It happens every night / I watch my world ignite / But there's no waking from this nightmare



The fall of Beacon was by no doubt a shock heard 'round the world; communications lost, homes lost, lives lost. But the people of Vale would rebuild. Humanity is made of stern stuff – we'll make it through this together. At least, that's what she had been told.



Yang Xiao Long herself was less sure of this. Sure, she had moved on, they all had in their own way, setting off to pick up the pieces of a shattered world. But she didn't feel rebuilt, how could she with the constant reminder by her side? To lose an arm was not the end of the world, Ty had told her, and she knew he was right. Day by day the replacement became more a part of her, to the point where she sometimes forgot it wasn't truly hers. The arm, she could live with. The nightmares were another story.



She had scared the hell out of her father and sister the night of her first performance, the screams bringing them running to her room where she sat bolt upright in bed, panting in a puddle of sweat. After the first few nights, the reactions were less frenzied – her father or sometimes sister walking into the room to ease her back to sleep, stroking her hair till the welcoming arms of oblivion enveloped her. Over time, the screaming stopped, locked away in a chest with her other weaknesses. Yet the dream was still there, like the tremors in her hand, pulling at her, beckoning her back to the stage as if to say, "on with the show!"



At first, she tried not to sleep, a cup of coffee and a book keeping her company through the nights, but as she knew all too well, the human body, no matter how determined the mind, cannot survive forever without rest. Thus, loathe though she was to give in, she eventually succumbed to the dark, falling into the cool refreshing waters of sleep, her body drinking eagerly.



Yet there was no respite for her mind – as if through a deep pool she saw herself, armed and confident, striding through the wreckage of Beacon, calling for her partner. The image of her turns, hearing a noise from inside the adjacent dining hall. Yang suddenly sees through her eyes; a fire-lit room, a black-cloaked bull, hidden eyes, a thorn planting itself in her partner's side. There is no sound as the sword makes contact, only the all-encompassing roar of the inferno exploding in her head, a spark of a whisper burst into flame. There is no thought, no strategy, only one truth: this monster must die.



She flies through the air, fist at the ready to meet the beast's head, eyes burning, and the moon shatters. At first, all she feels is the breeze; the strange intrusion of air where never before has it been felt. Then the needles begin, like white-hot pokers along the surface of the skin, crawling up her arm. Momentum abated, she crashes to the floor next to her partner, as her vision goes black.



There is no scream, only the ache in her arm, and the empty room around her, nothing but her ragged breathing for company. This, she tells herself, is the worst part. Pain, she is accustomed to. The root of her strength, the spark to her flame, she can accommodate pain. But the sense of abandonment is worse – her drive, her unwavering commitment to her partner, and then nothing. To discover Blake, as much a part of her as her arm, is rent from her side, is not pain. It is torture.





Months later, a brief moment of respite. She and her team have survived the assault on Haven, the relic theirs, Adam rebuffed, and their team reunited. Yang settles into her bed at the inn, hoping that maybe, just maybe, this time the rest will be peaceful.



There is no waking from this nightmare.



A shock of yellow hair turns to gaze through a broken window. A sword falls. The girl in the dream launches herself forward. Yang is in her head, she sees through her eyes, but this time her mind is her own. And yet there is nothing she can do to halt the body that has become her costume, nothing she can do but step onto the stage and face the waiting blade. Except, something has changed, some difference in the scene, some minute shift in the blocking of the performance. Yang almost feels the urge to consult a script, to prove the incorrectness of this deviation from the plot.



As the monster before her turns, a smirk beneath the mask and his sword returned to its scabbard, Yang's mind flies away, to a lunch held around a table in this very room. Her little sister, on the other side of the table, spears a cherry tomato with a fork, grimacing at it like a gift Zwei had left on the carpet when too long neglected. Getting Ruby to even contemplate a salad had taken no small feat of convincing from Yang and her teammates. Finally relenting, their cookie craving captain had selected a small plate covered in more fruit and candied nuts than greens. Looking down her nose disdainfully at the healthy item daring to masquerade as an attractive sweet, Ruby takes a bite, and before anyone can react, the juice and seeds splatter across Weiss's face and dress. As Yang laughs at Weiss's furious glare and her sister's mortified expression, a finger raises to Weiss's face to wipe away the juice.



The finger does not belong to Weiss, and it is not wiping away tomato juice. Reality floods back into Yang's mind, as she becomes aware of a coldness in her gut. She looks down to see herself impaled upon the bull's thorn, shards of ice made their way through her body, freezing and burning at the same time as the pain comes. There is nothing she can do as the sword holding her up angles down and her body slumps to the floor. There is no breath to scream, no strength to move. Through her darkening eyes, she watches the boots in front of her turn back towards her partner, sees a golden eye flick open to watch the sword descending upon its neck.



A single, ragged breath enters and escapes her lungs, a wisp of smoke from her lips accompanying the white-hot flames burning in her eyes to rival the sun. As the sword falls, she launches herself towards its wielder, the familiar roar filling her ears, a soundless scream filling her mouth, her hand outstretched to knock away the descending blade. Almost to fast to perceive, the sword falls, and Yang Xiao Long takes one last look into her partner, her Blake's golden eyes, as head parts from body. The lights go down, the curtains fall, crashing to the stage to hide her partner's severed head.





Yang awoke on the floor, tangled in her bedsheets, the moon before her. Its contours seemed to shimmer and waver, dancing with the tears that streamed down her face. Ragged breaths interspersed by broken sobs kept her company in the dark room. She did not hear the door click open, did not become aware of the intruder until they wrapped their arms around her, resting their head on her shoulder. "Bad dream?", her partner's husky whisper inquired. Yang steeled herself, trying to gather the resolve and breath to respond, the echoes of the pain in her stomach still snaking their way through her being; "Every night. Every night since Beacon", she felt the head on her shoulder shift, and pictured the worried frown. How could someone who cared for themselves so little care so much for her teammate? She pushed the thought aside and continued; "He killed us Blake, Adam killed us both. I tried to save you, but he… I couldn't stop…", her voice broke into another body-wracking sob. Blake pulled her closer, again whispering in her ear; "But he didn't. We're okay, we're still here."



They sat there for some time, the moon eventually settling back into its usual inanimate state as Blake ran her fingers through her partner's golden hair, the other hand holding her tight. Yang's sobs quieted, her shoulders ceased to shake. Feeling her partner's calm, Blake moved to stand, but a hand on her arm held her there. "Don't leave." Yang turned to meet her eyes, and Blake no longer saw her partner, but a scared and hurt little girl, almost expecting to see her sister in a wagon behind. Blake blinked, and her friend returned, the unfamiliar vulnerability still written on her face; "Please, I can't stand to be alone anymore," tears again welling in the large lavender eyes. The faunus felt a growing lump in her throat as the realization came to her; Yang's nightmares had little to do with her arm. She had abandoned her.



For all her worries about protecting her friends, about facing her demons on her own, she had not considered the impact of her departure, what it would mean to the girl who had been willing to do anything for her, to whom loss was no stranger. Her golden eyes filmed with tears as she stared into the lavender pools before her. How could she say no? How could she possibly abandon her partner, her friend, again? The lump rising in her throat, she again rested her chin on Yang's shoulder, if only to hide the tears as her throat closed in on itself. "I… suppose I could stay, just for tonight." The strong hand on her arm released, only to join the other around her back as the blonde pulled her close, the heat of her body enveloping her like a warm blanket, lulling her to sleep. As they lay on the floor, she felt herself drifting. A soft whisper slipped into her ear as a hand caressed the fur under her bow, toying with the edges of a dream; "No… stay forever."



The garden called to her, a dream she'd experienced before. Sunflowers, trees, velvet grass sprawled on seemingly forever, an armada of birds and butterflies welcomed her. Blake walked to a familiar spot under a large oak, its roots shaped just right for sitting and reading. As she curled into the nook of the tree, a book suddenly in hand, a single bumblebee landed on the back of the other, its antenna probing almost as if to stroke her hand. The words floated in the air, resting on a cloud, bathing in a brook, rustling through the grass, blowing through the trees, a song on the breeze; "stay forever." "How strange," she mused to nobody in particular, "a bee with violet eyes."





Ruby found them there in the morning, bedsheets in a pile on the floor, Blake curled up in Yang's arms, her bow crooked as an ear poked out from underneath. A smile lit the young huntress' face, content that all was right in the world. Wafting from the kitchen, her nose caught a whiff of pancakes, her ears the inevitable sound of Ren gently scolding Nora for drinking the syrup, Jaune laughing at his teammates' antics. Yes, in this place, in this moment, all was well.

