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Qrow could always remember the moment his dark red eyes first fell upon the most breathtaking sight he had ever seen — as if the very heavens had conspired to haunt him with beauty. It carved itself into his memory like a name etched into stone, unforgettable, unyielding, a vision that clung to his mind the way a curse clings to the soul of a dying man. No matter how many bottles he emptied or battles he survived, that single moment remained — vibrant, vivid, venomous.
It had been a night meant for triumph — a celebration of Team STRQ's victory at the Vytal Festival, held within the glittering heights of Atlas, where cold elegance kissed every marble floor and golden chandelier. Ozpin himself, ever the careful architect of moments, had arranged the gathering, co-hosted by none other than Nicholas Schnee, the imposing patriarch of the SDC.
Qrow, for his part, felt suffocated. His tie itched. The champagne tasted like ash. The politeness of the elite grated on him like a blade across stone. He and Raven, kindred in their shared contempt for high society, had exchanged weary glances from opposite ends of the ballroom, both aching to escape into the comfort of noise and neon — a bar, a brawl, anything real. Summer had insisted they stay, her voice sugar-sweet but firm as steel, promising a true celebration once they returned to Vale.
Qrow didn't quite believe her. He loved Summer—or at least respected her enough to stay—but she was too straight-laced for his kind of fun. She played by rules even when she bent them. She smiled too much, forgave too easily, and drank far too little.
But then — gods, then — his world shifted.
She appeared on the grand staircase like something out of a dream—no, a vision. A myth given form. An angel descending not with fanfare, but with grace so effortless it stole the breath from his lungs. The idle noise of the party dulled to a low hum, as though the world itself held its breath to watch her descend.
Her dress was starlight woven into silk, flowing with each step, catching the crystal light and bending it around her like a spell. Her hair was free, curled softly, a few wayward strands brushing her cheeks in a way that felt deliberately imperfect—perfectly human. Her face, sharp yet delicate, bore the kind of beauty that hurt to look at for too long. Black eyeshadow framed those brilliant, ice-blue eyes, cold yet kind, distant yet dangerously close to pulling him under. And her lips, glossed and glistening, curved into a smile that was not meant for him, and yet pierced him like it was.
Her attire that night was nothing short of ethereal. The bodice she wore was pale blue, strapless and elegant, revealing her slender neck and bare shoulders, so pale and delicate they might've been carved from porcelain. There was a fragility to her, not of weakness, but of something rare, something that should not be touched without reverence.
Her skirt flowed endlessly from her waist, so long it swept the floor like a whisper, trailing behind her, and it was crafted, it seemed, not from silk or satin, but from layer upon layer of white feathers, like the wings of a thousand swans gathered at her feet. And when she moved, they rustled in harmony, giving the illusion of flight, as though she were a creature not meant for the ground.
Wrapped around her arms, rising to nearly her elbows, were fingerless white opera gloves, adorned with tiny blue jewels that caught the light like frozen tears. Her nails, painted the softest shade of blue, mirrored the hue of her bodice, as if she had dipped each fingertip in ice and left them to sparkle.
Willow Schnee.
That was her name.
And to Qrow, it echoed like a song, a melody he would never forget, even if he tried. It became a part of him, etched into the fabric of his memory, as permanent as scars and far more beautiful.
When the music began and hesitant dancers clung to the edges of the ballroom, uncertain and shy, Qrow felt none of their fear.
For once, the young cynic troublemaker, had purpose.
He stepped forward, each footfall steady despite the thunder in his chest, and extended a hand toward her with as much grace as he could summon. He asked her to dance — politely, almost nervously — hoping to leave an impression on the woman who looked like winter come to life, like snow delicately resting on the branch of a tree.
Willow's expression shifted the moment he asked. Surprise danced across her delicate features, her lips parting into a soft "O" of astonishment, as though the very thought of someone like him, rough-edged and out of place in such gilded halls, stepping forward to ask her to dance had caught her entirely off guard. But the moment passed, and in its place bloomed a smile — gentle, warm, and lovely.
She nodded slowly, a quiet grace in the motion, and extended her hand to him. Qrow took it — perhaps a little too eagerly, but his calloused fingers closed around hers with a care that betrayed the wildness of his reputation.
He helped her to her feet with all the ceremony of a knight raising a queen, and together they made their way, slowly, deliberately, to the heart of the dance floor, where music and candlelight met like old lovers.
Though the room had once felt like a prison of etiquette and false smiles, now, in her presence, it felt almost... sacred.
To his great relief, Qrow found his body remembering the steps he'd begrudgingly learned during the Vytal Ball — stiff lessons pressed into muscle memory, now softened by the rhythm of the strings and the woman in his arms. He matched her step for step, his movements careful, measured, while hers were effortless, flowing with an elegance that made her appear as though she floated rather than danced.
They moved in harmony, the distance between them narrowing, not in inches but in something deeper—something unspoken. Crimson eyes, storm-tossed and shadowed by years of blood and dust, gazed into eyes as blue as glacier light, untouched by the ugliness of the world yet brimming with silent understanding.
A bandit's stare met a noblewoman's gaze, and for those brief, golden minutes, nothing else existed.
It was as though they were bewitched by one another, held in place by a spell only their eyes could cast — too entranced to look away, too drawn to break the moment. But all things, even the beautiful ones, must end.
The final note of the song drifted into silence, and the spell broke gently, like a dream stirring into wakefulness. They slowed, then stopped, the moment suspended between them like dust in candlelight. Without a word, they walked together toward a small, round table nearby — empty, waiting, as if it had known they would need it.
Willow sat with her hands neatly folded in her lap, her smile still present, still soft — the kind of smile that didn't fade with silence. She tilted her head slightly, her voice light and just a touch unsure, as though she feared offense.
"I didn't expect someone like you to be, well... quite so familiar with ballroom dancing," she said, her words tinged with hesitation, not cruelty.
Qrow didn't bristle. He heard no malice, only curiosity — and perhaps a hint of amusement. He smirked, the expression crooked and half-shy in spite of itself. "What can I say?" he replied, leaning back in his seat. "I'm just full of surprises,"
Willow let out a soft giggle, hand rising gently to her chest. "Indeed," she said, voice like bells wrapped in velvet.
Then, as if remembering something important, she straightened ever so slightly.
"Ah, forgive me," she said. "I should've introduced myself sooner... I'm Willow Schnee,"
"I'm Qrow Branwen," he said, his voice low but steady.
Willow tilted her head, a knowing smile dancing on her lips. "Yes, I know," she said softly, her eyes sparkled with a quiet amusement as she went on, "I watched you fight during the team and duo rounds of the tournament,"
The words caught Qrow off guard — not because they were bold, but because they were hers. She had seen him, not just seen someone, but him. His posture shifted, just slightly, his confidence dipping into something sheepish. "O-oh? Really? That's... uh... cool," he managed, the words tumbling out more awkwardly than he intended, betraying the rare flutter in his chest.
Willow laughed — a little louder this time, sounding like chimes in a soft breeze. "Yes, cool indeed," she echoed, teasing. Her smile deepened, her eyes narrowing playfully. "In fact, I've heard a bit about you,"
Qrow groaned internally, already sensing the direction. He leaned back a bit, lifting a hand as if to defend himself from whatever was coming next. "Just so you know, most of them are rumors, especially the ones about me wearing a skirt, those photos are doctored,"
Willow raised a brow, intrigued, clearly enjoying this far more than he was. "Truly?" she asked, voice laced with mischief. "So even the tale of you killing a Nevermore mid-air with a lit Molotov to the beak is false?"
Qrow blinked, then gave her a sidelong glance and a smirk. "No, that one's real, damn bird ruined a perfectly good bottle of booze," he muttered, the last part under his breath.
But Willow heard him—and her smile only grew. She leaned in just slightly, curiosity gleaming like starlight in her eyes. "Tell me... what's it like? Being a Huntsman?"
What's it like?" Qrow echoed.
He glanced away, eyes flicking toward the grand ballroom windows — but he wasn't looking at the lights or the snow beyond. He was looking inward, remembering.
"Well," he began, voice softening with a fondness not even he knew he had, "To be honest... it's a little fun, y'know? There's something wild and good about it. Roaming from town to town, forest to desert, mountain to shore... Fighting Grimm, saving lives, doing the whole "hero" thing, it's messy, it's dangerous, but it feels... right, especially when it's all over and you see the faces of the people you've saved, the relief, the gratitude, that flicker of hope that wasn't there before,"
He smiled faintly, eyes warming.
"Yeah, that's the part that stays with you,"
Willow tilted her head, resting her chin lightly in her hand, her gaze never leaving his. "That does sound exciting," she said, her voice delicate, dreamlike. "But... doesn't it get frightening? To walk through so much danger... doesn't it ever feel like too much?"
Qrow let out a breath and nodded, slow and solemn. "Yeah," he admitted. "It does, there've been times I thought it was the end—times I was sure I'd be nothing more than a Grimm's next meal, times I felt small, and tired, and scared in a way I can't even put into words,"
Willow leaned in just a little, as if afraid his honesty might break if she moved too suddenly. "But?" she asked gently.
"But I still wouldn't trade it for anything," he said, his voice resolute, almost reverent. "Because when I think about all the people I've helped... the friends I've fought beside, laughed with, bled with — it makes every scar, every ache, every sleepless night worth it, I don't think I could ever do anything else, or be anything else... This life, for all its rough edges... it fits me,"
His words caught her off guard — not for their meaning, but for their sincerity. She had expected charm, maybe even bravado... but not this. Not this raw and honest man who stared danger in the face and smiled, not because he was fearless, but because he had purpose.
"I've always wondered what it would be like," Willow murmured, a wistfulness slipping into her tone like a sigh beneath her words. "To live a life like that... to see the world, to meet new people, to feel the wind of a different country on your face, to taste food made by hands you've never met... To choose where you go, what you do, who you become, it must be... wonderful... To be free,"
Qrow's brow furrowed slightly, her words ringing with something he hadn't expected — not envy, not longing... but sadness. "You've never left Atlas?" he asked, the question simple, but weighted.
Willow shook her head gently, the soft curls of her hair swaying like silk. "Never," she admitted, her voice laced with a fragility that brushed against something deep in Qrow. "I've lived in Atlas my entire life, not once have I set foot beyond its walls, never seen the other kingdoms, never breathed the air of another land, my world ends where these icy streets fade into snow,"
Qrow's brows knit together, a quiet astonishment stirring in his chest. "That sounds... awful," he said, blunt and unfiltered, but honest. "I can't imagine being stuck in a place like this, not that there's anything wrong with it, exactly! It's... it's nice, sure! But everyone here just seems-!"
"Fake," The word slid from Willow's lips like a dagger made of glass.
Qrow stopped mid-sentence, his rambling silenced by the sharp cut of her voice. He looked at her, truly looked — and for a heartbeat, the noise of the ballroom faded into nothing.
Willow met his gaze, her expression no longer clouded with charm or polite amusement, but something more vulnerable—more real.
"I know what you were trying to say," she said softly, her hands resting atop one another, fingers curling slightly. "My mother and father, they love me, they check in, they ask questions, but always behind a polished smile or through a secretary," She looked down, her voice quiet but steady. "And everyone else? The guests, the suitors, the so-called friends? They're not here for me, they're here for my last name, for my father's favor,"
She lifted her head, her gaze like winter sky—cold but clear.
"It's lonely, Qrow, truly... I feel like I've never known what it means to have real friends—just courtiers in disguise,"
Qrow felt something shift in him — a kind of quiet fury, not at her, but for her, and without overthinking, without hesitating, he leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table as his voice dropped low and warm. "Well," he said, plainspoken as ever, "if it's a friend you're looking for... I can be one,"
The words weren't polished, but they didn't need to be.
They were real, like wind against the skin, like laughter after sorrow.
And for Willow Schnee, who had spent her life behind masks and mirrors, it was perhaps the first thing in a long time that felt utterly, painfully genuine.
She gave him a smile—not the rehearsed, practiced kind she wore for photographs and galas, but something softer, more vulnerable. It touched her eyes, warmed her cheeks, and for a fleeting second, she looked like a girl unburdened by expectation. "I'd love that, Qrow," she said, her voice a feather on the air.
Qrow felt his own smile pull at his lips, unbidden and easy. "Good, because I'd love to be your friend," he said. A beat passed, then his grin turned a little sly. "Heh, who knows, maybe I'll even teach you how to have fun, my kind of fun!"
Willow tilted her head, amusement lighting up her features like moonlight on snow. "Why wait?" she asked, eyes gleaming with a sudden, mischievous fire.
Qrow blinked. "Huh?"
She giggled, a melodic sound that made his heart stumble in his chest. "I said, why wait? We could sneak out of here right now, I doubt anyone would even notice,"
Qrow leaned back slightly, an eyebrow raised and a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I dunno... I think people might notice if someone as stunning as you suddenly vanished into the night,"
Willow's lips curved into a cat-like grin, teasing and full of amusement. "Oh? So I'm stunning, am I?"
Realizing the compliment he'd accidentally let slip, Qrow flushed — a faint pink rising into his cheeks despite the confident air he usually wore like armor. "I–! You know what I meant...!" he muttered, scratching the back of his neck and glancing away with a sheepish half-smile.
"I do," Willow said, her voice velvet-soft and amused. "But it's still nice to hear."
She leaned forward, her fingers brushing gently along the rim of her empty glass.
"Still, I meant it, let's leave! :et them all keep dancing in circles while we find something real, take me down to Mantle, Qrow, show me how you live, how you laugh! Let me see the world through your eyes, just for a night!"
Qrow stared at her, stunned by her boldness and the quiet hope beneath it. He saw in her something brave and fragile all at once — a girl who had lived a life of glass towers and gilded cages, asking him to help her steal a taste of freedom.
And Qrow Branwen had never been good at saying no to a little chaos.
Qrow glanced around the glittering ballroom, idle chatter floating like perfume through the air, and realized, to his amusement, that not a soul was watching them. They were invisible in a room full of eyes.
He turned back to Willow, a smirk tugging at his lips like a secret waiting to be shared. "Well then... Milady," he said with a mock bow and a glint in his eye, "Let's do this!"
Without another word, the two rose from their seats like whispers slipping past velvet curtains. They moved swiftly, quietly, ghosts in fine clothing. Qrow took Willow's hand in his — warm and delicate — and led her through corridors of marble and silk, out into the night, where the real world waited.
The cold air bit at their cheeks as they raced down the stairs, laughter trailing behind them like sparks from a fire. A nearby taxi screeched to a stop as Qrow waved it down, and soon they were on their way to the trams — their carriage into the underworld below Atlas: the city of Mantle.
Once the tram hissed to a halt and the doors slid open, the cold, honest air of Mantle greeted them like a long-lost friend. Gone were the gold-trimmed walls and frozen smiles. Here, the city was alive.
Gritty, loud, and real.
They made their way to a club that pulsed with neon veins and music like thunder. Inside, it was all heat and heartbeats, bass vibrating in their bones, colored lights painting their skin with shades of wild freedom.
Qrow stayed close, always keeping her within arm's reach, not out of duty, but out of quiet reverence. He didn't drink like he used to, not tonight. Tonight wasn't about dulling his edges; it was about sharpening her joy.
He wanted her to feel everything.
And she did.
Willow danced like the world had finally loosened its grip on her spine. She cursed freely with a grin splitting her lips as she spun with abandon, no longer a porcelain doll meant for display, but a wildfire in high heels.
She ordered greasy food from a cart outside the club and devoured it with joyful carelessness, sauce on her lips, laughter in her throat. She tasted cocktails with sugar-rimmed glasses and burning whiskey that made her eyes water — the kind of drinks she'd only heard whispers of in the halls of private schools.
And all the while, Qrow watched. Not as a hunter, not as a warrior, not even as a man with a past. But as a friend who had given a girl a night to remember — and fallen just a little more for the light that bloomed inside her because of it.
In a single night, Willow Schnee was free. Not the kind of freedom sold in stories, but something raw, something earned. And Qrow, a boy who had known cages of his own, saw it in her. That fragile, fierce joy.
She didn't want to let it go.
And deep down, he didn't want her to, either. Because in that flickering moment, under club lights and starlit streets, Willow wasn't just beautiful...
She was alive.
No longer was sheWillow Schnee,the daughter of Nicholas Schnee — no longer the prized gem encased in frost, no longer the heiress groomed for perfection beneath chandeliers and silver-spooned expectations.
The weight of her name, her lineage, her legacy — all of it melted beneath the warmth of laughter, the pulse of music, and the wild, golden glimmer of freedom.
No longer did she wear the porcelain mask of poise and practiced grace. No longer did she have to walk like a whisper or speak like a songbird taught by tutors.
Tonight, she was not an image, not an emblem.
She was simply... Willow.
Willow, who danced barefoot in a club with aching feet and a drink in her hand.
Willow, whose laugh wasn't polite but loud, and real, and reckless.
Willow, whose joy was no longer painted on, but bursting through her like light through stained glass.
And Qrow saw it — not the Schnee heiress, but the woman beneath it all. A girl no longer perched in a gilded cage, but flying.
He couldn't look away... And maybe that's where it began. Not in the grand halls of Atlas or the pages of a fairytale, but in a dirty club in Mantle.
Where a Crow met a Swan.
And he didn't fall for the name, the title, or the elegance. He fell for her.
A tale born not of royalty and riches, but of rebellion and rhythm. Of feathers and flight. Of a man who drank shadows, and a woman who had never known what it meant to shine.
Thus began the tale of a Crow who loved a Swan.
Not for her song, but for the silence she broke when she finally learned how to sing her own.
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So funny enough, this Fic was inspired by a tumblr post I made in where I talked about tragic ships. My three biggest tragic ships were: QrowXWinter, MercuryXEmerald, and JauneXPenny... and that idea stuck with me for a while, so I decided why not make a story that contains all three? Now, Jaune and Penny will be the main focus, but remember, Qrow, Willow, Mercury, and Emerald are just as important, and eventually, at times, their stories will intersect.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this story and are waiting to see what happens next because trust me, it's going to be good~!