RWBY: Moon Reflection

Crimson stood silently, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion. His complexion was pale, and there was still a faint trace of blood on the corner of his lips. Despite his evident fatigue, his expression remained calm and unwavering. Around him, the group exchanged worried looks, unsure of what to say.

Qrow, however, couldn't hold back any longer. He crossed his arms and stepped forward, his voice sharp with frustration. "Crimson, why are you going so far for her? Don't tell me it's all this pity and kindred spirit bullshit you've been saying"

Crimson turned his gaze toward Qrow, his red eyes dull with fatigue. "It is," he said simply.

The bluntness of the response made Qrow's jaw tighten. He narrowed his eyes, his tone dripping with disbelief. "That's it? You're risking everything—your health, your life—for that?" He gestured toward the cell where Salem now sat, hidden from view. "You think pity is reason enough to—"

"Stop," Crimson interrupted, his voice low but commanding. He sighed, his exhaustion seeming to deepen as he continued. "You don't understand, dad. None of you do. And I wish you never do"

The room fell silent as his words hung in the air. Even Qrow, who had been ready to argue, hesitated.

"You don't know what it feels like," Crimson said, his tone heavy with a weariness that seemed to transcend the moment. "To feel tired of living. To wish every moment that you could just... die. To feel your heart burn with so much hate that it consumes everything else. It eats away at you until there's nothing left but the hate and the emptiness."

His words hit like a stone thrown into still water, sending ripples of unease through the group. Ruby's hand gripped the hem of her cloak tightly, her wide silver eyes filled with concern. Yang shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Blake, who remained stoic but visibly contemplative. Pyrrha, standing close to Crimson, looked as though she wanted to say something but didn't know how.

Crimson took a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and continued. "Telling you or explaining it to you would be pointless. You can't imagine what you've never experienced. You have all been through hardship, I know that. But this? This is different. You are simply incapable of understanding it. This is why I can talk and explain more to her than any of you, because she is the same as me."

The group remained silent, the weight of his words settling heavily over them. Frustration and fatigue bleeding into his voice as he added, "But if it'll make you less troubled by all this, think of it as a practical solution. She's immortal, yes, but her immortality is a curse. And curses can be broken—if the right conditions are met."

Ironwood frowned, his mind clearly racing to process the implications of Crimson's words. Qrow, though still skeptical, remained quiet, his earlier irritation tempered by an undercurrent of unease.

Crimson's eyes scanned the group, his exhaustion evident as he spoke again. "This isn't about seeking your approval or proving anything to anyone. I'm doing what I believe is right. That's all. And I'm not asking any of you to agree with me or understand."

Finally, he moved to sit on a nearby bench, his movements slow and deliberate. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting out a heavy sigh. "You don't need to overthink this," he said softly. "And you don't need to concern yourselves. I've made my choice, and I'll see it through."

The group exchanged uncertain glances, unsure how to respond. Pyrrha stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on Crimson's shoulder. Her touch seemed to ground him, if only a little.

"Crimson," she said softly, her voice filled with quiet understanding. "We just... don't want to see you get hurt. That's all."

He looked up at her, his expression softening. "I know, Pyrrha. And I appreciate that. But this is something I have to do. For her... and for myself."

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After some time, Crimson rose from his seat, his face regained its color. Without a word to the others, he made his way toward Salem's cell. The group exchanged silent glances, none of them daring to follow. Crimson's earlier words lingered in their minds, a weight they couldn't shake. They all understood, in their own way, that Crimson had endured experiences beyond their comprehension—depths of pain and despair that shaped his actions and perspective in ways they couldn't begin to grasp.

As Crimson approached the cell, the guards stationed nearby opened the heavy steel doors for him to pass. When he stepped inside the cell, he was alone with Salem.

She was seated on her bed wearing a simple white dress, her posture poised but her gaze distant. In her hands, she held a small mirror, staring intently at her own reflection. The faint light of the cell cast soft shadows across her features, emphasizing the blonde strands of her hair and the clear green of her eyes.

Crimson took a few steps closer, his voice gentle as he broke the silence. "How do you feel?"

Salem didn't look at him. Her eyes remained fixed on the mirror, studying her reflection as though it belonged to someone else. After a moment, she spoke, her voice quiet and uncertain. "Strange... and different." She paused, her fingers brushing against her face as though confirming it was real. "I... I've long since forgotten how I originally looked. Forgotten what it feels like to be human."

Crimson hummed softly, his expression thoughtful. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed loosely. "It's not something you have to rush to understand," he said. "Why not start with something small? Try one of the cookies. You might like them."

His words seemed to pull Salem from her trance. She lowered the mirror and turned her gaze to the basket of cookies he had brought earlier. For a moment, she simply stared at it, hesitation clear in her expression. Slowly, as though the act itself required courage, she extended a hand and picked up one of the cookies.

Salem held the cookie between her fingers, studying it as though it were something foreign and unfamiliar. Finally, she brought it to her lips, hesitated for a heartbeat, and then took a small bite.

The moment the cookie touched her tongue, her composure broke. Tears welled in her eyes, and she began to cry softly as she chewed. The taste was overwhelming—not because of its flavor, but because of what it represented. For the first time in centuries, perhaps even millennia, she tasted food. It was a sensation she had long since forgotten, buried beneath the weight of her curse and the bitterness of her existence.

Crimson watched her silently, his expression soft. He allowed her the moment, knowing there were no words he could say that would truly match its significance. When her quiet sobs subsided, he spoke, his tone firm but kind. "I'll bring you food from now on," he said. "And for today, I'm not letting anyone else bother you. Take your time."

Without waiting for a reply, Crimson turned and walked to the door. The sound of it closing echoed through the cell, leaving Salem alone once more.

She didn't speak or call after him. Instead, she simply sat there, the cookie still in her hand, tears streaming silently down her face. It was a strange mix of grief and relief, of sorrow for the centuries she had lost and gratitude for the small taste of something she had thought was gone forever.

In the quiet of the cell, Salem cried, her tears a release of emotions she hadn't allowed herself to feel for as long as she could remember. And for the first time in ages, she felt a small, flickering glimmer of something she hadn't thought possible: hope.

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The next day, Crimson entered Salem's cell carrying a tray of food. The room, still stark and metallic, felt slightly less oppressive as Salem looked up at him. For the first time, her expression held something close to anticipation, even gratitude.

"You are punctual," she remarked softly, her voice carrying a strange warmth.

Crimson placed the tray down on the table near her, filled with simple but fresh food—warm bread, cheese, and a cup of tea. Without lingering, he straightened up and turned toward the door. "I can't stay today," he said over his shoulder. "I've got some work to do."

Just as his hand reached the door handle, Salem's voice stopped him. "Crimson."

He turned slowly, his crimson eyes meeting hers. There was hesitation in her gaze, a rare vulnerability that caught him off guard. "What is it?" he asked, his tone steady but curious.

She looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. Her voice was quieter now, almost reluctant. "I want to tell you about your mother... Summer Rose."

Crimson froze. His expression remained unreadable, but the tension in his posture was undeniable. "Go on," he said evenly, though his voice carried a slight edge.

Salem hesitated, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her dress. "That year, when I faced Summer, I had an idea... a cruel one." She paused, her voice trembling slightly. "What if I could create a human grimm hybrid? Grimm with the intelligence and essence of humans. And what better subjects than silver-eyed warriors?"

Crimson's crimson gaze sharpened, his face a mask of calm as he silently urged her to continue.

"Summer Rose was my first test subject," Salem admitted, her voice heavy with the weight of her words. "After capturing her, I discovered something... Silver-eyed warriors, when they give up hope, can be turned into Grimm. The process is slow—agonizingly so—and the more pure-hearted they are, the longer it takes."

Salem's eyes flicked to his face, searching for any sign of reaction, but Crimson stood motionless, his expression betraying nothing.

She took a deep breath, her voice faltering slightly. "Your mother... she is neither dead nor alive. She is imprisoned under my castle, in the center of the land of darkness, slowly becoming a Grimm." Salem's voice grew quieter, tinged with guilt. "If you can make it in time... you might be able to reverse the process and save her before it's too late."

Her confession hung in the air like a storm cloud. She braced herself for his response, expecting anger, outrage, or even hatred. But Crimson remained silent for a long moment, his eyes locked onto hers.

Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but resolute. "Thanks for telling me." He turned back to the door, his hand resting on the handle. "I won't be around for a while."

And with that, he left the cell, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud.

Salem sat there, staring at the spot where he had stood. She had revealed something she never thought she would share, and yet his reaction was not what she had anticipated. No fury, no accusations, no doubt—just a quiet acknowledgment and a resolve to act.

As the silence returned to the cell, Salem couldn't help but wonder if, for the first time, she had taken a step toward redemption, however small.