Chapter Text
Weiss isn’t sure what time it is. She took down the clock in her room long ago. She couldn’t stand how it felt like it was constantly taunting her, as it slowly ticked forward, and she remained frustratingly stagnant. It doesn’t particularly matter that she know the time anyway; the staff will find her when she’s next needed. Her days have been meticulously planned out to the minute by some white-collar idiot her father hired to “maximize her time”. She scoffs softly at the window in front of her, causing it to fog slightly. Pointless. It’s all fucking pointless. All just posturing and primping to pretend to make her into the perfect Schnee. A dangerous and delicate façade being created for the media and potential suitors. She’s not even sure who she is anymore underneath it all. Does she even exist outside of the persona her father has created for her? Does it matter?
She hazards a guess that it’s somewhere between 3:15 and 3:30, considering her tutor recently left and Klein hasn’t come to collect her yet for etiquette lessons. A soft sigh slips from her lips as she turns away from the snow laden window. Her eyes listlessly roam her room for something out of place to tidy, something to do. Her bed is immaculate, corners tucked and pressed to leave the white quilt sharp and wrinkle free. Next to it sits her dresser, filled with high-end clothes meticulously cleaned and folded that she had no say in buying, or wearing for that matter. Across her room is an ensuite bathroom with a sink, toilet, shower, bathtub, and large walk-in closet containing more clothes bought regardless of her wishes. A few feet from the entrance to the bathroom is an achromatic desk, barren besides a lone lamp and box of tissues. All the drawers are empty, she doesn’t know what to put in them. As her father likes to say: “Schnee’s don’t keep useless things”. She wonders when she’ll be deemed useless. Another sigh passes her lips as she decides to at least sit while she waits. She walks away from the window facing the gardens of the manor, listening to the soft padding of her shoes against the fabric beneath her. It feels somehow both that crossing her room takes only a moment and an eternity. As if she is in a void where time has ceased to exist. Maybe it has, maybe she is reliving the same day over and over. What did the religion teacher at her old school call it? Purgatory? She pushes the thought away. It doesn’t matter. Whether this is or isn’t purgatory, nothing changes.
Gently she pulls the chair out from under the desk, feeling its legs pull slightly on the pristine white carpet beneath. Sitting down softly in the plush ivory chair she realizes quickly she has made a mistake. Her existence somehow feeling even more meaningless as memories flood her from years ago. She can’t believe she misses the work from high school. But it had filled her time, and it had felt like she was moving towards something back then. Her days had purpose, she had a goal, she had meaning. The complete antitheses of her life now.
Free time, that’s what her planner called it. The word makes her stomach turn dangerously with bitterness. Nothing about any of her is free. Even this time, she can’t leave her room. If she couldn’t be found and missed a single one of her very important appointments she would be punished with only further restrictions. She hears his voice hiss in her head as the memory bubbles to the surface without permission. “Oh, you missed tea-time with the Winchester’s because you were playing the piano?” A small pause, a sharp slap that leaves her cheek burning and eyes watering, and then the sound of receding clicking heals fill her ears in the otherwise silent hall. “I knew it was an unnecessary habit.” Every instrument in the mansion was gone by the end of the night. And with them, her only outlet disappeared. Those first few weeks had felt suffocating, like the silence of the manor was slowly closing in on her as her thoughts grew louder and more terrifying. Weiss could tell Winter was worried about her. She knew her makeup could only hide the dark circles and puffy eyes so much. But it felt like she was unraveling, and she didn’t know how to stop. The last thing she had had in her life that she enjoyed – unceremoniously ripped from her grasp without even a second thought.
After a few weeks, Weiss pulled the frayed strings of her sanity together enough for Winter to visibly relax. Winter didn’t ask how, and Weiss was grateful for that. She didn’t want to have to explain she had simply given up. Everything became so much easier when she stopped trying to be anything more than the puppet her father wanted. Being unable to pursue her dreams didn’t burn deeply in her chest anymore when she stopped letting herself think of her future as her own. The memories of enraged yelling and trembling tiny hands didn’t make her so terrified she wanted to vomit when she believed the perfect image of her family from the media. A puppet does not have a past and it does not have a future. It only has this moment as it is being used. It doesn’t complain about the movements it is forced to make, or when it is set aside for another toy. A puppet doesn’t feel resentment or disappointment.
Weiss feels her eyes burn as her fists tighten so sharply that the bones in her fingers creak in protest. Curling forward slightly onto the desk, she bows her head and forces her eyes shut in an attempt to stem the emotions surging through her – to no avail. She curses herself for letting herself think. Because a puppet most certainly does not cry. After a few breaths, she opens her eyes slowly and lifts her head a few inches to stare blankly at the wall, willing her mind empty. She doesn’t have to think, everyone else does that for her. Everything would be so much easier if she could just shut off her brain and let them pose and move her body however they like. She’s not even sure her body is her own anymore. Because this is most certainly not her life; it never was. She had been foolish to ever believe otherwise.
A soft rapping on the door forces her eyes away from the spotless wall in front of her and towards the entrance to her room.
“Enter”. Weiss’ voice feels foreign in her own mouth. Should a puppet even speak without being told what to say? It always feels like she is on the verge of saying the wrong thing and being punished. She wouldn’t put it past him to try to surgically remove her vocal cords as a reprimand. If anything, it would likely increase the number of suitors vying for her hand. A perfectly obedient wife who can’t talk back. The thought should terrify her, and yet it feels like she is observing her thoughts from outside her body. Why would it matter? It was never her voice in the first place.
A man with a bald head, brown eyes, and a bushy mustache appears as the door is pushed open. It must be 3:30. Klein takes a step inside the room and straightens his back, clasping his hands behind himself in perfect form. His white suit as crisp and clean as ever. He looks at Weiss and smiles at her in that way people do when they’re trying to hide pity. Confusion fills her as he takes a step forward and pulls a light-blue handkerchief from one of his pockets. He kneels in front of her and gently presses the cloth to Weiss’ right cheek and then lightly swipes under her eyes.
Oh. She was crying… again.
Her eyes squeeze tightly shut as frustration fills her chest and she clenches her jaw so tight it feels like her teeth will break. None of this is new, she should be used to this now. She should be fine. Why isn’t she fine?! Fabric brushes her cheeks again and she tries to take a shuttering deep breath through gritted teeth. She doesn’t want to take her anger out on Klein, he doesn’t deserve it. Another deep breath, this one slightly less shaky, and she feels her heart begin to slow. The anger slowly draining from her body, only to be replaced instead with defeat and despair. Familiar emotions at least. She opens her eyes to find Klein has already stood up and walked back to the door, pretending as if nothing happened. Or maybe it didn’t? Maybe she’s so desperate to feel any sort of care or comfort that her brain has started hallucinating it for her. She doesn’t know; she’s not sure it matters anyway. Another deep breath and she meets his eyes, he gives her a soft smile before gesturing outside her door.
“It’s almost time for your etiquette lessons, Miss.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Klein.” Her throat feels tight, but she forces the words out anyway. She pulls what she hopes looks like a smile onto her face and pushes herself from the chair to stand. Automatically straightening her back and tilting her chin up to create what her father calls “Schnee posture” because, according to him, it is both composed and commanding. All it feels like is a quick way to get neck pain, but she long ago learned it doesn’t matter how something makes her feel — only how it makes her look.
Weiss strides past Klein and out through the open door. Carpet changing to marble flooring as her heels click beneath her. The soft sound of her door being closed and another pair of shoes clicking along filters up behind her. As she walks down the long narrow icy white hall, lined with paintings of her family and ancestors, she catches a glimpse of an old family portrait. Weiss, her father, and her mother staring back at her. Looking closer, she can see there is a suspicious empty space to Weiss’ right where the paint is slightly thicker; the only hint someone else had been in the photo.
Weiss deeply misses her sister. She misses feeling like there was always one person here she could trust and who was looking out for her. It made it all feel slightly less cold and slightly less suffocating, a small light in an endless sea of darkness. But it feels wrong to wish her back to this place. It feels selfish to want for something that would only hurt Winter, simply because it would make living here even slightly more bearable. No, it is good that Winter escaped to the military. Even though it meant their father’s grip only tightened further on Weiss to prevent her from following the same path. At least one of them escaped, Weiss tries to take solace in that instead of focusing on the bitterness steadily pooling in her stomach at the knowledge her fate has been sealed.
As her feet continue to push her down the long hall, she hopes she doesn’t forget what Winter looks like; carefully painted over in all the family portraits and banished from the manor grounds… not that she would want to come back anyway. Weiss doesn’t even have any pictures of her older sister anymore. Her laptop and phone were taken from her years ago. Distractions, he called them. She wonders if they’re still somewhere in the manor. More likely deep in a landfill now. It doesn’t matter. She feels her chest tighten from thinking too much about Winter. Weiss hopes she’s doing well, that she’s happy. She wishes deeply that she could just call her and ask. She has no way of knowing what Winter’s number is though. She wonders if Winter has ever tried calling here. She has no way of knowing that either. The staff have been explicitly told to hang up on her.
Idly, Weiss considers that she may never see her sister again. The thought sits like a stone in her stomach. How did it all end up like this? She doesn’t remember being so restricted before, so trapped. The word makes panic bubble in her chest. When was the last time she even left the manor grounds? She hasn’t tried in a very long time; she’s had no reason to. But would she even be allowed? Suddenly it feels like the walls are pressing in on her and the bright lights against the white walls and carpet feel blinding. Why does it feel so hard to breath? Her hands feel like ice as she shakily pulls them to her chest. She tries to take a deep breath and it feels like it drags broken glass down her throat. As her heart feels like it is about to beat out of her chest, she convinces herself to keep walking on legs that feel like jelly. It will pass. It always does. As soon as she is able to remember her place and accept her role the panic will stop. She’s not trapped; trapped implies she is being prevented from escaping. She’s not being prevented because there never was an escape, this has always been her destiny. It doesn’t matter if she can leave the manor or not, she won’t be told to – so she won’t. It doesn’t matter if she wants to see Winter again, Father doesn’t want her to – so she won’t. All she has to do is exactly as she is told – she must stop trying to think about anything beyond that.
Her heart slowly begins to calm; warmth seeping back into her fingers as her legs grow steadier beneath her. She had forgotten herself for a moment and let herself believe what she wanted mattered. All it took to come back was giving up herself again. It feels like she is watching the world from outside her own body as she continues down the empty hall. She feels empty. But empty is better than how she felt before. Empty is what she needs to be.
Weiss remembers Klein behind her and hopes he didn’t notice anything. For a moment she again wonders if what she experienced in her room was real – how far has she unraveled? Ahead of her she sees the door to the tearoom, where her next lesson will be. As it grows nearer, she wonders if there is anyway to ask without alarming Klein. Her feet stop without her telling them to and she remains facing forward as she attempts to coax words from her raw throat.
“Klein, do you have a handkerchief?” Weiss asks, more to the empty hall in front of her than to Klein himself. Her voice hoarser than she would like.
“Yes, Miss. Do you need it?” His voice is soft, the way an adult speaks to a scared child. He has stopped walking now, and Weiss can hear him ruffling through his pockets. When the sound stops, she turns her body just enough to see him behind her – holding a white handkerchief towards her. Her stomach drops and she blinks a few times to be sure of the color.
“No, that’s alright” she breathes out, barely above a whisper, disbelief clouding her thoughts. “You don’t happen to carry two with you, do you?” She asks, hearing the way the words almost sound like a plea.
“No, Miss. This is my only one.” Confusion and worry fill his features at her odd questions, but he doesn’t push her to explain. Weiss isn’t sure she could even if she wanted to. Staring at the handkerchief for a moment longer, she wonders if any of this is real – and if it matters whether it is or isn’t. After another breath, the spell is broken, and she turns back and begins walking down the hall again. She decides it doesn’t matter – all that matters is she get to her etiquette lesson on time. She must stop thinking about anything else – because puppets don’t think, they just do as they are told.
She feels strings pull gently at her limbs – moving her towards the tearoom. She lets them take control and merely watches as her body moves of its own accord – reaching the door and firmly pushing it open and stepping into the large oval room. She feels herself glance towards the clock before turning to her teacher and greeting her with a smile that appeared upon her face without her realizing. She feels strings holding each corner of her mouth up. Weiss knows exactly what time it is, but it doesn’t matter. As soon as today ends, tomorrow will begin again and she will do everything over once more – watching from afar as invisible strings move her body around the manor.
She was wrong, earlier. This is not purgatory. This is hell.