A Heart of Ice and Coffee - Prologue
They say nothing is colder than ice.
I have...
They say nothing is colder than ice.
I have...
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A Heart of Ice and Coffee [RWBY/SI]
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Prologue
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
A Heart of Ice and Coffee - Prologue
They say nothing is colder than ice.
I have, unfortunately, discovered that it isn't true. A lot of things are colder than ice.
Atlas in the middle of winter, for example, could be colder than the ice that covered it. My father's office was another; and he didn't even need to open his window to let it be like that. He just emitted the cold by himself, perhaps from the shriveled husk of an organ he once called a heart.
"He has my hair. Hopefully, he'll have my spirit too," were the only words of kindness I vaguely remembered for most of my childhood. Well, if it could be called childhood. My memories were a haze, a foggy wall from which I could barely scrunch up some vague sense of foreboding. I couldn't place it, but I knew it was coming.
The step from merely living to actually having a sense of self was hazy, but I do know that in the end, it all began in the usual way.
"My little singing Wren," my mother said with a kind smile as I had randomly gone looking for her. I was a mommy's boy, and kind of proud of it too. There was no reason I wouldn't be. I mean, the other parental figure was akin to a fridge in the middle of a northern tundra, so one had to pick his battles.
Again, I wondered why I needed to know how to pick my battles. Certainly, there was no need to pick some battles? After a couple of minutes just basking in the presence that was my mother, and a few more glancing at the newly born baby in his crib, I decided that enough was enough and I needed to satisfy my curiosity next. Thus, I went to the next best person who could answer any and all problems I may have with ruthless precision and militaristic approach.
My older sister was wiser on those aspects than me.
"It means to choose one's battles," she answered as if that explained it all. I scrunched my brows, and she understood I wasn't satisfied at all with the answer. I remembered her a bit more capable. Perhaps a bit older too. Perhaps I was just making mistakes, believing books to be real and reality to be false. That kind of stuff had happened more than once, to the clear displeasure of my father.
I might have had a reputation as an airhead, all things considered.
"You pick the really important battle and fight that one," she continued, fiddling with a lock of hair and trying her hardest to come up with a simpler explanation yet.
She had white hair, just like our mother. Honestly, everyone had white hair in the family except father and I; even my little sister Weiss and the youngest born, Whitley, had white hair. I was really my father's boy, black hair and dark eyes. Though his eyes -and those of the rest of the family- were blue, so on that I was pretty much special and unique.
"But what does battle mean?" I asked. That was what I couldn't understand. I couldn't even understand how it had come into my mind, but it had.
"A battle? It's when two sides, led by many people, fight," Winter answered. "Were you reading the books in the library again?"
I gave a sheepish smile and a small nod. It was better than admit that my knowledge had just come from thin air, from osmosis with the books in the library, from-what did osmosis even mean, and how did I know that? "I'm bored."
"Strange," Winter said, turning thoughtful, "I'd think you'd have lessons to attend to."
I coughed, and awkwardly looked away. "Boring lessons make me bored."
Winter quietly looked at her own homework, left on her desk, and then back at me. She glanced outside, at the sunny day and the thick amount of snow that rested on the gardens' grounds. She bit her lower lip, pondering the thought a bit.
A few minutes later and she was throwing meticulously round snowballs in my direction, and I was suffering under an onslaught that seemed to have no end. I did manage to erect an impromptu wall and throw back a couple of poorly formed snow-projectiles, but they all broke in the air.
With her victory utterly assured, and the cold creeping into my bones to the point where I was of the same temperature as the ice on the treacherous garden grounds, we ended up going back inside just in time for Klein the multicolored-eyes butler to offer us both something deliciously warm.
I extended my hands to grab my mug and as I glanced at the liquid within, my face scrunched up in confusion. The liquid within was brown.
It wasn't supposed to be brown. It was supposed to be black.
It was supposed to be coffee.
But coffee was for grown-ups; it was for bitter grown-ups. It was for evil grown-ups like my father, or sad adults like my mother, and so why would I even want coffee to live, and prosper, and function properly? It wasn't like coffee was something I had ever seen, or drank, but I knew it tasted bitter at first, but then mellowed out into a warmth within that was tied to so many things of my life that I couldn't remember a single moment spent without its taste in the back of my throat.
And everything clicked as I let the chocolate mug fall on the ground, my eyes wide and my face probably paling visibly as I looked around in utter fear, shock and denial.
I had no mouth, and yet I had to scream.
No, actually, I did have a mouth, and a pretty set of lungs too.
Yet screaming would be counter-productive. So what came out was a half-strangled cry that soon turned into a sheepish wheezing, and then a high-pitched whining.
"Wren? Is everything all right?" Winter asked, worried and clearly fussing over me, the younger brother.
Why was she my elder sister? Why was I a younger brother? Where was my own younger brother? This wasn't funny. Sure, we were both adults, but I knew that if I lost sight of my younger brother, he'd start stuff and then I'd have to pull his ass off the fire.
No, wait, that was in the past. The present was different. The present that wasn't this present-
"The mug was hot," I said as if that explained all, "I wasn't prepared for that. I am sorry." I blinked, and then mechanically walked my way up the stairs, through a hallway, and straight into my room.
Then I double locked it, grabbed the pricey pillow that would work well enough as a sound muffler, and proceeded to scream harshly and roughly into it.
My perfect poker face emerged from the pillow half an hour later, my eyes staring at my reflection in the mirror and my thoughts on the matter clear.
This was bad.
This was extremely bad.
I was stuck as a child of the Schnee family.
Things couldn't really get any worse...
...but they did, because of course they did.
They say nothing is colder than ice.
I have, unfortunately, discovered that it isn't true. A lot of things are colder than ice.
Atlas in the middle of winter, for example, could be colder than the ice that covered it. My father's office was another; and he didn't even need to open his window to let it be like that. He just emitted the cold by himself, perhaps from the shriveled husk of an organ he once called a heart.
"He has my hair. Hopefully, he'll have my spirit too," were the only words of kindness I vaguely remembered for most of my childhood. Well, if it could be called childhood. My memories were a haze, a foggy wall from which I could barely scrunch up some vague sense of foreboding. I couldn't place it, but I knew it was coming.
The step from merely living to actually having a sense of self was hazy, but I do know that in the end, it all began in the usual way.
"My little singing Wren," my mother said with a kind smile as I had randomly gone looking for her. I was a mommy's boy, and kind of proud of it too. There was no reason I wouldn't be. I mean, the other parental figure was akin to a fridge in the middle of a northern tundra, so one had to pick his battles.
Again, I wondered why I needed to know how to pick my battles. Certainly, there was no need to pick some battles? After a couple of minutes just basking in the presence that was my mother, and a few more glancing at the newly born baby in his crib, I decided that enough was enough and I needed to satisfy my curiosity next. Thus, I went to the next best person who could answer any and all problems I may have with ruthless precision and militaristic approach.
My older sister was wiser on those aspects than me.
"It means to choose one's battles," she answered as if that explained it all. I scrunched my brows, and she understood I wasn't satisfied at all with the answer. I remembered her a bit more capable. Perhaps a bit older too. Perhaps I was just making mistakes, believing books to be real and reality to be false. That kind of stuff had happened more than once, to the clear displeasure of my father.
I might have had a reputation as an airhead, all things considered.
"You pick the really important battle and fight that one," she continued, fiddling with a lock of hair and trying her hardest to come up with a simpler explanation yet.
She had white hair, just like our mother. Honestly, everyone had white hair in the family except father and I; even my little sister Weiss and the youngest born, Whitley, had white hair. I was really my father's boy, black hair and dark eyes. Though his eyes -and those of the rest of the family- were blue, so on that I was pretty much special and unique.
"But what does battle mean?" I asked. That was what I couldn't understand. I couldn't even understand how it had come into my mind, but it had.
"A battle? It's when two sides, led by many people, fight," Winter answered. "Were you reading the books in the library again?"
I gave a sheepish smile and a small nod. It was better than admit that my knowledge had just come from thin air, from osmosis with the books in the library, from-what did osmosis even mean, and how did I know that? "I'm bored."
"Strange," Winter said, turning thoughtful, "I'd think you'd have lessons to attend to."
I coughed, and awkwardly looked away. "Boring lessons make me bored."
Winter quietly looked at her own homework, left on her desk, and then back at me. She glanced outside, at the sunny day and the thick amount of snow that rested on the gardens' grounds. She bit her lower lip, pondering the thought a bit.
A few minutes later and she was throwing meticulously round snowballs in my direction, and I was suffering under an onslaught that seemed to have no end. I did manage to erect an impromptu wall and throw back a couple of poorly formed snow-projectiles, but they all broke in the air.
With her victory utterly assured, and the cold creeping into my bones to the point where I was of the same temperature as the ice on the treacherous garden grounds, we ended up going back inside just in time for Klein the multicolored-eyes butler to offer us both something deliciously warm.
I extended my hands to grab my mug and as I glanced at the liquid within, my face scrunched up in confusion. The liquid within was brown.
It wasn't supposed to be brown. It was supposed to be black.
It was supposed to be coffee.
But coffee was for grown-ups; it was for bitter grown-ups. It was for evil grown-ups like my father, or sad adults like my mother, and so why would I even want coffee to live, and prosper, and function properly? It wasn't like coffee was something I had ever seen, or drank, but I knew it tasted bitter at first, but then mellowed out into a warmth within that was tied to so many things of my life that I couldn't remember a single moment spent without its taste in the back of my throat.
And everything clicked as I let the chocolate mug fall on the ground, my eyes wide and my face probably paling visibly as I looked around in utter fear, shock and denial.
I had no mouth, and yet I had to scream.
No, actually, I did have a mouth, and a pretty set of lungs too.
Yet screaming would be counter-productive. So what came out was a half-strangled cry that soon turned into a sheepish wheezing, and then a high-pitched whining.
"Wren? Is everything all right?" Winter asked, worried and clearly fussing over me, the younger brother.
Why was she my elder sister? Why was I a younger brother? Where was my own younger brother? This wasn't funny. Sure, we were both adults, but I knew that if I lost sight of my younger brother, he'd start stuff and then I'd have to pull his ass off the fire.
No, wait, that was in the past. The present was different. The present that wasn't this present-
"The mug was hot," I said as if that explained all, "I wasn't prepared for that. I am sorry." I blinked, and then mechanically walked my way up the stairs, through a hallway, and straight into my room.
Then I double locked it, grabbed the pricey pillow that would work well enough as a sound muffler, and proceeded to scream harshly and roughly into it.
My perfect poker face emerged from the pillow half an hour later, my eyes staring at my reflection in the mirror and my thoughts on the matter clear.
This was bad.
This was extremely bad.
I was stuck as a child of the Schnee family.
Things couldn't really get any worse...
...but they did, because of course they did.
Last edited:
- Location
- Somewhere else
Of course coffee would bring back Shade's memories.
"worst" should be "worse".
Honestly, that will probably apply to a lot of us.
- Location
- Charlotte, NC
- Pronouns
- He/She/They
So glad to see this coming out as a full story! I loved the snips and cannot wait for the return of Robusta as the worlds best secretary.
TwistedJester
Tired Lurker King
- Location
- Hell
All paths end and begin with coffee.
Confused by this, doesn't papa Schnee have white hair?
Old papa Schnee has white hair.
- Location
- America
Well then here we go. Everyone buckle up and get your coffee or other items of energy providing drink ready. We have another one.
theauthor
Birdie
- Location
- Soerabaja
You think that but let's face it. It is actually be a blessing for you.
- Location
- Dreary ol' London Town
Nuu, no more tiger-waifu
Maybe tiger waifu comes later?
Chapter One
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
Chapter One
No matter how shocking a news can be, eventually it fades. The monotony of life will make sure of it. The problem arises when the monotony of life isn't really all that monotonous. In my case, the real problem lay in the fact that just as surely as I was a six, or perhaps seven years old, and my older sister Winter was ten, Weiss was five or four, and Whitley? Well, Whitley was just trudging around on his pudgy little feet.
I didn't want to get on this train, but I had no choice on the matter. Now, I could either fight the current or let it sweep me up. I picked the option that would best suit me down the line, but even so-it was a tough call.
It was a tough call, because I knew, deep within the bottom of my stomach, that Jacques Schnee was an egocentric, vainglorious, arrogant and narcissistic man that would have perhaps been more suited as an evil antagonist from some cheap B-movie than as an actual father-figure of sorts. Yet I had no choice on the matter. The one thing that all narcissists enjoy the most? To speak about how great they are.
In retrospect, it was entirely too easy how it went down.
And I still regretted every moment of it. Every. Single. Moment.
"Father," I said as soon as lunch was finished on one fine, cold morning. In Atlas there was only the cold, and the colder. Sometimes you had spruces of Absolute Freezing, but never something comparable to 'Lukewarm' or 'Acceptable'. I had picked the perfect time. I didn't interrupt him while he was in his study, and it was a good enough day as far as good days went. "I do not think learning the piano is something I wish to continue. I find it a fruitless endeavor."
There was a brief moment of silence in which everyone at the table wondered if I had just spoken those words, or if by some strange trick of the light Klein had discovered his secret ventriloquism abilities and decided to make fun of the entire family with it.
The one who recovered the first was Jacques himself, since I had directly called into question his incredible ability of picking what suited best his children.
"That is pure nonsense," Jacques said, "How can you expect to go anywhere in life if you quit at the first shortcoming? Learning an art is a good practice. No son of mine will ever be a quitter."
I shook my head. "You misunderstand me, father. I do not find hard, nor easy, the act of playing the piano. I merely do not find it worth my time. If I planned on becoming a professional pianist, I would pursue it. However, I merely seek to start learning the family business. If I am to thrive on my own after Winter inherits the company, then I would rather have a solid foundation of business rather than the ability to play the piano."
Ironically, my mother checked her wine glass to see if it had been tampered with. Weiss' eyebrows were adorably scrunched up trying to parse my words. Whitley wasn't even trying, but I wasn't making it a fault for him. He was maybe a year or a bit more.
Winter was understanding most of it, I reckoned. At least, I hoped she was.
"And what brought this on, son?" Jacques asked, his voice never once changing in inflection. It was like Larping in a Vampire: The Masquerade setting. You had to please the Prince, and you had to avoid getting shanked while you did so. It was an ancient and well worthy art of telling the truth that one wanted to hear, and yet keeping oneself open to interpretations.
In this case, though, it was merely the ancient art of licking someone else's feathers.
"The sooner I start, the better I will become," I answered. "If you've come this far by yourself, then how far can I go if you teach me everything you know, father?"
Jacques remained silent for a bit, and then gave a simple nod. "It appears you've thought this well. However, I will not be a kind teacher, nor one at all until you have proven yourself. I will have some private instructors called," he narrowed his eyes, "If you perhaps thought that learning the art of business would be easier than playing the piano, then I will disavow you of that notion."
"Thank you for the opportunity, father. I will not disappoint you," I added with a smile. "How did you learn the art of business?"
It was too easy.
Perhaps it was because nobody would suspect the six or seven year old to be actually capable of thinking things through, but at the end of the day, all that Jacques cared about was to keep his pride, his wealth, and prove to the world that he was the very best man that ever existed in the world. His arrogance blinded him to the obvious, and the fact I was his son blinded him to the risks. After all, what kind of father does not want his son to succeed him?
All I had to do was provide him with a flawless carbon-copy of himself.
A couple of days after the lunch that changed my direction in life, Weiss tiptoed into my room with a curious look on her face. She was my younger sister, and she looked bored and slightly peeved. I did remember that we'd play with one another, and sometimes with Winter too, but now Winter was getting busier and I was out of the equation too, so naturally she did what every younger sibling would do in her situation and came looking for someone to annoy.
On my desk, the latest homework had already been done. Technically, I was free. There was no reason not to play with Weiss. However I knew that father was home for the time being, and if he came to investigate my progress and realized I had done my assigned homework in ten minutes rather than in a hour, he'd increase the workload. It was a delicate balance what I was striving to obtain; enough to appear smart, but not enough to get swamped.
Of course, this delicate act of balancing went unnoticed by Weiss, who simply wanted someone to play with her.
"Let's play," she said with a resolute expression on her baby face, her blue eyes sparkling.
"I have to do my homework," I pointed out. "I can't."
"Then do it faster," she harrumphed, and took a seat on my bed.
I glanced at the completed homework, and re-read the answers. I checked them thrice, and suddenly felt a chill in the back of my spine. It was a honed instinct. It was a practiced motion. Within seconds I was moving out of the way as Weiss' hands tried and failed to tickle my sides with childish glee. She began to pursue me, and I did my best to run away from her impromptu game of tag.
Homework and laughter followed me for the days to come.
Time made sure to murder the latter soon enough, though.
No matter how shocking a news can be, eventually it fades. The monotony of life will make sure of it. The problem arises when the monotony of life isn't really all that monotonous. In my case, the real problem lay in the fact that just as surely as I was a six, or perhaps seven years old, and my older sister Winter was ten, Weiss was five or four, and Whitley? Well, Whitley was just trudging around on his pudgy little feet.
I didn't want to get on this train, but I had no choice on the matter. Now, I could either fight the current or let it sweep me up. I picked the option that would best suit me down the line, but even so-it was a tough call.
It was a tough call, because I knew, deep within the bottom of my stomach, that Jacques Schnee was an egocentric, vainglorious, arrogant and narcissistic man that would have perhaps been more suited as an evil antagonist from some cheap B-movie than as an actual father-figure of sorts. Yet I had no choice on the matter. The one thing that all narcissists enjoy the most? To speak about how great they are.
In retrospect, it was entirely too easy how it went down.
And I still regretted every moment of it. Every. Single. Moment.
"Father," I said as soon as lunch was finished on one fine, cold morning. In Atlas there was only the cold, and the colder. Sometimes you had spruces of Absolute Freezing, but never something comparable to 'Lukewarm' or 'Acceptable'. I had picked the perfect time. I didn't interrupt him while he was in his study, and it was a good enough day as far as good days went. "I do not think learning the piano is something I wish to continue. I find it a fruitless endeavor."
There was a brief moment of silence in which everyone at the table wondered if I had just spoken those words, or if by some strange trick of the light Klein had discovered his secret ventriloquism abilities and decided to make fun of the entire family with it.
The one who recovered the first was Jacques himself, since I had directly called into question his incredible ability of picking what suited best his children.
"That is pure nonsense," Jacques said, "How can you expect to go anywhere in life if you quit at the first shortcoming? Learning an art is a good practice. No son of mine will ever be a quitter."
I shook my head. "You misunderstand me, father. I do not find hard, nor easy, the act of playing the piano. I merely do not find it worth my time. If I planned on becoming a professional pianist, I would pursue it. However, I merely seek to start learning the family business. If I am to thrive on my own after Winter inherits the company, then I would rather have a solid foundation of business rather than the ability to play the piano."
Ironically, my mother checked her wine glass to see if it had been tampered with. Weiss' eyebrows were adorably scrunched up trying to parse my words. Whitley wasn't even trying, but I wasn't making it a fault for him. He was maybe a year or a bit more.
Winter was understanding most of it, I reckoned. At least, I hoped she was.
"And what brought this on, son?" Jacques asked, his voice never once changing in inflection. It was like Larping in a Vampire: The Masquerade setting. You had to please the Prince, and you had to avoid getting shanked while you did so. It was an ancient and well worthy art of telling the truth that one wanted to hear, and yet keeping oneself open to interpretations.
In this case, though, it was merely the ancient art of licking someone else's feathers.
"The sooner I start, the better I will become," I answered. "If you've come this far by yourself, then how far can I go if you teach me everything you know, father?"
Jacques remained silent for a bit, and then gave a simple nod. "It appears you've thought this well. However, I will not be a kind teacher, nor one at all until you have proven yourself. I will have some private instructors called," he narrowed his eyes, "If you perhaps thought that learning the art of business would be easier than playing the piano, then I will disavow you of that notion."
"Thank you for the opportunity, father. I will not disappoint you," I added with a smile. "How did you learn the art of business?"
It was too easy.
Perhaps it was because nobody would suspect the six or seven year old to be actually capable of thinking things through, but at the end of the day, all that Jacques cared about was to keep his pride, his wealth, and prove to the world that he was the very best man that ever existed in the world. His arrogance blinded him to the obvious, and the fact I was his son blinded him to the risks. After all, what kind of father does not want his son to succeed him?
All I had to do was provide him with a flawless carbon-copy of himself.
A couple of days after the lunch that changed my direction in life, Weiss tiptoed into my room with a curious look on her face. She was my younger sister, and she looked bored and slightly peeved. I did remember that we'd play with one another, and sometimes with Winter too, but now Winter was getting busier and I was out of the equation too, so naturally she did what every younger sibling would do in her situation and came looking for someone to annoy.
On my desk, the latest homework had already been done. Technically, I was free. There was no reason not to play with Weiss. However I knew that father was home for the time being, and if he came to investigate my progress and realized I had done my assigned homework in ten minutes rather than in a hour, he'd increase the workload. It was a delicate balance what I was striving to obtain; enough to appear smart, but not enough to get swamped.
Of course, this delicate act of balancing went unnoticed by Weiss, who simply wanted someone to play with her.
"Let's play," she said with a resolute expression on her baby face, her blue eyes sparkling.
"I have to do my homework," I pointed out. "I can't."
"Then do it faster," she harrumphed, and took a seat on my bed.
I glanced at the completed homework, and re-read the answers. I checked them thrice, and suddenly felt a chill in the back of my spine. It was a honed instinct. It was a practiced motion. Within seconds I was moving out of the way as Weiss' hands tried and failed to tickle my sides with childish glee. She began to pursue me, and I did my best to run away from her impromptu game of tag.
Homework and laughter followed me for the days to come.
Time made sure to murder the latter soon enough, though.
- Location
- Ireland
There was a similar snippet set later in this life in his snippets thread.
- Location
- Williamsburg, OH
The funny part is that Jacques probably knows exactly what you're doing, and he approves.
The first chapter had me interested. Half remembered memories from maybe-but-not-really SI, an innocent child with glimpse of things he shouldn't have known. Then of course the second chapter dashed any hope of this being a new and interesting story by settling into the usual "shade" routine.
- Location
- newcastle australia
This a rewrite of Toffee?
I always hoped that one got elaborated on.
I always hoped that one got elaborated on.