The Same Cloth

On an evening like any other, brightly colored flowers swayed, in full bloom. Birds chirped and danced through the air in elegant arcs. A pleasant warmth washed over the town as the fiery orange sun began to descend, lulling its inhabitants into a dreamlike state. He liked days like these. In fact, he was so taken with the calming atmosphere outside the window that he barely recognized the sound of his mother calling for him before beasts tore their home apart.

They ripped through the walls like paper, dark masses cloaked in still-darker shadows. Their inhuman growls reverberated through him, and he came face to face with the glaring red eyes of the one closest to him. It didn't just see him. It saw through him.

This was it, after all this time: they were coming for those hidden within. Coming for him.

Although he'd never been terribly athletic - mostly by choice - his legs seemed to forget their former limitations. He sprinted as quickly as his spindly figure would allow, not daring to turn around and check whether the creatures broke through yet, or how close they were to him. He knew that if he looked back, he would freeze up, and if he froze, he was finished.

He tore through the doorway to the room at the end of the hall, where he found his mother waiting for him. She was lifting an emergency hatch for everyone to climb into. He looked around at the few neighbors who stood nearby, their faces white with horror at the sounds coming from just beyond the door. They had only stopped by to visit and catch up over food, but now they found themselves trapped in a life or death situation. He grimaced, pulling the door shut. Everything in him shook with fear, but he couldn't let himself stop now. While he sat on the floor, knees hugged to his chest, he let his mind wander, trying not to count how long it took for each terrified person to climb down the hatch. Trying to keep a level head, or as close to one as could be expected in this situation.

"Son, hurry!" his mother urged. "You next."

Nodding, he stood and took wobbly, but hurried, steps toward the hatch, lowering himself into it with ease. The moment he did, a loud crack and a roar sent everyone into a panic. Tears streamed down his mother's face. She bit her lip and handed him off to the man on the ladder below him, then rushed to follow after him. A dark, smoky claw penetrated the doorway, swiping wildly, and grazed his frantic mother's back. She half-fell, half-lowered herself through the hatch, and somehow found the strength to pull it closed as she went.

Down in the tunnels, everyone crowded around her, ensuring she could still move. Several of the townspeople began whispering in fear, and someone even started a headcount.

"Mom!" he wailed, nudging his way closer to her side. Hot tears stung his face, but she simply smiled down at him.

"I'm okay." She panted, patting him on the head, and looked around at her concerned peers. "I can still make it. Let's go."

Trudging along, his mother led the group through the underground tunnels that the village elder ordered the town's residents to hollow out many years ago. They were built for occasions just like this one.

The Grimm had come for them seemingly out of nowhere. The boy could hardly believe any of this. He'd been right by the wall, and hadn't even heard them until they were almost on top of him. While their town passed on many stories over the years that emphasized how fast and ferocious the creatures could be, he never believed those cheap fear-baiting tales until now.

"Hold!" cried an echoing voice from beyond the tunnel's exit. Standing at its center was a tall, big-boned man whose sinewy arms were easy to see even in the dim light the tunnel afforded.

Everyone came to an abrupt halt, looking on as the man and several other townspeople armed with weapons hacked away at, stabbed, and beat back unseen enemies. The creatures' animalistic noises dwindled, then completely died out. Satisfied with his group's work, the man gestured for the fleeing party to come out of hiding. A line of armed militia stood casually, surveying their handiwork. Fallen black bodies, and several stray limbs, dissolved into the night sky like scattered dust. A few of those in the savior party had cuts or bruises, but they appeared to be in good enough shape overall. Fortunately, this town was home to many competent fighters.

The boy gazed around the outskirts of town in awe. Men, women, and even a few children only a little older than himself spread out into a half-circle, checking for more enemies. They weren't exactly trained Huntsman and Huntresses, but their plan to overcome numbers with teamwork had served the town well thus far. The boy was so relieved, he almost allowed himself to forget the threat the Grimm posed. That is, until his mother crouched to the ground, grunting in pain, and lifted up a hand coated in blood.

"Mother! Are you alright?"

"H-hurry," she said raspily, nearly collapsing before two of her peers slipped an arm under either of her shoulders. "We can hide in the forest."

"Take her and go!" the man barked, passing a locked box used for weapon storage and its key to one of the non-combatants. "You all may need to use these."

The boy, his mother, their neighbors, and more fleeing townspeople who were only now emerging from the tunnels, huddled together and made their way through the trees and brush. Staring back at the man, the boy watched him fend off Beowolves alongside his comrades.

In prior years, the warriors in town had often advised the boy to learn how to fight. They even offered to give personal lessons so he could defend his family if any of the Grimm ever showed up. He knew it was the common sense choice to accept, but the mere thought of facing one of those things chilled him to the bone. So, time and time again, he said no, not even so much as exercising to build muscle onto his beanpole-thin frame. He willingly led an unremarkable life. He ignored the possibility that one day, his blissful cowardice would be shattered by the appearance of Grimm. Now they were here, and as he had done in all other aspects of his life, he was running, hiding, and watching while others did all of the fighting. That same passivity had led to his mother's back injury.

The fleeing group pushed a fallen log up against a protruding ridge, hunkering down behind it for cover. Several others helped the boy lay his mother flat so they could examine her wound. He gasped, and covered his mouth to stifle the shock.

Long, narrow gashes on her formerly white outfit pooled with red, staining her entire back. The injury itself didn't seem fatal, according to one of the observers, but something about the way they spoke told him there was more they weren't saying aloud. He frowned up at the others, and they looked away. His mother leaned to one side, sharing a glance with one of the townspeople, who bent down to whisper to her while another one of the women pulled him aside to check him for bruises and cuts.

"No," he protested, shrugging her off, "I want to see mother!"

He broke free and knelt down beside his mother, who was no longer out in the open. Instead, she was laying on her side against the log, supported by someone behind her. Low, ragged breaths came in waves, and her eyes, wet and wandering, settled on him.

In the distance, gunfire and clangs of metal signaled that the fighting was getting closer. He peered over the edge of their hiding spot, and to his surprise, saw a familiar banner waving through the air, and multiple soldiers wearing armor that belonged to a local band of Huntsmen and Huntresses. They were saved!

Returning to his mother's side, he smiled broadly, exclaiming, "Mother! Huntsmen and Huntresses are here. They came to help!"

"Listen to me," his mother wheezed, raising a frail hand. "I can't stay with you any longer, my son."

"What?" he blubbered, his eyes filling with tears again. "Why not? They said your injury isn't that bad!"

"It's not, but I've lost too much blood."

Sniffling, the boy wheeled around and glared at his neighbors. "You're lying to her!" he spat, looking from one to the other. "She's going to be okay. She has to be."

During his outburst, someone dumped the contents of the weapons lockbox onto the ground, and they took turns picking one out from the stack. Raw anger burned in him. His mother was hurt, and they weren't even listening?!

"My boy," she said, calling him back to her. She lovingly wiped a hand across his cheek, the color draining from her face. "It isn't their fault. You need to get ready for the Grimm. More will come, because of all of our fear. So be a big, strong boy for me. Help the Huntsman and Huntresses stop them."

"No, mom! Not without you."

Someone reached for his arm and pulled him away. He thrashed wildly, but was unable to free himself this time. His mother squeezed his hand, and called out to him one last time before he was jerked away and a long, sturdy mace was placed into his hands.

"I love you, Cardin Winchester! Make your mother proud."

He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to turn around and wail on the person who was keeping him from his mother with the mace. But his body wouldn't move. All he could do was shake uncontrollably, trying to come to terms with what was happening around him. The sounds of battle drew closer. His mother didn't speak again. Even though he couldn't see her anymore, he knew something very bad had happened. He knew she was probably what grown-ups called 'dead' now, whatever that meant. He was 11 years old, and had never seen a dead person before.

"Cardin, get ready," said one of the adults. "Listen to your mother. No time for tears."

Almost as if on queue, his tears dried, and his shaking ceased. Giving one long, hard stare at the approaching swarm of Grimm, he clutched his weapon, a singular thought on his mind. One of them had taken her from him, so they would all die, if it was the last thing he did. He wasn't a weak, skinny boy anymore. He wasn't an untrained brat. He was the one who would get justice for what happened to his mother. If he needed to become strong to do that, then so be it: today, he would be strong. Every day from now on, he would be strong, until they were all wiped away, just like they had taken her from him.

Life at Beacon Academy was a little more lax than Cardin liked, but the combat opportunities, when they did present themselves, made up for it tenfold. He scoffed, staring across the room at that pipsqueak of a boy who somehow made it into the same class as him. He could barely lift his pathetic sword in the practice arena, let alone fight Grimm. He'd be eaten alive during his first field mission for sure. Years had passed since that day, but Cardin never forgot his mother's face, or her final words. He would never again be weak. Never again cower, cry, or hide. No matter what size the Grimm, he would face it head-on and do what was necessary. He looked down at the mace he still wielded to this day, and recalled his sworn vow of vengeance.

Jaune stumbled along, making his way across Cardin's line of sight. What an oaf. He was an undeserving idiot who made it into this prestigious school on a fluke, and Cardin was going to prove it if it was the last thing he did. Jaune was a crybaby and a loser. He was what Cardin himself used to be, and if he were being perfectly honest, that pissed him off.

He was never going back to that life again. Strength was everything. There was no room for people like Jaune, or for Cardin's weak former self, in his new world.