The
Phantom slowly, gravely, and silently approached, scattering gloom and mystery.
It was
adorned in a red and black eastern robe and adorned with a red sash the likes
of which Ozpin had never seen before. Rather scandalously, below the robe the
Spirit wore a short black skirt displaying the shapely upper legs of a female
before being encased in a tall dark boot. But it was not the reveal of skin
that bothered Ozpin most, but rather the headdress it wore. Upon its head was a
helmet that looked much like a Grimm’s skull and flowing out the back of it was
what appeared to be long, spiky, and unkempt black hair. Finally, the Ghost
bore a long, curved eastern sword in a revolving sheathe full of Heaven’s knew
what, but Ozpin thought they may have been Dust blades.
Its
mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread, forcing him to kneel.
“Am I
in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?” asked Ozpin.
The
Spirit answered not, but inclined its head as if to nod.
“You
are to show me the shadows of the things that have not happened, but may happen
in the time before us?”
The Spirit
nodded again. Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Ozpin feared
the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found he
could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. It thrilled him with a vague
horror that behind the piercing red eyes of the helmet, there were ghostly eyes
intently fixed upon him.
“Ghost
of the Future… I fear you more than any spectre I have seen tonight. But as I
know your purpose is to do me good, I am prepared to bear your company.”
The
Spirit said naught, but instead regarded him thoughtfully.
“Will you
not speak to me?!”
It
gave him no reply, but it did draw out a sword and cut the air before them
generating another portal of red and black energy.
“The
night is waning fast and time is precious to me. Lead on, Spirit! Lead on!”
The
Phantom moved away as it had come toward him, and Ozpin followed in its berth.
They
scarcely had exited the portal when the city had encompassed them of its own
act. Ozpin knew the street well they were on for it was the business district
of Vale. Merchants and bankers hurried up and down, exchanged lien, conversed
in groups, and looked at their watches, and trifled thoughtfully with their proceedings
as Ozpin had seen them do so often.
The Spirit
stopped beside one knot of business men. Observing that its hand was pointed to
them, Ozpin advanced to listen to their talk and immediately recognized them as
some of his former business associates. Among them were Adam Taurus, Hazel
Rainart, Arthur Watts, and Jacques Schnee.
“No,”
said Watts. “I don't know much about it, either way. I only know he's dead.”
“When
did he die?” inquired Hazel.
“Last
night, I believe.”
“Why,
what was the matter with him?” asked Jacques.
“Gods
know,” said Watts.
“I
thought he’d never die,” said Hazel with an affirming smile.
“What
has he done with his money?” asked Adam.
“I
haven't heard,” replied Watts. “Left it to his company, I imagine.”
“He could’ve
left with me,” suggested Jacques.
This
pleasantry was received with a general laugh.
“It's
likely to be a very cheap funeral,” said Hazel. “I don't know of anybody who
would go to it.”
“I
don't mind going if lunch is provided,” said Adam.
Another
laugh.
“Well,
I am the most disinterested among you,” said Watts. “Yes, even you Hazel. As
you know, I never wear black gloves, and I never eat lunch.”
Jacques
grunted. “I'll offer to go, if anybody else will. But come to think of it, I'm
not at all sure that I wasn't his most particular friend for we used to stop
and speak whenever we met.”
The
others grunted, and then the four men bid each other good morning before
dispersing.
Ozpin
was at first surprised that the Spirit should attach importance to a
conversation so trivial. But feeling assured that it must have had some hidden
purpose, he set himself to consider what it was likely to be. It could scarcely
be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Ironwood for that was past and
this Ghost's province was the future. Nor could he think of any one immediately
connected with himself. But not doubting that it had some latent moral for his
own improvement, he resolved to treasure every word he heard. It was also
Ozpin’s hope to observe the shadow of himself when it appeared for he had
expected that the conduct of his future self would give him the clue he missed.
The
Spirit stepped away and bid Ozpin to follow it. They left the busy scene and
went into an obscure part of the town where Ozpin had never been before,
although he recognized its situation and bad repute. The ways were foul and
narrow, the shops and houses wretched, and the people half-naked, drunken,
slipshod, and ugly. Alleys and archways disgorged their offending smells, dirt,
and life upon the straggling streets and the whole quarter reeked of crime,
filth, and misery.
Far in
this den of infamous resort, there was a low-browed, beetling shop where iron,
old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal were bought. Upon the floor within
were piles of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and
refuse iron of all kinds. Sitting in among the wares he dealt by a charcoal
stove made of old bricks was a man in his apparent thirties, smoking a cigar in
all the luxury of calm retirement. He wore an unfittingly clean white coat with
long black gloves. Adorning his head was a black bowler that sat comfortably
upon his bright orange hair which was slicked over his right eye. Beside him
sat his ever constant and perpetually silent companion; a young lady that had
she been found on the street proper, she would’ve been the fitting target for
many young men and their adoring woos. But here among the dank and filth,
dressed in a trinity of garish colors which also adorned her hair and the
parasol she twisted in her fingers, no man would’ve mistaken her for an
adorable lady or blushing virgin. A lopsided smirk gave away her true
affiliation despite her company and surroundings.
Ozpin
and the Phantom came into their presence just as a woman in a red dress with a
heavy bundle slunk into the shop. But she had scarcely entered, when another
woman, much younger and with lime green hair, similarly laden, came in too. She
was closely followed by a young man in shirt of faded black and grey. The three
of them looked at each other in astonishment before simultaneously bursting
into laughter.
“First
the charwoman,” commented the girl in red. “Then the laundress and finally the undertaker.
Look at that, Roman,” she said, addressing the man in the bowler. “We’re all
here at once by chance.”
“You
couldn't have met in a better place,” said Roman, removing his cigar from his
mouth. “Come into the parlor. None of you are strangers here. Neo,” said Roman,
speaking to the girl beside him, “shut the door.”
Neo
nodded once and bounded up with utmost glee. She shut the door to the shop and
bolted it shut while Roman took the other three into the parlor, which was
nothing more than a space behind a screen of old rags. Roman threw a fire
crystal into the fireplace and shot it with the end of his cane. The logs burst
into flame and chased the chill from the room, but it was none the cheerier.
While
he did this, the woman in the red dress threw her bundle on the floor, and sat
down in a flaunting manner on a stool, crossing her elbows on her knees and
looking with a confident defiance at the other two.
“Something
the matter, Emerald?” asked the woman. “Every person has a right to take care
of himself. He always did.”
“You
don’t need to tell me, Cinder. No man more so than himself.”
“Why
do you look at me like that then as if you know better? We’re all wretched in
this manner. Right?”
“Yeah,”
said Emerald with a shrug.
“Oh,
yeah?” said the man. “But which of us is the most wretched?” he said with a
smile.
Cinder
smirked. “Oh? Is that your scheme, Mercury? Tell me: who's worse off for the loss
of a few things like these? Certainly not a dead man. If he wanted to keep them
after he died, the wicked old screw, why wasn't he kinder in his lifetime? If
he had been, maybe he would have had somebody to look after him when death came
calling.”
“Too
true,” agreed Emerald. “‘Tis his own punishment.”
“I
wish it was a little worse. It should have been, if only I could have grabbed
more. Open that bundle, Roman, and tell me what it’s worth.”
But
the gallantry of Cinder’s friends would not allow of this. Mercury produced his
plunder first just for spite. It was not extensive: a seal or two, a pencil case,
a pair of sleeve-buttons, and a brooch of no great value. They were examined
and appraised by Roman, who chalked the sums he was disposed to give for each
upon the wall and added them up into a total when he found there was nothing
more to come.
“That's
your account,” said Roman. “And I wouldn't give another lien even if it meant
being imprisoned on Mantle. Who's next?”
Emerald
was next. Sheets and towels, a little wearing apparel, two old-fashioned silver
teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a few boots. Her account was stated on
the wall in the same manner.
“I
always give too much to girls. It's a weakness of mine, and that's how I ruin
myself,” said Roman. “That's your account. If you ask for another lien, I'll
repent of being so liberal and knock off a dozen.”
“And
now undo my bundle, Roman,” said Cinder.
Roman
unfastened a great many knots, and dragged out a large and heavy roll of some
dark material.”What are these? Bed curtains?”
“Why,
yes,” said Cinder with a poisonous smile. “Bed curtains.”
“Don’t
tell me you took them down, rings and all, with him lying there?”
Cinder’s
lips curled further. “So what if I did?”
“You were
born to make your fortune,” commented Roman. “I’d hate to get in the way of
that.”
“I should
certainly hope so, Roman. I won’t stay my hand when I can get anything I want
by reaching out and taking it. Especially when it comes to a man like this.”
Roman
grunted. “And what are these? His blankets?”
“Whose
else's would they be? He isn't likely to catch a cold without them, I dare say.”
“Well,
I hope he didn't die of anything catching.”
“Don't
be afraid of that. I wasn’t so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him
for such things if he did. And you may look through that shirt till your eyes
ache, but you won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. It's the best he
had, and a fine one too. They'd have wasted it if it hadn't been for me.”
“What
do you mean by that?” asked Roman, eyeing her up.
“Somebody
was fool enough to put it on him to be buried in!” said Cinder, cackling. “As
if calico isn't good enough for such a purpose. It's more becoming of his body.
He couldn’t possibly get any uglier anyway.”
Ozpin
listened on in horror. As they sat grouped about their spoil in the scanty
light, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust, which could hardly have
been greater.
“This
is how it ends for him,” continued Cinder. “He frightened every one away from
him when he was alive.”
“So he
could profit us when he was dead,” finished Mercury. They both shared a laugh.
“Spirit,”
said Ozpin, shuddering from head to foot. “I understand. The case of this
unhappy man might be my own as my life tends that way now.” Growing weary of
the cackling behind him, Ozpin pleaded with the Spectre. “These horrible
cretins! Preying on a defenseless man’s plight! Please, Spirit; tell me this
future still has some tenderness in it. Surely, not the whole of Remnant is as
unfeeling as this at a person’s death.”
The
Ghost drew her katana and sliced the air, producing another portal. The Spirit
conducted Ozpin through it and he found himself in a familiar location.
“Ah!
The island of Patch! Taiyang’s home.” But as Ozpin walked to the window, he
stopped. He couldn’t help but shake the eerily still silence around him. When
he had been on Patch before, it seemed like a happy, warm, and noisy place, but
now it seemed rather distant and quiet.
Ozpin
looked through the window and spotted Summer and Yang in the house together,
sitting near the fireplace. Ozpin looked to the kitchen and noticed that
Christmas supper was indeed being cooked, but it wasn’t being attended to with
Summer’s past haste. Summer suddenly put a hand to her face.
“The
light of the fire hurts my eyes,” she said. “It makes them weak, and I wouldn't
want to show weak eyes to your father when he comes home. It must be near his
time.”
“Past
it rather,” commented Yang, staring into the void. “But I think he’s walked a
little slower than he used to.”
They
were quiet again. At last, Summer said in a steady, cheerful voice, that only
faltered once, “I have known your father—I have known him to walk very fast
indeed with Tiny Ruby upon his shoulder. But she was very light to carry.”
Ozpin
looked to the Ghost. “Where is Tiny Ruby?”
The
Ghost pointed to a corner near the fireplace where a vacant seat and a scythe
without an owner leaned against the wall. Both were carefully preserved.
“Oh,
no,” wailed Ozpin. “Tell me it isn’t true, Spirit. Tell me it isn’t true.”
Ozpin
heard slow steps behind him and up ambled Taiyang, looking all the more haggard
and tired than usual.
“Here’s
your father, now,” said Summer as he entered.
“Dad,”
said Yang somberly. She approached her father and gave him a long embrace
around the middle. Tai leaned his chin on her head and welcomed the sorrowful
embrace from his now only child.
Summer
sidled up, sniffing. “Yang. Could you do me a favor and set the table?”
Yang
relinquished her father and did as she was told.
“You
went today, didn’t you, Tai?”
“I
did,” he replied. “I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to
see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often. I promised her that I
would walk there on Sunday. My little, little child,” cried Tai. “My little
child.”
He
broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he could have helped it, he and
his child would have been farther apart perhaps than they were.
Tai
dried his eyes and took his seat at the table. “On my way home, I met Mr. Ozpin’s
nephew, Qrow. He noticed that I looked a little down and inquired about what
had happened. I told him. He said he was heartily sorry for it, and sorry for
my wife and my older daughter. He gave me his card and said that if he could be
of any service, I should go to see him for the sake of anything he might be
able to do for us. It really seemed as if he had known our Tiny Ruby, and felt
with us.”
“I'm
sure he's a good soul,” said Summer.
“You
would be certain of it, my dear, if you saw and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at
all surprised if he could get Yang a better position.”
“Hear
that, Yang?”
“I
heard it,” said Yang with a weak smile. “It’s just…” Yang paused to wipe the
bottom of her eye. “I don’t want to be away from the family right now.”
“I
understand,” said Tai. “But despite our grieving, life goes on. Even still
though, there’s plenty of time for life. And however or whenever we part from
one another, I am sure that none of us will forget poor Tiny Ruby.
“And I
know that when we recollect how patient and how mild she was, although she was
a little, little child, we shall not quarrel among ourselves, and forget Tiny
Ruby in doing it.”
“No,”
said Yang.
“We
shan’t,” Summer finished.
Tai
wiped his eyes. “I am happy, then. Very, very happy, indeed.”
“Spectre,”
said Ozpin, turning from the window. “Something informs me that our parting
moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how. But before we part, I must
know, the man being discussed in the business district, and the man, the
abysmal wretch who brought those even more wretched ghouls such profit, they
are one and the same man, are they not, Spirit?”
The
Ghost gave no answer, but Ozpin still shivered.
“I
must know, Spirit; who was the man who died?”
The Ghost
drew her katana again and opened another portal. They walked through it and
Ozpin was not wholly surprised, but still chilled, to find himself once again
in a churchyard surrounded by graves.
The
Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to one. Here Ozpin would learn
the name of the wretch he had asked about, the same man who now lay beneath the
ground.
He
advanced toward it trembling. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but he
dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape.
“Before
I draw nearer to that grave,” said Ozpin, “answer me one question: are these the
shadows of the things that will be or are they shadows of things that may be
only?”
The
Ghost made no answer and continued to point down at the grave by which it
stood.
“Men's
courses foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead,”
reasoned Ozpin, trembling as he approached. “But if the courses be departed
from, the ends will change. Isn’t that right, Spirit?”
The
Spirit was as immovable as ever.
Ozpin
crept toward it, shaking. He followed the finger and read upon the neglected
grave his own name: Ebenezer Ozpin.
“Am I
that man who was discussed on the street and whose possessions were pillaged?”
he cried, upon his knees.
The
finger pointed from the grave to him and back again.
“No,
Spirit. Oh, no, no. Spirit!” he cried, clutching her robe. “Hear me! I am not
the man I was. I will not be the man who ends here. Why show me this if I am
past all hope?”
For
the first time, the hand appeared to shake.
“Good
Spirit,” he pursued, groveling before it. “Your nature intercedes for me and pities
me. Assure me that I may change these shadows you have shown me by an altered
life.”
The
hand trembled.
“I
will honor Christmas in my heart and keep it all the year. I will live in the
past, the present, and the future. The Spirits of all three shall strive within
me. I will not shut out the lessons they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away
the writing on this stone!”
In his
agony, he caught the spectral hand. It sought to free itself, but he was strong
in his entreaty and detained it. The Spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him.
Holding
up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate aye reversed, the Phantom drew
its sword and slashed across his torso. A portal opened up behind Ozpin and
drew him downward.
***
Keep writing, my friends.
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