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Dawn creeps closer. The sky is still as black as soot, as if some fire had passed through the clouds and left destruction in its wake. The reality is far worse: thousands of winged Grimm have encircled Beacon, hovering around the school like a shoal of sharks awaiting a feast.
Jaune’s head is pillowed in Pyrrha’s lap, settled in the nest of her thighs. His left hand lies in her own, fingers splayed in sleep. His breath tickles her thighs.
He’s so warm, she thinks with a hint of longing. Ever since Amber leapt into her body, a persistent chill has settled on Pyrrha’s shoulders. She feels the former Fall Maiden rustling inside, like the wine-red leaves scattered around the forest floor of Forever Fall. Amber’s soul is frost against her iron soul, lightning leaping against her pull. The Maiden feels of cherry mushrooms blooming from rotted trunks, a parasitic life born of death and decay.
It’s not fair to Amber. The Maiden’s no more than an angry specter trapped with a golden heart, sending flickers of thought to a foreign body. It’s not fair to Pyrrha. There is an invader in her body – one she may have accepted, but the wrongness in her fingers that don’t quite seem like hers anymore weighs on her mind.
Jaune snorts. A thin trail of drool sneaks its way down his chin.
Pyrrha restrains a giggle and wipes his face clean. As handsome as she thinks he is, there’s no denying how dorky Jaune looks while he sleeps.
He may not love her back, but there's something comforting about having him here before the battle. She hopes there will be a tomorrow, in which he does love her. Pyrrha doesn't know if that love will end in a ring and child bundled in soft fleece sheets (he would have her eyes and hair, but Jaune's heart), or if he'll stay the shield and sword at her side. She hopes it will end, in her lips against his and her hips settled against his and sweat and laughter against a bed. But if he decides to stay just friends - well, she hopes there will still be these touches: a soft brush of shoulder against shoulder, a hand clasped in hand. His heat tells her that Jaune still lives.
The warrior cards the blond’s flaxen hair, neatly parting it about his face. The ghost of his lips still linger on hers. He tasted of the sun, bright in the sky: one second, a flash of fire that threatened to burn her – the next, a subtle heat that rose through her core and rested around her heart. In her lap, he feels like the stars above – too far to warm her, but still bright enough to guide her.
A Nightmare screams outside. When Pyrrha was a little girl, her father used to tell her of the Nightmares that roamed the sky, looking for naughty children. “Close your eyes tight,” he had said, tucking in the sheets about her form. “Close them tight, to keep the good dreams in. Let them wander, lost among the stars. I’ll be here in the morning, my darling girl. Close your eyes. Sleep now.”
Pyrrha shuts her eyes and shifts against the classroom wall. Jaune grunts. She feels his head turn, burrowing into her thigh, breath puffing against tender skin. Pyrrha traces the lines of Jaune’s face, sliding her fingers down his temples to the curve of his chin. His Aura flares in response: there it is, a flash of light, a compass to guide her tonight.
The warrior touches his lips, her finger settling on the bow-curve of his upper lip. She doesn’t dare kiss him again. Not while he sleeps. Not if he thinks of her only as a friend. She respects his choices… she just wishes she could be the one.
His eyes flutter open.
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?” Pyrrha asks softly.
He shakes his head. “Nightmares. Still… not a bad way to wake up.” Jaune’s hand rises, hovering near her cheek. He raises an eyebrow.
She nods, and it rests against her cheek, then dips down to cup her chin.
The chill dissipates from her shoulders. Amber slinks away, to slumber in Pyrrha’s soul.
Jaune looks up at her, with eyes the clear and crisp blue of an autumn sky, offering her a smile. It is not an offering of gold and vows and a future, but it draws her in. She wonders if this is how gods are born: a pure devotion to another cradled in the dark, solidified in blood and combat, strengthened by love as bright as the day. He could guide her to the end of the world, and she’d follow, her spear and shield at his service.
“Couldn’t ask for a better partner than you.”
Pyrrha smiles back, and touches his cheek in turn. She hopes he can feel her gratitude, radiating out from her soul.
“I’m glad you’re my friend.”
Outside, the winged Grimm plunge towards Beacon. Black feathers plummet from their outstretched wings.
In the distance, glass shatters – bricks crumple – flesh tears –
“NORA!”
She’s never heard Ren scream like this: an anguished, soul-rending shriek that rips through her ears. His voice is joined by hundreds of others – she can hear them all, from the docks of Vale to the Maiden sleeping within Beacon’s bowels. The power of the Maiden cries, as her season draws near. A new season will arise, an autumn baptized in blood.
Jaune takes up his shield and gets to his feet. Scales clack against the wall, until the ugly head of a King Taijitsu rises. Its dead red eyes stare directly at the duo as its head rears back. The black beast lunges, slamming its snout into the window. The purple glyphs hold fast, but the glass has spiderwebbed from the impact.
“Our friends need us,” he says. His eyes are hard. “Are you ready, partner?”
She readies Milo and Akouo. “Of course.”
Jaune taps his scroll. “Grimm attacking the West side classrooms. Pyrrha and I’ll hold them off.”
The Taijitsu strikes again: this time, its black muzzle shatters the purple glyphs.
It draws back for a final, decisive hit, before a leonine Grimm bursts through the window. Glass flies everywhere, deflected only by their shields. Pyrrha lunges forward, Akouo knocking the Grimm back. Jaune yells, and sinks his blade deep into the monster’s haunch.
The Grimm roars and attempts to bite its attacker – Pyrrha takes the blow, teeth screaming off Akouo’s face, and switches Milo into a xiphos that slices the monster’s throat.
Something hits her like a freight train. Her world is filled with black and white – Jaune stands above her, as the Taijitsu attempts to coil into the classroom. He hacks again and again at the serpentine body, drawing a sickly ichor for every wound.
Amber begins to stir: a slick touch that tastes of frost and leaves on the wind’s breath. The warrior tamps down the insurrection collecting in her soul and casts her Aura outwards. Her hands glow black, as she yanks the desks towards the Taijitsu. The legs embed themselves within the beast’s skull, and Jaune finishes it off with a clean blow of his sword. She leaps to her feet – with a well aimed shot, she kills a Beowolf clambering into the room.
The Battle for Beacon has begun.