Arc 2 - Chapter 28 - Severing the Umbilical Cord

The Apostle of War looked through the black clouds of the world below the moon, foaming like suds in a bath, bubbled by deep thunder, traced by violet lightning. He squinted at the Mad Wolf as he stood in that ash-covered landscape, wielding the holy sword, those stalactites for eyes focused none too friendly on the troublesome newborn. The Apostle felt a thrill slither up his back as the Orphan of Joy screamed its confused, terrified rage at any and everything, making the clouds boil further, the lightning flash brighter, the thunder roar louder.

He crossed her arms over her pristine white chest plate and leaned forward, eyes unblinking as he watched these latest events unfold, having been woken from his sleep. From the long sleep that damn Wolf had prisoned upon him. A twisted smile cut wide across the Apostle's face. He held no grudges, though. Not unless this fight turned out to be a disappointment.

He let out a bark of laughter. It was the Wolf against the Orphan.

No fight between them was anything close to disappointing.

It was with little remorse that the Mad Wolf jumped toward the newborn Orphan of Joy, greatsword pulsing with holy light, and nearly succeeded at cleaving the umbilical cord in half. Of course, things were never that easy.

The Orphan swung at him with its emaciated arm - a thing so pathetically weak-looking that it probably couldn't swat a fly out of the air, and not for a lack of accuracy. But that was to the Orphan's advantage, really. It did not need to be accurate during its rages.

The swing made the air gather into a vicious wind, crashing into the Mad Wolf with the impact of a cannonball, sending him careening backward as if he'd bounced off some invisible force field. The Wolf righted himself in the air and descended to the ground, landing in a kneeling position, the point of the Holy Sword stabbed into the sand, which hissed from the fumes of intense cold curling from the blade.

The Orphan let out its piercing scream again, and the Wolf felt his brain rattle, the left ear ooze blood. It got down onto all fours, like that of a beast on the hunt, the crowns of its spine poking out of its back. The Wolf knew that stance all too well, but he'd only risen off his knee before the Orphan crossed the distance and rammed him like a bull that saw the much despised cape. He tumbled across the dusty plain like a tumbleweed in one-hundred miles per hour winds, the dark sky, the bright white moon, the brown earth and rubble flipping over and over. He pressed his hands onto the ground and pushed himself up, boots skidding in the dirt. He raised Crocea Mors up for the Orphan's next attack, but did not see the creature in front of him.

Because it was right above him.

The Orphan had leaped into the air, swung at him again, but no wind followed. Instead, various orbs of bright white light, almost like tiny moons, materialized from the air, then fell upon the Wolf like a vicious rain. He hopped and sprung away, the orbs bursting into columns of white flame, leaving the ground frozen and steaming cold where they landed. The Wolf made ready to retaliate, but the Orphan was already coming at him by the time he'd cleared the range of it's bomb shower. He doubled back from a vicious claw attack, then spun away from another, stealing a chance to bash the creature in the back of the head with the blade-flat, sending the mindless animal flopping away.

You had to take every opening possible against this creature, so the Wolf drew on the moon's power and released it through his greatsword, unleashing a long blade beam at the Orphan's umbilical cord. Unfortunately. The beast had already started coming at him again, so the blade caught him right in the face in a plume of cold steam, wisps of ice-flame, knocking the Orphan off its feet. On the ground, it writhed and clawed at its face like a parasite exposed to fire, screeching in unbearable agony. One might think that was a good thing, putting one's opponent in pain. That was the whole point in a battle, usually. Hurting your foe generally made fighting them easier.

But this was the Orphan, so the truth was the exact opposite.

It came screaming at him again, face horrifically split in half, each side flopping, but already the flesh was begging to latch back together and pull things back into place. Easily wounded, but easily healed. The Orphan's mighty swing unleashed another spattering of moon bombs, pelting in the ground like an unloaded machine gun magazine. The Wolf skittered the other way, but the Orphan followed him, slashed at him with all its wild rage, the Corpse of the Mother flopping around behind him like a doll dragged along. The Wolf rolled away, having dismissed the Holy Sword for a moment and summoned its katana variant for a faster cut. He caught the Orphan across the back, drawing little more than a spatter of black blood. Too shallow. He knew it would be, but he'd felt he had to try. The Orphan whirled around so fast that its body couldn't keep up, the bones in its body cracking and twisting out of proportion as it lashed at him. The Wolf dodged the first two swings, but badly misjudged the third, taking it across the face, feeling raw bone catch him in the jaw, filling his mouth with blood.

He held his ground, though, and now swung the Holy Sword wide, catching the beast in the side with the flat, and stunning it. The Wolf rushed for the cord, but found himself snatched by the ankle and dragged off his feet. With a flick, the Orphan sent him flying away, the closeness of its shriek implying that it was giving chase. The Wolf dropped down and spiked the ground with his sword, unleashing a more powerful blade beam surging in a great column across the field. The Orphan just managed to dodge the brunt of it, with the only evidence that it had even been close being the ice which formed on its pale skin, yet it screamed in pain like the wound was far worse than it looked.

That was the thing about the Orphan. Its body was incredibly fragile, and it had no tolerance for pain or discomfort of any measure. It did not like being wounded even in the most ignorable ways. And the more you wounded it, the more scared it became, and the more scared it was, the stronger it became. He supposed that was the case for any living creature trying to sustain itself. The most powerful emotion of all was fear.

The Wolf began to wonder what it was he truly feared. Being wounded? Hardly. It was his purpose to take wounds and he did so without complaint. Death? He was created to preserve the young master's innocence and ignorance, not to preserve his own otherwise directionless life. He was healthily uncertain of his survival against the Orphan, but that wasn't quite fear.

He thought of the Princess. He thought of her face, her charm, her witful humor. He thought of her warmth seeping even through his armor. And it made his cold heart sink. That was fear, he imagined. The worst kind.

The Orphan's claws would have sunk into him if he didn't get out of the way, though, so the Mad Wolf backed out of its path, the beast darting past him several feet before realizing he was not there, skidding to a stop, casting about in utter confusion, then finding the Wolf once again. It rushed him again, all fours, then slashed at the Wolf, but its claws scraped the blade of the Holy Sword, the sound like stones on a blacktop. One-handed, the Wolf flashed the sword wide, blade humming with luminary essence. The Orphan skittered back from the range of his attack like a cautious insect, watching him with those empty eye sockets.

He rushed it down, two-handing, cutting vicious wide sweeps, long lunges, reverse-grip lashes. Stab, cut, stab, cut. The Orphan kept well away, making no attempt to get close or steal an opening. Yet. The Wolf chopped down, edge digging into the ground, the Orphan having slithered away. Ripped the blade back out, drawing a wave of lunar energy with it and sending it careening at his target, tearing through the ground. The Orphan got out half a shriek as the wave made contact, plucking it off its feet and flipping it like a coin. The Wolf kept on, once again for the cord, but the monster had already scrambled back up, darting at him with a spitting hiss.

Clang. Blade met hard flesh and pressed competitively with one another, their faces close enough to feel each other's breaths. The Orphan's cold as mist, foul as rot, teeth pressed into a nasty snarl. Fury concealing fear. What else can I do, that face seemed to say. You'll hurt me. Everything will hurt me. I don't want to be hurt.

Was that simply the fear of the awakened beast, craving ignorant slumber? Or were the Shield Knight's deepest horrors also bubbling to the surface? Was he perhaps more than the apparent new conduit of the Orphan, seemingly breaking the laws the Wolf knew to be absolute? It could not be argued that the Mother's cord could not attach to anything but the young master. Not the Wolf and not the Apostle. Naught but her own flesh and blood. That was an indisputable fact. And then his face. So strangely familiar. What was he? Who was he?

The Orphan answered him with a sudden jump in strength, and the a wolf knew it's power had elevated, for a long wing of translucent skin burst off the creature's back, tousling behind it, dripping with the amniotic fluids of the womb. The Orphan forced the Wolf onto his knees, blood bleeding out of its hands where it pressed on the blade, screaming all the while. The Wolf tried to fight back, but he was wrenched away like a ragdoll and sent tumbling head over feet, head bashing against the rocks. He dug his claws into the dirt and dragged himself to a stop, head aching as he forced himself up. Couldn't slow down. He could not stop now. No more thinking.

To defeat a beast, you must fight as one. You must become one. He felt spit ooze off his lip as he clenched his teeth, canines scraping, let out a foamy hiss as he charged down the Orphan, and the Orphan charged back.

He was not called the Mad Wolf for no reason.

Peach had been hugging herself ever since coming back from the morgue. It was not cold, not by any measure. Hot as hell outside, actually. Yet she felt cold all over regardless. She supposed this was the kind of day for such a disparity. She looked into the eyes of her old friend and whispered her next question, "Where did you find them?"

It was the first time she'd visited Lore's quaint little precinct, at least, as a normal citizen. Her various missions for the organization, and especially for the Superior took her all over Sanus. There were a few employees and cops that were under the organization's payroll here, as there likely were in every other system of power. But of course, since such people were here, she also had to be careful. In the organization, allies and enemies walked amongst one another, and people could be listening.

It was Qrow that answered, and with a consternate look as he leaned against the door of their private room, frowning grimly as he scratched his beard. "At that abandoned, old beach down south. Can't say I'd have guessed that's where she'd go. Must have chosen the place on a whim. We got lucky, being honest."

Luck was certainly a part of it. Peach looked through the half open blinds, into the empty break room. Well, mostly empty. Sat on a couch was her eight year old nephew. No, her son. They'd cleaned him up and given him new clothes, and Peach struggled to picture what he'd looked like based on what Qrow had described. A shirt and shorts, sandals, and covered in his Joy's blood. Marinated in it for five hours, trapped beneath her corpse. His eyes stared forward like he could see through the window, through the walls, into space and time. Peach wondered if perhaps he was somehow staring toward that beach and it made her shiver. Jaune looked cold now, even swaddled in a thick blanket.

Peach supposed that was why Officer Summer had him in her arms, pressed to her side, trying to comfort him as if he were her son.

"Thank you, Qrow." said Peach. She had more questions, but those could wait. Right now she needed to see her boy before Joseph arrived.

Qrow looked disappointed in the situation as if it was all his fault somehow. "I can't say we did much. Got there too late. Much too late."

Peach let out a shaky breath, having already seen her sister's body, and had her breakdown alone in the morgue. First time she'd cried that hard in years, if she'd ever cried so hard before. That stupid woman. Taking him out at night like that, and in the condition she was in as well. She never listened!

"I need to see him," Peach said.

Qrow nodded. "He won't speak, we've tried. I don't even think he knows he's here. Probably thinks he's still at that beach."

"I still have to see him," and Peach cut past him and nearly burst into the other room, but had to calm herself and ease her way in.

Summer's silver eyes, a mere physical leftover of a long extinct gene, looked up at her with genuine pity. Tears in her eyes as if Jaune's pain was her very own. Peach did not like the way Summer held him. Held him like Joy had. Held him like he was hers. "I'll take him now, thank you."

She nodded and gently let Jaune go. Just as if she'd never been there in the first place, he showed no response.

Summer left the room and Peach considered what to do. Her first instinct was to sit beside him, or scoop him into her arms and hug him close, to press his head to her breast and rock him to sleep, as any caring mother should. So had said those parenting books she'd read. But the last time she'd held Jaune so closely was eight years ago. For a few days after he was born, then a few hours more as she drove to her sister's house, ready to make good on their deal, their contract done in ink and court, under the supervision of legal counsel. And, unbeknownst to Joy, at the express orders of Peach's superiors in the organization. Hunters were banned from having children. It was the law. And her masters took such laws deadly seriously.

This boy in front of her was a total stranger, and yet she knew him so well just from what she'd gleaned from Joseph and Joy over the years. How he loved buttered chicken biscuits and the yellow super rangers. How he somehow had trouble counting numbers forward but could count backwards with ease. How he'd always wanted a puppy but was never allowed to get one.

Peach kneeled down in front of him and found herself scared to touch him. She wanted to turn his chin so he'd look at her, but couldn't muster the courage. He looked her right in the face and did not see her. Did not see anything most likely.

She could already sense the festering of Despair start to radiate off him. And the idea of that was horrifying in a way she never could have imagined. This early should have been impossible. Despair did not form so potently this quickly. It usually took weeks. Months, even.

Her baby boy. An utter ruin. And all because of her foolish sister. Peach never should have given him up. She'd regretted it all these years, and now it seemed her fears for the worst had come true. Joy's reluctance to accept help, her staunch attitude, and her inevitable self-destruction had destroyed Peach's only son. The only child she would ever have, now.

But she would make things right.

How they got here was awful. Horrible in every sense. Awful. But one had to take such opportunities as presented themselves. Peach had intended on taking Jaune back, and she'd planned to use her connections with the organizations to pull a court case and win him. That would have put her in the Superior's debt, but that had to be worth it. The chance to be a mother. A real mother.

"Don't worry, honey," she said as softly and gently as possible. "Mommy's here. Don't be scared."

The boy did not react.

Peach reached up and took him into her arms, dragged him close, kissed his face, rubbed his shoulder gently. If the Despair was already forming, then a Key would form soon enough. Maybe within the next few months. She made this promise to herself, Jaune, Joseph, and even Joy. She'd find that key, tame the Alter, and save him from years of suffering. As any real mother would. At last, the two of them could be a family.

That was why, despite losing her one and only sister and seeing her own son in a mental ruin…

Victarine Peach smiled at her good fortune.

Peach laid there on the ground and thought of that day. Simultaneously the worst and best day of her life, at least it had seemed as such. Things had not gone as she had hoped. When had anything in her life gone as she hoped?

She fought in, though. She fought for that happy ending she'd so coveted, even knowing deep in her heart that she did not deserve such a thing.

Laying there alone, she could only think about Jaune. How he needed her. How she needed him to need her. This had been what she'd fought for all these years. So, why was she lying here? Had to save him. Had to protect her baby.

Her mind was in shambles. She felt the cracked pane that was her mind, the pieces chipping off bit by bit. Still, Peach began to push herself up, sewing together the only thing she knew could keep her going.

Save your child.

These were the words that got Peach to her feet. That drew her ears to the distant roars, even as the effects of Alter-Qrow's curse continued to fester in her.

Save your child, she commanded herself.

They propelled her forward, her steps slow and steady, roused from sudden sleep. Then picking up pace. The world became clearer, despite the crumbling world around her. Faster she moved. One foot in front of the other over and over.

Until she was running.

The Wolf threw another moonlight slash at the Orphan, but did not wait for it to connect before adding on the pressure.

The moon's power surged within him, the most he'd felt in a long time, as he unleashed a volley of blade beams at the darting beast, watching it dodge about the field like a cricket avoiding the rain. The Orphan opened its torn mouth wider than any person should be capable of. The Wolf saw its neck bulge and twist, something bubbleed in its mouth, before it was fired at him.

He rolled out of the way as a long jet of dark red hissed past him and pierced the ground where he once stood, spraying dust into the air, vaporizing the solid ground. The stink of it crawled up the Wolf's nose, making acidic bile rise in his throat. The rot of blood. If the wing of flesh had not been indication enough, then the use of its own blood for attacking made the truth clear.

The creature was evolving. Its power was growing.

The Wolf needed to end this now.

More blood jets came, reversing the pattern of dodging back onto him as the world filled with the essence of blood. The Wolf staggered backward to avoid one, ducked the next, weaved between a repeated jettison as if the creature was a walking machine gun with infinite ammunition. He ducked behind a boulder, but held his sword up defensively just in case, and it was good that he had. The blood jet punched through the stone like a needle through flesh, crashed against the flat of the greatsword and sprayed out to the left and right, slicing through the earth two-ways. The Wolf held strong, blood spraying his face, getting in his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Feeling his muscles burn with exhaustion, he hauled himself out of the way, rolled up to his feet and freed another moonlight slash.

The Orphan darted around it, muscles bulging and twisting like their were insects under the skin, and it unleashed its high scream once more. There was a loud crunch and a violent hiss as a geyser of blood burst out of the ashen ground, spraying high into the air, almost touching the clouds, bubbling and foaming like it had been boiling above a bed of fire. The fires of hell. And not just the one either.

The Wolf was knocked off his feet, having just barely avoided another eruption, but still being carted away, red rain falling around him, colder than ice. But the Orphan was not through with him yet. Moon bombs became blood bombs, exploding into deadly spikes, acidic foam, festering freeze. One caught the Wolf on the arm as he dropped back and quickly began to turn his gauntlet to ice. With haste, he ripped it off, leaving only his pale hand.

Looking at the hand made him think of the beginning. Of his waking. On the day he first knew something and nothing at once. Old memories.

Same purposes.

The Wolf sprinted toward the Orphan, greaves splashing in the newly muddied field of ash and blood, given a gross color by the casting moonlight. The whole field was covered now and spreading further as more blood geysers burst up all around, as if the planet itself was suffering a cruel disease, all seemingly independent of the Orphan's will by now.

The beast slashed at him and released three arcing blood blades. The Wolf jumped toward them, twisting in the air so he passed between them and landed in a sprint on the other side. Once there, he chopped at the Orphan with all his strength, but it had already scrambled to the right. He refocused his momentum and sprang at it, blade extended. The Orphan dodged back again, but just barely, as Crocea Mors took a chunk out of its shoulder. And more importantly, left a nick in the cord.

The Wolf rolled up to his feet as he hit the ground, spun round to see the Orphan and Corpse of the Mother both letting out a pained screech, thrashing about like that little cut was acid in their veins. Had to finish this now. The Wolf sprang at them and chopped at the cord, but the Orphan had jumped between and let the blade instead dig into its back, protecting both the cord and its Mother with its body. The Wolf did not bother to stop even for that. The Orphan howled in protest as he drove the blade deeper into its back, hoping to get a deeper cut into the cord that way. It hurt to hear it scream. As though it was screaming for help. For someone to rescue it.

The Orphan seemed to have had enough, seizing the point of the sword with its fragile fingers, letting out a scream, then ripping the blade out through its side, half bisecting itself. The Wolf was dragged by its massive strength and sent tumbling away, cursing to himself for hesitating, for not finishing it off right there.

The Oprhan was struggling now, whimpering in pain, even as the flesh of its half cut body began to lash about, looking for their other halves, finding them, then sewing back together. By now, they were both stood in what could only be described as a red lake. A few small mounds of sand rose above it all, but now the Wolf was submerged up to his ankles and the air was rank to the point that there were tears in his eyes. Once the Orphan stood, it louted its wild shriek again and the force made the blood around it ripple and splash, the dark clouds above crashing with thunder and lightning. The beast was still not as powerful as it could be, but the longer the fight went on, the more likely it would awaken to its real power.

The Wolf knew he could get at the cord with a good and strong cut. But the Orphan was adamant about protecting it. Normally, this wasn't a problem since the child version, the one he was used to, was not physically big enough to shield the Corpse entirely. It was much different now. The Wolf struggled for what to do and that was not normal for him. Fighting on seemed like the only option.

But would the day ever come that he could stop?

In a way, it had become utterly unremarkable, this fight to the death. Even if the stakes were high and the threat of his death and the young master's and everything he knew was at stake, it began to feel so routine. Like he was in this constant loop of war with this damn monster born out of the sufferings of the Great Truth. Ignorance was the best medicine, and yet the young master, and now the Shield Knight seemed two of a kind in their insistence on knowledge. The more the Wolf fought, the more it picked at him.

"You fool!" The Wolf bellowed, cutting across the Orphan's chest. "I fight you and fight you. I put you back as you were time and again. Yet you insist on resistance!" He did not often lose his temper. It was not in his nature to do so. He'd been doing many things that were against his nature. "You know it will hurt you! Certainly you feel it? Then why? Why do you torture yourself?"

But he might as well have been talking to a wall, which would have done better listening. The Orphan fought on despite its wounds. Attacks of moonlight and blood, of sound and cold, clashing with the Wolf's bitter persistence. Chunks of flesh were ripped out, pieces of armor were cut away. He was breathing hard, his body was aching, but he roared out his own defiant anger and fought on anyway. His chest plate and cape were gone, leaving him only in his trousers and greaves and a single gauntlet, coated in wounds, blood everywhere. Blade beams, conjured spears and swords flying, flash freezing columns of the bloody field where his opponent would once be. Darting and splashing as he hopped about the field, resisting defeat.

At times, it got tiring. Doing this. At times he wanted to stop. But then who would protect the young master? Who would save him from the pain? Had that not been the very reason the Wolf was created? Had this not been the promise he himself had made the day he came into existence?

He took the Orphan's backhand and was sent spinning away, bouncing across the ground, blood getting all over him. He pushed himself standing and slashed wide two-handed, catching the Orphan as it had jumped at him, dropping it planting on its face. The cord was in midair and he did not waste that chance to get at it. Another shallow nick, for another column of ice-cold blood burst out in front of the Wolf and shot him high, high into the air.

Disorientation. Confusion.

Had to keep fighting, he told himself, as he felt the wind rush around him. He was

The world was spinning and muddy and the sounds were dulled. He was falling now.

Had to keep fighting, he told himself. His strength was leaving him. The moon was getting brighter.

Had to fight, he whispered to himself, as the distant laughter of the Apostle reached him.

Falling and falling. Until a sudden stop.

Darkness followed.

The Wolf was born into a place and world he did not understand, and experienced the breath of life before he had ever entertained a single thought. All around him was barren sand and a long shore, a dark sea further beyond, wasting away. He thought about thinking about these things, he thought to wonder about the sand and the sea and darkness, but such curiosities felt secondary, tertiary even, next to the very first urge he had ever felt in his five seconds of existence.

Remove the eyes.

He saw someone sitting in the sand. A young child, face in his hands and quietly sobbing. What was he? Who was he? Why was he? So many questions. None of them of any importance, he figured. If such knowledge was important, would he not know? For all his confusion, he came to understand one thing fully and completely after ten seconds of existence.

Remove the eyes.

The Wolf ambled over and kneeled before the child. He took his small hands in his own, realized his own hands were just as small, just covered in this strange black shell. He removed the boy's hands to look at him. To look at the target of his urge. Pure blue eyes, wet with tears, knowing of cosmic terrors.

Those eyes had seen great horror, and they could not be unseen. Not ever.

But he could forget. For now. And to forget…

"Who are you?" The boy sniffled.

"I am here to protect you," the Wolf said simply. "Forgive me."

In one swift motion, the Wolf plucked the boy's left eye. He barely got out a blood-curdling scream before the second was pulled, optic nerve snapping. The boy dropped back and began to wail in this most horrible pain imaginable, fingers clawing at his bloody sockets, his cheeks flooding with dark red.

The Wolf looked down on him with pity, but not regret, blood now splattered across his face. It would take some time for the boy to calm, but this was for the best. He had to forget.

He understood immediately that he was born of this boy's will. He only carried out what the boy himself desired. It was not the Wolf who plucked his eyes. It was this young master himself.

Maybe he would not remember this being the case or ever truly know. But that was why the Wolf was here. He knew it without needing to be told.

To protect this younger master from further pain. To shield him from suffering. To be his armor against the truth.

Such was his purpose.

Only then, in a moment of profound clarity, a full minute after his birth, did the Wolf ponder a question that did not seem unimportant.

What would happen to him when his purpose was fulfilled?

The Wolf's eyes opened, just as they had done the day he was created. Birthed from his master's desperate need to the safety of ignorance. His eyes had opened the day his young master's were to be closed.

This was not a state he was unfamiliar with. This battlefield. Even as he looked through squinted vision toward the Orphan, now curled up against his mother's corpse like he was seeking warmth where there was none, he only felt a surge of disinterest. The Orphan fought only out of fear, and had no doubt assumed he was dead, or at least wouldn't be bothering it anymore. It was a strange creature that way. Absolutely murderous when being attacked, but completely docile otherwise, rarely giving chase or finishing things off. Made sense in a way. Most things that encountered it were killed right away. All those men in black. Driven mad by the sight of it, or slaughtered like pigs, or a few having run away. Even the Apostle did not dare venture close to the Orphan. Only the Wolf could look upon the Orphan of Joy and not go mad.

Or maybe he couldn't. Maybe he had gone mad and was simply too far gone to recognize it.

Who are you? The Wolf wondered, thinking about the Shield Knight. Was he like the Wolf? But then who was the Wolf? Something born out of the young master's needs? Someone driven by a purpose the Wolf did not understand? What connected the Shield Knight to the Young Master? He'd been born asking many questions, and oftentimes found himself pondering more. All dismissed in the face of his absolute destiny. The purpose of his being. He was meant to serve his purpose and only that.

Except that was wrong.

He had somehow changed courses. Gone to the Kingdom of Ever-Summer and demanded the Princess. He did not know why. He had simply… wanted her. He had refused to walk away without her. He'd chalked that up to a new purpose, sent by the designs of beings he need not question. In the end, going to free the Black Blade had seemed reason enough. That had seemed like the true purpose he had for finding the princess. To restore her and her kingdom.

But what did love have to do with that?

There was no reason for him to love the Princess. No reason at all.

Other than that he had wanted to. Had he ever known what love was otherwise? A new experience. A new feeling. Intoxicating, bewildering, enchanting. But that was over now.

The Wolf slowly got to his feet, his head thumping, his body aching. He faced the Orphan, raising his sword in steady hands, even amongst this blood-drunk hellscape, cascaded by violet lighting rippling amongst the black clouds. A world nearing its end. Maybe it would have ended by now, had the Apostle gotten his way. Maybe it should end.

If this was the case, then the Wolf was yet unaware. Until such a change came, and in whatever shape, the Wolf had to hold things together. The day was coming that the Young Master's eyes would truly open. He had to keep their home world together until then. Nothing else mattered.

He thought of the Princess. He thought of her smile, and part of him thought he might weep. He was sure he felt a tear trickle out of one eye.

He imagined her hand in his. So small, so delicate, so warm, but so much stronger than he had at first suspected. His ungauntleted hand twitched at those feelings, the remembrances. The Wolf clenched his hand like he was still holding her hand even now.

Then he let go.

As if in cue, the Orphan spotted him and skittered back up, hissing, blood drooling out of its mouth and empty eyes. The thunder crashed, the moon pulsed, torrents of blood stabbed at the sky as everything around them seemed to come to ruin. He saw the creature's neck bulge so big that it might burst, then it opened its mouth and unleashed the most powerful roar he'd ever heard. The wind scattered away, the heavens boomed in response, and the Wolf's bones rattled like they might shatter beneath the weight of air pressure.

The Wolf had so many questions. Who was the Shield Knight? Why did he exist? What was love? Who am I? And he had no answers for such questions. It was as if they were beyond his means to understand.

Maybe, if he continued to fight, continued to struggle, kept on trying, he would one day discover those answers. Which meant that he could not fail here. He had to win and survive another day.

That was the only way to learn the truth.

The Orphan screamed at him, and the Wolf roared back, and the world seemed to roar its approval of their endless struggle. Three voices screaming in united rage.

Then, a fourth.

She came from above, white and black coat flopping around her, one arm outstretched toward the Orphan as if reaching for it. The glasses woman. She shouted something, but the Wolf barely made it out. All he knew was that the Orphan was lifted into the air by a slab of rock pulled from the ground, flipped over and knocked flat onto its stomach, Cord and Mother flopping up on the other side.

The Woman landed bent kneed atop the rock slab, the weight of her impact making the ground rumble, inciting the Orphan's pained scream. She had no mercy in her. With fury in her eyes, and a snarl across her face, she feared back the arm that wielded the thin scalpel blade and screamed, "SEVER!"

A streak of blue. So fast it seemed almost an illusion. In but a blink, two ends of the umbilical cord were lashing out like a cut snake, spraying blood, while Mother and Orphan screamed agony and horror at the violation.

The Wolf did not waste a second. He burst toward the thrashing Corpse as the Orphan broke free of its trap and sent upon the woman, hoping to kill her at least before losing consciousness, but it was too late. Its skin was already starting to peel away. The Wolf crashed into the Corpse of the Mother and snatched her into his arms, rolled up to feet, bent-kneed.

He spared one last look. At the woman, who now caught the Orphan as his monstrous shell began to fade. And something about it made him feel.

Made him feel like they would be alright somehow. He didn't know how. He just… knew.

With the last of his strength, the Wolf burst off the ground in an explosion of crumbled earth and spraying blood. He flew through the open air, eyes squinting. Through th4 congestion of black clouds dotted with purple lightning. He flew into the black reaches of space, where things were quiet as death, and the stars numbed infinite. They flew toward the moon, quickly growing bigger as it fast approached them, already losing its luminescence. It was the bridge by which these worlds had connected. No more. It had to be severed for good.

He bid farewell to the Princess. The first love he had ever known.

He extended his sword and drew on what remained of his power. There was a weak crack as the blade touched the surface of the moon…

Then he was drilling right through it.

All around him, interstellar rock crumbled, folded, and cascaded around him. It tore at his exposed flesh. It battered against his head. The sound was all his ears could make out. Still, he powered on. He flew through the great social body with all his strength, destroying it mile by mile, his will unwavering.

He said goodbye to the Shield Knight, whom he did not know well even now, but could not help but feel a kinship for.

He burst out the other side, the world suddenly quiet again as he flew toward the ruined planet beyond. While chunks as big as continents and shards as small as dust rained down with him like a great meteor shower, toward the place he called home. Back to protecting the Young Master, back to his purpose, back to asking himself questions, both new and old.

Why do I exist? What is love? Who am I? The answers did exist, he was sure.

And one day, he would find them.

Jaune Arc woke up after what felt like an eternity.

To say that everything was in ruins would be an in incredible understatement. It was hard to contemplate just how so much chaos could exist in one place. He recognized the desert of ash, the ruined structures dotted amongst it, but the ground was softer now, like mud. The smell in the air was acrid, like a wound that had been left untreated. The clouds in the sky looked thin, like they were in the process of fading out, and Jaune could see thousands of red dots where the moon was supposed to be, flying across the black in long pink streaks. His first thought was, What the hell happened?

Only then did Jaune notice he was not alone. He was clutched to someone's side, his face pressed against their breast. He looked up and saw her, flooded instantly with emotion.

"Aunt Peach?" He scrambled, pulling from her grip. They'd both been laying in the dirt, and for reasons he did not know. He only knew that she did not look well. Her breathing was weak.

There was blood on her.

"Aunt Peach!" he panicked.

Her eyes swiveled over to him, tired and weak. Even still, she managed a weak smile, like she was overjoyed to see him and simply didn't have the strength to express it. "Oh, hey baby…" her voice came out frail. "Are you alright?"

Jaune looked at her body up and down, wondering where she could be wounded. There were a few tears, but checking them didn't show where any wounds could be. He reached up and looked at the back of her head, though he wasn't sure why. Nothing. That might have been a relief, but there was no way to know what had happened to his aunt while he'd been… what had he been doing? "I'm fine, what happened?"

"It doesn't matter now." She reached over and touched his wrist. "Honey. You need to get out of here. Go that way and find the others."

Right. Ruby and everyone else. Were they okay? Why were they seperated from Peach? Jaune wanted answers immediately, but shelved them. He would certainly get no answers if he didn't get his aunt out of here. "I won't leave you."

"You have to," Peach said weakly, "I might not…" She hacked up suddenly, blood coming up. Jaune felt a few drops land on his face. "Please, honey. Go."

Jaune cast around in a panic, but there was no one here to help him. No one to help him when he needed it. Then he leaned down toward his aunt again. He tried to get her to speak, but she couldn't get much out, and the blood was pouring from her lips and nose more frequently. It was as if she'd been afflicted with poison and it had taken effect long before he woke up. He was too late. What had happened?

Did it even matter? All of this was his fault. He'd caused this. Made this whole mission to tame Qrow's Alter more dangerous than it should have been, and now he was going to lose his aunt for it. He was going to be powerless to save her.

He killed his aunt.

"Please," Jaune wanted to reach for her, but he didn't know what to do. To hold her hand or hug her. It was as if even those basic forms of affection were beyond his capability, even in these last few moments. "Please…" he begged. "I-I love…"

He reached toward her and grabbed her hand, hoping that somehow that would be enough. He couldn't make out the words. He couldn't make things better. But he wanted her to know. To know that she meant too much to him to be gone. How could he ever get better without her? How could he ever do anything without her? He'd take any punishment. Of any kind. If only someone would save his aunt.

If only he could save her.

Jaune felt something stir in his flesh. A light creeped out of his hand and crawled up his aunt's like a thin mist. He saw it travel up her arm, seep into her neck, her chest, her face. It didn't do anything physically that he could tell. Didn't wash away the blood.

But it did make her breathe. She was taking them in slowly, but her chest was rising and falling steady. There was more color to her skin. With a shaky hand and a heart trembling with desperation, he reached to check her pulse. Strong. She was still holding on.

But in amongst all this chaos, who knew what might come. He had to get her out of this damn hellscape.

Jaune gently pulled her arm over his shoulder, got in front of her and lifted her by her legs. He did not feel as strong as he usually did, but he pushed himself anyway, muscles burning. With a growl, he lifted her onto his back, hunched forward so she couldn't fall off.

With a nod to affirm himself, Jaune set his jaw in a hard frown and took a step forward. Half expected to fall, but was able to stay up, and that was more uplifting than he thought it would be. He could do this. He could save her. "Hold on, Aunt Peach. We're going home."

Jaune ambled through the destruction, over the crumbled earth, through the lake of muddied dust, stumbling on occasion, but not once losing strength or falling over. Not this time. His fault that all of this happened, he did not doubt it. But he'd make it up to everyone. He'd make things right.

Jaune walked on for a while, calling out for the others, but got no responses back. At least. Not vocally. There was someone standing at the edge of the desert, where behind him a long modern highway stretched into the distance. He couldn't figure them out at first, but then he got closer, and Jaune recognized him immediately by his green hair and glasses.

Oobleck.

His heart filled with horror. Especially since the man looked rather disappointed as Jaune stopped in his tracks. The doctor met him the rest of the way, dressed strangely in the outfit of an archeologist, which in this context did not make sense, but only made him seem that much scarier. Jaune swallowed, wishing he had started running, but knowing it was far too late now.

"I -" Jaune started, but Oobleck cut him off.

"You will have time to explain yourselves once we get back to the surface. Once you've all had some rest…" Oobleck tilted his head forward, the light faded from his glasses and revealed his hard, serious eyes. As if he just found the culprit for a series of murders. "The Superior will want to have a long talk with you, personally."

Sheesh, not having a computer just really freaking sucks. I'm gonna try to get one with my next paycheck, but we'll see.

ISA