Chapter 42

If Patch was anything, it was peaceful, Winter thought. That was quite an ironic label considering the events of the past month. Yet even still the people of Patch continued to live unconcerned, going about their days as if one of their protectors had not been the victim of an attack, that a Templar occupation had not recently ended, that a lamia had not slithered through their village.

The Templar Order considered lamia a passive, if dangerous pest. They were not openly hostile, unless they or their young were threatened. Even still, a lamia matron was more inclined to gather the strongest of her young and flee if faced with serious danger. That reaction was vital for a successful extermination. A lamia matron would likely flee to its den, assuming the attack occurred a sufficient distance away. All the Templars had to do was locate the den in advance and rig it with explosive charges while the occupants were away. The matron and her remaining young would perish in fire. Any captured lamia would be studied and ultimately terminated.

During her time with the Templars, Winter had found lamia horrifying. They were aberrations of nature, humanity meddling with innocent beings to create the perfect killing machine for their own machinations, the upper half human female, the lowe half snake, as if some poor girl had been half-devoured by a parasitic serpent. They were abominations, the remnants of humanity violating nature, living profane lives, reproducing through despicable means. It was the Templar Order's duty to hunt down and exterminate all such beings, putting them to rest and protecting the people. In other words, upholding the will of the Order.

Of course that was only part of the truth. Lamia were a very low priority for Templars. They were uncommon, rarely survived to matronage, and only took one female at a time. Mathematically, they were such a miniscule threat that the Order rarely bothered with them. Vampires were a far more important issue, werewolves could be a serious danger depending upon the pack and location. Lamia were hardly a threat at all, like the dryders now believed extinct, or centaurs who refused to leave Mistral.

No, the lamia were a passive annoyance, too small a danger to waste resources on, too secluded to integrate into civilization like the centaurs had. They were left mostly to their own devices, plucking incubators from lone travelers, caravans and occasionally homeless populations. The early parts of Glynda's book chronicled this. It was all rather cold and clinical, the product of a scientific and curious mind. At first.

Winter found it fascinating how the writing slowly changed as she progressed through the tome. Glynda's perception of the situation altered, and she became aware of those shifts. Detached descriptions became punctuated by reflections on her own feelings, the gradual of her maternal nature becoming more and more clear. The subject became her mate, the eggs her future children. Their development was painstakingly documented, from the circumference of Glynda's stomach the the emergence of their unique souls from her own.

Winter had found herself enthralled, frighteningly so, by several of the descriptions, especially those clearly written by Blake. The impregnation and ensuing birth contained passages from both the witch and the aspect, for obvious reasons. The former had been rather emotional to read. She found herself moved to tears by Glynda's words, the adoration each description exuded, the size of her clutch, the warmth they inspired within her, every minute shift of each egg, and the growing anticipation of their hatching.

Their hatching...Winter had taken a break after that passage. Certain details left her quite raw. Suffice to say she was unprepared to find herself so affected. But then again she had never once given motherhood serious thought, let alone pondered the potential consequences. She had never intended to be a mother. She expected to die in service to her homeland, protecting the people with her life was all that she could be. But here was Glynda the Good, the most powerful human she had ever met, a mother to lamia. It was a complete shock, but the more she thought, and the more she read, the more sense it made. The experience had changed her, aged her in a way not visible to the mortal eye, but Winter could see, and she was ravenous to know more. Next time she would need something strong to drink, and comfort food.

As she followed the path toward Weiss' home, she wondered if her sister knew. If so, she must have been sworn to secrecy, as she had not mentioned it to her. If not, perhaps it was for the best. She had no idea how deep Templar indoctrination still ran within Weiss. Her reaction might be volatile. Considering the nature of lamia, Weiss might find them especially disgusting. Ilia certainly did not disgust Winter. If anything she was almost cute.

Knocking three times, Winter opened the front door, stepping into the warmth of the doorway. If there was one silver lining to the fire aspect's continued presence, it was the sheer warmth that filled the darkened home. She could do without Yang's attitude, the stubborn candle always found a way to push her buttons. Shirking her coat onto its hanger, she pushed past the curtain blocking the light, to find an oddly crowded lounge. Weiss was standing in the office doorway, the room visibly messy from her viewpoint. Yang stood with Ruby by the hallway, down which Blake was visible, standing before the spare bedroom, Winter's bedroom for the duration of her stay.

"Good morning." Winter greeted, raising a brow in question. "What has happened now?"

Weiss huffed, lips tight as she glared toward the mess on the floor. "I received a sudden and uninvited guest." She groused. "As I went to remove it, I was informed it was the daughter of a certain witch we happen to know."

Winter's other brow rose in surprise. "Ilia visited?"

"You know about her?" Weiss balked.

"I learned of her yesterday, yes." Winter confirmed, stepping closer to the hallway. "What do you mean remove?"

"I mean remove." Weiss glared. "I hardly expected this lamia to be anything more than some fool's practical joke."

"Did you harm her?" Winter asked.

"Hardly." Weiss scoffed. "If any harm came it was due to her thrashing about my belongings." She huffed again. "I have to resort my bookshelf, again."

"I said I was sorry!" Yang protested.

"Sorry doesn't make it less irritating Yang!" Weiss shot back.

Winter sighed, pinching her brow. Weiss always channeled annoyance when avoiding a subject. "Very well then." She spoke, loud and clear. Weiss stared as she walked by, passing Ruby with a polite nod and heading down the hall. The aspect at her door stared straight through her as she approached.

"Winter." Blake acknowledged.

"Blake, how fares Ilia?" Winter inquired.

"Traumatized." Blake replied.

"My sister is not that frightening." Winter countered.

"She is when you're hardly more than a child." Blake groused. "She refuses to come out."

"And your plan is?" Winter asked.

"Wait." Blake answered.

"For what?" Winter pressed.

"The endtimes." Blake deadpanned. "What do you suppose?"

"Do you even know what she's doing in there?" Winter questioned.

"Rifling through your underwear probably." Blake shrugged.

"Blake." Winter admonished.

"Hiding, Winter, a habit of hers." Blake rolled her eyes.

"And why don't you slip inside?" Winter asked.

"She locked the door." Blake observed. "Clearly she wishes not to be disturbed."

Winter leveled a blank stare at the aspect, effortlessly reflected by Blake's own glassy golden eyes. She felt a pang of annoyance. "You have never dealt with children before, have you?"

"Today is my day off." Blake deflected. "If you think you can do better, be my guest." She stepped away, leaning against the wall opposite.

"Very well." Winter resigned, reaching into her pocket for the key and gently knocking on the door. "Ilia, it's Winter." Slipping the key onto the lock, Winter opened the door and stepped inside.

To her surprise, the room was seemingly still in order. It was quite a sparse room, with little more than a bed, desk, wardrobe and bedside table. A small but secure chest held Winter's more important belongings, while her clothes and essentials were neatly packed away. The only differences from her departure that morning were the drawn curtains and the small length of tail poking from beneath the bed.

"I just popped out for a bit of shopping." Winter began, closing the door softly. "The bakery was selling some rather delicious smelling sweetrolls this morning. The sample proved far above expectations." Placing the basket on her bed, Winter sat beside it, opening the wicker and reaching inside. "Have you ever had a sweetroll before? I developed quite a weakness in my youth, and my hips have never forgiven me." Pulling free a small paper package, she unwrapped a roll, revealing its spiraled, cinnamon goodness, the sugar glaze glistening from the warmth. "Here, try a bite. I don't believe yours will mind." Tearing the roll in half, she placed it on the floor, resting upon the wrapper of course. She took a bite of her own half, savoring the rich sweetness as it melted on her tongue. Life held few pleasures so simple and guiltless as this indulgence.

From the corner of her vision, Winter could see a soft, tanned hand slowly reach out to grasp the very edge of the wrapper, dragging the pastry beneath the bed. She felt a smile grow across her lips, a drop of pride warming her heart. Children were a valuable part of Templar operations. They run everywhere, see everything. Their stories, so often discounted as wild fairy tales and imaginings, but what an adult might brush off, a child may remember clear as day. So Winter had learned how to coax out shy children. It was hardly difficult.

"I apologize for my sister." Winter began, her voice low and gentle. "We were raised to fear and hate many things, and unfortunately Weiss has suffered a great deal as of late." She took another bite of her roll, allowing the silence to settle for a time. "I promise she will not harm you, not now, nor ever. And when you feel calm enough to come out, I can escort you home." There came a crinkling of paper and the shifting of scales, as the mass below her bed slowly slithered, until two bright blue eyes became visible, shyly staring up from the floor. Winter smiled, as warm as she could muster. "Good morning Ilia. It's a pleasure to see you again."

Ilia smiled back.

It had taken Pyrrha some time to recover from the shock of Ilia's sudden teleportation. Glynda's calm demeanor had helped, but her heart refused to stop racing for quite a while. At least it made her forget about the hangover long enough to properly hydrate herself. As a bonus, Glynda gave her the day off. Dew, Ren and Nora had all already had their morning treatments, Glynda was spending the day in to work on a project she refused to discuss, Ruby could handle any outstanding chores when she returned, and all things considered, the witch felt Pyrrha needed it.

Having the day off did not mean Pyrrha would spend her time lounging around. The prior day's battle had not just taken a toll on her personally, it had left her weapons in sad shape. The edges of her shield were curled in and the face dented from all the bashing, and her spear was badly bent from her errant strike. She would need to take them to Port for repairs sooner or later, and Pyrrha was not one to leave for tomorrow what could be done today. Besides, he might be able to help with her still cluttered thoughts.

Pyrrha changed into heavier clothes, packed her weapons into a backpack, and headed into town. The streets seemed more empty than usual, but that was no surprise. It was bitterly cold, and that in itself would keep most indoors, but Solstice was nearly upon them as well. Many would be preparing for the celebrations and the market that accompanied them. Pyrrha would have liked to visit Velvet, but she would surely be busy, either making clothes for the festival or filling Glynda's custom order for Ilia. Port would likely be preparing as well.

When Pyrrha arrived at the forge, the blacksmith was indeed hard at work. He was sitting at the counter, shining a set of knives. No, not knives, daggers? Port looked up briefly, but did not stop working. "Hello Pyrrha!" He boomed. "What brings you here today?"

"Just some equipment repairs." Pyrrha replied. "Why are you making so many daggers? Out of silver no less?"

"Weiss wanted me to make a dagger for every household on the island." Port explained. "She was kind enough to donate the silver as well. She wants everyone to have a defense against vampires and other beasts."

"Wouldn't stakes be more appropriate?" Pyrrha questioned.

"That's what I said!" Port shouted, throwing his hands in the air and letting the dagger clatter to the countertop. "She thinks they're too clumsy. Maybe, but what about tradition?"

"She does have a point." Pyrrha admitted. "Daggers are more utilitarian as well."

"I suppose." Port sighed. He slid the daggers aside and wiped his hands on a nearby rag. "So, what do you need me to fix?"

"Fix is probably the wrong word." Pyrrha placed her backpack on a clear portion of the counter. "I just need some minor repairs." She slid the gear out of the bag and Port scanned them with a critical eye.

"You must have been in quite a fight." Port observed. He picked up the spear, noting how badly the tip was bent. "How did you manage this? Were you sparring with a boulder?"

"An Alpha Beowolf actually." Pyrrha corrected. "I tripped and hit one of its back plates."

"Hmm, I'm surprised you survived to tell the tale." Port stated grimly.

"I am too." Pyrrha slumped with a sigh. "If Ruby hadn't stepped in…"

Port noticed the profound shift in Pyrrha's mood. "Let's discuss this in my office." He gestured to the open door behind the counter as he stood from his stool. As Pyrrha headed for the back room he passed her, going to lock the entrance and place a sign in the window indicating he would be back in a few minutes. The blacksmith then entered his office to find Pyrrha standing before his desk. "Take a seat." He gestured to the chair before it. Port circled the desk and sat in a somewhat worn and ornate chair on the other side. It was probably older than Pyrrha was. "Tell me what happened."

"There was a small pack of Grimm, nothing I could not handle." Pyrrha started. "Just a few normal Beowolves with one Alpha. Killing the smaller ones was no problem, and I had the Alpha right where I wanted it, then...I stepped forward to attack and my foot fell into a hole. It was hidden under the snow, so there was no way I could have known it was there. Just as the Alpha was about to end me, Ruby rushed in and ripped it in half. I...I should have died."

Port nodded, reaching into a drawer to retrieve a bottle of whiskey and a pair of glasses. He slid a glass in front of Pyrrha and filled it before filling his own. "Now it's all you can think about?"

"Yes." Pyrrha confirmed. "I...know the risks, obviously. I always suspected I would die on the battlefield, and for a lot of my life I almost welcomed that...but now…" She took a deep and shaky breath, struggling to compose herself. "It was about acceptable risks, like you always taught us. I thought that as long as I properly judged the situation and executed perfectly, I would be fine. But I almost died because of something completely beyond my control."

"Even for the most perceptive warrior, there will always be an element of the unknown." Port noted, taking a sip of whiskey. "It's only by sheer luck that I'm alive to talk to you. The arrow that knocked out my teeth just as easily could have pierced my brain or heart or spine."

"It's more than that." Pyrrha continued. "After it happened, all I could think of was how stupid it even was for me to be out there. There are two werewolves in the house, one in near perfect health. My friends include a vampire, multiple aspects, and an incredibly powerful witch. Any one of them would be better suited to fighting Grimm. What was I even doing, risking my life like that? If I had died, it would have caused you all so much pain. And for what? For me to feel the thrill of combat? Those Beowolves weren't an immediate threat. It was selfish-"

"You're not selfish." Port cut her off. "I know the spiral your mind is in. I've experienced it myself. It's all 'what if's and regrets. They'll just destroy you. We all make mistakes, we all have regrets, but we mustn't dwell on them."

"I know." Pyrrha sighed. "But I don't think I can do it anymore, putting my life on the line like that."

"So stop." Port suggested.

"What?" Pyrrha was taken aback. "I can't just stop helping people."

"Like you said, this island has plenty of potential protectors." Port pointed out. "You're already training as a witch, focus on that. Witches help people just as much as huntresses."

"I don't even want to be a witch." Pyrrha admitted. "I only trained under Glynda to learn to raise the dead, to bring back Jaune, and I failed. Now I have nothing."

Port scratched his chin before downing his glass. He quickly refilled it. "Is that so…" He paused. "Do you really believe you have nothing?"

"Not nothing really, just no direction, no goal, no purpose." Pyrrha elaborated.

"If you could choose to do anything, what would it be?" Port asked.

"I don't know." Pyrrha leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, her face in her hands. "Caring for the sick and injured is something that's always interested me. I suppose I would do something like that."

"So ask Glynda to teach you healing magic, potion-making and the like." Port advised. "You have the intelligence and the perseverance to do anything you set your mind to."

"She will not be pleased." Pyrrha cautioned.

"Why's that?" Port asked.

"Because she's wasted her time training me to be a witch, just for me to decide I don't want that anymore." Pyrrha replied.

"If I know her as well as I think I do, and I'm pretty sure I do, I don't think she'll have the slightest problem with it." Port countered. "She just wants you to be happy. We just want you to be happy. You've spent your whole life focusing on the happiness of others. For once you need to focus on yourself. You don't need to be miserable to help people."

"I suppose." Pyrrha allowed. "But I don't want to stop protecting people either."

"I have an idea for that, but for now, you need to tell Glynda how you really feel." Port insisted. "Get yourself on track. Find what makes you happy." He glanced at Pyrrha's still full glass. "And take your medicine!"

Pyrrha grimaced and took hold of the glass. She managed to down the alcohol with a shiver. "Very well, I'll talk to Glynda."