Chapter Text
Jacques was dead: to begin with. There could be no doubt about that. The register of his burial was signed by his widow, his eldest daughter, his former heiress, and the son he left behind. Whitley Schnee had signed it, and Whitley’s name was tantamount to a certificate of authenticity, for anything he chose to lend his credibility to was a venture most credible. Old Jacques Schnee was as dead as a doornail.
Whitley knew he was dead; of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Whitley and he had been partners of sorts for several years. The youngest Schnee had become the sole executor of his posterity after the disavowment and eventual escape of his sister, Weiss Schnee. His sole administrator, his sole confidant… his sole friend. At least, that was what Whitley wanted to believe.
To say that Whitley was cut up from receiving the news in the Vacuan desert of his father's death all those years ago would not be inaccurate. He could not say that he and his father were particularly close; Weiss had helped him come to see that he merely had been another tool for his father the entire time, an extension of his father’s will rather than a son. Regardless, Jacques Schnee had been his father and his first mentor… as tragic as both those facts were. Above all else, Whitley had to admit that he was an excellent businessman, up to the very day he died.
Yet the name of the company which bore Whitley’s name did not come from his father. Rather, Jacques Gelé had married into the company founded by Whitley’s grandfather, the legendary hero Nicholas Schnee. Despite this, the Schnee name, and the Schnee Dust Company by extension, had been defined by his father. While a man more forgiving might use the term “for better or worse,” Whitley was honest enough to admit that almost everything the man did fell under the latter category.
Attempting to physically rebuild the company from the ground up had been a difficult process, one that took several years. Rebuilding the company’s name was a much more arduous task. Consequently, Whitley had become a hard-working businessman. While Whitley had offered his sister the chance to rebuild the company alongside him, she had politely declined, due to her budding relationship with one valiant knight. Whitley didn’t think much of the man at the time, seeing him as a bit basic, but he acknowledged the fact that said man made his sister happy. He wished the two of them the best, and went to rebuilding the Schnee Dust Company by himself.
In the past, he had resolved to visit his sister and her now husband, who had taken up residence just across the sea in Argus, every December for the Winter Solstice. Curiously, for a reason Whitley did not even attempt to understand, the Solstice landed on the same day every year. It had become a holiday of sorts in all of Solitas, and even Argus. Such an event was the Solstice that it had an entire week dedicated to it. Such celebrations culminated in the final two days: Solstice Eve, and Solstice Day.
About three years after the passing of his father, Whitley had visited his sister and her new family for the first time in their abode in Argus. It was a simple dwelling, little more than a comfy and cozy two-floor abode with a basic layout and a homely feeling. However, it was the one that made his sister, her husband, a man named Jaune Arc, and their newborn child, Glöckchen, happy.
Glöckchen had been born on the final day of the 7th month of the year about… eight or nine years ago, if Whitley had to guess. He could not remember the exact year, for time and his work with the business had been unkind to him. However, he could still remember her appearance: she had the same snow white hair as him and her mother, looking like a near spitting image of Weiss as a child. She even had picked up some of the clothing preferences of her mother, having a particular preference for white, frilly dresses.
What made her stand out from her mother, which Whitley could not forget all these years later, were the child’s eyes. Unlike the rest of the Schnees, Glöckchen did not possess light blue eyes. Rather, her eyes were a brilliant cobalt color: the same color as her father. It had been an observation that enlightened Whitley back then; there could be no mistaking that the child was a Schnee through and through, but there was also no mistaking the fact that she had a uniqueness to her. Whitley, somewhat begrudgingly at the time, had to admit that credit for such a feat belonged to her father.
Unfortunately, time since such idle visits a handful of years ago had been most unkind. After around two years of consistent visits, highlighted by his stays for Solstice Week, work rebuilding the Schnee Dust Company had ramped up. Demands for dust shipments and requisition orders increased. Labor requirements had spiked; calls for better labor conditions for all workers, but especially the Faunus, were raised. Rumors even emerged that the White Fang had been considering options to move against the Schnee Dust Company… both peacefully and less so. Fortunately, as of the current day, such rumors have been nothing but unfounded.
Such complications had taken a toll on Whitley Schnee; over time, the influence his dear sister had had in melting the cagey iciness around his heart seemed to fade. When he wasn’t busy dealing with board meetings or public appearances, he resolved himself to his study, where he worked on paperwork and negotiations for hours on end. Day after day, month after month, and year after year.
Initially, he had resolved to find a different way to communicate with Weiss in place of his visits. He had decided to write letters to her when he could, not only to inform her of the happenings of the company (she still showed an interest, surprisingly), but also to check in on her and her family. Perhaps not so much for her husband… but definitely for her.
And especially for her daughter.
Still, such follies, like all other things in the world, have a beginning and an end. Whitley’s work eventually drove him to focus more and more on his professional life. The letters went from once a week, to once every two weeks, to once a month. Eventually, they had ceased completely… at least from his end.
Over time, Whitley had grown colder; it was what was needed to run a company like the SDC. His grandfather, while a great man (Whitley personally struggled to remember him, but his sister’s tales regarding the man painted him in a remarkable light), had been a horrible businessman. It was such incompetence that had allowed his father to take over the company in the first place, labeling such a move as an effort to help protect the late founder’s daughter in light of Nicholas’ failing health. Of course, such an endeavor had been merely a cover story for his own greed, but results were results.
By himself, Whitley grew to understand his father more. When running a business, one could not be concerned with follies of fairness, warmth, or kindness. Thousands of people counted on the head of the organization to present themselves as strong and unwavering. His father, while morally reprehensible, had painted the SDC as a company and force to be reckoned with. This was what was necessary in order to gain respect in the professional world. As a handful of years passed since the last time he saw his sister, Whitley had grown cold and detached from most. There were only two men he could consider to be confidants in his life.
Whitley sat at his desk, filling out an order for a dust shipment to Vacuo. The fire crinkled softly beside him. It was not a sensation he noticed, for no warmth could warm, nor wintry weather chill him. The years of solitude had left him bitter, and biting.
While such isolation may have once gnawed at his insides, Whitley had grown used to it. It fact, he would even argue that it was the very thing he liked. To edge his way through the crowded paths of life was a waste of time, as far as he was concerned.
The door to Whitley’s study rang out with a series of four knocks, before a familiar voice rang out. “Master Schnee?”
Whitley set down his quill, before getting up to open the door. He was greeted with the warm smile of his butler, and one of the only men he could claim to be a true friend, Klein Sieben.
Klein took off his top hat as he greeted him. “Good morning, Master Schnee. A happy Solstice week to you! May the Gods save you!” He spoke in a cheerful voice, as he usually did when faced with the man he had come to see as the son he never had.
Whitley let out a quiet, bored sigh. “Humbug, Klein.”
Klein was not affected by Whitley’s dispassionate response. Rather, his face glowed and his eyes sparkled, as if he had just been the one sitting beside a fire instead of Whitley.
“Solstice Week a humbug, master?” Klein shook his head. “You don’t mean that, I am sure.”
“I do,” said Whitley. “Happy Solstice Week! What right have I to be happy? What reason have you to be happy?”
Klein chuckled, slowly shaking his head. “And, Master Schnee, what right do you have to be dismal? What reason do you have to be morose?”
Not wanting to waste the time to list out the several reasons for why Whitley felt such feelings, he scoffed. “Blah, Humbug!”
“Do try not to be cross, Master.”
“What else can I be,” returned Whitley, “when I live in such a world of fools as this? Happy Solstice Week! Out upon Solstice Week! What is this time besides a time for signing bills without appreciation; a time for finding myself a year older, and not an ounce richer; a time for scrutinizing the dust shipments and making sure every crystal in them is accounted for? If I could work my will,” said Whitley, indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Happy Solstice Week’ on his lips, should be made to work in the dust mines as penance, to actually produce something of worth to society. He should!”
“Master!” pleaded Klein. “You may keep Solstice Week in your own way, as I keep it in mine. However, I have a delivery which you might find yourself interested in.”
Whitley’s interest peaked at that. “Is that so? Do tell. Is it a response from Theodore about the new dust agreement for Shade Academy? An update on the dust excavations around Dormir? News from the mines regarding the quotas?”
Klein shook his head. “No, Master Whitley. It is a letter that arrived, addressed specifically to you.”
“A letter, you say?” Whitley was surprised at that. He had not received a letter since…
He narrowed his eyes. “Klein. Is that letter from who I think it is?”
Klein, ever coy when he wanted to be, betrayed no hints in his face that he knew what Whitley was referring to, even though Whitley knew he did. “I apologize, Master Whitley, but you will have to be more specific.”
Whitley sighed. “Don’t play dumb, Klein. Is it from the same person who has been sending a letter here every day right before Solstice Week begins for years now?”
“Hmm… I cannot recall, Master Whitley. You will have to excuse me, but… in my advancing age, remembering such minute details can become rather difficult.”
“Very well. Hand me the letter, and if it is from the person I believe it to be, then it can share the same fate as all the other invitations which came before: as fuel for the fireplace.”
Klein nodded. “Very well.” His hands, previously clasped behind his back, revealed themselves, handing a small envelope to Whitley. Whitley took it and examined the front of it. He scowled as he examined the front of the letter, where he saw the name of the sender and who it was meant for.
From: Weiss Arc-Schnee
To: Shitley Schnee
“Blast that woman! She does have a rather vulgar sense of humor! The years of my non-response have not served to quell her profanity! I do think that Arc man of hers has gotten to her.”
Klein avoided the urge to chuckle at Whitley’s anger. “Do try not to hurt yourself, Master. Such a nickname, believe it or not, is one that comes from a place of affection. After all, you are her little brother. Such sibling banter is something I recall becoming a mainstay of your interactions in Vacuo, if I remember correctly. Quips and trades which mean nothing, other than coming from a place of love.”
Whitley narrowed his eyes at Klein. “So you can remember that perfectly well, yet you cannot recall the infernal woman who has been pestering me with these letters every Solstice Week for years on end?”
“My apologies, Master Whitley. It seems that my memory can be rather… selective.”
“Klein…” Whitley sighed. “You should understand that the needs of the company come before personal pleasure. I have an entire assortment of workers that rely on me to keep the company afloat.”
“Master Whitley… if you are finding such a task difficult to do by yourself, you should consider changing your mind about your mother’s offer.”
Whitley turned around, pacing across the room as he shook his head. “Absolutely not. I do not need Mother’s assistance in running the company. She is a large part of the reason that it has come to be in the state it is. She cannot attempt to make up for over a decade of neglect that easily.”
“While that is the response I expected, I would at least implore you to keep an open mind about your mother, Master Whitley. She was… not always like the woman you remember. If what I have garnered from her letters is accurate, she seems to be doing much better these days.”
Whitley turned around to face Klein again. “Well, that’s probably because she finally found someone who could hold more alcohol than she could.”
Klein gave Whitley a sad smile, before nodding. “Perhaps, Master Whitley. Still, let us not get distracted from the topic at hand. Whether or not you realize it, there are many things from which I might have derived good, I dare say, Solstice Week among the rest.”
“Oh, really? And, do tell, what are some of those things?”
Klein pondered for a moment. “Well… when I think of Solstice Week, when it has come round, I think of it as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, and pleasant time. The only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, where all of Solitas seem to freely open up. Where this land is not defined by the cold, rigid nature that defines it, but instead, by the warmth of their hearts. A rather interesting contradiction: when the sun reaches its lowest point, our spirit reaches its highest… a solstice of the heart, if you will.”
Just as Whitley was about to chide Klein for his sentimental drivel, the sound of soft applause broke his concentration. He looked behind Klein, and let out a groan at who he saw.
He pointed at his receptionist, glaring at him. “Let me hear another sound from you, and you’ll keep your Solstice Week by losing your situation!”
He turned back to his butler. “You’re quite a powerful speaker, Klein. I wonder why you don’t go to the Atlesian Council.”
“Don’t be so rash, Master Whitley. Come! Visit your family to-morrow.”
“Good afternoon, Klein.”
“I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute, Master Whitley. Regardless, I shall keep my holiday humor to the last. So, a Happy Solstice Week to you, Master Whitley!”
“Good afternoon!”
“And a Happy New Year!”
“Good afternoon!”
Klein put his hat back on with a smile. He stopped for a moment to bestow the greetings of the season upon the receptionist, who returned them warmly.
“There’s another fellow,” muttered Whitley in pure exasperation. “My receptionist, with fifteen lien a week, talking about a happy Solstice Week. I’ll retire to Argus.”
Oscar gave him a soft smile. “Good afternoon, Whitley. My apologies for interrupting you, but there are two men at the gates who wish to speak with you.”
Whitley let out an annoyed sigh. Probably some carolers or idiots wanting money from him. “Blast it all!” He threw the letter from his sister on the nearby coffee table, before exiting his study and closing the door. “While I deal with them, could you get to work copying the dust manifests to the ledger, please?”
Oscar nodded. “Of course, Whitley.”
Whitley gave him a polite nod, walking down the hallway with a grumble as he moved towards the main staircase. Right on cue, he felt a buzzing from his scroll and pulled it out to find a call from his security team.
Without thinking, he answered the call and brought the scroll to his ear. “Let them through. I will deal with this.”
“Yes, sir!” The gruff voice of the security guard came through, before Whitley hung up the call just as quickly as he picked it up. He descended the staircase, heading for the main doors of the estate. As he opened them and stepped outside, he was greeted by the biting chill of the wind.
He watched with a neutral expression as a small convertible approached the front steps of the manor. He clasped his hands behind his back as he waited, tapping his foot impatiently.
Two men, one of a slender build and the other of a stocky build, exited the vehicle to ascend the steps. The slender man referred to a piece of paper in his hand before speaking.
“The Schnee Dust Company, I believe. Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Jacques Schnee?”
Whitley avoided letting out an annoyed sigh. “My father has been dead for almost ten years,” Whitley replied. “He died… almost ten years ago, around this time of the year.”
“We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving heir,” said the stocky gentleman, presenting his credentials.
Liberality. That was certainly one way to describe his father’s “charity” events, like the one for Beacon Academy all those years ago.
Unfortunately, Whitley’s suspicions had been proven correct; the two men had been kindred spirits. Whitley examined their credentials for a moment, before shaking his head.
“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Schnee, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the less fortunate. For example, those in Mantle who struggle for food, water, or electricity, especially in the winter months, or the Faunus, who work long and hard days in the mines. Many thousands are in want of the most common necessities, and countless thousands more are in want of comforts, sir.”
Whitley listened passively as the man spoke. “And why are you telling me all of this, sir?”
“Well, under the impression that we scarcely furnish cheer of mind or body to the multitude, a few of us are working to raise a fund to help buy the poor in Mantle more necessities. For example, food and water, blankets for the cold winter months, and improvements to the power grid. For those in the mines, we can help to purchase better safety equipment, tools, and general amenities. We choose this time, because it is not only a time of giving, but also a time of struggle for many. What shall I put you down for?”
“Nothing.” Whitley replied.
The man looked at him in confusion. “You wish to be anonymous?”
Whitley sighed. “I wish to be left alone. It is unfortunate what is happening to those out there, but I have far too little time on my hands to deal with the plights of the unfortunate. I already am responsible for thousands of men and women as it is; must I help everyone in this kingdom? Additionally, I don’t make happy myself during Solstice Week, and I cannot afford to make idle people happy. I help to support the people who work under me, as well as the facilities and mines which house them while they work. They cost more than enough as is.”
“But… many do not have the luxuries or amenities you do. Many of them would die.”
“An unfortunate outcome, I admit, but it represents the major problem of this country. A surplus population that cannot be supported by our incompetent Council, forced to rely on donations from philanthropy.”
“But you’re one of the few people who could actually do something about it!”
“It’s not my business,” Whitley returned. “It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and I understand the Schnee Dust Company in and out. It is not my right, nor my duty, to interfere with the lives of people not under my employ. Those who are occupying my attention constantly take priority. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
As Whitley went to turn around, he heard the other man, the stocky one, remark.
“Perhaps you’re mistaken, sir. Are you certain your father is dead?”
Whitley looked at the man in confusion. “What are you on about? My father has been dead for almost a decade.”
“Physically, perhaps. Yet it seems that part of him lives on in you.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” Without another word, Whitley slammed the front doors shut.
As Whitley retreated back to his study, fog and darkness began to fall over the floating city of Atlas. Thunder began to crack through the sky, before rain began to softly fall. Foggier yet, and colder, did the Atlesian air become, as a piercing, searching, biting cold fell over the twin cities.
As he returned to his study, Whitley felt his scroll vibrate again. When he saw it was from a contact he did not recognize, he reluctantly answered.
“Gods bless you, Happy Solstice Week! May nothing you dismay!”
Whitley scowled as he instantly hung up the call. The blasted carolers had taken to telecommunications as well? What was this kingdom coming to?
Whitley looked at the fireplace. He thought quietly for a moment. For a reason he could not explain, he felt something bother him. As if he was forgetting something… something to do with the fireplace that he was going to do before he was interrupted.
His eyes widened as he remembered. He stood up, heading towards his coffee table to pick up the letter from his sister.
However, when he was only halfway between his desk and the table, he heard a knock on the door of his study. With an ill well, Whitley turned away, heading for the door. He opened the door to find Oscar on the other side, smiling at him.
“Oscar? Did you finish copying the manifests already?”
“No, Whitley, I just wanted to discuss our plans for Solstice Week.”
Whitley sighed, realization dawning upon him.
“You’ll want all week, I suppose?” said Whitley.
“If quite convenient, Whitley.”
“It is far from convenient, said Whitley, “and it’s not fair. Oscar, I rely on you far more than I care to admit to keep this company running as smoothly as possible. Giving you a whole week off for this holiday? You’re not even from Solitas, anyway. Have you even celebrated Solstice Week before?”
Oscar blushes slightly, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Well, that’s true… but I never thought about it until now. I’ve just been so busy helping you these past few years that I haven’t had any chance to explore what Atlas has to offer for me. I mean, there was that time years ago when I went to the movies with your sister and Jaune, but other than that, I never had the chance to actually explore like I wanted to.”
“Damn it, Oscar. Do you think me some soft man? It is poor business sense to pay you a week’s wages for no work.”
“It’s only once a year, sir. And, if you absolutely need me for something… you know how to contact me.”
“A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every last full week of December!” said Whitley, shaking his head in exasperation. “But I suppose you can have the whole week. Consider it a reward for all of your hard work, but! Be here all the earlier next week!”
Oscar’s face beamed, as he vigorously nodded. “You’ve got it, Whitley!” He ran down the hallway with a pep in his step.
As Whitley closed the door, he felt a slight burning sensation on his face, and his heart was beating faster than usual. Whitley was not sure of the exact cause of this; perhaps it was some delayed response to him standing in the cold earlier that day.
He went to sit back down at his desk; while the SDC was officially closed for Solstice Week, his work continued. As he went to mull over his financial reports, a nagging thought stuck in the back of his mind. He stood up once more, heading towards the coffee table. He picked up the envelope from his sister a third time. He reread the writing on the front, grumbling at the nickname, before sitting down on the couch.
He pulled a letter opener from his pocket, sliding it along the top of the envelope to cut it open. He reached in to pull out the contents, before he realized that there were two things inside.
The front item he pulled out was a letter; one quick glance at the letter confirmed that it was his sister’s handwriting. Her print was unmistakable; exquisite, cursive writing that looked flawless. Every stroke of her pen was as controlled and precise as a slash of her sword; every word was printed neatly, as if a printing press had typed the words. Whitley had to admit that, even though he hadn’t seen her in years, her form was as remarkable as ever.
He set the letter down on the table. He reached inside the envelope again for the second item. As he looked at it, he gasped in surprise.
It was a photo of three people. The first was his sister: while she still looked young and youthful, Whitley could tell that she was more mature than the last time he saw her. She had let her hair down to rest gently on her shoulders, a snow field resting atop a blue sweater with a shark design on the front. What a peculiar choice of clothing… yet her smile was as warm as ever.
It was the same as it had always been; a rarity, a sight many would never even see in their lives, yet for those fortunate enough to see… it was one of the most wonderful sights in the world.
The second person was her husband, the man named Jaune. Jaune had become more mature in his way as well; a bright blond beard laced his features, with occasional white hairs mixed in. He also looked much more muscular than Whitley remembered. He had always been somewhat lanky from what Whitley remembered, yet here… here his muscles were more defined. While he was not a bodybuilder by any means, he was certainly fit.
This made it all the more peculiar to Whitley that he was wearing a basic black hoodie with a white rabbit logo on the front, in addition to a pair of blue jeans that looked like they had come straight from the Great War.
Finally, his eyes rested on the final person. He felt surprised as he examined her. No, this couldn’t be right. The last time he had seen her, she had been just a couple of years old.
But this… the young girl with a shade of white hair identical to her mother looked much older now. If Whitley had to guess, he would say she was about seven or eight, and her hair had grown into a small but lush ponytail. She had a tiara nearly identical to the one her mother was wearing, except it had a blue gem instead of a red one. She had the dark blue eyes of her father and wore a simple white dress partially covered by light blue overalls.
While all three figures in the photo were smiling… Whitley’s eyes were drawn to the beaming look on the child’s face. It practically leaped out of the photo, her smile unintentionally bringing a small one to his face.
He cleared his throat suddenly and pushed the photo back in the envelope, before tossing it on top of the letter. He went to stand up, and as he did, his eyes were drawn to a peculiar sight. His heart soared into his throat.
“What the devil?!”
The night was dark; fog and frost hung about the windows of his study as if the weather itself was in a mournful state of meditation. Despite this darkness, the sight in front of him was clear as day; a glowing white apparition of his father on the other side of the window.