RWBY: Moon Reflection-Chapter 112: Ozpin and Salem

The winds of Atlas howled faintly outside as another month passed. Reconstruction efforts were relentless, with the people of the kingdom working tirelessly to rebuild what they had lost. In the midst of the chaos, General Ironwood summoned Crimson and Qrow to a meeting. The notice had been short, but the tone implied importance.

When the two arrived at the designated room, they found an assembly of familiar faces waiting for them: General Ironwood stood at the head of the table, his expression as rigid as always. Winter Schnee, poised and professional, sat beside him. Clover Ebi stood quietly, his usual optimism dimmed by the weight of recent events. Oscar Pine sat nervously, fiddling with his sleeves, while Glynda Goodwitch—stern and composed as ever—watched the door.

As Crimson and Qrow entered, the room's atmosphere shifted slightly. The two greeted everyone, and Crimson took his seat next to Qrow, who, as always, brought his flask to his lips with a casual ease that seemed out of place given the circumstances.

Glynda's expression softened as her gaze fell on Crimson. "Back in Beacon," she began, a rare smile forming on her lips, "I and the other professors thought it was a pity you didn't want to become a huntsman. We knew you could have brought so much good to the world." Her eyes glimmered with pride. "And we were right. Look at how far you've come and how much you've achieved. You've helped accomplish what many of us had begun to give up on."

Qrow chuckled, taking another sip from his flask. "Guess the kid turned out alright after all."

Glynda's brow furrowed, her stern demeanor returning. "That doesn't change the fact that I still fail to see how Crimson and Ruby could possibly be your children, Qrow." Her voice carried a sharp edge, though her eyes betrayed a glint of humor. "Thank goodness they didn't take after you."

The room shared a quiet laugh, except for Qrow, who merely shrugged. "Hey, they got the best parts of me," he said with mock indignation.

Ironwood coughed, his voice cutting through the lighthearted moment. "Jokes aside, there's a reason we're here." He gestured toward Oscar, who immediately straightened in his seat. "Ozpin asked to speak with all of us today."

Oscar's nervous expression faded as his posture shifted. His demeanor changed entirely, and when he looked up, it was no longer Oscar but Ozpin who addressed the room.

"Thank you all for coming," Ozpin said, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the room. "And... thank you for everything you've done in my absence."

Crimson's eyes narrowed slightly, studying Ozpin. The man—if he could even be called that anymore—seemed different, burdened by something far heavier than usual.

"I owe you all an apology," Ozpin continued. "For abandoning you when you needed me most. For my indecisiveness. For my... cowardice."

The group remained silent, their expressions solemn as Ozpin's gaze swept over them.

"I have spent centuries believing that people are too easily swayed, too quick to corruption," Ozpin admitted. "It made me guarded, unwilling to trust others with the truth about Salem, about my past. I fought not with the intent to win but merely to hold her at bay, believing true victory was impossible." He sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping.

"For so long, I have acted out of fear," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "And in doing so, I caused countless deaths and sacrifices that may have been avoidable. But now... now, for the first time, the world is truly united. Salem is contained, and humanity stands stronger than ever."

Ozpin hesitated, his gaze dropping to the table. "Perhaps... this is the time to summon the gods. To let them judge humanity and decide if we are worthy of their guidance."

A heavy silence fell over the room, each person digesting Ozpin's words.

Crimson was the first to break the silence. "We're not summoning the gods."

Ozpin looked up, startled. "Crimson—"

"No," Crimson interrupted, his voice firm. "Remnant doesn't need the two gods to judge us. Their interference in this world has caused more suffering than anything else."

Ozpin's brows furrowed in confusion. "The gods created humanity. They gave us the relics to unite the world."

Crimson shook his head. "No, they didn't. The gods treated this world as their experiment. Humans were already here when they arrived. And even if they did create us, what about the Faunus? Were they part of this grand plan, or just collateral damage in their games?"

Ozpin opened his mouth to respond, but Crimson continued, his voice growing colder. "The gods created the Grimm. They sentenced Salem to an eternity of suffering—a punishment far beyond what was just. They trapped you in an endless cycle and painted it as some kind of honor." He leaned forward, his eyes hard. "The gods are worse than Salem, and summoning them is nothing short of stupidity."

Ozpin's expression faltered. "They wanted Salem to learn the value of life."

"And how well has that worked out for them?" Crimson shot back. "Salem has only sunk deeper into her hatred, dragging the rest of the world down with her. The gods aren't all-knowing. They're not wise. They're not just. And I'm not entrusting the fate of our world to them."

Ozpin lowered his head, his voice barely above a whisper. "They are the only way to break the cycle. The only way to remove Salem from this world."

Crimson sighed, his tone softening. "Then we'll bear with it. We'll figure something out. But summoning them is off the table."

Ozpin looked around the room, his gaze searching for dissent. But one by one, each person shook their head, silently siding with Crimson.

"I see," Ozpin said quietly. "I... apologize for wasting your time. I need to think on this further." His demeanor shifted, and Oscar returned, his expression troubled.

"Ozpin... retreated," Oscar said hesitantly. "But I could feel it—he's... despairing."

The group sighed collectively, the weight of the situation pressing down on them. After a moment, Crimson broke the silence.

"I want to talk with Salem."

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Qrow turned to him, incredulous. "What? Why?"

"Because I pity her," Crimson replied simply.

Qrow's eyes narrowed. "You've said that before, but I thought you were mocking her. Are you serious?"

Crimson nodded. "Yes. I pity her. And I see her as a kindred spirit."

The room fell silent, everyone processing his words.

Ironwood was the first to speak. "I can understand pity," he said slowly. "But... kindred spirit? I don't see the connection."

Crimson sighed, his gaze distant. "If I were in her place... if I had gone through what she did... I know I would've done worse. Much worse. Remnant would have been destroyed long ago by my hands."

No one responded immediately. The idea was too foreign, too unfathomable.

"I was lucky," Crimson continued. "Lucky not to turn out like her. Lucky not to face the same circumstances. But that doesn't mean I can't understand where she's coming from."

The room remained quiet, the group exchanging uneasy glances.

Ironwood finally broke the silence. "I'll make the arrangements for you to visit her."

Crimson nodded, gratitude evident in his expression. "Thank you."

And with that, the meeting ended, leaving the group to wrestle with the implications of Crimson's words—and the path he had chosen to take.

_______________________

A week had passed since Crimson's request to visit Salem, and now the time had come. He stepped through a swirling red portal, its edges shimmering like molten glass, and emerged inside the Argus military base. The brisk air of the facility was immediately filled with a sense of tension as he strode forward.

Waiting for him was his aunt, Raven Branwen, leaning casually against the wall near the portal. Her ever-watchful eyes scanned him briefly before she nodded in acknowledgment.

"Thank you," Crimson said sincerely, his tone warm despite the heavy purpose of his visit. "For everything."

Raven smirked faintly, folding her arms. "Don't mention it."

Behind Crimson, Qrow and Ironwood emerged from the portal. Qrow carried his usual flask, though he hadn't taken a sip. His gaze flickered uneasily to the deeper parts of the base. Ironwood, always composed, carried a more subtle weight in his expression, the calculated worry of a general who had prepared for every contingency but still feared the unknown.

Despite Salem being bound and restrained, there was an unspoken fear among them all. She wasn't just any enemy; she was a force of nature, ancient and nearly indomitable. Even Crimson's strength and resolve weren't enough to fully ease their concern.

The three men made their way to the deepest section of the base, passing through layers of security. Each checkpoint they crossed was manned by soldiers who saluted sharply, their expressions betraying their unease at guarding something as dangerous as Salem. Eventually, they reached the final door—a massive, reinforced gateway that led to the chamber where she was being held.

Crimson turned to Ironwood and Qrow, his expression calm but resolute. "I'm going in alone."

Ironwood's brow furrowed, and Qrow's grip tightened around his flask. The two exchanged a glance, their shared unease evident.

"Are you sure about this, Crimson?" Qrow asked, his voice gruff. "She's not exactly the chatty type, and even restrained, she's still Salem."

Crimson nodded. "I want to talk to her alone. She and I… have many things in common."

Ironwood hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. "We'll wait out here. But if anything happens…" He left the threat unspoken, though the warning was clear.

Qrow sighed but stepped back as well. "Just don't do anything stupid," he muttered, though his concern was evident in his tone.

With that, Crimson pushed open the final door.

The chamber was dimly lit, the cold, sterile light from overhead casting long shadows on the metallic walls. At its center, sitting on the cold floor, was Salem. She was a far cry from the terrifying figure who had led the Grimm army. Her body still tied with cabled, Her hair was disheveled, her posture slouched, and her once-piercing crimson eyes were heavy with despair. Her aura of menace had faded, replaced by an overwhelming sense of defeat.

Crimson stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a soft hiss. He stood silently for a moment, observing her. Then, with a quiet breath, he greeted her. "Salem."

Her head lifted slightly, her gaze meeting his. There was no hostility in her eyes, only a deep, weary emptiness that seemed to stretch back through lifetimes. "So," she said, her voice hoarse and low, "you have come to mock me?"

Crimson shook his head, stepping closer before lowering himself to the ground. He sat cross-legged on the cold, metallic floor a few feet away from her, his posture relaxed but deliberate. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady and unwavering. "No. I'm not here to mock you. I told you before—I don't hate you."

Salem let out a bitter, hollow laugh. The sound echoed off the chamber walls, devoid of the power and menace it once carried. "Of course," she said, her tone laced with sarcasm. "You are here to pity me, aren't you?" The sharp edge in her voice had dulled, worn away by despair.

Crimson didn't flinch. "Yes," he admitted calmly, "I pity you. Because I see you as a kindred spirit—someone who was just… unlucky."

Salem's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something—doubt, curiosity, or perhaps a faint ember of indignation—crossing her face. "A kindred spirit?" she repeated, her tone disbelieving. "You think you and I are the same, child? Can you even comprehend what I have done? The life I have endured?"

Crimson didn't answer right away. Instead, he let her words settle in the still air between them. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "Do you mind if I tell you a story? A story I have never shared with anyone"

The chamber fell silent again, his question lingering like a faint echo. Crimson remained seated, his posture open, unthreatening, and patient. He watched her closely, waiting for her to decide whether to engage.

Salem studied him for a long moment, her gaze unreadable. For centuries, people had only approached her with anger, greed, fear and hatred. Yet here was someone speaking to her without any of those things. He didn't cower or accuse, nor did he demand answers or retribution. He simply sat there, waiting.

For the first time in ages, someone treated her not as a monster, not as an enemy, not as a grimm, but as a person. Though she didn't show it, a part of her was curious—curious to hear what he had to say, and perhaps curious about why he had come at all.

Finally, she let out a soft sigh, her shoulders sagging even further. "I have all the time in the world," she said, her voice quieter now, almost contemplative. "Tell me your story."