G.N. Chapter 22 (Patreon)

I do not own Bloodborne or RWBY.

A very special thank you to Patrons; your support is the fuel that lets my creativity burn all the brighter. So, thank you to –

E-Elf, Lee yang, Laplase, DocBot200, Richard, SkeletalPheonix Games, J-Rubia, Reed Gel, Alex, Jared Whitten, Tuber, Doubledoor, Colin, Dominik Michalczyk, Rice, Ryan Roberts, Tristian Marks, Kolton, Andre, Chris, Loneshadowolf, Dev123playz, WoolJarl, Richard, Biowar, Ramon Diaz, Timothy D Theis, RangerNyhm, alex Fang, Eternal Frosty, Banana Meiste, Alberto, StormDrake, Bo Tran, Steven Smith, xydra22, Jeremy Hernandez, TheNamelessOne, Spex, JoeLikes Coffee and Doot.

I hope this story continues to be worthy of your support.

Chapter 22

He was sat with his back to a wall, his head cradled in his one good hand as he fought to get his breathing in control, the last remnant of wretched hiccups and pained howls leaving his throat raw. He was in terrible physical pain, his body awash from the beating he had taken mere minutes ago, but he could not bring himself to fix it.

Instead, he let his guilt spew forth in the form of apologies.

“… I am sorry… I know that doesn’t mean anything, especially now. But I am. I wanted… I don’t know what I want. But it wasn’t this,” he mumbled, his broken teeth making his words sound strange even to his ears, his mouth and throat burning from his speech.

“I didn’t know who you were… but… but I just… I don’t have the luxury of not…”

*Thwack*

He slammed his fist into the wall he leaned against, the new ache stilling his mind as pain settled the emotions that threatened to drown him.

“… Why did you attack?”

There was no response to his question, embittering him to the silence.

“You heard the song! I saw, through the madness, you heard this damnable box!” he snapped, pulling the tiny musical mechanism out and shoving it pointlessly at the fallen corpse that lay broken mere feet from his own bloodied form.

“There was reason still in your head! You were not so far gone! The man was still in there! I saw him… why did you make me kill him? What madness is this that can make a man, a father, into some squalid beast?” Jaune roared, blood spitting from his mouth as his distorted words polluted the empty tomb.

The box fell from his hand limply, impacting the gravel with a dull thud, as Jaune crawled forward, favouring his right arm as his left was mangled. His face was a mess, his breaths were wet and unduly difficult, and his legs seemed absent of strength.

He crawled through dirt, gravel and blood to reach what remained of Gascoigne.

“… What was it? How? Why! Why are we different? What separates us? What affliction, what vector of this scourge has not yet touched me?” Jaune asked the cooling body.

Jaune was a mess. Physically yes.

But the things happening inside his mind were of an even more significant concern. His confusion, anger, self-loathing, grief, failure and fear. All of them were battling it out, each eclipsing the other for the briefest moments before crashing and conflicting with another swell of some other stray thought or rampant emotion.

“… What do I tell your daughter?” Jaune groaned through broken teeth, his guilty side embracing the burn from using his ruined jaw.

Swiftly, his mind shifted again, and his eyes went to the shawl about the dead man's neck, and a savage, bloody sneer came to his face.

“The church! What part in this do they play? This is twice over now they have been directly linked to two of the most abominable mons-“

Jaune was cut off from his tirade as a wet cough caused his body to throb anew as he reeled back, hacking up a bloody spew. The fit passed, but the pain stuck, and he was left wheezing, his body twitching in a puddle of reddish mud.

“*Groan* How do I keep going?” Jaune choked, his flesh pressed to the sticky floor. “Why am I here? Where even is here… ‘Don’t think about it’, ‘hunt a few beasts’… fuck you, Gehrman,” Jaune spat, rolling out of the puddle of beast blood, his body screaming at him for moving.

A quiet settled on the tomb as Jaune sat there, breathing shakily as he worked through the panic and torment. However, he did so to his detriment, left with only his thoughts and the guilt of failure; his own psyche ate at him maliciously.

Deeper, he spiralled, dragging him into thoughts he dared not consider, ideas of infection, the morality of his actions, the many whose blood already stained his hands, the many deaths and the apparent fact that he was somehow immortal.

The idea of telling that little girl she was an orphan.

“Ourahhlll.”

Jaune had to turn his head to properly see the source of the groan as it came from his blind side.

Unsurprisingly it was a Messenger, the little luminous figure peering out from behind a grave, its tiny bulbous head half hidden by the tombstone. It was one Jaune did not immediately recognise, his eyes glancing at it with disinterest, his mind busy with other matters.

“… Leave me be,” Jaune uttered plainly, having no patience for the little creature.

The creature let out a demure croon as it slid back behind the tombstone, its glow soon dissipating and leaving Jaune to his suffering.

“Huhnnha,” another groan, this one distant, filled the tomb.

Jaune found his eye drifting to the noise, only for him to do a double take when he spotted the same Messenger near the body of Viola.

His blood sang with a new litany as he forced himself to stand.

“Get away from there!” Jaune roared, the luminous figure flinching, lifting their arms placatingly.

Jaune didn’t relax until their glow disappeared again, his teeth locked in a rictus of rage as he stood heaving, his body struggling to do just that. When he was sure he was alone again, he let his body succumb and slumped to his knees, coughing again as his one good lung struggled desperately.

Then he spotted the glow again.

Jaune looked over his shoulder, ready to snarl, but found the fury in his veins freeze when he saw the Messenger… grieving.

Its head was lowered, its little hands clasped as it kept its head low.

It sat just on the edge of the bloody puddle that had formed around Gascoigne, not daring to unsettle the sight of his death.

Jaune didn’t know what to feel.

Here was this creature, not even human and, to the best of Jaune’s knowledge, unaware of who or what Gascoigne was, but still…

Still it… it was doing what Jaune should be doing.

“… What is wrong with me?” Jaune hissed at himself, noting that the Messenger paused in its silent ritual to look at him curiously. Jaune paid the look no mind, too busy scolding himself for his petulance.

What right did he have to bemoan fate when he was not the one who had been killed? Who was he to panic and fret when he was still alive and able to make a difference?

Who was he to blame Gascoigne for his madness when he was the one who had pulled the trigger?

“… I am a pathetic thing…” Jaune spat, reaching for his belt and pulling free the last of his regular Blood Vials.

The syringe was jammed into his chest swiftly, the sharp pain preceding the rushing warmth and alleviation granted by the potent Blood within.

Soon Jaune was breathing with two lungs.

But that was the extent of the Vial, so he was forced to fix the rest of his body using more… primitive means. Luckily he was no stranger to quick fixes.

A wet crunch, a swift swipe of his swollen face with a sharpened knife and a pop as his wrist was realigned.

He went from a pitiful thing to a Hunter… a killer ready to do what he should have done from the beginning.

“Merroowwwooo?”

“… Thank you… and I am sorry for my outburst… you caught me… you caught me processing some things,” Jaune bowed to the little one.

“Yuhhhooun,” the messenger moaned, patting Jaune’s shin. Jaune paid the affection a sliver of a smile as he let his eyes slip to the man he had killed.

“… My father once told me… my people burn our dead… on… on something? I can’t recall, but I know we burn our dead,” Jaune spoke, hiding his frustration at his shoddy memory as he talked to the Messenger.

“Do you think such a thing would be appropriate for Gascoigne and his wife? I… I know he wasn’t a Yharnamite, and in truth, I know not what a Yharnamite burial entails, but… I don’t think it would be fair to make them share someone else’s grave….”

“Nuhurgh,” the messenger voiced, its head tilting as its little fist clenched about the fabric of Jaune’s pants.

Jaune smiled a little wider, “Good… that’s good,” Jaune nodded, relieved. “I, umm, left my Molotovs in the dream, the one I did have, I wasted an-“

Jaune looked at his new little friend but found it was already cradling a familiar bottle, looking up at him with sunken eyes.

Its mouth was shaped like a gaping fish, and it had no eyes that Jaune could see… but he knew it still had its sight. After all, it was looking him right in the eyes. Unlike the other two Messengers Jaune was most familiar with, he noted that this one’s skin seemed tighter, as if it was moulded over its tiny bones.

Jaune found his smile grow even more as it offered him the explosive cocktail.

“Thankyou… can you grab me three more, no wait… oil urns, bring me some oil urns and… some flowers, that seems proper,” Jaune requested.

His little friend was off swiftly.

And Jaune got to work.

First, he borrows Gascoigne’s Axe and gathers some wood from the dead tree’s that call the Tomb their home. There was not a lot for a grand pyre, but there was a sufficient amount for what he had in mind.

Next, he gathered up Gascoigne’s inhuman form, doing his best to make his body somewhat presentable, though it was a struggle considering he had disembowelled the beast-man. He straightened out the beastly figure’s attire, fixing his shawl and shredded coat and removing the man’s necklace.

He would return it to the daughter… she deserved as much.

When the little Messenger returned, it was not alone, having Jaune’s other two Messengers at its sides and each carrying the items he requested. Jaune paid them an appreciative nod, directing them to gather some stones while he marched up the stairs.

Getting Viola down was painful.

Even dead, Jaune could see the woman was beautiful; her unnaturally pale flesh was icy to his touch, and the scent of blood embraced her like a blanket. It was enough to make Jaune feel ill, but he powered on.

After he choked down a pained sob at the sight of her long blonde hair.

Hair that stabbed at his heart.

Walking to his makeshift pyre, he noted that her wound differed from the other corpses that littered the tomb. Most bared massive slashes or were utterly rent asunder by what Jaune knew intimately to be the axe swings of Gascoigne’s weapon. Viola’s was different; she had been stabbed.

It was enough to give him pause, his thoughts storing away such a morbid little curiosity for consideration. A ‘what if’ that gave rise to a grim but hopeful little idea. He did not do much to her person; her attire was all but unblemished save the stab to her heart and the blood that stained her clothes.

However, he did remove her brooch, intending to return it to her daughter just as he would Gascoigne’s.

As he lay her next to her husband, he paused as he realised many more Messengers were in the tomb. Some hid shyly behind tombstones; others clustered in groups out of the way. Still, some waited respectfully around the makeshift pyre.

His three were at the foot of the pyre, looking at him expectantly.

“Thankyou… let us… let us see them off,” Jaune whispered, giving an audible clue to his internal suffering.

Jaune made sure to lay both corpses alongside one another, it was a tight fit, and he had to rest Viola atop Gascoigne’s monstrous arm, but he was sure the man wouldn’t mind… he hoped. He placed flowers in Viola’s arms and laid the limbs across her breast.

The pale petals were scarily close to the shade of her bled flesh.

For Gascoigne, Jaune laid a Bold Hunter’s Mark across his wrapped eyes; he knew the symbol embodied Hunter’s. It was Gascoigne’s. It was also his… theirs, another connection between killer and victim.

Then with the pyre built, he doused it in the oil, ensuring that the flames would burn true, and then he stepped back. His tongue felt leaden in his mouth, but a chorus of soft, emphatic sounds coached words from his tensed lips.

“I didn’t get to know either of you; I even killed one of you… but I know that the two of you were loved. Your daughter-… I’ll make sure she knows… knows that you didn’t abandon her … that she learns the truth. I won’t deceive her… you have my word as an Arc.” Jaune sniffed, trying to bury any pitiful feelings he had gorged himself on before.

He had pitied himself enough.

“I don’t know exactly how Viola died… just as I do not know the exact reason for the madness that conquered Gascoigne. But I know what it looks like… but I also know that Yharnam is fraught with many dangers. And so, some small part of me hopes that you were at least spared the cruelty of ending your own wife’s life. Just as I pray, Viola did not have to suffer murder at the hands of her beloved husband….” Jaune whispered into the night, his words quickly swallowed by the evening air.

“I umm… To the best of my knowledge, I have never done this before, and I hope that neither of you is in some way… wronged by me burning you like this, but… I had to do something. You both deserve something,” Jaune spoke with the utmost confidence.

“Gascoigne… I know you probably had some church rite you would have preferred, but I don’t know of your gods or your faith… so I hope you don’t mind mine,” Jaune nodded, turning his head to look at a partition in the clouds.

The blank and open sky… unobstructed.

“I…” Jaune shook his head and tugged the spark paper from the Molotov one of the Messengers handed him. “You go first, to where others may yet follow, and though we are separated, we are not truly apart… May our paths cross, may our tales intertwine and may we share a smile once more… in the next or then after.”

The little strip ignited, falling from Jaune’s shaking fingers.

The oil did not require much, and the pyre was lit, flames blanketing the two, burning hot and quickly brightening the dreary tomb.

“Viola… Gascoigne… goodbye,” Jaune breathed, salty tears stinging his torn face.

Jaune watched the flames crackle, the light stinging his eyes, but he watched… only looking away for a moment when the music started.

The Messenger with the gaping mouth and hollow eyes had opened the little music box, its tiny head glancing up at him, a few of its brothers doing much the same.

“… Thank you,” Jaune uttered, though, in truth, he didn’t know how to feel about the addition of music, but it was theirs.

He just resumed his vigil.

Jaune stood there until the fire died, long after the music stopped and longer still than many of the Messengers. He stood there until all that remained was ash and char, tending to the pyre to ensure nothing else remained.

In his mind, this was the least he could do, a final act to ensure that neither Gascoigne nor Viola had to suffer the indignity of being just another corpse in this death-laden city.

When the fire was dead and the ash was free to blow in the breeze, Jaune moved. Not away; instead, he stepped towards the charred black circle. In one hand, he wielded Gascoigne’s axe. In the other, he held the man’s gun.

*Crack*

He jammed the axe into the brickwork, the action made his arms throb, but he buried it deep. He then extended the weapon shaft, leaving the pole sticking up as a marker. Gascoigne’s gun, broken from Jaune firing it into the man’s chest cavity at point blank, was leant against the weapon.

To wrap it up, Jaune bound the two items with a chain; he found one next to one of the numerous coffins; as it was not being used, Jaune claimed it for his own needs. And like that, the scorched circle was marked with a headstone. Betwixt the crossed weapons, Jaune laid the tiny music box.

It didn’t feel like enough.

But he supposed that since this was his failure… it likely never would.

Jaune made to depart but halted when his pant leg was tugged; looking down, he saw his new friend holding a hat.

Gascoigne’s Hat.

The Messenger crooned, offering the apparel to Jaune, who failed to hide the flinch as he took the item.

It seemed he had missed an item.

“… Tis a good hat…” Jaune commented, looking the piece over and running his fingers over the wide brim. “Shame about the scent,” Jaune remarked, his nose curling at the pungent stench clinging to the headwear.

It reminded him far too much of beasts.

“Hmm…” Crouching low, Jaune scooped a handful of ash up and used it to pat down the item, smothering the mind-stirring smell until it no longer assaulted his nostrils.

A cleansing of ash.

“There,” Jaune hummed as he hung the wide-brimmed hat atop the axe handle.

“nugh,” the diamond mouth Messenger intone as its sunken hollow eyes continued to look up at Jaune.

“Right… guess… that’s that,” Jaune sniffed, licking his dry lips and turning away.

He felt his guilt threaten to stir at the idea of abandoning the tomb, but another part of him was eager to escape this place of shame and death. Jaune readily chose to listen to the second one. He made haste gathering his gear that had been scattered.

His pistol, empty and scratched up, would most likely need maintenance.

His Threaded Cane was severely blunted, and the mechanisms seemed out of alinement; it would need to be repaired.

The last thing that gave him pause was that he couldn’t find his hat anywhere he looked.

That was until he came to the gate at the upper entrance to the tomb and found it in the waiting hands of his new friend.

Jaune found a bit of levity yet stirred in the darkness in his soul.

“Heh, you know, it just dawned on me that with all of you becoming progressively more helpful, it’s gonna be weird to refer to you all as ‘friend’ and ‘little one’.”

“Urghoh.”

“… You were quite the little undertaker down there, a very handy mortician… I am grateful for your help seeing that those two got a good send-off… hmm, how would you like a nickname, buddy?” Jaune queried, trying to shift away from the pain that still lashed at him.

“Pohhugh.”

“Hmm? Mortician… Mortis? No, that won’t do… Ha! How about Mort?”

“Eugh?”

“Mort, it is… let us have a… beneficial partnership,” Jaune hummed, giving the Messenger a friendly nod.

“Now then, my hat, please,” Jaune gestured. The newly named Mort was all too happy to hand it over, its tiny head twisting slightly at the sound of its new moniker.

Jaune adorned his tricorn cap and turned his gaze to the gate out of the Tomb.

This had been his goal.

The path out of Central Yharnam.

*Clang*

It was locked.

“Of course it is,” Jaune snarked, pondering how hard it would be to brute force the gate open using his cane as a lever.

“feienm,” Mort spoke up, its little hand holding a tiny metallic shape aloft.

It was an iron-wrought key.

Jaune smiled earnestly, relieved to be spared any further backtracking. He honestly had no desire to look back just at the moment.

“Much obliged, Mort,” Jaune thanked his small friend, bowing to the creature.

“jhum.”

With a quick twist, the gate unlocked, and Jaune pushed past the metal barrier and toward his goal.

Cathedral Ward.

Home of Blood Ministration, the church and hopefully clues to this Paleblood.

And a means to transcend this god-awful Hunt.

YVYVYVYVY

It was a beautiful cool morning, the early sunrise was sending golden rays dancing between the trunks of the trees about her, and the air was crisp and invigorating.

And Orr was disgruntled.

“… I just had to complain… I was kidding, you know! It wasn’t a fucking invitation!” She screamed into silent woods, the world around her seeming to become extra still in the wake of her fury.

The sound of a tree caving beneath its own weight and crashing to the ground was the only response Orr received for her shouted complaint.

The rest of the landscape had already settled from the recent battle. Grimm corpses were strewn about, already disintegrating, and Orr was lazily looking about for any stragglers, although she was confident there were none.

It didn’t stop her from double-checking.

Orr let out a sigh that made her feel genuinely lighter when it passed, her hands brushing off her pants as she began the trek back to camp. Her walk slowly bringing her back into the old woods' ambience. The sounds of nature came back gradually as the silence of finished conflict was left behind for a type of peace she had come to enjoy as of late.

‘It has only taken nearly the whole damn trip,’ Orr mused.

In truth, Orr was grateful they were approaching the end of her stint in the woods with her sprout. The Grimm had been growing in numbers, and while she was confident in her ability to handle them (and in her charges ability to take care of himself), it would be nice to be back in Reach.

Many weeks had passed since Grimm first returned to the forest Orr and her charge were inhabiting. That first stormy night had been the start, and since then, Orr had not stopped kicking herself for her stupid taunts, as it seemed fate was paying her back for her words threefold.

Since that stormy night, Orr had been put to work. Grimm became increasingly frequent, from lone stragglers to entire packs of the soulless spawn. She had naturally put them all down with a great degree of ease as none of their numbers had compared to that first night, but it did not change that she very much regretted opening her mouth.

She had been forced to be more thorough with her patrols, but even that had not been enough to spare her charge from encountering a few of the monsters.

Unfortunately for the Grimm.

Orr could not keep her smile from her features at the thought of Jaune. The boy was…

Special.

Observing him as she had for the past weeks had shown her that her original instincts about the kid had not been wrong. He was a different breed from other children, and she wasn’t just talking about his weird body.

He towered over her now and would easily be a match for his mother. And he was only just thirteen years old. She called him ‘sprout’ for a damn good reason because the boy was going up like a shoot fresh out of the ground. Given that he lacked his father’s bulk, it seemed he would look much more like Hella regarding his build.

But his physical traits aside, Jaune was a mystery that left her with many questions; although most of them boiled down to ‘what the hell’, it was still a valid question. He was mature, competent and independent but, at the same time, carried a strange reservedness that badgered her sensibilities.

He was open to engagement but hesitant to engage.

Socially she would describe him as quirky and had said as much to his face. His response was a shrug. That was another curious aspect of her sprout; he was standoffish but not nearly as prickly as she would expect. He was also not nearly as quick to anger as she would have thought, or at least his aggression was not so readily apparent to her anyway.

Strange considering the kid demolished a pack of older kids for touching his sister. She concluded that he probably had a different threshold for his anger than hers. She was used to being called hot-headed.

Thinking of the kid’s past acts of violence brought to the forefront of her mind his more recent ones. She came into this with considerably unreachable expectations. Truthfully she had been jokingly half expecting the kid of Hella and Cloud to be the newest super Hunter in training.

She had, of course, done her homework, watched footage of the kid in action and been very impressed with what she saw. She made sure to talk to Cloud and Hella both to get their assessment though she initially found it doubtful; how could she believe the kid could easily keep pace with his mother in spars? Without Aura didn’t matter. Hella was amongst the best. It defied reason.

But he lived up to the praise.

She could scarcely believe it, but that night… that stormy night, it was like watching a myth come to life, all the talk, all the boasting and rumours… they were all true. The kid ripped into the Grimm like a frenzied animal. He fought brutally, relying on speed and savagery to kill the creatures without Aura’s power.

Of course, there have always been those who fought the Grimm without Aura. Not everyone is a Huntsman, after all, but it was different with Jaune. Orr could admit that. It was like watching some great predator in action, raw instinct and primal drive in human form.

She killed Grimm with Aura and expertly forged Warpicks. He killed them with pointy sticks and sharpened rocks.

It was… confronting.

But when it was all said and done, he returned to being her awkward little sprout again.

They spent another two nights side by side, both of them enjoying the dry hideaway that was his little den. He asked her about life as a Huntress; she asked him about life with a big family. They traded tales and anecdotes until the thunder departed and the rain finally relented.

She learnt things in that little hollow.

She learned that Jaune sleeps… peculiarly, it appears like a heavy sleep as if he is still and unmoving his breaths, not even budging his bones. But he awakens at the ready, his muscles tense, his mind alert.

She learned that the kid’s rumoured pain tolerance was everything it was said to be from him shrugging off the massive blotchy bruise forming over his ribs as if it were nothing. Even as she poked and prodded it, admittedly harder than necessary, to ensure there were no broken bones, the boy didn’t so much as flinch.

‘Boy took a swipe from an Ursa and walked it off. Without Aura…’

She learned things that didn’t unsettle her as well.

Like the fact that her little sprout was shy about touch, she sat with him that first night in the near buff, and after she said he could look, it was as if he didn’t even mind. He even looked over her near-bare body, asking questions about scars and past injuries with no hint of embarrassment.

But, fully dressed and dry, he still seemed to avoid unnecessary contact, like shuffling back to give her space or taking extra care to go around her.

It only added to the things she considered ‘quirky.’

The other thing she discovered about her young charge was his inability with slang; he was not great with it. But Orr didn’t mind that peculiarity. It made her feel young… younger.

‘I’m young,’ she thought spitefully, culling treacherous thoughts about the passage of time.

This is what she gets for spending so much time around a brat; her brain is being all weird just because she is babysitting. She was starting to feel possessive of the kid, to boot.

She first caught this change when he showed her his newly made weapons.

At the end of his first month, he had been trying to make an effective sling and some other weapons, and when he finally succeeded, he called her down to ask her opinion. Orr was impressed, of course; the kid had yet to settle for subpar work. He crafted a sling, a bow, and many more spears. Even a pair of bola that she had seen him use against Nevermore to impressive effect.

Just thinking about it made her smile; the kid had shown them off and asked her opinion, but the way he went into detail explaining how he made them, the highs and lows of the process. The kid had been smiling, that tiny upward twist of his lips that was the most he seemed capable of. Orr was happy to sit and listen as it was one of the few times he engaged with her instead of just responding.

That was the tricky part about the kid. He could proudly show off something he made with his two hands, eagerly showing it off to her and going into unnecessary but endearing detail. But the next moment, she would watch him brutally dismantle a Beowolf with inhuman ease.

That was another point that caused her thoughts to trip up. Cloud, the kid’s very loving father, had knowingly told her not to completely stop him from fighting, leaving it to her discretion. That first night she had been too preoccupied to stop the kid outright, and he had been so fast. In the following times, she made sure to permit him to take on any Grimm but never anything too dangerous.

He handled it well. The kid would be the star student at any Primary Combat School. He usually took down his foes with overwhelming violence, breaking and bleeding them until they could no longer function. He was aggressive, but she had seen him show awareness, switching to an evasive harrying style if he was outnumbered.

His instincts were top-notch, and over the past couple of months, the number of Vanquished Grimm had risen into the double digits. Nothing exceptionally rare or impressive, Orr ensuring he didn’t try his hands at anything too lethal. Cloud’s permission or not, Hella had always scared her more anyway.

But she could see the wisdom in Cloud’s decision. The man clearly had some inkling into the inner workings of his son. She saw it on the sprout’s face after every encounter, every skirmish or every successful ambush. It was transformative; in those moments after the battle, she could see the period where all his barriers dropped.

In those moments, she could observe the Jaune hidden behind the quiet, reserved young man he presented himself as, despite the numerous occasions where she was allowed to witness it though her observations always came back to the same trait.

Her boy had very sad eyes.

But it faded too soon, Jaune becoming the same serious person he usually was far too quickly for Orr to understand what she saw. He would be his matter-of-fact self and pass off defeating a Grimm as if it were no big deal.

Orr knew precisely how big a deal it was. She had faced a Grimm at thirteen, and she had not even for a moment considered charging the thing with nothing but a handcrafted spear. She had run the fuck away and was proud of it.

She hadn’t fought her first Grimm until she was well into Combat School and had unlocked her Aura. She knew that Cloud killed his young and Hella… well, she didn’t talk about her younger years. But if there was one person she could believe was a natural-born Grimm mulching murder machine, it was Hella.

She was a badass like that.

Orr did her best to make haste back to the campsite; while she was confident she hadn’t missed any Grimm, she didn’t want to delay. Not for any security reason, but there was a chance that Jaune had cooked something for breakfast, and her boy tended to make some for her despite her protests.

It was easy now to tell when she got close to the campsite; the sprout had been wise to pick the strange clearing as the odd tree that made up its centre certainly did act as a good landmark. Walking out of the woods, Orr could not help but pause to admire the hard work of her charge and how he had shaped the area of his campsite.

After those first storms passed, the kid had gotten straight to work, sometimes sacrificing meals to ensure the security of his camp, but the results spoke for themselves. The clearing had nearly doubled, ensuring a clear line of sight on encroaching threats; Jaune had uprooted and cut down much of the growth surrounding his campsite.

Then he began constructing the barrier. First, he dug a trench around his base a couple of meters deep, not enough to stall any Grimm on its own, but it was only step one. Then there was his wall; using a combination of dirt from the trench, clay and stone from the river, and wood gathered from clearing the surrounding trees constructed a wall that was as tall as he was.

Then he added spikes.

Orr wasn’t entirely sure what Hella was expecting when she gave Jaune her gift, the little bamboo sprout the kid had carried faithfully and planted with just as much care. But Orr knew she would probably feel pretty good that her child was using it to kill Grimm and keep himself safe.

In the pit and jutting out from the wall, long and short bamboo spikes jutted out warningly. It was primarily a deterrent, but considering she had killed two Grimm on those spikes, Orr could not deny their effectiveness. While it wouldn’t stop a Nevermore or Beowolf, anything else would have to suffer the spikes if they wanted to get into the camp.

It was homely in a sense. Walking over the bamboo path that bridged the trench, Orr quickly cast her eyes to where the smell of cooking meat was emanating. Just as she expected, her sprout was cooking a handful of small critters over a fire pit.

Jaune now had three different areas he cooked food, his smoke hut, the fireplace in his den and the most recent addition, his firepit. He had even diversified his cooking methods with the additional cooking area to exciting results. But the most significant advantage as of late had been that he could safely boil his water using hot coals and bamboo.

Running creek water was ok, but that boiled stuff, now, that would save her from Hella’s wrath.

It was amusing to think back to when she had warned him off sharing his meals with her for fear he wouldn’t have enough for himself. But to be fair, she could not have known the kid was like a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out something edible to chow down on. Whether it be through foraging or hunting, Jaune never really wanted for food.

Nuts, berries, roots, wild vegetables and, of course, meat.

He really liked meat.

Whether through fishing, hunting, traps or that one time when it literally fell into his lap, Jaune always found a way to ensure his craving for meat was filled. Orr admired his taste for variety, though, and he often made sure to add some flavour to his meat by partaking it with something else not to dull his tastebuds.

A habit she, too, benefited from greatly.

A strong breeze stirred through the camp, and Orr found her smile sliding off her face as she turned to observe yet another addition Jaune had made to the camp. At some point, her sprout had begun to build up a collection of bones from his hunting, which was, of course, to be expected.

It’s what he did with the bones that made her think.

Some he used for crafting, which was, of course, entirely reasonable. He did much the same with the many pelts he had collected. The ones he didn’t use for utilitarian purposes became a… matter of interest. At some point, Jaune got it into his head to use them for a… project… of sorts.

An… artistic one.

Draped over the large, foreign tree that made up the centre of Jaune’s camp and dancing in the wind that drifted through its reaching branches were bones.

Lots of bones.

Skulls, ribs, femurs, teeth and even broken shards… you name it; the kid had it displayed in some manner. While some, primarily skulls, were hung on branches like plain ornaments, more were made into decorations. Strung together with plant fibres and set to dangle off the many limbs of the landmark of Jaune’s base.

They rattled and clacked together noisily whenever a strong enough breeze blew through the camp, and Orr would admit it was pretty attention-grabbing. It made her feel like she was standing in the middle of a bizarre and markedly macabre wind chime emporium.

Naturally, she asked Jaune what brought about his desire to decorate the tree in such a manner. His response was yet another shrug. He did that a lot now that she thought about it.

Walking forward, Orr made ready to greet her young charge, her hand raised, the words dancing on her lips-

She paused.

Orr had learned a lot about her sprout, Jaune, the young man who had lived alongside her for the better part of three months. She had seen the subtle traces of his emotions wrapped across his stoic visage and learned to read them. Sometimes he was unreadable, and she was confused and forced to puzzle out his expressions.

This was not one of those times.

Sitting in the morning sunlight, her boy was perched next to the fire, his arms wrapped about his legs as his chin rested on his knees. His head was turned up, his long hair trailing down his back as he stared into the open sky above. He was…still, very still.

Orr didn’t need help working out his expression.

Jaune’s face was creased with a single line, his brow slightly furrowed, and his eyes… were not looking at anything real. He was what she imagined an artist would depict as solemn, his expression grave and his entire posture rigidly clenched.

All merriment and introspection were violently tugged from Orr’s consciousness as she began to worry about what could cause Jaune to display such emotion so openly. She made to move to him, her foot barely leaving the ground when his head turned to face her.

It was like watching stone melt.

His eyes, which had been so full, cleared up as his brow flattened, his cheek pulling back as he gave her a quirked smile. His spine straightened out, and his head tilted subtly to the left, his way of waving subtly, she had come to learn.

Gone like the morning dew, whatever mask of grief he had been wearing disappeared.

All from seeing her.

Orr’s smile came back in full, and she quickly rushed over, sliding onto the log Jaune sat upon as she threw an arm over his shoulder and held him close. “Good morning, Sunshine-“

“Never should have told…,” Jaune muttered, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

“- don’t you look happy to see me?” Orr teased, poking a finger into the tall boy’s cheek.

Jaune let the woman pull his head down without resistance; he had become used to her touchiness and was willing to let her indulge somewhat. “Mm, you were sending in your report at the F.O.R.T., right? Anything interesting happen?”

“Nah,” Orr quickly replied, pulling back and turning to face her young companion.

“Such an illuminating answer… how many?”

“Just a handful, nothing tough,” Orr shrugged.

Jaune huffed at her response, “at this point, I could find my way to the F.O.R.T. just by following your trail of destruction.”

“Oi!” Orr barked, jumping up, “it’s not like that stuff is all from one or two fights, brat; we’ve been out here for nearly three months!”

“Yes, I am very aware,” Jaune nodded.

“So, a little collateral is to be expected,” Orr reasoned.

“… That is a terribly destructive mentality,” Jaune argued.

“No, it ain’t; it’s a realistic one!”

“I thought you boasted about being a precise fighter,” Jaune wondered allowed.

Only after months in close proximity made Orr aware that this was Jaune’s way of teasing.

“Compared to your father, I’m frickin surgical,” Orr sniffed, plopping back on the log.

“Hmm, such a high bar,” Jaune said in his driest, most sarcastic tone.

“What’s with all this sass!” Orr cried out.

“Genetic.”

“The fuck it is!” Orr groused back.

“You need to join an Arc family game night….”

Orr gave in at this point, devolving into laughter and hunching over in merriment, her body quaking in mirth. Jaune, never as expressive, settled for smiling a little wider. As Orr’s noisy amusement faded, Jaune used the comfortable silence that followed in its wake to hand her one of the squirrels he had caught.

“You want the bones?”

“No, thank you, just toss them in the fire.”

The two ate silently, the familiar sound of a shared meal breathing warmth into the well-defended little camp. Jaune ate quicker than Orr, as he always did, stripping the flesh off with a gluttonous speed that defied reason.

He also ate much more than her, a curiosity to the female Huntsman as it was well known that Hunter’s boasted impressive appetites.

Orr finished first by the grace of only partaking of one of the Squirrels, sitting and enjoying the calm of the early morning while Jaune finished eating. It would have been another picturesque start for the two if it weren’t for her mind being stuck on Jaune’s earlier expression of grief.

She wanted to know… know what could cause the boy to appear so… stricken.

“Hey, sprout?”

“Mm,” Jaune hummed as he paused in partaking of his breakfast.

“Before… when I arrived, you seemed really- like kind of… you seemed messed up,” Orr blurted out, annoyed at her struggle to get out the words.

“…”

Had Orr not spent over two months with the kid, she might not know what to make of his silence, but with her familiarity with ‘Jaune speak,’ she knew this was just him looking for clarification. “It looked to me like you were feeling really down, ya’know, depressed?”

“… Oh.”

Orr could see him thinking, his head turning away as he thought about her words. “I just was wondering… if you wanted to talk about it, I, um, know I usually do most of the talking and stuff, but I can listen too!”

“I know,” Jaune answered, his words stated as if pure fact.

Orr gave a somewhat pained smile at his two-word response, “so, did you wanna talk about it?”

“…”

“Or maybe just clue me in so I know you’re doing all right?”

Jaune turned back to face her, his blue eyes locking with her sanguine ones. He continues to meet Orr’s gaze as if looking for something, his tongue darting to wet dry lips. A pause, a moment, a break and then he was looking away, his posture relaxing.

“I am… good. I am indeed doing all right. My dower mood was… was a result of me thinking on a past matter.”

“Oh… wha-“

“I remembered something from my childhood… my early childhood,” Jaune elaborated.

This had the effect of stunning Orr. Since she had learned that the kid had suffered an early case of amnesia, she’d sought more information on the matter. She learned how it devastated the kid’s relationship with his two older siblings and was still something he stressed over.

“Tha-that’s huge!” Orr exclaimed, “I’m so happy for ya, sprout!”

Jaune paid her a smile for her enthusiasm, “mm, it’s indeed a treat, I suppose, tis just a shame it is a rather… shall we see, melancholy matter.”

“Oh… umm, can I pry or-“

“Us Arcs burn our dead… my father… I don’t recall why, but I remember him telling me such and sharing the words we speak over the flames….”

Orr could not think of words to speak or work out whether she should comfort, enquire, or push… so instead, she sat and observed, taking a page from Jaune’s book.

Jaune felt strangely encouraged to continue seeing her silence and found his words coming out with abnormal ease. Perhaps this, too, was an effect of the most recent memories his mind had knocked loose.

“My father found a need to tell his young son about the traditions concerning my family’s dead… and I can’t recall why… who did we lose? When?” Jaune asked, speaking his words into the now-dying flames.

Orr remained silent.

Jaune felt a familiar ache enter his heart as he recalled the very memory that allowed him to recall the words he assumed his father had taught him. His sleep last night had been a dreaded one. He had staved off those particular memories for weeks. But old pain had a way of worming through his defences no matter what he did.

And now he was overwhelmed and confused. Worst yet, he was confused as to why he felt overwhelmed.

What should he feel?

Happy that he recalled a piece of himself from before the Eternal Night, even if the part he gained came somewhat second-hand. How could he? The memory itself was tainted bloody, so much so that it could illicit nothing other than the guilt of his sin.

He had murdered Gascoigne, failed his daughter and caused so much suffering.

And now he had profited from such a memory.

It made him sick.

Sick because he recalled why he knew Arcs burned their dead, sick because he had performed such a funeral, and even now, he could not speak to if it were done for…

Why had he done it?

Guilt, grief, because it was the right thing to do…

Had Jaune been alone, he would have snarled, ‘right’ had nothing to do with it.

Right had been the cause of all of it, the feeling of righteousness that he had paraded through the streets of Central Yharnam. How he had slinked about under the assumption of goodness that he would dare to presume he was in any way different.

Just another killer.

A funeral did not absolve him of this bloody wrong, and no amount of want would free him of this hard-earned lesson. So be it if he was cursed to reflect on what he had wrought. I

But the memories stirred old pain, pain he was not so numb to, and now, even in the waking world, he did not know how to fix it.

How does one fix what isn’t broken?

“I can’t answer that question, kid,” Orr said. “But maybe your dad can?”

Jaune flinched, turning to Orr, confused, “huh?”

Orr chewed on her top lip, “That stuff, that’s got you all messed up; I can’t help you with it, but I feel like… like if anyone can help you with it, it’s probably your family, right? Cause all that stuff in the past, it’s there, and you can’t fix it, but… you can sort of make it right, yeah?”

Jaune’s chest constricted.

His face must have shifted because Orr quickly began to speak again, “I know it’s not probably proper for me and… fuck, this is coming out like shit! B-but I think that you are doing ok, Jaune. You are a bit of a weirdo; you talk funny, and you confuse me, but you also try… trying is important.”

A not-whimper eked out of his clenched teeth, his lips nothing more than a thin pale line while he listened to Orr go on.

“I’m just saying! I don’t even know what it must be like or how it messes you up, but… Jaune, you are doing pretty damn good ok and whatever is in the past is there, and you can’t dwell on it if you remember it; great, cool! Remember it but don’t dwell on it, yeah? And if you don’t… then don’t dwell on that either.”

Orr shuffled closer to Jaune, her shoulder moving under his as she took advantage of the disparity between their heights.

“Holding onto stuff can fuck you up something fierce… don’t let it, Jaune, don’t let you be the thing that messes you up,” Orr instructed softly.

Orr didn’t move; her body stilled as she refused to push in case she had overstepped. Her heart raced in her chest, and she realised oddly how strange it was to worry over words. But that was what Jaune had done to her, the damn sprout. Thanks to him, Orr was becoming bothersomely attached.

Then he leaned forward.

He didn’t lift his arms to embrace her or make any finite gesture. He brought his body forward so that his chest pressed into her shoulder and his chin rested on her head. It wasn’t a hug, but it was close, intimate, and more than he had ever done.

It was all he felt he could do.

Orr knew this, and Orr let her eyes close shut as she became her boy’s literal support.

Neither made a noise, the camp filling itself with the sounds of their fire’s death throes, the breeze shaking foliage, and the many bones dancing chaotically in the tree. These were the backdrop as Jaune let himself feel the old ache he did his best to bury, and Orr made herself present.

When Jaune opened his eyes, he had intended to say… something. Anything.

Something nice… Something to show Orr his gratitude.

But he didn’t.

Because all he could do was stare at the black shapes circling in the distance.

…

“Orr… I think we might have a problem.”

YVYVYVYVY

The Grimm.

Of the many mysteries that plague the world of Remnant, they are amongst the oldest.

They are also the most feared.

Found across all lands and even in the unexplored depths of the sea, crowned the eternal foe of all civilisations. Their likeness could be found in countless ruins, and their description in numerous texts, they were and seemingly always had been the greatest enemy of all sapient life.

Foul creatures, soulless abominations that congregate to negativity like leeches to a warm body, a plague unlike any other. They hunt with ceaseless savagery and are driven by an innate desire to destroy without rest, only urged on by their malicious nature.

The discovery of new information or even species was not unheard of, nor was the rediscovery of something once only to be the writ of legend. It was a familiar story. With the vast majority of Remnant being their domain, there were many places people dared not tread.

Plenty of places for the monsters to remain hidden until roused.

It was an understated trait of the Creatures of Grimm. Such focus was naturally put on their destructive prowess and resilience that many tended to forget their longevity. Too often was it the case that the minds of most were turned to the most present danger. So little heed was paid to the terror that lurks beyond the mountains and in the deepest depths.

For over that horizon… there be monsters.

The average Grimm is just that, average.

They are one amongst countless others and find their lethality most often in being one of the countless thrashing maws. Like all Grimm, they possess no form of sentience, but their sinister ability to learn and grow meant that even the mundane could become something far worse.

They could become an Alpha.

Alpha refers to a category of leader class Grimm that appear more frequently in select species than others but are notable for their enhanced size and capabilities. They function as leaders, rallying Grimm to their strength and becoming more for it. But that is where the extent of their new abilities ends.

It is important to note that Alpha class Grimm can also, in sporadic cases, undergo metamorphosis transforming their shape and abilities. But his has only been observed in a limited manner amongst a select handful of species.

They possess a modicum of savage cunning that elevates them above the rabble and are often the targets of contracts. They are also marked as primary targets for culling in Horde prevention hunts, as the destruction of Alpha Grimm has been noted to cause lesser Grimm to scatter.

But while Alphas are more remarkable, they are still placed in the ranks of the mundane.

It is when they rise above that they obtain the title of Elder.

Elder Grimm… these are a unique existence amongst the hordes of Grimm that do not seem as beholden to their destructive instincts as regular Grimm or even Alphas. Instead, they can choose when and how to engage their destructive nature or if to engage at all.

A sinister knowing to complement a savage cunning, only made worse as it all seems to be wielded for the purpose of causing the most destruction possible… after all, the most notable trait of these Elder Grimm is that they possess self-preservation tendencies.

Because a dead Grimm can’t cause more devastation.

These Grimm are all unique, having grown over many years, sometimes even centuries, into creatures outside any recognised Grimm category. These Grimm are shrouded in mystery and legend, with confirmed kills being the stuff that cements names in history. Abnormal, unique, terrifying, but above all, disastrous.

Little can be said of the category other than that those Grimm that are counted amongst it are the stuff of nightmares. Abominations that can lay to waste whole towns, or if the legends are to be believed, entire cities with an ease that chills the blood.

It is a testament to the power of these unique existences, these Elder Grimm, that they often come to earn themselves a unique name and a particular title.

A title that solidifies them into a category considered the worst. The most reviled. The most hated.

The most hunted.

Hunter-Killer.

Different from the other categories, this one is not earned through survival but a horrible achievement. These are hunted with caution and determination that would see any lesser Grimm put to the blade swiftly. But those that aren’t, those that endure the Hunter’s wrath and acquire more and more kills to add to their dreaded title…

These are the things that keep the Hunters in check.

The monsters that match the heroes.

Because not all Elders are Hunter-Killers, but all Hunter-Killers are Elders.

Such monsters are rare, sitting on the edge of civilisation, a constant unseen threat waiting on the periphery of what is known. They exist in those deep woods, distant peaks, and gaping chasms uninhabited by the likes of Man or Faunus. Waiting, lurking, slumbering.

Dormant but not dead.

What it takes to awaken these monstrous things is not entirely known.

Is it simply a disturbance, perhaps some miners seeking yet another vein of some precious treasure who dig one stone too deep and scratch bone plates thinking them stone?

Or does the will of some greater power awaken it, be it fate or some decree of a terrible god, to unleash itself upon the world and bring calamity to civilisation it so opposes?

Or is it a feeling?

A temptation.

A lure.

Negativity is well known to attract the Grimm; the greater the concentration, the greater the effect.

But what if… there was but a single source.

A unique source that defied reason that shouldn’t be possible.

An impossible grief, an impossible loathing, an impossible fear.

Such a curiosity might even pique the interest of something old.

Something ancient

Something terrible.

Something that was no longer dormant.

A.N.

Hey, everyone; if you’re wondering about the delay on this chapter, I will post an explanation and something a little exciting to explain soon.

As for the content of this chapter, I just wanted to take a moment to explain how Jaune has benefited from his time enjoying some nature therapy.