To (F/N), the war seemed only a few weeks ago. Then he blinked and it was all over. He was sitting in a classroom instead of the trenches, no explosions to make his ears ring, the bell being the loudest sound throughout his day. Spitballs and paper airplanes whizzed by his head, not bullets and shrapnel, and the only battlefield he had to cross was the crowded hallways as students fought to get to their next class. It took (F/N) a while to become accustomed to a peaceful life, not that he was complaining. He much preferred the tension of waiting for test scores to be posted to that of awaiting the arrival of an approaching army. He appreciated being able to wake up after five and go to bed before midnight. Most of all he enjoyed having friends, people he could talk with, laughing at each other's jokes, and groaning at Oobleck's announcement of a pop quiz.

(F/N) had been at Beacon for just over two months. As of present, he was locked in his room, his hand caught in a beautiful cascade of scarlet. The smell of her perfume was intoxicating, the green of her eyes mesmerizing. She had ensnared him; mind, body, and spirit. The tension had been building for the past few weeks. The subtle looks and stolen glances they snuck while they should have been paying attention to the professor. The close proximity during class, their arms and shoulders occasionally bumping each other as they took notes. Eventually it had reached a tipping point, and now the two were alone in his room. (F/N)'s fingers tangled through her soft hair. She pushes him down onto the bed, one leg after the other, climbing over his lap so she can straddle him properly. In the same moment she grasps the collar of his vest, (F/N) angles her jaw towards his. Their mouths meet, joining together like waves crashing against the shoreline. Her fingers work on the buttons securing the fabric on his chest until both vest and shirt are opened, his bare chest exposed. His hands find the strings on the back of her brown leather corset, the ties loosened until the garment falls to the floor. The fasten on her bra is next, unclasped in seconds, exposing her ample cleavage, goosebumps rising along her flesh as instantaneously as the hardening to the peaks of her breasts. She moans breathlessly as her head leans back, (F/N) burying his face in her chest, covering her with love marks as he suckles and nips at the exposed flesh. He inhales deeply before retreating to look up at her face once more.

Suddenly everything changes. Pyrrha's face is pale, her eyes white and lifeless. A small trickle of blood falls from the corner of her mouth and runs down her chin. Her flesh, once so warm in (F/N)'s palms becomes ice cold. (F/N) releases a shout of shock, quickly jumping to his feet, Pyrrha's corpse falling to the ground. The bed is gone, the walls disappear. There is no light; no sun, no moon, just an eerie red glow, as if the skies had turned to blood. Looking down, the face that greets (F/N)'s eyes is no longer Pyrrha's. The red hair is gone, replaced by a head of short brown hair, matted down by a thick coating of dried blood. Dirt and grime obscure the facial features and the uniform the figure wears is tattered and torn. (F/N) steps backwards, tripping over something on the ground behind him. Catching himself, he comes face to face with another dead body, this one's head looking backwards, its neck twisted and bruised. Quickly scrambling backwards, (F/N) pushes himself to his feet. Suddenly he stands in a field of corpses. Bodies strewn all across the ground, in every direction, extending to the horizon and well beyond. His eyes widen in fear as he turns, searching in desperation for an escape, for some kind of exit. But none present themselves. All that (F/N) finds are more bodies. He winces in pain as he feels a stabbing sensation in his right shoulder. Looking down, he sees his old arm attached at the joint, the jagged crude design of the cold metal, a series of small spikes jutting out at regular intervals all down the forearm. Something drops onto the arm, like a raindrop. Another one follows, then another. (F/N) blinks his eyes rapidly as he feels a drop on his nose. He moves to wipe it away with the arm made of flesh and bone. Retreating his hand, he looks down to see not a droplet of clear water, but a splash of crimson. The droplets increase in frequency as blood begins to pour down his face, seemingly from his forehead, but his hair is covered too, the (H/C) now covered in a slimy coating of red. Suddenly the ground gives way, like quicksand. The corpses begin to rise as he sinks further and further into the ground. His arms are pinned to his sides by some unknown weight, preventing him from pulling himself up. They're at his chest now. (F/N) finally manages to free his right arm and he reaches upwards, as if waiting for God to grab his hand and pull him from perdition. He keeps sinking, past the neck. He struggles to free himself, his breathing coming in short panicked bursts as their dead eyes stare into his soul. He turns his head frantically, only to be greeted by more white eyes, more blood leaking from the corners of slack jawed mouths. His screams echo throughout the expanse of nothingness until his head finally submerges, silencing his cries. Silence. A metal arm reaching skyward in the middle of a mass grave.

(F/N) shoots up in his bed, eyes wide and drenched in sweat. He searches his nightstand and grabs his scroll. Three in the morning. Breathing heavily, he falls back into his mattress, his head sinking into the pillows, dampened from his sweat. It'd started a few weeks ago. Ever since the death of that young Faunus, the nightmares began. Creeping into his sleep and invading his dreams like an infestation of black mold, sparing no corner or crevice of his mind, leaving him waking up in the blackness of the night, tangled in his blankets and covered in sweat. Each night it was the same. No matter what dream was going through his head, however pleasant or mundane, it always ended the same. Sinking into a pile of corpses. The lifeless bodies of all the people he's killed. He could picture it; their cold pale skin, their dead grey eyes. And he remembered the names of each and every one.

A week ago, the ghosts had decided that haunting his dreams wasn't enough. Vengeful and angry, the spirits began terrorizing his conscious mind as well. With every blink of his eyes (F/N) saw their lifeless corpses, heard their screaming and shrieks of pain as he tore them to shreds. It played out like a movie behind his eyelids; flashes of him, covered in blood and gunning them down. And then he'd open his eyes and have to pretend like he hadn't just relived killing those men. Like he hadn't just seen himself shoot a man in the head and rip his compatriot's throat out. If his friends knew what he really was, the things he'd done, they'd label him a monster, and he'd deserve it. Besides, they didn't need to know. The knowledge of the things he's done, they were his burden to bear, and his alone. He would just have to learn to ignore it. So that's what he did. He learned to ignore it.

Compartmentalization as he called it. The dark thoughts, the nightmares and the flashbacks, they got pushed to the back of his mind, a wall erected around them. He refused to burden his friends with the actions of his past. He learned to smile despite his anguish, laughing through the trauma. He hid his torment from others by hiding behind a childlike façade. He hid it from himself by using his friends as distractions. He lied to himself and said he was fine.

Sometimes the nightmares became too much. Sometimes (F/N) needed a respite from the field of corpses that haunted his dreams. Every week or so he would deny himself sleep, instead wandering around Beacon and its surrounding grounds, staring up at the lights that dotted the night sky. He liked the stars. He'd always liked the stars. For as long as he could remember they had always stirred something inside of him, some sense of amazement. How was it that something so far away could shine so brightly? Sometimes (F/N) wished he could run away and join them, live amongst the stars. He yearned to see them up close and learn their secrets, ask them for advice. Where does their light come from when all they can see is darkness? Maybe one day he'd know. He thought it more likely he never would.

(F/N)'s nighttime strolls, for the most part, went unnoticed. There was however, one person that knew of his secret walks in the dark. Just a few weeks before (F/N) had arrived at Beacon, Jaune had finally accepted Pyrrha's offer in assisting him in becoming a more capable warrior. They trained late at night, when everyone else had gone to sleep. On the rooftop of the dormitories, Jaune drilled and trained, the light of the moon reflecting off his blade. Every stab, lunge, swipe, and cut examined and refined under Pyrrha's watchful gaze. Where there was need for correction, Pyrrha offered guidance. When Jaune's muscles burned and his eyes grew heavy, she offered words of encouragement. When his body screamed in protest and he could no longer move, Pyrrha offered a small break in their training. It was during one of these breaks, as Jaune wiped the sweat from his brow, that Pyrrha rested her elbows on the short wall at the edge of the rooftop. Her red hair blew gently in the cool night air as she gazed upon the waters below, admiring the reflection of the moon and stars in the many ponds surrounding Beacon's campus. It was then that a small movement caught her attention. The light's reflection disappeared for a moment as a figure intercepted its rays. At first, Pyrrha thought it might be a cloud, but it passed far too quickly for such a calm night.

Narrowing her eyes, she could barely make out the silhouette of a lone person. Her green eyes followed his path, and she took note of the way the light seemed to follow him, but only from the right, reflecting the light the same way as the ponds by which he walked, almost as if his right arm was made of metal. Suddenly the figure stopped, his body turned. His head turned to the sky as he gazed at the pinpricks of light shining above. The light of the moon washed over him and revealed his (H/C) hair, illuminating his features. Pyrrha watched curiously as (F/N) continued to stare skywards for a few seconds before his chin fell to his chest. His shoulders rose and then fell as he released a heavy breath.

"Pyrrha?" Jaune called.

She didn't answer, her attentions still captured by (F/N)'s mysterious behavior.

"Pyrrha?" Jaune repeated, this time a bit louder.

"Hmm?" She replied, tearing her eyes away from (F/N) and meeting Jaune's gaze.

"You alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine." She nods. "I think that's enough for tonight."

"Oh, thank God." Jaune says thankfully, sheathing his sword.

"Head back to the room Jaune." Pyrrha laughs. "Get some sleep."

"What about you?"

"I'll be there soon. I'd just like another minute out here."

"Sure thing." Jaune says, turning towards the door. "Don't stay out too late."

Giving Jaune a few minutes to make it to the room, Pyrrha enters the building, taking the elevator to the ground floor and stepping out into Beacon's massive courtyard. Making her way to where she had seen (F/N) just minutes ago, she was disappointed to find he was no longer there. Her eyes scanned the dark horizon, wondering where he might have gone. She was just about to give up and return to her room when she heard a cough. Turning in the direction of the noise, she just managed to pick out (F/N)'s figure silhouetted against the blackness of the sky. He was about a hundred meters off, standing near the edge of the nearby forest where the grass was left to grow wild, several feet high and ending just at one's middle torso.

Pyrrha debated for a minute on whether or not to approach (F/N). Perhaps he needed to be alone, or maybe he wanted to be. In the end, her curiosity won out, and, stepping off the concrete path, she made her way towards the lone figure. As Pyrrha got closer and (F/N)'s figure came into clearer view, she could make his right arm, raised in front of his chest as he appeared to be examining something. She stopped a few meters away, reconsidering her choice. Maybe she should leave him be, just turn and walk away before he noticed her.

"Shh." (F/N) hushed. Raising his left arm, he beckoned her forwards. "Come closer. Quietly."

(F/N) turned to look at Pyrrha as she stood next to him before returning his attention to his right arm, still held just in front of his chest.

"(F/N)?" Pyrrha asks, unsure of what he's doing. "What are you..."

"Shh." (F/N) hushes softly. "You'll scare them."

"Scare who?"

"Watch."

(F/N) places his tongue on the roof of his mouth, his lips making a small 'o' shape. He sings a quiet low note, almost inaudible, but from the back of his throat comes a high-pitched whistling noise as he produces an amplified overtone which drowns out the lower pitch. Not long after, (F/N)'s tone is joined by another, slightly higher. It seems to come from a dot of warm light which appeared on his arm almost instantly after he started singing the overtone. Another warm dot of light appears, hovering in front of (F/N)'s face, also emitting a quiet song of its own. It's followed by another, and another. The longer (F/N) continues to produce the overtone, the more lights appear, until both he and Pyrrha are standing in a field of light, listening to the songs of the fireflies. A large grin spreads over Pyrrha's face, her mouth open in astonishment as she turns slowly on the spot, admiring the beautiful lights bathing her and (F/N) in a warm glow. (F/N) ceases to produce the noise, but the fireflies continue the song on their own. Pyrrha slowly lifts her arms above the tall grass, laughing lightly as she looks down at the lightning bugs beginning to gather on her gloved arms. She shivers slightly, an involuntary response to the tickling sensation resulting from the bioluminescent insects on her bare shoulders. The sudden movement causes the fireflies to take flight, joining their brethren in the air.

"What do you think?" (F/N) asks.

"Wow." Pyrrha whispers, her eyes reflecting the dozens of tiny lights. "I've never seen so many fireflies before. It's amazing." Turning to look at (F/N), she asks, "How did you do that?"

"Well," (F/N) says, holding up his hand in front of his face, looking at one of the small insects perched on his finger, "I came out here one night and was drawn by their music. I spent the next few nights trying to learn how to replicate their song, and when I finally did, they responded."

(F/N) slowly moves his index finger while raising his arm slightly, gently prompting the firefly to join the collective. The two are quiet for a minute or so, admiring the beautiful seen before them.

"You know, legends say that fireflies are the souls of the dead." (F/N) says as he and Pyrrha gaze up at the sources of the warm light. "That their lights are the spirits of warriors who have fallen in battle."

"That's nice," Pyrrha says, turning her gaze to (F/N), "if not a little sad."

"Well," (F/N) continues, also turning from the fireflies, "other people believe that it means something else when there's a larger gathering of them."

"What would that be?"

"They say that whoever witnesses their light will soon find happiness. And passion."

A small blush rises in Pyrrha's cheeks as she realizes how close the two of them are standing.

"And love." (F/N) finishes, staring deep into Pyrrha's emerald eyes.

Slowly, he lifts his hand and gently brushes a stray strand of hair out of Pyrrha's face, tucking it behind her right ear. His palm lingers for a moment, resting gently on the side of her face. Pyrrha's breath catches in her throat as (F/N) leans closer. Their foreheads are almost touching.

"And what do you think?" Pyrrha asks breathlessly.

(F/N) lowers his hand and lets it fall to his side, his gaze dropping to the ground. "Well," he sighs, "it's a nice story."

Turning his back on her, he shoves his hands in his pockets.

"It's late." He says. "I think I'm gonna call it a night." Gently, he places a tender kiss in her red hair. "Goodnight Pyrrha."

Looking back at her, (F/N) offers her a sad smile before walking back to the school grounds off in the distance. The light slowly fades as the fireflies end their song, leaving Pyrrha standing alone under the light of the moon. She's surprised to find she's almost disappointed at (F/N)'s sudden departure. When he had moved that stray strand of hair, when their faces had been mere inches apart, she had found herself thinking about how handsome (F/N) was. How beautiful his (E/C) eyes were and how nice his smile was. And then, without permission, a startling question entered her mind.

Was Yang right? Have I been falling for him?