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Shield up.
The swordsman lifted his heavy shield, bracing it in a fluid motion as he had done a thousand times before. The hefty weight, which once was a burden, now felt natural after a lifetime of use.
Grip tight.
His right-hand fingers flexed on the blue hilt of his sword, a comforting motion that filled him with calm and serenity outmatched by any comfort on Remnant. His gloved fingers fell into place where they always did, the metal hilt having slight indents from thousands of these motions.
Front foot forward.
A foot skidded slightly along the sand, kicking up a small cloud of dust like a bull ready to charge. His gravity was centered as his eyes narrowed on his target, the swordsman’s focus absolute on the task ahead.
Ready.
Jaune exploded into movement, arcing Crocea Mors in a tight, controlled strike from his shoulder to his hip. No flashy movement or wasteful energy, just pure destruction. Jaune was rewarded with a face full of straw for his efforts as the unlucky target dummy fell backward, its innards spilled outwards in defeat.
He took a second to relax before moving down the line to his next victim. Again, he readied himself, following the mantra he had learnt by heart so many decades ago. Shield up, grip tight, front foot forward. Go. Again and again and again.
Simple. Reliable. Perfect.
A mantra he had followed ever since Beacon, a mantra he had perfected in the Ever After. To not do so would be to spit on the memory of the one person who had believed in him the most.
“I do believe even Miss Goodwitch wouldn't be able to criticize that battle, Mr Arc.”
The voice called from behind Jaune as he fell the last dummy on the line. Jaune allowed himself a second to gain his composure, wiping off the sweat on his brow after hours of training under the harsh desert sun.
“Headmaster.” Jaune turned to greet the immortal, rejoining sword and shield as he did.
“Oscar, actually.”
“Ah, sorry,” Jaune apologized, rubbing the back of his head in awkwardness. It had been over a year now since the fall of Atlas, and it seemed as if the joining of Ozma and Oscar's souls was near complete, to the point where Jaune had a hard time finding the distinction between the two.
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Arc. I understand why you and the others find it so hard to see the difference between the two of us; however, I can assure you that the distinctions are there.” The immortal gave Jaune a small smile that looked more like the innocent farm boy they had picked up in Mistral rather than the hardened leader of the last bastion of humanity.
“Right, Oscar then, I take it the meeting is over?”
The meetings were nearly every day now as the inner circle sat down to discuss humanity’s survival. A year of silence from Salem was already more than what they had expected, and the extra time only added to the ever-growing anxiety. Jaune had been invited to the meeting, as always, but after the first few he had realized he was far out of his depth, instead favouring the time to work on his skills with the sword and shield.
“Indeed. Troubling news, I’m afraid. Qrow and Raven have reported back, and it seems a large army of Grimm is coming from Vale itself.”
Jaune hissed between gritted teeth. Atlas had fallen so easily, even with the majority of humanity's weapons and machines within the city. Shade and Vacuo only had a hundredth of the arms in comparison; even a lone leviathan could prove enough to destroy the kingdom.
“How long do we have?”
“A week at most, though likely less than five days.”
“Shouldn't you be helping to evacuate? Or preparing the defenses?”
“That is precisely why I am here,” at Jaune’s unamused face he continued, “I have a favor to ask of you. Tell me, what have I told you of the Relic of Destruction?”
Jaune gave the boy a shrug, “Not much. Just that it's a sword with unimaginable power.”
Oscar nodded. “It is a sword, yet it is so much more. While the Relic of Knowledge can answer anything, and the Relic of Creation can create anything, the Relic of Destruction can, as the name implies, destroy anything other than myself and Salem.
It is power incarnate, able to fell entire armies with one strike and destroy empires with a parry. Even conquer the four kingdoms.” Oscar faintly smiled at a memory that wasn't his.
Jaune nodded along, “Right, that’s good. Great even. We can use it against Salem, or at least her Grimm, but why are you telling me?”
“Because to destroy, one must sacrifice first. For a soldier fighting a war, he must first sacrifice his humanity. A Huntsman fighting the Grimm will have to sacrifice their innocence. A father protecting his children would have to sacrifice everything.” The immortal stared into the pale blue sky for a second.
“The Relic demands a sacrifice. The higher the cost, the higher the power the sword wields. Stories and fairytales talk of kings sacrificing their kingdoms for an inkling of the blade's power; of famed warriors sacrificing their lifetime of skills, and of desperate parents their own lives for the power to save their children.”
Oscar met Jaune's eyes. “Will you wield the Relic?”
A moment of silence passed.
“No.”
Oscar deflated for a brief second before quickly straightening his posture, yet his face remained impassive and unreadable as ever.
“I see,” he replied, nodding his head politely, “It is a terrible burden to shoulder, and I shall not force it upon one of my friends.”
Oscar turned away, his feet and cane making soft imprints on the golden sand as the last ray of the sun slowly dipped over the horizon, painting the courtyard in a slight shadow. Jaune let out a sigh as he heaved his sword up again, ready to continue his endless training to fulfill a goal he had set long ago.
The sword came up. His grip tightened. A foot slid forward.
“Why me?”
Jaune didn't know why he called it out. Perhaps a part of him knew he was being selfish, maybe he did crave the power of the relic, or perhaps it was just simple curiosity.
Oscar instantly stopped halfway across the courtyard, yet he didn't turn around.
“From a practical viewpoint, you're perfect, Mr. Arc. You already know about the dangers ahead, being one of the only people alive to see Salem and live. You know my past, you know the stakes held, and you have more training with a sword than nearly any Huntsman whilst still being in the body of an eighteen-year-old.”
He let out a sigh before continuing, “And I’m out of options. I cannot wield the sword myself; Qrow has seen what the price is and refused to do it, and the others I trust are either too weak, selfish, or selfless for me to ask.”
“No one from team RWBY?”
“Each of them would say yes in a heartbeat, no matter the cost. That is what I’m most afraid of, Mr. Arc. Inconceivable as it may seem, defeating Salem’s army is not worth a priceless prize.”
“And you trust me to say no?”
“I trust you to make the best decision for your friends.”
Jaune let out a low sigh as he slowly joined Oscar’s side. The two walked in sync towards Shade Academy as
“You know, I missed you the least.”
“Hurtful words, Mr Arc.”
~ ~ ~
The temple outside holding the vault doors was impressive, to say the least. Whilst Mistral's vault was jaw-droppingly beautiful with its yellow leaves and rocky formations, and Atlas was daunting with its narrow bridge and cold crystals, Shade’s looked more like an ancient temple in all its glory.
The floor was a clean, bone-white marble that was impossibly polished, reflecting like a mirror. The roof was decorated by a colorful painting of a time long past, showing a king clad in green being worshiped by a mob of people.
The sandstone walls were detailed with an inscription of a long-dead language that Oscar translated as a welcome for pilgrims. He explained how, in years gone by, people would cross Remnant to worship at the temple, believing it to house the spirit of a long-dead king who had once united Remnant.
A bridge joined the main area with the entrance to the vault. A lazy river surrounded both sides, becoming a waterfall just before the doors to the relic. Oddly enough, the water was running the opposite way, as if the waterfall was pushing the water up instead of pulling it down.
Joining Oscar and Jaune was the Summer maiden, a woman Jaune had only spoken to in passing. She was younger than Qrow, though a lifetime of living nomadically in the desert had made her skin scarred and wrinkled.
She was silent throughout their journey into the depths of Shade Academy, responding only with curt grunts when Oscar mentioned her, content to let the other two talk.
“Through there then?” Jaune asked as they reached the two doors on the far end of the temple. The doors themselves were old and sandstone, much like the walls themselves, with each one considerably wider and taller than Jaune.
“Indeed. When you enter, the spirit of the sword will evaluate you and tell you of the sacrifice you must make. If you agree, you shall be deposited on the left side. Refuse, and you’ll be on the right. Vishi and I will stay here to collect you.”
Vishi grunted her approval as she walked over the bridge and placed a palm on the door. After a second, the sandstone doors turned bright orange and slowly creaked open, dropping pebbles and dust as they swung inward into a dark void that sucked up all the surrounding light and left it in nothingness.
“Can I ask you a question, Oscar?” Jaune asked, transfixed by the void opposite him.
“Of course, Mr. Arc.”
“Do you believe in destiny?”
Oscar made to answer, but Jaune quickly raised a hand, not taking his eyes off the vault.
“Not Ozpin or Ozma or the Great King or whoever else is in your mind, but you, Oscar. If you're truly still in there. Do you believe in destiny?”
The boy looked for the man's eyes that peered forward. They were cold and made of steel, eyes that looked old and wrong on such a young man's face. Oscar bit his lip as he looked away, thinking about his answer.
“I believed my destiny was to become a farmer. To tend to crops and livestock, help my aunt grow flowers, and butcher animals. Perhaps that was my destiny before Ozpin joined me.
But after seeing what I have, I cannot believe in it. Ozma was never meant to become the eternal safeguarder of life, or Salem to become its scourge, but for them to die as a celebrated knight and a mourning widow. And yet, here we are. Fighting in their eternal war, as so many others have for years before us.
So no, Mr. Arc. I do not subscribe to the concept of destiny.”
The two stood for a moment in silence as Vishi walked back across the bridge and found a corner to sit at.
“How about you? Do you believe in destiny?”
Jaune let out a deep sigh and began to slowly walk across the bridge. “Honestly? I don't know.”
As Jaune crossed the threshold of the door, he could feel the hair on his neck stand up. For the first time in Vacuo, he was cold. Freezing almost. He took another cautious step, passing the gigantic doors which closed with a shocking speed and a thunderous clap.
Jaune whirled around with his sword in hand, waiting with stilled breath for an attack that never came. As he scanned the area for threats, his eyes roamed the room he had entered, if he could even call it a room.
There seemed to be no walls nor floor, just a great ebbing darkness that stretched on for eternity in all directions with millions of tiny, silver specks of what looked like stars in the night sky, even beneath his feet and from where he entered.
A beam of light suddenly shone down from directly above, showering Jaune in a pale glow like a giant spotlight. Jaune tensed as he looked upwards, prepared for a fight, when he felt a gasp escape him as his eyes adjusted to the light.
It was a moon. A single, conjoined moon.
Tearing his eyes from the unnatural moon, he gave the void another sweep with the added light. A few meters ahead, a small pile of rocks of different shapes and sizes came into view. Some were barely bigger than his fist, whilst the largest in the center was the size of a small boulder.
It was in that small boulder that he spied an ornamental golden crossguard peeking out vertically, the rest of the blade inside the rock itself.
After his heart settled back down, Jaune took uneven steps towards it, hand still hovering above the hilt of Crocea Mors in learned caution. As he moved, the soft light followed him, giving the void even more of an eerie vibe than when he first entered.
He reached the boulder after a minute of wary steps, waiting after each one for a second or so for a threat to appear, yet he reached the small pile of rocks without a disturbance. He waited again as he lightly tapped the pommel with Crocea Mors, the sound of metal on metal deafening in the absence of any other noise.
Finally, Jaune clasped his hand around the hilt and pulled with all his strength.
And pulled again. And again.
Then he placed his other hand and pulled. Yet, the blade didn't move an inch out of the rock, no matter how hard he strained.
“You’re a lot more cautious than the other one.”
The voice was scratchy and squeaky, like a child with a sore throat, yet it echoed with the weight of a grown woman's voice.
Jaune immediately let go of the leather hilt and placed it on the blue one in his scabbard, swiveling on his feet as he did and falling into a defensive stance on instinct, placing his sword on top of his shield in a fluid, practiced motion as he wearily eyed the inky darkness beyond the veil of moonlight. Yet he could see nothing but shadow.
“Another warrior than. Pity.”
This time, the voice was nothing more than a soft whisper, but still deafening. Jaune could feel hot air tickling the hairs on his neck and an intense burning stare into the back of his skull.
He turned slowly around and came face to face with a being hand-sculpted by the gods.
Team RWBY had told him and the others what Jinn and Ambrosius had looked like: glowing blue skin, extravagant gold jewelry, and the body of someone in peak physical health.
A worthy fit for a spokesperson of the gods.
This spirit, however, looked nothing alike. She barely came up to Jaune’s chest and looked withered and worn with dark purple bags under her eyes as if she hadn't slept once since her creation.
Her dull blue skin was decorated by a myriad of cuts and scrapes that bled yellow ichor, painting her body in a sickly yellow. She looked young, around her early teens, and wore no glowing jewelry or soft silks; instead, she wore a simple, washed-out shirt that hung to her knees, which simultaneously looked both too big and too small on her.
“The spirit of Destruction, I take it,” Jaune replied.
“I am. You may call me Nimue.” She looked Jaune up and down wearily, “You know of me, but do not sound like the old man. Nor do you have his look in your eyes.”
“Ozma?” Jaune guessed, “No, he asked me to wield the blade.”
A small smile appeared on the spirit's face before it was smothered by a mask of apathy.
“Well then, warrior. What shall you sacrifice for the power of destruction?”
Jaune had lowered his weapons during the conversation, and now he gently placed them on the ground, followed by his knees. Slowly, his head followed until he was looking down into the starry void.
“For the power of the Relic, I am willing to give my life.”
He spoke slowly and carefully, fully knowing the weight of his words. He had been thinking about it since Oscar mentioned sacrifice and had since come to terms with it.
Truthfully, he knew it would be the only thing he could sacrifice for the Relic, and he was more than willing to give it for the defense of the others.
Nimue laughed.
It was a broken laugh. More a scream and a sob coalescing into a broken hyena-like cry that echoed in the void, like a lone survivor on a bloody battlefield. It carried on for at least a minute, gaining hysteria as it dragged on.
A deep, vitriolic anger began to pool inside Jaune. Why was she not taking him seriously? How could she expect more? He had offered to sacrifice his life, and she just laughed?
“Would it truly be a sacrifice, warrior?”
Jaune finally looked up to find Nimue standing on top of the rocks and looking down at him.
“Do you believe that you can fool a spirit of the gods? We both know losing your life wouldn't be enough of a sacrifice for even a smidgen of the blade’s power, never mind the power you seek.”
“Are you implying I don't care for my life?”
“I’m not implying it, warrior. You suffered three decades of isolation in a plane that even I cannot enter; even the strongest would come out scarred. Giving your life for a heroic cause would not be a sacrifice. No, a blameless and heroic death would be a gift for you.”
Silence fell upon the vault, the darkness and the quiet both suffocating in their own ways as seconds seemed to stretch out into eternities within the emptiness of the void.
Then Jaune broke it with his own laugh. It started small, but slowly it grew into a broken sob similar to Nimue’s, full of mania and empty of mirth. Jaune couldn't stop himself; even as his stomach ached and his breath faltered, he couldn't bring himself to stop.
“So I can't offer anything? Vacuo will fall because I don't care about my own life?” Jaune finally sputtered out, his cheeks wet and his voice bitter.
“Am I that much of a failure that even my own life isn't enough?” His laughter came to an end as he slammed a fist into the ground.
“I couldn't protect Alyx.” Her name was punctuated with a cracking smash of an armored fist on the nonexistent floor.
“Wasn't fast enough to save Penny.” Another smash
“And Pyrrha…” Her name died on his lips as a desperate sob replaced it. “I didn't even get a chance to…”
“To save her.” Nimue finished for Jaune as he screamed again, slowly sitting herself next to the warrior. They both sat in the eerie silence for a while, only broken by the occasional sob from Jaune.
“Your life isn't the thing you hold most sacred, is it warrior?” The spirit finally spoke in a far gentler tone.
“Those girls you failed to save, each of them held heavy in your consciousness, they drive you forward when nothing else will. Not by a sense of revenge or vengeance, but by a sense of forgiveness. Forgiveness by whom, I wonder?”
Jaune stared down into the endless void, hoping for it to swallow him up. “If I were faster. If I were stronger. If I were the hero I needed to be, I could have saved them.” His words were etched with guilt and sorrow, of a man who had relived those failed days over and over for centuries.
An almost cruel smile slowly started to spread along Nimue’s face.
“Then that is what shall power the blade. Not your life nor soul, but your guilt. Sacrifice that which drives you to succeed, that allowed you to survive isolation, and use it to bring about the end of an endless army.”
Jaune finally turned to look at Nimue, his eyes bloodshot and cheeks wet. “What do you mean?”
“That girl you see in your dreams each night. Whose voice you hear when you spar. Whose eyes you feel judge and bore into your soul when you close yours. Whose lessons allowed you to survive.”
Nimue’s pace fastened as she talked, enthusiasm growing with each word. Her skin started to glow vibrantly as ancient cuts and scars began to heal, whilst the golden ichor that stained her began to retreat into her body.
Her pale white shirt grew and transformed into something softer and richer, until it became a beautiful dress fit for a queen. Her smile became unmistakably cat-like, and a fire seemed to be set alight in her once-dead eyes as she finished.
“Sacrifice your memory of Pyrrha Nikos and be allowed the power of destruction.”
Jaunes' tongue felt heavy and his throat too narrow as he looked upon an avatar of the Gods, but still he asked, “How did… how did you know?”
“I was not gifted endless knowledge like my sister, nor the sight or intellect of my brothers. But I know the soul of each and every person who walks into my domain, to be allowed to judge those who seek destruction. I knew Qrow Branwen wouldn't be able to sacrifice his Niece. I knew Ozma would deeply regret his loss.”
She leaned in closer to Jaune’s ear, her voice barely a whisper. #
“And I know you believe this to be a gift, Jaune Arc.”
She pulled away, laughing at his shocked expression.
“So,” she climbed on top of the rock and easily pulled the Relic out of its mountainous sheath with an effortless tug.
“Do you accept? Your memories of Pyrrha Nikos until the moment you perish.” She swung the blade with her fingertips, pointing the hilt towards Jaune, “For the Relic of Destruction?”
Jaune’s face fought a war of emotion, one of anger and refusal, until finally acceptance won. With a heavy sigh, he gently placed a hand on the sparkling hilt, his fingers gently sliding into the grooves already embedded in the hilt.
“I do.” He said solemnly, his eyes closed.
Nimue wore a victorious smirk as she raised a hand above her head.
“Then let it be,” She declared, snapping her fingers as she did. In an instant, the moonlight above her grew tenfold, showering the vault in a golden light.
Jaune held onto the Relic with his right hand as his left blocked out the moonlight. Beneath him, the nonexistent floor seemed to weaken as his foot slowly began to lower as if he were standing on snow.
A second later, he fell.
Jaune was blinded and falling, turning onto his back as he could barely see the outlines of Nimue and the pile of rocks disappear into the moonlight. Jaune squeezed his eyes shut, the brightness becoming a mind-numbing pain as he desperately twisted his head away, trying to block out the painful moonlight.
Then darkness.
Jaune slowly lowered his arm to reveal a starry night and a broken moon. His back was firmly planted on solid ground with Crocea Mors next to him as he looked into the night sky. It was a clear night, and the stars had never seemed so bright before as they illuminated all of Beacon in a soft, pale glow.
“Star gazing? That’s new.”
Jaune turned his head slightly towards the entryway back into the dorms to face the speaker. Her voice was as it always was, comforting and silky yet unwavering and strong. Her ginger hair fell past her shoulders, disheveled and messy, but still looking pristine like it always looked after her post-training shower.
Most stunning of all were her eyes. Jaune could swear he could see them glow from time to time, like two polished emeralds in a crown for royalty; they stood out, transfixing Jaune whenever he looked into them.
“Pyrrha?” Jaune asked, blinking a few times as he began to feel self-conscious about how long he had been staring at her. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, after joining Yang and Nora for their training, I felt like getting some air.” She shrugged, walking closer to Jaune and wafting some of her shampoo in her direction.
Jaune felt a weird sense of nostalgia for something he didn't realize he missed as she knelt beside him.
“That's not…” Jaune paused for a second, unable to finish his thought. What did he mean? Why was his heart pounding? He shook away his thoughts as he pushed himself over a little, inviting his partner wordlessly to lie next to him.
“So training up on the roof?”
“Yeah, I was working on my…” Jaune paused as he scrunched up his face to remember what he was doing. Swordplay? No, he only did that with a partner. Cardio? Maybe, but surely he would have done that in the gym.
“Aura?” Pyrrha suggested as she lay down next to her partner.
“Yeah,” Jaune shook his head at his forgetfulness, “Yeah, guess I was. Hoping to find my semblance before the tournament begins.”
A flash of a memory stirred up of him holding someone close, saving them as their wounds closed beneath his glowing hands.
It was gone as suddenly as it arrived.
Pyrrha tutted slightly under her breath, “Jaune, you don't need to push yourself so much. You’ve grown leaps and bounds since starting.”
Jaune sighed as he looked up into the night sky. “I know, but I think I can do more. I want to do more. You, Ren, and Nora have already helped me so much; I just want to help you guys in return.”
Pyrrha gripped Jaune’s hand tightly as she turned to face him with a small smile. “You're already helping Jaune. And when you do improve, I’ll be there along the way.”
“No, you won't.”
Pyrrha blinked in surprise as her hand loosened its grip. Jaune mirrored her, stuttering an apology as soon as he realised what he had said.
“Sorry, sorry. I meant to say… something else.” Jaune quickly replied, holding his quickly growing red face as he cringed at himself.
In truth, the words had flown out before he could even realize what he was saying, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Pyrrha let out a small giggle as she returned to look at the stars, calming Jaune down upon seeing that she wasn't too offended, before joining her in looking at the stars above.
“Why did you join Beacon?”
Jaune tilted his head to look at Pyrrha, whose gaze remained on the bright stars up above.
“Well… I guess I thought I had to.” Pyrrha hummed in interest, “My father was a Huntsman, as was his father and his. It was him, my great-great-grandfather, who forged Crocea Mors, and he used it to fight in the Great War alongside the King of Vale.”
“So you became a Huntsman to fulfill a destiny?”
Jaune thought about that for a second. It was true that a part of Jaune believed he was meant to be a Huntsman simply because his father had been before him, but it wasn't the biggest reason.
“No, I don't think so. My father never wanted to be a Huntsman but was forced into it by my grandfather, and so he hated it.” Jaune sighed as he talked.
“He would come home from hunts with stories to tell us when my sisters and I were kids, but he never spoke about the act of killing Grimm. It was always about the people he met or the sights he saw.
But when I told him I wanted to be like him, he nearly broke down. Said not to follow our family footsteps and to find something else in life to do. Refused to train me or unlock my aura. Stopped telling us stories when he came home.”
The night sky seemed to grow a little darker, as if the stars themselves were being put out like candles with no wick left to burn.
“Oh, that’s terrible.” His partner whispered, shaking Jaune out of his transfixation on the night sky. Jaune just shrugged in response.
“He had a good reason for it. I didn't find out until later, but his team had been wiped out the year after he left Haven. Three of his best friends were killed in a single afternoon. He just didn't want me to go through that pain.”
Pyrrha entwined her hand with his again and gave it a soft squeeze, “That won't happen to us.”
Jaune had to bite his tongue to resist the words that threatened to spill out of his mouth, though he didn't know what he wanted to say. Instead, he just grunted and returned to the seemingly darker night sky.
“But you still came,” Pyrrha said after a few moments of silence.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“My father may never have told us stories of slaying Grimm, but Mum did. It’s how they met.” Jaune felt a small smile stretch on his face.
“She used to live in Mt. Glenn and was one of the last people evacuated. Dad was stationed to protect the train car she was in, and she said that seeing him fight to protect the civilians was how she fell in love with him. Clad in silver and wielding a sword, he single-handedly killed scores of Grimm whilst protecting children and the elderly as they raced into the train.
He had to climb onto the roof of the carriage when they departed, as the train was way over capacity, and my mum offered to go up there with him. After they were safely back in Vale, she found Dad and ordered him to take her on a date.”
He chuckled as he remembered how he and his sisters would routinely make gagging noises when his mum told them the story and how she would roll her eyes in return, always with a smile on her face.
It made him sick with nostalgia and sadness.
“I used to ask her to tell me the story again and again. Each time, I would imagine myself as my father. A hero in silver fighting to protect those in need, with the family sword in one hand and the Arc shield in the other. Not for my family's name or a reward, but because it’s the right thing to do.” He continued, burying the sickness in his stomach.
“Like the Rusted Knight,” His partner said with a teasing smile.
A cold shiver ran down Jaune’s spine.
“Who?”
“He’s from an old children's book. A powerful knight who guided a lost girl in an alien world back to ours. Chivalrous and kind, he protected her from the evil Jabberwalker,” replied his partner, her eyes dreamy and cheeks dusted as she shifted to face Jaune. “You remind me of him sometimes.”
Jaune laughed into the empty sky, “Certainly not when we spar,” he answered with a self-deprecating chuckle.
Her hand tightened around his as her emerald eyes hardened. “You are strong, Jaune. Maybe not as much as some fictional knight, but you are strong enough to have earned your place here.”
Jaune gave the ginger girl a small smile as they both returned to watching the sky. What must have been clouds had set in, with even the broken moon being obscured from view. Even the ever-present tower was only barely visible in the almost suffocating darkness.
“Guess we'd better go get some sleep for tomorrow,” Jaune said as he began to stand, before her hand squeezed his again.
“Jaune, have I…. Have I been good for you?”
Jaune turned to look at the girl next to him. Her voice seemed weaker, her hair somehow less vibrant, her eyes duller. She looked colder, more distant. Less alive.
“Have you been good for me?” Jaune repeated slowly.
“With Beacon and your training. I’m just wondering if I made a difference to you.”
“I.. uh, yeah. I think so,” Jaune stuttered. A pounding in his head started to beat in tandem with his now racing heart as he looked at the girl opposite. She was important. Jaune was sure of it. Sure that he would be dead without her.
“Oh.” She let out a small gasp of disappointment.
“No, no, sorry. You were. You were important to me. Are important.” He corrected with a wince, his head feeling as if it were about to split.
He quickly pulled her up, his hands tightly holding hers as his fingernails dug into her skin, yet she didn't wince or complain as he drew blood from her palms.
Behind her should have been the entrance to the dorms, yet that inky shadow that had shrouded Ozpin’s - why did that name make him so angry? - tower had seemingly descended, covering the roof in darkness and leaving only the girl in view.
The girl didn't respond, yet her dull, green eyes bored into Jaune’s with an intensity he had never seen before. No, that's wrong. He had seen it before, hadn't he?
Jaune’s head began to split, each passing moment accompanied by a nauseating pulse that reverberated around his skull. He instinctively went to let go of the figure's hand to massage his head, but something stopped him just as he began to pull out of its grip.
“No,” Jaune gasped as he refused to blink, a small part of him terrified to even look away from the figure for a second, “I can’t lose you again.” He paused as the words flew out.
Again?
He took another look at the figure in front of him. It had dull, red hair, and its skin was misty and dark as if it were created out of the shadow itself.
Only its eyes had any real colour, just a splash of green in each, which somehow looked so sad, as though it was looking at someone it had truly loved for the last time.
“Did I matter to you, Jaune?” It spoke. Its voice wasn't accusatory or angry, but forlorn and broken. It made Jaune’s heart break hearing it like this.
“You… you did. I’m sure of it. You mattered so much to me. You…” His mind raced, trying to place the figure in front of him.
Memories flashed in front of him: a Deathstalker, Foreverfall, a rooftop, a food fight, a dance, a tournament, a kiss.
The inside of a locker. Training alone. Flames and cinders. Anger and pain. A lonely statue.
“You… saved me? I think.”
Pain stabbed into his brain like lightning as the search for relief overtook the small part of Jaune that screamed and begged him to never stop looking at the thing in front of him.
He tore his hand from the ironclad grip and closed his eyes as he massaged his temples, shivering in relief as his vision stopped dancing.
Jaune wiped his eyes when he reopened them.
He was crying.
Why was he crying?
In front of him was something made of shadow, only two dull emeralds visible in the inky blackness that surrounded it. And yet, as Jaune looked at the thing, he felt overwhelming pain deep inside his heart.
“Did I matter?” It spoke in a low, despondent voice.
“I’m sorry,” Jaune responded, massaging his head as he tried to place the thing in front of him.
He felt memories being ripped out of his mind, like someone was digging into his skull with a hot knife.
“But who are you?”
The thing didn't respond; it simply closed its sad eyes and allowed the shadows to swallow it.
And as it disappeared into the ether, Jaune could only feel confusion over the overwhelming despair he felt.
A moment later, the shadows encroached.
~ ~ ~
Jaune awoke dripping wet on a polished marble floor, coughing saltwater out of his throat with something pressed harshly against his spine.
“Who are you?” A voice spat at him from above. A voice that Jaune recognized quite well.
“Oscar? What the fuck are you doing?” Jaune managed to let out before choking on more water rushing to escape his lungs.
“Oz. We don't have time for your games,” Someone else said in Jaune’s defense.
Raven, his mind told him. Though it did fail to recognize the humour in Yang’s deadbeat mother being the one to defend him. Raven’s well-thought-out words didn't buy Jaune any sympathy, however, as the walking stick pushed further into his spine.
“Answer my questions,” Oscar ordered, his voice full of vitriol and anger.
“God’s Oscar, fine. I’m Jaune Arc. A middle-aged man stuck in a teenager's body, currently being held hostage by a much older man in a much younger body.”
“And whose side do you fight on?”
“Whose side? Whose do you think you crazy old man.” All Jaune received from his answer was another deadly push, so he continued. “Yours. Ours. Humanities. Whatever side gets you the fuck off me.”
“Oz. We don't have time,” Raven helpfully added, Jaune knowing her face was stone cold even without looking. The boy atop Jaune hesitated for a second before lifting himself off, offering a hand to Jaune when the warrior unsteadily stood up.
“I do apologize, Mr. Arc, but I had to make sure you came back as you.”
Jaune let out a grunt as he twisted his back, making it crack in a satisfying relief of pain. “So you thought threatening me was the best option?”
“No, but we don't have the time for much else. Salem’s forces are here.”
Jaune let out a hiss as his hand moved instinctively for Crocea Mors, only to find another weapon in its holster.
“And it seems you did agree to her sacrifice.” Oscar continued, nodding towards the Relic inside the shield.
Jaune slowly took the Relic out. It didn't look too special, the blade itself simple and plain. Only the ceremonial crossguard looked out of place, yet Jaune could feel a hum of power vibrate through the weapon.
“You said we had at least five days,” Jaune eventually said as he pushed the Relic back into his sheath.
“You’ve been in there for six,” Raven interrupted, slicing through the air with her own weapon as a portal came to life.
“What?”
“My thoughts exactly, Mr. Arc. Time does move differently within the vaults, but normally it slows down from the outside, not the opposite.” He looked at Jaune with both concern and suspicion. “How long were you in there?”
“I uh, I don't know. I only talked to Nimue for a few minutes and then…” He petered off as his memory became cloudy. He had fallen, hadn't he? But did something happen after?
“Can we figure that out after we kill the Grimm?” Raven called from her portal.
“I suppose we must. Come, Mr. Arc, let us defend Vaccuo.”
Jaune nodded, following Oscar towards Raven’s portal. He reached for the new pommel, only for his hand to miss, too used to Crocea Mors. Instead, his hand brushed past a sash tied to his hip.
His brow furrowed as he ran the material past his gloved hand. He knew every part of his kit from head to toe. But for the life of him, he couldn't place where he had picked this up.
He shook his head. It didn't matter right now. He could figure it out later.
Besides, if he’d forgotten about it, then it couldn't have been that important.