Chapter Text
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It had to be said that Byleth Eisner was the most underqualified candidate for Beacon's, the Beacon of Combat Academy fame , staff that Ozpin had ever seen.
This was a feat not only on its impressively lackluster lonesome, but one made ever more dubious by the almost ludicrously diffuse resumes of her peers. All of whom boasted impeccable physical records, decades of ironclad loyalty, and a sterling track record from both their careers as Huntsman, but an even longer and arguably more critical record of their untarnished tenure. Which was really saying something considering the general eclectic nature of Huntsman and the Ozmodian theory of inverse conformity proportional to strength, skill, and overall power— a hypothesis that had deep roots in settling the contemporary culture of the world after the Great War.
But back on the not-so colorful career of one Byleth Eisner, a daughter of the many displaced Mantle citizens who had seceded from Atlas after the liftoff of the titular city to the sky, yet beyond that small tidbit she held a disturbing lack of traceable lineage beyond a roughly scrawled Papa who had neither contact information nor even a P.O box in the midst of nowhere for a courier to pretend to have missed. A not-so-uncommon fact of life for the Faunas in Atlas, unfortunately, to go through life unmarked. From her lean, wiry musculature and her singular sentence describing her preceding experiences, it all painted a bleak picture of a harsh life that was not so off the grid but actively opposed to it. A reasonable deduction to make from her name: her father was of tattered scraps of the colorless regiment of Solitas, and the featureless iron sword at her hip confirmed as much.
She had no references with any availability at any CCTS Tower.
She had not an address to her name, no Lien to even tip the Bullhead pilot, everything she wore today was the total sum of her possessions.
She didn't even have the idea of forged resumes or even the courtesy of a crayon drawing of a diploma to be laughed at.
She was barely better than a homeless vagrant with an unlocked Aura in terms of available information… That felt a little unfair. To the poverty-stricken, really. At least the homeless population of Vale were known to keep to a routine of the safer shelters and alleyways along with identifying food stamps.
Byleth Eisner had the sort of unsettling quietude about her that inspired distrust and paranoia. A face better fit for cold, unfeeling stone, an expression that had the blandness of unsalted white bread, and a dull set of eyes that flickered like rusty bulbs with the passing impression of shallow informational transit passing through. The only things that gave away any passing emotive response were her pointy lupine ears sitting on top of her head. Still, even they seemed more like swiveling antennas for processing auditory cues rather than a true tell of any personable feeling.
Ozpin considered the young lady before him with the not inconsiderable weight of all the mistakes and contrivances a man of millennias could remember. He made a deliberate sound of exhalation, a release of air through his nose, keenly observing for any passing of emotions from the taciturn hopeful. She did not impress him. But he knew well enough to hide that sort of impression, and so curled his hands into themselves and leaned forward into his desk, in his office, in his school.
"What am I to do with you, Miss Eisner?" It was best, Ozpin thought, to have her explain her reasoning for her application and in-apparently decent chance of earning the position firstly. Before he neatly disarmed the points of her argument and then left her to determine the obvious result. "... If you don't mind, I would like to hear your own thoughts on why you should teach at my school."
She blinked, one of the few involuntary actions she seemed disinclined to stop. Slow, careful, measured words that had all the enthusiasm of a particularly animated piece of lint followed. "I want to. Teach."
Her speech patterns were not an indication of greater injury or construction of her vocal pathways. Ozpin, familiar with that sort of injury, both intimately and externally, believed her current style of speech to be indicative of a great unfamiliarity and distaste for such communication. As if Byleth Eisner had gone a very long time without speaking to anyone or anything and had so nearly forgotten the memory of knowing how. He was also unfortunately intimate with that knowledge.
To teach, hm.
He would give her this: the desire to impart knowledge to future generations was something many other candidates could only pretend at. He suppressed his impulsive urge to say, rather warmly, that's very good . Compromising, he only let the curve of his mouth turn a shade warmer; he had gotten very good at compromises. You could even say he was a man made of ugly compromises. Not that it bothered him very, he had, after all, said much, much worse to himself.
He allowed a brief, respectful nod, gesturing for her to continue.
Byleth did, rolling her shoulders and moving the liquid black of her heavyset fur cloak. A rare remnant that left the shoulders of the older, wilder variants of Beowulfs— ones that did not leave that shadowed continent once so forgotten as Albion , where the Grimm had existed so long that their bodies did not care for dispersing after death. "You look smart. Wise." His lips twitched; flattery did more than most would tell you. But only if all the flowery adjectives had not been worn down centuries ago. "Why do you teach?"
He noted, a clinical perspective in his head leaving nothing unturned, that her speech flowed much smoother now. Rusted hinges squeak-ed clean by an electric razor. So it was disuse after all, but a groove was already there, as if she had to do this many times, learning and relearning how to speak. The wilds of Remnant would do that to a man… and worse.
Ozpin sat back, layering his hands onto his lap. He furrowed his brow, seriously pondering over her question. He liked to imagine he did his fairest to each and every candidate, as part and parcel of another of his self-purposed constants of humility, so he did not succumb to the same bitterness as his enemy . His 'tower' was for a similar purpose, all glass, all visibility, a reminder of his own fragility and mortality with every glance down, and a boundless sense of omnipresent observation on himself. Judgment always awaiting. The steep fall ever close.
He stared at her directly in the eyes. She met his weary gaze with one that felt timeless in its infinite vacancy. There was nothing behind those eyes. It was almost comforting to not have to search for ulterior motives, unless they were so hidden that even all his years failed him… Perhaps, not so comforting.
Ozpin, ignoring that unflattering choice of thought and excusing himself from the pretentious self-quotations, said, "A man can only do so much in his lifetime. The scope of his actions, no matter how influential, no matter how powerful , or how long-lasting, will only go so far. There is a harsh, painful line where the singular man realizes how powerless he is. For some, it is their own mediocrity, others, self-imposed limits, external or internal, and finally, for others, it is found in time."
He waited, unsure whether she understood or not. If nothing else, that vacant plain of her face forced self-introspection. Ozpin resigned himself to never knowing either way. Her poker face was better than Bart's, which was impressive considering the man had probably made it of crystallized caffeine and decades of barely staved-off heart attacks. "Facing this cruel truth. Some men will turn bitter, hateful against their own powerlessness." He spoke without judgment, without censure or condemnation.
Byleth tilted her head. Watching him. There seemed to be an implicit question in her quiet eyes, surprisingly inquisitive for such a vacuous person.
Ozpin chuckled, answering her with a rueful shake of his head. "Yes, I was one of those men, too. You will find… that you will be many things in life, cowardly, brave, and everything in between. There is nothing in this world that remains unchanging."
Byleth looked to agree, her microexpression almost smug in such a way that seemed to say, ' see, wise.'
Ozpin lifted his brows. She had the temperament of a patient but rewarding teacher, he supposed. He coughed, purposefully. "But I digress. If you really wish to know why I began teaching, it was because…" He trailed off, eyes glancing off out the leftmost window.
Out of his periphery, Byleth sat still. She had ignored his bait to invite her into dusty reminiscence.
He finished anyway, flashing a friendly smile. "The amenities, of course." Not idly, he rotated the cup on his disk, freshly steaming with liquid dark.
She nodded seriously. "Food is important."
"That's… not what I said." Or implied. He checked his cup, almost confused despite himself, this was a drink, no?
"I know."
It was honestly difficult to tell if she was dead serious or making a joke. Ozpin squinted at her.
She blinked back. Guilelessly, the oceanic depth of a kiddie pool lingered in her eyes, yet her open face revealed nothing.
He shuffled some papers on his desk.
She sat and fiddled with the ends of her coat.
A coat underneath her cloak, of which another loose tunic rested, nestled somewhere in the middle of that was an undershirt of tight black. This was important to exaggerate as Vale was in the last throes of summer, and this day endeavored to be the most spiteful of any to the cold. Blistering hot sunlight lanced in through the glass composition of his office, reflected off the silver clockwork, and then ended up magnified to such a degree as to be potentially liable to sear an egg into charcoal.
All this he noted while directing the cold, evaluating stare that Glynda oft used on him to great effect. Naturally, he had mimicked in it a mirror as soon as she left him to do his 'duties', and while he may not compare to the genuine article, it had left the most slimy, mucous of Valian statesmen rattling in their silvered armchairs. Byleth simply looked back at him with uncompromising dullness.
Either she did not sweat, or the vents pumping Ice Dust chilled air were working their damndest on her side of his office.
Ozpin decided to move on before he began describing the minutiae of his shoes. No matter how lovely their subtle patterns. Valian deco, popularized in the heady era of slumbering revolution… Nevermind. As usual, his decisions came to fruition a hair late. Coughing, he pretended as if the entire minute of complete silence on his part had never happened. "So… why would you like to teach?"
Byleth paused. There was a very subtle cue in the loosening around the tautness of her cheeks, and the tiny pout that formed in her mouth as she formulated a thought. Not so expressionless, as only criminally paralyzed in her facial muscles. He wondered if smiling, no, attempting to smile would send her to the infirmary. He hoped not; managing Beacon's medical expenses was something that could rival an Apathy in terms of numbing terror.
"Because it feels like an old dream," She said quietly. Before he could question that, she suddenly spoke up again, breaking all her patterns of call and response, "When I was young, Papa made sure I knew how to fight, how to survive… after."
She looked him in the eyes and said quietly, but with a scarcely hidden determination. "I would like to do the same. Please."
If she had said some grand speech, if she had made an impressive analogy that would have made politicians weep, or spouted off a sob story that had grown old by the time she finished saying it, he would have dismissed her right there and then.
Unfortunately for his attempts at repairing his image of a responsible man that actually ran the Academy, he was the Headmaster of and wasn't just a fancy figurehead for Glynda Goodwich; she didn't do any of that.
Ozpin valiantly tried to corral the runaway curve to his lips, but gave it up as a fixed game when his eyes chose to crinkle in a happy crescent without his say so. Honestly, what was he supposed to say to that?
In the face of such simple desires, dreams so straightforward they felt effortless, what was one too old man to do but to pave the way?
"Sure." He said, feeling all of a sudden young, absurdly so. "Welcome to Beacon Academy, Byleth Eisner. Our newest Survival and Small Unit Tactics Professor."
…