Pathos

When Oscar wandered back up to the house, groceries in one hand and a shopping bag in the other, he wasn’t surprised to find it empty. If he’d learned anything about these Huntsmen and Huntresses over the past month and a half – Gods, had it only been that long? – it was that they were quick to judge and even quicker to regret. Those things went hand in hand, he supposed. They weren’t always wrong; more often than not, in fact, their instincts were right. That’s what made him uneasy.

They were right. This wasn’t their fight, and should never have had to be.

They were right. He was just another reincarnation, one in a long line to be forced to fight Salem.

They were right. They couldn’t trust him.

They were right… So he decided he wouldn’t try to tell them otherwise.

It would be easier this way. They’d come back – were they out looking for him? – and it would all be water under the bridge. They had more important things to worry about; the fate of the world, most pressingly. It would be better if he just kept his hurt, and his fear, and his anger, and Gods how unfair it all was, and the sharp reminder that he wasn’t like them, he wasn’t a Huntsman and had never wanted to be, he was fourteen-

… It would be better to keep it all to himself. To smile, and nod, and help them find a way to Atlas. And when Ozpin came back… if he came back… he could hand the reigns over and try to trust the man with what little of himself there was left.

Something in him stirred at the thought. Shifted, heavy and uncomfortable. Don’t, came a voice that was his, but also absolutely wasn’t.

Why not? he retorted, all ache and exhaustion. There was no response. The weight in his chest remained.

He rolled his eyes with an irritated grunt and hefted the groceries onto the counter. Moving things from the bag was a chore, but only the walls bore witness to how his hands shook, how he barely lifted his head. He let himself operate on autopilot, detached as he mused over how to turn on the Arc-Cotta’s fancy oven and set about chopping up various vegetables.

Oscar could vividly remember the first time his Aunt had shown him how to cook. He’d almost burnt the kitchen down, but her concern had been real, and her anger nonexistent, and she’d huffed, “I’m not going to be around forever, Oscar. These are things you’ve got to learn.”

So he had. He’d watched, and helped her, and taught himself recipes because he remembered his parents making them or just because he wanted to know them. He’d burnt his fingers, and many, many pots, but eventually he’d gotten the hang of it.

The oven beeped and he placed the casserole on the rack, almost without thought. Stepping back, Oscar caught his reflection on the fridge door and straightened his new coat. He could barely recognize the person mirroring his movements, and it made him as uncomfortable as it had in the store.

He’d thought about leaving a note. He really, really had. He’d even considered letting Miss Calavera know. Then he’d seen Ruby sitting with her, and decided against it. If he was being honest with himself, in a horrible, gut-wrenching way, he was glad he hadn’t. Let them worry, he’d thought. Let them feel guilty. They were right, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

He’d figured, climbing onto a streetcar, that maybe that was cruel. What was more frightening, however, was that he found he didn’t really care. Not like when they were at Brunswick Farms; not the slow, steady leeching of a will to do anything but sleep. This was different. This was all him, and it didn’t feel wrong.

Staring at his slightly warped image in the stainless steel now, it still didn’t. He wasn’t even afraid anymore; just tremendously sad. It was a sorry thing to die at fourteen, with his future sprawled before him, left to be unlived. The possibilities seemed endless, and that was the worst part. He would never, ever get to choose.

The weight in his chest grew heavier.

“Are you going to talk to me,” he snapped, voice too loud, even to his own ears, “or are you just going to keep making me feel sick?”



Oscar nearly was. A lump welled in his throat, and he coughed hard enough to make himself dizzy. He downed a glass of water, then another. It helped a bit.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” he said. He put the glass down on the counter. “But neither of us have a choice anymore. We’re just going to have to deal with it.”



Ozpin remained steadfast in his silence. Turning, Oscar crouched in front of the oven and flicked on the light to check on dinner. In the glass, his reflection was clearer. He was startled to find there were tears in his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand and sniffled. He hadn’t even felt the sting.

Then, for the first time since the train crash;

“I’m so sorry.”



Oscar choked on a laugh; one that might as well have been a sob. “Yeah,” he said. He felt the tears this time as they tumbled down his cheeks. “Me too.”

He didn’t want to go to Atlas; an unfamiliar continent, with unfamiliar people who looked at him with barely concealed pity. He didn’t want to be so far away from home. He didn’t want to fade away. He didn’t want to forget the feeling of the sunrise on his face, or the pastels of the morning sky over Anima’s mountains, or his Aunt’s proud smile the first time he’d deposited a batch of brownies on the table for dessert.

He just wanted to be Oscar Pine; the scrawny farm boy from southern Anima who only ever had to worry about taking on a Beowulf or two.

But he couldn’t have that anymore.

The tears kept falling and, for a while, he let them. Then, he took a deep, shaking breath and held it. He could do this. He could be helpful, and calm, and fight whatever battle they needed him to. He could do his best to just make them happy.



He had to.

He didn’t know what else to do.