Disclaimer: I own nothing of RWBY.

Green

By: Imyoshi

A new cry filtered through the maternity ward from the sound of a new child being born, a child happily dubbed Jaune Arc.

Said parents of the newborn, and four sisters, were happy for the newest addition of the family, none more than Ignatius Arc, for he finally had a son to carry on the family name. That's not to say that he didn't love his daughters, of course he did, but any man would need more masculinity when dealing with five females. It's only common knowledge.

"He's so tiny!" chimed one of Jaune's older sisters, hanging over the bed edge to get a better look of her new baby brother. Julian smiled tiredly and held out Jaune for his sisters to see. "Can I hold him?"

Her mother laughed, patting her daughter on the head. "Not right now. He's tired. Maybe after we take him home. For now he needs his rest. He's had a big day."

Ignatius laughed, hovering over the other side of the bed. "Him and you both! It looks like you're about to pass out any second."

"Ha-ha..." Julian mocked, holding little Jaune tight. "Next time you should try giving birth, then you can make all the jokes you want."

Ignatius looked away, scratching the side of his cheek with a nonchalant, nervous expression. "But you're so good at it. I'll just leave it up to you."

Outside the happy family moment, a few doctors clustered around the door, talking amongst themselves as they filed around little Jaune's blood analysis. Looks of dread and concerned filtered in the hall. When Jaune Arc came into the world, the doctors appeared worried, contrasting the happy smiles parading around Julian Arc's hospital bed. Without as much as a second guess, they could tell this child would grow up to be frail—to be faltered—to be weak. The small child's skin complexion was unnaturally pale, with a very, very thin body and labored breathing.

The child itself wasn't in any physical danger, but that didn't mean trouble wasn't brewing forward. If anything, life's only going to get harder. Arcs were warriors. However, Jaune Arc was not, and he never would be, not with a body as frail and challenging as his own. The life of a Huntsman?

A cruel joke.

Coughing into his hand, a random doctor moved inside and gently clasped Ignatius by the shoulder, breaking the happy moment with cold hard facts and bad news. "If I could have a word, Mr. Arc. It's gravely important for your son's future."

Ignatius dropped his smile, going from warm to cold in the blink of an eye. Julian's oblivious to the sudden change of tone, cooing at her baby boy, making sure Jaune's sisters got a chance to say hello to their new baby brother. Perhaps that's for the better. Judging the doctor's deep frown, whatever news he had was bad. Better to let his wife keep her smile now, if only for a little bit longer.

"Sure..." Following the doctor outside the hall, Ignatius swallowed a lump of emotion, waiting for the inevitable as the doc took off his glasses. "Well? What is it, Doctor Yean? Is something wrong with my son?"

Yean sighed, rubbing his glasses on the clean side of his medical coat. "Health wise, no. Your son's healthy as a horse, but physically speaking, there's a problem we need to discuss now." Putting his glasses back on, Yean grumbled. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your son has a weak body."

"... A weak body?"

"Yes..." Yean trailed, pushing the medical folders into Ignatius's scared arms. "The results came back after we did some quick blood work; your son suffers from a severe case of Muscle Weakness. Turns out his body can't deliver enough protein to sustain adequate muscles suited for regular labor. Everyday tasks such as even walking will be a challenge for the young Arc."

Ignatius took a step back, almost losing his balance. He managed to hold himself up by grabbing the handle of the door, but that's a hollow victory compared to the grand scheme of things. Now his muscles felt weak, jelly like. Not a common picture that the older Arc found himself normally in.

"There has to be a mistake. Please, tell me it's a mistake. Tell me there's something you can do!" The father crushed up the medical chart, holding back heartbreaking emotions the best he could. It's a losing battle. "Please... please give me something to hold onto. Give me some hope."

Doctor Yean shook his head. "I can't. There's no hope for your son. I recommend you don't try to push being a Huntsman into his head, because it's a hopeless future."

Ignatius crumbled the paper in his hands, not wanting to believe a word the doctor said. He peered over to his wife, through the glass window, smiling wistfully at his newborn soon. Jaune looked so perfect. So innocent. So normal. There just had to be a mistake! Couldn't be his son, child of Ignatius and Julian Arc, born with a weak body and impossible future? Preposterous—couldn't be true—not his boy.

Not his boy.

Clutching the handle, Ignatius hardly noticed the doctor walking away, his mind off in a distant horizon. All the dreams he had for his newborn soon seemed to be evaporating in a cloud of disappointment. How an Arc could be born with a weak body, he did not know. Some part of his conscious refused to believe such a bold lie, the other just didn't want to acknowledge the ghastly truth of the situation. Who would? Certainly not him nor his precious wife.

Building up some false courage, the man sighed terribly and walked back into the medical room, holding his heart in place. His wife greeted him with a warm smile, but it didn't last too long, not with the way his pained smile refused to reach his eyes. She's immediately shooing the girls out, fooling them with an earnest and exhausted smile of her own.

"Girls... why don't you go outside for a minute, I have to speak to your father, and little Jaune here must be tired." They whined, but Julian shushed them. "Go on. I'm tired, too."

Awing to themselves, they left, but not before giving their mother a quick hug, passing by their father with innocent smiles and happy thoughts, none of which could he partake in. The soft click of the door erased the easiness of everything, filling the room with some untold dread that Julian pretended not to notice. It almost worked, but her husband cut the air like Crocea Mors through a Grimm.

"I just had a word with the doctor; Jaune's medical test came back..." Ignatius coughed, walking over to his new soon. "They weren't good."

Julian held back a gasp. "W-What do you mean, not good? What's not good? What's wrong with our baby boy?"

Ignatius laughed, hollow and misplaced, lacking warmth. "His body, that's what's wrong. Turns out Jaune here was born with a muscle deficiency. He's weak, Julian. Terribly, terribly weak. He'll never have a normal life. Our child has been cursed with a weak body."

She remained silent for a moment, allowing the words to truly sink in. Then she's shaking her head, tucking back the small strands of blond hair on Jaune's head, refusing to believe such a notion, such a misguided lie.

"No... No. Our little Jaune's fine. He just needs time to grow." Ignatius tried to consolidate Julian, reaching out to grab her shoulder. She nudged his hand away. "No! Jaune's going to be fine! There's nothing wrong with our baby boy." Tears. "There's nothing wrong."

Ignatius glared, weak and tired, but he still glared. "Julian, please. Try to hear what I'm saying. Jaune's future... it's not a hopeless one, but a challenging one. We'll make sure to help him achieve his dream, whatever that may be."

Julian looked away. "And if he wants to be a Huntsman, what then, tell me. I need you to tell me. I need to know, Ignatius."

Ruffling up Jaune's hair, he sighed. "Then we'll tell him the truth. We'll tell him it's a hopeless dream."

Julian didn't like that answer. She didn't like it at all. Not one bit. "I can't accept that. I don't want our son's future to be limited. He deserves an equal chance, just like everyone else. No one should have their future taken away from them."

Her husband backed away, rubbing his neck in defeat. "What else can we do? There's nothing. Nothing! It's useless, hopeless."

"No. It's never hopeless. You know that and I know that. There's always something that can be done." She smiled, tears bitter. "You know that. I know you know that. You just got to believe. You just got to have hope."

Ignatius did a tiny laugh, "Then what? What do you propose? Where's this hope you speak of? Show me, Julian. Please, for the love of Monty, show me."

Ruffling up Jaune's head, she showed love to her baby boy. "Aura. We can unlock his Aura. He'll grow with it, growing stronger."

Ignatius couldn't hold back his skepticism. "Aura? He's only just been born less than an hour ago. Who knows what unlocking his Aura now can do?"

"... I don't know what else we can do."

Stunned, the older Arc remained silent, allowing the soft hum of machinery to be his anchor. He walked around the room, holding the medical papers in his hand in both acceptance and defiance. Every step echoed louder than the previous, and soon he's crushing the papers up in his hand, bending the parchment with his fingers. Then Ignatius threw it into the nearby trashcan, pressing the matter away from his mind, not wanting to allow his only son a limited future in a peace forsaken world. Any help was a good advantage.

Walking over to the hospital bed, he sighed. Father Time seemed to have hit Ignatius with a stick, because the older Arc looked like he aged ten years in a second, but even still, a calm smile harbored between his eyes. One full of hope and promise, a promise he wasn't sure he could uphold, but he'd try his damn hardest, anyways.

Reaching out with a shaky palm, Ignatius glared determinedly at his hour old son, unable to find the strength to remain calm. "I'm putting all my hope into this—into my son."

His wife grabbed his shaking hand, smiling softly along her perfect husband. His hand stopped shaking. "Me too."

Losing the glare, the older Arc smiled wistfully, now all they could do was hope for the best. "For it is in passing that we achieve immortality. Through this, we become a paragon of virtue and glory to rise above all. Infinite in distance and unbound by death, I release your soul, and by my shoulder, protect thee."

A green Aura filled the room; it covered the little Arc with pleasant warmth that blanketed the little guy, away from the harsh colds of the world outside. Both the older Arcs felt tired and weak, drained of their Aura. Soon the light faded away, acting as nothing had happened, but the parents knew.

Now it was all up to Jaune himself, and a little luck, to make their hopes come true.

...

A few years passed and Jaune barely learned to walk when he turned four. His parents had passed off the weird incident as nothing special, figuring their little boy took longer than other children. It wasn't anything to be ashamed of. All children were different in their own special way. Even if the smile didn't quite reach their eyes, their encouragement did, and at the time, that's all the little Arc needed in order to run.

So when Jaune managed to run into his mother's arms, she crushed him in a hug of joy, never noticing how out-of-breath her son truly was, or the fact he only ran one more time that day compared to children with boundless amounts of energy. Jaune didn't have any of that. He was a child who lacked an imagination, constrained to wondering why his older sisters could run and why he could not.

His first words came out when he was five. Surprisingly enough, his first words had to do with his father. It wasn't mom or dad, however, it was hero. He looked up to his old man as the hero in the story, which brought nothing but joy to his father. None of them cared that it took Jaune a long-long time to speak, as his vocal cords suffered, too, from weakness from within the larynx. This of course led Jaune to speaking softly with a breathy voice, one that suited the pale-skinned Arc quite well.

At times, his family had trouble hearing him. At other times, he had trouble hearing himself. Eventually, the softness took his toll and Jaune learned to speak less and less, answering in short one to two-worded answers that still left him breathless at times. Yet, he didn't give up hope. He never did. Jaune woke up every morning with a dream, a dream to be just like his hero.

He learned to start being scared of everything when he turned six, where every little thing that proved to be a challenge growing up, was still challenging years later, like running or simply breathing at times. The world quickly became a scary place. Why was everything so hard? How come nothing got easier? These were the things he asked his parents. They never did answer his questions the way he wanted them to, supplying the little Arc with distractions and misguided answers that might've worked on a child bound full of imagination.

Too bad for his parents, Jaune stopped imagining things a long time ago. He wanted answers, real ones. Not sugarcoated responses that would leave any other child satisfied and unwinding. Jaune wanted to know why he couldn't run with the other children, or why mothers always seemed to keep their children away from him as if he was some sort of monster.

Seven and eight turned out to be an eye-opening experience for Jaune when he started school, two years behind all the other kids. He didn't understand why he started so late. Apparently, it had something to do with being special as the other teachers had put it occasionally when he bothered to ask. It made sense and then didn't when he thought about it. His parents always tried to teach Jaune at home, filling his head with the basics a child needed to know with the years he missed or skipped. None of which made complete sense to the young Arc, but it did allow Jaune to see the world in a totally different light.

Now Jaune Arc could see all the children running around, playing and laughing, doing activities his body could never hope to achieve. They had muscles, he had none. He could see baby fat in their cheeks, he lacked such a thing. They could speak a hundred words a minute, he's lucky enough to just get two sentences out without being exhausted. None of it made any sense to him.

Turning nine slowed down Jaune's world when his younger sisters proved to possess more physical strength and stamina than he. They outpaced him and excluded him from games and activities. The older ones never wanted to talk to him, and the younger ones were just that, children without a care in the world. He couldn't consolidate any of his troubles to anyone but his parents, yet they kept dodging his questions, laughing off any awkward questions no child should say, pretending the pained expression in Jaune's skeleton-like cheek bones wasn't there.

Then one day Jaune Arc took a long hard look in the bathroom mirror, silently comparing himself to the other kids he'd seen running around. Not only did he lack fat, but his hair was pale yellow, a sharp contrast to his parents and sisters. He had bags under his eyes and his pale skin was more noticeable than ever. Jaune finally realized that he always looked sick.

And he learned to stop dreaming when he turned ten, when his entire world came crashing down one quiet Saturday afternoon. When he learned the reason all the other kids at school whispered things behind his back, things about him, like why was he so skinny or pale. He had demanded on his birthday for the reason behind his weakness and different appearance and wanted nothing else.

They were reluctant. He knew that. He would be lying if he said he didn't see that coming. Luckily, they finally revealed to him the truth of his shortcomings. They revealed everything, unable to hide his forlorn secret anymore. And on Jaune Arc's tenth birthday, he started to lose hope of any type of normal life.

The years continued to pass until he reached the age of sixteen, where he graduated school with no real plans set in stone. How could he? He wanted to be like his hero—like his dad—the Huntsman who killed the monsters lurking in the shadows. Hope had long since abandoned him when he turned sixteen. By then he'd learned to accept the truth of his body.

The years haven't been too kind to his body. Forget about muscles, Jaune's body had an absence of everything a healthy, capable fighter needed. And the worst part about it—the worst part—was that he had no control over such an issue, even with Aura holding him partially up. Now that he knew about his Aura, it did help when he learned to tap into it—sadly enough, he hardly contained any, halting his progress to an almost standstill path.

Jaune Arc never dreamed of attending a Huntsmen school or becoming one, at least not anymore. Perhaps, when he was younger and more optimistic, he had, but he'd long since given up hope on such a dream. With the whole world screaming no at him, what's an Arc supposed to do? Dream? Hope? What did it matter when he was cursed with such a weak body?

Sure, his old folks tried their hardest to protect him, to give him an honest to Monty fighting chance, but it all proved in vain in the end. Funny enough, they still haven't given up hope that he'd be happy one day. Humorous, because he'd long given up hope for such a thing.

Jaune just couldn't find the strength to get up with the world constantly pushing him back down, yelling no over and over again to an already beaten child.

...

During his seventeenth birthday, Jaune's found himself traveling into his hometown, looking around for a personal gift to get for himself. Aura had allowed him to control his breathing, granting him the ability to talk normally, but that's pretty much the limits of said power. Nothing else had came from it, beating down any hope he'd gathered over the life of childhood.

At his current age his hair's frail, a pale blond with hardly any root support. The skeleton-like appearance in his cheek bones were still there, more prominent than ever. He's skinny, far too skinny for a boy his age. The blue in his eyes lacked emotion, long since killed away. Rarely did the older Arc smile. His pale skin suffered sun damage, an unfortunate side effect of his blood unable to support his body entirely. The teen couldn't even walk long distances without tiring himself out. A burden he called his own life.

How unfair of Monty to grant him such an existence.

All his life his parents were afraid for him. Never at him. Now he saw that. By the time he turned ten, Jaune had gotten sick of their stares and begged anyone to teach him to control his Aura. Eventually, someone did, but the act hardly did anything to his already hopeless body. The Aura proved weak. It might as well not be there. He was useless through and through. And nothing could reflect away the unwanted stares he got whenever he decided to venture into town. Everyone in town knew him as the hopeless boy without a promising future.

Jaune just wanted to live a normal life. One where he could smile and laugh without care, a life worth living, worth waking up to. Was that too much to ask—too much to hope for? Was Monty cruel enough to rob him of all possible futures? Could he have really been born under such an unlucky star?

No one ever truly believed in him, except his folks. Not his sisters. And not even him. There was a time when that simply hadn't been the case, however, that time had long since passed. Now he's more often than naught the targets of talks and finger pointing. He's not the village fool by any means. Jaune Arc's simply that boy.

Coldly enough, this was the time of year where teenagers, such as himself, apply for Huntsmen schools, like Beacon Academy. Jaune withheld no such qualms. Knowing such a life would mean certain Death for the Arc within hours of his first mission, if he even made it that far. No. It's far better for him to stray from such a path.

No misguided dreams for this Arc.

Venturing into the market part of town, Jaune peered around the stalls for anything remotely interesting to buy. People moved out of his way, taking time out of their day to give him pity glances, all of which he ignored, having had plenty of practice doing so. His pained curiosity searched high and low for a stall to stop at, pockets hidden within his Pumpkin Pete hoodie, one of his prized possession. He liked it because it hid most of his boney body and gave him an impression of definition.

Small victories.

After a few fruitless minutes of searching, his eyes happen to land upon a rusty old sword resting on the sign of some vendor selling weapons and armor. A light smile spread across his face, robbing him of the sad mask he normally wore. Like his imagination coming back with a full-force, so did his enjoyment of weapons. Just because he'd long given up his dream to ever become a Huntsman, didn't mean the Arc hated to pretend. After learning the terrible secret of his body, Jaune had found the will to imagine once more. Ironic, as a small child, he held no such delusion. As an adult, he's full of ambitions that could never be fulfilled.

Someone put him out of his misery now.

Reaching the stall, Jaune slowly grabbed the rusty sword from off the sign, inspecting the aged metal with acute curiosity. The vendor spared a passing glance over to Jaune when he got there, moving the straw tuck between his teeth. A few seconds later, the man straightened up when he took in Jaune's tired appearance, feeling that same sympathy any common folk did when they absorbed in his condition.

Still, he lacked tack. A quality Jaune found perfect. "That piece of junk's called Durandal, kid. Some sword one of my men found in a mountain. The name was carved on the mountain side. Thing's rusted and falling apart! It's scarp. Useless."

"Useless..." Jaune mumbled, unable to meet the street vendor in the eyes. He knew a thing or two about being useless. That word hurt more than anyone should allow. It's also a very lonely word. "I'll take it... how much?"

If the vendor's surprise, he didn't show it. The man waved his arm, breaking eye contact with Jaune. "You really want it, fine. Give me a lien and it's yours. I was just going to throw it away, anyways."

Unable to see his reflection on the corroded metal, Jaune still pretended he could see the weak smile on the lackluster shine of the blade. He slowly fished out a lien, handing it to the vendor with a shaky palm.

"Thanks."

The man paused in taking the cash, making sure to lean over his stand so Jaune could hear. "There's no sheath for that blade, kid. I would tell you to be careful, but that blade's duller than my wife. If you get hurt, tell me. I would love to hear how." Jaune nodded and continued to look over the rest of the merchandise.

Everything's too heavy for him to properly wear. "Do you have anything... lighter?"

The man paused, taking in Jaune's skeleton appearance once more before nodding his head, throwing the poor kid a bone. He leveled down to pull out a few items from the bottom of his stall, throwing the worn out and lighter equipment onto the wooden stall, caring little for damage.

The first thing Jaune picked up was a yellowish helmet-headband that was light and was broken on some parts, making it lack the ability to entirely scale around a person's head. The left portion was completely destroyed, cracks and pieces missing to be a proper piece of armor or headpiece, but maybe that's why the vendor didn't have it for sale in the first place.

The other thing Jaune picked up were some metal gloves with rust all over them that would only reach up to his elbows. They contrasted heavily with his light skin, lackluster in the afternoon sun. These looked better than the headband armor, sadly enough, but were still pretty beat up and useless in the long run. Just another piece of armor the vendor never actually planned on selling from the get go, most likely planning to toss it with the sword after the day was over.

And lastly but not least, there's a circular green shield to add to the pile, broken and dented on some parts, forlorn to hope, just as he. When he picked it up—with one hand nonetheless—Jaune found himself unable to stop the smile from breaking across his face. He should consider himself lucky for finding such a treasure trove of wearable stuff, even if it was trash. But just like his dad always said, one man's trash was another man's treasure. And even if this shield was forlorn to future hope—just like him—he still instantly loved it. So what if they're both forlorn? At least they had each other, like Durandal had.

So he'd call the shield that.

"Forlorn." Putting the three items down, Jaune glared up to the vendor, a small amount of determination and hope lightening up his eyes that normally reserved themselves in the depths of sorrow and darkness. "How much for all of it? I want it all."

The man glared, mentally wondering if he should sell weapons and armors to this kid, even if they're rusted and dull. It almost seemed like he's unknowingly breaking some sort of law by selling weapons and armor to this poor kid. But money's money and it looked like this kid needed a win. He's certainly not going to be the one to deny him that.

"Just give me five liens and it's all yours, kid." Jaune quickly pushed the money into his hand, thanking the man with a one worded thanks before venturing away. The vendor whistled a weak tune. "I wonder what's wrong with him. Looks like a breeze could topple that kid over."

...

Reaching his home's backyard, Jaune dropped the stuff onto the floor, catching his breath from having to carry things uphill. His leg muscles ached, needing a quick minute to breathe. There's a pull in his tendons in his arm, but he bit back the pain, not wanting such things to hold him back on his seventeenth birthday. Tomorrow, he could stay in bed tomorrow. Today, today he's going to pretend and imagine a better life, even if only for a few minutes.

Leaving the stuff on the floor, Jaune walked into his house and came out a minute later; wearing green armor he'd constructed out of leaves, strings, and twigs. It hung on the shoulders of his hoodie, flowing to the passing breeze. It's the only material he could hold up for long periods of time without getting tired, however feasible it really was. To him, it made all the difference.

Picking up the gauntlets, Jaune put them on, biting his lip from the sudden added weight of metal onto his body, but he's holding back relatively well. Next he grabbed the broken headband armor and placed it on top of his head, feeling his hair popping out from the top, obscuring his forehead to the world. Jaune didn't even mind that half of it was missing, happy to wear any type of armor.

Grabbing the sword next, Jaune admired the blade, happy to be able to hold it. He already loved it, unlike Crocea Mors hanging in his family's fireplace; he's able to hold this one up with its utter deficiency of metal, just like him and his muscles.

The sword's nothing like Crocea Mors. It lacked essentially everything. A strong hilt, clean, polished, refined metal, and there's rust everywhere. The sword's durable, that's for damn sure. It's lasted for a long time, endured the test of time. How could he not love it? It was like him. But other than that, it's nothing compared to the family heirloom.

Nonetheless, he's majorly impressed. "Hey! You're pretty durable. You've lasted a while, too, huh? It must've been tough lasting out there with the elements all those years? I kinda get where you're coming from." Picking up the shield, Jaune grinned weakly. "Hehe, look at me! Talking to a rusty, old sword! I must be going crazy."

Forcing his body to move, Jaune swung the sword, feeling his muscles begin to ache from the sudden exertion beyond his normal limits. He ignored it. He swung again, doing a quick jump into the air, acting very-like his dad. Each sudden movement pushed him over the edge, sweat began to form on his forehead from the simple actions, and yet he pushed it all away to live out his dream, if only for a few minutes. But all dreams for him eventually came crashing down at some point of another, and his hit its limits when he tripped on the floor, falling down onto the grassy dirt, landing with an audible thud.

Frowning, Jaune didn't notice his mother peeking out the window, busy with an angry glare as he got up, bruised and blushing painfully with overexertion. His aching muscles have returned with a full vengeance, holding him down, saying no over and over again as he tried to get up, punishing him for pushing himself beyond his capable limits. It's not until a few minutes later that he managed to pull himself up, completely out-of-breath.

Julian Arc watched as her son got up from the floor, kicking the dirt with a terrible frown the second he did. His shoulders were hunched up, he's twitching, and she just knew he's holding back tears. She desperately wished she could take away the pain forever. Little of what she did now hardly soothed her own baby boy, and it hurt the matriarch of the family.

Walking outside, she pushed the door gently; moving over to her son's stiffed posture. Jaune didn't need to turn around to see his mom approaching him, far use to people walking around eggshells with him. That didn't mean he'd stopped shaking, far from it. He's just so tired of being himself.

It wasn't fair.

Sniffing, Jaune rubbed the dust out of his eyes, using his sleeve. There's a question he'd been meaning to ask his mother for a long time, and he always had better luck getting answers out of his parents when it happened to be his birthday. Why should today be any different?

Breathing in the pain, Jaune remained stoic, dropping both Durandal and the shield onto the floor. He tried not to let the pain get to him. "How can you believe in me when I can't even believe in myself?"

Julian smiled sadly, opening her arms out for her baby boy. "Oh honey. Come here." Jaune walked over and hung his head, face devoid of happiness. She hugged him, impressed at how tall he'd gotten. "I'm always going to believe in you, you know that."

"Why?" he asked so suddenly, shoulders shaking. "I'm hopeless."

Julian pushed her son back, making sure to wipe away the beginning tears. "No. You're not hopeless. I don't want you to ever say that again. Promise me you won't." Jaune didn't say anything. "Jaune, promise me."

Jaune glared away. "I can't. There's no hope for me. It was a miracle I was even born."

Julian shook her head and laughed lightly. "Don't be silly, of course there is. Hope is like... hope is like this power that says yes when everyone else says no. It's the power to believe in miracles, to make miracles happen. It can make miracles even happen twice, if you believe hard enough."

"... I don't know. It doesn't seem to be here for me."

"Jaune, listen to me." Julian urged, turning her son's head. "Hope never dies. No matter how much you push it down, it always finds a way to get back up again, stronger than before. It's the power to say yes. It's unbreakable... unbeatable... undeniable... unquestionable..." She picked up the sword on the floor and put it into his hands, filling them with warmth. "As long as even the tiniest of glimmers beats in people's hearts, you can always find a way to do the impossible. Remember... Jaune... Don't ever lose hope." She pushed his hair back. "And don't worry if you do, because you know why? Hope will always manage to find a way to find you. You just got to stop running from it. A miracle can happen more than once."

Jaune tried not to let the words get to him, but his mother somehow found a way to make his chest feel lighter than it did in years. She hugged her son once more, ruffling up his hair for good measure. The easy smile on her face broke through the darkness clouding his mind, being the very light he needed to get out his tunneled thoughts.

"Thanks... mom."

Julian smiled and kissed Jaune on the cheek. "Don't stay out too late, we're cutting the cake and opening presents in a few hours."

Jaune waved as his mother walked back inside. He felt better, but he didn't feel any more hopeful, just different—more open to the idea of miracles. The old saying went that miracles only happen once. To believe they could happen more than once, superstition or not, was just plain crazy. Miracles were just that. A onetime off that saved a person's neck in just the nick of time. And he knew he's not that lucky. No one was. But for his mother's sake, and he did make a promise, Jaune would believe in hope just one more time.

Wiping away the stinging tears building in his eyes, Jaune gripped Durandal with a purpose, swinging the rusty blade in the air with a playful imagination. Even if he could never be like his father, he could still pretend. And for now, that's more than enough. He'd worry about the rest of his life in the upcoming years, but for now, imagining a better life was the best he could ask for. It's the most he could hope for in the gleam thing he called a life.

Experimenting a few more minutes, Jaune found himself out-of-breath yet again, clutching his aching knees tiredly as he breathed in deep, long breaths of air. His lungs felt like they were on fire. His body hurt awfully, and sweat was clinging to his body. Just holding the flimsy weapons and armor was putting an unnecessary strain on his weakened muscles, but he refused to take them off, wanting to prove something to himself.

His attention's then stolen when a white dove landed in his backyard, pecking down on the floor without a care in the world. The little moment shouldn't really surprise the Arc, but it did for some strange reason. Then the moment turned a turn for the weirder when the dove flew over to Jaune's shoulder, acting completely unaffected by Jaune's human presence.

Cautiously, Jaune remained silent and still, not wanting to scare the little guy. He's absolutely interested to the bird that's made his shoulder its new personal stick. Moving a finger forward, Jaune's scared he's going to freak the little guy out. He didn't have any friends. Nobody ever wanted anything to do with the weird kid.

"Hey there little guy, do you want to be friends?" The dove pecked Jaune's shoulder, unafraid of Jaune's fingering inching closer. The connection's complete when it suddenly latched onto Jaune's finger, bonding with the Arc with an invisible force. "I guess that's a yes. You got a name." The dove tilted its head. "I didn't think so, how about I give you one? Hn? How about Noah? That's my grandpa's name. And your feathers kind of reminds me of his white hair."

Noah squawked, sounding very bird-like. It flew off Jaune's finger and landed on his other shoulder, tilting its head a few times before pecking his shoulder once more.

Laughing, Jaune smiled. "I'll take that as a yes. And I don't know why, but you look like a Noah. So it fits." Squawk! "No need to be so loud, you're right next to my shoulder." Squawk. "That's better." Tweet? "How many sounds do you know?" Whistle. "You birds and your colorful vocabulary, will it ever end?"

Hoping his new friend was here to stay, at least on his birthday, Jaune allowed the little guy to use his shoulder as a makeshift branch, undeterred by the sudden weight if he gave him a new friend. Sure, a Mourning Dove wasn't exactly a normal type of friend, but his friend list's nonexistent. Beggars couldn't be choosers, besides, he liked the little guy. Best not to push his luck any more than he already had.

Turning around, Jaune's caught-off-guard when Noah flew off his shoulder to continuous fly in a never-ending circle in front him, making bird sounds to gather his attention. He's confused, immensely so. If the bird had just left, he could understand that, but it's doing no such thing. Whatever attention it's seeking from him, it's got it. Now what did Noah want from him?

"What?" Jaune peered around, finding nothing. He asked again. "What is it?"

Hearing Jaune's call, Noah suddenly flew off in a direction that's away from his home and town, low and away from the sky. Jaune didn't know what to think, so he opted to go back inside, figuring the bird finally decided to leave. Of course his actions were downright stopped when Noah suddenly flapped angrily in front of his face, making louder bird noises, permanently halting any progress he's making back inside. The bird then did a quick spin before flying back in the direction it once had, making sure this time to stop on a nearby bush where olives were growing.

Looking between the dove and his house, Jaune sighed tiredly and decided to humor Noah and see what he wanted. In the end, it could all just be in his imagination and maybe all the bird wanted to do was mess with him. Hard to believe, but the world's not a warm place full of happiness and security. Only a fool believed in that.

Walking toward Noah, the bird flew off the branch and remained floating above the ground, at Jaune's waist level. It did a quick circle before venturing deeper into the forest, where Jaune's considering his options, but a bird sound from inside made him reluctantly move his feet forward, if only just a little.

"Where is that dumb bird leading me to?" Given no answer, he followed. For minutes he walked into the forest, mentally recounting each step so he could make it back home. "Seriously, where are you taking me?"

Each step wanted to make him turn back, especially since he's still holding all the things he bought from the vendor. The weight's getting to him, and so was all the walking without pause. He's just about to give up and turn back, but a child's scream grabbed his attention, and Jaune whipped his head toward the direction, suddenly noticing Noah flying not waist level, but high in the sky, circling around a section of the area hidden by trees.

Jaune legs were frozen, unable to move, but the scream's louder this time and whatever fear he had was overcame by his Arc pride. Without anymore hesitation, he's sprinting toward the scream, ignoring desperately the burning coming from his muscles. The branches he barely pushed away hit him on the back, and he's burning with overexertion when he finally pushed through the last bush, spotting the child in trouble almost instantly. And she's not alone. There were a couple of men dressed in white, with a bloody panther drawn on their back, approaching the girl with weapons meant to harm or even kill. Without needing to ask, he knew who they were—The White Fang—terrorist.

One of the two slapped the other on the back of his head. "Hurry up and grab the brat, Adam wants her alive! And be careful! The freak is dangerous!"

"Leave me alone! Go away!" The child screamed. She sobbed and cried. She couldn't be any more than seven. She held onto some makeshift plushy with all her might. Her snowy white hair contrasted the blood on her tiny blouse. Her heavy blue eyes blinked with innocence. Then they land on Jaune and the little dove landing on his shoulder. For some reason, she felt her hope rising when she saw the weaken teen. "Mister! Please make these bad people go away!"

Erasing any chance of a sneak attack, not like Jaune was planning such a thing, the grunts turn around to spot Jaune resting on the side of the tree in his makeshift getup. They took a moment to judge his appearance, glancing between the armor and sword before taking in his skeleton like cheek bones and pale skin. Then they laugh. They laugh long and hard.

The grunt ribbed the guy next to him. "Check it out! This wimp can barely stand! I actually feel bad for the kid. He can barely hold himself up!"

Jaune glared, hating how true their words were. At the same time, his eyes land on the little girl with snowy white hair, begging for Jaune to do something with her large, innocent eyes. The only problem, he didn't know what he could do. Jaune's the last person in Remnant with the strength to fight. He had zero chance, zero hope!

There's nothing, but perhaps he could buy time for her to run.

Jaune didn't know why or how his body managed to produce enough energy to move as fast as it did, but it did. He charged at the White Fang grunts, bringing down Durandal with an ill-practice swing. The grunt he aimed for hardly wasted any energy in bringing up a mace he used as a weapon, whereas the other one using a red sword kicked Jaune away, laughing as he did so. Even with the masks on, Jaune could tell the other one was a female.

"You call that an attack?" she laughed, almost holding her sides. "You poor, delusional human, don't you realize you're in way over your head? Just look at you! Skin and bones, much? Killing you will be a mercy killing, and I don't help human scum. So run along already. And thanks for the laughs. I really needed that."

Getting up, Jaune coughed out blood, only truly realizing how weak his body really was. The cough alone almost brought him down to his knees. He's only standing because he'd stabbed Durandal into the ground, but that gesture almost broke the blade in two. His grass armor had broken partially from the kick to his stomach, and some of it was covered in his blood. Still, he didn't take the out, knowing he would hate himself forever if he allowed these guys to lay a single finger on the frighten child.

Reaching out with the last of his fading strength, Jaune pushed away the tears in her eyes, fully prepared to die to spare this little girl. She had a brighter future. She had hope! Her life wasn't worth nothing. Not like his, not like his. He almost laughed at the irony of doing this on his birthday, almost. Maybe, in a perfect sort of way, this was the miracle his mother was talking about.

He was the miracle for the little girl before him.

Lunging forward, Jaune brought up Durandal from his side, attempting to land any type of slash on the White Fang grunts before him, but his actions were stopped midway with a block by the guy's mace. And before Jaune could even realize what's happening, he's cut in the chest by the female's sword, destroying both his sword and body. Then the mace was brought down upon his head, crashing the wounded teen hard onto the ground, breaking all his armor, splitting his shield, and obliterating the hilt of Durandal.

Still, even with the darkness overcoming him, Jaune managed to look up and plead with the girl. "Go..." he coughed, feeling the coldness entrapping him. "Go... Run! Run now!"

Trapped in her spot, she did no such thing, driven by fear and forlorn hope. Instantly, she overcame both things and shook her head, crying out with tears in her eyes.

"Get up, Mister..." Jaune threw her one last smile before a sword was brought down into his chest, tearing his heart in two. Till the almost bitter end, Jaune remained smiling. And as childish hope went, she yelled out much stronger this time, tears streaming down her eyes. "Mister! Mister! Please don't lose!"

Fading away, Jaune's mind remembered the last moments he spent with his mother, recounting their last conversation with clarity. As the darkness soon began to take him and his senses, her gentle voice cut through it all, like some beacon or lighthouse, filling his mind with happiness in its final moments.

Hope never dies...

No matter how much you push it down... it always finds a way to get back up again... stronger than before...

It's the power to say yes... it's unbreakable... unbeatable... undeniable... unquestionable...

As long as even the tiniest of glimmers beats in people's hearts... You can always find a way to do the impossible...

Jaune's consciousness started to fade little by little. The world around him grew bleaker. His very blood pooled around him, warm to the contrasting cold his body was experiencing. The little girl was curled up by a broken wall, fighting off the White Fang with false courage followed by weaker words. Turns out he even failed at dying a worthwhile death. Such was the Fate of the child with zero hope.

Remember... Jaune...

"Mister!" screamed the seven-year-old, tears leaking down her cheeks. Funny, she never did get his name. And now she's hysterical and broken in two. Only the Pumpkin Pete plushy she's holding supported her as a makeshift defense. "Get up! Get up! Pretty please! You're my only hope!"

Don't ever lose hope...

Him? Her hope? That's funny. Real funny. He never had such a thing before. And now she's calling him that, the very thing that had forsaken him. It's so funny that it hurt to think about. Oddly enough, Jaune silently wished he could be her hope, if only just for a little while. At the very least then, she'd have a chance. Maybe a miracle would occur?

And don't worry if you do...

Possibly. Maybe. Yes?

Because you know why? Hope will always manage to find a way to find you...

For once Jaune Arc hoped a miracle would occur. He's hoping on it.

You just got to stop running from it...

Noah flew over Jaune's mutilated body, peering down at the fallen Arc from the top of a nearby olive tree. It tilted its head before breaking off a chunk of the green branch with its beak, and flew straight down toward Jaune. The dove then glowed a shade of green, glad for Jaune to finally believe in miracles, but most importantly, to believe in hope once more. The dove wouldn't let Jaune down. It's more than just an animal. It's the figment of hope his mother and father entrusted the day he was born. It's a semblance of the threat that tied beliefs and power together.

It's the Semblance of Hope.

Hope was the power to make miracles happen.

Noah's Arc shall become the beacon of hope in the world drowning in despair.

A miracle can happen more than once...

Lub-dub!

Flying above Jaune's body, and alerting both the White Fang and the crying child, Noah flapped its wing above Jaune's body, glowing green as a circular ring of Aura surrounded its body. Soon all of Jaune's broken and dead body, plus blood, began to glow green, alongside his armor and weapon prior to his death, and broke apart to condense around the ring of green Aura. Then the olive branch in Noah's beak broke apart and fluttered around the ring of green Aura, shaping into the Arc's crest, unmistakable and undeniable.

The female grunt backed away, wondering why the kid's body was glowing green and then breaking apart to condense around that damn bird. "What the hell is going on?!"

A bright flash of green illuminated the forest, blinding the witnesses to the sudden light show. Her answer then came a moment later when a body landed down from where the dove had been, kneeling partially on the floor with a sword clutched dangerously in his hand. And Jaune Arc's consciousness reawakened with renewed vigor. A green light shined from his body, breaking him down into nothing before reforming him back into something. Every pore on his body felt alive and for the first time in years, Jaune Arc felt truly alive. Whatever logic he contained pointed to his Semblance, and understandably, that's the only possible conclusion Jaune could come up. Nothing else even came remotely close. And nothing else honestly mattered at the severe moment.

Getting up, Jaune moved on autopilot as the shock of not being dead was still nerving him. He opened his energetic eyes a second later, feeling better than he'd ever had in his natural life. Upon his revival, the Arc moved reflexively, forgetful of the new weight pressed down upon his shoulders. There's this air of power filling his lungs, and his muscles didn't burn with overexertion. Each one of his cells felt alive. Everything just felt damn fantastic!

"H-Hey?! What the hell happened to the punk?"

Glaring fearfully at the once killed human, the White Fang grunts took in Jaune's appearance, drinking in the sudden transformation with both awe and fear.

Standing before them was not some weak boy, but a totally changed man. His broken sword had been repaired magically, seeming more durable and rust-free, a glaring comparison to the piece of scrap from before. The metal gauntlets he had worn were stainless and practically new, shining in the light. That sad green armor of leaves had turned to metal, exposing parts of his abdomen, fearless to damage, and clung to a body that no longer lacked definition. His shield was fully repaired, shining in the gleaming sun, perfectly circular without any indents. And there's an olive wreath around his forehead that's completely made of olive branches and metal. And last but not least, Jaune's face no longer resembled that sickly skeleton from before. The minus of definition on his cheeks had been erased. There's actual meat under there, muscle, pure muscle.

Eternally confused still, Jaune lifted up his armored hands, soaking in the power overflowing through his veins, and best of all, they're not shaking. His hands were remaining completely still, not faltering at all to the metal wrapped around them. In fact, Jaune couldn't even tell if it was just him or if the metal was simply weightless. He then peered over to the shield, impressed by its slick appearance, where even his Arc crescents have suddenly found themselves etched in pure green. And finally he's lifting up Durandal, amazed not a spec of rust was visible. If anything, there's more metal alongside the blade, and the hilt was slightly longer, green with a streak of green following along the blade from the base to the top, ending right at edge.

Lastly, he noticed that his hair was being held up by an olive wreath, pushing some of his hair back and that the damage done to his chest and body had completely healed. Better! His body felt like it's on fire, warm and pumping with untold amounts of adrenaline.

"What the hell!" Stopping his inspection, the confusion left Jaune's eyes as he turned to stare at White Fang grunts. "W-What? What the hell just happen—you're supposed to be dead!"

Didn't she think he knew that? Everyone knew that. He knew that. None of what's happening was making any sense to him. He knew it's not his Aura. He'd never had much to begin with, and even he knew the limitations of damage Aura could reverse. And Jaune carried no Dust, so impossibly so, this had to be his Semblance? Had to be!

Jaune's never managed to figure out what his Semblance was. Could this truly be it?

"You're up! You're up!" It's her again, that little kid with a heart too big for her body since she's able to believe in a guy like him. She's hopping on both her legs, toothy smile aimed directly at the panicked Arc. "All my hope came true! It's a miracle!" Then she's hugging him tightly on his leg, innocent to all the death all around them. "I know you can win! I just know it!"

Jaune blinked? Hope? Miracle?

The female White Fang grunt stepped forward. "Hey! Shut up, you brat! You're coming with us! And you!" She pointed at Jaune's still comatose appearance. "I don't know how you did what you did, but I do know I'm finishing the job! Prepare to be buried ten feet under!"

Widening his eyes out of instinct, Jaune lacked fears as he held up Forlorn, robbing her hope of any chance of striking him, effectively stopping her attack. He's not sure how he did that entirely. Partially, he thanked practicing with a toy sword, whenever the opportunity had arisen, and he also questioned the possibility of feeling like all her moves were more sluggish than before. Or maybe he's just far faster than before—hard to tell. But what really set his nerves on fire was the fact he's holding her back with ease, hardly wasting any effort in not only stopping her attack, but also pushing her back.

Hope revived; Jaune counted his blessing as a sudden miracle and work of his unknown Semblance, and swiped her blade away, forgetting about what ifs and whys, he's more focused on the here and now. And the here and now was protecting this little girl from being taken by these two White Fang grunts, whatever the reason may be. In the end, he didn't care, because it didn't matter. Nothing good could come from it. All that matters was beating these two. And he's feeling hopeful for the first time in almost a decade.

Standing in front of the child, Jaune held his shield up and sword back, glaring with actual emotion. The olive wreath prevented his hair from getting in his eyes, allowing the Arc to see every movement of the enemy. His green armor bent to the way he moved, acting almost as a second skin, just like the gauntlets and fused headband.

"I don't know what's happening." Jaune said honestly, full of hope. "But stay away from her! Your fight's with me!"

The male Faunus clicked his teeth together, angry behind his mask. He charged at Jaune with his mace raised. "I wouldn't talk so big if I was you! Damn, human!"

Now Jaune knew why he was able to block that woman's attack. They're not moving fast at all. Compared to his newfound strength, they're weak to his might. Weak to his speed! Weak to his Semblance! And they're weak to his power.

On this day, during this very fight, no miracles were coming to save them.

Trusting in his sudden strength, Jaune glared and raised Durandal, flicking away the man's mace before landing an awkward punch to his neck. It's not his most glamorous move, but his skills might as well be rustier than the sword he bought an hour ago. What good was power if Jaune didn't know how to shepherd it? Didn't know how to control or properly wield it? He needed practice. And he needed a lot of it.

Again, a problem he could worry about later.

Flipping his attention toward the woman charging at him with a blade raised, ready to cut his arm up, he barely moved Forlorn in time to intercept her blade, using that small moment to push her back. Before she could recover her bearings, a sudden kick to her stomach sent her flying into a tree, forcing her to cough up blood from the momentum and crash. And when she glanced up a second later, Durandal's pointed down at her, centimeters away from her throat.

"You've lost. Give up. There's no—?!" Jaune's suddenly flung away from a bash to the skull by the other man's mace, sending him crashing back onto the floor. A pool of blood began to build from where his head lay. He's motionless, unconscious from the sudden blow, dying even.

The Faunus gloated, laughing tiredly. "Take that, brat! You're number's up! I don't know how you managed to get up a second time, but don't you know, a miracle only happens once—?!"

Jaune's blood turned into that same shade of green as before, glowing alongside the rest of his body. Just like before, a dove made out of green energy flew out, only this time from out his body, and all of Jaune's Aura centered along the rim of the arc crests forming in midair. The process only lasted a few seconds compared to the dramatic light show from the previous time. Only difference, his body reformed in a standing position, free from injury and damage. His eyes were focused and whatever transpired before seemed to have accomplished nothing in the saddest sense.

Gauging the situation, Jaune glared up, forehead now partially covered in a thin sheet of metal from where the Faunus had struck him, shining in the sun alongside his olive wreath. He's a beacon of hope, completely unscathed by the man's attempts to push him down.

A miracle can happen more than once...

Pointing Durandal at the Faunus, Jaune allowed his eyes to succumb to the briefest moment of curiosity. He felt his Aura almost completely drained, silently figuring out there would be no third miracle, no matter how much he hoped for one if he should fall for a fourth time. That was if his Aura and Semblance were connected as such, but logic and reason point that as the truth. So he saw no reason to question it. All he wondered was how his Semblance worked. But such questions elude him for now, because to be perfectly honest, his attention's captured by the Faunus's proclamation.

"If miracles only happen once, what are they called the second time?"

Author Notes: This would be my main Semblance story if I ever wrote one, where Jaune Arc literally becomes the symbol of Hope. This story was made because I finally hit 1000 followers and favorites for my profile, and Green is the color of Hope.