Jaune the Imperishable or how Settra got his Golden Body (RWBY/Warhammer Fantasy) ch.11

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They left just as quickly as they arrived. Jaune still needed to rest, and Professor Peach was not about to let the other aspirants kill him with their presence. 

Speaking of...

Jaune watched, carefully, as the woman hummed to herself, gloves in her hand. Her back was turned, her attention focused solely on the implements on a silver tray. 

"I was honestly unsure if you were going to wake up," the fox-woman said. "Your aura was drained so badly that your soul ought to be damaged in some way." 

Jaune blinked. He already had a inkling on who was to blame for that.

Settra?

The ancient king snorted inside his head. "The Imperishable does not hoard power. What is the point of boons when one does not use them?" 

Just as Jaune opened his mouth to respond, the voice of the ancient king interrupted. "Before you waste your breath on frivolous chatter, boy, consider this. This was meant to be." 

Meant to be? Jaune repeated. 

The ancient king chuckled darkly. "Do you truly think my presence here is mere chance? I have heard the murmurs of the others. They say that this aura is powered by the soul. And you, boy, you possess a wellspring of power; a potential so vast, even you cannot fathom it." 

"You can see my soul?" Jaune asked aloud. 

The fox-woman glanced over her shoulder at his muttering, raising an eyebrow. "Talking to yourself already? That's not a good sign for your recovery."

Jaune forced an awkward laugh. "Just…thinking aloud."

She gave him a skeptical look before returning to her work, the sound of metal tools clinking against the tray filling the room. "Right. Well, you are well on your way to recovery. And I will help you recover faster." 

Professor Peach turned around, a comically sized needle in her hand. Inside, a glowing golden yellow mixture. Jaune's eyes widened. 

"Don't worry," Peach assured him, voice professional. "This is a mixture that will help your aura recover faster by boosting its natural regeneration process. 

Jaune instinctively dug his back onto his bed but he had run out of bed to dig into. "Is that…really necessary? I mean, I'm already feeling a little better-"

"It's very necessary," Peach interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Your aura was drained to dangerous levels. If we don't act now, the recovery could take weeks or worse, your soul could suffer permanent damage. This will expedite the process."

Jaune gulped, his gaze locked on the needle. "But it's so…big. Are you sure there's no, I don't know, pill version of this?"

"There are," Peach admitted with a shrug. "But we'd have to tap into our insurance policy to get them, and I do not want to deal with their representative."

Jaune blinked, caught off guard. "Wait, you have to request the insurance company for that?!"

"Ever since they got bought out by the SDC, yes," Peach replied, flashing a grin that was far too cheerful for someone holding a massive syringe. "Now hold still, or this will be harder than it needs to be."

And thus, with no small amount of screaming, Jaune was injected. The effect was immediate. A strange warmth spread through his body, like the sensation of stepping into sunlight after hours in the cold.

Professor Peach glanced at the machines monitoring his vitals and aura levels. Her ears twitched as she hummed thoughtfully, her eyes scanning the displays. "Huh," she said, tapping one of the screens. "That's faster than I expected. Your aura's already regenerating at a remarkable rate. At this pace, you'll be up and moving in an hour or two."

Jaune was glad to hear that, relief flooding his body. He might not be the most athletic sort, but he did want to move around again. "Thank the gods." 

"You're welcome," Professor Peach beamed, patting him lightly on his cheek. "Now, you stay put and rest. Let your body adapt to the process. I've got other patients to check on." 

She turned to leave, pausing to glance back at him one more time, before closing the door behind her.

Jaune glanced upwards towards the ceiling, his soul settling well and good inside his body. But his thoughts were all over. 

Ruby had shown him the footage. 

It was surreal, watching himself move like that. He'd seen himself cut through Grimm like they were nothing, his blows precise and devastating. He'd moved with a confidence and power he'd never known. But it wasn't him. It was Settra.

Jaune groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. "How am I supposed to compete with that?" he muttered.

"You couldn't," Settra's voice suddenly cut through his thoughts, smug and sharp. "Do not mistake my actions for something you could achieve."

Jaune clenched his fists, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Then what am I supposed to do? Just sit here and let you take over whenever things get hard?!" 

"And send you to the healing wards?" Settra pointed out. "I know what I heard. If I take over your body, your soul will be obliterated." 

Jaune's fists clenched tighter. "Oh, wouldn't you like that? Get rid of me and use my body as your own?" 

"Of course I would like that," Settra replied, unashamed and honest. "To walk, to run, to feel adrenaline flowing through my veins, the wind against my cheek...who would not want that?" 

Jaune blinked, staring at the ceiling as if Settra's words would somehow make more sense if he thought about them hard enough. "Wait...that's it? That's what you want? To go for a jog and feel the wind on your face?"

Settra snorted, the sound dripping with disdain. "Do not mistake me for a simpleton, boy. Of course that is not all I desire. But after being devoid of sensation or motion, the mere thought of experiencing even the most mundane of mortal pleasures is appealing. Would you not desire the same, were you in my position?"

​Jaune scoffed. "I would be infinitely bit more nicer to my host if I were." 

Settra let out a sharp, derisive laugh that echoed in Jaune's mind like the rattle of ancient bones. "And therein lies the difference between us, boy. You would waste your kindness on sentimentality, while I wield strength and power." 

Jaune rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. "Yeah, no kidding." A thought entered his head, and he swung his legs off the side of the bed, testing the strength in them. To his surprise, he felt steadier than he expected. Wanting some fresh air, Jaune walked over to the window, the faint ache in his legs reminding him that he wasn't fully recovered just yet. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange, pink, and deep purple.

For a moment, he simply stood there, watching the world outside. Finally, breaking the silence, Jaune asked the question that had been gnawing at the back of his mind. "You keep saying how weak I am, how much better you'd be in my place. Why don't you just obliterate my soul and take over? Why hold back?"

"Because the Gods have deemed it so," Settra replied simply. 

Jaune blinked. Settra elaborated. "At first, I thought it was a mistake. To have my soul bound to a mere boy, a weakling who does not know his left hand from his right," He ignored Jaune's cry of protest, continuing. "But the gods are not so petty. They do not waste their power on trivial vengeance. No, they placed me here for a good purpose." 

"What purpose?" Jaune asked, impatience leaking through. 

"To guide you. To shape you into something greater than you are now. Destiny surrounds you, like bees to a flower. I am here to ensure that you do not squander the gifts you have been given."

Jaune's eyes narrowed as he studied Settra, searching for any crack in the ancient king's conviction. He listened intently, probing for a lie, for any sign of doubt in Settra's words. But no matter how hard he tried, he found nothing. Settra believed every word he spoke with unshakable certainty.

Jaune frowned. "Then what convinced you of that?"

"Turn to your sword, boy."

Jaune froze. His heart skipped a beat. "What about Crocea Mors?" he whispered.

Settra laughed, a low, reverberating sound that carried centuries of arrogance. "Touch it," he said.

The weight of Settra's command pressed on Jaune's chest as he turned toward the corner of the room where his belongings lay. There, his shield and sword. The blade looked just as he remembered it, glinting and sharp though it clearly saw use. But something about it was...different. Gingerly, he made his way to it. His throat felt dry, his heart thumped inside his chest as he reached out. The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, the world lurched.

A vision.

It hit him like a tidal wave, dragging his mind far from the room.

Ruined cities stretched out before him, broken banners of the Kingdoms. He saw a great city falling, its spires collapsing as flames consumed the sky. Grimm consumed the earth, all under the tide of dark wings and through it all, Jaune caught a glimpse of something...no, someone. There was...

[SPOILER="Vision"][/SPOILER]

And then it was gone.

Jaune stumbled back, gasping for air. The vision vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving him cold and trembling. His hand shook as he pulled it away from the sword.

Settra chuckled darkly. "Do you think it is mere chance that I awake to a boy holding a divine weapon?"

Jaune blinked, his heart still pounding in his chest. "What?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What do you mean?"

Settra's tone grew heavier. "When I fought those Grimm, I channeled the power of Ptra and your sword wielded it. That blade is no ordinary weapon. It is divine, or at least, touched by divinity."

Jaune stared at the sword in disbelief. It glinted faintly in the dim light of the room, looking as plain and unassuming as it always had. Crocea Mors...a divine weapon. He had always known it was special. His family passed it down for generations, wielded by heroes of legend. But this?

"How long has your family held it?" Settra asked.

"Generations," Jaune replied. "Crocea Mors has been with us so long we've forgotten where it even came from."

"Crocea Mors," Settra repeated, the name rolling off his tongue as if tasting it. "What does it mean?"

Jaune hesitated. The words felt heavier now, like they carried a weight he hadn't noticed before. "It means…the Yellow Death."

Settra laughed, sharp and triumphant. "The Yellow Death," he repeated, savoring the phrase. "A fitting name. Death cloaked in golden light. That blade was not forged for mere mortals."

Jaune's thoughts raced, struggling to keep up. "But...if it's so powerful, why now? Why didn't it do anything before?"

Settra paused, his voice turning contemplative. "That is the question, isn't it? Tell me, boy, do the gods of your people speak to you? Do they walk among you?"

Jaune froze, caught off guard by the question. "The Brother Gods? No," he admitted. "They don't…they don't talk to us."

Settra hummed, the sound deep and weighted. What an impious people, he thought. "And what of magic? Are there those who practice it in your world?"

"Magic?" Jaune shook his head, incredulous. "Magic doesn't exist, Settra."

For a moment, Settra said nothing. The silence was deafening. When he spoke again, his voice carried a grim certainty. "And there it is. That is your answer."

Jaune frowned, confusion tightening his chest. "What answer?"

Settra's spoke with finality. "The divine and the magical; both are absent in this world. Without them, your weapon was inert. Dormant."

Jaune's breath caught as the implications settled over him like a weight. He at first wanted to deny it, but in the face of what he saw, how could he?He swallowed hard, his voice trembling, "Does that mean magic is coming back then? That...that divinity is returning to the world?"

Settra was silent for a moment, his presence pressing heavier in Jaune's mind. When he finally spoke, his tone was measured and thoughtful, lacking its usual disdain. "Perhaps. But there is no greater message I can gleam from this but that. Wisely thought, Arc." 

Jaune's heart pounded as he considered the possibilities. He had grown up in a world where the gods were myths, where magic was something only the fairy tales spoke of. He...

"Did you just praise me?" Jaune blinked. 

"I did," Settra harumphed, familiar arrogance returning. "Keep it up and I might think that you actually have a brain. Even the most irritating fool can tell when the time is right." 

Jaune rolled his eyes, the tension in his chest easing slightly at Settra's familiar arrogance. "Great. I'll add 'occasional compliment' to the tiny list of things you give me other than headaches."

Settra let out a derisive snort. "Do not get used to it, boy. Praise is a reward for competence, not a habit. Besides, you have far more pressing concerns than basking in my approval."

Jaune's expression sobered as Settra's words brought him back to the gravity of the situation. "Right," he muttered, glancing again at Crocea Mors. The blade seemed to shimmer faintly, as if echoing the significance of what they were discussing. "So…if magic and divinity are coming back, then what does that mean for me? If the sword can channel it now...does that mean I can, too?"

Settra hummed thoughtfully, his voice sharp and calculating. "You are not devoted to the true gods nor are you from Nehekhara. You do not know the Lore of my people, nor have you communed with my Gods. But I do..." 

He hummed, the hum of a man stumbling onto a thought. Jaune thought as well. He was unsure if he could even talk to the Gods of Settra, nor was he ready to do such. Talking to a God? That was insane. But Settra could. He glanced at Crocea Mors, and a thought went into his head. "You talked about my sword as a conduit for magic or divine stuff. But what about me? Could you use me as a conduit to use what you know?" 

There was silence...then laughter. Jaune's shoulders sagged as Settra well and truly chortled. But as the laughter slowly died down, there was something else from Settra. 

Consideration.

"You raise an interesting question, for once. A conduit, hm? It is not an impossibility...."

Jaune could not deny the feelings inside his stomach. Excitement, dread...hope. But if there was even a chance, why not? "Then let's do it," Jaune said. 

"You realize that if this fails, it will end with your mortal shell incinerated, your soul torn asunder, and me inconvenienced," Settra pointed out. 

Jaune grimaced. But as far as he was concerned, the field in which he grew his shits was barren and the well-spring of fucks he gave had dried. "Settra, it will either work or life will not be my problem anymore. Let's do it." 

"That is a fair point. You surprise me today, Jaune of Arc," Settra laughed. "Very well. Make your preparations, boy." 

For the first time he woke up, Jaune grinned. "I aim to please. Now, what do I need to prepare? Do I need to…meditate? Sacrifice a goat or something?"

"And here I thought that you stopped being an idiot," Settra shook his head disdainfully. "No, foolish boy. What you need is resolve, focus. Your mind must be sharpened like a blade, your spirit tempered like steel. If you falter, even for a moment, you will be destroyed. This is no game, Jaune of Arc."

Jaune swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Great. No pressure or anything."

"Of course. Now be silent." 

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Pyrrha was worried. 

Of course she was worried, Jaune was her partner now, courtesy of the induction ceremony the headmaster held. She was terrified for a moment when the Headmaster said that they had all technically failed, courtesy of not actually completing the initiation ritual. But considering they were clearly competent in their fields, they were given a special exception. 

They did however were slapped with a heavy reduction of grades. Said grades they would have to make up for in upcoming classes. And for every disaster, it would be on their record. Weiss was inconsolable, because of that, and also because she and Ruby were partners, and together, they formed Team JPRW or Jasper. Jaune was to be their leader, not her. Ruby was doing her best to console her in the cafeteria were most were celebrating their induction with a buffet dinner. 

She had brought some food she thought Jaune might enjoy, when she stopped outside his door, listening to him having one long schizophrenic fit. She knew that Jaune was bonkers. From being a soft, gentle boy to...whatever the hell he was in the forest. And she heard everything. A part of her told her to feel terrible at this for she was intruding on his private time. But she was his partner, and whatever he felt affected their performance. 

Yes, only that, and not anything else, Pyrrha swore. 

The tray of food she carried was on the floor, slowly getting cold, as she had pressed her ear to the door. Then a sound tore out of him, a raw scream that made her blood freeze.

Pyrrha jolted, her hand slamming against the handle. Locked. Why would the infirmary lock him in? No...it wasn't them, she realized. Jaune did. To spare himself the humiliation of his illness, she felt. Pyrrha thought to call for help but Jaune's scream cracked through her hesitation like a whip. That was no normal pain. That was soul-deep, body-breaking agony. She stepped back, planted her heel, and launched forward.

Darkness swallowed her immediately. No sterile white light. No beeping monitors. The entire room had drowned in shadow, flickering with erratic sparks, little blue-white flares leaping from broken machines.

"Jaune…?" Her voice was soft at first, then firmer as she stepped inside. "Jaune! Where are you?"

Her eyes swept the wreckage, searching for a body slumped on a bed, or someone curled on the floor. Instead she saw the bed frame twisted, its sheets whipped aside as though some force had blown outward from its center. "Jaune?" Pyrrha called again, her voice threading through the half-broken dark. The lights flickered once more and for the briefest heartbeat the world sharpened. A silhouette stood at the room's center, tall and still and wrong in a way that sent a cold ripple down her spine.

Jaune stood there, sweat-slick and trembling, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths like he'd just crawled out of a battlefield. Pyrrha tried to reach out to him, then froze, because he was not alone.

A shadow, no, a visage, loomed behind him. Broad-shouldered, the edges of him too clean to be anything but real. And as the next flicker of light washed over the room, she saw copper-toned skin gleam, saw the sculpted lines of a chestplate inset with gold, saw cloth draped in ancient patterns she had only ever seen in museum glossaries and dusty textbooks describing Vacuo's earliest dynasties.

Her breath hitched. 

[SPOILER="Golden Wind, part 2"][URL unfurl="true" media="youtube:up193zfVHFQ"]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=up193zfVHFQ[/URL][/SPOILER]

Jaune turned toward her, exhaustion cutting lines across his face, his voice cracking on her name. "Pyrrha…?"

The copper-skinned man behind him smiled, slow and regal. "Ah," he said, voice deep, rolling through the darkness like a temple drum. "Pyrrha of Nikos. Welcome."

Pyrrha's lips parted. No sound came out. The king laughed. "Your reaction is earned," he said, as though comforting her, though the glint in his eyes suggested he savored her astonishment. "It is always a dazzling sight when one meets the Imperishable."

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A/N: Updoot. 

​Now that I think about it, it is perfectly acceptable for Jaune to have skitzo fits because Joan of Arc had them. When I realized that, I lol'd, hard.