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Alter (rwby/Fate crossover with Jaune as a Demi servant of Jeanne Alter): chapter 1: Holiness and guts
🕑 Added 2025-09-11 01:44:45 +0000 UTCWrote in three hour straight today so probably not perfect but still, hope y’all like it
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Jaune Arc wanted to be a hero.
He wanted it the way a drowning man wants air, the way a child reaches for the stars with sticky fingers and foolish hope. He wanted it like it was owed to him—no, like he owed it to everyone who had ever whispered his name in a tone too close to disappointment. He wanted to bear the Arc legacy on his shoulders like golden armor, to carve his name into history beside the greats who wore the family crest with pride and purpose. To him, it had always been simple.
Slay monsters. Save people. Be brave.
But reality has a way of tarnishing dreams, dulling them like old blades.
So he lied.
He forged transcripts with shaking hands, each keystroke a quiet betrayal of everything the name “Arc” was supposed to stand for. But he had to. If he didn’t force the world to open its doors, they never would. If he didn’t cheat his way in, he’d rot outside the gates forever, a fake in truth and title both. Another failure who failed before he began.
Beacon accepted the lie.
He packed his things, all trembling fingers and second thoughts, and boarded the airship with a stomach full of guilt and a heart so loud he thought it might rupture. When he looked around, he saw warriors—real ones. Not boys in secondhand armor. Huntresses in training. Fighters with eyes like drawn steel.
Pyrrha Nikos. The Invincible Girl according to Weiss.
Nora Valkyrie, who moved like thunder wore roller skates.
Lie Ren, silent and sharp as a knife in a drawer.
Ruby, a child prodigy with petals in her wake.
Yang, all fire and ferocity.
Blake, with her shadowy stillness.
Weiss Schnee—flawless and frigid.
He stood among gods and tried to remember how to breathe.
The initiation wasn’t a test. It was a mirror. One that showed him exactly what he was: a boy with no training, no weapon worth speaking of, no skill, and no business being here.
Watching the others fight felt like witnessing some sacred performance. A choreography of power and grace—leaping blades, blazing bullets, blades bending through air like liquid light. He stumbled after them, tripping on roots and shame.
Pyrrha had touched his chest. Just once. Light poured through her fingers like something holy.
Aura.
It was something akin to a gift, a true superpower used by Huntsmen. A shield, a second skin. A miracle.
And yet… nothing changed. He was still Jaune Arc. Still the boy playing pretend in a suit of armor that didn’t quite fit. Aura wrapped around him like borrowed skin, and still his legs felt too heavy, his heart too loud, his hands too slow.
But somehow, he passed.
He passed the test. He killed no beasts, won no glory, but the system—flawed or merciful—let him through.
Then they made him a leader.
Leader of Team JNPR. Pyrrha, Nora, Ren… and him.
He nearly laughed. The others were blades and bolts, grace and strength and discipline. He was noise and doubt and an overwhelming fear of being seen for what he was.
That night, when the room fell quiet and the others settled into sleep, Jaune lay on one of the four beds and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe easy. His hands wouldn’t unclench. He could feel his Aura pulsing beneath his skin like a second heartbeat, and yet he felt no more powerful than he had the day before.
He wasn’t a leader. He wasn’t even a real student.
He was a fake. A fraud. No hero. A boy in stolen armor and with a stolen ancestral sword.
He closed his eyes.
And dreamed.
Fire. Screams. Smoke like black silk strangling the sky.
His armor felt wrong. Too tight. Too heavy. A breastplate over unfamiliar curves. The clang of boots on stone echoed, a rhythm older than memory.
A banner fluttered in his left hand, scorched and red—no, not red. Crimson, dark as dried blood. Inscribed with lilies and the shape of a dragon devouring the sun.
Around him, a city burned.
Orléans.
Men ran. Fell. Screamed her name—his name.
"SAINTE JEANNE!"
"JEANNE D'ARC!"
"HELP US!"
"YOU PROMISED!"
Corpses. Not clean. Not noble. Slumped in alleys with bellies torn open, entrails steaming on cobblestones. Faces locked in expressions too twisted to be fear alone—accusation carved into bone.
He stepped over a child’s body.
She wore a necklace with the emblem of a rose. Its petals were black.
Someone grabbed his wrist.
Their skin hung from their bones like melted wax. Eyes hollow, mouth gaping.
“You led us here.”
He pulled away. Another voice.
"You burned us."
Another.
"You lied."
More hands. More voices. More.
“You brought the dragons.”
“You killed the king.”
“You killed us.”
“You ARE the monster.”
His banner flared with flame, even as he dropped it. Fire licked his heels, up his shins, kissing his spine. He couldn’t scream. His mouth wouldn’t open. All he could do was watch the bodies rise.
They had no faces now. Only hollows. Screaming hollows.
"SAINTE JEANNE!"
"SAINTE—!"
"TRAÎTRESSE!"
"MURDERER!"
"BURN HER!"
He ran, but the city never ended. Only folded in on itself, streets curving like a noose. The flame chased him. The names clawed at his ears. The banner found its way back into his hands, a brand he could not let go.
And the worst part?
Some small part of him—the one that pulsed violet, low and cruel and buried—wanted to turn around and burn it all again.
Jaune woke with a ragged gasp.
His sheets were damp. Sweat clung to his neck. His hand trembled. His scroll buzzed gently beside him where it had fallen between mattress and wall.
He turned his head slowly.
Ren slept on his back, breathing quiet and measured. Nora had kicked her blanket off again and muttered something about pancakes. Pyrrha lay facing the wall, her red hair a crown on the pillow.
Nothing had burned.
It was just a dream.
He reached for his scroll. The light stung his eyes.
5:13 A.M.
He pulled himself from bed, feet touching the cold floor like they were touching ice. The dorm was silent. Shadows stretched across the room like claws.
He walked to the bathroom.
Each step sounded louder than it should.
He closed the door behind him. Clicked the lock. Flicked the light on.
White fluorescence. Too sharp.
He bent over the sink, cupped water in his hands, and splashed his face.
Once. Twice. Three times.
He breathed. In. Out. In again.
He looked up.
The mirror looked back.
But something was wrong.
There—above his left eyebrow, woven into the tangle of messy blond curls—was a single lock of hair that hadn’t been there the day before.
White. Moon-white. Stark and silver, like milk spilled across night.
He reached for it.
It didn’t come off.
It wasn’t dye. It was real. His.
He stared.
The memory of fire ghosted behind his eyes.
Of corpses. Of banners. Of screams.
And that voice—his voice, but older, crueler, laughing from behind a helm forged of guilt and ash.
“Maybe they deserved to burn.”
Jaune didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He didn’t punch the mirror, though his fist curled so tight the joints ached.
He just stood there.
And for the first time since arriving at Beacon, Jaune Arc wasn’t thinking about how to be a hero.
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He did nothing about the dream.
What could he have done, really? It had been vivid, yes—almost tangible. But that didn’t change what it was. A dream. Not a prophecy. Not a buried memory. Not a sign from anything divine or infernal.
Just static from a brain stretched thin.
Jaune told himself that again and again when he woke up later. He told himself such again and again, brushing his teeth. Again, while twisting that lone white strand into the rest of his blond hair until it vanished like a coin slipped under cloth. He worked it into his usual messy style, let the rest spill down in its usual crooked weight, and stared at the reflection until it looked like him again.
Mostly.
People go gray early all the time. Stress did that. And wasn’t he stressed? He had forged documents, lied to an elite hunter academy, stumbled through an initiation that was supposed to weed out the weak, and somehow got put in charge of three people who actually deserved to be here. If anyone was qualified for premature aging, it was him.
He’d read somewhere that stress could bleach hair overnight. That sounded right.
He stuck to it.
He smiled. He laughed. He walked through the halls like he belonged. Said “hey” to Ruby and Nora, gave Ren a nod, forced out a chuckle when Yang teased him about “getting sleep paralysis from Pyrrha’s beauty,” whatever that meant. Pyrrha even though he didn’t know her for long was more like a cousin or sister than anything for him. He played the part of the lucky idiot with no idea how he ended up leading a team of elite prodigies. People laughed with him. Or at him. Mostly the latter. It didn’t matter.
He didn’t mention the silver strand. Didn’t talk about the dream. Didn’t whisper to Pyrrha that it felt as if her touch had lit something inside him that felt more like a curse than a blessing.
Because fairy tales weren’t real.
And if they impossibly were, he wasn’t in one. Fairy tales had chosen ones and talking animals and swords in stones. His story started with a forged transcript and what felt like the beginning of a panic attack.
Still, he tried.
That morning, they had Combat Readiness with Professor Goodwitch. Pyrrha dismantled a third-year student in less than a minute. Ren dodged strikes like he could see two seconds ahead. Nora flattened a guy so hard the sound alone gave him tinnitus.
Jaune barely kept his stance straight.
He mimicked Pyrrha’s form in a spar, remembered how she'd twisted her heel during her last lunge, tried to copy it—and ended up flat on his back, gasping like a fish out of water.
He laughed it off.
Lunch came. They sat together—Team JNPR and Team RWBY. The cafeteria buzzed with laughter and steel trays clinking against stone. Someone threw a bread roll at Nora; she caught it with her mouth and bowed like a stage magician. Ruby chattered about weapon mods. Weiss corrected her grammar mid-sentence.
Pyrrha offered him half her apple. He said thanks and didn’t ask why it tasted like ashes.
Evening bled into night.
Beacon’s sky was always so vast. So clean. Too clean. No smoke. No heat. No vultures circling overhead.
Back in the dorm, he lay in his bunk again, arms over his eyes, pretending he hadn’t spent the whole day with a knot behind his ribs.
He slept.
It was worse the second time.
The air in the dream had weight to it—thick, coppery, humid. The sun was the color of dried blood. Flies circled like they had been born from the wounds on the field. Crows screamed as they picked at the fresh.
Corpses lay thick as frost. French banners—his banners—rippled in the distance, rising above the carnage like spires from a cathedral.
He stood at the center.
Steel boots rooted in mud.
The armor he wore gleamed once. Now it was blackened, not by design, but by soot , sin, corruption and congealed gore. Every seam held a memory of something carved open. The standard in his hand drooped low, soaked at the tip with something heavier than rain.
The enemy had fallen.
All of them.
Thousands.
The ground drank them.
Jaune—no, not Jaune, not entirely—lowered his gaze. Her hands—his hands—trembled. Soaked up to the wrists in blood. The knuckles were bruised, the fingernails crusted, the joints sore from too much weight.
A heartbeat passed.
He tried to drop the sword.
It clung.
The blood ran sticky down the crossguard. He watched it pool in the grooves of the blade like it belonged there, like it had always belonged there.
He stumbled back.
The corpses weren’t just bodies. They had faces.
They had expressions.
Some were twisted in rage. Some still smiled. Some had their mouths open in silent horror. A man’s hand clutched at a rosary. A boy’s eyes were still wet. A woman’s throat had been opened so neatly it looked surgical.
He hadn’t killed them all personally. Couldn’t have.
But some? Some he remembered. His arm moving on instinct. Her voice—his voice—commanding cavalry. The cheer that followed.
And they had obeyed.
They had obeyed the Saintess.
The voices came again.
"Jeanne! Sainte Jeanne!"
"Blessed are we who follow you!"
"You lead us to glory!"
"You lead us to heaven!"
"You—!"
They cheered. Loud. Joyful. Their voices rose, wrapped around him, lifted like prayer.
He collapsed to his knees.
The standard dropped beside him, splashing into blood. The sword finally slipped from his hand. He clutched his face. Tried to breathe.
It was too loud. Too bright. Too wrong.
He had led them to this.
He had smiled while doing it.
Had called it righteous.
Had called it holy.
And now, with their cheers ringing like cracked bells, he watched his hands tremble, watched the blood glisten on his skin like wine spilled in mockery of communion.
“Make it stop.”
His voice broke.
They didn’t stop.
"SAINTE JEANNE!"
"SAINTE JEANNE!"
"SALVATRICE!"
"BURN THEM!"
"BURN THEM ALL!"
He screamed.
No one heard.
Jaune jerked upright in bed.
His breath came in ragged pulses. Sweat soaked through his shirt, cold and sticky. The room was silent. His scroll buzzed faintly beside him.
He reached for it with unsteady fingers.
5:35 A.M.
Ren was curled beneath his blanket like a monk in prayer. Nora was sprawled sideways, arm dangling from the edge of her bunk like a fallen marionette. Pyrrha’s chest rose and fell in quiet rhythm.
No one had heard.
No one had seen.
He slid from bed like he was sneaking out of a church.
The hallway outside was empty. Cool air kissed his face as he crept toward the bathroom. His steps were measured. Careful. Cowardly.
He turned the knob. Closed the door. Locked it.
The silence inside was too much.
He stood with his hand on the light switch.
“Please,” he whispered, “please don’t be what I think.”
The bulb hummed.
The light bloomed slow, like dawn made of sickly fluorescence.
His reflection stared back.
And there—on either side of his temple, stark against the straw-gold of his hair—were two more strands. Silver. Bleached to the root.
They framed his face like parentheses.
He didn’t scream.
He didn’t blink.
He pressed both hands against the porcelain sink and leaned forward until his breath fogged the mirror.
His heartbeat thudded inside his skull.
There was no blood on his skin. No armor on his chest. No corpses behind him.
But the eyes staring back weren’t entirely his.
They were hers.
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He did nothing about the dream.
Not out of apathy—no, he’d woken with his sheets clinging to his skin like wet gauze and that sour-metal taste of adrenaline still clamping down on his tongue. But he told himself what any sane person would. It wasn’t real.
Dreams had no teeth. No weight. No smoke thick enough to choke on.
And yet, it lingered.
He stared at the silver strand in the mirror again that morning. Nestled in gold like rot inside ripe fruit. Just ones he knew hadn’t been there two days ago.
Stress. Of course. He repeated himself what he knew deep down was a lie.
Hair turned gray all the time from nerves. He’d read that somewhere.
He wound the silver back into the yellow like he had the day before, tucked it between the folds of his fringe. Then he pulled the hood of his hoodie just low enough and looked into the mirror one last time.
He smiled.
It looked real enough.
The day at Beacon passed in color and noise. Morning lectures, dusty textbooks filled with diagrams of aura pathways and Grimm anatomy. Professor Port rattled on about his battle with a Manticore while Ruby doodled spirals on her scroll. Nora fell asleep on her feet, swaying like a drunk in a boat. Pyrrha whispered corrections beneath her breath. Ren sat still, eyes half-lidded, absorbing everything in silence.
Jaune took notes. Nodded when called on. Laughed in the right places. He answered nothing about dreams, or battles that hadn't happened, or faces he'd never seen dying under banners he couldn't remember raising.
He told no one that he’d woken up yesterday with the name Jeanne echoing behind his ribs like a guilt-wrung drumbeat.
Evening rolled in with the weight of routine. The cafeteria filled with students clattering trays, trading stories, laughing with the fatigue of people who had run too far but didn’t want to stop. Team JNPR sat next to Team RWBY—eight bodies sharing jokes and fries, flicking peas at one another, talking about the new Dust shipment and the upcoming sparring rotations.
Jaune smiled. He forced it. But the weight in his limbs remained, like he’d dragged it from a battlefield no one else could see.
Later, sleep came.
And with it—the battlefield again.
They marched behind him. Thousands. Banners flapping like flayed skin caught in the breath of heaven. The ground was a churned wound of mud and bone, a scab the world refused to heal.
She—he—rode at the front.
The flag in her grip wasn’t fabric. It was memory. A white field, golden lilies, edges singed and stained with lives taken.
They called her Saintess.
The girl who heard God's voice.
And when the gates of the enemy city cracked open and the flood came, it came with fire.
She screamed for the charge.
Her voice—his voice—rang with something unholy in its righteousness. It was faith weaponized. Not belief, but certainty. The difference between hope and wrath is only what you do with it.
And she did everything.
Steel bit flesh.
Men died.
Women screamed.
The enemy didn’t break. They crumbled. Bone by bone. Shout by shout. The red spread in sheets, in puddles, in arterial splashes across armor and stone. And she smiled through it. Because this was the will of heaven. Because this was for the people of France.
Because that’s what God had said.
God wanted this.
But when the sun dipped low and the fires settled, when the crows came in flocks like parasites to banquet—
She stood among the corpses.
Her hands—his hands—were slick with blood.
Not dried. Not distant. Fresh.
Sticky between the fingers. Sliding down the cuffs of gauntlets like warm oil.
She dropped the sword.
It hit the ground with a thud that echoed.
Jaune stared down at her hands. At his hands.
They trembled.
No tremor could hide them.
He’d killed them. Led them to slaughter. Commanded it. Executed it. Called it salvation. Preached death in god’s name and called it duty.
They were dead.
He’d made them dead.
Yet—
"JEANNE! JEANNE! SAINTE JEANNE!"
Voices.
Screaming.
Cheering.
Worshipping.
Like she hadn’t walked through intestines. Like her boots weren’t caked in viscera. Like they didn’t see the eyes of the dead still open beneath her.
They didn’t care.
They loved her.
They chanted her name.
"SAINTE JEANNE!"
"BLESS US!"
"YOU’RE GOD’S FLAME!"
"YOU’RE GOD’S HAND!"
"JEANNE! SAINTE JEANNE!"
The noise clawed at his skull. Loud. Louder. Deafening. Joyful. Ecstatic.
Like choirboys howling over a mass grave.
He dropped to his knees.
"No," he whispered. Or maybe screamed. He couldn’t tell.
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Blood. Still warm. Still clinging.
They were chanting for a murderer.
For a butcher in a white dress.
He sobbed.
And the sound of it drowned in the praise.
Jaune woke up choking.
He gasped for air, fingers curled into the blanket like it could keep him anchored to the present.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.
Scroll.
Where was his scroll?
He found it beneath the pillow. Flipped it open with clumsy fingers.
5:35 A.M.
The numbers blurred.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, staggered upright. The floor was cold. The hallway colder. The bathroom door clicked behind him.
The light switch flicked up.
He shut his eyes.
"Please," he whispered, barely audible. "Please don’t be what I think."
The light buzzed to life.
He looked.
Six.
Six now.
Three new strands. Pale silver. Framing his temples.
Hair of ash.
He stared at them.
“No,” he muttered.
His legs gave out.
He hit the tile with a thud. Knees first. Palms next. Like he’d collapsed on a battlefield.
“It’s not real.”
He repeated it.
Again.
“It’s not real.”
Again.
“It was a dream.”
Again.
“I’m not—”
He couldn’t breathe.
Air caught in his throat. His chest heaved.
It hurt.
It burned.
He clutched his sides.
"It was a dream—it was a dream—"
Footsteps.
The sound of a bed creaking.
Nora.
He heard her yawn through the door.
The world returned in flashes.
Beacon.
Dorms.
Team JNPR.
He couldn’t be seen like this.
Couldn’t let them see what was happening.
He scrambled to his feet. Wiped his face. Used too much water from the sink and rubbed his cheeks until they were red.
Stared into the mirror.
Forced a smile.
It cracked.
He buried the three new silver strands beneath the gold.
“You can do it, Jaune.”
He breathed. Once. Twice.
Then left the bathroom.
Classes passed like phantoms.
He heard nothing. Learned nothing.
He smiled.
Laughed at jokes.
Nodded along.
Pretended he wasn’t shaking under his hoodie.
Lunch. Grimm class. Dust mechanics. History class.
He sat. Ate. Grinned.
Then—
Combat Class with Professor Goodwitch.
He didn’t know why he was surprised when his name was called.
"Jaune Arc, please step forward."
He blinked. Felt his heart thump once in his throat.
"And... Cardin Winchester."
A thud behind him.
"Guess I get to warm up," Cardin muttered, dragging his hammer behind him like a toy.
Jaune stood.
Walked to the locker.
Hands steady on the outside.
Shaking on the inside.
He retrieved Crocea Mors.
It felt heavier today.
Cardin stood in the ring already, swinging his hammer in lazy circles.
"This won’t take long," Cardin smirked.
Jaune didn’t respond.
Why would he?
He knew what everyone else knew.
He wasn't a fighter.
Wasn’t strong.
Didn’t deserve to be here.
He walked into the ring.
Goodwitch raised her hand. “Begin.”
Cardin lunged.
Jaune blocked. Barely.
The shock of the blow rattled up his arm like lightning. Aura flickered.
Second blow.
His shield cracked.
Third—
He staggered back, vision swimming.
Two. Maybe three more hits and he’d be out.
Cardin grinned.
"Come on, leader-boy. Thought you had it all figured out?"
Laughter echoed.
Not just from Cardin. From the bleachers. Nervous chuckles. Pity.
Jaune’s grip tightened.
He wanted to win.
More than that—he wanted to stop being a fake.
Each time Cardin taunted him, it chipped away at something softer, something kinder. Each time that voice reached him, it stirred something coiled and ugly in his chest.
He didn’t want to survive.
He wanted to hurt him.
He threw his shield aside.
Crocea Mors in both hands.
He hadn't trained.
Hadn’t practiced.
But he’d fought.
Every night.
Under banners.
With God whispering in his ears.
He’d slaughtered enemies. Buried armies.
Led a war.
His body moved.
Hate surged like a black fire inside.
Feet shifted.
Blade rose.
Stance changed.
He wasn’t Jaune Arc.
Not anymore.
Jaune was a fake/Jeanne was a fake
A fluke.
Jeanne d’Arc—
Jeanne was a killer, not a hero/Jaune was not a hero
And to win—
Yet to win
He needed to become her.
Comments
Antonio Adams
Love it. Please continue with this story
