Chapter 1: Impact
Chapter Text
Snow did not cushion their fall. It was all over the ground, but as they bounced down the slope through snow burdened hedges on iced over ground, there was very little cushioning. Clover engaged his aura to take the worst of the fall; glad he hadn’t lost too much of it in the fight on the train beforehand. They'd been sent as protection for the cargo, seeing how many of these trains had been hit and their goods lifted as it rumbled through bandit country in remote parts of Anima. It was part of an alliance between Mistral and Atlas, designed to protect their trade. Sure enough, the bandits had attacked, and they’d fought in the train, then on top of it, then... well, then air, tree, snow, grass, bush, ice, stop.
The train rumbled on without them, and his opponent groaned somewhere in the bushes near him.
Shit.
Clover pulled himself up quickly, he couldn’t risk losing his opponent now, or the fight restarting. His aura was intact, but he doubted he had much left. Unlike the rest of the bandits, this guy packed a punch. His weapon had been specialised, and he’d known how to use it. He couldn’t see it anywhere in the snow around them, and had the feeling it was still somewhere on the train.
For what felt like the first time since the bandits landed on the train, his luck held, the man was still trying to get his bearings, groaning on the ground, and didn’t have the time to put up much of a fight before Clover locked the cuffs around his wrists behind his back.
“Oh come on, really?”
“Qrow Branwen, you are under arrest, you will be transported to Atlas to be tried for your crimes.”
“Ughhhhhhh.” he dropped his face back into the snow, “Just my luck.”
Clover took a second to observe the man.
Qrow Branwen. Leader of the Branwen Tribe. The Bandit King of Mistral.
Scruffy greying black hair, dotted with feathers and hiding a glinting silver band, slight scruff of a beard over pale skin revealed now his mask was cracked and broken a few paces away, along with shining pale red eyes. His outfit was remarkably mundane for someone who held the title of king, black trousers, a grey shirt, maroon jacket and flowing grey overcoat. Even the scattered rings tended to be plain metal rather than gaudy, gem encrusted things, his wristbands were simple black leather. He supposed it made sense, the man was supposed to be a warrior leader, but none the less, it caught him a little off guard. And he was young, good gods he was young, probably not much older than he was, probably why he wore the mask.
The nevermore themed mask that was easily the most imposing part of the outfit.
“Want to help me up, pretty boy?”
“Ebi, Atlas Specialist Clover Ebi.”
“Good to know, when I ransom you back to Atlas, I'll know who to tell them I have.”
“You’re the one in cuffs here.”
“You’re in my territory.”
His stomach sank slightly as he gripped the man’s wrists and shoulders and pulled him upright. He was right, they were in the middle of nowhere, the heart of rural Anima, and deep into Branwen territory. The train moved fast, but chances were Branwen’s allies were closer than his, and chances are his camp was closer than any sort of town. Even if there was signal out this far, his scroll was rattling it’s way onwards on the train. Mistral wasn’t Atlas, Anima wasn’t Solitas, but winter here still wasn’t to be messed with. The storms could pick up from nowhere, whip through the hills, biting winds and snow blindness, with the bonus of trees and rivers and other hazards to navigate. With a prisoner. And no backup.
Not ideal.
Not remotely ideal.
“Atlesian Huntsman, hmm? Means you’re one of Jimmy’s, right?” Branwen shook his head in annoyance, “Damnit, he’s supposed to keep his huntsmen out of my business.”
“Excuse me?”
What the hell did that mean? One of Jimmy’s, did he mean Commander Ironwood? He must, Ironwood ran the Specialists and within that the Aces, the team he had been selected for, but how on earth could some Mistrali bandit know James Ironwood. And what did he mean about keeping huntsmen out of his business? He couldn’t possibly be implying the commander was in some way a traitor, could he?
Clover pushed the thought aside. James Ironwood was one of the greatest men he’d ever met, he could not think of a man more loyal to Atlas. Branwen was just trying to get into his head or something, his promotion to Commander of the Specialists hadn’t been a secret and Clover had introduced himself as such. It was mind games.
He wished the file on the man had been longer. More than a few paragraphs, more than rumour and hearsay. Some of it almost felt redacted, though there was nothing obviously blanked our or missing. It was just... how could they have so little information on someone with his reputation? They didn’t even have a birth certificate, no real age, no medical records, no semblance, nothing. It was like he didn’t exist, save blurry photos and videos and witness statements. Except, why would they redact that information if they did have it? What reason could they possibly have?
Branwen didn’t answer his indignant protest, instead rolling his eyes and flexing his wrists against the bonds slightly. He wasn’t sure if the man was impressed or annoyed or what.
“Well, come on then, soldier boy.”
Branwen wandered off into the trees and Clover blinked for a second before his brain caught up and he ran after, snagging the cuffed wrists and pulling him to a stop.
“Woah, wait, what the hell? Where do you think you’re going?”
“It’s winter in Mistral, we have like six hours of daylight left, and we’re in the middle of nowhere. You want to freeze to death, or should we get moving? This way, come on.”
He planted his feet and kept his grip tight. The willowy man was strong, but he wasn’t stronger than Clover, and Clover needed a moment to think.
Which direction was best, or did they wait and hope his allies circled back? Of course, that relied on his allies making it to safety, knowing where he’d fallen off. They might not even be able to retrace until they made it to a destination, and even at train speed they were a day and a night away from any cities. Could they risk waiting that long in these conditions? But he didn’t know these woods. They could follow the train tracks as best they could, but there would be places where the terrain wouldn’t allow that, or towns miles away they might walk right past. Or maybe there were no settlements around here at all, except perhaps the ones the Branwen’s must have set up near here, either permanent or temporary, in order to attack the train. Branwen had seemed pretty confident on which was they should go. Should he trust Branwen’s knowledge of this area?
Could he risk Branwen walking him right into a trap following him through the woods?
“We follow the tracks,” he decided, “and head towards the train’s destination.”
Branwen raised an eyebrow for a second, before rolling his shoulders and setting off in that direction. They didn’t bother trying to scramble back up the drop to where the tracks were, instead staying down in the forest. They could follow the route, without having to drag a bound Branwen up a near sheer rock face.
He was clearly more practiced in this terrain than Clover, who was adept in the snow, but the barren tundra and bare mountains and caves of Solitas, not the forests of Mistral. Back in Atlas, the snow was thick and packed over ice and frozen soil, meters of it, easy to crunch over, or occasionally wade through. Here was far more uneven. There were tree roots that hid out of view along with animal holes, low branches that dropped snow or dipped into their paths, animals that skittered around nervously, though not a single grimm in their first few hours. At one point a little after noon the sun broke out behind the clouds, the biting wind lightened and the air warmed notably.
It made the landscape look utterly gorgeous, greens and browns blending into the whites and blues that glinted in the sun, like something out of a fairytale.
With limited supplies, they did their best to conserve their energy, though Branwen insisted half the berries and leaves they passed were edible if they wanted. He leant forwards and snagged a few with his teeth as they went, but he didn’t try to run or escape as they followed their railway line as best they could through the landscape. The first hour, he’d been holding Branwen’s wrists, but between his own hands getting cold and them both stumbling and tripping a lot, it had become clear that it was easier not to be connected. He'd considered using Kingfisher to keep him on a line, but he wanted his weapon available.
After a few hours of walking, it was Branwen who stopped. The so-called king had veered off to the edge of a cave that cut into the rock about twenty meters under the railway tracks, mouth open to catch the streams of water trickling from icicles melting in the direct afternoon sun. Clovers own dry mouth begged to do the same, but he didn’t know how clean that water was, what it might have run through before freezing there, and the last thing he needed to risk was getting sick out here. The snow melting in his own bottle would have to suffice, once it finished melting. Maybe Branwen’s stomach was more attuned to potentially contaminated water, or maybe he just didn’t care.
He tried not to let his eyes linger on the sight of his parted lips, his cold flushed cheeks, the smooth ripple of his throat, the way his eyes fell shut as he gulped the water down.
A little professionalism, Ebi, he scolded himself, in what was oddly more Hare’s voice than his own.
“Unless you want to die out here, I suggest we keep walking, your highness. Though I'm still not sure how a bandit is in any way a king.”
Branwen pulled back from the water, turning back to him with a grin.
“Well, it’s quite interesting, really.”
Chapter 2: Wander
Notes:
Hehehehe, chapter two has arrived, and now we have some lore. And action...
I don't own RWBY.
Please enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Well, it’s quite interesting, really.”
That had not been the response Clover had expected. He'd expected someone with the title of Bandit King to be aloof, maybe a little self-aggrandising, but he honestly sounded like he just had some fun fact to share. Then again, Branwen was nothing like he’d expected at all.
“I’m sorry, ‘your highness’, but how can it be interesting? It just means you’re king of the bandits. I just don’t see why it’s a title anyone who isn’t a bandit should care about.”
The harshness of his words caught him off guard. He supposed the cold and walking, and general frustration of the situation was getting to him. This didn’t happen to him, this sort of thing. His semblance almost always made sure of that, unless there was some good luck in whatever it was that went wrong. He couldn’t work out what part of this was ‘good luck’, even having Branwen in his grasp felt... tenuous.
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. It's a much older title than that. The king part predates the bandit part. The family can be traced back a hundred generations, more or less. I have the book back at camp.”
“Wait what?”
He didn’t mean for his curiosity to slip out, but it was very genuine. Despite growing up in Argus, he didn’t know that much about Mistrali politics, at least beyond that they currently had a council same as most kingdoms and had since the war. Even their file on the Branwen Tribe had been very limited. Honestly, he knew that the old Queen was Kestrel ‘Kes’ Branwen, before her Merlyn Branwen, the current King was Qrow Branwen, and that they roamed all over Anima. Beyond that, they were really in the dark about a lot of it.
“Before the Great War a hundred years ago, Mistral didn’t have a council. It had nobility and royalty and all sorts, and the Branwens were one of the oldest Royal families in Anima. One of the most respected too. The Nomad King, I would have been called, traditionally. At least, that’s the best translation of it. We kept on the move, Anima was a large place and a central location was impractical, so we went all over it. Pretty much all the noble families on the continent had sworn loyalty or fealty to us, it was important we visited everyone, just how we did things. Everything from Glace Rock in the north to the Sunsweep beaches and Dead man cliffs in the south, the Violet River in the west to the Wanderers sands east of the Mist Mountain Range. We had cousins on the seas and rule of the land and honestly, Anima was a relatively peaceful continent.”
“Huh, I... didn’t know that.”
That was an understatement. Argus may have loudly celebrated being a marriage of Atlesian and Mistrali culture and heritage, but none of that had been taught in schools. Anima, before the Kingdom of Mistral was established in it’s modern form after the Great War, well, it had been described as wild, dangerous. Violent land grabs and cruel nobles and general lawlessness and wasn’t it fantastic that after the war it had been fixed, with law and order established. Wasn't it wonderful? He'd never really questioned it before, never heard any other point of view.
“There were issues, of course, small border disputes between neighbouring lords, some people in power truly were cruel, the kingdom in the west that never swore fealty occasionally trying to grow itself, grimm, but on the whole, we had a way of life that worked, at least according to my nana’s stories and the history books. My great grandfather was at the table when Mantle and Anima signed trade deals and treaties, established trade with Vale and Vacuo, all sorts, even managed to secure a treaty with the kingdom in the west. We gave them access to the city of Mist, Mistral now, in exchange for peace, and clear paths from the west to it. They wanted it as a capital, I think, claimed we weren’t using it, and to be fair they weren’t wrong. But then the war happened, and it hit everyone, and the Branwens rallied Anima behind those in the west in honour of our treaties and in defence of our lands, and Mantle worked along with us.”
Some of that he had known, like that Atlas, then Mantle, had been allied with Mistral. That one key ignition for the war had been territory disputes on islands between Anima and Sanus. That there was far more leading to the war than just ‘freedom of expression brings grimm so we’re banning it’, a rule that really hadn’t been as popular or widespread as people claimed nowadays. He hadn’t known there were two groups in Anima, though, that was new.
“And after, after the war was done, Vale decided for us that we needed a council, not nobility. They decided for us. Imported politicians to ‘help us set up and recover’, established their council, replaced our established nobility with unprepared, unsupported ‘local councils’ or new ‘mayors’ or nothing at all and left them to flounder. Monarchy became illegal, former lords hosting us on their land or swearing fealty became illegal. They erased my family from the history books, at least as many as they could, villainised us, made it a crime for us just to be. My grandmother was the first Branwen Queen to be seen not as the rightful Queen of Anima, but as a Bandit, a criminal. An animal to be hunted.”
“And you just... leant into that.”
He didn’t mean it as a judgement, just an observation, understanding. Branwen seemed to understand that.
“It’s our way of life. Nana tried to keep with what we were before, what she remembered of life before the war, but mama, she had this mindset if that the world were only going to see us as criminals, if ancient allies were going to turn us away or turn us in just for existing, we’d make them fear us. I'm trying to find a middle ground.”
“Which is why you’re committing train robberies?”
Branwen shot him an unimpressed look.
“My people need medicine and dust too, and this was supposed to be cargo and conductor. Trains that size, they usually don’t even notice we were there. You lot were an unforeseen complication. Just my luck.”
He seemed genuinely disgruntled by this. Like they hadn’t just been caught off guard by some bad intel and run into some soldiers, but like he’d been completely certain there wouldn’t be a team of specialists on that train.
But there was something else bugging him about all of this.
“Your story sounds familiar.”
“If you’re talking about the frauds in Vacuo, the Asturias family are a crude mockery of the Branwens, seriously, they’re copying us. They don’t actually trace back a thousand years, they barely trace back a hundred, and we have documents on who had power in Vacuo before then and it wasn’t them. Restore Vacuo my ass. It's all fake.”
“Seriously?”
As opposed to his own story, which of course, Clover was just supposed to believe as true. No, their claim to a Kingdom’s throne, that was all nonsense.
“The kids are being raised to believe it, as are the followers, but it’s a cult. Literally, our contacts in the Raiders think they’re using some sort of influencing semblance, and rumour is one of the kids has the same. We have actual history books, if you know where to look, more than just hearsay and lies. Real history. You can find the Branwen name all over Anima, hell look around next time you’re in Mistral City, they couldn’t remove us completely.”
“Right.”
He had no idea when that would be, but he knew he would look. He wanted to find what the man spoke of, a history etched into the walls that the councils couldn’t cover, the treaties with their names. If it was true, he wanted to find it. He didn’t know why.
There was a little more back and forth as they walked, as well as Branwen asking a few things about Atlas and the wider world. It sounded like the man hadn’t had the time to leave Mistral to see the world since he’d taken over as King, and his knowledge of the news from the rest of the world was limited to what his spies told him and what he needed to know for his people. The marches of technology, of culture, all of it, fascinated him, and Clover was happy to talk about the world. Even if it meant putting up with Branwen testing nicknames on him.
It astounded him, Branwen seemed more interested in learning that they’d made movie adaptations of books he’d read than in trying to get classified information out of him.
It made hours of walking far more bearable, despite the cutting wind blowing through occasionally. The rain and snow stayed up in the clouds that danced over the mountains up above, the sun lit the valleys and woods up into something serene. The trees sung with the wind, with the sounds of birds and other woodland creatures, the occasional stream. Branwen picked berries off bushes and munched on leaves and Clover noted his boots didn’t crunch on the snow the way his own did, the man moved near silently. It was pretty incredible. Right up until he was so enamoured with the way the ice crystals were haloed in a rainbow around the sun above them and didn’t notice Branwen had stopped.
He nearly walked into the back of him.
“What?”
“Shhh. Listen.”
He didn’t know what Branwen was sensing, he couldn’t hear anything, but Branwen was tense and scanning the woods for something. Something a lifetime of living in the forests had trained him to notice. He tapped Branwen’s shoulder in hopes of an explanation, scanning the woods the same was Branwen was. He couldn’t hear anything.
He... couldn’t hear anything. The leaves and branches still rustled in the winds, but the birdsong and animals and sounds of the woods, they’d fallen silent.
“Something’s here.”
The growl barely registered off to the left. Clover flinched and dodged under the claw.
Grimm? What had happened to his luck today?
He shoved Branwen to the side and pulled Kingfisher, wishing just this once that his weapon was more suited to solo combat than team support, but resolving to make do. The line snagged a beowolf, the hook sinking deep, and he used it’s claws to cut through another before it faded to dust. The third he slammed with the hilt before rolling out the way of a fourth.
They just kept coming.
He lost sight of his prisoner as he backed up slightly, trying to keep from being overwhelmed. With a little bit of luck, they’d make it through this, but his day continued to be just as luckless as his foot hit a root hidden under the snow, and he sprawled flat on his back.
One of the grimm was on him immediately, and he barely kept its claws and jaw from tearing him apart, flooding aura to his hands to keep it away. He was on his back, surrounded, outnumbered, alone.
A dagger emerged through the head of the beast above him, and as it faded into dust he tried desperately not to breathe in, the grimm’s glowing red eyes were replaced with Branwen’s paler ones. The young King stood above him, hands free of the bindings and wicked sharp blade in hand. The look on his face wasn't smug or taunting, but focused and self-confident, and he wasn’t looking at Clover at all.
He was looking at the remaining grimm.
Fists raised in firm defence, knife gripped backhand in the lower one, head flicking from side to side, waiting. Standing above him. Protecting him.
Even without the mask, he looked every bit as deadly as he was made out to be in the rumours and stories and reports they had. Every bit as terrifying and imposing and strong. Every bit the king of old stories and fairytales and it felt like even the grimm sensed it. It made Clover’s gut twist in a way he really didn’t want to consider right now, not flat on his back with the snow seeping into his uniform, surrounded by grimm.
His head tilted slightly, the sunlight catching on the thin metal band that sat tucked under his hair Clover had worked out was a very simple crown hours and hours ago, and then he was moving, flying between grimm with practiced skilled strikes. As with on the train, every movement was fluid and precise and measured. It looked like a dance, and Clover suddenly realised he really should get back up and keep fighting. Kingfisher was in reach, and he wasn’t done yet.
If Branwen alone was a dance, then the two of them in tandem was even more so. It stunned him how fluidly they worked together, ducking and weaving and gliding around the glen they’d emerged into. He got them close, and Branwen finished them, that wicked blade flashing.
“Not bad, pretty boy, you certainly worked out how to turn a fishing pole into a weapon.”
He wasn’t sure if it was a complement or an insult, but he found himself responding.
“Not bad yourself, your highness.”
It didn’t take them long at all to turn the rest of the grimm to dust, and they were panting in the snow, trees returned to their natural noise. He leant against a tree, and Branwen knelt in the snow a few feet away where the last beowolf had dissolved under him.
It was only in this quiet moment that it truly registered that Branwen was free. Completely free, and armed. Not just out of the cuffs, with an ease that suggested he could have been rid of them the entire time, but wielding a blade Clover hadn’t noticed at all. The man could have slit his throat and run miles back, could easily have ditched him to wander the woods alone, but he’d stayed. He'd let Clover believe he was in control and let himself be led around through the woods in cuffs.
And then he’d saved Clover’s life.
When Clover had been distracted, instead of running, he’d jumped into the fight. Stood between him and death and forced death back. Used that knife on the grimm, not on him, slipped the bonds only to join the fight. It was antithetical to everything he’d been told to expect.
“You saved me?”
“Couldn’t let such a handsome man get all carved up by grimm, now, could I?” Branwen smirked up at him, despite his panting, and held his wrists out together in front of him, “Shall we continue, Specialist Ebi?”
“Perhaps we can take a moment, your highness.”
He absently registered, as he scanned the woods again despite the birdsong, that this was the first time the ‘your highness’ had slipped from his lips in a tone that wasn’t condescending. In fact, it was damn close to respectful. The second, he realised, the first had been during the fight. The fight where Branwen had saved his life.
He didn’t re-cuff Branwen’s wrists, he didn’t see the point. He didn’t even bother taking the knife. If Branwen wanted him dead, he’d have done it already or left him to the grimm. If Branwen wanted him a prisoner, same deal. They'd move faster without his hands bound anyway, and be better defended against the grimm.
“Thank you, seriously.” he didn’t know if words alone could convey his gratitude to the man for saving him despite the situation, “That was... amazing. I didn’t... where did you even learn to fight like that?”
‘’Beacon.”
The school Beacon? The Huntsman Academy.
“Beacon? Academy?”
“How do you think I fought you so well back on the train, I used to be one of you.”
Underneath the smug, he sounded almost sad about it.
Not what he’d have expected of a bandit king, or a nomad king, or one so proud of his history. Especially a history where the Kingdom of Vale was directly involved in it being crushed and covered up. A Mistrali prince as a Vale student? How could a bandit that didn’t legally exist get into a combat school?
“You? You used to be a huntsman?”
“I trained to be one.”
“How does a bandit train as a huntsman? Why?”
There had to be a reason.
“It was my mama’s plan, originally. Sending my sister and I to Beacon so we could train, learn all your secrets, help our people thrive. Train and train and train, learn how to weapons craft, better ways of fighting grimm, of fighting huntsmen. Knowing how huntsmen operate, so we could work around it. We'd come home, and make ourselves strong, put huntsman knowledge to good use.”
“Seems like it worked.”
“Yeah... yeah. I thought it could be freedom, skills that could take me anywhere. My sister wanted to be queen, I wanted to... see the world, I guess. I really thought... Unfortunately for me, life doesn’t go that way, that smoothly. Not for me.”
“Clearly not, your highness.”
There was something melancholy in his tone that set Clover on edge, in the way he trailed off. He had the feeling it wasn’t the entire truth. Like he’d planned to say something other than that he wanted to see the world. Freedom, skills that could take him anywhere, it almost sounded like he’d planned to leave this life behind. Beacon wasn’t even on his record, but hadn’t he wondered if there was more too it, just classified. But if that was the case, if he had been a huntsman at Beacon, how had he ended up as king? Something happening to the aforementioned sister maybe? The choice taken from him?
Why did he care?
This was a criminal, someone he was taking to Atlas to be tried and thrown away to rot, why did he care?
About any of it.
“The sun will set soon; we should make camp.”
“Excuse me?”
“The sun’s getting low, soldier boy, and it sets far faster here than in Atlas. We're nowhere near where you want to go, so if we don’t want to freeze to death, we should make camp.”
“I’m from Argus, I know how Mistral’s weather works.”
Unfortunately, it meant he knew Branwen was right. They were in deep, hilly woodlands blanketed with snow in some of the most uninhabited land in Anima west of the Mist Mountains. If they didn’t get prepared before the sun vanished below the horizon, they’d be screwed.
Notes:
Hehehehhee. Lore.
Now we hit the worldbuilding part, and get more info on Qrow and on the Branwens. And more questions, for Clover as well as the audience.
Also this was titled flirty Grimm attack in my notes, though it ended up a little less flirty than planned, but they're not out of the woods yet. Literally.Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.
Next chapter should be in a week, maybe less.
Please kudos and comment, it makes my day and drives the writing bug hehe.
Chapter 3: Firelight
Notes:
Surprise, another chapter earlier than planned. A birthday treat to myself.
I don't own RWBY.
Please enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The fire flickered and danced, sending shadows through the trees. Clover wished there was some way to feel more secure, that he wasn’t trapped with a criminal in the snowy woods, so far from his own allies. Despite his earlier save, Clover couldn’t shake the feeling that at any moment Branwen’s bandits might descend on them, or grimm, and he’d be screwed. And he couldn’t leave Branwen unbound, even if the man had saved him from those grimm earlier on. So, he was alone.
They weren’t completely vulnerable. Their back was to a rock wall, the train tracks somewhere above, and the rocks jutted out in a way that sheltered them from the worst of the wind and the snow that had started flurrying a little. Branwen’s eyes scanned the darkness, and not for the first time he wished he had the advantages of a faunus in the dark. He couldn’t see anything beyond what the fire illuminated, especially with the moon hidden behind the clouds.
The fire burned smokeless and bright, and the smell of the creature Branwen had caught in a snare filled the air. He had survival training from Atlas Academy, though that tended to focus more on environments in Solitas than Anima, but he wasn’t sure he’d have coped quite as well as he was with Branwen here. The man lived in these trees, he ruled the forests, of course he had a fire going and snares set long before the last of the sun’s light faded.
The woods had thrummed with an ambient noise during the day, but at night they came alive. Predators and prey looking for food or a partner slipped through the undergrowth, things barked and yipped and hooted in the darkness, and every rustle and crack had him on edge.
Branwen didn’t seem as bothered, whether it was experience or sight he wasn’t sure.
“You need to relax, soldier boy.”
As if reading his thoughts...
“I’m not used to this.”
“I know, but remember earlier. It's the silence you want to watch out for, not the noise. Everything's fine.”
Clover took a sip of his water, melted and cleaned over the fire, and resolved to change the subject.
“I can’t believe you were a huntsman, and yet it makes so much sense. You know how we work, how we operate. Why you didn’t kill me.”
It had stuck with him, as they set up camp. Branwen should have killed him, should have tied up loose ends and set off into the woods on his own. He was clearly more than capable, Clover was holding him back, and yet he hadn’t. He'd pretended to be a prisoner and, when push came to shove, saved his life. It was very much the behaviour of a huntsman, but how does a huntsmen become a bandit?
Or more accurately, how does a bandit become a huntsman?
Didn't the schools have protections, entrance exams, transcripts and safeguards? Shouldn't someone have worked it out?
“I try to avoid it, always have. Sometimes... there is blood on my hands, but I do try,”
“I think that's true for huntsmen too.”
He didn’t know why he was feeling so compassionate for his prisoner, but there was this broken regret in his voice that struck Clover deeply. Like he really, truly would have avoided killing those people if he’d had the choice. Once again, nothing like the stories they had on file. A bandit who doesn't like killing or causing harm. Hardly what you’d expect of their king.
“Why Beacon?”
“Ozpin had loose standards, all we had to do was pass the test. Atlas would be too strict, Haven... we wouldn’t be safe at a Mistrali school, Vacuo is Vacuo, so yeah, Beacon.”
He supposed that made sense. If there was a gap, why wouldn’t you exploit it? He had heard rumours that Ozpin was entirely willing to take on what he referred to as ‘unconventional’ students. People who hadn’t graduated from a combat school but wanted the chance to prove themselves. So long as they could pass the tests and prove they had what it took to make it at Beacon, he’d let them in.
A part of Clover could see the merit. Not everyone had access to a combat school maybe they hadn’t been certain it was what they wanted to do when they were younger, or their parents didn’t want that to be the path they took. Maybe they came from outside the kingdoms entirely. But they systems were in place the way they were for a reason. It was one of the most dangerous jobs in the world, and even the training could be fatal if you slipped up. Combat schools prepared students for the Academies, the next level. Letting just anyone in could get them killed, or worse someone else.
Or they could be a bandit prince seeking the information needed to kill huntsmen.
Except Branwen hadn’t killed him, in fact...
“You implied you wanted to stay a huntsman?”
He was probing, and it was obvious, but Branwen didn’t seem to mind. His tone went soft as he spoke, eyes fixated on the darkness and glittering in the firelight.
“I loved it, I loved helping people, I loved... all of it, honestly. Thrived at Beacon, top of my classes, won Vytal, hell I managed to spend a summer as Ozpin’s assistant as he did Council meetings and back to school prep and all sorts. Told mama and my sister it was to gain intel, and I did hand over intel, but honestly, I just wanted the freedom it gave me. I don’t know if Ozpin knew where I came from back then, but he really believed in me.”
Branwen blinked, like he hadn’t quite meant to admit all that, like the words had just slipped out.
He wondered how long the man had been keeping it in, surrounded by people who couldn’t possibly understand. Clover imagined admitting to a group of bandits that he’d enjoyed being a huntsmen and had thrived doing it would go down... well, not well. Going back to a Queen with a fearsome, ruthless reputation, and good gods Queen Kes had one of those; to tell her he’d felt free and happy with the enemy he’d been sent to spy on...
He didn’t want to imagine it.
He also didn’t want to imagine the damage Branwen could have done as assistant to one of the most powerful people in Remnant if he had wanted to, the access he’d had, the information he’d had. Surely Ozpin hadn’t known who he was, why would Ozpin have let him that close if he’d known the student helping him was spy? That he was sending information back to a criminal organisation? That he’d go on to become the fearsome Bandit King? Unless...
“Guess the jokes on him for putting his faith in someone raised to be a monster.” Branwen added, “Can't change what you are.”
“I don’t think you’re a monster.”
Branwen turned to look at him finally, eyebrow raised like he thought Clover was crazy. Unfortunately for him, Clover meant it. He wasn’t even entirely sure where his certainty had come from, but he was sure of it.
“If you were a monster, you’ve have slipped those cuffs and slit my throat the second I turned my back, you clearly could have any time. Instead, you walked with me for hours, talked about history and books and all sorts, then saved my life. As we saw earlier, a monster would happily have ripped my guts out, not fed me and made us camp.”
“You don’t know, maybe I'm trying to seduce you.”
“Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Why, is it working? If it is you have you let me know, I don’t get this chance often.”
“What chance?”
“To seduce a...” Branwen’s eyes raked him up and down with a grin, “huntsman.”
Clover broke into surprised chuckle, and then they were both laughing, the kind of laugh that drops your head and shakes your shoulders and puts a smile on your face you can’t quite wipe off. The kind that lasted for minutes and brought tears to your eyes.
Even when their laughter had died down, they were both smiling. What must they look like to an outsider, an Atlesian soldier and a bandit king, sitting together at a fire, laughing til they cried. An unlikely pair, and yet, an easy comradery. A comfortable atmosphere, and levity, despite how grim their conversation had been. How easy their conversation had been, for two people who barely knew each other at all.
Branwen handed him half the rabbit with a smile and a handful of berries, and they dug into their meal in silence. It was good, given they were stranded on a snowy mountain, and gone far too soon.
“Did Ozpin know? Before you left? About all of this?”
Or did Branwen just vanish after graduation, then reappear in criminal reports a few months later.
“He knew, I don’t know if he knew before I told him, but I did tell him. I... I think I broke his heart telling him I was coming back here, he worked so hard to help me work out my escape, even without all the details, even when my sister wanted to go back to the Tribe so loyally. Rae always was the loyal one, she never wavered on our mission, on what we needed to do for mama, she only stayed in Vale after we graduated originally so she could try and convince me to come back with her, and... well, eventually it was time for at least one of us to go back, and I didn’t have a choice anymore. One of us had to come back, take over the Tribe.”
His meaning took a second to click with Clover.
“Wait, wait, you planned to leave first, put in all the hard work, but she’s the one who got to.”
“By the time it became absolutely necessary for one of us to go back, she had... better reasons to stay than me. She was happy, and someone had to go back, and she was right, would have been selfish of me to rip her life apart for my own freedom.”
Ah yes, those were certainly the words of a monster. Did Branwen not hear himself?
“But... but that’s not fair.”
“It’s not all bad, all things considered. At least with the control being King gives me I can try and... mitigate damage. Hit trains without civilians or security, people who can afford to lose it. And... on occasion, I work with the people I met as a huntsman to make it happen. Oz, your general, the Mistrali Council, though part of that is actually just because I'm king.”
On occasion... why did he get the feeling it was more than just on occasion. He got the feeling there was a reason some of those files had been redacted. He got the feeling Branwen was a little more huntsman than he let anyone know.
“Earlier, when you said about the commander...”
“Yeah, keeping you lot away from mine, and mine away from you, to avoid casualties if nothing else. Occasionally passing important information onto them if there's some real threat, or them to me. Your General Felsic too, though he often delegates that task.”
That was... a lot.
Every part of him recoiled at the idea of the general working with criminals, making a deal with them. Letting criminals, bandits, run around doing whatever they wanted without consequences. Letting them attack transports, steal cargo, cause chaos. The idea was horrific, and yet... he could see the merit. And if Branwen truly was a huntsman at heart, or working deep cover on behalf of Ozpin and other allies, that could be helpful. An ear on the ground, a finger on the pulse.
And wasn’t Commander Ironwood the general’s protoge, it made sense he’d be a part of it.
Too much sense.
“You should... you should sleep. We have a long way still to go tomorrow.”
“Don’t you worry about me, handsome, I know these woods.”
Branwen leant back against the wall, eyes carefully scanning the darkness, and Clover took a deep breath. He didn’t know how he was going to fall asleep. Not in these woods where a threat could come from any direction.
Except to his right.
He knew that with certainty.
Whatever threats might loom in the dark, just beyond the light of the fire that popped and crackled, whatever dangers might come at him in the night, Branwen wasn’t one of them.
Notes:
Hehehehhe, lots for Clover to think about here. What will the morning bring?
This could have been been the end of chapter one, if I hadn't split it into three lmao.
Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.
Chapter 4: Sunrise
Notes:
Two fic posts in one day, ehehehe.
I did not realise how long it had been since I updated this, I'm so sorry. I meant it to be weekly, but life got busy, I moved house and my laptop broke. Hopefully now we can return to normal.I don't own RWBY.
Please enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dawn light roused him easily. The chill of the night had sunk deep into his bones, despite the shelter they’d made, the fire and the warmth curled into his che...
He blinked.
Branwen had twisted in the night, from a little way away to right against him, and he had to wonder if it was just for warmth or something more. His own arms had come around him in his sleep, perhaps craving the warmth just as much. It had helped, though he imagined more for Branwen than himself. He’d been told all his life that he radiated warmth, and while his... while Branwen had acted as a strong insulator creating a very warm pocket between them, he didn’t radiate that much head himself. Frankly it was amazing how cold he ran.
In the early morning light, he couldn’t help but study the man.
He had noticed this already, but his hair was already greying, though the sleek feathers remained a shiny coal black. Loose strands had fallen onto his face and feathers poked out in odd direction, but he resisted the urge to smooth them down. Qrow seemed even younger still in his sleep, and Clover could pick out small scars around his face, by his brow, on his ear, the side of his throat. When he'd fallen asleep there had been something tense in his frame, but it was gone now, body relaxed, soft puffs of breath slipping out. It was hard to believe this was the Bandit King.
He was tempted to wake him, a gentle ‘good morning, your highness’ and a slight shake, but despite their physical proximity, they weren’t that close. He was more likely to take a knife to the throat than get a laugh. Instead, he pulled away as carefully as he could, trying not to disturb the young king, and he was pretty sure he succeeded, stepping away to stretch his stuff joints and work some warmth back into his body.
A night on the floor had left him aching more a little, but he was sure once he got moving, once the sun was on his skin, he’d be fine.
He was right.
Feeling less achy, he relit the fire they had used the night before, setting some snow to melt for them to drink, and grabbed a handful of the meat and berries, leaving some for Branwen.
“Sleep well, Specialist Ebi?”
Clover was not above admitting he jumped a foot.
He hadn’t even noticed Branwen waking, let alone getting up and coming right up behind him. Once again, if Branwen wanted him dead, he’d be dead. The man moved silently, even in snow and branches, he was silent. A part of him wanted to ask Branwen to teach him. Instead, he settled for answering the question he’d been asked.
“A little stiff, your highness, but I can’t complain. You?”
“Well enough.”
He blinked, trying to decipher what that meant, then passed the rest of the food over to Qrow.
“Thanks. Want me to get some more before we head out?”
“Maybe you could teach me, so I could help?”
Where had that come from? Certainly, learning some of these plants would be useful, but to ask so forwardly. To ask a bandit to teach him things, to trust it wouldn’t be a lie or a trick.
“Come on, I left a few snares set last night and the berry bushes are close, we can get ready for the day. Chances are we won’t make it anywhere today either, we need to keep our strength up.”
“Wait, we won’t?”
“We’re a long way from everything out here, even my camp. It's why we hit this train where we do, nobody to stop us.”
“Oh.”
They fell into a comfortable silence as they checked the snares, snagging one more of those small mammals from the night before, making short work of skinning it and removing it’s insides before setting it on the fire. He did his best to memorise which of the berries were edible, which would kill him before he’d finished chewing, and everything in between. Seemed pretty important to know the difference, but he found he trusted that Qrow did, that his knowledge on this was solid and extensive.
“Sun’s fully up, soldier boy, we should get going. Perhaps I can teach you more edible plants as we go, so you don’t starve.”
“I’d like that, your highness.”
Branwen's brows furrowed for a second, before he popped a berry in his mouth and turned away. Clover wasn’t really sure why, but he didn’t push it. Maybe his ‘your highness’ had been a bit too... informal in tone? He wasn’t sure when he’d stopped using it sarcastically, mocking the title of king, to kind of meaning it, but he did. Somewhere along the way he’d started respecting the man and his title, even if his tone remained a little... teasing.
His temporary ally kicked snow over the fire, scooped up the rest of their gathered meal, and pointed in the same direction they’d been travelling in.
“Shall we?”
The terrain was much the same as the day before, more or less flat, but uneven and blanketed in snow. They hopped over little streams, and he let his guide point out different plants and their uses as they went.
By the time the sun was high in the sky they were both flagging a little, no grimm attacks or bandit ambushes, just walking. Their food was running low, and their water lower. Branwen was letting him drink all the boiled water and sipping what he needed from streams, but he doubted that was enough for him compared to what he probably needed. What they both probably needed. He still wasn’t sure he trusted that water enough to drink from the streams, even if it probably wasn’t that different from the water they melted over the fire.
A short lull in the conversation brought Clover to a question that had been bugging him since he was first told Branwen’s story.
“Yesterday, you said you won Vytal?”
“I did. Good times.”
“How can I not have known that? I mean...”
“How can I have vanished so completely? How can your records have no trace of me as a student, let alone a Vytal winner?”
That. That was what had been bothering him. How could he have vanished? It was one thing to never have existed, to have never been on record in the first place, but to vanish from it...
“We don’t even have your age on file; how can you have existed within the system then vanish?”
“Oz. When I told him I had to leave, that I didn’t have any choice, he offered to help me, however I needed. I think he was hoping I’d run to safety, rather than back to mama and tradition and the burden of the crown. The burden of the Branwen name. He helped me vanish, removed me from the records, took down videos, helped wipe me from existence once again.”
“Wow, that’s... a lot.”
Once again, the ‘occasionally’ part of his past statement about helping Ozpin and the Kingdoms with huntsmen business felt like underselling. If Ozpin had wiped him from the record, there was definitely more going on.
“Yeah, part of the reason Jim is aware is because we knew each other back then, one of the few people I wanted to say goodbye to. Officially, he won Vytal that year. They found a way to ‘fix’ the results, I don’t know how.”
The year Ironwood won, he’d been sick that year. Had the flu, a lot of people had, it had been a major epidemic. He'd missed most of the fights, but thinking back, yeah, there had been a man who looked just like Qrow fighting in that tournament. Wielding a scythe, same as he had on the train. He’d meant to catch up on the fights once he was better, then been caught up in coursework at the Academy. Gods, they’d really just made him disappear. If what he was saying was true?
He was almost certain that it was true.
“I'm twenty-nine, by the way.”
“What?”
“You said you didn’t have my age; I'm twenty-nine.”
Not even thirty, only a few years older than he was.
“Commander Ironwood didn’t send us here.”
“Hmm?”
He wasn’t sure if it was the information or the subject change that threw Qrow as completely as it had, but the man had turned fully to look at him. But Clover was committed, a truth for a truth.
“He’s on leave, this mission was planned by Commander Cordovin. She's the one who put us on the train.”
“That... makes a lot more sense, actually.”
Commander Ironwood was getting his prosthetics upgraded, something that would require a few weeks of proper recovery time, and so Cordo had been transferred into their unit as leader temporarily. She wanted to prove to General Felsic that she should be kept leader of the Aces, so she’d planned this sting. She'd done it all properly, coordinated with Mistral, pointed out that as it was an Atlas shipment, Atlas could assign it’s own guard, put them onto the train, and planned to take out the bandits. Given Felsic was a lot more liberal than her, or any of his predecessors, with a firm push towards Faunus equality and anti-isolationism, she’d need a big win to put herself up for promotion, or any significant position. Right now, he wasn’t sure this counted as a success.
“Shit.”
Qrow's swear wasn’t about the truth regarding their mission, but instead the path ahead. The train tracks they’d been following had hit an obstacle they weren’t going to easily pass.
A ravine.
Notes:
Hehehe, not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot.
Man I wish some of this was from Qrow's POV because I know what he's thinking and Clover doesn't and I heheheheheh. However, this is and remains Clover POV, maybe in the future.Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.
Kudos and Comments keep the words flowing, and I'm grateful for any and all I'm given. Have a great day.
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