There is a rope swing under the autumn tree.

And on it, Amber swings.

She smiles.

It's a wonderfully pleasant feeling. One that detracts her mind from the glory and gore of being the Fall Maiden.

She hardly remembers not being the Fall Maiden. The powers of such had been passed down to her when she was a child, and thus, she was immediately thrust into the duties that befell such a role.

Funny how the only thing that she remembers from her acutely short past life is swinging from under an autumn tree, very much like the one she swings under currently.

And it's very much oddly comforting to her.

The light feeling of swaying back and forth against the swing.

The cool autumn breeze nipping at her skin, not too cold to bite but not too warm that it bears down on her either.

The shockingly red maple leaves that continue to fall into the yard, to the point where the ground lay covered and the yard itself looks like a small piece of Forever Fall.

She loves all of it, and so does whatever remains of her inner child.

Perhaps it was too fitting that Fall picked her.

Amber sighs.

She wonders if being the Fall Maiden is all she is ever destined to be.

For such a pleasantly-sounding title, she has seen too much strife and structure in her life already. From day one, they had trained her to be a protector of the people, and with the scope of her powers, it was only inevitable that she would encounter forms of death, decay, and destruction that even she herself could not stop.

She is only human, after all.

But they can never see her as such.

Not like she can blame them, really, for they don't do it out of indifference, but rather out of necessity.

After all, she is their guardian, and if she is fallible, then so is their peace.

The classic one must sacrifice for all, she thinks to herself quietly.

Sometimes she resents them for her powers and her duty.

… And sometimes she doesn't. This is, after all, the only life she's ever known.

She doesn't hate seeing her world free of its dangers.

The smiles and gratitude of the people when they see her… she doesn't really hate that, either.

Woosh…

A particularly strong zephyr tickles past her face as she swings, bringing her back to the present, in its auburn beauty, amidst the yard of leaves.

Under the autumn tree.

Amber smiles happily.

Perhaps this is all she needs.

Perhaps this is enough.

Crunch crunch.

Another sound, this time the sound of boots falling upon the crisp autumn leaves, once again stirs her from her reverie.

"Hey Amber, how much longer are you gonna be swinging? You've been out here pretty much all day."

Well… perhaps there is a little more in her life that she has grown to appreciate.

Amber turns towards him.

"C'mon, Amber, dinner's gonna get cold. Get over here already."

She giggles at the impatience in his voice, but instead of moving from her position on the swing, she sticks her tongue out at him.

She remembers that she's supposed to be a role model and the picture of maturity... to most.

But it's too much fun to make him tick.

He rolls his eyes. She almost believes his annoyance is real, but she can't be fooled. He's too much of a mischief-maker to wear his emotions on his sleeve.

"Fine."

He fixes his slightly graying hair and crosses his arms.

"I guess I'll just have to have dinner by myself. Again. Like I always do. Because you're always out there saving the world or some shit and you need a free day. Sure. And I, like the bastard that I am, am just getting in the way. I gotcha… I'll just get out of your hair now, Autumn –"

Amber is used to the way he talks by now. She knows he is being facetious and egging her on. That's just how he spoke – poking fun at her just to get a rise out of her. She's smarter than that, and she doesn't let it get to her, because that would be admitting that he won, of course.

But she hates when he calls her Autumn.

It's not her name.

She lifts a hand up from its hold on the swing's ropes, and with a delicate flick of her wrist, she snaps her fingers in his general direction.

Laughter bursts forth from within her bosom at the less than composed yelp that the man gives when a gust of wind suddenly pulls his feet out from under him, and he lands on his rear end with a dull thud.

He groans and tries to sit up gingerly.

Still smiling, she jumps off the swing and strolls up to his fallen form, kneeling to look closer at him.

And much like the season of autumn and its cohorts, she loves this man.

His tall, somewhat scraggly form, a bit gaunt but not ungraceful.

His coarse voice, like the crunching of boots on a gravel driveway in the way that it is naturally rough on the ears but also reminds her of home.

His razor-sharp wit that takes no prisoners but still laughs with you rather than at you, which seems to quite conveniently compliment the occasional red fire in his eyes.

She knows all too many people who hate his guts.

But she loves him as much as she loves the season of fall.

Their eyes meet, and he smirks.

"I guess I deserved that one, huh?"

She only giggles at him.

He tries to act annoyed, but her warmth towards him only melts his scoff into an uncharacteristically bashful smile.

"Well… go eat already, you idiot. For someone who's the Fall Maiden, I guess I still have to look after your ass…"

She rolls her eyes at him, but she gently grasps his face with both of her hands on his cheeks and leans in to kiss him upon his brow.

And with a sparkle in her eye, she leaps up to her feet and quite happily skips her way into the house, arms swinging with each bound of her foot.

He watches her waltz away from him, the autumn air and crimson leaves almost following her movements. He still feels her warmth from her presence, especially where her lips met his face.

He unconsciously reaches his arm out towards her without really knowing why. He quickly realizes this and retracts his arm back, glaring at his traitorous appendage.

After a moment, he glances back at her jovial form and shakes his head.

"I love you too, Amber," he mutters.

"Don't…"

There is a rope swing under the autumn tree.

Except that it has been winter for almost three months now.

And much like the land and shrubbery around it, the swing lays barren.

No one has swung on it for a while now.

He knows this. He has been counting the days.

It's all he knows how to do now.

Well, that and drink.

It's a bad habit, he knows, and Amber would have given him hell for it.

But she's not here to chastise him.

Because she's in a tube.

Or at least, that's how he so eloquently reminded himself.

The whole truth of the matter is, her life now hangs in the balance between life and death, and the only thing keeping her alive is a "state-of-the-art" medical capsule, provided by the illustrious technologies of the Kingdom of Atlas. Ironwood had assured him, with that arrogant, holier-than-thou air that he had always had about him, that no further damage would befall her under his protection.

Fuck Ironwood.

He can't empathize.

Amber may not be dead, but they have no idea how to resuscitate her.

She's as good as dead.

Because she's in a tube.

He growls at the persistently repeating voice in the back of his head, and seeks to kill the treacherous fink in any way possible.

Madly grabbing the nearest flask on the table where he sits, he tilts it upward almost vertically against his mouth, and he drinks and drinks and drinks until his chest burns like a funeral pyre.

The flask meets the floor with a tinny rattle, emptied.

His senses dullened, he glances back out through the window, to where the swing hangs from the tree, unmoving.

They tell him they've found someone. Someone who can save whatever powers she has left. Someone who holds the will of the people in her heart, just like Amber did.

Someone who can become the next Fall Maiden.

At first he is angry.

How dare they disrespect the person that she was – is – by just throwing away her powers, her role as protector, to some budding student – a goddamn first-year?

How dare they think they can just… replace her?

But now, he just doesn't care.

He just wants her back.

Another receptacle of alcohol meets his eye. He slams that one too.

With not a drop left in the bottle, he throws it over his shoulder.

It shatters.

... What he would give for her to be there, ripping her hair out over his drinking problem.

She was never angry.

But even if she was there, with her rage directed at him, he would welcome it in open arms.

Because he loved – loves her.

She matched his sharp wit with her own mischievous brand of quiet humor, and they often parried back and forth, like the rocking of the swing she loved so much.

Her touch was as cool as the breeze, and it calmed him down whenever he burned with indignation.

She was simply amazing, and her joy was infectious – yes, she had always been beautiful in appearance, but it was her soul that was the most beautiful of all, which shined its light upon those who walked in it.

Her light was the light that made the colors all brighter, like the red leaves of autumn.

And now she's in a tube.

He snarls murderously. Obviously, he wasn't numb enough yet.

Grabbing yet another of the numerous bottles of booze set haphazardly on the table, Qrow continues to drink.

Outside, there is a rope swing under the autumn tree.

And on it, Amber lingers.

I... should be working on a Moncon right now.

But this idea popped up and begged to be written in the middle of the night. I'll probably be having a nap for breakfast.

It was a bit of a stretch to write. The Amber x Qrow ship (which I now dub "Migratory Animals") is virtually nonexistent, and I, for the matter, don't even know if it's one I ship myself (I'm Night's Watch trash, I'll admit). But... it's still a fun, somewhat hypothetical experiment, and y'know... it kinda works! Who knows, perhaps I've started something bigger than me now. We'll see.

The whole concept of the piece is inspired by the song "Autumn Tree" by Milo Greene. Give it a listen.

Anyway... back to that Moncon... which is almost due, come to think of it. Fuuuuuuu...