Chapter Thirty-Three

What a lovely night, the woman once known as the Boogeyman of Atlas thought as she sailed across the Atlesian sky.

 She gazed at the luminous, shattered moon, and its pale glow casting silver streaks across the world below. The cold, iced, and comforting winds carried her effortlessly through the frozen air, whispering against her skin like an old friend.

Below, the city of Atlas glittered faintly under the faint protection of the shields above. A prototype, she supposed. She'd never heard of it before her isolation a decade prior, and already weak spots were visible across its surface. Then again, perhaps it was merely a show of safety to the terrified citizens, a deterrent to an enemy long since vanquished.

Or perhaps it was there to stop her from absentmindedly and carelessly roaming—a large cage designed just for her, with dozens trailing her from behind and below, ever watchful. Helicopters and drones painted in bright colors flashed to guide her.

It must have been a funny sight to anyone who bothered to look up at the sky.

Hero. Boogeyman. Savior. The nicknames were many, and the adoration was constant. Yet, in the end, no matter how accommodating or respectful they were, she remained but a weapon of war.

Something to be feared.

A smile, perhaps sardonic and unfitting, graced her lips at the humor and irony of it all. She had never been one for introspection or sentimentality. Yet, here she was.

Such things had always felt like unnecessary distractions when there was a battle to fight or a mission to complete. But she supposed age had a way of creeping up on you, softening the edges of even the hardest hearts.

So, in her old age, all she had was—

Purpose? Pride? Peace?

The smile made way for a chuckle. Whatever answer might have completed the thought escaped her, lost amidst the chilly wind, the glimmer of the city below, and a tired mind that was slipping more and more these days.

All she had was herself and her wandering mind. Soon that, too, would be lost in whatever little years Fate had deemed enough for her to live.

And that was fine.

She had lived a full life, and regret was never a part of it.

The storm moved with her.

Her feet touched the ground softly, in contrast to the vortex of ice and snow that crashed into the earth around her, shaking her surroundings. The display was unnecessary, serving no purpose beyond her own amusement.

It wasn't meant to intimidate—after all, what purpose was there in scaring friends and the young? It was always much easier to treat them with the carrot than with the stick.

Her latest conversation was proof enough.

Even the man Nicholas deemed fit to be his successor and wed her pupil, a man the rest of the world seemed to refer to as the Devil, was, in the end, but a boy who could be led by his nose if you stroked his ego enough.

It certainly beat using brute force, despite how ready he seemed to fight at the drop of a hat.

Another chuckle left her lips. A truly endearing, if audacious, man, she'd admit, recalling his scandalous insinuations. Though his survival instincts could use some much-needed work. Confidence and stupidity were a fine line, after all.

A younger her wouldn't have been so forgiving.

Then again, he did give her a pleasing answer:

"Both," he quipped without hesitation, a smirk breaking it his face. "Though I'll have you know, bravery is the dominant trait. As for foolishness, well, that's just misunderstood genius waiting for an audience."

She wondered if he'd found the carrot she'd left for him yet, or if he was still stomping the cookies his own daughter had made.

An undignified snort escaped her as the vortex around her began to abate. She found herself in the midst of a battalion of soldiers, operatives, huntsmen, and androids of models and frameworks she'd long lost track of during her decade of solitude. Tanks and military trucks moved even closer protectively, while war bullheads and drones hovered in the sky above her.

They snapped into a salute, and Fria offered them a nod and a smile.

A moment later, a heavy thudding sound echoed behind her as her supposed bodyguards and trailers landed. She turned to face them, her smile unwavering, and found only three of them. The rest were no doubt still circling above, keeping a watchful eye for any that dared approach under the orders of the good and ever-paranoid General.

"Even now, Lady Fria," the Commander of the Ace Operatives said with a light laugh, his tone relaxed despite the clear strain and effort it must have taken to keep up with her. "Your power and agility are something else. We could barely keep pace." He sheathed the fishing rod he used as a weapon—a curious choice, though far from the strangest she'd seen in her years.

Fria chuckled softly. "You flatter me, Mr. Ebi. I assure you, I've merely had years to perfect my habits. It's muscle memory more than anything now." Her tone was humble and understated, though the truth of her status as the strongest Maiden in history was no mere brag.

Few could match her sheer power, and even fewer could claim to have earned it as completely as she had. "Shall we?" Before her mind slipped once more.

Clover Ebi straightened, his expression turning more professional as he gave a crisp nod. "Ace Operatives, form a perimeter and prepare for detainment! Medics, standby for captive treatment. Engineers, secure the containment transport. Drones, initiate a scan for anomalies in the area!"

The soldiers and Huntsmen moved swiftly at his command, forming ranks and setting up equipment with practiced precision. within moments, they were ready.

Encased within a sphere that was both lighter and sturdier than steel was the frozen Faunus—a scorpion, if only identified by the tail and stinger sprouting from his back. Whatever else remained of him was a grotesque mixture of peeled skin, bruises, and burned flesh. Even so, he still drew breath and would continue to do so until he proved himself of no use.

Yet, as ruined as he was, Fria's instincts screamed at her that it was not enough. As long as he drew breath, he was dangerous.

Fria had long learned not to ignore her instincts. With a twitch of her finger, ice curled tighter around his limbs, cracking and separating the stumped arms at the shoulders and the legs at the thighs. Needle-thin icicles formed within the icy prison and stabbed into his back, running along the path of his spinal cord. They pierced and ruined the nerves permanently, while the brittle stinger of his tail cracked and shattered.

They wanted him alive. Alive and harmless were two very different things.

"Lady Fria…?" The voice was hesitant, questioning, but no more than that.

"Containment is your priority, soldiers," Fria said, her tone sharp and authoritative at last. "Whatever secrets these creatures hold, they cannot be allowed to spread. Handle them with care. But do not, for a moment, drop your guard around them."

"Understood, Lady Fria," Clover replied, his voice matching her seriousness. He turned to his Operatives, issuing orders with practiced precision. "Secure the spheres for transport! No one touches them without clearance—repeat, no one. I want double seals on all containment units. "

Her medics and guards approached, waiting for her. "My lady," her doctor said gently, her voice tinged with concern. "You're bleeding." She gestured toward the long, howled cut on Fria's forearm, where her most prized possession had once rested. "May I?"

"Of course," Fria replied with a nod and a warm smile, though she couldn't recall the doctor's name—a woman who, by all accounts, had been by her side for years. She allowed herself to be guided toward a waiting cart, her guards assisting her with practiced care.

The doctor worked swiftly, cleaning and closing the wound on Fria's forearm with steady hands. Fria watched in silence, her thoughts adrift in quiet contemplation.

In the end, she supposed she had been a poor teacher, leaving her pupil with the weight of Atlas's fate without even telling her

But that had been Nicholas's wish.

It wasn't just a matter of trust—it was strategy. The gift she'd passed on, as important as it was, could only fulfill its purpose if her pupil's husband received the other half.

A last resort, perhaps, but one meant to ensure the survival of Atlas.

And the last few weeks had proven what Fria had always known: placing all their fragile eggs in a single basket was the height of folly.

There was always the chance that someone would fail, someone would betray, and someone would falter at the last moment.

But in the end, it had always been meant for her student, had it not? Fria could only hope the man her pupil chose—devil or not—was up to the task.

The man may have power, influence, and arrogance in abundance, but those were only tools. What mattered now was something simpler, more fundamental.

Was he a decent man?

If he wasn't, well, he'd simply have to spend his life stomping cookies for all she cared.

Shitty husbands deserved nothing after all.

In a surprising and unexpected moment of realization, Jacques learned that it was, in fact, possible for people tooting your horn and singing your praises to get boring.

Not that he wasn't used to it—he'd been Jacques Schnee for long enough to know that adulation came with the territory. But after the twelfth iteration of "unparalleled regeneration," "miraculous recovery," and "the pinnacle of Aura manipulation," he found himself suppressing a sigh. Even his ego had limits, apparently.

Still standing next to him, looking just as bored, Tranquil Deer remained amidst the crowd of wide-eyed doctors, nurses, and soldiers. Jacques subtly glanced at his watch.

The old man he'd just healed was flexing his newly restored hands. And what do you know? Another Faunus, just like the dozen others before him—aside from Winter, who now took control of the camp's security. The family got VIP treatment, after all.

So either the doctors were rushing the Faunus cases out of fear that his racist gene might activate, or the White Fang were just that incompetent to have so many of their people tangled up in their oh-so-noble, nefarious shit. Both scenarios were equally plausible.

His musings were cut short by the excited chatter of the gaggle of doctors surrounding him.

"Fascinating... bone density is perfect," said doctor number one, his eyes practically sparkling.

"Muscle fibers completely regenerated," confirmed doctor number two with a look that made Jacques take a step back out of fear that he'll hump his leg. it was that bad.

"Cellular rejuvenation at a rate beyond anything we've documented," added the nurse, doing her best impression of a broken record.

And so on, and so on...

Blah, blah, blah. Jacques resisted the urge to tap his foot.

"This... this is a blessing beyond words," the old man said, his voice trembling with emotion. He looked up at Jacques, clasping his newly restored hands together and bowing his head low. "I—I don't even know how to thank you. You've given me my life back. Truly, you are chosen—a savior."

Unlike the doctors, this deserved a response.

Jacques, ever the picture of magnanimity, offered a practiced yet seemingly genuine smile. He reached out and patted the man gently on the shoulder.

"Now, now, none of that," Jacques said, softening his tone into something warm and reassuring. "I'm no god, nor chosen. Just a man with the means to help and the sense to use it. 'Let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap if we do not give up.' Remember, Faunus or human, we're all children of Atlas."

He gestured toward the crowd, his voice taking on a touch of theatrical flair. "The best thanks you can give me is to pass that kindness forward. Lift others up, as I have done for you. That is how we truly grow stronger—together."

A ripple of awed murmurs spread through the crowd. A few sniffles punctuated the air, accompanied by the glint of tearful eyes.

What? Just because this was starting to feel tedious didn't mean he'd stop. Kayfabe was crucial, after all.

He waved at the retreating old turtle Faunus, and his wife who were still thanking him, and motioned for the soldiers to bring the next patient forward.

Before they could comply, one of the medics hesitated, stepping closer with a clipboard clutched tightly in his hands. "Mr. Schnee, perhaps it's best if you treat yourself now. You've lost blood, and your wounds—"

Jacques held up a hand, cutting him off with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll manage. I didn't summon my majestic friend here to pamper myself while others were in need. I'll be fine."

Another medic frowned, their gaze flicking toward Jacques' wounded side, where a faint dark stain had begun to spread. "With all due respect, sir, that doesn't seem—"

"Do I look like someone on death's door to you?" Jacques interrupted.

This fucker better not be implying he was weak. This was nothing compared to what the colossal livestock next to him had already put him through. His Aura was already doing a fine job patching him up. Aura was like a muscle, wasn't it? Passive healing was definitely worth the investment.

Also, seriously, as much of a dickhead as he could be, Jacques wasn't about to cut in line ahead of people missing limbs just for a couple of booboos.

His Pa raised him better than that.

The medic hesitated, clearly unconvinced. His colleague, a younger woman clutching a tablet, leaned in and muttered, "Then at least take a moment to rest—"

Jacques sighed as they wheeled the next stretcher into the circle. "Persistent, aren't you?"

With a hand on his shoulder, he turned. Winter was giving him a pointed look. Whitley was next to her giving him the sad exasperated 'stop being a daft cunt Pa,' expression.

He raised an eyebrow.

Tranquil Deer belled roughly beside him, catching his attention. It lowered its massive head and gave him a gentle shove, pushing him back a step.

Jacques put a hand over his chest in mock betrayal.

Et tu, Tranquil Deer?

Jacques eased onto the bench with a theatrical sigh, adjusting his posture just enough to stay dignified without looking like he gave a damn. Sure, he was bleeding a bit, but he wasn't about to keel over. The worst part? He couldn't even pretend to be too wounded to carry on without someone accusing him of milking it. But even if he was too wounded, he'd played it off.

He was a Men's Man after all.

Also, he was bored. Like 'being forced to sit through one of those awful community theatre productions his teacher used to drag him to as a child to pacify the and subdue the anger trapped within him' bored.

It didn't pacify shite, but it help him discover his adroitness for flair.

There was an art to this whole charade, and Jacques prided himself on knowing his audience. By now, there had to be a dozen cameras rolling. Maybe more. The chaos had settled now that the military was swarming the place, but even a calm crowd couldn't resist gawking at a "hero" in action. And Jacques was more than happy to oblige.

Since while he did achieve his goal of becoming Fuck-off Strong, Jacques was genre savvy enough to understand survival hinged on more than just brute Unga-Bunga-ing through people.

He let his cheek rest against his fist, projecting the image of a tired, battle-worn badass who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He'd already done the "fearless warrior" act earlier for the action junkies and blokes, played the "steady leader" for the old-timers and geezers, and pulled off the "gentle healer" shtick for the old ladies and hopeful types.

Now it was time for something subtler.

The brooding savior. The kind that made single moms swoon, got goth kids scribbling bad poetry and kept whatever the horny and delulu girls of this world's version of Tumblr buzzing for weeks.

Nothing for Reddit. Fuck Redditors and their pussy ass community rules.

Of course, he wasn't delusional enough to think everyone bought it, but enough did. Enough was always great. That was what mattered, and that's what counted.

A sad, carefully manufactured smile graced his face, just enough to look world-weary but not broken.

Somewhere in the distance, a camera shutter clicked. Of course, someone was already immortalizing the moment. Too easy; way too easy.

Of course, as always, a curveball would appear every once in a while.

"Mr. J!" a high-pitched voice called out. Jacques turned his head slowly and carefully, just enough to acknowledge the sound with a half-lidded look. A couple of cute birdies were waving at him, a camera in hand.

Jacques exhaled softly through his nose in a way that signaled exasperation—fond and amused exasperation. A lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his lips and he shook his head slightly, raising a hand in acknowledgment as if to say, Ah, I see you.

The gesture was small but precise, enough to keep their enthusiasm without inviting more interaction. the squeals of joy from them were expected.

Then, he shifted his gaze back forward and smoothly resumed his previous pose. Truly, a masterful display of—!

"You're laying it on a bit thick, don't you think?"

Who dares! 

Jacques turned around to look at who had the nerve to correctly and bravely call his vanity.

Jacques spotted a pair of thick eyebrows. No, wait—it was Gris, his head of security stuck to the gnarly brows that hid his eyes. His suit was smeared with blood, and his massive claymore rested on his back like an oversized accessory.

Nah, he wouldn't.

Jacques barely spared him a glance before his eyes shifted to the side.

"Willow!" He shot to his feet. "Where the hell have you been? Do you have any—" His words trailed off.

She was looking at him. Her brows furrowed, and plump lips pressed into a thin line.

Then she smiled, a faint, fleeting thing. Relief escaped her in a soft exhale through her nose, almost too quiet to notice. She took a step and put her hands on his shoulders, her head lowering.

Jacques tilted his head in confusion. He threw a puzzled look to Gris who just kept looking ahead. Probably. It was hard to tell with the eyebrows. Or maybe, he just didn't see Jacques' look. Because of the large eyebrows. That was also a plausible 'probably.'

Willow's grip was firm enough to hold him in place. For a second, he thought she'd start with some biting remark—something very her. But she didn't.

She stayed quiet.

"Willow?" His voice cracked slightly, and he hated it. "What are you—?"

Her fingers tightened just a bit. Not harsh, but enough to stop him mid-question. She exhaled again, this time more audible, a sound that spoke of exhaustion, relief, and a dozen other things Jacques didn't have the patience to sort out.

"You're an idiot," she said quietly. Her voice carried none of her usual sharpness or wit, just the same raw something he'd been hearing since their conversation at home.

Jacques smiled. "You know, idiocy is just misunderstood brillian—"

She shook her head, cutting him off. "Don't ruin it, Jacques."

Ruin what? He had no clue what she meant, but for once, he shut his mouth.

Her hands lingered for a second before pulling back. Then, like nothing happened, she stepped away and stood straight.

Jacques cleared his throat and adjusted his jacket.

"Right," he said, his voice a bit too loud. "Where the hell have you been, Willow?"

She sighed, her face twisting into an annoyed look—one that, in Jacques' opinion, suited her perfectly.

"Someone had to keep the esteemed and noble elites in check," she muttered, the sarcasm dripping off her words. Then, with a scowl, she added under her breath, "Useless, self-important parasites, the lot of them."

"…any of them say anything to you?" Jacques asked.

Willow scoffed. "And risk an encore of your stunt? No. They kept their mouths shut for once. Gris also helped keep them polite."

"Right!" Jacques said with a nod. "What's with the blood?" He asked Gris whom he was pretty damn sure, he'd left back in the mansion.

"After you left, the Schnee manor had some unannounced visitors. The Schnee has no unannounced visitors anymore, Sir." the Old man answered, those eyebrows moving every four words like they were punctuation marks. "We came after."

Right.

He turned back to his wife.

"So, you've been babysitting the moneybags. How noble of you." Jacques' smirk was replaced by a frown. "But that's not your job. If those twits got themselves killed by pissing someone off, then all the better."

He paused, gesturing dramatically to himself. "What's important is waiting for your dashing, cool, sublime, 'kakkoi' husband when he comes back from being a 'hero'."

"What? You missed me?" Willow let out a soft snort, waving her hand dismissively.

He grabbed her hand mid-wave. He leaned in close and spoke with as much seriousness as he could muster in that moment. "Every waking moment of my life when you're not by my side."

"Wha—?!" Willow squawked, her face flushing instantly

Critical hit!

As usual, Ojou-sama was weak to a frontal surprise attack. the Tsundere archetype was strong in her.

"But that's not the point," Jacques continued, smoothly shifting gears. He raised his other hand to point at the bandage on her forehead. "You're injured!"

Willow blinked, then reflexively touched the bandage, her face scrunching up in mild irritation. "It's nothing. Just a scratch."

Jacques frowned, not buying it. "Just a scratch? That's what people say when they don't want to admit they almost got brained by a rock."

"This is why I was looking for you. Come on, let's get you healed up;" Jacques said, still holding onto her hand. He pulled her in the direction of the camp, where his "enslaved big healer" was busy racking up PR points.

A couple of people passing by took pictures and waved at them. Jacques, of course ever the polite and benevolent overlord, made sure to smile in their directions. It would do good to boost the morale of the camp and give an extra oomph to his image as the Greatest gift to Atlas since Dust itself, so by association himself.

Jacques was the greatest gift to Atlas since Jacques himself!

Now if only, Willow stopped dragging her heels on the ground.

"I didn't almost get brained," she shot back firmly as she did her best impression of an anchor. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd listen when I say I'm fine."

He took a deep breath. Lord, give me strength...

"Willow, love," Jacques sighed, pausing to look at her. "There's a big-ass pet of mine whose job is to heal. Stop being a moron and let him do his job."

"I know that," she grumbled. "I've seen it. You multi-talented, lucky, hax-cheating bastard." She harrumphed."But people are dying, and I'm not cutting in line for a couple of damn...booboos."

A snort broke.

Jacques froze, staring back with a raised eyebrow at Willow and her rapidly heating face. "..Booboos?" he repeated.

Another snort.

It wasn't either of them.

Both of them turned to Gris, who looked as passive as ever.

Jacques tilted his head, motioning him to go be a bother somewhere else. Gris obeyed with a nod. Probably off to find his children.

"Willow," Jacques said, trying again with more patience this time. "Tranquil Deer is mine. I decide who goes first. I don't care if people are dropping dead at my feet. It goes family, my slaves, my familiars, and then the rest of the world."

"Jacques, I'm a huntress," Willow fired back with no comment of him referring to the servants as slaves. He'd done so often, it stopped registering to people around him.

Her eyebrows raised, and she jabbed a finger into his shoulder. "Sure, I'm weak as shit right now, lost a bit of condition, but I'm one, damn it. I've had much worse than this." She scowled at him. "Don't treat me like I'm some sort of damsel in distress, you dickhead," she added, voice softening. "Please."

Jacques rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. "Willow, it's not about a bloody damsel in distress, but it's because I can't—" His words trailed off as his gaze flicked to her attire, or rather, her lack of attire.

"What?" she asked, noticing his shift in focus.

"Where the hell is your coat?" he asked, his eyes narrowing at the sleeveless dress she was wearing. Damn it, every time he looked at it, all he wanted to do was rip it off her with his teeth and take her right then and there—onlookers be damned. But—wait, she had a fur coat with it.

"Oh… I gave it to a little girl," Willow said, looking confused by the sudden subject change. "She was cold."

"Willow! It's fucking minus a... thousand out here!" Jacques exclaimed, looking at her bare arms. As if to prove his point, a gust of freezing wind blew through the camp.

Willow winced, but only slightly. "I'm fine," she said, though the shiver that ran through her body made it clear she wasn't.

"Don't 'I'm fine' me," Jacques grumbled, his voice more irritated now than before. He pulled off his own coat and started wrapping it around her shoulders without waiting for her protests.

"Jacques, I'm serious, it's fine. I don't—" Willow's words faltered as her eyes drifted down to his vest. The large, dark spot that had spread across the fabric was much bigger than she remembered. "You're still bleeding," she pointed out, her voice dropping.

Jacques finished buttoning the coat around her, brushing her hands away when she tried to stop him. He glanced down at the stain on his vest like it was nothing. "Oh, this?" He waved dismissively, flashing her a grin. "Nah, I'm about to stop bleeding any moment now. Just a scratch."

"A scratch?!" Willow's voice rose as she gestured wildly at the glaring evidence. "Jacques, that's not a scratch. That's—you're still leaking!"

"Willow, please," Jacques said, exasperated."You're overreacting. It's dramatic and unbecoming. I'm perfectly fine. See? Still standing. Not even wobbling. That's peak health right there. This wound is nothing."

"This is nothing," Willow retorted, gesturing to her bandaged forehead with the same exasperation he felt. "How the hell does this need treatment, and that—" she waved at him, gesturing to his general state— "does not?"

"Yours is a face wound. Mine isn't." Jacques answered simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Because it was.

Willow stared at him, her expression all too familiar. It was the exact same look his dad used to give him when he was being deliberately pig-headed. Without a word, she wiped her hand across his cheek—Ow— her fingers came away smeared with blood. She held it up for him to see. "You have an even bigger wound on your face."

"I'm a man; you're a woman," he shrugged.

"Oh, I see. Because I'm a woman, I'm supposed to be some delicate little flower who can't handle a scratch?"

"I meant that I don't care if my face is ruined, I don't yours to be." Why was she not getting it? It's not that hard.

Willow's jaw dropped. "What the hell kind of logic is that?!"

 He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "I've seen what a scar to the face does to a woman," he said a bit more somber now.

"You've got a beautiful face, Willow. I'd hate to see it ruined over something I could've stopped. That's all." Jacques said looking away and rubbing the back of his neck.

He'd seen what it does. It wasn't a pretty thing. At the shelter—back home the one Sister Angie guilted him into helping out at—Jack saw plenty of women come through with ruined faces. They get self-conscious and shit, start doubting themselves, and hide them. Get fucking twitchy and shite and he got it; people can be bastards about that sort of thing.

It wasn't something he'd wish even on his bitch of a mother.

"Gah!" A choking sound made him look back at her.

Willow's face turned an alarming shade of red as she stepped back, sputtering. "Don't say stuff like that out of the blue, you asshole!" she blurted.

Jacques blinked, caught completely off guard.

Oh? 

Did he just score an unintentional Ultimate?

Before he could savor the apparent victory, a chorus of "Awws!" and "Oh my God, that's so romantic!" rang out around them. He froze. A whole-ass crowd had gathered, their scrolls out and recording every moment, and he hadn't even noticed.

Willow's head snapped toward the gawking onlookers. Her mortified expression twisted into rage. "What are you all staring at?!" she shouted, pointing at them like an angry teacher catching kids skipping class. "Piss off! Damn it!"

The crowd scattered in a hurry, though a few grinning idiots lingered a safe distance away, whispering and snickering.

She turned back to him, her cheeks still bright red, and jabbed a finger at his chest. "This is your fault."

Jacques raised his hands in mock surrender, though the smirk tugging at his lips said otherwise. "Alright, alright, you've made your point." Still, as funny as this was, she wasn't wrong—they didn't need an audience.

Aura pulsed into his shadow, which stretched and thickened around them like ink spilling over the ground. He swiped his hand, and the darkness surged upward, forming a dome that swallowed them whole before sinking back into the earth.

When it unfurled moments later, it spat them out in a quieter part of the camp.

Willow made a gagging sound, stumbling as the last bits of shadow dripped away from her frame. She glared at him, wiping her arms like she'd just been slimed.

Yeah, fun fact: being inside a shadow was not a lovely experience.

"You still adamant about not going to Tranquil Deer?" Jacques asked flatly giving her an unimpressed look.

Willow straightened, brushing off her dress with exaggerated care, even though the shadows hadn't actually left any mess. "Yes, I am," she shot back. "I told you, I'm fine."

"How hopeless," he said with a shake of his head even if it wasn't really an unexpected answer. "You're bleeding and you're stubborn. Fantastic combo. Truly."

She smirked faintly, tilting her head. "You married me, remember?"

Willow's eyes widened, and the smirk fell as soon as she registered what she'd said. A small frown tugged at her lips, there for only a moment before she smoothed it over. Her fingers tightened around the fabric of his coat draped over her shoulders.

Jacques noticed but made no mention of it.

Another sigh escaped him as he turned and moved to sit on one of the nearby crates. He gestured to her with a small wave of his hand. "Come here."

Willow followed without any fanfare, though one eyebrow raised in quiet curiosity. She sat opposite of him, hands on her lap.

He raised and gently removed the hastily put bandages around her head. Willow didn't flinch, just looking at him oddly. A silent question in her eyes.

"Since you're going to be so pig-headed to see the actual specialist, I'll just try and do it myself" he explained, as he put his palm over her 'booboo'. "Don't hold your hopes too high though. This the first time I'm healing someone else."

Willow snorted at that. "Is there anything you can't do?"

"Talk sense to you, apparently." Jacques shrugged easily, but he noticed she didn't voice any doubts about his ability. At least one of them was confident in his skills.

While he wasn't entirely sure about the intricacies of healing, he had seen Tranquil Deer more than enough times to guesstimate how it worked. His own Aura's healing was also something he had more than a fair grasp on, and in theory, if Tranquil Deer could do it, so could he. After all, the damn mule was an extension of himself, connected directly to his soul.

Shame, Jack wasn't great with theory.

Still, he wasn't about to let that stop him.

None of that shite, ya daft sod, a voice in his head sounded like his old man said, Remember Jack, Pussyfooting's for the twats down south and people who can't tell a pint from a bloody teacup.

He smiled.

Damn straight, Pa.

"I'm going to start," he told her.

His hand hovered over Willow's injury, Aura buzzing softly as he focused. He worked to calm his mind, trying to steady the usual swirling rush of energy that was his Aura. A part of him noticed that no one had called it disgusting tonight which was nice.

Slowly, he began to graze her skin with the gentlest touch, unsure of how much force to apply. Already, he could feel a headache starting to throb in the back of his skull.

Thank God, Willow didn't try to talk to him or, worse, insult him. He didn't need anything screwing with his focus right now. His weak spot was banter, and she knew it.

She stayed silent, simply staring at him.

A lesser man would have squirmed.

Jacques didn't have even the presence of mind to notice.

Jacques kept going, concentrating on the rhythm of his own healing process, forcing his Aura to mimic it on a much slower scale. Good. slow was good.

For a while, it felt like nothing was happening—just the faintest brush against her skin. Then, every few minutes, a soft flash of green light flickered, and he could feel a tiny bit of the injury healing.

He couldn't hold back a smirk. It wasn't much, but it was something.

The headache was getting worse, but he refused to stop. He was this close, and damn it, he wasn't going to back down now.

After the twentieth minute, the pain in his head was almost unbearable, like his skull was about to crack open. His control over his Aura started to slip, and he finally stopped, pulling back with a grunt.

Jacques leaned back slightly, eyeing the wound with a critical gaze, unsure if he'd done anything at all.

A contemplative hum left his throat as he rubbed the stubble on his chin.

It looked... cleaner? he supposed.

but...

Jacques let out a dejected sigh, his hand falling to his side. "I think I just wasted both our time."

"No," Willow said softly, touching the injury on her forehead tenderly. She smiled at him. "I'm feeling much better."

She lifted her handkerchief and carefully wiped the blood from his face. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she met his eyes. "Thanks,"

His lips curved at her small attempt to lift his mood.

He brushed his hand over his face as she finished wiping the blood away. He could feel his own frustration melting, replaced by an odd sense of relief.

"What a night," she said with a small chuckle, and he couldn't help but join with her. It was one of those shitty ass days where you can't help but laugh at it once it's over.

"I've had fun," Jacques admitted. The night was fucked, but...it had its highlights.

"I could tell," Willow teased. "I could hear your laughter from across the city. Can't say the same for me, though."

"Was our date not to your liking?"Jacques smirked, playfully feigning offense. "Not sure why, it's not like it's the first, second, or even third to ever end up with a brawl. It can't be that bad."

Willow snorted. "Undoubtedly the worst." She laughed at the mention of their decades-old antics of a younger and much more foolish her. "I suppose I don't like the roles being reversed."

Jacques raised an eyebrow, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Reversed? You mean me actually being the one throwing punches or calling the shots? Tonight, it was my turn to play the hero."

"A valiant attempt, I'd say," Willow snorted, shaking her head. "Sadly, I've long since hung my cape, kid."

A brief silence settled between them as Jacques looked out to the side, over the camp, beyond the city toward the edge of the island and the outline of the lights from Mantle below.

"You know," he said slowly, a smile breaking across his face. "Mantle wasn't really touched by the attack. They're still going at it."

Willow followed his gaze to the distant fireworks and flares from below. "Yeah..." A silver lining at last for the people below.

Jacques turned to face her fully. "The night's still young, you know."

Willow raised an eyebrow. Confused for a moment before an incredulous laugh escaped her when she understood his meaning. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?" He said, standing up.

"Jacques, "she said, exasperated but with a smile tugging at her lips. "We just survived a terrorist attack....We can't!"

"All the more reason to end the night on a high note, right?" Jacques grinned, arms shrugging by his sides. "Can't have it all be a scare."

Willow exhaled a long breath and gave him a look.

"C'mooon.'" he nudged her teasingly.

her lips curling into a tired smile. "You're insane," she said, shaking her head, but there was no real anger, only exhaustion and amusement. "We can't just leave Whitley and just go!"

"He already knows! Gris is with him. " Jacques said, his grin widening. Willow finally noticed that the distinct humanoid eyebrows wasn't with them. "I also have half my summons in his shadow, just in case something happens. Not to mention Winter."

To be fair, Winter alone was more than enough.

"You're impossible," she muttered, but there was no bite to it.

In the streets of Mantle below, where the festival of the Himmel König was still going strong, the people of the often-forgotten district reveled in the glow of the celebration.

Music echoed through the night, fireworks bursting above as laughter and chatter filled the air. Despite the fact that just above their kingdom was nearly brought to its knees and the White Fang nearly decapitated the beast that was Atlas, people down here simply could not give a shit.

Those who did notice and pretend to care, did so while making sure to use it as a reason to get even more fucked up, both to toast the new Hero of Atlas or to mourn the still-living Nobility of Atlas.

People here—whether they lived in the shadows of higher districts or were part of the bustling, hard-working population—had come together for one of the few moments they could call their own.

An excuse to get completely hammered and make full-on asses of themselves without anyone batting an eye.

It wasn't often that Mantle was remembered, but tonight? It was the star of the show. The streets buzzed with energy, far away from the big problems of the world, and people were too busy having fun to notice anything else.

They were all so caught up in their euphoria that none of them bothered to look up and witness the form the New Hero of Atlas leap off the edge of The Flying Island below, his wife cradled in his arms.

As they plummeted through the air, descending at terminal velocity, Willow clung to him, her arms around his neck, gathering whatever courage she could muster before leaning in to whisper in his ear.

"Your face is..." Willow muttered."...is not.. bad, too! I guess."

Jacques smiled.

His laughter was lost in the bellowing winds.