
She turned the letter over. The coarse envelope was torn here and there, bound by an aged wax seal. She ran a nail under it and it popped open; she discarded the envelope on the sheets, withdrawing a folded up piece of paper.
Blake unfurled it gingerly, eyes narrowing at the spidery, slanted, loopy handwriting that was scrawled across the page. The paper was sooty, ragged at the edges as though eaten by acid. A splash of blood rusted the paper in a dark red splotch.
Day 78 of the Red War, Trench 34—
I fear I may not make it out alive.
It is grim. Drearily, I write this letter as rain pours down outside and the distant fire of scythes and gunshots shatter the silence. It has been ages since I was able to write a letter back home, of course. My hand shakes as I place this stub of a pencil to the paper; it is a miracle in itself that I am intact and not afflicted like so many others. Rations are low. So is the morale of this place. Being indefinitely positioned on the lines of fire has me looking over my shoulder, still, I almost can taste the reek of blood. The corpses of my fellows have long since rotted away with the ash and dust that descend on us. It is a stalemate for now. They have not told us, but I know it as deeply as in my bones.
In the trenches, it is lethal, and nothing so like the comfort of kinship and home. It is hellish here, a terrible place. I never would have suspected that in time, I would grow to long for the corrugated warehouse of the White Fang… yet, I do. I miss you, Maria, and our daughter, Blake, whom I hardly got to know. I can still see your eyes, bright amber, almost as if it was yesterday I departed with my legion. Yet I fight on. It is the only thing within my power to do. I refuse to turn tail like a coward. Besides, climbing from these trenches into the barrens above means a death, a certain death. I know I will not return from this war, and I will not take such things for granted again.
The sky hangs overhead as an undulating screen of gray. It is difficult to discern the sun behind the clouds. The myriad of soldiers all blend into one another after this long. The arrangement of the ammunition that we are supplied with is only matched by the incongruity of the soldiers’ corpses and our surroundings. It is a cesspool of mud, Maria— how you would fear to see the filth of the place, you, who was so meticulous!— a reeking demise of carrion and spoiled rations. The rats run amok. The threat of death is always lingering in the fire of artillery, the new, savage Droids, the grim mist of chemicals. So many Faunus have perished, in agonizing deaths. All by the cruelty of humans, and yet, I doubt in some manners…
Ah, but a merely an old fool would maunder about the morality of war. There’s nothing just and noble about it in any way. We fight for ourselves. The humans are as well. The stars may cross, uncross, and cross again, but it still is a fact that we all want stolid rightness for ourselves.
This place is a sinful one, a Hell on this earth if there ever was one, and I am no saint. There is a suspicion that I will not make it out of here, for as time drags on, it grows to be a bloodier and desperate affair— or even the war itself!— because this is, Maria, a brutal place to be. It is tantamount to a death wish, remaining in these perilous and horrendous conditions. The rats, the lice— they are everywhere, running rampant. Alas, we cannot do anything about it. We are animals ourselves, and this I write bitterly, for the humans see us as such. It’s what we fight for: equality. And it is my greatest fear that we will lose, and be blamed for this carnage. They always fear what is different.
None of us has bathed since we climbed into these godforsaken pits. Indeed, it seems as if a permanent layer of grime is coated on everyone and everything. The Droids have already slaughtered the most obstreperous of us, and an eerie silence of despair has taken their place. It’s a harsh lesson to learn in war— that even a second’s indecision can result in death.
The trenches are arbitrarily vicious in their regard. There is little refuge from the driving rain, bitter snow, even the hottest beams of sunlight. On these barrens of Remnant, the wastelands that outskirt Forever Fall, it is prone to be wracked with storms. We only may sleep in the stuffy dugouts, which are often filled with deluges of mud. When we are roused from sleep, it is by the acerbic tirade of the higher-ups. The thick pools of mud are often waist high, and yet the trench runners never give utterance to grievance. Perhaps they are the luckiest of us, for keeping in action staves the chill of war away. It is never silent, save for those brief moments, as if the space between heartbeats; the air is perpetually rent with gunfire, the shrieks of the Droids, and the abrupt screams of the killed. The bombs go up in flame, debris, and choking smoke, making a pyre for those unfortunate souls who were not able to escape.
When we were urged into this war, they painted for us, in glowing sentences, the prospect of honor and glory for our people, the Faunus. It was a lie. There is nothing honorable in this hell between two dark places. This stalemate is bloody, and people are slaughtered by the tenfold. There is no place to hide, not even within the dugouts, for these trenches were not designed for safety. They were designed to give respite long enough to kill our opponents, that is all. But as for you and Blake…
Blake’s hands shook as she clutched the paper so tightly it crinkled, words blurring as her chest tightened. She read on, heart thudding.
… I digress from blathering about my own hardships. Under duress, I would not dare to confide such a thing, but a confidante of mine shall pass this off to you. Maria, to extoll the miseries of my placement is not why I write to you. The matter is of a much, much greater urgency. I have discovered something I was not supposed to; something I overheard from the lummox-friends of young deputy Ayran. And I am scared as the war has not frightened me, Maria. Not for myself, but for you and my daughter. And her being a Faunus will only make this that much harder. We are as distrusted as any.
Ayran plans a revolution. He plans a complex plan of deceit and secrecies, allied with humans, to overthrow all of Remnant. Vale, Atlas, Mistral, Vacuo— he will slaughter any opposers, and crown himself leader. It’s unorthodox. He’ll kill every human, and the Faunus shall rule this world. It is not such a far-fetched plan; he has strong allies, within turncoat Huntsmen and Huntresses alike. I heard names muttered… perhaps they are weapons to this revolt. He has power even I know not of— with new Droids, the savagery of the Grimm. And he will kill by the hundredfold. He’s a clever Faunus. Brutal— and he is mad, of course, but it is a malicious, clever madness. He will promote those with nothing to gain their loyalty— and like most tyrants, he knows exactly the steps to power, and what to do to attain that ambition. Obtaining this world will not be difficult, he if isn’t afraid to raze it to the ground to get what he wants.
He’s cruel and calculating. And he will stop at nothing. He knows that I have doubts. I will die in this war, and if not, then he will arrange my death, but you— you and Blake— you must live.
Why should I care about it? I puzzle over it as I write to you in this flickering candlelight— bewildered. Ayran is of my kin and blood. And by all rights, his plan promises a glorious new world for the Faunus, subjugated from the hardships of others… I, who am a Faunus, should be supportive of this mad scheme. But I find myself horrified. Lust for power has blinded Ayran to the outcomes, Maria. Without humans, the Grimm will swiftly overwhelm us… we will return to Dust. Not all humans are corrupt and cruel, just as all Faunus are not victims. There’s always deviations. And I am one. This in itself may cost me my life.
Maria, my love, my light, this is the last I write to you. It pains me to write that word, ‘last’, for we thought ourselves as eternal. But I see now that nothing can last forever. The ashes of our fathers have seen such, to make war and call it peace… Fear not. I do not believe that I cannot die; I believe that are things worth dying for, and this one of them. Power is not good or bad, but its user makes it so. Ayran is wholly corruption. There is nothing left of him to appeal to.
You must get out of the White Fang as soon as you are able. Take Blake with you; I cannot stress this enough. My daughter should not live in such a world of cutthroat violence. I do not know when this revolution will take place— in months or even years— but it is coming, of that there is no doubt. The White Fang is not yet so callous as it will become; Julian is the only one keeping things calm. If Ayran usurps power, all will be lost. He is a despot, a tyrant, and so few know it, behind his charming words. If you flee now, they will not hunt you. Fallacies would have you think that things will improve over time after this War. They will not, I know, and I fear to know. Ayran is a danger to you. Get out of there. I love you.
And to my daughter, who may never see this letter… but I reach out anyways. My dear, words on paper are not enough and will never be enough; I regret that you may grow up without me. I never wanted this enmity of Faunus and Human, of black and white. I have only an old fool’s words to say to you through the ghost of a letter. Blake, I do not want to give you rules, to restrict your light. No one should contain the spark that I know you can be.
But I do ask this. Do not be a better fighter than I was. Be a better person than I was. I let the foolish ideas of powerful and weak corrupt who I was, and that is how this war started: through those who fester in peace. Vilified words from the lauded can twist the way the past really was, but those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it.
I ask that you find your own path.
People will try to dictate who you are, Blake, by your blood and origins. But I tell you this; let no one tell you who you are. That is for you to find out yourself, and for you to command. You are the master of your own destiny. And that is a God-given right.
I love you. I hope that in time, when you read this, the world will be a place where you can be who you are, and a safe place for your own.
— Brian Belladonna, Legion III, Officer Five
Blake wasn’t aware of letting the paper fall, of letting it float to the bed. Her hands were shaking hard, and then she could see her father’s gruff face in her mind: the proud sweep of his tall ears, scarred cheeks, bright gray eyes as he picked her up and smiled at her. She had thought for so long that he had been supportive of the White Fang’s oppressive ideals, that he had eagerly marched off to war and recklessly gotten himself killed. She barely remembered him, of course, but…
He knew. He cared. He had found out information and recorded it— the information they had been hunting for; of Ayran’s motives and his goal. There it was— the information. That was why Torchwick had allied himself with Ayran. That was why Adam was so loyal. That was the answer— right in the letter of a man who had died before he could know the outcome.
But there were still unanswered questions now, burning with a greater urgency than ever. Why? That couldn’t be the only motive here. Who had Torchwick’s partner been, the little girl at the warehouse? Who was his employer?
Who was behind it all? Who would want the world rid of humans, of all life itself? Who hated civilization so desperately?
And her mother— she had been killed in a supposed skirmish on the borders. But now Blake wondered if she had been murdered, instead, for plotting to leave the White Fang. Her mind was ticking, puzzle pieces falling into place. Maybe that was why Ayran had so cleverly ensured that she and Adam would be partnered. And that was their motive: total rule, tyranny of all of the kingdoms of Remnant. Such a brutal, simple goal, but such destruction it could wreak - it was terrifying, because she knew Adam and she knew Ayran and the thought of them inciting something like that made her want to throw up.
God, she thought, eyes closing. It had all seemed so simple yesterday. And she was in even more trouble if—
Her Scroll buzzed.
Blake picked it up half-heartedly, heart sinking as a message popped up, from Yang, of course.
9:27 AM — You know, I can feel you moping right now. What’s up?
She swallowed and put it down, unable— unwilling— to respond. Her father’s words still rang in her mind. But I do ask this. Do not be a better fighter than I was. Be a better person than I was.
She had failed tremendously on that account, being partners with Adam; she had murdered innocent people, ruined lives, stolen away what was never hers. She had answered to a tyrant and done it all in the determination of being right. She felt like a jack o’ lantern lately, like all her insides had been torn out and left her void and empty, all while a false, grinning smile remained fixated on her face.
Choking on hollowness, Blake closed her eyes; the ghost of a voice was turning over and over in her mind, and she couldn’t rid herself of her doubts…
The mind doesn’t choose who you fall in love with. That’s the heart’s job, the heart alone, and logic has nothing to do with it.
She had loved Adam once, with his kind voice and strength when she couldn’t be strong and his determination. Now, she wondered, if that had just been charisma, ruthlessness, hatred, all in disguise. All transformed by her own foolishness, her determination to see the good in him, and ignore the evil.
Maybe if she hadn’t been so intent on being good, she wouldn’t have fallen in love with Yang. It seemed useless to pretend at this point. If her father knew her now, she would only be a disappointment.
Blake stilled as a faculty member came in, not willing to protest against someone fussing over her. The nurse started clucking her tongue disapprovingly at Blake’s upright position as she busied herself with removing the bandages. “Though it is your fault that you’re here,” she said, “against my protests, the headmaster feels it is wise to release you. Your damage is short term, except for the cut across your shoulder. That, I am afraid, will not heal seamlessly by any means, but perhaps it is best to serve as a reminder of the perils of the outside world.”
Blake winced as the nurse pressed a stinging substance to her shoulder. “So what you’re saying is that I’ll have a scar.” Like I needed another one.
The nurse raised a brow, gently peeling back bandages and discarding them, dabbing gauze soaked in poultices and water on her cuts, which— due to the nature of Aura, and of the Bond, were little more than fading lines now. “A large one, but it will be hidden, yes. You seem to have healed unnaturally fast.” Her eyes were suspicious, but knowing, as well, and Blake’s mouth curved up in the ghost of a smile.
“You know how Bonding is.”
The nurse shook her head with a soft laugh. “Of course.” She threw away the last of the bandages. “You are free to go, dear. Though I strongly advice, unless you want to end up back in here, that you take it easy for a few days. No sparring, fighting, or anything of the sort. Limit yourself to the more… docile courses of study.”
Blake tasted a bitter bile at the back of her mouth, the letter from her dead father hidden in the waistband of her pants. “Of course.”
She couldn’t feel her hands, which was probably a bad thing, but she couldn’t really muster up the energy to care about it. Her Scroll had buzzed about twenty times, and each time she didn’t pick it up to answer back, a spike of anxiety went through her; not her own, but Yang’s, so sharply honed she could feel it through the Bond. But her eyes were glued on the screen, and she would not be torn away from it this time. She had gone far too long with losing herself in feelings and thought, but now she was taking it back.
A spike of impatient anger from Yang surged through the Bond. Blake brushed it off and kept typing. Emotions were easy to ignore when they weren’t your own. It was a race against time now; to stop the White Fang — they had even more trouble than they thought — she couldn’t allow this to happen, she couldn’t.
Bang.
Blake startled, nearly falling from her seat as Yang burst into the library, eliciting a glare from Ren and a snore from Nora, who were both nearby. Her eyes were still lilac — at least she wasn’t angry enough for her semblance, which she had explained the previous day— but there was a steely glint in them all the same.
“I should have thought I would find you here,” Yang growled as she drew close, cutting the distance between them. Her leather-bound hands slammed on either side of the table. “I message you. No answer. I call. No answer. Did you think that I wouldn’t want to make sure you were okay? After that little stunt you pulled on the highway, of all things, and now you’re out of the infirmary and didn’t even let me know? I went and asked Ozpin if I could visit you, and he said no, that someone else was talking to you. And he wouldn’t tell me who it was. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that now you’re miserable again. I thought after we all made the plan, you would be less stressed.”
Blake swallowed, trying to summon up a coherent sentence. It came out in a low growl. “The visitor was just… just someone else from the school concerned about me.” The lie tasted bitter in her throat: you are not the only renegade from the White Fang. “I’m not miserable. I’m fine,” she snapped. “There are still unanswered questions, and it looks like I’m the only one that cares—”
“Nice try, Blake. You think I can’t sense this?” She tapped the place where Blake’s heart was beating, fast, from adrenaline… and something else. Her eyes softened. “Blake, please, tell me what’s wrong. If I knew you were sad before, it’s twice as worse now—“
Something stronger than bands of iron seized around her heart. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She shifted in front of the computer hologram, hiding her searches; her father’s letter seemed to burn like molten fire against her skin. “Please, just — go.”
Hurt shot across her partner’s face; Blake heart staggered as it went through her, too. The Bond seemed to be multiplied twofold; every emotion spiked and concentrated as a blow to the chest. Perhaps it was because Yang was so different from Adam.
Or perhaps… perhaps it was something else.
“Fine, then. If that’s what you want.”
It’s not what I want, Blake thought, her heart knotting as Yang walked away, slowly, as if she were injured, and not just from the fight two nights ago. But she was walking away all the same. But it’s all I can do to keep you safe.
To keep you all safe from who I’ve become.
/ / /
A/N: Some of you might be wondering as to why Blake wouldn’t be able to sense the love Yang holds for her, or vice versa. It’s hard to tell what emotions are your own, especially when they are both exactly the same. My answer to that is that Yang is in love with Blake, and Blake is in love with her, though neither realize it yet — so they mistake the other’s feelings for their own. Nifty, but really hurts all you sure fans of the ‘miscommunication trope'.
Comments are always greatly desired! It also might help to know that I am in the beginning stages of planning the sequel to this, covering Volumes 3 and 4...