[ It is peaceful, in the place that came after death. It is not quite the same peace he'd once known, but the similarities cut deep enough that he sinks and sinks and sinks and does not want to climb back out. This is what he'd wanted.
This is, finally, an opportunity to make the choice again. He can choose to rest.
Ozpin sits beneath Cynthia's moon, at the base of a black stone tree planted by Qrow's calloused hands, and lets himself drift. There is little to do in this place but be, quiet and softly muted. The deer-creature asks nothing from him, but nor is it really company. It is simply a facet of the world, silent and unjudging, sitting with its blood-red apple still in hand.
Ozpin does not have to eat the apple. He knows this, and understands it: he could simply stay. He could let the peace swallow him until every thought has gently bled from his mind. With the passing hours— are they hours? days?— he feels himself coming unmoored, becoming less the cohesive whole of Ozpin and more the collection of all the men he has ever been. He is Oscar Pine; he is the last King of Vale; he—
He is Ozma.
And he does have a mission to uphold, still. His death will come, someday, but this is not how it will happen. He will not consign Remnant to an early grave. He can go a little while longer.
(He has thought as much often, in quiet, fervent tones: just a little while longer. There will always be something to make the next stretch bearable.)
(This time, it's the thought of Oscar and Qrow.) ]
I made a promise. [ He tells this to the deer-creature, which tips its masked head to regard him. Its antlers are not His antlers, and Ozpin finds that he has no fear of it. ] I assured someone that I would not run away.
[ He picks himself up out of the silvery grass, and wishes for his cane as he does. No matter. He'll just have to go and ask for it back. ]
I think it's time I returned to them. If I may?
[ The apple is precisely the color of fresh-spilled blood. In the end, he doesn't remember what it tastes like. ]
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(1/2) continuing cws for death, grief, suicidality
This is, finally, an opportunity to make the choice again. He can choose to rest.
Ozpin sits beneath Cynthia's moon, at the base of a black stone tree planted by Qrow's calloused hands, and lets himself drift. There is little to do in this place but be, quiet and softly muted. The deer-creature asks nothing from him, but nor is it really company. It is simply a facet of the world, silent and unjudging, sitting with its blood-red apple still in hand.
Ozpin does not have to eat the apple. He knows this, and understands it: he could simply stay. He could let the peace swallow him until every thought has gently bled from his mind. With the passing hours— are they hours? days?— he feels himself coming unmoored, becoming less the cohesive whole of Ozpin and more the collection of all the men he has ever been. He is Oscar Pine; he is the last King of Vale; he—
He is Ozma.
And he does have a mission to uphold, still. His death will come, someday, but this is not how it will happen. He will not consign Remnant to an early grave. He can go a little while longer.
(He has thought as much often, in quiet, fervent tones: just a little while longer. There will always be something to make the next stretch bearable.)
(This time, it's the thought of Oscar and Qrow.) ]
I made a promise. [ He tells this to the deer-creature, which tips its masked head to regard him. Its antlers are not His antlers, and Ozpin finds that he has no fear of it. ] I assured someone that I would not run away.
[ He picks himself up out of the silvery grass, and wishes for his cane as he does. No matter. He'll just have to go and ask for it back. ]
I think it's time I returned to them. If I may?
[ The apple is precisely the color of fresh-spilled blood. In the end, he doesn't remember what it tastes like. ]