Grimm poured from the shadows, an endless tide that Jaune had finally become familiar with. Their numbers never ceased. Humanity had always been fighting this war, but Jaune had never really understood just how hopeless it was. For every slain ten more would take it's place. These ceaseless numbers are why huntsmen worked in teams of four. You could rely on someone when your strength failed. Your partner. A teammate.
A luxury Jaune had taken for granted. A privileged he'd been robbed of.
Ren and Nora fought alongside him. They looked after him. He looked after them. That hadn't changed and never would.
It just…wasn't the same. They were a pair, and he was the odd man out. The complemented each other perfectly. Ren was fast and lethal. Nora was strong and explosive. Jaune slowed them down. Neither of them would even dream of saying it him, but it wasn't something they needed to say. Jaune saw it every time they ever fought. One would stay behind to cover him, because he needed protection;like some sort of civilian.
If he wanted to go forward – to make things right, he would need to learn to fight alone.
Despite their protests. This needed to happen. Even if it meant going alone. At night, when neither of them would notice his missing. Seeds can't grow under the leaves of another, or something like that.
Ha. How long had it been since he had thought of his mother's sayings? How long had it been since he'd thought of his mother?
Some son he was.
Claws glinted in the moonlight, his shield reflexively coming to bear a moment later. A harsh ringing sounded before Jaune stabbed his sword forward, blindly. It found purchase in a beowulf's unarmored abdomen. It's claws slapped against his face and shoulders, but he pushed forward, tearing his sword out through the beasts side. It released a sputtering, agonized howl before lurching against him. Jaune nearly fell under the weight of it's corpse, before it quickly dissolved, nearly causing him to fall to his knees.
He was tired. His legs and arms ached. Lungs stretched and burned. It felt right, though. The burn of exertion was perfect, exactly what he was after.
More grimm came. More grimm died. None of them were very large, or old, but their numbers were plentiful. Any one of his friends would look at this as a quick exercise. That fact enticed an entirely new sort of burning in his chest. One that he had almost forgotten. The fire of inadequacy.
With a growl Jaune sprinted towards his new adversaries. Anger holding his aching limbs aloft. His swings became wild, frenzied. His shield all but forgotten as his sword cleaved through their blackened bodies like butter. His recklessness earned him a scour alongside his lower abdomen. His aura flashed, but did nothing for the pain. His strikes were becoming weaker. The strain in his arm made a slash sloppy, barley catching the beowulf on the tip of it's nose. It's crimson eyes mocked his weakness, his exhaustion. The dared him to fall. A month ago he almost certainly would have, but now?
It wasn't enough. Not yet.
The offending limb that clawed him was severed. It's owners head crushed under the edge of his shield.
"Grimm will always be on the offensive," her voice echoed in his head. "Use that to your advantage. Your shield is useful in this aspect, deflect the attack and respon-"
The memory was drowned out by a stinging pain. Why? Ah, he had been hurt. Superficial cuts on his ribs that stretched from his waist to his upper torso. He welcomed it, this was his penance.
Oh, more grimm? He could hear their growls; see their charcoal forms stalking against the shadows. There were many, more than he had ever fought alone. How many more could he kill? His body said five, but his eyes counted ten.
Was he going to die here? Uselessly, in this field? Alone?
A dark and sad voice in the back of his head wondered if this is how Pyrrha felt. Fighting a hopeless battle. What were her last thoughts? Was she afraid? Was it painful? So much he didn't know. So much he would never know.
He missed her so much.
Jaune fell into a sort of trance. Exhaustion slipped away, his limbs felt light and fresh. His sword carved through the ranks of grimm as easily as parting air. The onslaught of beowulf and boarbatusk thinned until a stark few remained. Until a lone beowulf sat just a few paces away, the dissolving corpse of it's comrade at Jaune's feet. His arms dangled uselessly at his side.
This was it. He couldn't move anymore.
The beowulf knew it, too. Recklessly charging forward, carving chunks of earth and grass with it's stride. Eyes gleaming with victory.
Jaune blinked at the beowulf. Dead on his feet figuratively, and literally in a few precious moments. Time slowed to a fitful crawl. He was afraid. His heart beat up into his throat, but despite all struggling his sword arm wouldn't move. His rational mind told him to run. It was, realistically, his only chance. Even then, outrunning a beowulf when he was this fatigued was...unlikely. He wasn't fast in his best shape.
The next line of thought was to fight. To spit and claw just as ferociously as the creature before him. But his body wasn't listening. His limbs might as well have been encased in thick layers of concrete. It was possible, though not likely. If he fell right, with Crocea Mors poised just right - then maybe he could make the monster impale itself. If that one strike didn't kill it, then he would be finished.
So, he couldn't run. Couldn't fight. What was he left with?
He knew the answer. It just wasn't the answer he wanted.
The bleak reality almost made him cry, but he was tired.
I'm sorry, Nora. Ren. I didn't mean for this to happen.
Wasn't his life suppose to flash before his eyes at this point? Memories of his family, maybe? Of his hometown? Even some of his time at Beacon would make sense.
No, he saw none of that. Just one person.
I'll see you soon, Pyrrha.
Jaune closed his eyes. Staring death in the face just wasn't as romantic as his fathers stories made it out to be. Call him cowardly, but he didn't want to see it coming.
Movement. The sound of tearing and ripping flesh. No pain. Perhaps it had been quick, at the very least?
Jaune slowly opened his eyes. Crocea Mors was embedded in the beowulf's mouth, piercing out through the back of it's head. The light in it's eyes faded, before it dissolved into black smoke.
Huh? How did...? What?
Jaune's legs finally failed him. Crocea Mors fell into the grass beside him.
Each breath brought with it fresh pain - his throat dry and itchy. Jaune finally relinquished his iron-clad grip, fingers vibrating with tension. Bits of drool dripped down from his lips as he heaved from his hands and knees.
His eyes began to droop without his consent. Black creeping along the edges of his vision. His body was finally catching up to him, it seemed. His arms collapsed under his weight, face smacking into the ground. The grass felt frigid against his warm skin, but did not stop the encroaching dark in his vision. Jaune fought against the exhaustion, desperately trying to pull himself into a sitting position.
But like all battles he ever fought, he lost.
It almost felt like he was floating. His limbs and body held aloft by countless little strings, his weight equally distributed. It was peaceful. Nothing like his usual fitful dreams. Though...it was familiar. Had he been here before?
Jaune.
Ah. He had been here before.
This, again? He'd thought he was past this. He felt comfortable and warm, the first bits of sunlight drawing out over his frame. The sound of a babbling brook assured him he was not where had fallen asleep at. A soft breeze floated along his skin. His eyelids felt heavy. Worse still, her voice whispered in his ear.
Open your eyes, love.
No. He couldn't do this again. These were just dreams. Nothing more. If he just focused all of it would fade, and he could do his best to forget the experience the next morning. The ringing in his ear would dull her voice. The ache of his wounds would let him forget her face.
So why wouldn't he wake up? He was focusing. Trying his best to slip away, back into the land of the waking. So why?
Please?
An irritated sigh escaped him, before his eyelids fluttered open. A dazzling green stared down at him. His head rested comfortably on her lap. A glowing smile was painted on her face. The soft breeze sent her hair dancing off along with the wind. The scene may as well have been the most beautiful painting he'd ever seen.
It was all fake, he told himself. Despite how much he wished otherwise. She was not real. She was not here. She died on that tower. He had failed her.
Hello, Jaune.
So why could he feel her brush the hair away from his forehead? Absentmindedly playing with his bangs. Why did her soft smile ease the ache in his heart?
She wasn't real.
Her smile was frightfully accurate. The way her eyes crinkled, or how the corners of her mouth formed little dimples.
His hand involuntarily reached up to touch her; stopping just before her cheek, fingers shaking. He'd dreamt of this before. It all ended with this. It always did. When he made contact it was over.
Still, that tiny desperation in the back of his mind begged him to close the distance – just to be certain! It cried. 'What if it's real?'
It wasn't real. He knew it wasn't. Why was he reaching, then? He should just enjoy the moment for the illusion it was.
Jaune gasped when she pushed her cheek against his fingers. She was warm, and solid; her skin soft and smooth. Jaune reflexively cupped her cheek, his thumb gently moving against her face.
"Y-You're not real..." he murmured softly, staring at her in something akin to worried awe. Her hand came to clasp the one clad against her cheek.
I am here.
"I'm going crazy," he proclaimed, eyes wide. "I – I passed out. I'm dreaming. You are not real."
The not-real girl pressed her lips against his knuckles, and Jaune shivered at the contact. Her breath felt real against the back of his hand. Her gaze felt real against his own. Her hand, so soft and gentle, felt impossibly real against his own.
Fear reared it's ugly head, drawing him back to doubt. This wasn't the first time he'd dreamt of her. What if this was a new development in his psyche? A fresh, new self - torture. Any moment now, he would wake up in the real world, where she wasn't holding his hand or letting him lay on her lap. Where his only solace was a video screen and dull teachings echoing in his head. The heartbreak would feel new.
I am here.
"You aren't here!" Jaune hissed, his grip becoming tight. If the pressure hurt, she didn't show it. She just continued to smile down at him, while she wordlessly massaged the back of his hand. The affection in her eye softened his grip, tempered his anger. How could he stay mad? When she looked down at him with such love? When the short burst of anger faded, Jaune was left with nothing; he wasn't brave enough to feel happy. What if was all gone in the next moment?
"You can't be here," Jaune whimpered. "You...you're gone. You died, Pyrrha."
As his mind raced, two thoughts stood out among the rest. The first - that this wasn't real. Perhaps he would wake up, any moment now, thrown back into that cold reality where Pyrrha was gone. The more realistic of the two, his cynical side muttered in the back of his mind.
The inverse, this whole thing being real was almost as scary. Had he died in the field? Was this the afterlife? Jaune didn't recall getting mortally wounded, but then again, how would he know? He fainted in a field. What's to say a beowulf hadn't torn out his throat by now? He almost felt that thought should scare him, but Pyrrha's lap was soft and distracting. The stray hand working itself through his hair dulled his fear.
Real or not -
Does it matter?
The ghost leaned down, her fiery hair draping around him like a curtain. Her lips firmly pressed against his. His conscious thought fled to the back of his mind, cries of fear and uncertainty inaudible against the warmth of her embrace. Her hands found each side of his face while she moved her lips against his. Like the first time they'd kissed, Jaune found himself too stunned to respond – to shocked to even begin reciprocating her affection. That was one of his smaller, more intimate regrets. If he could go back in time he'd kiss her hard enough to bruise her lips; leave her breathless. Maybe then she would have stayed, maybe then she would have listened. Then again -
Does it matter?
Jaune, lips moving against hers, decided it didn't.
His eyes opened. His aura had cast the dimly lit forest in ivory hue. The sun was fast approaching on the horizon, the trees desperate to catch it's glow. How long had he been out?
The bitter realization took settled in the pit of his stomach. It had all been a dream.
A choked laugh wormed it's way out of his throat. Why was he surprised? He had known all along. People didn't come back from the dead. They didn't visit the living in their dreams. How stupid could he be? His heart throbbed painfully his his chest, his throat tightening.
Swallowing his grief, Jaune forced a smile onto his face. Despite everything, it allowed him a chance to see her again, however fleeting. He was also alive. Ren and Nora would be relieved. That was something to be happy about.
Sweat dribbled down his forehead into his eye, the brief stinging sensation ringing dully compared to the throbbing of his chest. It clung to his shirt, his hair, making him uncomfortably sticky.
Why was it so hot all of a sudden?
His lips were tingling with heat. The sensation was alien, almost like a fever. His hand, his cheeks, the skin was flushed. Almost uncomfortably hot.
Was this...?
He bit his lip. His mouth opened and closed. Why should he hesitate? If he was wrong, then nothing had changed. Another dream to the pile. Another heartbreak, with tears sure to follow; but tears were nothing compared to what it meant if he was right.
"...Pyrrha?" Jaune whispered, trembling softly. "Are...are you there?"
Jaune paused for a long moment, waiting with held breath.
Just as he sighed, released his baited breath bitterly, a splash of red caught the peripheral of his vision. A hand he couldn't see grasped his own.
I am here.