Yang learns the stars when she is seven, on a warm summer night, when the sun has dipped down beneath the skyline and the last, fading remnants of light have followed it to the other side of the world. It is on a clear night, when the few clouds present exist as splotches from a paintbrush haphazardly strewn across a canvas, drifting leisurely across the sky.

But no clouds obscure the constellations, the brightest stars in the sky; no cover keeps the small hand from drawing lines between the speckles of light, the world's most poetic connect-the dots. Distant suns of worlds afar sit suspended across a darkened horizon, and Yang's small hand traces between them, her father's stories serving as a soundtrack to the motions.

Taiyang teaches patiently, his eldest daughter perched on his knee as she copies his actions, his words and grip gentle as he helps her to find points in the sky – Beacon, brightest in the spectrum; Grimm Major, crimson in the north; Wizard, perched above all. He lets the names and meanings spill from his lips, reminded of a time when someone did the same for him, letting him learn the lights high above.

The smaller, more practical side of him whispers gently as he makes his way across the expanse, reminding that the stars serve as a compass, that when used as a map one can always find their way. He tells himself, as Yang shifts on his knee and points to a distant star with a question, that perhaps if he teaches Yang all there is to know about the galaxy above them, then she will always be able to find her way back home.

But that hope is lessened when Yang stumbles over words, the titles and tales jumbling together into a mixture of minors and majors and meanings. Still, he corrects her with patience, fixes the fumbled fables, until at last she can point to the stars and recite their stories. It takes time, but as the stars drift beneath and beyond the shattered moon, father and daughter find the heroes hidden in the constellations.

With tired eyes and weary hands, Yang points to one last star high above them, her inquiry punctuated with a wide, drawn out yawn. Taiyang laughs, but obliges – the amount of stories he has told has begun to weaken his voice, but his words are true as he helps her see the Huntsman, his sword lifted high in victory, the blade ending in a point at the brightest star in the sky.

When he asks if she sees, silence is his only reply, and the heavy weight resting back on his shoulder is the illumination he needs to know that Yang has finally drifted off. He stands carefully, mindful not to jostle his daughter awake – the last of his tales disappear in tendrils into the depths of his mind, words of Maidens and Huntsmen and heroes returning to their dark corners to dwell in, until they have a reason to be called upon once more.

Stars have always called to Taiyang, the same way he imagines it has called to so many before him. Remnant has always felt the need to assign stories and meaning to things that live on pass the time of those who interact with them – when Grimm border the edges of past, present, and future, the unknown amount of time remaining drives people to leave pieces of themselves behind. Stories of hope and heroes are woven into everything that Remnant knows, left behind in etchings on trees and passed along in stories told around campfires, flickering to fight off of the darkness.

Stories have existed as long as the people of Remnant have known, and there is no better place to keep them than in the vast expanse of the stars. People pass on, and the world turns, but the stars remain steadfast beyond the edges of a shattering moon. Of course, they change with who tells them – not everyone sees the same similes under the starlight, speaks the same scriptures. Vacuo tells of victory, Atlas of adventure, Patch of promise – all upon the same star. Every generation, every kingdom, every family reads the stars in their own way.

But the stories Taiyang knows he is proud to pass on – Ruby is still too young to learn the legends written in the stars, Qrow cynical when it comes to constellations, Raven never wanting to know of what tales span the sky. But with Yang, the father can spin stories between the stars, weave threads between the disconnected dots of light, stitch words into the fabric of the night. And he does, until sleep claims his daughter, promising to be filled with dreams of myths and magnitude.

"She'll forget it all in the morning, you know."

The voice startles him slightly, Taiyang turning to find the source. Qrow draws himself from the darkness, stepping beyond the borderline of the forest and the trees that gave him cover. His expression betrays his tone, however, mirth dancing in dark eyes. Taiyang, for his part, scoffs as he holds Yang closer, making sure she doesn't slip from his arms.

"She'll remember some of it," he counters with a grin of his own, "for your sake, I hope it's the constellation of the Crow."

The man with the same namesake smiles slightly at that, the corners of his mouth perking up in amusement. Then his expression falls, the look in his eyes faraway as he glances to the sky above, immediately finding the constellation in question. Qrow gestures with a vague nod; Taiyang follows his gaze to the west, where a bright glow signifies the tip of the furthest feather, the rest of the stars tracing a line across the wingspan, two below the talons of the feathered figment. With a blink, a familiar motion, and the settling of a heavy atmosphere, Taiyang lets his gaze drift to the east.

"The Raven," his teammate announces quietly, speaking the word that had flitted across both their minds. It's a famous set of stars, twin constellations that beckoned in opposite directions. The Crow signifies the west, the Raven guards the east.

There is silence, as the two men gaze up at the stars, at the speckling that existed long before either of them. Neither spares a glance for the daughter sleeping in Taiyang's arms, lost to the angst that has seeped into the atmosphere. Not a word is spoken, until:

"Will you teach it to her?"

Taiyang lets his silence be his answer, only indicates he has heard the question at all by shifting his hold on Yang, clutching her a little tighter. The blonde man can feel the watchful gaze of crimson eyes across his shoulders, heavy in its stare. Whatever answer Qrow seeks to find in broad shoulders, Taiyang does not know, but when the darker man straightens and returns to staring at the stars, it is clear that he has found something he approves of.

"I guess it doesn't matter," Qrow's gruff voice breaks into the night, "Summer will teach her a different meaning anyways."

Taiyang smiles at that, the truth behind his teammate's words drawing amusement and assurance. The perspective of Summer is one known to them all, a unique standpoint on the stars and the stories they hold, but one that is welcome in its own right. Conflict arises in Taiyang at the reminder, knowing that his stories might be forgotten, that the tales he wove will be replaced by different ones. The evening of starlight and fables might be eclipsed by the woman he loves and the lessons she brings, but he cannot find it within himself to be upset.

If it lets Yang see someone other than Raven in the stars, then it is all right with him.

Summer teaches Yang the stars months later, when the seasons change and Autumn begins to drift into Patch, shaking leaves from their branches and turning dusk into a dusty haze. The nights are cooler, but Summer's cloak and Yang's budding semblance keep them warm as they watch the stars. Time has passed since Taiyang's initial teachings, but the words he wove throughout the night have remained with the daughter, and she recalls them with pride to Summer.

Some titles are off, some stars out of place, but Summer gently corrects them and lets Yang weave the words in her own way, the vocabulary of the seven-year-old far different in comparison to her father, but charming nonetheless. Only when Yang has exhausted her knowledge, pointed out every last planet and told every last tale, does Summer begin to tell her own side of the stars, filling in the gaps in the sky with her own stories, and drawing together the last of the distant dots.

Taiyang has the legends pulled from Patch, with the occasional Valean tale, but Summer has travelled to every kingdom and then some, beyond where large cities exist and into the little towns interspersed the same way stars are across the sky, scattered far and wide. From people and places whose names are written in foreign tongues Summer has inherited her stories, and she fills in the blanks with Mistral's penchant for dramatics, Atlas's love of heroes, Menagerie's flair for history.

With Summer's words, Faunus and humans alike dance across the sky, and Yang listens with wide eyes and an open heart. Into the night they sit, the cool of the evening air becoming the chill of the night, and neither taking heed either way. Worlds and wonders from all across Remnant make their way into Yang's head, as she sits draped in the cape that Summer always wears.

And when the teachings are exhausted, the wisdom woven through years of listening around campfires and the corners of pubs has been spoken, Summer shares one last lesson with her eldest daughter.

With hands stretched towards the sky, reaching for the pieces of the moon, Summer asks Yang why they read the stars.

When the daughter mentions heritage, Summer laughs and shakes her head; when she brings up memories, Summer shrugs but still denies it; and when hope is brought up, Summer nods and gestures to the sky above them.

"In the stars," she tells Yang, "are the things that we seek.

"There's a reason we tell so many stories, why every person you meet has a different path to follow, another line to trace through the stars. We let our stories live on past us, that is true – and everywhere you go, the people around you will offer a different explanation for what we see.

"But what matters is not what we are told. What matters most, Yang, is what we seek. There are thousands of stories, some lost and forgotten, others as commonplace as the Grimm we fight. But not all of them are what we choose to see – each of us, in our own ways, decide on what stories we believe in, what constellations we choose to keep."

Summer runs her hands through blonde hair, smiling as comforting silver meets confused lilac.

"You decide what you see in the sky, Yang. What the stars show is up to you – when you look for an answer, the sky will show only what you seek. You won't remember every story you hear, won't accept them all – but you will see the ones you need to. We read the stars because we need to see ourselves in them. We assign stories of hope and love and happiness to the stars, so that every time we look to them, there is something to believe in."

With a soft hand, a lock of gold is tucked behind an ear.

"Weave into the stars what you need to see, Yang. Don't let anyone tell you what can and cannot be written in them. Write your own stories, so that whenever you look up to the sky, you can believe what is written in the stars."

The weeks after Summer passes are dark and dim, the sky filled with clouds instead of stars – not even the Beacon can slip past the cover of haze. The nights that pass are quiet, Taiyang lost in his grief, Ruby not yet understanding, Yang only beginning to come to terms with what she has lost. Qrow is far off in another kingdom, and the house is frozen in sadness, the absence of Summer growing more and more with each passing day.

There is no starlight, no zenith to orient themselves with. The map of the sky is lost in the night, the compass once used to find their way now forgotten in the haze of grieving. It as though an eclipse has occurred, and all light has disappeared from the sky, the loss too large to bear.

And then, one warm evening, the stars return.

It is a surprising sight, one that Taiyang cannot see, but one that Yang catches a glimpse of through a crack in the blinds, a chasm in the settled sadness. Summer's words return to her then, and though the stars she can see offer her no wisdom, no comfort, Yang understands that they can for someone who does not yet know them.

That's how Ruby and Yang end up perched on the roof half an hour later, the younger daughter safe in her sister's lap as the elder of the pair points to the stars above and tells stories into the night.

The Huntress is the first she shows Ruby, helping the little girl find the brightest star in the sky with her finger, seeking out the Beacon in the night. From there, the sisters together trace their way down the sword the woman holds, across the sides of her cloak. The Crow comes next, and though Yang does not know the counterpart on the other side of the sky, she still weaves the story of the guiding, guarding watchman of the night.

They cover the sky together, Yang teaching her sister real stories, weaving together amalgamations of others, making up some of her own. She expands the Maiden constellation, helping Ruby trace her path to four clusters of stars, the Seasons protecting the four corners of the sky. Nevermore, Ursa Major, and Beowolf gather in fear below the Huntress, cowering beneath the center constellation.

Taiyang drifts by just as Yang finishes telling the story of the Emperor, and somewhere in his muddled haze of grief and spirits, the words sound familiar – he recognizes it as his own story, the legend of Patch's guardian, though his version of the man didn't have blonde hair.

As the stars drift slowly across the sky, Yang teaches Ruby the stories her sister needs to see – a legacy to remember, a future to believe in, hope and happiness to seek amongst the stars when there is none down below. Ruby, too young to call out the forgeries from the fables believes in them all, and points to random stars the same way Yang had in her father's lap, what seems like a lifetime ago.

She teaches her sister stories to seek, and together they come up with new ones together. On the stars they do not know, Yang and Ruby assign their own meanings, and write in the stars what they need to see. When Little Rose finds a place in the protective embrace of the Sun Dragon, the stars tell a story Yang might not believe, but that Ruby cannot see the fault in.

And if fairy tales and fables in the starlight will help them to get through this, then Yang will write them into the constellations forever.

Beacon is full of stories – not the bright star that orients the rest of the sky, but the actual academy. Stargazing has fallen to the back of Yang's list of priorities, hidden somewhere away behind bike maintenance and thoughts about food weaponization. It isn't often that she lets herself read the sky – half the stories above are from her own mind after all, and it isn't fun weaving tales for an audience who knows the truth – but on occasion, Ruby will point out a constellation, and she'll recite the long standing story belonging to it.

But those occasions are far and few, the stars used as a map much more than fodder for active imaginations. On missions, in forests back home, Yang orients herself with the stars – but when the past creeps up behind her in the night, regret and grief never properly allowed staining the edges of her dreams, Yang often finds herself on a balcony in Beacon, staring up at a sky that no longer holds answers for her.

She wrote the words for Ruby, not herself, and the stories she learned from Summer and Taiyang, from passerby at Signal and in Vale's bars, come to her mind but are no longer believed in. But still, the stories come, and she can find herself easily locating the major stars in the sky, branching off to find heroes and everyday people, monsters and myths laid out before her. Even if they are words and nothing more, the stars bring back memories of a time when it was easier to believe.

At Beacon, Yang only notices the stars on balconies alone in the dead of night, glancing at her through the high windows of the classrooms during evening lectures, pointed out by Ruby as they pass across campus. And on one warm evening after the last class has let out, Yang and Ruby walk towards the dormitory they call home, Blake and Weiss trailing behind them.

It's Ruby who points to the sky first, her finger directed towards a cluster of stars towards the east, just above the horizon line.

"Look, Yang," to catch her elder sister's attention, "the Scythe is out tonight."

Behind them, Weiss overhears the name, her brow scrunching in confusion and disagreement.

"The what?" Weiss answers, before Yang has a chance to, "that's the Armada."

Yang chuckles at that, the sound easy and disarming, tension gone from the group in an instant. Weiss and Ruby both look at her in confusion, Blake glancing up from her book at the light-hearted sound.

"Depending on who you ask, Weiss," Yang shoots back, "it could be a lot of things."

Ruby grins at that, knowing where her sister is going with the conversation – Weiss only serves to look disgruntled, the heiress never sitting well with being told she's even mildly incorrect.

"Constellations are set things, Yang," their frosty teammate retorts, "you can't go around changing the names, or else no one will know what you're talking about."

The chuckle from before blossoms into a full on laugh, Weiss frowning in slight incense at Yang's reaction to her statement. Ruby joins in, giggling, and Blake observes the exchange with a smirk of her own.

"Stars are set things, Weiss," Yang explains, her laughter gone but her amusement still clear in her voice, "not constellations. You can always find your way by the brightest stars, but people look for different things up there."

The offended expression gives way to one of confusion, leading Yang to continue.

"Look at it this way. Everyone learns the sky a little differently – Ruby knows the Scythe, you know the Armada. That's Atlas and Patch. But Vacuo would call it Desert Dune, Mistral would say Bronze Titan, Vale says it's the Severed Arch, and Menagerie would name it the Gatekeeper."

Yang doesn't miss the way Blake's expression changes at the last title – genuine surprise crosses her features, before it is again concealed by her neutral façade. She lets it go without comment.

"And those are just the main kingdoms. If you ask people from smaller towns or long lasting families, they'll have their own names for it, too. In fact, they might not even see that constellation – they might have several within the same stars."

Yang shrugs lightly, smiling as she gestures to the expanse above them.

"Doesn't really matter what you call them. You can make up your own constellations and stories, you can learn them from other people. All that matters is that you can find what you're looking for."

Weiss scoffs at that, crossing her arms and putting on an expression that is well known by them all – disagreement.

"You can't just 'make up your own,' Yang. If we all did that, then–"

"Sure you can!"

Yang interrupts, swinging an arm over Weiss's shoulder, and gesturing with the other to the stars in front of them.

"Where do you think the stories came from in the first place, Weiss? Anyone can put a story to the stars; you can do it yourself, if you want. Actually, try it – make one up, right now!"

Weiss's first reaction is scepticism, before she realizes Yang is entirely serious – at first, it seems that she'll reject the idea, but then she frowns and stares up at the stars in concentration. Half a minute later, she points to a patch of stars in the west, her finger drawing a line between multiple points of light.

"Myrtenaster," she says sarcastically, evidently trying to get a rise out of Yang. The blonde, as per usual, takes the sass in stride – but surprisingly, Ruby is the one who replies first.

"I see it," the redhead answers, ignoring Weiss's indignant splutter, "the stars above and below it look like dust cartridges, too."

Yang grins, then nods sagely, joining in on it.

"That top one's a planet, so it's slightly red. Definitely the fire dust."

"The first star to the left is the brightest, which is a good way to find the point of the sword."

Yang and Ruby laugh in delight at Blake's contribution, while Weiss crosses her arms and frowns even more, muttering promises of pain and revenge. Yang grins, then nudges her in the side, catching her attention before she points back to the sky.

"It does kind of seem silly," the blonde concludes, "but you really can make your own tales. See up there, those three stars to the top left of the moon? They look like they form the tops of your hairpin – and those stars down below, they can complete it. Kind of like the moon has the same hairpin as you."

Weiss still frowns, but less than before – and her eyes show some kind of intrigue, even if disbelief mixes with it. Yang smiles at the sight, before continuing on, her arm sweeping in a broad gesture to the right.

"Those stars there form the shape of Gambol Shroud, with the ribbon trailing through those two stars. And we could just as easily rename the constellation we call the Scythe into 'Crescent Rose,' if we wanted."

Weiss is listening carefully now, Blake and Ruby doing the same.

"It doesn't really matter what they're called, Weiss, or even what the constellations actually are. What matters is that you know the sky well enough to find your way around – and that you see the stories that you want to see."

Weiss glances at Yang over her last words, curiosity and concern mixing in cyan eyes. On her back, Yang can feel the gazes of Ruby and Blake – and she can't help it when her tone turns wistful as she speaks the last of her sage advice.

"People tell stories on the stars for hope, for lessons, for things to last on beyond them," she says softly, eyes looking far beyond the stars as she speaks, "and we believe what is written in the stars. Sometimes, we see ourselves in them. And if that's the case… we might as well write what we need to believe, what we need to see."

Silence falls on the group, the four of them having stilled in the pathway between buildings. No one else is around them, the rest of Beacon having retreated to their own dwellings as evening fell. The quiet lasts for a minute, Yang staring up at the stars, Ruby doing the same, Weiss and Blake taking in the words she'd spoken.

Then, with a familiar motion, Ruby gestures to a curve of stars in the northeast.

"The Sun Dragon," she recites, "and the Little Rose. Yang and I named those ones after ourselves when we were little."

The true names surface in Yang's mind, but she does not speak them – and the name she does not know, Raven, passes Blake's mind, but she too does not let her knowledge be known.

Ruby presses on, her finger drifting to the center of the sky, where the brightest star above them heralds the tip of a familiar weapon.

"The Huntress… she always looked like Mom, to me. And even if she wasn't with us anymore, I could always look up to the sky and find her."

Ruby pauses, smiles.

"Yang taught me that one."

Blake speaks next, before the weight of Ruby's words has enough time to settle on their shoulders.

"The White Fang called those the Pointed Fangs," she gestures to the south, "but I always liked to see them as ears."

Quiet falls, before Weiss speaks, pointing almost abashedly to the northwest.

"… Winter and I named those ones the Schnee Seven."

They all laugh at that, though the sound isn't cruel. Yang observes her team, her sister and family, her partner, and her friend. All of them are staring up to the stars, eyes searching for patterns and paths across the horizon.

In the dusk and quiet of the evening air, Yang clears her throat to catch their attention, then points just below the shattered moon, to four bright stars arranged in a diamond formation.

"How about the Four Huntresses, for that one?"

Her suggestion is met with general agreement, with smiles and a pause of consideration, before Ruby breaks it with a familiar 'Go…. Team RWBY!', and the moment is lost in laughter and embraces.

Above them, the stars shine on.

Months later, the stars are shrouded once more. Time passes on without waiting, scars left behind by healing injuries, while other wounds stay open without the closure needed to heal. The stories told in flickering lights across the sky are forgotten, the people down below far more concerned with what is in the present, on the ground, not suspended high above in starlight.

A dragon sits frozen atop Beacon, and a chasm that cannot be filled rests within the hearts of many, nestled in amongst the doubt and fear that was instilled there with Cinder's speech, months ago. Seasons have changed, fall leaves buried amongst the first frost, then the gradual weight of snow. Time passes without any regard for the world it affects, for the people grieving and healing, the ones who stay frozen or the ones who move on.

The nights and days blur together, and the stars pass by, frozen high in their distant realm, so far away from Remnant. But while the stars stay in place, very little else does. A girl in red embarks on a mission of her own, joined by friends no longer the same; a girl in white is pulled back to her ivory tower, suspended above the world below and removed from the danger it holds; a girl of dark hues and shadows races off into the night, leaving behind so much without ever saying goodbye.

The stars remain the same, but little else does.

Not that it matters much to Yang, anymore – unseeing lilac takes in the world before her, noticing nothing in particular, disconnected from her flat stare. The stars are unseen whether they are hidden in clouds or shining bright with the moon – the world turns and time passes on, but the girl who once shone like gold stills, remains stuck in the past.

Taiyang does his best to draw her out, but his efforts dwindle over time – wisdom instilled by hardship rests in Yang, and the trust she once sewed in the gardens of the people around her have all wilted, dead from being forgotten and left behind. The world she lived for, the reasons to get out of bed have moved on without her – her friend, her partner, and most of all, her sister.

The stars remain the same, but she has no reason to read them anymore.

Time keeps passing, and Taiyang leaves her to dwell in her room alone, though he stops in from time to time. On a warm evening, where weather heralds the approach of spring, beckoning in the thaw of winter, Yang pulls herself from her room in search of water, Taiyang having left the house that day.

The pictures on the walls are ignored, the world they were taken in so different from the one she exists in now, relics from a time she cannot return to. There is little Yang does not ignore anymore – her days are spent gazing at a world moving on without her, and she shies away from things that remind her of a time when her life held laughter and light.

That evening, the shrouded stars are revealed, their cloud covering drifting away to let them shine through – Yang takes no heed. She doesn't notice, in fact, until she bumps into a desk on her way to the kitchen – and off the desk falls a book, landing heavy with a flat thud.

There's a moment where she considers leaving it, if it's really worth the effort to pick it up, when the title on the book registers and a something tugs within her empty heart. An astronomy guide rests on the floor, one that Taiyang must have recently discovered, though she has no idea why.

But it does draw her attention to the open window beside the desk, as the warm evening breeze sweeps through and lifts the curtains slightly, ruffling dirty hair that seems more of a tarnished gold. Stars rest in their places in the sky, and for just a moment, the names of constellations brim at the edge of her mind, before she shuts them out.

Eager to push away the memories of a time she told stories of the stars, Yang reaches down to pick up the book – she cannot close the window, but at least she can hide this away once more. In doing so, the book snaps shut, revealing the top of a bookmark in amongst the pages, stranded in the tome of faded paper. Curiosity wins out, and Yang rests the book on the desk, flipping it open to the noted page.

Her heart stops in her chest.

Time heals all wounds, but there isn't enough time in Remnant to heal Yang in this lifetime, not without closure. And closure has not come for Yang, not for the sister who left her, the friend who was pulled away, the partner who ran in the night – and never, never for the birth mother who abandoned her from the start.

Never for Raven, who shares the namesake of the constellation spanning the page, next to the entry for the Qrow.

It has been a long time since Yang has felt anything, but pain still springs into her chest, raw and fresh, as though her hair was back in pigtails and she was pulling a red wagon through the forest in search of ghosts who would never return. Years had dulled the anger, but the hurt still ran deep – only accentuated by the echoing actions of Blake, the same abandonment deep in her bones.

Yang's hand twitches, seeking to slam the book shut, to return to her room and shut the world out and let time pass again until she no longer feels this, feels the pain – but before she can follow through with the action, writing on the bottom of the page catches crimson eyes.

The familiar writing of the woman who raised her rests as an annotation, below the legend of the Raven, the list of stars that make up the guarding constellation. Crimson bleeds back into lilac as they read the words, and the pain in Yang's chest fades into a different kind – not the raw, open ache of abandonment, but the quiet, phantom pain of loss.

"We will write in our own stories," the note says.

Yang cannot think, cannot get over the emotions that emerge from within, break free from the casket she had hidden them away in. The question borders on the edge of her mind, and she cannot bear to consider it in full, the possibilities too terrifying – but she considers it anyways, cannot get rid of the thought.

Had Summer truly believed in writing different stories in the stars? In choosing what to believe in? Or had it simply been a way to hide Raven from her even more, to not teach the namesake of a constellation, to not let her discover the phantom who left her long ago?

It's a thought that haunts Yang, that chills her to the bone – for months she has kept herself from feeling, from seeing, from living, and everything has come back all at once. It's a myriad of emotions, but fear races in the forefront, pain and grief staggering as Yang tries desperately, desperately not to break down entirely.

She isn't successful.

The tears come slowly, but when the last of Yang's defenses crumbles beneath thoughts that have been forced away for so long, they are impossible to stop. Summer's note causes a cascade, causes Yang to think of everything she has lost – for far too long, Yang has never let herself grieve, too busy keeping up a front for the rest of the world, or unable to when so much had been lost.

But with Summer's note, the grief returns – the girl who has been left behind, who has lost so much mourns for it all – for Summer, for a lost childhood, for a partner who is fighting a war alone, a friend who the world will not let change, for the sister who left without knowing how much she was loved. For Pyrrha, for Penny, for the promise and hope that was crushed underfoot by Cinder's plans.

She does not mourn for Raven – Raven was never worth mourning for – but she mourns for all that she lost in the quest to find the ghost, the time spent chasing down a woman who never wanted to be found.

When the grief finally loosens its grip, and the choking sobs and heavy tears fade out, the first thing Yang takes notice of is the stars. She kneels on the ground, wooden floors digging into her knees, and above her through the windowpane sit the constellations she's told for years, shining down on her.

Time passes on, the stars remain the same, and Yang can finally see them again.

Grief has been a long time coming, Yang pushing away for so long the feelings of sadness, then unable to truly feel them after everything had been lost. But now she has mourned, now the years of anger and hurt have been let go – and the stars remain steadfast, the words she once told Weiss returning to her now.

"Stars are set things, not constellations. You can always find your way by the brightest stars, but people look for different things up there."

And for the first time in a long time, Yang feels a spark light in her chest, feels hope ignite in her veins. It's small, almost insignificant, but it's something, after so long of nothing.

It is as she had told Weiss – what mattered were not always the stars themselves, but rather, what people saw in them. For so long, she had been telling the stories for others – for Ruby, for Blake, for Weiss – so that they could see what they sought to find. But never, ever since that warm evening on a roof with her little sister in her lap, has Yang told the stories for herself to believe in.

Taiyang taught her the stars so long ago, and more than once, she used them to find her way home. She needs no compass for the map in the sky, the stars steadfast and fixed to guide her home. But the stars haven't served as hope, as stories, as belief for her in a long time, not since Summer told her that she could believe in anything, if she wrote it in the stars.

And so, with the last tears trailing down her face, Yang begins to write her own stories into the stars. Hope is slow coming, but she finds it in a constellation named on a warm night at Beacon, in a patch of stars from years ago in a childhood with a sister on her lap and a hand pointed towards the sky. In a woman with a sword raised high above her, the tip of the blade the brightest star of all.

She believes in the Qrow, in the watchful guardian of the west, that he accompanies her sister on her quest when she cannot. In the Huntress she no longer only sees Summer, but Pyrrha as well – and believes in the stories, in living past death, living on in what one leaves behind, never truly forgotten. The Little Rose and Sun Dragon remind her of sisterhood, and she does not allow herself to see the Raven in the same stars; the Emperor stays strong and protective, loyal to the last.

Beacon shines on in starlight, even if the academy can no longer do the same.

When Yang's gaze drifts low, she finds the four stars beneath the shattered moon – and she lets herself believe, with all her heart, in the stories she writes within them.

The Four Huntresses give way to four more constellations, branching off in different directions – it feels funny, at first, giving names and meanings to the stars for herself. The stories had always been for others, but now, Yang makes herself for them.

The Rose leads the four, the brightest star the end of her scythe, held at her side as she embarks on a journey, her back brave and strong. Snow takes form on the side, dust cartridges glowing bright as the left star, her other hand reaching out towards the Schnee Seven, forming the tips of a familiar glyph. The Shadow takes the right, the tip of one weapon lying in the diamond, the tip of another bleeding into the Pointed Fang. And at the bottom, glowing gauntlet raised to fill in the last, bottom star, the Flame stands and supports them all.

Yang laughs, shaking her head, swiping at the tear tracks that have dried on her cheeks. It's ridiculous, she thinks – it's no wonder Weiss was so incredulous about it all at first – but something inside her thrives on the stories, builds hope within her. It's entirely made up, the constellations cobbled together by the need for a sign – but it helps, somehow.

She remembers then what she had told Weiss – that bit about seeing themselves in the stars, and realizes that it's entirely true. In the stories spanning the speckled lights, they can exist – and Yang is suddenly incredibly grateful for the Four Huntresses, for having named it, because she can believe that she is not the only one looking up to them.

Perhaps, somewhere across Remnant, her team is doing the same. In the alleyways of Vale, in a mansion back in Atlas, at a base camp out in Mistral – wherever they might be, Yang hopes, they too are reading the stars.

And for the first time, Yang writes the stories for herself, weaves into the stars tales of victory and success, legends of heroes who will never be forgotten, fables of friends and family being undefeated. She writes stories of redemption, of rehabilitation and reunion. For the first time, Yang writes the stories that she needs to see.

After all, she can believe what is written in the stars

A/N: I just really, really needed to write something. This is something of a headcanon of mine, and it's not my best work, but it was a chance to sit and write again. The style's off, but eh, I'm not going to dwell on it. It was just a relief fic more than anything, and I figured I might as well post it, as I've been MIA for the past... several months.

On that note, if anyone's wondering what happened to Painting the Town, I haven't abandoned it. I just haven't had the time to write it recently - it'll be updated next month. No worries on that front.