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Weiss slumps against Yang’s shoulder, low whistle-breaths passing through the brawlers broken nose as she recovers, Ember Celica lays in wait, coiled about her wrist and fist and forearm, ready to fire. Ready to fight. Weiss can hardly blame her, Myrtenaster is free from its sheath, resting in her lap. The hover carrier drifts onwards, guided by a combination of Ruby and Blake’s gentle pushes and adjustments. Gambol Shroud’s sheath is over Blake’s shoulder, empty. The equally empty pistol-sword-chain-scythe rests coiled in the Faunus’ hand, weary golden eyes flickering over the dark snow-dappled forest as she trudges alongside, normally silent footsteps loud and crackling with the tired snapping of twigs.
And Ruby… Ruby marches alongside the carrier, shoulders pulled back taut-sharp, rifle still in hand, her finger away from the trigger, of course.But Weiss knows.Weiss knows that unlike the rest of their little desperado Huntress-Strike-Team, her safety is off. Crescent Rose waits to spill more blood, more ichor and bone, ready to fight, maim and kill because, just like its wielder, its Hunt will not be over until it has lain every Grimm to rest upon the blood-soaked dirt-stone fields of slaughter, or until it is dropped upon those fields from the pale dead hands of its leading Rose.
Unlike Blake, Ruby’s silver-silver eyes do not flit to the hover-cart even once, transfixed by their duty of scanning-scanning-scanning the horizon, the bush, the rocks, the snow for hints of death, for hints of threat, for hint of prey to bring down in her Hunt.
Yang’s shoulder stirs beneath Weiss’ temple and the head of golden hair lifts from her scalp just enough for wincing, tired eyes to perform their perfunctory scan of the horizon, checking that her partner still walks, that her sister still strides, that her friend has not stopped breathing in the minutes since she last woke. Yang slumps against Weiss, lilac eyes sliding shut as her consciousness slides back into restfulness.
Blake’s smile twitches slightly, golden eyes beholding a golden girl for all of a second before she resumes her watch. Smile fractionally wider at seeing their team, their strange little family, still standing, still strong. Weiss does not know if Ruby sees this. If Ruby sees her sister still looking out for her even after all these years. Weiss holds out her right hand as Ruby stares down the horizon, the bush, the rocks, the snow.
In the same instant, Ruby’s left is wrapped around it, fingers intertwined, giving a small squeeze. Her silver gaze keeps scanning-scanning-scanning, she still hasn’t left her hunt, Weiss hopes she never will.
But she hasn’t left Weiss’ side either.
Weiss squeezes back and they both loosen their grips to hold each other comfortably.
Not since the end of the battle.
Ruby stiffens, warm pale hand going cold-cold-cold as her eyes become silver-silver-slivers, fixing on a patch of snow, oddly devoid of sky-stretching greenery or undulations of the earth.
Weiss glances across to Blake and finds Golden eyes flittering across the team, even as Ruby’s grip tightens-tightens, almost painful, like she’s holding a scythe and not a hand.
A shriek of Nightmares echoes across the field and Weiss’ sky-blue eyes snap across to that blank patch of snow in time to catch the trail end of an explosion, snow clearing-clearing-falling even as Yang leaps and jolts and jumps, arms of steel and flesh rising, Ember Celica wrapped about her limbs and ready to fight, knocking Weiss aside in the process, but that’s fine, because Weiss is raising Myrtenaster and scrambling to find her feet even as Blake reaches for her sheath-cleaver.
The Deathstalker crashes through the settling-settling-clearing snow and they’re all rushing-rushing-rushing to ready themselves for the fight, because that thing is twice-thrice as large as what they fought all those years ago in Initiation, and they are tired and if it reaches them before they’re ready there is going to be trouble–
There is a stone-cracking-thunderclap.
The Shriek of horrors turns horrified-horrified-dead as gravitational Dust burns-burns-pulls-crushes from inside its head and thorax.
The Deathstalker tumbles to a halt, left inner eye a bloodied gaping hole, legs twitching and tail spasming as the flesh beneath its chitin-bone plates starts disintegrating.
Ruby holds her Scythe-Sniper-Instrument-of-Death-and-War in one hand, elbow locked and smiling a snarl that is vicious-bloodthirsty-calm.
She still hasn’t let go of Weiss’ hand.
Yang’s head pinwheels, scanning-scanning-scanning with the blood-lilac-lilac-blood-lilac in her eyes, Blake’s ears are perked high, twitching-scanning-twitching with her cleaver-sheath half-drawn and Weiss…
Weiss is still holding Ruby’s hand.
Ruby’s eyes haven’t left the horizon, the bush, the rocks, the snow.
Her pale-cold-tight hand slackens, slackens as her arm does the same and Crescent Rose swings down to point at the ground. Weiss lowers herself, cautiously, back into a sitting position, still holding Ruby’s hand. Yang slumps against her a moment later, breath whistling through her broken nose as Blake returns her cleaver-sheath to her shoulder.
And for the first time in 72 hours, 29 minutes and 57 seconds, Weiss’ eyes slide close for more than a blink.
She’s still holding Ruby’s hand.
She hasn’t left her side.
Something squeezes her hand.
There is a small humdrum, a slight bustling shuffling murmur at the back of Weiss’ mind. She thinks she might be imagining it. Someone runs the pad of their thumb over the outside of her knuckles.
The murmuring is more insistent this time, louder longer. It sounds like a crowd. “Weiss…” Someone kiss-whispers against her ear.
Eyes of sky-blue slide-slide-slide open. Yang is no longer pressed up against her, standing on the cut-stone pathway of the town a half-metre away from the hover-carrier, steel arm wrapped around Blake’s hips as they stand side-by-side, Ember Celica locked away in its bracelets. Gambol Shroud alights Blake’s shoulders, ears pointed high, as they face Eastward over the small city of Leone.
The partners stand, silhouettes of darkest gold-black against the shimmering sun-drop red-pink of the sunset, rays of brilliant light turning the white clouds to black-gold patterns of shade and shimmer.Weiss turns her head to the right, Ruby is standing there, leaning towards her, her silver-silver eyes scant slithers of centimetres from Weiss’ own. There’s a soft smile in her lips, a beautiful twist of red-tipped black hair framing her upside-down-teardrop-face like curtains to a stage.Weiss is transfixed by the performance.
Ruby giggles and darts in, pressing a quick peck to Weiss’ lips before darting back out again and smiling wide at the pink-red fluster staining Weiss’ dirt-and-blood coated cheeks.Ruby is still holding her hand.She hasn’t left her side, not since Weiss asked her to be there. Weiss doesn’t reach for her Scroll, the batteries had died 37 hours, 5 minutes and 53 seconds into the battle, instead she glances to the sky, squints against the sun and twists back to find the moon and it has been 79 hours, 43 minutes and 12 seconds since they were dropped into the middle of a screaming-screaming-screaming town to try and save some lives.
And Ruby has not left her side in 7 hours, 13 minutes and 15 seconds.
Weiss slide-slide-slides off the hover-carrier, which has come to a stop by the side of a town-square, soup and food being served by relief staff a few dozen metres away, and how had she missed the glorious scent of cooked meat up until now? Myrtenaster slides back into its sheath, and Weiss keeps holding Ruby’s left hand.
And Weiss’ heart of joy, and life, and love –
Breaks and shatters in her chest, because –
Crescent Rose still hangs from Ruby’s right. Her index finger is straight, pressed up against the side of the trigger-guard, but Weiss can see the safety –
And it is off.
And even here, surrounded by civilians and friends and people – Ruby is still on the Hunt.