He dreamed, as he usually did. He could not say what they were in the waking world, though if the young man had to consider what it was exactly? He dreamed of justice, of heroism. He dreamed not as a seeker of glory or fame, but as a champion of righteousness that would shelter all on his shield. And then he woke, and the world was ashen grey, even as he snuck out to practice with the family weapons, as something in them seemed to resonate, to beat and pulse in time with his movements. The faintest feeling of a hand, of a legacy that stretched back through the ages.
Far away and across the world, there would be someone that would agree with the fact that the Arc's had a legacy. In truth, the one she was most concerned about was that of a soul. Not her former husband, but in a way... similar. Born again and again, standing against her in each of his lives. A warm and bright spark whose eyes radiated something. Something she was unsure of. It was not hate, not pity or rage (compassion burned worst of all), even as she became aware, as she tasted his soul over and over, as Crocea Mors stabbed deep into her heart.
And yet, death after death, age after age she fought him. She sought him out, her beloved enemy, for reasons that were strange to her now, even as she burned, she yearned for him. To feel his light (the love he bore for human and faunus alike), to hold that, to feel warm again even as it burned her like the sweetest of acids. It was a poison she longed to subject herself to. And yet, as she looked over the dark halls from her throne, she smiled and spoke.
"But there are rules for this, are there not, my beloved enemy?" In the shadows, those sworn to her wondered who she spoke of, who it was that drew their queens gaze, their queens attention. They wondered, even as fates wheel ground on, their actions the clicking snap in the loom of destiny, the strokes of the pen as the tale was written. A story that played out over and over through the long ages... and not one set in motion by a pair of usurping wyrms. No, this was a fate and tale bound inside of the realm.
He fought, sparred really, with Pyrrha Nikos. The Invincible Girl, a champion of tournaments and a face on his favourite cereal... and somehow, against all odds, his partner at Beacon. And one that was more than willing to teach him, to bring him up to par, even as there was always something lacking, something missing. Something that was innately his own fault, even if she was not saying it. He could tell that there was something holding him back, keeping him from more than the smallest of improvements. Shame and fear settled onto his shoulders, because how could he make this beautiful girl that was going out of her way to help him fail?
It drove him onwards as he redoubled his efforts, as he threw himself into the training, into his studies, trying to form a crucible around himself in the hope that he could be more. That for all his weakness and failure, he could be refined into a protector, that he could be someone better, that he would not be the useless child that his sisters always decried him to be as they teased and verbally destroyed him. He was worthless, or nearly so, but he could be better, he could make a difference!
Lost in the shadows of his own trauma, he did not notice the impact he had around him, as he took in front of Caradin Winchester as he attempted to torment Velvet. He did not notice those he helped, those who he stood in front of so that danger could break itself on him. He did not notice that he stood towards the front, never retreating and looking into the eyes of death without fear or hesitation, rallying friends and teammates around himself. And then the flames of doom came to claim them all.
He moved through the Grimm and the flames, towards the tower in which his bright and beautiful partner fought. He did not stop, as the dark came, flames rippling and screaming, claws and fangs reaching out. No, he shed parts of himself as he moved on. Into the flames he cast, without notice, doubt, fear, anger, hesitation and despair into the flames, and from the flame? Like a phoenix, he rose, as his soul breathed freely, a burning star that sang of love.
Some who saw him move would describe it almost as if the young huntsman in training was not fighting. No, his movements were a form of poetry, a dance not of death, but of acceptance, of knowledge and hope. The Grimm they said, wept and screamed as they threw themselves at him, as if calling for something long lost, damned souls that could see the light of grace and desired to touch it, however briefly, no matter that they would die in the attempt as he ascended the tower. Atop that tower, only two souls would ever be in position to say what occurred there, as cinders fell, ash scattered on the winds.
But two made it down from that tower, where all expected them to die. Partners, lovers and friends some would say. A warrior of light and an angel of brass and flame others would say as they struck into the tide. Around the warrior there was a gentle light harder than steel, the wounds of humanity healing in his presence. As for the maiden at his side? Her flames reached out, bright and crystal pure, touching and harming no innocent soul as despair and hate burned.
In a thousand words Vale fell that eve, In this one, a knight did rise.