Chapter 1: Anguish

"And that's the match."

Her words were final, confirming the expected outcome.

Hair disheveled, sweat creasing off the brow it concealed – he swallowed the collection of saliva in his jaw, its moist warmth barely consoling his throat. He might have even choked on it, not thinking half as long enough to realize that he tried to swallow at the very same time he released a held breath. Above him, the monitor was as unbiased a verdict as the instructor – one screen with a bar filled with green, and the other but a sliver of blinking red.

An outcome not unusual… for Jaune Arc.

He struggled to stand, his legs wobbling from over exertion – eventually falling to one knee with his weapons held loosely. His opponent however, showed no sign of exhaustion – retracting his weapon and returning to his seat without a single word. Hard to say whether he was a good sport or not, he didn't say much during the match – at the very least he didn't feel the need to express his superiority like a certain Winchester.

But Jaune didn't miss that empty look he gave him before the match, one that lacked worry, hesitance… and respect.

Was the blonde to expect anything other?

"That, students, is a perfectly good example of why mastery of one's weapon is crucial," His equally blonde superior addressed the class, looking up at the stands with that respect -commanding gaze, "It must be treated as an extension of oneself, to know instinctively what your weapons can do, when to use them, when not to use them, and most importantly: how to use them effectively."

Jaune dared not meet her gaze, knowing all he'd see there was what he saw every time. Disappointment.

"Mister Arc, your fighting style was… unorthodox, but it does not lack the potential for refinement – be sure to keep practicing, it is the tried and true method of improvement after all. I would suggest using your sword more – it is hardly a helpful weapon if you don't attack your opponent."

"… yes ma'am." He whispered.

Goodwitch said what she always did, that he had to train harder, employ better usage of his weapons, manage his stamina and aura levels… things he'd grown to tune out near automatically. It was quaint now; boring, and while her input was valuable as a Huntress, the day-to-day routine of her advice for his losses only served to numb his brain to it.

He wondered if she ever heard the snickers in the stands…

The knight made his way back to his seat, ignoring any pointed whispers and subtle mentions of his name among the crowd. He'd have loved to call them out, to put them into the spotlight and see what more they had to say. To embarrass them, and to show them what it felt like to be humiliated.

But he couldn't, because he didn't have the means, and he shouldn't, because it would only make him as bad as they were...

And he wouldn't… because he was too afraid.

His friends awaited him, a usual sight, one that grew just as stale as Goodwitch's after-failure advice. Looks of pity, the attempts to keep them hidden behind a veil of optimism – a normalcy, really; the better natured portion of his group were just that predictable.

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate it - he did, but only in the sense that they were doing so to lift his spirits.

And maybe it worked the first few times; he would fail, and they would pick him back up. He'd look up, imagine the glory of his old man, then tell himself to try harder the next time around. It had always been enough, pushing him to ignore the sneers of the other students and to focus on the dream laid before him.

That was a time long since over… he didn't feel that motivation, not anymore.

But could he actually say that to them? No. Maybe it was due to the guilt, of not wanting to hurt the feelings of those whose intentions were hardly malign – their purpose was still good, even if they didn't know the outcome wasn't. Maybe it was because of the ache in his muscles, the strain from throwing forth his best work in the arena had tired him out too much.

Or maybe doing so would just be pointless.

So what should he do, let them repeat their usual attempts to bring back a happier Jaune? He surely would, because if he tried to shut them down, then it wouldn't end well for any of them. What he was approaching was just another battle he was going to lose.

This one he didn't mind so much though - he was as much their friend as they were to him.

And the mask of good nature slips back on.

It felt awful, giving them that pearly smile they'd all seen a million and one times – knowing that it did not truly reflect his feelings. He moved past Blake and Weiss, expecting and receiving nothing, but he found himself silently thankful for it. Yang settled for a pat on the shoulder – though not sure what to make of it, he was at least glad she didn't say anything.

Ruby was the first to approach him, babbling in her nervous attempt to mitigate his loss – oh what's that Ruby? He lasted a whole eight seconds longer than usual? You have given a broken man wings, truly. He didn't exactly blame her for this naivety; all she wanted to do was cheer him up, to spit on that would be insensitive.

He thought back to something Ruby said once before on the first airship to Beacon grounds, having overheard her while attempting not to upchuck that morning's breakfast. It was about how she didn't want to be special, how being extraordinary was the last thing she was after. She wanted a casual Huntress life, to walk the same road as all others but never step from the crowd and into the spotlight.

Normal. That's what she wanted.

Jaune wanted to be the furthest thing from it; he did want to be special, he did want to be extraordinary! Yet he gave her that smile, and he playfully caught her head in one arm and ran his knuckles through her hair. Why it bothered him so that Ruby sought a life a normalcy in a field that completely abashed the mere concept was beyond his understanding… and more than a waste of time to try and figure out.

Nora encouragingly latched onto his back, hugging him tight as her voice threatened to murder his eardrums. "Well, you didn't die! I'd say that's an accomplishment, glorious leader!"

"Glorious leader… yeah…"

This brief time in Beacon's walls had been more than enough of an indication of just how wrong that decision had been. Him, of all people? Some would have considered it a gift – an acknowledgement from the Headmaster himself that their skills were worthy enough to lead a full team of Huntsmen.

No, it was nothing but bullshit.

Pyrrha was the best qualified, it was obvious to everyone. Strong, intelligent, capable – she was the Mistral Tournament Regional Champion, and a rising legend in the Huntsman community. Ren was smart, patient, and analytical – surely a man of his degree would be able to lead a team, Jaune would candidly follow him. Hell, he would gladly accept even Nora as leader! As zany as she was, you didn't become a Huntress by just swinging a hammer.

But him? Jaune Arc?

He was nothing.

Pyrrha was the last, and always the most… challenging. His partner, the one that was supposed to understand him… and yet she coddled him like a child. 'Do your best', 'You'll win next time', it was suffocating. And as he got closer to her looks of concern, he did his best to not allow his fingers to coil into his palm.

A look that he couldn't stand. One that told him she would forever encourage him to pursue his dreams… but likely knew damn well he'd never achieve them, not anytime soon anyway. He knew the truth, and these friends of his knew it too. But they would never tell him… such was the unfortunate end of being a friend.

Support above honesty.

Never mind that it made him feel like his heart had been shoved through a meat grinder.

"That was good Jaune," She said consolingly, placing a hand on his shoulder as he sat down, "Remember, don't be concerned so much about losing… it is –

"A better teacher than winning, yeah, I got it." The blonde robotically repeated, waving one hand airily as if to dismiss it. For a moment he thought he might have even replicated Pyrrha's voice, she said it so much. Hopefully, she missed the slight ire in his voice – like seriously, did she think he was dumb or something? She'd only said that, like, eleven times, and he'd already established himself as the biggest doofus on campus. That flame needed no more fuel.

He wondered if she thought those words held ground from someone of her standing. She was a shining example of victory and success, of a person who did not understand failure because she likely never experienced it. Sure, she'd probably had her share of losses, but she became famous from toppling even greater opponents! The girl was a winner, through and through.

His partner's words were shallow at best.

Even so, he couldn't allow her that crestfallen look she was giving him, if only to spare himself any guilt.

"Ah, it's okay…" Jaune rubbed the back of his head, a big beam on his face as he regarded her, "I'm not there yet… but I will be one day, I just have to keep training. I'm not going to give up just because of a string of losses, you know?"

She brightened immediately, and Jaune wished he could sigh. It was amazing how simple it was… to lie, to tell her that he was completely fine when he wasn't. When did it become so easy to hide behind this cover of security? To manipulate the good intentions of those around him just to avoid the pride wounding concern they sent his way? He wished they would see that… see how much their words hurt more than helped.

Cardin's insults were an easier endeavor; at the very least, he was honest about what he thought.

"I'm glad to see you haven't given up Jaune," Pyrrha nodded happily, smile stretching from cheek to cheek, "You will become a talented Huntsman yet, I know you will."

Her words felt nice, but that was all they were good for. Like sweet, sweet candy – good at first, but bad for you in the long run. The difference between their encouragement and his failures was a strangely even ratio, and yet it continued to feel like he was standing at the base of a downhill mudslide - unable to move up.

Twenty-eight full days behind the walls of Beacon Academy… and not a single bit of improvement. Truly living the dream.

"Thanks Pyr. That means a lot." He tacked on another smile for good measure, relieved when she smiled back and returned her attention to the teacher.

The class went by quickly, as it always did after Jaune finished his fight. He was sure to watch the additional matches, though he wasn't given them much attention this time. Like an old drunkard, reclining in his chair as the television blared on max volume. But he slogged on through it, present for the whole show, but never watching it. The knight congratulated his more excitable friends on their victories and waited impatiently for the bell to ring.

Thank god it didn't take very long.

The students were shuffling out, and Jaune was sure to be the last one to get from his seat. He was thankful Pyrrha had gotten distracted by a sudden conversation with Yang and Nora, allowing him to stay sitting as the others passed him by. Bodies bumped, conversations faded into murmurs, Jaune cared for none of it.

Blue eyes watched as the students got further and further away, any familiar faces gone in the mass.

Then, a sigh.

The momentary quiet was nice, though he knew he'd have to leave before Goodwitch saw him. But for that tiny moment, he just sat there – fingers interlocked as his eyes cast over the arena.

How many did today make it?

Twelve? Maybe thirteen? His luck then that not everyone fought on the same day – they were spaced out equally, and there were probably only three to four matches per class, depending on how long they were.

He liked to think he wasn't the only one who could never win, but then he'd lying to himself. Or had he been doing that already? To strut into this school with such brash confidence, daring to think that he was equal with everyone… how stupid.

What an idiot he had been.

What an idiot he still was.

"Mister Arc."

His gaze switched over to his right, catching the hem of Goodwitch's skirt. Knowing the consequence of a lingering gaze, he followed it up to her stern expression. "Class is over; you are free to leave."

Translated: Get out.

"Uh, s-sorry ma'am," He jumped to his feet right away, eyes moving to the floor, "I'll do that."

And he made to do so, one foot in front of the other as he listened to the scuff of his shoes. Looking over his shoulder showed him nothing different, Goodwitch simply closing the stadium for the day.

An ocean of students before him, Jaune already began to dread the rest of the afternoon. He was supposed meet up with Pyrrha and everyone else – they'd all agreed on a huge study session in the library a few days ago.

His partner would be disappointed… but there was a lot of that going on these days, wasn't there?

He'd have to apologize for it later, but right now he couldn't find it within himself to care. He just needed to be by himself, to think if for nothing else. He didn't want to see them all right now, not when he dragged his feet and hung his head so low. So instead he went off his own way…

The library in Vale would do until nightfall.

~It Burns, Like Hunger~

Back again.

As he was every night.

The arena was always off-limits after school hours – that's why the various training rooms in separate areas of the school were available twenty-four seven. But Jaune didn't favor those, as the chance of someone else showing up or hearing him was too great. Everyone already saw how awful he was during combat class every day… he'd prefer they not see him after hours.

He liked it here, it was a good place to be alone. And to train.

His right hand tightened around the grip of the Crocea Mors, swinging down and up lazily as the feeling of extension came to him. The weight of the blade, the sharpness of the edge, the tightness of the handle, he focused on it all.

Even if the feeling, the knowledge that holding it was wrong, came to the fore of his mind.

It was quiet around him, the lights cascading around to show him that the entire space was his. There were no others, just him in this little utopia, where he could be Jaune and work himself into the dirt, where he belonged. As he did every night previous.

And so, he began.

A hard horizontal, offset by his lack of remembrance to hold his foot down. And again, this time with less strength but more stability. He had to find a balance between his swing and his poise – the combination of both would give him the kind of swing necessary to lop off the head of an Ursa. Again and again, Jaune practiced this motion, each swing driving the memory of these movements into his brain.

He switched it up, holding his sword at his side while raising his shield up with the other arm. And when he pulled back, he allowed his imagination to shape the enemy…

The claw of a huge Beowolf swung down on him. Ren and Nora were injured behind him, only he could protect them.

A quick block.

No, not quick enough.

The strike would surely break him – the shield would have to be in the path of claw before it came, and if he didn't tighten his core just a moment before it hit, the shield would do nothing to protect him. Instead, the Beowolf's worn claws would tear through his neck and chest, dragging and tearing apart clothing and flesh – blood made to gush and spill onto the grass.

He, just barely alive enough to watch Ren and Nora be torn to shreds.

Then he would die a meaningless death. No honor, no victory… just cold and unforgiving death.

He drilled each move, old and new, not truly knowing if they were legitimate moves of master swordsman but doing so anyway. Vertical slashes to cut through the front, downward stabs to finish off downed opponents, smashing into enemies with the shield, rolling and flipping to evade attacks most lethal. The smell of his own body creeped into his nose, he ditched his jacket and felt the moist sweat all over him. Yet he didn't stop. He drilled it all again and again, even as time slipped away from him and his eyelids began to flutter, Jaune continued to train.

He trained, and trained, and trained, and trained…

Just as he did every night.

So… why did he still fail?

The exhaustion finally took over, and he found himself stopping to heave in buckets of air. His breaths echoed, bouncing off the walls and into the distance, though too far and too weak to disturb anyone. All he knew was the itch in his throat, the soreness in his flesh…

And the throb in his chest.

His knees hit the ground, signals of pain shooting through bone as he clenched his teeth together. His sword and shield fell to the floor - weapons he'd simply taken from his family, never his right to wield. And Jaune simply knelt there in silence, head hung as low as it had been earlier.

He was a failure.

He tried, he tried so hard… harder than anyone else. Day in and day out, he trained with diligence and heart … but it seemed like it was all for nothing. The motions of battle did not sync with him as they should have – his legs still wobbled in fear, and that fear unsettled his will. He was playing a fool's game; caught in a trap that was made so he could continue to fight, but never win.

Was this his destiny?

Forever to fail at the one thing he'd so adamantly pursued? All he'd ever wanted to be was a Huntsman! Ever since his father told him of the greatness of the Arc family, and how powerful their lineage was. He wanted to follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather and become a Huntsman that they could be proud of.

Every generation of Arc had given way to a new line of warriors, growing more powerful as time went on. Jaune wanted to be the one to continue that line.

So why? Why was he cursed to forever be this… this… loser!

He hated it. Oh, how he hated it.

Everyone else got to be strong, everyone else got to be talented! His sisters, Ruby and her team, even Cardin and his stupid lackeys! They all had these amazing powers and abilities that he didn't! It was so unfair; why couldn't he have skills like that? They all paraded around, like everything they could do was completely normal, achievable by anyone who put their mind to it.

Except for him.

It was no surprise to him that rumors went around – snickers about how the amazing Pyrrha Nikos had gotten stuck with some scrawny blonde idiot that had no talent. He'd heard people say such things, about how he was akin to a chain weight, keeping her and their team held down and halting their progress. Some people even theorized that he was a counterbalance to Pyrrha's incredible skill, so that their team was more on par with the rest.

A handicap.

It may as well have been true. Team training couldn't even be done properly because of his weaknesses, never able to offer anything other than a plan of action. Oh sure, they assured him his plans were solid and it was more than enough of a contribution…

But Jaune would never buy into that.

Weakling, failure, loser… he was so used to such words; he'd experienced it all his life. And yet when he tried to change it, when he tried to make a difference, nothing happened. Instead, he remained at the feet of those better than him. Be it intelligence, strength, skills, or capability overall, it didn't matter.

His hand swept over his sw - no, his father's sword, tightly gripping the handle.

Before tossing it away with all his strength.

"Graaah!"

He didn't know when he reached a wall, nor did he pay attention to the violent yells he released in-between frantic breaths. His knuckles cracked and screeched in protest, begging their owner to stop… but he wouldn't.

Tiny splotches of red stained the wall, the tears in his knuckles opening wider and wider with each successful impact. His aura did its job, shielding him from pain… but he'd exhausted most of it already. It wouldn't protect him for much longer, nor did he want it to. Soon the aura gave way, hard bone underneath the skin fracturing chip by chip – like a hammer against ice.

And like fire, the pain seared through both hands – a burning sensation that crawled into his fists and threatened to overtake them. The wall met his assault head on, at the same time, it's thick body shrugging off the heated bellows.

Still, he didn't stop.

"GRAAAAH!"

His head was next, his forehead smashing into the solid surface sending a splitting pain into his skull. He screamed as loud as he could, so as to ignore the line of blood that dribbled down his forehead, streaking down his eye.

Right beside the tears.

The world span and warped, Jaune falling onto his knees again as those same fists pounded into the floor. The hard material laughed at his pointless efforts, enraging him even more. Even the lights, even the empty stands above the arena – they all mocked him, and never felt the need to fight back.

Jaune screamed, and screamed, and screamed even more – one fist weakly beating on the floor. There were so many answers he wished he had, so many changes he wanted to make. But he'd never get them, he wasn't strong enough to just take those answers for himself. He was weak, unimportant… his presence here in this academy was based purely on tolerance.

If only… if only he was stronger.

If only he had the power of Yang, or the swiftness of Ruby, or Pyrrha's natural talent… maybe then he could make a difference. Maybe he could be freed of this pathetic life he'd led – of allowing his fears to control him, of allowing the bullies to step all over him, to allow those who claimed to be his friends to look at him with such soul crushing pity.

He'd show them – all those who'd put him down, laughed at him, told him he could never do it. If he had the power, he would show them that they were wrong. Smirk down at them as he rose above, reaching heights that no one else ever had.

If only…

His brain felt like it was pulsating in his head, threatening to burst out of the protection of his head. His fingers scratched against the floor, nails desperately trying to dig into the solid ground.

And that was where he sat, any sounds he made never got through the walls of the arena, all while he cursed the world, the school, the people…

And himself.

B/N: Spooky again! I'm honestly not sure why ISA puts up with me at this point; I'm such a snide, overbearing brat. Oh well, I guess there's no accounting for taste. So, there seems to be a lot of Jaune hero-worship on this site, but we all seem to forget a couple of Jaune's major flaws: he's prideful, he's untrusting, and he's a liar. I mean, hey: I like Jaune too. Best guy. I write harem stories with the best of them. But he's far from perfect, which is part of why I find him so compelling to write. He's a stupid teenage kid with honor issues and an inferiority complex.

Hello everyone, ISA here with the re-upload/rewrite of It Burns Like Hunger.

For those who haven't read it before, this will be a fall from grace kind of journey – telling how Jaune slowly loses control of himself, becoming angrier, more violent… and eventually driving himself to insanity. Jaune and his goal to become a Huntsman have the potential to fall into this path, especially if canon had gone a little darker with his backstory and drive.

So, I want this story to show the process of that budding obsession – how it affects him, those around him, and his overall future.

I know some of Jaune's thoughts in the first scene might seem a little odd for him but note that the assumptions he draws about other people are not facts - this fic is all from his perspective so what you are seeing here is his insecurities, bitter feelings and perspective on what he has personally seen.

Several changes have been made to this fic, some stuff has been taken out, new stuff will be added, but it still follows the original plotline.

Also, yes, I know the quote in the beginning is Cinder's words, that was completely intentional. That single quote is what will define Jaune in this fic.

And if there is one thing I like about RWBY. It's the parallels between Jaune and Cinder.

Do you see the parallels I see? Let me know in a review!

ISA