SAPR

by Scipio Smith

And We're Not Gonna Stop (New)

And We’re Not Gonna Stop

The afternoon was gathering on in Vale, but in Mistral, hours ahead, it was already night. Darkness had fallen some time ago over Mistral and Argus and all the lands that lay between, albeit darkness disturbed within those cities by the myriad lights that burned within the houses.

---

Selene and Diana had never been allowed to stay up this late before, not ever. But neither Mom nor Dad had told them to go to bed, or that they should, or that they had school tomorrow or anything. They couldn't go to bed, not now, not without seeing.

Not without seeing Pyrrha win and be crowned champion.

---

Adrian, too young to be mindful of the historic nature of this night, of the way the hopes and dreams of Mistral hung upon what was about to happen, had fallen asleep. His eyes were closed, and his head was lolled to one side, turned a little away from Terra. His little hands were curled up into tiny fists, and his legs were tucked up at the knees.

Terra smiled down at him — hoping, she had to admit, that he wouldn't wake up sometime in the night and start crying — as she gently lowered him into the crib. A lot of said crib was taken up by a large blue penguin plush they'd gotten at the aquarium, and as soon as one of Adrian's hands brushed against it, he turned that way, gurgling wordlessly as his hands groped unconsciously for the stuffed animal.

The smile on Terra's face widened. "Sleep tight," she whispered, so as not to wake him.

She turned off the lights in his room on the way out, plunging his world into darkness.

She shut the door, too, to keep the noise down for him as much as possible.

The lights were still on in the rest of the house, down the stairs as Terra descended, and in the living room and kitchen, where the television was on — not so loud, as another concession to their son — and the oven, too, as Saphron straightened up with a tray of fried chicken wings in her hands.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

"He's still fast asleep, no problems," Terra said. "Although I should probably try not to scream too much when Pyrrha brings home the crown."

Saphron smiled. "And I remember when I thought I was the emotional one in this relationship."

Terra chuckled. "I … the closer it gets, the more real it gets: that this is happening, and that it's happening to someone that I know personally." She walked towards her wife. "This has been a dream for Mistral for so long, and I don't just get to see it; I'm part of it. And the closer it gets, the more amazing I feel or realise that is."

Saphron put down the chicken wings. "This really matters, doesn't it? For Mistral?"

"It's our national sport," Terra replied. "More than that, it's our national passion, the enthusiasm of the kingdom. Yes, it matters. Plus … who doesn't like to win stuff?"

Saphron laughed. "That's a good point. So I've set this last match up to record so that Adrian can watch it when he's old enough to understand — and so we can embarrass Pyrrha with it when she comes to visit by making out that you're much more of a fan than you are." Saphron grinned. "I think I'll tell her that you watch it every day."

"My mom just might do that," Terra said.

"And," Saphron added, picking up her scroll and waving it about with one hand, "make sure to make a funny face so I can take a picture and show Adrian what other Mommy looked like when Auntie Pyrrha brought it home."

Terra chuckled. "I'm sure that something suitably embarrassing will come to my face when the moment arrives. And it will be worth it. It will be well, well worth it."

---

It was appropriate, at least to an extent, that the public showing of the Vytal final should be held in the Square of Heroes; a great screen had been erected on one side of the plaza, cordoned off by metal barriers and raised above the heads of the spectators, to broadcast the match on a grand scale for all those who were gathered there. And it was a great crowd that was gathered there, men and women crammed into the square, scrambling up onto the plinths of the statues, hanging onto the bronze and marble likenesses of Publius Rutulus, Achates Kommenos, and other heroes of Mistral's illustrious history. Some of those heroes had been garlanded in Vytal merchandise of various degrees of taste: laurel wreaths in expectation of the victor's laurels that — all Mistral hoped — would soon adorn the head of Pyrrha Nikos; Haven Academy — the fact that Pyrrha was a Beacon student was being tacitly overlooked — hats and scarves; Pyrrha wigs and those cheap plastic circlets that they sold in costume shops.

Camilla was unsure of the appropriateness of it all, but who was going to do anything about it? Who was going to tear the wreaths and hats and scarves and all the rest down off the statues? Nobody present in the square tonight, that was for sure.

Around the crowded plaza, such an atmosphere prevailed that you might almost think that Mistral, not Vale, was hosting the Vytal Festival, as the streets and smaller square around were crammed with the exact same sort of vendors that one saw in fairgrounds, or at festivals, or one of those Mantle Markets that toured Anima in the wintertime selling traditional northern fare of large beer and larger sausages. In fact, Camilla thought that she could see some of those people here right now; certainly, she could smell sausages, and much else that smelled good besides: pancakes, crepes, candied fruits, fresh-baked tarts, fried dormice upon skewers. She tried to control the watering in her mouth.

Perhaps coming here would not be so bad after all, although it would not have been her first choice. They could have just as easily watched the finals at home, after all — they had a perfectly good television — but Turnus thought that it would be good and appropriate to be seen at such a moment as this, and he had a point that, traditionally, the great games were enjoyed publicly, not in the private comfort of one's own house. And so they had come, Turnus in a black toga mottled with white lines, worn over an orange tunic with black spots, and Juturna in a short black dress matched with very high black boots, and wrist cuffs adorned with colourful feathers to offset the darkness. With them, and Camilla of course, were Lausus, Silvia, Aventinus, Tarpeia, Tulla, Opis, and Ufens.

"Such a crowd," Opis muttered, her head turning this way and that as they walked down the road. "Such a crowd. Keep your hands on your purse, m'lady; this place will be a pickpocket's paradise, you mark my words."

Juturna gave no sign that she had heard her. "So much smells good here; what do you want to eat first?"

The truth, perhaps, about how you know Lionheart, Camilla thought; she was certain that they had not spoken at the Steward's reception, when Juturna had met Ruby. If she had, then Camilla liked to think that she would have noticed it.

Perhaps I am not as observant as I should like to think.

Or perhaps there is more going on that Juturna is silent about.

Either way, now is hardly the moment to raise it. Not in public, nor in this company; Lausus was almost part of the family, but less so than Camilla, with all due humility, reckoned herself, and as for the rest? They were good men and women, but they were Turnus' retainers, and it would not be fitting to question Juturna in front of them.

If it was appropriate to question her at all. She was, after all, the lady of the house until such time as Turnus wed, and Turnus had made his own position on the subject clear enough, first by welcoming Lionheart and then by his words to Camilla herself. What would be the point in pressing the issue? Better perhaps to simply keep an eye on Lionheart and hope that her misgivings proved without foundation.

Silvia sniffed the air. "I think I can smell pigeon."

"'Pigeon'?" Opis scoffed. "Ugh."

"What's the matter with pigeon?" Silvia demanded. "It tastes great!"

"Woodpigeon might taste fine enough," Opis said, "but I'm not going to take the chance that it isn't just some bird from the streets that was killed this morning; it would be like eating rat, it's what you resort to when you can't afford anything else. There's lots of nicer things you could have."

"They should have put the screen up in the Colosseum," Aventinus lamented. "Then you could have had the crowd in the stands, and it would have felt just like a real Mistralian tournament."

Aventinus was a tall man, half a head taller even than Turnus — although that still didn't make him the largest man amongst the Rutulians — with amber eyes and red hair, although the latter was concealed behind the lion's head that he wore like a hat, with the rest of its pelt descending like a cap down his back. His father had been a great gladiator and huntsman, a Champion of Mistral whose record of three consecutive triumphs had stood for a generation until Pyrrha Nikos had broken it, but although Aventinus possessed his father's square jaw and solid features, he had not turned out to possess his father's talent in the arena, and his career there had been somewhat indifferent before he retired and joined the Rutulians.

"You could only fill half the Colosseum," Tarpeia pointed out. "The other half wouldn't be able to see the screen."

"Two screens?" suggested Aventinus.

"If everyone was sitting down, then they might as well stay at home," Juturna declared. "And you'd miss out on all this: the food, the atmosphere. It's like we're having our own little Vytal Festival right here in Mistral."

"This will certainly be a night long remembered," Turnus said. "Provided that Pyrrha wins, or we shall look great arrogant fools."

"She'll get it done, my lord," Aventinus assured him. "She's not just better looking than my old man in his prime, she's better than he was. Faster, without losing much for strength."

"We'd best hope so; your father lost in the Amity Arena," Ufens muttered. "I remember what a disappointment it was. He stayed in Vacuo for three months after the festival was over because he didn't dare show his face back home."

"He was fighting grimm all that time," Aventinus said. "Finding himself again, finding his purpose, getting his head back in the game. He used to tell me losing in the Vytal Tournament was the making of him, made him rethink who he was and all his choices." He paused. "Mind you, he also told me it was all his teammates' fault for letting him down in the four-on-four, so maybe he just had a list of excuses."

"We need to have faith," Lausus said. "We've got the most gifted candidate in years fighting for us."

Juturna grinned. "Says the guy who bet against her in the doubles."

"And see how the gods rewarded me for it," Lausus said. "Clearly, they're on the side of Pyrrha Nikos, for they certainly weren't on mine."

"The gods have raised Mistral's expectations in the past, only to dash our hopes," Camilla murmured. "But Pyrrha Nikos appears to be blessed by fortune, not only in the arena, but in her life. All things, when she requires them, go her way; all things that she desires, she had attained and more." Lucky, lucky Pyrrha Nikos. "She will, no doubt, attain this also, and give all Mistral what both we and she both crave: the prize of glory."

---

"The mob is celebrating in the streets as though she has already won," Shining Light declared, her lip curling into a sneer.

"The people," Terri-Belle said pointedly, "have little enough to celebrate else; let them celebrate this. What is the point of a public holiday if not to get people spending their money on food and drink, putting lien in the pockets of the peddlers and the tavern-keepers?"

"Even if she turns out to be a traitor?" Blonn-di asked in a sing-song voice.

All four daughters of the Steward were gathered in Terri-Belle's office. Terri-Belle sat at her desk, while Shining Light and Blonn-di stood on either side of the room, each leaning against the wall in nearly, but not quite, identical expressions of studied casualness. Swift Foot stood near the door, hands clasped behind her back, trying not to hunch her shoulders or bow her head in the presence of her older sisters.

It was hard work. The presence of Shining Light and Blonn-di made her want to make herself smaller and less conspicuous as though there were a weight pressing down upon her, a weight which was anxious to avoid anything that might attract their attention.

For her eldest sister's part, Terri-Belle did not reply, nor even look at Blonn-di, or Shining Light, or any of them. Atop her desk, one hand clenched into a fist. "If Pyrrha Nikos … if she is revealed to be as father fears she is, then … I fear that it will bite the people either way. Even if she loses this match, she is still the beloved Champion of Mistral."

Former champion, Swift Foot thought. Metella the Ocean Knight is the Champion of Mistral now. But she did not say so, partly because she understood Terri-Belle's point well enough without straying into pedantry and partly because Shining Light and Blonn-di were there.

"And though they will be disappointed by her failure at Vytal, they will forgive her for it; after all, they have become practised enough at forgiving the failures of Mistral's great hopes, who reach even to this final step only to falter at the last."

Shining Light smirked. "You think they've forgiven you?"

Terri-Belle glowered at her.

The smirk died on Shining Light's face. "Yes, indeed, these are serious matters, and not to be joked about. Forgive me, sister."

Terri-Belle breathed in deeply. "As I was saying," she said, "the people, being practised at it, will forgive her; she will have their love yet, even though some among our elites gloat over her failure." She scowled, and Swift Foot wondered if she was recalling the gloating which followed her own failure at the last stroke. "And then, when the truth comes out … if it will bite as deeply whether she wins or loses, then it might be better if she wins; at least, the people will have something to celebrate."

"Even if it raises her reputation with the plebeians, her influence with them, higher and higher, with all the risks that that entails?" Blonn-di asked. "Even if she becomes more of a hero to them than she is now?"

"Let her become a hero to the crowds," Shining Light said. "Let her be acclaimed, and honoured, and cheered through the streets. She will not be the first great hero, beloved of the commons, who became a danger to the kingdom through their pride, their ambition, their overweening popularity." The smirk returned to her face. "Nor will she be the first hero who was raised to the skies to protect Mistral, and to protect the people from the hero whom they loved so well."

---

In Mistral, it was already night, but in Vale, it was still the later afternoon, although the darkness was gathering apace; clouds in the sky added to the gloom as the sun descended, and the lights of the Atlesian warships began to gleam all the brighter as the darkness fell. The lights of the Emerald Tower had already begun to burn, and would burn throughout the night 'til dawn broke and sun returned, just as they had done through every night since Beacon was established.

Would they not?

Aoko opened a bag of chips.

Kendal reached down and snatched them out of her hands. "Don't eat now, Aoko; you'll spoil your dinner."

River's hand reached into the bag, as surreptitiously as possible considering the two sisters were sitting next to one another.

Not surreptitiously enough.

"River!" Kendal snapped.

"I'm eating for two, remember," River reminded her, before she put the chips in her mouth. She crunched upon them, chewing noisily for a few seconds before she added, "And I might have cravings for all you know."

"Cravings for…" Kendal looked down at the bag. "Salt and vinegar crisps?"

"They are very moreish," River insisted.

"River's been craving all kinds of things," Chester added. "Little mint chocolates, strawberries dipped in chocolate, chocolate roll—"

"You're going to get so fat," Violet said.

"Violet, please," Rouge murmured. "There's no call for rudeness."

"Can I have my chips back?" asked Aoko.

"No," River said, taking the bag out of Kendal's hand. "It's for your own good, Aoko, trust me."

"So, Dad," Sky said, turning to face their father, looking away from the TV as they waited for the final match to start. "What does Pyrrha get for winning this thing? Is there a money prize?"

"Pyrrha doesn't need money; she's loaded," Kendal pointed out.

"Maybe she is, but a little more money is always nice to have, right?" asked Sky.

"I think she's so loaded, she's at that point where a little more money wouldn't make any difference," Kendal replied. "I mean, look at that dress she wore to Dad's party; she didn't buy that in a thrift store. And she's a princess, remember?"

"A princess without a crown," Sky said. "All that proves is that her ancestors were made, not that she is."

"I'm with Kendal on this, Pyrrha's pretty made; you only have to look at the way she dresses," River said. "Jaune's set for life."

"I wish you wouldn't say things like that," Rouge murmured. "It makes Jaune's motives seem awfully mercenary. As though he's only involved with her for her wealth."

River winced. "Sorry, Rouge. You know I didn't mean anything like that. Jaune's not…" She stopped herself.

Jaune isn't like your asshole husband, that's what you were about to say, right? Kendal thought. Rouge had started the divorce proceedings, but Reuben had failed to find the one chivalrous bone in his body and was contesting it, refusing to let her go. Their lawyer was handling the details, and Rouge would get there in the end — she might have been willing to put up with Reuben's infidelity, but that hadn't stopped her from collecting proof — but the wheels were turning slowly. Sky thought Reuben was dragging it out in the hope the Arcs would pay him off for a swifter resolution, but there was no sign yet that Rouge was seriously entertaining the idea. Kendal didn't blame her; the idea of giving him money after what he'd done and how he'd treated her — not to mention what he'd tried to do to Jaune — made her skin crawl.

But it was still best not to mention him around her, just like it was probably best not to talk about marrying for money. Especially since River was right: Jaune wasn't like that at all.

"Even if Pyrrha is absolutely loaded, not everyone who wins this tournament will be, and the prize doesn't care if the winner appreciates it or not," Sky said, getting the subject back on track — probably a good thing, for Rouge's sake if no one else's. "So, Dad—"

"There's no money," Dad said. "If you win the tournament, you get a wreath placed on your head, you get the glory of having won, and you get the bragging rights, that's it."

"'That's it'?" River repeated.

"It's not supposed to be about the prize or the reward," Dad explained. "The same way that you don't become a huntsman for the rewards or because you want to get rich. Or at least, not for the material rewards. The Vytal Tournament is about keeping people working hard, reaching out to be the best, striving, not just settling or getting by."

"What about striving towards a reward?" asked Violet.

Dad shrugged. "I guess, when they set the whole thing up after the war, they didn't want to give people the wrong kinds of incentives."

"So, when Pyrrha wins and becomes the champ, she gets to say that she's the champ, basically?" Sky said.

"And a golden wreath," Dad reminded her. "But other than that, you're right."

"Sunset seemed to find the glory nothing to be sneezed at, when she was with us," Rouge pointed out. "And Pyrrha must find it all worthwhile to keep going, or else I don't see how she could motivate herself through all these fights. If there was nothing in it for her, if she didn't fancy the idea of being recognised as the winner even a little, I think that she'd have given up by now."

---

Lieutenant Martinez watched as the car pulled up across the street from where she and Mallard sat in their van. Some cars, she might have found suspicious, but she recognised the walnut brown Raptor Racehorse, with its sleek bodywork and low elevation, as belonging to Sergeant Weatherley from Captain Harmon's squad; with him in there was probably their Menagerie liaison officer. Liaison with who or what, Martinez wasn't entirely sure, and for that matter, she wasn't sure why Harmon's squad needed a liaison with any nebulous people on Menagerie, but if Harmon wanted to keep her around, then that was his shout.

The two were there to relieve her and Mallard. She could drive off now, if she wanted.

Her hands and feet remained where they were.

"El-Tee?" Mallard asked, from the seat next to her.

"Mmm," Martinez murmured wordlessly.

"You don't want to go, do you, Lieutenant?" Mallard asked.

"No," Martinez said bluntly. "I don't want to leave until this thing is over."

"However long it takes?" Mallard asked.

"You got somewhere to be?" Martinez asked. One corner of her lip twitched upwards. "Hot date for the last day of the Vytal Festival?"

Mallard snorted. "Chance would be a fine thing with these hours."

"If you want it to work, if you both want it to work, then you'll make it work," Martinez said.

Although, she reflected after she'd said that, she had gotten very lucky with Mike. A lot of guys wouldn't have been so understanding. It probably helped that he didn't exactly work nine-to-five himself — some days, he was home, and sometimes, he was at sea for days on end — so they both had to be patient and put up with the inconvenience. As she'd said, they wanted it to work, so they made it work.

"If you say so, El-Tee, but the only girls I meet are all wrapped up in criminal investigations," Mallard replied.

"Investigations end," Martinez pointed out. "If you meet someone you like … they might surprise you."

Mallard's eyebrows rose. "Seriously?"

"Not the ones who are guilty, obviously," Martinez said. "But someone in the wrong place at the wrong time, someone who turned out not to be involved, there's no rules against it, nothing wrong with it." Her smile widened. "And I've noticed a couple of them looking at you while we've been questioning them."

"Really?" Mallard asked. "Which ones?"

"Oh no, I'm not telling you that; you're going to have to do the work on this yourself," Martinez said. "Which you can do, because I'll let you go if you want out, but I'm gonna stick around; I don't feel right leaving."

"You don't want to go home?" Mallard asked. "Watch Weiss in the tournament final?"

"Is that what you want?"

Mallard shrugged. "I was thinking about it."

"What I'm thinking about," Martinez replied, "is how I'd feel if I went home and sat down to watch the tournament final and then the match was interrupted by the news that someone had blown up this power station. Or all the lights going off in our house because somebody blew up this power station. That's why, relief or not, I'm going to stay here for a little while longer; I don't want to leave until it's actually all clear."

Mallard nodded. "When you put it like that, I guess I don't really have anything better to do." He reached around the back of his seat, and Martinez heard a rustling sound before he produced a bag of cheese puffs. "Good thing I bought snacks, huh?"

"I might be glad of those later tonight, but I'm good for now," Martinez said as she got out her scroll to call Mike.

"How do you think she'll do?" Mallard asked. "Weiss, I mean? The girl she's up against, Pyrrha Nikos, they say she doesn't lose fights like these."

"Yeah? Well, there's a first time for everything, isn't that what they say?" Martinez asked. "Just because she hasn't been beaten yet just means she hasn't come up against Weiss yet. She'll make us proud, I've got no doubts. None at all." She called Mike, audio only, holding her scroll up to one ear as it rang.

It took Mike a few seconds to pick up. "Y'hello?"

"Hey, Mike, it's me," Martinez said.

"Oh, hi, honey, how's it going?"

"Not good," Martinez said. "I'm not gonna be home for dinner tonight."

"Because they're keeping you in — or out — or because you could come home but you can't tear yourself away from the job until the job is done?" Mike asked.

Martinez sighed. "You know me so well, don't you?"

"I'd better; I am your husband after all," Mike said. "You want to talk about it?"

"I'm not sure that I can, because I don't understand it myself," Martinez muttered.

"So you want to stick around until you find out what 'it' is," Mike said.

"Sorry."

"If you came home, you'd just be jittery all night thinking about work," Mike said. "The boys will be disappointed, but they'll understand. Shall I save you something for when you get in?"

"You're a saint," Martinez said. "A saint who I need to ask another favour from: can you set the tournament final up to record? I'll watch it later."

"Even if your girl loses?"

"Even if, although I hope she doesn't, yeah," Martinez said. "Because win or lose, I'm sure she's gonna put up one hell of a fight."

---

"It's the moment you've all been waiting for!" Professor Port bellowed, his words getting a cheer from the crowds in the stands. "Will Pyrrha Nikos and Weiss Schnee please make their way out for our finaaaaaaal match?!"

One more match.

One more match, and then I am finished.

One more match, and a door closes.

One more match, and I am free. From my mother's expectations, at least.

One more match — one more victory — and I have fulfilled them all. There is nothing more that she requires of me.

Except grandchildren, I suppose, but that is … that will be more onerous to my body, I think, than to my soul.

One more match.

"What are you smiling about?" Penny asked as Pyrrha got to her feet.

"Hmm?" asked Pyrrha, who hadn't realised that she had been smiling.

"You were smiling," Penny informed her, smiling a little herself. "Like you knew a secret."

"That's partly true," Jaune said. "Although I would say … you were smiling like you weren't really here, like you were … somewhere else."

I was already past this match and living my life. "I…" Pyrrha began. "It's something my mother said; I will explain later, if you're still interested."

"So it's not you working out how you're going to beat Weiss?" asked Penny.

"No," Pyrrha said. "I do have my ideas on that, but this … later. Assuming you haven't forgotten already."

"The more cryptic you are about it just makes me want to find out more," Jaune said. "But I get that you have to go, so—" He got up, and took both of her hands inside his own. "You don't owe Mistral anything—"

"I heard that!" Arslan shouted from behind him. "Yes, she does! Yes, you do! Mistral is your home and hearth and—"

"Ignore her," Jaune said, cutting her off. "You don't owe Mistral anything, or Arslan or the other Haven students or me or Penny or any of us. You don't owe us anything at all, and you certainly don't owe us this. But do you want this?"

I want to win. I want to win the biggest fight in the biggest arena. I want to bow out on a high note, the highest of high notes. I want to take my leave with my head held high and my pride intact. I want to satisfy my mother for good and all so that she will let me get on with satisfying myself.

That, perhaps, I want most of all.

In fact, there is very little perhaps about it.

"Yes," Pyrrha said softly. Her voice became louder and firmer as she spoke again. "Yes, I do."

"Then go for it," Jaune said. He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. "You've got this."

Pyrrha felt Penny wrap her arms around her, just below Pyrrha's own arms, squeezing her tightly, but not as tightly as she had been wont to do even very recently.

She learned really very quickly.

I am so blessed with love and affection.

"I'm so glad you're here," Pyrrha said quietly. "So very glad."

Penny released her, and Jaune let her hands fall, and as Jaune sat down again — Penny sat down too, but only Jaune was interrupting Pyrrha's line of sight by standing up — she could see Arslan, arms folded across her chest, glowering at Pyrrha.

Or she had been glowering at the back of Jaune's head, and now she was glowering at Pyrrha.

"I could go on a rant about how your dopey boyfriend over there is wrong," Arslan said.

"'Dopey'?" Pyrrha repeated, her voice sharpening just a tad, just a hint. A hint for Arslan to take if she had the ears for it.

Arslan paused. "He's wrong," she said. "Harsh word, okay, I put my hand up and apologise," — she did indeed hold up one hand — "but he's wrong. And I could tell you all about why he's wrong and how much you owe Mistral…" — her jaw worked sideways like a horse chewing the cud — "but if you want this anyway, then I don't suppose there's a lot of point. Just go and win this thing."

Pyrrha considered her response. The truth was that, as nice as it was for Jaune to inform her, remind her, tell her, however you wanted to phrase it, that she had no obligations to Mistral, the fact remained that it was her home, and it would always have a claim upon not only her affections but also herself. She had told him as much, in Alba Longa, and he had not demurred then, and nothing that had happened to her since then had changed her thoughts or feelings on that.

She might not owe Mistral a victory, but she could not really say that she owed herself one either, except in the sense that she wanted it badly; she did owe Mistral her best efforts, and she would give them.

But Jaune had spoken in an attempt to make her feel better, to lift perhaps some of the pressure off her and let her enjoy this fight, and Pyrrha didn't want to contradict him. And so, rather than resolve those contradictions, she said nothing; she just nodded.

She could feel the eyes of not only Arslan, but of the other Haven students — Medea, Jason, Meleager, and all the rest — upon her as well, but none of them spoke to her as she set off, this last time. She supposed that there was nothing left to say, nothing left for her to be reminded of. Either she would exit the arena at the end of this match as champion, and Mistral's long dry spell would be over; or she would not, and it would not.

That, at the end of the day, was all there was to it. It was win or lose, as, ultimately, in every tournament.

And so she took her leave of them, of all of them, heading towards the stairs, where Weiss was waiting for her.

"I hope you don't mind the company," Weiss said, in a somewhat diffident tone. "Would you rather that I go first, so that we can venture out separately like real rivals?"

"Not at all," Pyrrha said. "I would be glad of the company."

Weiss turned slightly and began to walk side by side with Pyrrha down the stairs; Pyrrha could not help but lean back a little to get a better look at the state of Weiss' bolero. In truth, it was not much of a state at all, far less than Pyrrha had expected, considering what Weiss had done in the semifinals.

"If you'll permit me to say, your bolero is looking in very good condition," Pyrrha said as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Weiss looked over her shoulder, one hand reaching for her back, as if feeling to confirm that Pyrrha spoke true. "Yes," she said, "it is, isn't it? I have one of Rainbow Dash's friends to thank for that."

Pyrrha's eyebrows rose. "Is that why you stepped out of the stands a little while ago?"

“Yes,” Weiss said, “that was exactly why.”

---

Weiss stepped down off the last step into the corridor, and there found a young woman, about her age, waiting for her, whom she presumed to be Rainbow and Blake’s friend that they’d mentioned could help with her outfit. Rarity, they’d said her name was.

She presumed, because the other girl didn’t give her the chance to introduce herself or get the other girl’s name. Rather, she clasped her hands together, half bowed from the waist, and said, “Miss Schnee! May I say what a great honour it is to meet you like this. Thank you for giving me the opportunity, no, thank you for giving me the honour, no, the privilege—”

Weiss held up one hand. “Let me just stop you there,” she said. “I appreciate that my family name may … go before me, for good or ill, especially to a fellow Atlesian. But, unlike some Schnees, I don’t require a constant diet of flattery and sycophancy. In fact, I might even say that I’m allergic to it. Like gluten.” She held out the hand that she had used to call a halt to the babbling. “And it’s Weiss to my friends.”

The other girl looked at her for a moment, silently, and in her silence giving Weiss time to appreciate the ways in which she was a model Atlesian … model. Pale complexion to the point of pallor — even more so than Weiss herself — long hair expertly and elegantly rolled and curled at the tips, blue eyes — Weiss had those too, of course — and a stature that, while not being quite as tall as Pyrrha or Rainbow Dash, nevertheless had a statuesque quality about it.

Weiss might have been jealous, if she was the sort of person to succumb to jealousy.

The girl smiled, making her eyes sparkle. “Rarity to my friends,” she said, as she took Weiss’ hand in her own. Her grip was warm, and firm too, putting Weiss somewhat in mind of a businessman’s handshake.

“Please, forgive me, Weiss,” Rarity said. “It’s just that one so rarely gets the chance to actually meet a Schnee, and as you say, your name does come before you.”

“For good or ill,” Weiss reminded her.

“Things seem to be going better on that front, if I may say,” Rarity said. “At least, that’s what I’ve observed, or heard. People are, or appear to be, starting to recognise your accomplishment.”

“My accomplishment including beating your friend,” Weiss pointed out. “And yet, you want to help me anyway?”

“Oh, darling, Rainbow Dash would be the last person who would be a poor sport about something like this,” Rarity assured her. “Besides which, as a true fashionista, I am sworn to assist with all fashion emergencies, no matter who they happen to belong to.”

Weiss raised one eyebrow.

Rarity smiled down at her.

The corners of Weiss’ lips twitched upwards as she shrugged off her bolero. “Well, if you’re willing and able, I can’t deny that this thing could use the help. Its valiant service was much appreciated, but not without cost.”

“Hmm, yes, I can see that, darling,” Rarity murmured, as she plucked the bolero from Weiss’ hands. She held it up to the dim light in the corridor, the dim light which shone through the bullet holes that Rainbow had made. “Still, I think that I can safely say it’s nothing that a little thread and a needle can’t fix.”

---

“It turns out she’s very talented,” Weiss said.

“I can see,” Pyrrha murmured as they descended the stairs. “You’re very fortunate. Although I daresay you would have managed with a damaged bolero.”

“It would have made a statement, for sure,” Weiss said. “Whether it’s the sort of statement I want to make is … another question. It felt a little odd wearing something with holes in it, as though my wardrobe had moths.”

Pyrrha chuckled softly as they walked down the corridor towards the battlefield. Their footsteps echoed on the metal floor, one pair ringing — or seeming to ring — out louder than the other, although it was of course impossible to tell which pair it was.

Weiss’ hand drifted towards the hilt of her rapier for a moment, and then fell back down to her side once again. For her part, Pyrrha felt the urge to grasp at her sash where it fluttered beside her, and probably for the same reason that Weiss reached for her blade: for that little touch of reassurance.

“It’s funny to think,” she said softly, breaking the silence that had settled between them, “that this will all be over soon.”

“Yes,” Weiss murmured. “One way or the other,” she added pointedly.

“I spoke truly this morning,” Pyrrha replied. “I take nothing for granted.”

“I believe you,” Weiss said quietly. “I believe that you’re not a liar, not intentionally at any rate.”

“But you think that I may be an unintentional liar?” Pyrrha asked.

“I think that your stated lack of certainty is not matched by many, many even in our section of the stands,” Weiss pointed out. “Your teammates, the Haven students—”

“They support me—”

“All of Mistral supports you, it seems,” Weiss declared.

“That is an exaggeration,” Pyrrha replied. “There are some who would like nothing better than to see me fail, the more embarrassingly the better. If you were to catapult me out of the arena as soon as the match begins, I have no doubt there are some in Mistral who would praise you for it.”

Though one less than before, now that Phoebe is dead.

“Ah, yes,” Weiss muttered. “Envy. As a Schnee, I understand that.” She paused, and once more, her hand rose slowly upwards to the hilt of her sword. “I understand it all the more because … because I envy you, too.”

“You?” Pyrrha almost stopped from the surprise; she thought she must have misheard, but misheard what? What had she heard instead? What had Weiss said, other than that. “You envy me?”

“Should I not?” Weiss asked. “What should I not envy about you? What is wrong with you, what troubles do you labour under, that are so bad that they make your life not a life to envy?” She paused. “I understand that I’m not walking around in your shoes and greaves, but form the outside, from where I stand, you have … the most perfect life, or … perhaps 'perfect' is the wrong word—”

“I would say so, yes,” Pyrrha said quietly.

“But you are loved!” Weiss declared, turning to face Pyrrha as the words burst like wild horses out of her mouth. “You are beloved, and by so many! A whole kingdom — or, if not the whole, then the greatest and most vocal part of it — cheers you on! And you have skill enough that you can prove yourself worthy of the hopes they heap upon you and beneath you. You are raised up to the skies, and yet, at the same time, if ever elevation rendered you remote, that time is passed. You are beloved. You have a boy who, if he would not have been my choice, seems to make you happy and is clearly devoted to you; you have good friends… where is your disadvantage?”

I am a soldier in a war that cannot be won; my best friend has departed, and I must bear the shame of having failed to defend her when she needed a defender, after all the aid and comfort she has rendered me; Professor Ozpin asked me to sacrifice my soul in an attempt to save the Fall Maiden’s magic and keep it out of the hands of Cinder. “I would politely agree that you aren’t walking in my shoes,” Pyrrha said delicately. “But I would also have to concede that I am very fortunate.” She couldn’t keep the smile off her face, and hoped that it didn’t offend Weiss. “Yes, I am a very lucky girl. But, and this is where I presume to step into your boots, you do not seem to me to be so much more unfortunate than I am.”

There was a touch of laughter in Weiss’ voice as she said, “I doubt very much that Atlas is foursquare behind me and my victory in this match, or that they have embraced me as their own, despite my being a Beacon student.”

“If you think that my being the great hope of Mistral is the chief or even one of the major causes of my happiness, I’m afraid you don’t know me very well,” Pyrrha replied lightly.

“Yes,” Weiss admitted. “Yes, I’m beginning to think that. When we first met, when I approached you in the locker room before Initiation, I thought — I hoped — that we might be kindred spirits. Both famous, in our own way, for our own reasons, and both … set apart. Isolated from others, from our peers. I hoped that, if we were to partner up, then we might be alone together, as it were. But you … you’ve broken the mirror, and seen what lies on the other side.”

“And you have not?” Pyrrha asked. “You speak of my being beloved, of my having friends, but what about you? You have Flash and the rest of your team, no?”

“Yes,” Weiss said. “No. I mean, I am very fond of Flash. I’m very fond of my team, even Cardin, as much as he has infuriated me from time to time.”

“Then it seems to me that we have both broken through to the other side of the mirror,” Pyrrha said, although she had to admit that she didn’t quite understand Weiss’ metaphor.

“Your mother came to see you perform in this tournament,” Weiss pointed out.

Pyrrha hesitated for a moment. “That … if you knew my mother, then you might not see that as unalloyed cause for envy.”

“Ah,” Weiss said. “I see. Well…” She smiled. “Thank you for reminding me that I have my own reasons to be happy.”

“Not at all,” Pyrrha said. “Shall we go on?”

“Yes, we shall,” Weiss replied. “We shall go on, and do our best.”

They walked the rest of the corridor, down the tunnel towards what light still shone down upon them through the gap in the arena roof. It did not look so bright as it had this morning when she and Arslan had come this way, or even when she had been about to face off against Umber Gorgoneion.

A little light remained, but the daylight was fading and required augmentation from the spotlights that ringed the arena ceiling. A harsher light than the light of the sun, and one which did not travel so far into the tunnel.

"It will be night soon, or dark at least," Weiss observed. "For the best. Fireworks are difficult to see in the daylight."

If there are any fireworks, Pyrrha thought. If the grimm do not come. If Salem does not move against us. If … if, if, if.

If we are fortunate, then there will be fireworks. If we are fortunate, then there will be a true and fitting end to this festival, and to this year.

Weiss glanced at Pyrrha, as though she was expecting a response from her; she seemed, after some time, to decide that there was no such response forthcoming, and she said, "Well, I know that you and Arslan went down together, but then came out separately. Shall we do the same?"

Pyrrha shook her head. "Let's leave side by side, if you have no objections?"

Weiss smiled. "None at all."

They left together then, side by side, emerging out of the tunnel and into the — half-artificial, half-natural — light, emerging to the sound of a crowd that was the loudest it had ever been — at least, it sounded that way to Pyrrha's ears — a crowd that roared, a crowd that thundered, a crowd that drowned out all but itself — and yet, Pyrrha still fancied that she could hear Jaune's voice, cutting through the clamour like a bolt of lightning.

"You've got this."

Pyrrha and Weiss walked to the central hexagon, there splitting up, Pyrrha heading east and Weiss going west until they were facing each other across the flat and open space.

"I wish we still had the terrain for this," Weiss observed, having to shout just a little bit to be heard above the din.

Pyrrha shook her head. "I do not," she replied, having to raise her voice in turn. "This is a true battlefield for a tournament."

"But not for a huntress," Weiss answered.

"This is it!" Professor Port yelled, as the rest of the arena floor beyond their hexagon retracted, withdrawing with the grinding of gears and the growling of engines into the recesses of the Amity Colosseum. "Three days! One hundred and twenty-eight huntsmen and huntresses! Thirty thrilling and spectacular matches! And it all comes down to this!"

He paused for cheering, and he got it, whooping and hollering falling down upon the heads of Pyrrha and Weiss as they were lowered upon their platform down into the pit.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to the final of this, the Fortieth Vytal Festival Tournament!"

"As someone quite experienced with this kind of thing," Weiss raised her voice above the tumultuous crowd, "does it ever get old?"

"Yes," Pyrrha answered plainly. "I'm afraid it does."

Weiss snorted. "Then I suppose I should be glad I won't be doing it long enough to reach that point."

"Pyrrha Nikos of Beacon!" Professor Port bellowed.

Pyrrha pulled Miló out from behind her, holding the spear one handed and brandishing it above her head in acknowledgement of the crowd.

"Weiss Schnee of Beacon!"

Nobody booed Weiss now, or at least if they did, then they were easily drowned out by all the cheering for her. She had won them over, it seemed. Perhaps Atlas had gotten behind her after all.

Their names, and their aura levels, appeared on the boards visible from all around the arena; Pyrrha glanced that way and saw that both she and Weiss had, over the break, recovered most of their aura. They were both in the green, both so close to having all their aura that it made little difference. That was good; she would rather not have it said that she won this fight because Weiss was worn out from her earlier battles. If she won this fight.

"Three! Now for pride!"

Weiss stepped forward into a fencing stance, one hand upon the hilt of her sword.

"Two! Now for glory!"

Pyrrha pulled Akoúo̱ off her back and onto her left arm, her legs bending as she brought up her shield before her, Miló drawn back for an underarm thrust.

"One! Now for the championship and the laurel crown! FIGHT!"

Pyrrha began to run, legs pounding on the grey surface of the hexagon as she dashed straight at Weiss.

Even before Weiss had drawn her sword from the sash at her waist, she threw up her left hand to conjure a black glyph squarely athwart Pyrrha's path.

Pyrrha vaulted over it in a great leap, hair and sash alike flying around her as she rolled in the air, landing on one toe and twirling in place as she made to throw Akoúo̱— but she didn't. The feint, the familiar gesture from Pyrrha's prior matches, made Weiss conjure a second black glyph right in front of her, costing her time and aura as Pyrrha resumed her charge momentarily unimpeded.

She had covered more than half the distance between them when Weiss, her rapier now drawn and in her hand, slammed the blade point down into the ground. A cone of ice erupted out from the spot where the metal met, covering the surface of the hexagon in a sheet of ice that rippled and spiked upwards — and which would cover Pyrrha's feet as well if it touched them. Pyrrha leapt aside, her kick carrying her to the left, past the ice.

Towards a black glyph which Weiss conjured directly in her path. Another began to appear above, and another below, forming a box in which Weiss would trap her.

Pyrrha threw her shield, Akoúo̱ flying from her hand to strike the black barrier glyph, rebounding off it like a rubber sheet and flying back unerringly towards Pyrrha. Pyrrha rolled in mid-air, tucking her legs in above her belly and chest, presenting her feet to her shield; a faint black outline embraced her left hand as she slowed Akoúo̱ down just a tad, just a little so that its impact on her feet didn't hurt so much. It knocked her back all the same, but not so much as when Pyrrha kicked off the flying shield, backflipping in the air, arms outstretched on either side of her as she flew over the ice, over the grey metallic surface — black glyphs pursued her, Weiss seeking to trap her in mid-flight, but also too slow, always in the right place for where Pyrrha had been, not where she was — and landed upon the very extreme northern edge of the battlefield.

She slammed Miló down into the ground, point first, jamming it into the arena floor and gripping it with both hands.

Weiss flew towards her, gliding with winged speed over a line of gleaming white glyphs, rushing onwards with her sword thrust outwards like a lance – the lance she meant to use to knock Pyrrha off the battlefield and end this fight in a single move.

She came on fast, very fast, but not quite fast enough — just before she would have struck home, Pyrrha kicked herself off the floor and used Miló, thrust into the ground, as a pole around which she spun. She saw Weiss' eyes widen in surprise as her glyphs carried through the spot where Pyrrha would have been. She saw Weiss start to turn her head towards her as Pyrrha spun around her spearshaft to come up on Weiss’ flank.

She saw Weiss' mouth begin to open as Pyrrha kicked her in the side with both legs hard enough that it was Weiss, not Pyrrha, who went flying off the hexagon.

Pyrrha spun again, completing a half-rotation before planting her feet down on the ground — a foot or so away from the edge — and pulling Miló up out of the floor. Weiss' aura was dented, but she was not out — as she had against Neon Katt, she had conjured up a glyph to stand on before she hit the bottom of the pit and was officially knocked out.

A stairway of white glyphs, shining ever brighter as the natural light dimmed, appeared around her, climbing upwards without getting any closer to the battlefield itself.

As Weiss climbed, she kept her eyes glaringly fixed on Pyrrha.

Pyrrha didn't stand around waiting to see what Weiss would do next; she moved, and as she moved, she saw a black glyph appear beneath the spot she had been standing a moment ago, a black glyph that turned to a dark and angry red and would have catapulted Pyrrha up into the air if she'd stood still a moment longer.

That was why Pyrrha had to keep moving. If she stopped, then she placed herself at Weiss' mercy — and at the mercy of the black glyphs that followed her or tried to pre-empt her, trying to stick her to the floor, trying to box her in. Pyrrha's boots scuffed and shuffled on the ground as she dodged and darted this way and that, trying to stay one step ahead. With her free hand — Akoúo̱ lay on the floor, and Pyrrha made yet no move to recover it — she gripped her crimson sash, holding it tight to her waist, because it would be a fine thing if her fluttering trailing sash got caught in a glyph and pinned her down, wouldn't it?

I just hope that she doesn't think to — or can't — grab my ponytail. If I was caught and beaten because of my hair, I think I should have to cut it off, not to mention hide my face from Mistral for at least three months like Hercules.

And what would Jaune think of me with short hair?

As she leapt lightly over one of Weiss' glyphs, Pyrrha risked the briefest glance in Weiss' direction; Weiss stood yet upon one of her white glyphs, suspended in mid-air, sword held lightly by her side as she used her off-hand to conjure up her black glyphs, gesturing casually in Pyrrha's direction.

Pyrrha had a plan, or at least, she had an idea of the next few moves, but before she could make them, before she could begin, ideally, she needed Weiss to grow bored of wasting her aura on these black glyphs that were never going to catch Pyrrha, and try something else.

Aren't you getting a little impatient, Weiss? Pyrrha thought as she darted to and fro, as she ran around the hexagon like Juturna running seven times around the walls of Mistral to escape Pyrrha's namesake in all her wrath. She jumped over a glyph that Weiss planted in her way, thereby avoiding the two that Weiss had conjured on the floor on either side of it. Aren't you starting to think that this just isn't working?

A glyph appeared in front of her — but not a black glyph this time. This glyph was a pale blue, and a laser beam emerged out of it, straight upwards, half-blinding Pyrrha as it erupted just before her face on its way to slam into the shield that covered the gap in the colosseum ceiling.

More glyphs appeared on the floor all around Pyrrha, all of them spitting laser fire upwards towards the ceiling shield as if Weiss were trying to bring it down, to break out and into the world beyond. She wasn't; she was trying a different approach to boxing Pyrrha in.

She was trying to catch her in a crossfire with the other pale blue glyphs she was conjuring up in mid-air, on either side of her, a battery poised to sweep the battlefield from the side even as increasing numbers of laser beams shot up from below.

As Pyrrha turned her back on Weiss, she smiled.

A hard-light glyph appeared below Akoúo̱, the laser beam blasting Pyrrha's shield upwards. Pyrrha reached out — adding a little touch of Polarity — to catch it with one hand, slinging it across her back as she ran, letting sash and hair alike fly free behind her now as she ran to evade the laser fire that roared upwards all around like the geysers or the lava flows from the biomes of the earlier rounds.

Weiss did say she missed the terrain.

A faint black outline began to cover Pyrrha's back as she ran; she had seen last night — or very early this morning — the way that Cinder had used the convection currents to divert Sunset's magic, and she wondered whether she could use magnetic fields to do the same, to gently guide Weiss' laser fire away, not far away but around her, turning hits into near misses that wouldn't arouse Weiss' suspicion.

As a laser beam slammed into her back and pitched her forwards — narrowly avoiding taking another beam to the face — the answer appeared to be no, at least without putting a lot more power into it, but no matter. Pyrrha had reached the edge of the hexagon now, and Miló changed from spear mode to rifle in her hand as Pyrrha stepped delicately off and into the empty air.

She spun as she fell, her left hand reaching out to grasp the edge of the battlefield before it disappeared out of reach. Laser beams flew over her head to slam into the shield protecting the audience. Pyrrha's bicep bulged as with one hand she hauled herself back up over the ledge, just enough to poke her head above the battlefield.

Just enough to use the hexagon as a rest on which to steady Miló as, one handed, she aimed at Weiss.

Pyrrha fired.

She didn't wait to see if she hit or not, trusting in her aim she was pulling herself up the rest of the way even before the bang of the gun ceased to echo in her ears. Pyrrha's feet touched the floor even as Weiss was knocked off her glyph by the bullet which found its mark.

The pale blue laser glyphs began to fade as Pyrrha began to charge.

As Weiss fell, Miló switched back from rifle into spear mode.

As Weiss caught herself upon another glyph, Pyrrha was crossing the hexagon.

As Weiss began to climb, Pyrrha reached the far side and leapt down upon her like a thunderbolt from heaven. She drew back Miló and hurled it down ahead of her. The spear flew straight and true towards her foe until it stuck, jammed in a hastily conjured black glyph with the pointing sticking out an inch between the arcane symbols.

That same glyph would present a wall for Pyrrha, a wall into which she would slam if she kept going like this.

Pyrrha pulled Akoúo̱ off her back.

Weiss began to conjure up more glyphs behind her, glyphs to block her retreat in expectation that she would try to bounce off the glyph before her as she had before.

Pyrrha's right hand was still outstretched, and she grasped at the golden shaft of Miló as it came in reach. Weiss' glyph held the spear in place even as Pyrrha hung her weight upon it, suspending herself from the shaft for a moment like a beam before kicking off the glyph — it was very firm against her feet for something made of naught but aura — to pull herself up and over Miló even as she pulled Akoúo̱ off her back with her other hand. Planted her feet upon her spear and—

And got struck in the chest by a blast from Weiss' rapier as Pyrrha's opponent surged to meet her, leaping from off her glyph to fly up at her like an arrow. Pyrrha staggered somewhat from the initial impact, arms flying out to balance her as her precarious balance wobbled, and as Pyrrha struggled not to fall, Weiss flew past her, her slender sword lashing out with a sharp jab to knock Pyrrha off her spear.

Pyrrha caught Miló before she could fall too far, once more hanging off her weapon like a forest creature. For a moment, she could see the smile on Weiss' face, suffused with glee at having Pyrrha at her mercy, before Weiss disappeared from view, leaping from white glyph to white glyph until she was behind Pyrrha.

Pyrrha let go of Miló long enough to spin around, just about grabbing the red-and-gold spear once more in time to see Weiss lunging at her, sword outstretched. Pyrrha didn't bother with Polarity, she simply lashed out with Akoúo̱ upon her left arm. She aimed for Weiss' face, but Weiss brought up her own left arm to shield herself just in time, although the blow still lowered her aura and sent Weiss flying through the air until she conjured up another glyph to stick to.

Weiss paused, and as she paused, Pyrrha once more used her black glyph to kick off of and stand again upon Miló — but not for long; scarcely had she planted her feet upon the spear than she jumped off it. Not before time, too, because the black glyph holding Miló in place disappeared scarcely ere her feet had left the weapon, and Miló began to fall downwards to the pit below.

Pyrrha had to keep moving.

Weiss had been unexpectedly bold just then; Pyrrha had hoped to take her by surprise, but instead, Weiss had taken her by surprise with a brisk counterattack. Now, she looked set to repeat the trick, dancing from glyph to glyph, getting closer to Pyrrha but also manoeuvring around her. As Pyrrha flew, condemned by physics to move in a single direction, Weiss moved into position above her, poised over Pyrrha like a hawk.

She descended.

Pyrrha rolled in mid-air, Akoúo̱ gripped in both hands as she released some of her aura, thickening the coating of it around the shield's edge and then releasing it in a crimson shockwave that burst out and up and struck Weiss head-on.

That really is a useful technique for fighting opponents with a ranged advantage over me.

Weiss was knocked back, hurled upwards, but she still kept a grip on her sword as she was tossed up and aside. Pyrrha had to take her eyes off her, because she was beginning to descend herself, and if she didn't take action, then she would find herself eliminated.

Fortunately, before she hit the ground, she would hit the shield protecting the spectators from stray bullets — or huntresses crashing into the stands.

She tucked up her legs, twisting her body like a leaping salmon, her sash curling around her as she ended up facing backwards, facing towards the central hexagon even as she flew away from it, having to glance behind her as she descended on the very edge of the area — and the invisible barrier that separated her from the crowds who were getting ever larger to her sight.

Some of the spectators squealed with delight as Pyrrha planted her feet upon the barrier, green energy rippling out from beneath her boots as the barrier took the strain. She saw the flashes of scrolls going off, saw people waving to her, but Pyrrha had no time to wave back as she concentrated her aura in her legs and kicked off in a mighty leap, a leap to make frogs and toads greener than ever with envy at her legs as they propelled her clean across the empty air, all the way back to the central hexagon.

Pyrrha rolled as she landed, coming up to see that Weiss had beaten her there. Weiss' aura was lower than Pyrrha's — considerably lower — but her back was straight, and she stood yet proud as a grand old house upon the upper slopes, sword raised before her in a gesture like a salute.

And beneath her feet a silver glyph resembling, in part at least, the face of a clock.

Time dilation!

Pyrrha needed to act, while she was still capable of doing anything fast — or as fast as Weiss; even as she charged, Pyrrha threw her shield as the hands of the clock wound backwards, hoping to knock Weiss off her stroke, if not off the glyph.

The hands of the clock wound backwards.

Desperate times…

Pyrrha's hand glowed with a black outline as she reached for her semblance, stretching out with it towards her opponent.

The hands of the clock turned.

Polarity embraced Weiss' sword and flicked it backwards, the slender blade seeming to move on its own and slap Weiss in the face as though she momentarily lost her grip, or been buffeted by a fierce gust of wind.

Weiss recoiled, her face twisting in surprise, as the smoky silver glyph flickered beneath her.

It faded completely as Akoúo̱ slammed into her, knocking her back and off the disappearing glyph. Weiss rolled to her feet, slashing at the air with her blade to unleash a wave of fire which surged towards Pyrrha. Pyrrha endured the flames, taking the momentary heat as it burned her aura before she burst through onto the other side, rolling beneath the black glyphs that Weiss had conjured to stop her jumping over the firewall.

Pyrrha charged straight for Weiss, and Weiss lunged to meet her, skating upon a line of white glyphs that emerged always one step ahead of her, bearing her effortlessly towards but then around Pyrrha, close enough to strike—

A touch of Polarity made Weiss' stroke go awry, missing Pyrrha's side and back by less than an inch, the slender sword sliding past as Pyrrha reached out to grab Weiss by the wrist. Weiss tried to snatch both arm and weapon back in time, but she was not quite fast enough as Pyrrha's hand closed around her arm. Pyrrha yanked her off her glyph before she could react, her other hand snapping out to punch Weiss in the face. Her head snapped backwards.

I'm sorry about this, Weiss, Pyrrha thought as she grabbed her opponent by the neck, lifted her up into the air and then slammed her right back down, face first, into the floor of the central hexagon.

"Weiss Schnee's aura has passed below the limit!" Professor Port declared. "The Champion of the Fortieth Vytal Festival is Pyrrha Nikos of Beacon!"

I … I won? Pyrrha blinked rapidly, eyes widening somewhat. After all that, it was over? Just like that, it was over? After all that build-up, it was over?

It was over.

I won!

It's over!

I won, and I'm free.

A smile, a great glad smile of joy spread across Pyrrha's face as she comprehended her position, the triumph of her position. She had won! She had conquered! She was the champion! Her mother would ask no more of her!

And the cheers of the crowd fell down upon her like autumn leaves.

The smile faltered a little on Pyrrha's face as she looked down and saw Weiss lying at her feet, just like the faceless figure, the opponent she could not make out, had in her dream.

For a moment, the breath caught in her throat.

Then Weiss groaned.

"Why," she muttered as she started to push herself up off the ground, "do I get the feeling that I've been utterly humiliated?"

"Because you're being too hard on yourself?" Pyrrha suggested, distracted from her dream and any ruminations associated with it. She offered a hand to help Weiss up. "You fought—"

"Don't patronise me, Pyrrha, please; it hurts worse than getting hit in the face," Weiss said. She looked up at Pyrrha's hand and outstretched arm, before she placed her own slight, small, pale hand inside Pyrrha's brown-gloved palm. "I could barely touch you."

"Most people don't make me work so hard to get anywhere close to them," Pyrrha replied, as she helped Weiss to her feet. "Although, if I may say—"

"You may," Weiss said. "Just because we're not in class doesn't mean that this can't be a learning experience."

"Your instincts to close with me were your weakest," Pyrrha said. "You gave me chances I wouldn't have had otherwise."

Weiss' lips tightened. "That … I'm sure you're right. Before the match, Russel advised me to stand off and use my lasers, but then, that didn't work too well either, did it? What … never mind." Weiss stepped back, bowing from the waist. "Congratulations, Pyrrha."

Pyrrha bowed in turn. "Thank you, Weiss."

The platform on which they stood began to descend, if only to allow Pyrrha to recover Miló.

"So," Weiss said, "how does it feel to be the hero?"

"I'm afraid you'd have to find a hero and ask them," Pyrrha replied. "I'm only the champion of this tournament."

Weiss snorted. "Very well then, how does it feel to be the champion of this tournament?"

Pyrrha breathed in deeply, listening for a moment to the cheering of the crowd, to the shouts, to their songs. "It feels wonderful," she said, "although not for the reasons you might think."

"You can keep your reasons, if you wish," Weiss said, "but it would be awful if I'd lost to someone who didn't even care that they'd won."

Pyrrha chuckled. "I care, believe me," she said. "I care very much indeed."

"Ladies and gentlemen," Doctor Oobleck's voice filled the arena, "at this point, ordinarily, the Amity Princess would present the laurel crown to our new champion … but she isn't here at the moment. We're trying to get hold of Professor Ozpin, headmaster of Beacon, to do the honours, but— great scott!

There was a flash of light above them, above the arena, a flash of light that turned the cheering of the crowd to cries of shock and alarm that rippled downwards towards the ears of Pyrrha and Weiss.

Pyrrha looked up, and Weiss did too. They looked up to see the last vestiges of an explosion above the Colosseum, visible through the gap in the ceiling.

"What?" Weiss murmured. "Is that—?"

Another explosion burst above them, a fireball briefly flowering in the air, and this time, as the cheering and the singing faltered and faded, they could hear it too, the booming sound passing through the shield.

A sleek and shining Atlesian airship flew overhead, briefly visible, but in that brief moment, Pyrrha was certain she could see its guns blazing from the nose.

And behind the airship, racing in pursuit, a giant nevermore, dark wings outstretched, mouth gaping wide.

"Grimm?" Weiss cried. "Here, now, wh— what's going on?"

It's as Cinder said, Pyrrha thought. It's just as she said.

It has begun.

Comments

[Stet709]

What a wonderful way to cap off the Vytal tournament! (And we got a complete tournament here unlike in the original)
Both fought well, but Pyrrha ain't the Invincible Girl for nothing.
And just as I thought, Pyrrha's victory is very short-lived before the fighting starts.

It's as Cinder said, Pyrrha thought. It's just as she said.

Pyrrha, you and the others are about to find out how right Cinder was; the Grimm, Tempest, Amber, the Siren, the Valish military, everything! The Grimm attack is just the first domino, the beginning of the snowball, if you will.

[AngelicTitan]

Oh god it started. The Fireworks have been fired, and the Fall of Beacon has finally began.
I loved the battle; Pyrrha and Weiss jumping between Glyphs, lasers, and each other, either one trying to bring the other down until it finally ended up with the victory of The Princess Without a Crown! One of my favorites battles, and it’s good to see that Mistral finally has their glory, as short as it will be.
When i realizes that you deleted the old chapters until “Evacuates the arena”, I knew we would be close, but next chapter already being the start of the Fall? Well, I’m more excited than ever before to Monday! Let’s see how the seeds planted throughout the Story and Volume 3 bloom as Sonata’s and Tempest’s Plans begins.

[Kiue Jin]

11820171
I'm sure Cinder would preen about it... if she wasn't currently mind controlled by a Siren.

[Luviere]

Fucking masterpiece is all i can say about this chapter. I would like to say more but no words are needed. You and me both know you have outdone yourself with this chapter.

[RanmaChaos]

The Pyrrha fights are truly masterfully done. I love the way this one kind of just abruptly ends. No big finisher move, just Pyrrha hits Weiss and is ready to move on to the next part but suddenly the buzzer.