48. A Mad Resolve (Part 2)

Jaune eased himself down the narrow staircase. Each step down, felt heavier than the last. The household was already waking. Jaune could already hear the echoes of light conversation drifting up from the kitchen to his ears, his mom's friendly tone and his dad's low laughter. It felt oddly soothing after his experience. Like the faintest anchor in the memory of his dream.

At the bottom, he paused in the doorway. His parents were seated at the breakfast table with steam curling from their mugs of tea and toast crumbs scattered on their plates. They laughed softly about the neighbors' latest garden mishap, the fallen trellis and Mrs. Gunderson's dramatic reaction, the way she apparently chased her husband brandishing a watering can like a weapon.

Normally, Jaune would've joined in—laughed at the visual, teased his dad gently. But this time, the lightness felt distant, as though someone else was telling the joke.

"Morning, kiddo," his mom said, looking up. Her dark red hair caught the sunlight streaming through the window and framed her face in a warm halo. Perhaps she saw something in his gaze, so she set her mug down and reached out to squeeze his shoulder.

"You okay?" she asked softly.

Jaune touched his own shoulder, as though surprised to feel it there. He shrugged and dropped into a chair.

"Fine," he said. He lifted a mug of tea to his lips but he could barely taste it.

His dad glanced at him through the corner of his eye. "You sure? You seem a bit..." He paused, looking for the right word. "Glum."

Jaune stiffened, suddenly self-conscious. His mom frowned gently, watching him with concern. He swallowed. The memory of Raymond—so calm in the face of death, the way the spear had found him—came rushing back like a tidal wave. He shook his head.

"Bad dream," he murmured an excuse.

His mom exchanged a look with his dad. Then she reached forward and released a sachet of calming tea into his cup—a blend she insisted was good for nerves.

He sipped it. The mild sweetness and comforting warmth spread through his body, tempting him to believe in simpler mornings again, free of death and mystery.

Breakfast continued with gentle rhythms, his parents resumed their conversation about the neighbors, cheerful giggles floating up when they mentioned Mr. Gunderson's escape in bright flannel pajamas. His sisters, finally up, padded downstairs and joined them. The atmosphere felt homey and soft—completely dissonant with the bloody violence of his dreams.

He ate mechanically. One sister asked about school. Another talked about a song she couldn't remember. There was chatter about wishing that they could miss school tomorrow. Somewhere, laughter erupted as someone teased Jade about her new pair of shoes.

Jaune smiled faintly, trying to keep the sadness from his expression. None of his sisters said anything so he assumed that he had done a good job. They treated him normally, like it was any other boring morning—bite your toast, pass the jam, wash your hands.

After breakfast, he cleared the dishes with a nod and a quiet "thanks" for the tea. Then, still lost in thought, he carried his sword, Crocea Mors out to the back yard.

The garden behind their house—what few weeds remained and what patches of grass stubbornly clung on—became his practice arena. He drew the sword and began going through the forms Grise had taught him—grand steps, controlled strikes, footwork drills.

His movements were precise but not fluid. The recent battles, both in dreams and in reckoning his own weakness, weighed on him. His mind kept sliding to Raymond's death, or what looked like death. What if Raymond had truly died? What if he'd been wrong about his calm reassurance? He felt guilt and most importantly, responsibility. Raymond had used himself to protect Jaune—had he thrown himself away?

Each thrust, each slash, carried that question. Jaune repeated the forms until his muscles burned—lunging, stepping, parrying the air, pivoting on his heel. He struck with intent, feeling blade meet air and ground beneath booted feet.

The afternoon sun warmed his back through the jacket, but Jaune barely noticed.

Then footsteps.

He looked up to see twin sisters Celeste and Violet, hair pulled into pigtails, stepping silently to the patio. They perched on the edge, eyes wide, watching him.

"What got you so into swordsmanship, all of a sudden?" Violet asked.

Jaune paused, disarmed. He glanced around, half-expecting to see a monster surge from the bushes. But there was only soft golden light and the sound of birds.

"To protect myself, and others." he added quietly, answering her question.

"Protection others is quite noble." Celeste replied. "You almost sound like a knight from an ancient era bygone."

He smiled briefly, then turned back and resumed practicing. The girls clapped softly to themselves in encouragement. Their cheers were simple, yet he found comfort in their voices.

He repeated the forms from memory and while it wasn't perfect, defensive blocks, flowing cuts and thrusting strikes weren't too hard to perform.

After nearly an hour, he slowed his movements down to a complete stop. He finished with a final downward swing and sheathed the sword. His muscles trembled slightly, fatigue pulling his shoulders forward.

He marched over to the garden's small grassy patch and sat down, legs stretched out. His clothes felt heavier now than when he'd begun. He stared at the clouds drifting lazily overhead, their shapes shifting slowly. A duck cloud, a boat and one that looked like a face.

The twins had retreated a while ago, leaving just the rustle of leaves and the quiet hum of his heart. But then Jade appeared, arriving from the side path with her own yoga mat, setting it down a short distance away from him.

Their age difference made it harder for him to gauge her mood. Even at seventeen, she walked with a quiet confidence—slender, poised and with that thoughtful expression she often wore when concentrating on a book. Today, she sat down without a word, cross-legged beside him.

They lay back together on the grass, shoulders touching. He could feel her presence—steady and calm.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked gently.

Jaune turned his head and studied the sky, looking for something safe in the drifting clouds.

"Bad dream," he said softly.

Jade hummed.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked after a moment.

He closed his eyes, considering talking about his experiences. But the horror still slicked his mind. He shook his head.

"I'm okay," he lied, but only kind of. "I don't want to relive it."

"That's fine," she said. "Not everything needs words."

They lay in silence a few minutes. He watched a cloud like two birds flying, then another like drifting sand. He focused on breathing—deep, even breaths to slow his racing thoughts.

"Jade... do you ever feel... weak. Helpless?"

Jade shifted and looked over at him with thoughtfulness in her eyes.

"You think you're... weak?"

Her words caught him off-guard. He felt hollow. He hesitated.

"Not sure." he admitted. "But sometimes, I feel like I am."

Jade nodded and kept quiet for a while. Jaune figured that she was probably chewing on what to say to him.

She was always conscientious like that.

After about a minute of keeping quiet, Jade spoke up again.

"I read something once," she hummed out.

"A quote. 'Weakness is not a state—it's a choice. The only way to lose it is to refuse it.'"

Jaune stared at the sky, not responding to her words. A cloud drifted overhead, feathered edges glowing white.

"If you feel weak, do something about it," she continued quietly. "Mind, body or willpower—all you need to do is to choose to get stronger. Step by step."

Her words drifted over him lightly, accompanied by a soft breeze.

Jade closed her eyes and returning to a half-sleeping state of cloud-watching and napping. This left him with space to think.

The afternoon light softened, turning pale gold as late day approached. The quiet of the garden promised a peace that felt unfamiliar but necessary.

Jaune exhaled. He felt neither stronger nor weaker, but he felt something else. Resolve maybe. He wasn't sure. The feeling slipped away from his fingers as his eyes trailed the clouds.

Maybe Jade's words were more than mere echoes. There was wisdom in them yes, but how could Jaune do something about it when he felt so lost?

He closed his eyes, letting warmth soak into him. Each breath, steady and slow.

They didn't talk again, and that was okay.

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AN: Does anyone even read this? <