Chapter Text
[January]
Blake has a love-hate relationship with the pendulum clock.
It hangs from the plain silver wall, a rich mahogany build that- for all intents and purposes- is rather beautiful in design. She hates looking over at it because a full-length mirror is right below it, leaning inconspicuously.
She can’t stand her reflection these days.
And the constant tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock is maddening, and having to hear it over and over (and over and over and over and over and-) for an entire hour because of her (forced) therapy sessions makes her want to rush over to the fancy mahogany build and tear it from the wall. But that will entail getting closer to the mirror itself, so she avoids it at all costs.
The ‘love’ side of that relationship comes because it gives her wandering, ruined mind something to focus on. A hyper fixation that makes her feel normal. It's also a nice, relaxing, metronomic rhythm to follow when she paces.
And fuck does she pace.
She won't be surprised if she is burning trails into the carpeted floor with how much she moves around the room, always in the same tight lines that curve around the couch she is supposed to be sitting on and at the opposite end of the room that has a wall entirely made-up of bookshelves and a terrarium full of frogs. All brightly colored and most definitely poisonous. (Is it actually legal to own such creatures here?)
The constant open and close clicks of the butterfly knife in her hand matches the music of the pendulum clock. It gives her something to do, all these little movements.
There is a burn running beneath her skin, an itch that makes her restless and makes her want to move-(makes her want to run)- and it feels like she has to be searching for something but she doesn’t know what. She doesn’t know what.
No…
She knows what. Or rather, who.
But Blake is never going to find her because they failed, again, and the girl is gone. Forever.
Her best friend. Her leader.
Ru-
“I asked you a question, Miss Belladonna. Do you need me to repeat it?”
Okay...
Look.
Blake has great respect for therapists and all that- but having to be forced to do this only pisses her off. And if she isn't clinging onto the anger, then she will die to the grief, and Blake can't have that now, can she?
“You’re smart, aren’t you?” Blake scoffs as she tears a path into the floor by the terrarium, eyes remaining on all the brightly colored frogs and counting them over and over and over again. Six in total. The yellow one with black patterns is her favorite. “Don’t you know the definition of a cold shoulder?”
“I’m only trying to help you, Miss Belladonna.”
“If I was paid one lien for every time someone here said that to me,” she flips the knife shut before twirling her wrist in the opposite direction, opening it once more and busying her fingers. Does it keep the doctor on edge? “I could pay a person to pretend they didn’t see anything when I left.”
“Do you plan on leaving from here?”
She freezes, her fingers slipping, and the knife opens a fresh cut on the tips of them. She ignores it completely, turning narrowed eyes over at the individual who sits prim and proper as usual. One leg crossed over the other and suit most likely ironed just that morning, brown hair tied in a simple ponytail and copper eyes never leaving Blake no matter how much she paces.
They are always looking at her and that irritates her to no end as well.
Noticing the droplets of red from her hand, they drop their leg to the floor and reach over to the simple stand of tissues sitting on the glass table in front of them, extending it in Blake’s direction without a word. The question lingers in the air and Blake just wants it to go away.
No. Of course she isn't fucking going to leave here. That’s ridiculous.
Because here, Yang and Weiss (and Jaune and Nora and Ren and a lot of the people who were part of that horrid night) are getting the care they need and Blake is not about to leave any of them again.
Despite what many of the staff thinks because of how often she leaves the base to wander and roam the nearby tundra of Atlas without letting anybody know.
(They even went so far as to place a band on her wrist that Blake already knew had a tracking chip in it. She can't take it off, though it probably won't be too difficult if she tried really hard. She hasn't gotten that bored quite yet, but time will tell...)
She scowls before stepping over, accepting the tissue and quickly cleaning up the mess she made without daring to look at the red. She hates that color now.
It makes her stomach tie into knots and her heart quivers with bombarding sorrow.
She didn’t know it was possible to hate a color so much.
The doctor leans back in their seat, crossing their legs again, and they clear their throat before speaking.
“How are your injuries coming along?”
Blake has to bite back the instinctual groan that wants to burst from her chest, wandering over to the small trash bin and tossing in the sullied tissue without chancing a glance at it. She doesn't want to see the red anymore. Maybe she missed the bin entirely, who knows. (She certainly doesn't.)
“Not bad enough to keep me from having to come here,” she motions to the room, a glare passing over every surface and quickly darting away when golden eyes get the barest glimpse of the mirror across the way from her. Blake steps over to the window, the heavy-set curtains blocking her view of the outside. She wants to rip those apart too. “Unfortunately.”
“Is it unfortunate?” The doctor questions and Blake stiffens, shoulders drawing into her ears in a defensive matter. “That you weren’t more severely injured that night?”
She spins around quickly, disturbing the curtains, and annoyance drips from her tongue like poison as she spits, “Don’t twist my words.”
“Don’t avoid the question.”
Her skin burns again and she has to move, she has to move, walking away from the window and around the couch and back toward the bookshelves. Her eyes trail the spines of the books many times, ever curious she is- and yet, she can’t quite seem to remember any that she reads.
She really hates Ironwood and Ozpin deciding for them that these “talks” were necessary.
Blake doesn't want to talk about her feelings. She doesn't want to talk about her nightmares. She doesn't want to talk about that day at all.
She just wants to move on. (She just wants to move.)
Is that so hard to ask?
(Apparently.)
“It says here on your file that you like to go on walks.”
“Does it say it like that or are you putting it nicely?”
“More specifically, it says, and I quote: ‘Blake Belladonna is prone to leaving the premises without advising anybody, often sneaking off when she’s not supposed to, and refusing return when staff try to guide her back.'" They pause before adding, copper eyes returning to her form, “‘She has even been known to become aggressive when she doesn’t want to return.’”
Blake stops again, boots scuffing the carpet, and her eyes land on one of the red frogs that makes her fingers tighten harsher over the closed knife in her hand. She turns away from it, eyes downcast and playing with the handle of the only thing keeping her from reaching into the glass cage to toss the red frog away. (She really hates that color now.)
“It was her fault,” Blake mumbles, a sense of shame and sheepishness overtaking her now as her voice drops in volume. “She shouldn’t have touched me.”
It's most certainly not an excuse, and Blake does feel guilty for it, but… It had been a reactionary thing. Instinctive, defensive.
(Fearful.)
“She touched your back,” the doctor responds in a simple voice, leaning back casually on the plush chair, and Blake knows that if she lifts her eyes, theirs will already be on her. “If I recall, you were injured there, were you not?”
Blake takes in a deep breath that does nothing to satisfy the ache in her lungs and her entire body stiffens. Her eyes go distant and she slips from reality and into the throes of horrible memories. The gash between her shoulder blades pinches with her movements and it feels like it’s ripping open all over again and she can feel every. Agonizing. Moment.
She’s running, running for her partner who lays motionless on the ground, blood pooling beneath her in worrisome amounts. It’s not stopping, it’s not stopping, the blood isn’t stopping!
Yang is leaving. She's leaving and Blake has to help her. She has to help her!
The sound of activating static enters her ears shortly before the sound of glass shattering does, Weiss’s strangled gasp, and then... and then…
Pain, right between her shoulder blades and down to her lower back, ripping her apart.
A spark of red, oh so familiar red, and blood. More blood. Her blood.
Burning, burning, burning. Tearing, tearing, tearing.
She can’t get to Yang, she can’t move. The pain, it’s too much, it’s too much!
Oh, gods. Oh, gods, it’s getting worse. It’s getting worse and the one who hurt her was-
“Miss Belladonna,” the doctor’s voice is a rude and grateful awakening as her vision refocuses to the here and now, the white noise fading from her ears and the pinch at her back throbbing away, back to controllable levels that she can at least try to ignore. They lean forward now, eyes sympathetic, and a flicker of a frown on their face. “The point of all of this isn’t to torture you. It’s to give you a safe place to heal, to voice your troubles out loud so they’re not bottling up inside of you. I am not here to judge, only to listen. I simply want to understand what you went through so I can better help you move forward from here.”
She’s not aware of the tears that have begun to roll down her cheeks until she feels the stinging of the salt at the cut on her face. Another annoyance, another reminder. Another sign of her failure. The stitches there are irritated with how often she picks at them, unaware she is doing it half the time.
A low sound rumbles from her chest as she lifts her hand to wipe away the tears, forcing them away, forcing the emotions back down because she isn't about to cry damn it. She is done crying.
She has no right to cry.
Swallowing all of the pain and the tears and the heartbreak and the grief and everything, everything, Blake bares her teeth and lurches forward, gripping the back of the couch she's supposed to be sitting on. It and the glass table are the only things blocking her way from the doctor. Not that she’d ever actually attack them… Maybe.
They're just doing their job, probably just as forced to be here as she is because Ironwood loves to control everybody, but they really know what buttons to press.
“Listen to me when I say this, because I’m only going to say it once, doctor,” Blake’s voice shakes, nails digging into the fabric of the couch and a tremble running through her body. “Nobody will ever understand what we went through. I can talk and tell you the whole fucking story and even then you won’t get it! No one will, but us.
“You said you want to help us heal? Then let us heal on our own, damn it, because this-” She jerks a hand around the room, “is not helping. Talking is not helping because you are a stranger, and everyone is an outsider to this.”
This, this. She doesn't know what she is referring to, while at the same time, she knows what she's talking about. No one will get it. Everyone is a stranger, they won't understand.
Everyone but Weiss. Everyone but Yang.
They are the only two in this world to experience those final moments with her. They are the only ones to catch a glimpse of the devil and her infinite darkness. They were the only ones there to help and they-
They failed.
So, no.
Blake isn't going to talk to some stranger about her experiences. She isn't even going to talk to her friends, not Jaune or Ren or Nora or Sun or Oscar or Qrow or her parents.
Because they won't understand.
(Only Weiss and only Yang… and from the way things are, they're just about as ready to talk about it as Blake is.
Not at all.)
“No one will understand,” she is panting now, but she doesn't care, and the burn is melting her and she had to leave. The chimes of the clock are so fucking slow now and she doesn't care how much longer she is technically supposed to be here.
Blake speeds around the couch and straight for the door, ignoring the way they are looking at her the entire time, ignoring the tick-tock, tick-tock, ignoring the brilliantly colored frogs, ignoring the pain radiating from every hidden wound on her body.
Over her shoulder, just to rip them apart even more for even daring to get her to do this, she spits, “Certainly not someone who has never fought the darkness and never will. Trust me when I say that I am envious of your innocent life, doctor. Because you don’t want to know what I’ve been through… I’d just give you nightmares and then it’ll be you as the patient next.”
And then she’s gone, opening the door like she was trying to tear it from its hinges and slamming it shut behind her. (Faintly, she can hear the one-hour alarm from the clock beginning to chime, indicating their session was over, and she almost wants to laugh at the timing.)
The hallways are empty in the immediate vicinity, but with a sound like that, she knows it won’t be long until the staff begin buzzing around in all their nosiness. She picks a direction at random and begins to walk, hands going into the pocket of the wooly overcoat they had given her. Mostly to hide the butterfly knife because she technically isn't allowed to have a sharp thing in her possession. (She likes the doctor only a bit more because they never tell anybody she has it.)
The medical base is large, great for her wandering, but it is so crowded with patients and staff alike the constant noise drives her insane. She supposed she can’t be too mad about it though, considering they have nothing but the best in the world stationed here helping everyone. Or so Ironwood likes to say, thinking that will comfort her any better.
Three and a half weeks here (26 days) and it is beginning to drive her crazy.
She tears down the hall like a woman on a mission and the few staff members she does happen to pass by are much too slow to interrupt her.
She keeps walking, eyes darting, and a franticness gradually beginning to seep into her skin now. Burning, burning, burning. She has to search for something. She has to move, she has to walk, she has to go.
She didn't know where she had to go, but all she knew is that she had to go.
So, Blake goes.
Turning corners and bypassing people like they are nonexistent, she speeds through a now familiar set of halls that will lead her to the outside of the base.
It didn’t take her long to map everything out here in her mind. Three and a half weeks is a long time… and such a short time too.
Three and a half weeks since the battle.
Three and a half weeks since everyone needed to be moved from Menagerie here to Atlas to receive the care they so desperately required.
Three and a half weeks since they lost their… Since they lost.
The rest of the world reveled in their apparent victory, but for Blake and the others, they simmered in their defeat until it began to make them sick and she doesn't know if any of them will get around to “celebrating” anytime soon. Not her and Weiss and Yang, at least.
She didn’t think they would ever get to the celebration stage in all of this.
(Who knew winning a war could be so terrible?)
“Uhh, miss, you’re not-” A nurse tries to catch her attention where he stands by the front desk, taking half a step in her direction and looking around worriedly. As if trying to find someone of a higher position than himself that she will listen to.
Yeah, that isn't likely. Nobody here is in charge of her.
Not the nurses, not the doctors, not the guards, not Ironwood or Ozpin.
“I’m going on a walk,” she shoots over her shoulder at the poor man as she continues down the path regardless, heading straight for the front door where only a single guard is stationed and appearing as though they don’t know whether to step in her way or call for backup. Blake gives a faux sweet smile toward the nurse, raising her arm in his direction to show off the tracking band around her wrist, pointing at it, “No need to worry, you guys always know where I’m at all the time, don’t you? You’ll find me eventually.”
The nurse’s mouth opens and closes, fumbling for words, but she keeps going and leaves him in the dust. The door is naught but a few more steps in front of her, and the guard there makes a move to stand in her way, but there must be something in the glare she gives off that tells them to think otherwise and they press into the wall as casually as they can. She snickers to herself and takes no time to gloat, because the exit is there and freedom is within her grasp.
As soon as she steps out into the open air, it is both the most relieving sensation she’s ever experienced- and the most painful in that it makes the itch even worse than before. Fresh air brushes against the exposed skin of her face and it makes her shiver, temptation and the need to just move overtaking her, and she picks a direction at random to go.
She wanders and roams and she’s free- and even so, it feels like she’s suffocating.
It’s not enough, it’s not enough.
Blake doesn’t know when it is ever going to be enough.
She leaves.
…
Atlas is fucking cold.
Growing up on the tropical island of Menagerie, her resistance to colder temperatures was already weaker than everybody else when they first arrived here in the snowy kingdom- in what feels like a different lifetime altogether- and it certainly hasn’t gotten any better. No matter how many times they come back, she hates it and she thinks she’s always going to hate it. (It reminds her of the shadows. She hates the cold.)
The chill makes her face ache, makes the cut on her cheek smart unpleasantly, and her fingers are numb where she now simply holds the knife in her hands, eyes shifting from staring at the smooth black metal to staring off into the white tundra where she sits on a random boulder she managed to find. The land expands far ahead of her and disappears into nothingness in the distance and she hates that too.
She’d keep roaming, the desire remains, it is always going to be there, but there is a secondary tug forcing her to a stop because she’s gotten kind of farther than she would have initially liked. The medical base is such a long way away and if she is to peek over her shoulder and squint, she won't be able to see it.
Ah well, it’s fine. Blake always knows her way back. She only ever walks a straight line, never taking detours and random turns. It seems to be enough for the itch, to simply move.
(And if she does get lost, it wouldn’t be long until the guards find her, and she feels ever more grateful that she is able to resist the temptation of breaking off the tracking band.
She’d rather not die of hypothermia, thank you very much.)
She’s also really fucking tired now. The muscles in her legs ache from having to navigate such annoying terrain and she can’t exactly feel her toes anymore in her boots, snow clinging to the material and seeping inside. Her body trembles continuously and her ears are flattened uncomfortably on her head, trying to salvage warmth, and everything hurts.
Her exhaustion runs deeper than just her body.
Blake doesn’t really remember the last time she had a full night’s rest. Always just getting a few minutes- hours, if she’s lucky- of sleep that she inevitably wakes up from because of the nightmares. Gods, the nightmares… They are always the same, she’s gotten used to seeing them now, but that doesn’t make it any better.
The battle against endless Grimm, the struggle to survive just another minute, just another second, just another breath.
Yang bleeding out, Weiss not waking up either, and… Well, that third one is always painful.
But the worst are always of the darkness, the moment where shadows swallowed her whole, wrenching and crushing and trying to tear her limb from limb. The night was all around and, despite her enhanced vision, she could not see anything and that was fucking terrifying. The way it sank inside of her, through every one of her open wounds and her skin, the parasites swarming to the heart of her light to devour it.
In her dreams, she can’t get away from the darkness.
It makes her paranoid. Asking herself if this all around her- Atlas and the hospital and the cold- is the dream instead and she is actually in the shadows.
Her jaw clenches tighter and Blake flips open the knife with numb fingers, experience alone making her not cut herself again as she watches the way the steel catches the low sunset light. Orange and reds and purples and pinks paint the world of white with a portrait of comfort that makes the tightness of her throat lessen back to breathable levels. She exhales slowly, hoping it will take all of the bad things with it, and turns the blade this way and that to watch how it glints with the shades.
It is the only thing she requested her parents to bring when they had been able to visit a week ago. Her mother had been wary, but her dad had done it, no questions asked. (She thinks that she could ask them for anything and they would bring it to her.)
(She’s tempted to ask them to bring Ruby, but that is impossible.)
Before the battle, the short time they were stationed at Menagerie while the troops gathered from around the world, Blake had done much of the same to keep her nerves in check, always playing with the butterfly knife at every available moment. She thought it would help again now.
She was wrong.
The approaching sound of a vehicle makes her want to curl into herself and sigh. Her alone time is finally done, and though she’s starting to lose the sensation of her body from the cold, she isn’t entirely ready to go back yet. The itch is there, fire running through her veins, and it makes her stir in her seat on the boulder.
It stops a considerable distance away, she can just barely hear the faint rumbling of it, before there is the sound of a door opening and someone hopping out onto the snow. Their footsteps get closer and closer and Blake makes no move to address them, fingers tightening around the knife and body stiffening.
Her cuts fester and some part of her, the tired part, tells her to go back with them. To get some rest. Sleep.
But the tug on her very being is pulling, urging her forward, somewhere, and she has to go there.
“I am definitely not built for this kind of weather.”
Her body jerks in surprise and she peers over her shoulder to make sure she isn't hearing things, but no. It’s Sun. The boy wears more coats than she does, every inch of skin covered (oh the horror), and even then, swallowed in fabric as he is, he looks miserable from the cold. His normally bright grins have been replaced with the closest thing to a scowl as he can have- She doesn't think he can be anything less than happy- and his tail was no doubt wrapped tightly around his body as he shudders.
Something settles inside of her and her grip on the knife relaxes, a weight lifting from her shoulders at the sight of her friend, and she would get up to hug him if she wasn’t so tired at the moment. That's fine; he approaches her for the both of them until he can plop himself down on the boulder beside her, squirming around with quiet grumbles, and he curls into himself to conserve heat.
“I thought you went home,” Blake speaks first, to her surprise, and her eyes drift back out to the fading colors. “What’re you doing here?”
“Freezing my butt off, that’s what.”
“I meant here in Atlas.”
His eyes never once leave her form, she can see him staring out of the corner of her eye, and she tries very hard to ignore the way his features soften with concern. He shifts just the slightest bit closer and she makes no move to push him away. Sun’s warmth is palpable and it staves off some of the chill of the frosty air.
“I wanted to see how everyone was doing for myself,” he sighs eventually, giving her another once-over, and then again and again. Is he trying to read off her body language that she's okay? Blake holds herself as she normally does, trying not to make it noticeable that her back is aching with every breath she takes, the stitches and the bandages doing nothing more but aggravating her. “Couldn’t just run off to Vacuo when my friends were here.”
“You should’ve,” she shakes her head. “There’s nothing here but people attempting to recover and failing or people losing their mind.”
“...Which one are you?”
She finally turns her eyes to him then, catching perturbed blue with tired gold, and Sun frowns at her. A thousand different emotions and a thousand different words want to spill free from her tongue, but Blake bites down on every single one of them and instead lets out a small scoff, shrugging.
“Wanna take a guess?”
“I might offend you,” Sun wrinkles his nose, shifting to better face her and shivering dramatically from a stray breeze, puffing in annoyance, “I know better than to do that, so instead, I’ll say this.” He pauses, probably for dramatics but more likely to catch her gaze again. Worry and sympathy are written so clearly across his face she can map them out with her eyes alone. “I’m worried about you.”
“Apparently, a lot of people are,” Blake huffs, a bitter taste to her tongue. "Not that any can help.”
“I might?”
“No, Sun,” she closes her eyes and stares into the darkness, and she swears she can see a gleam of haunting red somewhere in there. Her eyes open again and the suffocation is returning. “You really can’t.”
He doesn’t push- to her greatest relief (and surprise)- and instead, he releases a downcast sigh, shoulders sagging. He’s quiet for a few moments before he speaks up in a voice that is much too muted for someone like him.
“When I heard from the nurses that you had a habit of leaving the base and finding yourself wound up… here,” he sends a mild glare to the snow like that alone would possibly change the weather, “I knew I had to step in… I’m used to this kind of thing from you.”
“What kind of thing?”
“You, trying to leave,” Sun says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "And someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. So, here I am.”
The choking sensation on her throat tightens and her jaw aches with how harshly she clenches her teeth together.
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“No, but you need a friend,” his words make her soften instantly before she turns away from him. “And while I don’t agree with your habits, I know you need your space from everyone when things go wrong so… If you really want to get out of here, if you really think it’ll help you, let’s go. I’ll bust you out, I’ll even drive the getaway car and no one will find you.”
The idea is sweet, she supposed, but he has it all wrong.
She doesn't want to leave.
She can't.
“It’s impossible.”
“No, it’s not! I’ll have you know that I am a professional stowaway. We’ll be gone lickety-split and no one will even know it.”
“I don’t doubt that,” she chuckles, surprised that he can draw it out of her in the first place, but when she looks at him again, there is only sadness within gold. “But, I can’t leave, Sun… I can’t leave until they can.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“Both,” Blake answers easily, drawing in a deep breath. He tries to be inconspicuous as he leans over to her and fails completely but she ignores it. “I can’t leave them alone. This is different than… This is different.”
This isn't like after the Fall of Beacon. It wasn’t even like after the Fall of Atlas either, when Ruby had been taken in the first place. Perhaps it is selfishness that makes her stay- because the only ones who understand are Weiss and Yang and she knew she was going to need them just as much as they are going to need her to get through this. This grief and this pain and this sorrow.
These nightmares.
If it was up to her, they would all be back in Menagerie at the moment or somewhere else entirely. Recovering at their own pace and replaying every second of that fateful night on a constant loop until they were able to drag each other out of it. That, or simply succumb. Both were viable options. (The question was, which one was more enticing? She didn’t know.)
But the fact of that matter is, Weiss and Yang had been more seriously injured than she had been. All things considered. The extent of their wounds and trauma could not be treated by the local island doctors, and though Blake hates being here with every fiber of her being, she will tolerate it because at least they are getting the care they need.
“How are they?” Sun asks hesitantly and it seems as though he doesn’t want to know the answer at all. Is afraid to hear it. “Weiss, Yang.”
There’s an unsaid “you” somewhere in there, lingering at the end of his sentence, but she pointedly ignores it, eyes falling to the butterfly knife. Flipping it close, opening it again, close, open. Again and again, the repetition didn’t help.
Blake doesn't know what is going to help anymore.
“Weiss...” Blake swallows thickly and closes her eyes before speaking, “They had to put her in a medically induced coma. A week ago- or, maybe two weeks. She… She has some internal damage from overusing her semblance,” from her glyph breaking (because according to Winter, their glyphs weren’t supposed to break) and then continuing to fight regardless. “It’s difficult to describe what kind, it’s more her soul than her organs- but those were pretty hurt too. She was shot by lightning, apparently, so there are the remnants of that to deal with and, and the acid burns and the fire burns. Her arm is… pretty messed up.”
And the stab wound. Blake doesn't want to think about that.
“I was told that she, uhh,” Sun squirms in his seat, grimacing. “Got violent?”
Right. Blake had forgotten about that, the entire reason for the sedation in the first place.
“She did,” Blake shivers, her fingers shaking. “Whenever she happened to be conscious when we first arrived. Destroyed quite a few rooms with the Gigas, and I think she might have hospitalized somebody, I’m not entirely sure. Winter had to calm her down enough to be sedated, I was… not there.”
Technically, she had been.
She saw it all, watching from down the hall and in the corner, but the sight of the Arma Gigas- fractured and chipping but fighting even so- and the sounds of Weiss screaming in anguish and anger and fear from one of the rooms made her entirely immobile. Lost to the abyss of her own mind and memories and nightmares and screams. There was so much screaming, so much blood, so much noise.
“That’s not your fault,” Sun’s voice is muffled to her ears and Blake wants to laugh.
It was. It really was.
It was all of their faults, they failed.
They failed.
“And Yang?” Sun sounds incredibly nervous now, a pained expression on his face, and she questions if it was torturing him too, knowing just how much agony they were all in and not being able to do anything about it. He holds his arms around himself tighter, hugging himself because Blake isn't going to give him one and she isn't going to accept one either. “How is she?”
The thrumming in her ears goes silent, the tight beating of her heart stuttering to a momentary stop, and she drops her eyes down to the ground.
“I don’t know,” she murmurs, turning subtly away from Sun so he won't see the lie on her face. “They don’t tell me… I haven’t talked to her.”
“Blake,” his voice coaxes her to glance back at him, shaking his head. “Come on. I know you. Enough to know that you’ll find a way to keep up with her recovery.”
It's true. Because nobody is allowed to tell her of the others, for some fucking reason, Blake has to get creative. Which may or may not involve stealing files and sneaking into each of their rooms when no one is looking to see with her own eyes that they are alive, especially Yang. Checking over their charts and watching the heart monitor for a few minutes to memorize the rhythm and the numbers before leaving undetected. (No one can prove anything.)
“She…” Her voice comes out croaky and she has to physically restrain the sobs from wanting to leave at the prospect of just how bad everything is. “She’s been in and out of consciousness too. Not as bad as Weiss, but umm- She… She needs to be put on a ventilator every now and then because there is a lot of scarring in her lungs from her semblance.”
Blake can remember the heat, the fire, the radiance that was Yang at a completely new level.
“Smoke and fire. It’s best that she’s awake though so her aura can heal it. Her entire left arm, all of the muscles from shoulder to fingertips were essentially torn apart. Most of her ribs were shattered and her spine…” She saw pictures of the bruises, each bone of her spine clearly outlined on her skin by horrid shades of purple and blue and green like something tried tearing it from her back. “A lot of internal bleeding from blunt force, getting hit by everything.”
Each word feels like the greatest form of failure. Every injury ticked off makes her stomach clench tighter and tighter. She wants to double over and vomit, a sting to her eyes that makes her tilt her head back to keep the tears from falling.
She is her partner. Blake is supposed to protect her so things like that don't happen, and now here they are.
Yang, bruised and broken beyond belief- and without her sister, because Blake failed at that too.
Weiss, scarred and fractured like no other, without her partner, her love, her best friend (because Blake had failed).
And Blake…
“...What about you?” Sun speaks on the breath of a whisper, seeming as though he wants to reach for her and decides otherwise. Good, she probably would have smacked his hand away if he tried. She doesn't like being touched these days. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Blake says instinctively, clutching tighter at herself and aggravating the wound by her ribs from where a minotaur rammed into her. “Better than they are. I’m not bed-ridden.”
She motions with one hand to the surrounding tundra like that’ll possibly distract him.
“Blake…” It was not the answer he had been searching for, and three and a half weeks of frustration and fear and anger and heartbreak rises within her, making her scarred chest ache from where Salem’s shadows had pierced her and clawed their way up to leave behind permanent spider veins of black, and she growls.
“What do you want me to say?” She turns her body to face him and he flinches at the abruptness of her movement, “Isn’t the answer obvious?”
“Blake-”
“Do you want me to talk about how every breath I take feels like my back is ripping open- and how wearing nothing doesn’t even help because the air is touching it?” Blake clenches her teeth, trying to stop herself, but the words are bashing against her fangs, seeking freedom and tearing her throat apart to find it. “Or do you want to hear about how every time I close my eyes, every time I blink- I am back in the shadows and they are crushing me? Or how every single beat of my heart feels like it’s not my own?”
Her free hand raises, clawing at her chest, wishing to rake off the lingering veins that the shadows left behind as a token of agony with her nails. Fresh pain spasms through her, but she holds on and squeezes her eyes shut, meeting the darkness and the faint gleam of red eyes within it.
“Or do you want to know that I still hear her screaming, begging us to stay away from her?”
The echoes never fade.
("No! No! Stay away! Stay away!”
"Stay away!”)
Her sobs, the cries of pure agony, the shadows- the darkness, it’s everywhere.
Salem. Salem was there. In the briefest instance, Blake heard her, sensed her, before the darkness swallowed her whole first. She had pushed Yang away, hoping that would help at the very least, but her partner is stupidly selfless and Blake knew there was no saving them.
She remembers… warmth. A light that only grew brighter before- a dream.
And… goodbye.
Blake can’t quite tell which had been worse. The fight, the shadows, the dream, the goodbye. The waking up.
She can’t tell, even now.
Sun is appropriately quiet after her outburst, staring at her with such sorrow he looks like he was about to start crying for her. For some reason, it makes her angry, and once again, she wipes the tears from her eyes before they can fall.
She doesn't deserve to cry- because she failed.
“I’m fantastic,” Blake speaks sharply, teeth barred in a jagged semblance of a sarcastic smile. "Thanks for asking.”
There was more he was going to say, but Blake heard enough. She stands abruptly, rounding the boulder before he can reach out and try to stop her, and starts making her way to the military truck that was designated to come and pick her up. She can hear him standing to follow her, calling her name, but she ignores him.
He won't understand.
Nobody will.
Nobody but Weiss and Yang and they're off dealing with their own issues so…
Blake is alone.
…
No matter the time, day or night, there are so many people rushing around the base. Which makes sense, in hindsight. A hospital needs to be running at all times when people need constant attention.
It really makes sneaking into either Weiss or Yang’s rooms rather difficult though, but Blake has always been the stealthiest of them all. If she doesn't want to get caught, then she isn't going to.
There she stands, right outside Yang’s room, the little placard on the side showing her partner’s name for the rest of the world to see. Blake doesn't know why she hesitates, her fingers twitching and ears flicking this way and that to listen in on the wandering nurses and doctors. She doesn't think that they'll actually stop her from entering, but it's better to be safe than sorry; and honestly, Blake likes the little challenge.
It gives her something to focus on rather than the echoes.
Her hand rests on the doorknob, her heart beating just the slightest bit faster, and Blake takes in a deep breath to mentally prepare herself before moving.
She opens the door until there is the slightest possible crack for her to squeeze through, not wanting for the hinges to squeak and announce her presence or for the light from the hallway to filter inside. As soon as she’s able to, she quietly closes it behind her and leans against it, her body freezing.
The room itself is dimly lit. It’s never completely dark in here.
Blake understands. The light in her room is always on as well, and she tends to avoid areas that are dark in the base.
All of the rooms are the same. Small and comfy with only what is required. A shelf filled with random medications that could or could not help this particular patient to one wall, a single window across the way sealed shut to keep the cold wind out, all of the usual monitors and IVs and whatnot right by the bed.
Yang sleeps on her right side even though she’s technically supposed to keep herself upright, and the sight of that makes Blake want to speak out and tell her to move but she keeps quiet. Her back is to the door and the image of the bruised outline of her spine flashes in Blake’s mind for an instant.
Her partner isn't on the ventilator today, and that settles her before she finds the courage to step forward, ever so soundless. She moves quickly to the binder on the little stand at the foot of the bed, flipping it open carefully so the papers won't swish around and make noise.
The x-rays and the notes written by the doctors make it difficult to continue, but she perseveres. Everything is much the same since the last time she was here a few days ago, only slight improvements with almost all of her injuries.
The information gives her mind a small moment of peace that makes her muscles relax. That makes the ever-festering gash on her back that much more inconsequential.
She closes the binder and her eyes find the heart monitor, a soothing rhythm that she wants to fall asleep to right there in the single chair by the bed. An entirely uncomfortable thing that will most definitely make her body hurt even more, but she knows it’ll be worth it just to hear Yang’s heartbeat for a few seconds longer.
She's fine.
Yang is alive. At least for another day.
And now it's time for Blake to go.
With her eyes passing over Yang’s motionless form, left arm in a cast that looks entirely too uncomfortable to have on, Blake feels the tug on her being pull ever harder and she lurches in place, body jerking, before she takes in a slow breath and turns back toward the door. She would spend more time here, simply watching the way Yang breathed, but exhaustion has hit an all-time high and maybe this time she’ll be able to fall asleep without the threat of nightmares.
Just one night, that’s all she asks.
One night without the memories haunting her. Without ghosts sitting on her shoulders, screaming in her ears. Without the shadows slithering ever closer to the light of her soul. (Without tormenting red eyes staring at her constantly.)
Maybe tonight can finally be the night.
“Blake…”
Her hand freezes on the doorknob, seconds away from turning, and her breath catches in her throat. Tears spring to her eyes and she has to squeeze them shut to keep them in, a shudder running through her body and a gentle stirring of her heartstrings begins to play a hopeful song.
It’s been forever since she heard that voice.
(Three and a half weeks is so long and so short.)
She’s scared to turn around and she doesn’t know why. Maybe she heard something that doesn't exist, maybe she’s gone crazy now.
She steels herself and turns around and her knees feel weak at the sight of such beautiful amethyst. Yang has turned to lay on her back at one point or another, casted arm resting on her stomach and head tilted toward her.
There’s exhaustion in her eyes too… and Blake is not alone anymore.
The possibility of a kindred spirit makes her breath shaky and she doesn’t know how to respond, feet firmly planted to the ground like she has laid down roots. There’s a tremble that overtakes her and the cut on her cheek stings from the salt of her tears that fall without her permission. A strangled sound escapes her throat before she can stop it that Yang hears loud and clear.
She relaxes too, a full-body sigh escaping her before she reaches over to pat the bed with metallic fingers, her prosthetic being the only part of her untouched by torture. It’s a clear invitation that Blake wants nothing more than to accept, but something stops her.
It might be the guilt.
Because they failed- she failed, and now…
Now, Yang’s sister is gone and Blake couldn’t stop it.
She couldn’t stop it, she couldn’t stop it…
It’s her fault, her fault, her fault-
“Come here,” Yang breathes out, voice weak and croaky, patting the bed again. The next word breaks upon release and it breaks Blake too hearing it. “Please.”
Blake can’t get there faster, pausing only long enough to walk to the other side so Yang won't have to lie on her broken arm. There’s very little space in the bed itself, but it’s more than enough. They shimmy and reposition and half of her body very nearly falls off the side, but eventually, they’re lying on their sides facing each other and this is the closest Blake has been to her partner in three and a half weeks.
She inhales greedily, unashamed, and though the stench of antiseptic and medicine and everything else the doctors and nurses used is strong and intrusive, she can still catch the lingering scent of the hearth and sweet citrus and wisps of smoke. (The smoke is noticeably stronger and she doesn't know how to feel about that). Her shoulders draw into themselves, one hand resting in the small space set between them. Blake wants to reach out all the way, but the guilt is lingering and it’s making it hard to breathe.
“You’re tired,” Yang whispers in observation, her hand extending with obvious difficulty for their fingers to brush, and Blake clenches cold metal tightly, desperately. She knows, she knows. Blake couldn’t be happier.
“So are you,” Blake’s voice is tight and she makes no effort to hide it anymore, fingers caressing an open palm. The dim light of the room does nothing to calm her down, but the sight of purple eyes does, and for once, the echoes aren’t so loud anymore and she can breathe.
And she can cry.
One of them shifts forward- It might be her- until their foreheads are touching and they are that much closer. Their hands link together like they’re keeping each other from falling into the void at their feet. If they fall, they fall together. (If they fly, they fly together.)
“She’s gone...” Yang croaks out- or it might have been Blake, she can’t quite tell anymore- and the other responds in confirmation. They don’t sob their hearts out or scream just to be louder than the memories for once.
They break quietly, slow ruination, foreheads pressed together and fingers twined and auras humming a soothing lullaby- reaching out for each other because their people are much too broken to do so completely. Purple and gold meld and there are too many missing and shattered pieces in both of them that they can’t give what remains of each to the other quite yet.
Not yet. That will take time.
So, instead, they dance together, a heartbroken waltz.
It is tragically beautiful.
… ... ...
[February]
Eight weeks is a whole lot longer (and a whole lot shorter) than three and a half weeks.
(58 days since their failure.)
Every night since that first, Blake finds her way to Yang’s room. The staff has taken notice- since she certainly doesn’t try to hide it when they arrive in the morning to check on Yang (or when they freak out because Blake isn’t in her own room when they go to check on her)- but Ironwood or Ozpin or someone of a high position here must have said something to them because no one tries to stop her. She wouldn’t have listened to them anyway.
They first offered to put another bed in there, but she refused, (not wanting to be far from Yang), and instead, they replaced Yang’s current one with a slightly bigger bed.
How nice of them.
She can’t quite tell if this is helping or hurting her more, but with Yang so close and awake (sometimes), it’s the start of something. Something grand and something terrifying and something beautiful.
Yang remains on and off the ventilator, some days are better than others for her, and the first night she was on it again, Blake wanted to run off altogether before forcing herself to remain. Sometimes Yang’s awake and sometimes she’s not. Blake feels like she's playing a game of roulette each time she enters the room. (A game where the chamber is filled with only one empty space- and she hopes that, whenever she pulls the trigger to her head, she’ll be spared this time and the next.)
(She’s quite lucky, all things considered. Yang is awake more often than she’s asleep- despite Blake wanting her to rest but she doesn’t push. She gets it, she understands.
She doesn’t like sleeping either.)
They don’t hold each other like they both desire, too many injuries getting in the way of a full-body embrace, but simply holding Yang’s hand and bumping her head against hers is enough. (At least, she tries to convince herself it is.) There is always an obvious frustration and heartbreak in Yang’s eyes that she can’t move her left arm to feel Blake, so there are times when Blake will brush her fingers against her cheek- only once to the terrible scar peeking out of the hospital gown on her chest- for Yang to feel her skin.
Sometimes, they cry and break. Sometimes it’s her or sometimes it’s Yang and all times it’s hurtful and all times it's healing. Sleep is also a gamble and if Blake is to bet on how often they actually get to rest- she’d go broke. They’re both afraid; because, in unconsciousness, the darkness is everywhere. They can’t escape it.
Some days they talk, hushed words and apologies and reassurances that this is real, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m okay, Blake, I’m alive, Yang, we’re okay, we’re okay, we’re okay; but often, they just lie together, side-by-side, savoring the closeness of someone who understands.
She’s as tired as before because whenever they do happen to fall asleep, it is inevitably ruined by nightmares. Either Blake gets them and is awakened to Yang’s soothing voice whispering sweet nothings in her ears and holding her close even though it hurts, or Yang gets them and Blake runs her fingers along her cheeks to wipe away the ever-flowing tears or through her hair or against her pulse until her partner opens her eyes. The light of the room is forever bright and even then, the dark corners hide monsters that make it impossible to relax completely.
Her daily therapy sessions are filled with stifling silence on her better days or bitter remarks on her not-so-good ones. (She doesn’t think Yang’s are any better when they deem her healthy enough to attend one.) The doctor asks their questions, mostly because they’re required to, but they don’t really expect an answer and Blake thinks they’re starting to understand it now. They are a stranger to her torment, everyone is. Save for the girl under sedation and the girl whose room she sneaks into at night.
Sun joins her in her wanderings- because the itch is there, even with her nightly visits to Yang, and he is a pleasant distraction as he rambles on about nonsense and the (happier) going-ons in the world before he came here.
Once, he told her the end part of that night, when the people banded together to storm the castle itself, and how Salem’s lackeys put up quite the fight as well, defending a room that would not open even after they won. (Apparently, Hazel and Emerald switched sides to take down the others, turning themselves in afterward to accept their punishment for all they had done.)
(Predictably, there had been no sign of Salem or Ruby in the castle and Blake didn’t know why she had been hoping.)
They are all being held in an underground prison somewhere in the deserts of Vacuo.
Blake lets him voice his own torments, listing off his own injuries and how he is determined to at least visit every single grave of the deceased warriors to pay his respects. Apparently, Sun had been unable to save a lot of people, and that weight is obvious when they both remain quiet during their times together and he would stare off into the distance with her. Seeing ghosts on the horizon. (What color do his apparitions take? Hers are always red.)
Together, they visit all the other patients in the base. Huntsmen and huntresses who joined their battle and suffered the consequences. The state that each new person was in made her stomach turn and there were times where she has to cut their visits short and find solace in Yang’s room.
Jaune and Ren and Nora are there too, though they confirm with her time and time again when she frets that they are okay. All things considered. Their serious injuries are few and far between. Jaune’s left hand had been crushed at one point, and now some of his fingers there are misaligned. Nora had apparently been stabbed in the stomach by something or another (a minotaur had gotten lucky before she killed the bastard, or so she said- Blake thinks there’s something she’s not telling her) and her left shin had been broken. And for Ren, his right knee had been shattered and now he walks with a noticeable limp.
When it isn't Sun walking with her out of the base, it's Jaune (the others aren't allowed to, much to Nora’s loud complaints). Within the base, Blake will visit the other patients with Ren, his calm persona providing peace for a few of the more traumatized minds. And when things are becoming too much, Nora will be there to hold her, talking about nothing important in a gentle voice that grounds her to the here and now.
It is taxing, and she feels incredibly guilty that she can't seem to offer help to them as much as they do for her, but her friends simply shake their heads and hold her tighter whenever she says that. (They feel guilty too, for running away and leaving them to face that alone, for not being there to stop it from happening.)
Recovery is a complicated process, she has come to understand in grueling detail.
Some days, it feels entirely pointless, and others…
Others, she is determined not to give up.
Because Weiss and Yang need her and she needs them.
It’s at the end of the eighth week that she’s informed Weiss is awake. Pulled out of sedation, and Blake is allowed to visit her. The staff are nicer about sharing information with her in regards to her teammates, always updating her when she happens to pass by for serious changes or when they came by to check on her own injuries that are, according to them, “coming along nicely.”
Everything fucking hurts, but she’ll take their word for it. This is what they're trained for, after all.
All she knows how to do is fight (and fail).
When Blake walks into Weiss’s room, warned to remain wary in case the girl snaps again and destroys everything, she can't understand how they can be so scared of her.
Because Weiss is just… sitting there. Half-propped against the pillows. Staring into space, completely unresponsive to the world around her.
Blake clutches the hand at her side tighter, a nice little surprise held within her palm that Winter gave her before she had been forced to oversee the rebuilding of Atlas and Mantle miles away. It broke her heart, no doubt, to leave her sister for any stretch of time, but even though their lives have taken an extended pause, the world kept spinning. There are rebuilds that need to be made, funerals that need to be conducted, Grimm that need to be hunted.
The world kept going and Blake doesn't know when they will finally start following it again.
She shuts the door behind her, announcing her presence, but Weiss doesn’t move. Her right arm that had been broken made quite a decent recovery, a loose wrapping now around her forearm to hide the black scars the shadows left behind. The burns on her left, though, are an entirely different matter. The explosion from dust makes it all the more difficult to treat, and the doctors predict that she will never get a full feeling back in that arm. (Blake had taken in all the information with a blank face before finding Yang again.)
Blake takes in a slow breath before stepping closer, cautious to not startle Weiss, rounding the bed to take a place on the chair beside it that Winter made her permanent residence until she had to leave. She sits at the edge of it to avoid touching her back, leaning forward and hesitantly taking Weiss’s hand in one of her own. It's cold and limp and Blake tries to remain strong.
“Hey, sweetie,” Blake speaks softly, running her thumb across the back of loose knuckles to try and warm them up, her other hand resting against the bed. “I’m glad you’re awake.”
Weiss doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even look in Blake’s direction and Blake can feel her eyes begin to burn, blinking the impending tears away.
Weiss isn't ready to talk. Or take even a single step onto the path of recovery yet, because a part of her is missing and it's never going to come back. Blake… can not even begin to fathom the thought of losing Yang. What she would have done if she did that night. (Weiss had a different kind of pain that nobody would understand, nobody but Jaune maybe, but she wasn’t ready to listen either.)
“I know you’re not ready,” Blake sniffles, giving a tighter squeeze to Weiss’s hand and keeping her eyes on blue that will not turn to her. “But that’s okay. A lot of us aren’t, we’re all in this together. We’re going to be here for you when you are.”
Weiss’s hand gives a twitch at that, but it was the only reaction. The smallest form of gratitude that Blake will more than happily accept. It’s the little things that matter in the long run.
“In the meantime,” Blake stands up, bumping their heads together as a sign of relief, a spark of joy that Weiss is alive, before she steps back, sitting at the edge of the bed and placing her balled up hand in Weiss’s lap. “I think this belongs to you.”
Her fingers unfurl, revealing the gentle splash of crimson of a single rose petal. The only thing Weiss clung onto tightly. (Blake remembers now, with a somewhat clearer mind, the reason for the girl’s violent outburst. They had taken the petal away from her.)
The sight of it draws the first sound from Weiss, a sharp inhale, and Blake watches with a sad smile as those blue eyes focus on the mote of red, tears forming and falling, and sheer anguish morphs her face into something heartbreaking to view. Blake helps guide Weiss’s hand to it, fingers weak but curling around the petal until it is transferred to her grip, and Blake pulls away.
“I’m sorry,” Blake’s voice breaks and she doesn’t fight the tears anymore. Only with Yang and only with Weiss, those are the only times she’s allowed to cry because they get it. They know her guilt, they know her pain, they know what her apologies are for, who her apologies are to. “I’m so sorry.”
Weiss holds the petal to her chest as if she can bury it within her heart where she can never lose it, and a strangled sob escapes her. It might hurt because a lot of her internal damage is centered there- right by her heart. Where something, someone, is missing and will never return.
“I’ll be here when you’re ready,” Blake vows. "We all will. Take all the time you need, Weiss.”
And with that, it’s time for her to go, to give Weiss some privacy. So, she tries to stand up.
But Weiss’s eyes lift to hers, trembling blue with heartbroken gold, making her freeze in place, and a quiet, weak, “Stay,” decides for her.
She stays.
… ... ...
[March]
(89 days since their failure.)
“You look better, baby girl.”
Blake huffs out a quiet laugh, pressing her head into her mother’s hand as Kali runs gentle fingers through her hair that is starting to grow out. She hasn’t decided quite yet if she should cut it again. Maybe that’ll help, who knows?
“I look like a mess,” she glances down to where she’s curled into a fetal position on her bed, blankets pulled over her and flashes of pain stabbing through her with every breath. Today is a particularly rough day for her, apparently- or maybe she pushed herself too much on her wanderings the day before. (Maybe scaling a ridge wasn’t her smartest idea. Because now, her back feels like it’s been reopened all over again.) “But thanks for sparing my feelings.”
“You hid it before,” her father speaks from behind her, his large hand running a soothing rhythm to the back of her shoulders. It makes the burn marks there from the gargoyle simmer down.
“Hid what?” Blake’s brow furrows and she would turn around to Ghira if she could, but she doesn't really think moving is an option for her today.
“Your pain,” he simply says, leaning down to kiss her head before resuming his tender touches. A gentle giant, her father is. “Thank you for letting us in.”
Blake remains quiet because she doesn’t know what to say at that, simply closing her eyes and reveling in the soothing touches that make the echoes quieter. That makes the darkness less terrifying. She does feel bad, considering this is one of the only times her parents have been allowed to visit recently, and here she is, voluntarily bed-ridden instead of clenching her teeth through the usual pain.
“How’s Menagerie?” she says eventually, not wanting to fall asleep because, though she’d let them see her crippled like this, she is not ready to let them see how she reacts to her nightmares. (She will spare them of her hysterical screaming. They don't need to hear that.) “And the rest of the world? We don’t get news here.”
“A few refugees are hanging around there,” Ghira speaks up, ever-informative. “They’re not quite ready to leave the island yet. We started building a new district just for those who want to stay. Progress is slow, but I think it’ll turn out nice.”
That’s nice. That's very nice. Blake hopes Menagerie can give them some peace of mind.
“Everyone’s in disbelief and waiting for the other shoe to drop,” he sighs. "Paranoid as always. Some are asking for undeniable proof that the war is over, while others don’t really know how to react. Grimm are still around, but they… seem weaker, I believe. I don’t know, I don’t fight Grimm so I don’t know what’s normal.”
“Weaker, how?” Her eyes open again, catching her mother’s soft gaze that makes her relax all the more.
“A lot of them… run away, when a huntress or huntsmen approaches. They fight not to kill but to escape, or so sightings and personal experiences have said. There hasn’t been an attack on a settlement since-” Even without turning her head, she knows her father grimaces in apology. He coughs before finishing, “Well, since.”
A haggard sigh flies free from her mouth and she shakes her head subtly, “You don’t have to do that. It happened, it’s over. You don’t have to avoid mentioning it… I promise I won’t go crazy if you do.”
“No jokes, dear,” Kali gives her the world’s softest admonishment, thumb running alongside the scar on her cheek. “Don’t joke about that.”
“It’s a coping mechanism,” Blake pauses before chuckling, “I think I got it from Yang.”
“Ah, how is that girl?” Her father chirps, massaging the back of her neck in a way that makes her body go lax. The sparks of pain stutter, not knowing how to react to such tranquility. He is diverting the conversation away, she can tell, but she's grateful.
“Making a full recovery,” a small smile on her lips, “faster than the doctors can keep up with. Her aura is exponential, they’ve said. They’ve never met anyone who heals that quickly.”
Yang’s aura and semblance are great at stitching her back together… and breaking her apart too.
(Blake’s confused if it’s ridiculous or valid to be angry at an aura for what it always put Yang through just for her to fight.)
The muscle tears in her arm are a tender process to deal with, but Yang is gaining movement back in it with every passing day. Her ribs healed nicely, a little fragile so Yang has to be gentle with herself, and the days she needs the ventilator now are becoming infrequent. (Her spine is bruised, even now, and it shows no signs of going away. But while it does cause a bit of pain, Yang described that it only feels like a permanent soreness and nothing too crippling.)
“Physically, she’s getting better,” Blake’s smile falls and her eyes stare at nothing. "But she’s tired, all three of us are.”
The darkness, the echoes, the eyes; they remain. (The itch. That remains too, and she told Yang about it once and didn’t know how to feel that, apparently, this is only a Blake thing. Yang doesn't feel like she has to go, go, go; doesn't have to move in a direction at random just to appease something within her.)
(...Yang doesn't understand…)
“Weiss doesn’t respond to anybody,” Blake swallows thickly, fingers curling tighter. “Some days she doesn’t even eat.”
As far as she is concerned, the only times Weiss eats is if Blake or Yang were there, and Blake certainly isn't there all the time. (She wants to be, but the pull on her being is unignorable and she has to move. And though Yang tries as well, there are days where she doesn't want to get out of bed either.)
“All things considered, I think they’re almost ready to let us go if we’d want to.”
“And do you want to?” Her mother asks, laying her hand overtop Blake’s and giving a small squeeze. Blake doesn't deserve all of this, these gentle caresses and supportive squeezes and tender touches, but she certainly isn't going to stop them from continuing.
“I don’t know,” Blake shrugs as best as she can. “I don’t even know where we’ll want to go.”
“Well, you know home is always open for you,” Kali responds immediately, reaching over with her other hand to brush through Blake’s bangs. “You and anybody else you need to bring along. Your dad and I will take care of all of you.”
“Thank you,” she mumbles before adding, a tinge of guilt in her voice, “but I don’t know if we’re ready to go there yet.”
Menagerie had been the catalyst point for that entire night. It holds too many memories of the moments leading up to the final battle- both the good and the bad- and Blake doesn't know if she can stand being at the island again. At least for now.
If they are going to go somewhere, it has to be a place they did not touch at all throughout that span of time.
“Well, regardless…” Her mother smiles, a sad thing and a compassionate thing, “Whenever you’re ready to be there, home is always open to you, Blake. We’ll be waiting as long as you need.”
(We’re here for you, whenever you’re ready.)
Blake doesn’t know why it’s those words that make her heart clench tighter, but with Ghira a firm and comfortable weight behind her, solid enough for her to lean on, and with Kali giving her the gentlest of touches by her scars like she can heal them with her fingers alone, saying things like that, it makes the tears swell before she could stop it.
Soon enough, she’s crying and her parents press all the closer to her, wrapping their arms around her, butting their heads softly against hers. There to hold their daughter through the worst of it.
Her parents don't understand what she experienced.
But what they do understand is that their little girl is in pain. That she is falling apart.
And they are going to be there to catch her.
(And they are.)