Chapter Text

Blue tinted fingers dig into the snow, a desperate final attempt to find a lifeline. Chills permeate Ingo’s bones as water soaks through his bloodied and torn clothing, the cold slowly dulling the pain. Every second that passes leaves him weaker, his energy slipping out from beneath the shreds of his clothes, staining the ground around him. With each drop, his hope begins to fade. A grim realisation starts to settle in its place.

There’s so much red. Red in his eyes, in his hair, staining his shirt. There’s a pressure squishing his brain. Nausea is bubbling up. Frostbite is creeping in. Now all that is left is a race between hypothermia and blood loss to finally take their winning place on the death certificate.

Tactics have always come easily to him, every potential route carefully mapped, even in the most dire circumstances, his cogs keep spinning. The gears grind, that gasket squeals, the engine fires and Ingo’s thoughts remain on track. Each turn, each twist, each result has led to a single conclusion.

Ingo isn’t going to survive this, is he? 

Here, in a land so very far from the one of his birth, the one so very far from the place he calls home, Ingo will die.

Stuck in a blizzard, there’s no chance that someone will be able to find him. Not one. Ingo’s fate, his final terminal, will not be a pleasant one.

What a disheartening epiphany. What a terrible fate he’s been met with. 

Darkness rims his vision. He lets out one final sigh, watching the puff of hot air fade with the gale force winds, imagining it as his life force. How quickly it’s gone, in a manner that vaguely reminds Ingo of a candle’s flame being snuffed out. The thought is almost funny, and if it wasn’t for the weight bearing down on his body, he would have laughed. Candles. Chandelure. His partner, will she miss him? 

Will she miss him, when he never comes home? After all, Ingo has always come home, even when he went out for a quiet walk through the city streets, dodging the neon lights that shine and pool in brightly coloured puddles across the street. Will she follow that route he always took? The one that winds around the subway entrances, around the gym and then looping back to their apartment, only to take a few precious moments to slosh around in the rain- a childish trait that Ingo had never lost, despite the raised brows and questioning look he would always get from Emmet- before he would swiftly rush his way back up that last stretch of road, back home again.

Will-?

Ah…

Will Emmet miss him? 

Ingo hopes not, for his twin’s sake. He hopes that Emmet remains unfazed. Ingo hopes that he fades into memory, forgotten and unmissed. He hopes that Emmet moves on quickly, that his twin won’t shed a single tear more than necessary, or even a single tear at all. Ingo hopes that Emmet never learns the horrid truth.

The awful, terrible truth.

Ingo will die.

What happens when he dies?

Will he freeze? Enshrined in a block of ice, mummified for the future generations to gawk at?

Or maybe, just maybe, new life might spring from this aching body?

That sounds nice, actually. Comforting even, to know that beauty could be born from even the most violent endings. That although his tracks may stall, the train of life will continue on, past this terminal, towards the next station.

Ingo’s life has always revolved around cycles. The cycle of transportation- get on one train, ride it, get off the train- for instance, being one of them. The cycling of air within the underground, the lifecycle of a train car, the cycle of battle.

What is death, but another part of the cycle of life? Death is not the end. Death is not the beginning. Death is merely a single station on a very long, circular line.

His death will be little more than another stop.

Yes. Ingo can imagine it now, ever so vividly. Maybe it’s just the delirium, maybe it’s his imagination, but he can see it now.

Biomass will pass to the next track, his flesh and blood will be recycled and dispersed by nature and Pokémon alike. His flaws, his virtues, none of them matter.

Good or bad. It all ends the same way.

Purification can only be found through putrefaction. 

Crumble to ash and dust. Let his spirit be swept away by these icy winds, carried into the moonlight to dance under the stars evermore. Let the ghosts and fairies sing requiems and dirges. Let his final breath start the symphony. Rend the spirit from thine body, leave the corpse behind for the wolves and plant life to feast on. A heart to nourish a rose. His eyes- “So very pretty, just like your father.“- a decoration for a bouquet. His bones will become a support for the inevitable passengers.

Yes.

Ingo serenely hopes that his body rots entirely, sinking into the coarse earth beneath the layers of snow. He hopes that his skin breaks down, that it will be shredded and torn- like his coat, his dear, dear coat- by the elements. Let his bones become a shelter for plant life, let daisies and zinnias curl around this broken rib cage, let his viscera become art.

Art. It would be nice to be memorialised in the form of art. Ingo never cared for it much before, but now, as he bleeds out into the snow, he finds himself suddenly appreciating the study immensely.

But Ingo does not want to be a single pretty picture, smeared into this expanse of white, pink and red. No, he does not want to be pretty. The venomous words that he’ll never spit, the arguments and furies that will never tumble from his tongue once more would be lost if he was pretty.

Ingo does not want to just be pretty. Ingo wants more. He wants to be ugly, he wants to be violent, he wants to curse and screech and- 

He hopes that fungi will fester within his lungs, their hyphae threaded through every bronchiole, twisting into the bronchus and through his trachea, their fruiting bodies sprouting from his bloodied mouth. 

Ingo hopes that the flowers- vibrant orange lilies, blush pink petunias, leaning aconite, midnight stained black roses- that will bloom from his bloodied carcass will scream his agonies to the heavens, that his death will have purpose. 

Maybe, if he is lucky, the roots of daffodils and forget-me-nots that might spring forth from his decaying organs will drag him deep into the abyss and grant him eternal peace. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Let the earth reclaim his putrid blood.

The abyss. The earth. He’ll be buried, won’t he? Or will this broken body be lost to the earth? Will his grave- because he’ll have a grave, Emmet would make sure he has a grave- be left empty? 

He tries to ignore the vision of a man standing before an empty grave. There is no closure to be found in a coffin filled with air and doubts. There is no closure in a missing person’s case.

He’ll be missing, won’t he? Emmet won’t know- Emmet might never know-

Ingo hopes Emmet will forgive him.

Ingo hopes Emmet knows that he was loved so dearly, that Ingo’s last thoughts were of his dearly beloved brother. His smile. His laughter. Flashes of the childhood, teenage years, adulthood-

Emmet. Emmet. Emmet.

I’m sorry Emmy.

Ingo’s eyes flutter to a close, his mind focusing on one person.

Ingo

hopes

that…

The static ringing is his ears would stop.

“Thou hast been met with great misfortune. Nay, perhaps the most great misfortune.”

A thousand static screeches begin to convalesce into a singular voice. 

What…?

“Mine power is limited. But for thee, One Who Hast Fallen, I shall grant aid.”

Who…?

The voice carries on, the unearthly glow cutting into the blessed darkness.  

“A trade.”

Trade…

“Thou will die without mine aid. Yet, I am merciful. Thine life can be saved, but not without cost.”

Ingo tries to move, to pry his own eyelids open and truly look at this being, yet his body refuses to obey. His muscles scream, but not a single note can be heard. He wants to talk! He wants to know! He wants, he wants, he wants.

“A life for a life. Tell me Fallen One, dost thou wish to live?”

Yes. Ingo wants to live. Ingo wants to go home, he wants to see Emmet and talk about battles and manage the Subway and-

“Very well. But in return, thou must make a sacrifice.”

A sacrifice..? 

“Thine past life. Thine memories. All that make up thou. That shall be thine sacrifice.”

Most would consider this choice for longer, most would think of every consequence and every result born from a decision such as this. To lose one’s memory, is that not a form of death? To forget everyone, to forget everything, is there not a worse fate?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Ingo does not hesitate. Memories are fleeting. One can make more memories, but a life…

Emmet deserves a living brother, memories be damned.

Yes. He will sacrifice his memories.

“Thou hast chosen? Very well. Sleep, thine destiny awaits.”

And so Ingo does, a tear slipping from his cheek as his memories turn to kindling.

A few hours later, the Pearl Clan find a baffled man wandering the snowdrifts, weak, not a memory gracing his mind but he is alive. A miracle, they say, as if he was blessed by the Almighty.

They’re not too far from the truth.

Warden Ingo of the Pearl Clan is an enigmatic man. This is an indisputable fact, one known by nearly all of the native Hisuians. 

Many moons ago, he had been found wandering the snowdrifts of Hisui absently, not a single memory gracing his mind, blanker than the day he was born.

Warden Ingo should have died that day.

His clothes were thin, the material ill suited for the Alabaster Iceland’s bitter cold and deadly winds. The fact that they were sodden from both blood and melted snow, merely compounded this truth. The tears of phantom wounds, his frost-borne delirium, the dazed look in his eyes. He should not have survived that day. He should have not survived that night. How could he? A man so ill-dressed and eccentric, clearly not a single drop of Hisuian blood running veins, surviving a night in the wilds with only the clothes upon his back. It was impossible. It should be impossible.

But, despite it all, the man was relatively uninjured.

Blessed, whispered the clan. The man had to have been blessed by Sinnoh, they muttered. Or- He was cursed, another group added in hushed tones, for the blizzard never left his soul.

Cursed was likely the case, after a while. Surely Warden Ingo must have been cursed, for he never felt warmth again.

Ingo’s whole body was cold. From the very top of his head, to the tips of his toes, he was ever so cold, the blizzard and blood loss had stolen away what little strength he had left. Even many days, many weeks after his retrieval from the snowfields, Ingo’s warmth never returned. His fingers remain bloodless and ice-tipped, his heart thumped sluggishly in his chest, a haze settled over his eyes and mind as a pressure, unknown yet heavier than a Snorlax, bore down upon him. Not once did his lips tinge a warm pink, nor did his skin ever flush red, for Ingo had been claimed by the bitter winter, and the bitter winter had been unknowingly claimed by him.

It seemed that although Ingo had evaded death’s clutches, the final terminal never was too far out of reach. Its claws still brushed against Warden Ingo’s soul, threatening to pull him into an early grave. 

This spectre remained ever present, following the Warden’s every move. He had an aura these days that was a combination of both malicious, but protective. 

In Irida’s opinion, the Warden was the night, an endless expanse of darkness as black as the ripped coat around his shoulders. After all, the night was whence he came, and the night mirrored his every trait. Calm, peaceful, comforting- yet a subtle danger lurked beneath the surface, just out of sight. He was not dangerous, but that did not mean Irida was going to risk provoking him, not when he was so obviously cursed blessed. She would not dare risk provoking the being. Irida is not a fool.

But they could not say the same about whatever followed him. She, along with the rest of the clan, had noticed how strong some Pokémon would become in the Warden’s presence. A simple Snarl from a defensive Zoroark had the power to down a fully grown man if done in the presence of the Warden, and even the Clan’s Umbreons seemed far more vicious when fighting by the Warden’s side. 

The being, whatever it might be, was affecting the Pokémon around him.

The Elders were afraid.

Irida was afraid, not of Ingo, but for him. He was a kind man, despite his oddities.

So when Lady Sneasler claimed him as one of her own, Irida was overjoyed. She did not hesitate to grant him the title of Warden. She had remained perfectly stoic during the ceremony, not flinching at all when her hands brushed against his thin, icy wrists during the bracelet gifting, nor did she stutter as she stared into his glassy, blank eyes. 

No. Irida remained stoic, and thus Warden Ingo was sent away to the Highlands.

It was for both his safety, and for the clan’s safety.

Brilliant, golden sunbeams hit Ingo’s face, bleeding through the cracks between the wooden door, casting a crimson glow through his eyelids. He groans, lifting an arm into the air, waving it absently to block the sunlight. It doesn’t really work, nor will it ever work, but Ingo tries anyway.

A few minutes pass, and eventually, Ingo is thoroughly defeated by the passage of time. A yawn bubbles from his mouth, sharp and keening. The small furry weight beside him starts to shuffle, then mewls as it butts its tiny little head into his chest. Looks like it’s time to start his duties.

Ingo’s eyes reluctantly flutter open. He yawns once more, and slowly untangles himself from the pile of incredibly deadly Sneaslets, Sneasler herself and his dear lap Tangela, who is far cuddlier than expected for what is essentially an unknown creature surrounded by vines, but Ingo won’t complain, she’s baby. He doesn’t mind anyone joining him at night, really. Sneasler and her Sneaslets are warm. Their hearts beat fast, their fur is soft and they are warm . 

They are warm. Ingo is not. 

With the little ones and their mother by his side, the swirling snowstorm in his chest doesn’t not plague him so much. His muscles are softer, more flexible and the iciness of Ingo’s fingers doesn’t bother him as much when he rests them in the little one’s purple-white downy fur.

Gently, he pushes Tangela off his chest, unwinds the blankets from his legs and sluggishly tumbles out of bed with a thump, landing in a pile of assorted limbs of the wooden flooring.

“Ah.” Ingo whispers, staring at the ceiling unseeingly. “I am the most graceful of the Wardens.” He is not, but the positive affirmation makes him chuckle quietly anyway. “The most graceful. My model is immaculate.”

Yeah, it sure is Ingo.

A few more seconds stretch on and with a sigh, Ingo finally gets up. He ambles over to the small chest in the corner, fishing out a fresh change of clothing for the day. Pearl tunic, black trousers… His shoes… Right! That should be everything, hopefully he’s ready, now to get some water… 

He stumbles over to his ceramic jars, checking each one, only to find them pitifully empty. Ah, looks like it’s a supply day today. Ingo isn’t keen on early morning supply runs, instead preferring lazy mornings with his partners. He sighs once more, with feeling, and gets an inquisitive “Mrrrp?” from Lady Sneasler in response.

He turns to the Noble, who watches him with curious eyes. “I have to go out. Supply run. Mind joining me, uh- Lady Sneasler?” 

This time she gives him a decisive “Snee.” of affirmation and slowly clambers out of bed, sending her little Sneaslets tumbling. It’s a yes, then. 

“Very well. Let me get ready, and then we shall set off.”

He pulls on his boots, stumbling around on a single foot while Lady Sneasler laughs at him- which, for the record, is not something Ingo knew that Pokémon could do- much to his displeasure. Alas, there’s little to be done there. Then it’s a matter of preparing his basket, he’ll need a few water skins, a few jars, cloth for the mushrooms… Ingo rummages through the pile, checking off each item from his mental checklist, until he’s pleased with the result.

All clear, then.

After his struggle, both externally and mentally (shoes are hard when you’re tired), Ingo eventually unbolts the door with Lady Sneasler standing beside him. 

Briefly, Ingo spares a moment to take one final look at his home, committing everything to memory one final time. It’s an odd routine, but one that brings him comfort. His memory is fleeting and he- and Ingo refuses to forget everything a second time. Not again. The thought of losing everything once more, even down to his name and identity, was far too much to handle.

After all, what would he think?

Ingo blinks. What would who think? Who would… Who..? He was just thinking about someone, wasn’t he? He tries to backtrack, reverse gear and find the missing line his mind has just been following. But…

Sharp, throbbing pains pierce his skull, rattling his brain. 

Within an instant, Ingo’s head starts to hurt.

Pulse. 

Ingo grips at his hat.

Pulse. 

His vision wavers. Shadows rise. Shadows fall. Ingo’s vision begins to fail now, gravity becomes harsher, pulling him closer. A claw reaches out-

Pulse. 

Pain ripples, crawling like little Paras behind his eyeballs, stabbing their curved, sharp claws into his brain. Why can’t he..? No… No it was because of a- he made a deal, right? 

The deal. The deal. Ingo’s deal. A life for a-

Another throb, and Ingo hisses in pain, doubling back and trying to support himself on the closest thing to him- soft and furry, the Noble?- as he tries to focus on that thought. He tries to focus on that ‘who’. 

However, like water, the thoughts drain from his mind, seeping from his head as his eyes begin to glaze over. 

Flowing. 

Flowing. 

Gone. 

He blinks once more, eyes focusing back onto reality. Was he thinking about something? He looks up, finding himself staring into the face of the now very concerned Lady Sneasel. Ingo is in… Ingo is in her basket.

He shuffles, Surely… For a moment, Ingo swore that he should have remembered climbing in, yet his mind remains painfully, purposely absent. No memory flutters forth. No memories. Nothing.

A hysterical chuckle bubbles from his throat. There’s something ironic there, isn’t there? Why would he-

The next laugh dies in his throat.

Ah, it matters not. After all, Ingo has more pressing matters to deal with. Water, right?

Yes. Water.

That’s what he was doing. Getting water. For himself. For Sneasler.

Yes.

Ingo stretches, then motions to the Lady’s basket from inside. “May… May I continue to ride? I fear I might be… Distracted. My engines do not seem to be working optimally.” That’s certainly one word for his state. Distractions may be the least of his worries.

The Lady nods, however her concern remains etched on her furry face. She blinks, long and slow, before the expression is swapped for another emotion that Ingo cannot yet place due to his inexperience. Why is… Why is she…?

Oh!

She is hesitating!

That emotion right there is hesitance, growing and blooming in the withered remains of whatever was there before. It’s heart warming, that she might hesitate on behalf on his own wellbeing, but still, Ingo should not and refuses to matter more than her,

“Oh!” Ingo merely tips his cap at her, a motion that feels as if it was meant to be polite, but might not be depending on the part of the net that you’re scrolling through. “Lady Sneasler, I will be fine. Worry not for me. There are greater priorities at hand.” 

“Sne.” The Lady argues.

“Please.”

“ Sne! ”

“ Please ?” Ingo adds, eyes shining, the most polite expression on his face. Sneasler stares huffs, unable to resist, and shoves the basket lid closed. A muffled “Thank you!” rumbles from inside, and with that, she starts her ascent.

As he climbs up the cliff side, Ingo’s thoughts begin to sail adrift. 

Autumn’s bounty has truly become pronounced over the last few weeks. The harvest from today will keep Ingo and his wards fed through the winter months, their personal granaries will no doubt be overflowing, and thus less time will have to be devoted to those chores.

Which means that Ingo can focus more on training his partners.

Well, he thinks it’s training, anyway. It’s the first word that comes to mind, so surely it must be the correct one. 

Ingo’s hand slips slightly, nails digging into the mud-stained stone cliffs. He catches himself quickly, his right hand latching onto a hanging root and tries to ignore the way his flesh burns from the friction as he slides. Lucky. That could’ve been a bad situation.

Even if it’s a term that no one else in Hisui has heard of, at least in the context of Pokémon. So it’s hard to say if it is a foreign term, or something born from one of his many eccentricities.

It’s probably the latter. It usually is the latter.

How depressing.

But like most of his bizarre array of unheard lingo, all of their context remains painfully absent from his memories, with the words themselves acting as the only hint to his past, whatever it might be. 

Strange, isn’t it? Ingo cannot remember a single detail about his past, hadn’t been able to remember a thing, not even his name (which had been luckily stitched into his coat collar in blocky white text), yet still these words flow from his lips with a fluidity that’s easier than breathing. 

Now, if only everything else could come easily-

Ingo’s right foot slips, his hand shoots out to grasp at the wall in an attempt to regain his foothold. His hand swipes at the stone, only for his fingers to brush against it, only a hair’s breadth away from salvation and-

Ingo’s left foot slips. Pebbles and dirt tumble. His breath catches in his throat. His heart sluggishly shudders to a stop. Warden Melli had told him time and time again that his boots would be the death of him. Had claimed that the too flat soles and the lack of grip was poor for climbing and Ingo ignored him. Ingo had ignored him because he refused to give up his past, he refused and stubbornly held onto anything and everything from before.

Ingo was stubborn. These are the consequences.

Ingo’s feet slip and-

Ingo falls.

Hands slide across the cliff, slick and burning as his entire body begins to tilt backwards, the world crumpling and distorting, stretching out over an infinite expanse of space. He sees, oh he sees, everything and anything. Pictures, faded and over exposed, stained with perfect white blotches. 

Data streams flow into his head. So much to see. So much to do. 

The stream gurgles, splutters and thins. Every metre that passes compresses the streams further, yet the density remains the same. His head feels like it’s been compressed, squished by  hydraulics, pressure building.

Trees. Were they always that shade of green? Swathes of vermillion, sitrus-berry yellow and razz berry orange, all mashing and blurring and soaking into each other.

Stones. Ingo had never cared much for rocks, unlike the Kleavor Warden’s excitable lad. They were nice, smooth and cool to hold, aside from their texture, Ingo never really thought much of them. The cliffs were painted a soft mud-brown, or a cool ashen grey. 

Pokémon. They were everywhere. Hidden in every nook and cranny, every inch of this world is teeming with life. So much life. So many lives he’ll leave behind. His partners, his wards and the clan. His partners… They can’t save him-

No one can catch him, Gligar is too weak, Lady Sneasler wouldn’t have the chance to reach out, Tangela isn’t here. Lady Sneasler is above him, further up the cliff. Will she see..? Will the kittens see?

The landscapes all flash by him, blurring and blended into a single smudge of colour. The wind rushes past his ears as he falls, feeling freer than he’s ever been before. This is freedom. This is solace. Terror bleeds into his mind, the gravity of the situation finally settling on him, and a scream rips from his throat, a strangled cry before-

This is- Ingo lands.

The pain is so sudden that he barely has time to register it before his vision flashes a violent crimson and his bones shatter into dust. Everything hurts, every nerve ending fires and fires and fires. It burns and aches and-

Stops.

Everything stops.

Nothing hurts anymore. 

And Ingo..?

Ingo watches the sky, eyes watering, blood staining his hair.

Has it always been this beautiful?

“Ah. It seems as though thou hast perished again. Once more, it is not thine time.”

“I am merciful.”

“Our deal still stands. A trade.” 

“A life for a life.”

A man lying in a pool of dried blood wakes up to a startled scream.

He does not remember who he is.

Chapter Text

Screaming.

The voice keeps screaming. Shrill and piercing, the prolonged note makes his ears hurt. The tone repeats. Over and over. Notes burrowing into his ears, squirming and writhing like a freshly hatched Sewaddle. Tiny claws shuffling, scraping, ripping-

It hurts. 

A single eye twitches open, a pupil lazily landing on the blur smudge that might be, and probably is a screaming person. The screams start to slow to a halt as the realisation that he isn’t dead, just- 

He was just resting. Just resting. Here. On the ground. In a pool of…

Oh. 

Oh no.

That’s…

That isn’t good, is it?

Dry, crusty brown flakes cling to the pink tunic wrapped around his chest, staining the baby pink a darker, wilting rose. The fabric, once soft, feels ever so heavy around his shoulders. Is that…? Oh.

Metal. In his mouth. Coating his teeth, in his gums, his tongue.

The man shakily brings a hand to his mouth, wiping it.

His hand comes back red. 

Ah.

It’s blood.

Blood- life giving and red and… And…

The man isn’t sure what blood is, just that it’s important, very important, and it should definitely not be outside the body. It should be inside. Like most parts, it is protected by fat, flesh and bone. 

He twitches his hand once more.

It’s still red.

There’s something wrong here, something is ever so wrong, and the man isn’t the only person who knows that.

The screaming has withered now, no longer shill and distressed like the cry of a new born Joltik in the face of a predator. No, the scream has been distilled into a more concentrated horror, hoarse and agonised. For the first time since his awakening, the man finally looks up, straight towards the source of the racket.

It’s a person.

Purple hair, wide twitching purple eyes. A face that for the brief moment the man sees it, vaguely reminds him of one of those old Galarian dolls. Porcelain skin, perfectly-preened silky hair and a bracelet hanging from their wrist. His description comes to a halt, however, as the person’s hand rockets upward.

They hold a hand to their face, worn callused fingers cupping their chin and mouth tightly in a white-knuckle grip that would usually only be owned by a person in a rather dire situation or a particularly intense football match. None of which particularly match the problem at hand, in the man’s opinion. But then again, the man isn’t sure exactly what any of the previously mentioned things are, so perhaps he’s not quite the best judge here. He’s probably pretty poor at judging things, really. After all, he’s the one soaked from head to toe in his own blood. 

The man stares at the one-who’s-kinda-purple-but-also-blue (or purple for short). Purple stares back at him, no longer screaming.

No one says anything.

Purple opens their mouth. Then closes it again with a click. Then opens it again.

Huh, nice Goldeen impression. 

Wait, no! The man isn’t here to rate people’s impressions, nope! He is in a Situation, with a capital ‘S’ because this really is the biggest problem he’s ever faced in his grand total of… Five minutes of conscious thought and memory..?

Now, the man feels like something is not right here. Not at all. There is something up and it’s definitely not the sky. Or those rocks. Or the clouds. Or…

Focus!

Right. Gather thoughts. Maybe that’ll help?

Right. Thoughts. The man doesn’t really have many thoughts, probably because he’s only just woken up and all, but still, listing everything out might help.

Just gotta ignore the confused person over there. Along with the big purple Pokémon… 

What is it called again?

What…

Skuntank , a voice deep inside his head whispers, in a tone that is definitely not one of his own. Strange, he thanks the odd voice gratefully. Appreciate it.

Odd voices aside, let’s work this out now. 

So, thoughts as followed:

1. Blood outside the body is bad. Blood inside is good. Why blood out?
2. The man doesn’t have a name. Or at least, not one that he remembers.
3. Why is he here? 
4. What was he doing?
5. Where is ‘here’?
6. Who that person and why they ourple.
7. The man does not remember.

Actually, that didn’t help at all.

Hmm… Maybe he should try another tactic?

Yes. That might help! Now, how does he…? Ah! Purple. Ask Purple.

So, in order to get further clarification, the man decides to finally speak up.

His throat burns, as if he had been the one screaming himself hoarse. Nevertheless, the man speaks anyway. Weaving a tapestry of words from many tongues that he knew yet did not, he finally formulates a proper sentence. “Hello there! My tracks seem to have led me here…” How that happened, the man did not know. “Could I.. May I have some help-“

“ How are you not dead? ”

Purple cuts him off, sending his coach off the rails and onto the… 

That metaphor really doesn’t work, does it?

Alright. Restart. Let’s go for something else here.

The sheer blunt, yet hysterical voice catches the man off guard, as if the words were a club striking his chest with a great force, winding him.

How is he not dead? 

Well, the man isn’t sure. He doesn’t think he’s dead, lest the afterlife be a particularly normal, albeit rocky place. His heart, although weak and sluggish, still beats. His lungs inflate. His head aches- a sharp piercing pain that lingers near the back of his scalp, an agony that feels as though he had smashed into tiny little pieces across the ground. 

Fragmented. That’s how the man feels. It’s as if he were but a small glass vase, shattering into crystalline shards, littering the land with millions of refracting chunks, casting a crimson glow.

But the man is not glass. The man is flesh and bone, formed from thousands of repeating little polymer chains and drifting molecules. 

The man is here.

“I do not understand..?” He half-whispers, tilting his head. “I am alive.”

The sharp gaze he receives in response doesn’t fill the man with much confidence. “You should not be. You fell! Your Noble, she called me and I-“ Purple shakes their head, trying to hide the choking from before. “The Great Melli doesn’t have time for this. Stay still, old man.”

Darkness. World twisting.

The man blinks. A pair of hands rest on his side, and the Purple, or Great Melli stares down at him. The man feels fingers trace the patches of blood, checking for damages, yet not a single trace of their sources are found. Not even the man’s face is spared, as the Great Melli yanks his head upwards, checking for injuries. 

Another blink, and there is a pair of intense eyes staring into the man’s own. Purple on… Ah, what is his eye colour again..? Black? Pink? Blue or maybe even purple too?

He doesn’t know. 

But what he does know is that this is rather awkward.

Suppressing the urge to squirm or look away, the eye contact continues until it’s broken by the Great Melli, cursing under their breath.

“Nothing- How ?” The Great Melli moves lower, checking the man’s legs. Nothing once more, not a single break or even a twist of an ankle. Other than the shredded boots, there is nothing. They give a slight hysterical chuff at the boots, muttering a scolding “ I told you so. ” before moving on.

“What are you doing?” The man is growing tired of this farce, he’s fine! Absolutely fine! Not a single injury to be found. “I am-“

“ Warden . You are…” 

The man tunes out the rant, instead focusing on that singular word.

Warden? Is that his name? 

Warden. Warden. Warden.

Like a too-big shoe, the word feels as though it’s ill-fitting, only partially filled and loose, as though it’s not quite him. Every step threatens to send the shoe tumbling away, and like the way his foot would be exposed to the elements, the man feels as though the title is the only force protecting him from the harsh mountainside that he’s found himself on. 

Or maybe, just maybe ,  it’s protecting him from himself .

A name is a purpose, after all. To be nameless is to lack an identity. 

The man doesn’t want to be left without an identity, he’ll cling to anything he can now.

Thus, the man tries to fill the missing piece of the puzzle with a vaguely similarly shaped rock, and hopes.

Warden. 

Warden.

Warden.

That name will do. He is Warden, that name fits somewhat, so it must be right. This peeling name tag is the closest he’ll ever get to the answer for now.

Warden doesn’t get a moment more to ponder his name before a curved pair of sharp yet careful claws shove him into a… Basket. Huh, weird. Don’t see that everyday.

When the rumbling comes to a stop, Warden finds himself thrown from the basket and onto the hard ground. The dirt feels no softer than before.

No, if anything, it feels harder. 

Ow.

Untangling his limbs from the mess of now brick brown stained clothing, Warden shudders, then stumbles to his feet. The sudden upwards motion makes his head spin, the world blurring into a smudged black. Warden stumbles from the left, then to the right, and finally forwards towards a hard, wooden… Hut!

It’s decorated with circular designs and banners stained the same shade of pink as his tunic, Warden notes, as he brushes his fingers across the wooden walls- which, now he thinks of it, must have been built using the wood from that distant outcropping of trees he spotted earlier.

“What are you doing?” 

Warden turns back to his kidnapper and… The Great Melli. Both of which are watching him with the most mystified expression and in Melli’s case, crossed arms. 

Ah, well. Best not to lie. “I was-“ Warden motions towards the hut. “Admiring the woodwork.”

“Uh-huh. You’ve hit your head harder than I thought.” The Great Melli huffs. “Get inside, old man.”

“Go inside?” Warden tilts his head curiously. “But isn’t that rude?”

An audible eye roll comes from Melli’s direction, before they match straight towards Warden, gripping his arm in a vice-tight grip. “That’s your own house. I know you’re not nearly as brilliant as I, but this is beyond a joke.” They tug his arm, pulling him into the hut. “I’m taking you to bed, then calling the healers.”

“Thank you!”

The Great Melli tosses their hair to the right, smacking Warden with their curled locks. “Don’t thank me.”

“Oh by the Almighty, it’s a miracle.”

The healer from the Pearl Settlement lectures him for hours on end once she finally arrives. From the state of his clothing, to the way he had upset his ‘Noble’, Lady Sneasler. 

Warden listens to her from his sickbed, trying to make sense of his supposed ‘duties’ and ‘Clan’.

This makes no sense.

Melli steals his tunic, claiming that the stench of blood would attract the local Luxrays.

A few days later, they return with a slightly stained, but relatively clean tunic. Not a single word is exchanged as they place it in front of Warden’s hut, but Warden swears that he’ll return the favour later on.

The headache doesn’t stop.

Not when a week passes, nor when the healers give him a mixture of crushed bitter herbs and fine coloured powders that only make him cough for hours on end. For a while, Warden remains optimistic. But then another week passes, then another, then a month.

When the leaves change from a muted, mottled green to a dull brown, withering and falling from the trees, does the shadow of doubt grow stronger. No longer faint, a horrid realisation begins to dawn upon him.

There is little escape from the vestiges of Warden’s previous accident.

Ice-cold fingers, a heart that barely beats and a pain that will never leave. 

Not the kindest fate, is it?

Despite the constant throbbing pain that laces his skull, Warden finds himself relatively at peace. Even though he has little understanding of what his duties are, let alone who anyone else is, he’s found it relatively easy to bumble his way through pomp and circumstance with relative ease. After all, most of his oddities can be blamed on his eccentric nature- apparently he had been found all alone in a blizzard ?- which had so far been an Almighty-sent gift.

So Warden stumbled through conversations and settlements alike in a shaky tango of social interaction. Each step was difficult and unsteady, but he prevailed anyway, he had too. 

Which has led to today.

It had taken some time to muster up the courage and then to find an appropriate gift. Great Melli, or ‘Warden Melli’ or ‘ purple ’ as his fellow clansmen had referred to Warden’s fellow mountain dweller as. The Pearl Clan spoke of them in harsh, unpleasant tones- like the one one might use to refer to a particularly annoying bug or a piece of muck upon one’s shoe, which was odd, considering Melli’s silent kindness towards him. There was unjust contention there, but Warden cared not for the opinions of others, mostly because he found himself unable to remember them for long. Trying to recall anything from too far ago often left him with a stronger headache than before, along with a sense of bone-deep urgency. 

Ah well. Let’s not linger on this topic anymore, shall we?

With a loaded basket full of jars and various medicines, Warden makes his way towards the hidden hut near the western outskirts of Moonview Arena. It had taken him a while to find the hut initially, since the overgrown orchard that surrounded it had obscured every bit of Diamond blue from sight, and the rolling Voltorbs that threatened to explode whenever he neared had warded him off for the time being. 

Now filled with courage and joined by Lady Sneasler, Warden had no fear of Melli’s overprotective wards and Lord. It’s merely a matter of knocking on that door.

Just got to knock on that door.

Come on.

Knock. On. That. Door.

Hand wavering in front of the door, Warden finds himself hesitating to actually perform the action. He’s not sure why he’s struggling now, surely it’s not that hard to… Talk? Interact? Warden mentally revises the script that he had been practising for weeks on end, over and over and over until he was sure that he’d get it right when the time came.

“Lady Sneasler.” Warden turns to face his Lady, who until this point, had been chuffing at him. “Do you… Do you think Melli will like the tea? The Diamond Clan member I spoke to the other week said they did. They wouldn’t lie, right?”

“Sneerrr.”

“I agree.” 

“Snehehe.”

“I know. I know. Just-” Warden raises his arm, hovering in front of the door. He twitches his pale- blue-tipped fingers into a fist. “I find myself stalling. Will-”

Warden doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence. The door swings open, revealing a rather nonplussed Melli. They blink at the sight before them, before swinging their arms upwards, crossing them. “What are you doing outside my house, old man?” Melli questions, confusion bleeding into irritation. 

“Uh- Ah…” Oh, there goes the script. Systems failure, reverse and redirect. Producing a jar of jam from one pocket, and a jar of tea from the other, Warden simply spouts the first word that forms in his mind from his mouth. “Jar?”

“What?” Melli leans from the side of the doorway now, face once more turning into the perfect picture of confusion. “Are you… What ?”

“For you. As-” Warden holds the jams forwards, offering them to Melli. “As thanks. For helping me. Last season.”

“Ah?”

He babbles on. “As thanks I wanted to get you a gift, it was only polite after all and without your help, my model might have been damaged further.-” Melli starts to raise an eyebrow. “When the healers cleared me I decided to try and find a way to thank you, so I rerouted my train in hopes of finding a suitable gift. I asked most of my clansmen for help, but those fellows were not the most useful and thus I was forced to search for a new rail to follow.” 

“I-”

Warden starts to gesture wildly. ”So then I asked one of your clansmen. They said that you liked a specific tea blend- jasmine tea- that was only sold by the Ginkgo Guild, so I travelled to one of their camps and tried to trade for it but-”

Skuntank wanders into view, watching the exchange with barely contained mirth. They share a moment of unspoken laughter with Lady Sneasler, before shaking their head and returning to their bed. 

Skuntank’s partner, however, just whispers a perplexed “ Uh ?”

“-They wouldn’t accept my wares, claiming that they were after rarer materials. They would only trade the tea for a more valuable item, so Gligar and I travelled to the Wayward Cave to search for ore deposits.”

“ Old man .”

“And we found this stone with the colour of the sun- a fire stone- but then the Alpha Crobat attacked us. Luckily, their poisonous attacks seemed to heal Gligar, and we were able to defeat it. From there, we departed to the Ginkgo camp once more, traded for the tea and some berries for a jam I thought you might like to try-”

“ Warden .” 

“Yes?” The sharp tone catches him off guard. “Do you like them? I do apologise if not, or if I managed to offend you-”

Melli outstretches a hand, taking one of the jars from him. Fingers brush against Warden’s own snow-cold ones, yet Melli doesn’t outwardly flinch one bit. Their usual bravado slips from their face, smooth and silent, and a rare grateful smile beams at Warden at full force. 

In a firm tone, they give Warden a simple “Thank you.” 

“Oh-” Warden freezes, ramrod straight. He turns his head, burying his face in his thankfully-high coat collar. “You’re welcome.”

He’s not sure what more to say, his brain chugs to a halt as it desperately awaits a refuelling. Thus, the two stand there for several long, awkward seconds. Melli looks as though they’re waiting for Warden to say something, yet the words never come.

Ah…

Does Warden leave? Does he stay?

He’s not sure, it wasn’t as if he really planned for anything more.

Warden clears his throat. “Well then. I will depart now. Patrols.” The excuse rolls from his mouth with relative ease. “Because that is my station. I must depart for the patrols. Yes.”

Disappointment flashes across Melli’s flash, before bravado quickly replaces it once more. “Patrols. Yes.” They echo.

And with that, Warden scrambles into Lady Sneasler’s basket, ushering her to leave as soon as possible.

A few days later, Warden wakes up to find a jar of freshly picked plump beans on his doorstep.

Strangely enough, they appeared on the same night that Melli was patrolling the Highlands.

Huh, odd coincidence. 

Chapter Text

“Thank you again Warden- For the help.”

Warden tips his cap at the Ginkgo merchant- a girl with ash blond hair that fell loosely around her face, hiding a pair of Braviary-sharp eyes- and hums. “No worries. It was my pleasure, as always.”

“You’re too kind!” She giggles, saccharine sweet- but not entirely forced, as she leans over once more to swipe another hunk of crunchy salt from a cliff edge. “Another one. Shouldn’t be long now.” 

Warden eyes the pinkish rock curiously, then pointedly glances at the basket on the girl’s back. “How many is that now, Miss…” What was her name again? Kirlia? Karol? Ky… “Kayla.”

Kayla pauses, opening her palms wide and flicking her fingers, silently counting. One, two, three- miss a few- twenty-two, twenty-three… “Twenty-four hunks of crunchy salt. That should be enough for the Jubilife order.”

“I see- And Jubilife?” Warden echoes, racking his mind for the name.

The merchant raises a brow, almost impressed about the lack of knowledge this Warden guy seems to have about… Well, absolutely everything. “The village down on the western coast- The one with all those stiff immigrant folks.” She motions vaguely west, towards what Warden assumes to be the village. Or maybe she’s just waving her arms? Actually, Warden isn’t sure.

Warden gives her a curt nod. 

“Ah, I see.” Warden does not see, nor understand what she’s going on about, but fair enough. “Perhaps I’ll have to visit.”

The girl carries on, seemingly prompted by the somewhat-but-not-quite question. “Probably best you don’t, Warden. I don’t like that lot, not one bit.” Kayla shrugs, almost lazily. “But they’ve got gold, so that's good enough for me.”

Ah. Gold. The Ginkgo Guild’s one vice, or at least, from what he’s heard from Melli. Warden doesn’t personally see a use for it, nor really understand why so many of Hisui’s habitants seem to value it so much. It’s pretty, yes, but that’s about it. The way the veins run through the ore stones is nice to look at, their sheen in the light especially appeals to Warden.

Hm.

Perhaps there is a use for it, then?

“Gold is gold.” Warden mutters, and the Ginkgo merchant nods along. “Useful?” 

“Yes. Yes. Although this order isn’t worth much. However, it's a source of income, so it’ll do.”

They return to silence after that, which mildly upsets Warden. It’s overbearing, and the silence means that he’s plagued by distorted thoughts once more.

Warden does not like thinking.

As a result, he desperately tries to find something new to talk about. A series of disjointed conversation starters flicker through his mind, but when Warden finally opens his mouth to speak, the words die in his throat. Sinking. Drowning. Gone.

How could they not? How could Warden speak, when the landscape before him begins to shift and turns? How could he speak, when the skies above them begin to scream ? 

Red. 

Blue. 

Green.

Red.

Blue.

Green-

“Oh wow…” The woman beside him gasps, eyes almost starry. Kayla does not share a single drop of his growing panic, nor his shallow, Buneary-fast breathing at the sight. Instead, she almost looks… Pleased? Excited? Resigned? Warden can’t quite place it, honestly. “I’ve never been this close to one.” She whispers. “Can we- No. We’d die.” 

“We will- What ?”

They could die? Why are they standing here, then? Why in the Almighty have they not started running?

Why… Why does it evoke this panic? Why does it make his stomach churn? Why does his heart beat faster and faster with each ripple of that reflective-yet-not surface?

“Oh, have you not seen a space-time distortion before, Warden?” 

Space-time… “What?” Warden echoes once more. “A what?”

“That’s a no then. Odd, but I suppose it’s possible to miss them.” Kayla points towards the distortion bubble forming in the distance. “They’re said to be rips in space. Or time. Maybe both. Started happening a few months ago. Suppose the news must've not spread yet.” She shrugs, more pronounced this time as Warden sends her an inquisitive, yet still panicked look. “I don’t know much on that. I’m no scientist. Just a girl trying to make a living, y’know?”

“Yes..?”

“So these rips. They’re chock of good stuff to sell. Some real interesting things, y’know?” Warden does not know, thank you very much. “Lots of them are real strange. Metal contraptions that make no sense. Weird glowing devices. These flat circular plate things…” 

The last item on that list gains Warden’s attention, the massive death (?)  bubble momentarily forgotten.

“Flat disks? Like a Technical Machine?” His mouth moves on it’s own, forming a series of words that are somewhat-but-not-quite familiar. It’s not the sense of familiarity you would find when meeting an old friend again, nor the one you’d get when returning to a well-worn but beloved place again. Instead, it’s the sense of familiarity that you would have upon returning home after many, many years once more. To Warden, it is as though those words were incredibly important to him a long, long time ago. “Like Earthquake? Twenty-six, Earthquake?”

Kayla stares at him blankly.

“No? I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“Ah.” Quick! Change that subject! “So… Uh-” Once more, Warden eyes the Bubble of Doom, bearer of the rancid vibes. “Should we run? Or are they-” He points towards the Bubble. “-Alright?”

The merchant laughs. “No. No. We’re quite safe here. They’re only dangerous inside the bubble, not around them. It’s the Pokémon, you see.” 

“I do not.”

“Oh- well. Inside the rips, giant alpha Pokémon and also the normal ones show up.” Raising her arms towards the sky, then spreading them wide, she carries on. “The Pokémon are absurdly strong and aggressive there. Like, they’ll kill you in a few hits if you’re not careful. Some not native to Hisui either.” She pauses. “Anyway, only Volo and Ginter are mad enough to try and enter them.”

That does not sound good.

However, despite his panic and the newly gained information, Warden finds himself… Warden feels as though the Bubble of Violent Doom is drawing him in.

He shivers.

Not today.

“Best avoid them, then?”

“Yes. I’ll have more gold in the long run from these jobs. Rather not risk life and limb for a weird metal box.”

“I see.” For real this time. Sorta. “I see.”

Lady Sneasler doesn’t miss Warden’s newfound, morbid fascination with the rifts.

The inside of her basket becomes a common sight.

Warden doesn’t like the Icelands. 

The winds here are bitter, almost malicious, and the blizzards here sap every drop of warmth from his body. It’s as though every vein and artery is freezing, blood turning to ice. Bones complain with every step or flick of a finger. 

Every moment that passes poisons Warden’s very body, flashes of hyphae and void-black roses flicker through his mind, and his chest tightens uncomfortably. These snowdrifts, the chill-

It’s almost as Warden had been here before-

Did he-

Why-

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Reality shifts, squirms and twists. Everything feels ever so present, so alive and overwhelming. For just a moment, it is as though Warden is suffocating under the weight of the past and the brewing panic. Squeezing his lungs in a Vice Grip tight grasp. Weakening his hands- how he feels as though there is nothing, that he is nothing- yet as he lifts a palm, he finds that his carriage has not yet decoupled from life itself, that despite it all, Warden is still alive. Even though he feels as though he’s floating into the snow-stained skies above, Warden knows that he is no ghost- no corpse- but instead, alive.

Why does this land make him question himself so?

Why does Warden feel as though he should be dead? 

Why does he feel as though he’s rotting from the inside out? 

Why-

No. No more. Stop derailing. Your pistons must press on for now. Let these wheels turn evermore, until his train finally reaches the right station once more.

It’s a verrry, verrry cold day, and Warden does not like the Icelands, not one bit.

Warden doesn’t reach the Pearl Clan settlement until after the sun has dipped below the horizon, casting shadows upon this windy, harsh land. The basket shudders to a stop and fire-light pours into the basket as the lid is lifted.

Thus, Warden comes face-to-face with a young woman- one that he feels as though he should know, but sadly does not.

She has a gentle smile, soft violet eyes and is woefully underdressed for the Alabaster Icelands. Despite this, her teeth do not chatter one bit, nor does she show a single sign of discomfort. “Good evening, Warden.” 

He tips his cap in acknowledgement, or at least tries to, prying a hand free from the bundle of tangled blankets he had wrapped himself in during the journey. “Good evening…” he trails off awkwardly. “Ah…”

“Warden Palina.”

His face flushes with embarrassment. “Palina. Warden Palina.” He raises a hand, pointing towards… Well, he’s not sure really, might be a tent, or a person or-

Warden Palina coughs. “Are… Are you going to join us then, Warden?”

“Maybe.” Warden gestures to his predicament. “Could you perhaps-”

“ Sne !”

The basket shudders, His world flashes white, and Warden feels so, so cold. Limbs flail and Warden Palina giggles. Warden wipes the snow from his face, eyes opening to face Lady Sneasler, who looks rather proud of herself, if the wide fanged grin and snuffling “ Snehe !”s are anything to go by.

Warden groans.

Warden should have stayed a tangled mess of limbs, in hindsight. His fellows- Wardens too?- don’t seem to really engage in any small talk, or even really interact with him at all, aside from some polite greetings. That part admittedly doesn’t really bother Warden much, but he would have appreciated some warning about what a Clan meeting was truly about. 

So, Warden remains too-tense in his chair and listens to politics and arguments alike with half-lidded, tired eyes. His head already pounds, the shouting merely exacerbates the already painful migraine. 

The exact topic of discussion alludes Warden, something to do with stars and ‘Galaxy Team’. It’s a frightfully vicious argument, one with mutterings that later begin to descend into “War!” and “Burn their village to ashes!” and a fierce rumbling agreement from the rest of the Elders. Each word sends the younger generations into a frenzy of placation and speedy platitudes. 

“We cannot risk a war with the Galaxy Team! The Pearl and Diamond Clans are weakened already from the plagues, not to mention the war from nearly thirty years ago!” The Clan Leader steps up, swamped in her too-big robes. “It would be an unnecessary, bloodthirsty manoeuvre. Our focus should be on the granary stocks, rather than reliving one’s violent glory days.”

“So you’ll let them encroach on our territory? Stomp on our traditions and cast our people aside?”

“No! They are wrong, their fears are unfounded and their boundaries lacking- But you are a fool if you think we spark a conflict. Our peace is tentative as it is, do not send my generation into war over a slight.” The young leader, Irida, seems to be trying her best to quell the chaos. Waving her hands, exaggerated gestures and a stern-but-girlish voice do little to settle the fray. If anything, it relights the kindling once more, sending one of the Elders off on a tangent once more.

The woman who Warden has yet to learn the name of, slams her cane against the ground in an overly dramatic fashion. “Do not speak to me like that, girl. First you-” A spindly finger points forward, almost accusingly. “-inherit this position from Archival for some Sinnoh-damned reason, instead of any appropriate, responsible leader.” 

Irida half-flinches, unable to suppress the urge under the Sneasler-venomed words. Warden wishes the women would stop, but even the littlest prayers to Sinnoh go unanswered, despite the minuscule amount of effort it would take to smite her. “That was already enough, yet then you had to go further.”

“I don’t-”

“Then you assigned-” The woman’s violet gaze whips to him, faded blue hair waving behind her like a Ninetails’ threat display. Intricate robes- decorated with spiralling mountains and the distinct purple tones of a Sneasler’s head feather- shudder with every word. “- him as the Sneasler Noble’s Warden!”

“Ah?” Warden isn’t sure what to say there. “My apologies?”

Wrong move, Warden. The spitting flames roar, blooming into a bonfire.

“Look at him! That actor of the false Sinnoh will only bring us to our devastation!” The woman roars. Her scorching fury broils Warden’s very blood, almost as though her spitting venom has taken root in his very heart. His head thuds again, far more painful than before, and Warden resists the urge to whimper. “How could you let this Renegade-spawn into our ranks, into the position of Warden?”

Irida opens her mouth to say something, but that blue-haired, bare-chested man- Gaeric- cuts her off before a single word can drop from her mouth.

“Elder Yamamoto, how many times must we repeat this conversation? Your granddaughter was not chosen by the lady, nor was your late son.” Ice-cold, Gaeric. “They. Were. Not. Worthy .”

Yamamoto flinches. “ How dare -”

“Clan Leader Irida did what anyone would in this trying time. The Warden here-” Gaeric waves a hand towards the Warden in question. His Froslass partner shrieks a ghostly cry alongside him. “-was actually chosen. Your actions dishonour Yukito’s fine name.”

A gasp and a screech eerily reminiscent of a wounded Zoroark rings through the hall, before the Council of Elders falls still. The Council of Wardens look grim, especially Warden of the Woods, a woman Warden would later learn was called Granite. 

Gaeric’s words seem to be cruel, from the reactions he’s garnered. It’s not surprising that he’d go that far in the defence of the Clan Leader, but still- low blow.

Silence settles upon the meeting for the first time since Warden had taken his seat. He glances towards the Elder Council, piercing silver eyes settling on Yamamoto once more. 

Warden wishes he didn’t.

The woman gazes into Sinnoh’s blessed space with glossy, unseeing eyes for several long moments. Every eye in the meeting hall bears down upon her with the weight of a thousand Munchlaxes, yet she does not move. After a minute, or maybe two, Yamamoto huffs, and does not utter another word.

Exchanging a single look between himself and Irida, Gaeric waves his hand once more. Irida nods, face stony, and calls out a sharp “Meeting dismissed. ”

Once the crowd of murmuring meeting-goers finally take their leave, Warden too decides to head off- to where he isn’t sure- in hopes of settling down for a poor quality, but necessary rest. The weight of today’s events remain heavy on his mind, the pressure adding to his now thunderous headache. 

His brisk walk, however, is interrupted by a deep, baritone voice. “Ingo? Could we speak for a moment?” It’s Gaeric, by the sound of it, talking to another Pearl Clan member, but Warden isn't sure who.

The name vaguely rings a bell, rippling through every single dark recess of his mind, so much so that his pace decelerates to a gentle, pondering plod. His feet sink into the snow, crunching with each half-step as he rubs at his temple.

Oddly enough, Gaeric’s voice only gets louder. “Ingo?”

A hand reaches out, gently resting on his shoulder. Warden startles. “Warden Gaeric I think-” the words die in his throat. 

Gaeric was addressing him. 

Gaeric was addressing him .

The headache blossoms into a thunderous rumble, fragments of long-lost memories briefly swell up, threatening to burst through the dam. The scars from that fall so long ago scream and throb

Ingo.

Ingo.

Ingo.

“- and Ingo! A two-car train !”

His name was Ingo. 

He is Warden Ingo of the Coronet Highlands. 

How had Warden forgotten his own name? How had-

“Are you alright, Warden Ingo?” Concern ebbs into Gaeric’s voice, Warden- no, Ingo- shudders. “Did- Did that old crone Yamamoto upset you?” Gaeric’s hands wave awkwardly, as though the man had only just been vaguely introduced to the concept of reassurance just a few hours ago, and this was his first encounter with a distressed person in his life.

“I-!” Ingo can’t breathe. “Gaeric- Yamamoto isn’t-!”

“Yamamoto is an old bat. Do not listen to her! You’re a perfectly good Warden-”  Gaeric pauses, eyeing Ingo’s thin, twinkish arms. “-albeit a little spindly. Nothing a bit of training can’t fix.”

“Gaeric-!”

“You could join Lord Avalugg and I. I'm sure the Bergmites would be a good starting point for you.” Gaeric’s eyes practically twinkle. “How about you join me for a run to the Arena tomorrow? Then Yamamoto can’t bother you anymore and-”

Ingo heaves, taking in one quivering breath after another. Trembling hands cling onto his coat as though it is his last lifeline. The fabric grounds him, calms him, Ingo tries to pace himself. “Gaeric. Yamamoto didn’t bother me. I am-” Not doing great. Warden is having a crisis. Ingo is having a crisis. The world is off-kilter yet no one but himself notices. “-fine, Gaeric. Do not reroute your tracks for me. This engine still burns.”

“Are you sure?” Gaeric frowns at him, curving one blue-tinted eyebrow upwards. Scrutinising. That’s how Ingo would describe it. Ingo feels scrutinised. “If it isn’t Yamamoto, is it-” He eyes Ingo’s scar- the one that peeks out from his hairline- and sighs. “Your wounds. The ones from that injury a bit ago, they’re acting up, aren’t they?”

Ah. So it turns out the Himbo of the Icelands does understand what’s going on, then. 

Which is a bad thing. A verrry bad thing, in Ingo’s case. He’s not sure he wants to really be here, in the middle of the village during an infant snowstorm. 

“No I-” How does he avoid this? “-I just left the stove on. At home. In the mountains. I forgot my safety checks.”

“ What .”

“And the Sneasels. They might be worried so I must switch tracks immediately- Hey! Put me down !” Before Ingo can react, he’s hoisted over Gaeric’s shoulder in a manner that would delight Lady Sneasler. The man in question doesn’t even dignify Ingo with a single huff as Ingo is removed from the ground as though he’s little more than an embarrassingly light satchel of berries. “ Gaeric !”

“I’m taking you to see Calaba.”

“I do not like this detour!”

Chapter Text

If Ingo had a poké for every time he had been hoisted over someone’s shoulders and forcibly taken to a Pearl Clansman’s home, he would have a startlingly high amount of poké at this point. Or maybe just two poké. He’s not sure. 

Actually- Having any poké is odd. Especially considering Ingo isn’t quite sure what poké is. Other than it’s related to Pokémon and a distinct sense of government-induced dread. Alas. He doesn’t quite understand. Nor remember. A common problem, these days.

Onto the matter at hand- This was not Ingo’s first rodeo, since according to Melli, the first time was when he was found in that fateful blizzard many moons ago. There had been quite a stir at the time, as his delirious wanderings had been initially mistaken for a vengeful spirit at the time. Snowdazed. Frostbitten. Bloodstained. If it wasn’t for Lord Braviary’s Warden confirming his humanity and innocence- for it was easy, far too easy, to assume that Ingo was a spy or perhaps a Froslass' illusion- he may have frozen to death in one of the snowdrifts, with only the faint speckles of snow as evidence of his existence. A dramatic debut, but one that Ingo does not- cannot- remember.

Many months later, Ingo would repeat this adventure. Autumn, Melli claimed, was the season of crimson and gold. Autumn was the season in which the leaves ‘evolved’ and tumbled off the trees of the mountain forests. It was a picturesque season that was mostly absent from Ingo’s initial memories, since the pounding of his eternal headache had started with the dropping temperatures.

Autumn was a season of starts and stops. 

Autumn was the season in which Melli had found him at the foot of a cliff, dazed and wounded. It was a crisp Autumn day when the healers had a bloodied Warden dumped in front of them.

Autumn was when Ingo had been injured once more.

Autumn was the first season that Ingo remembered.

Perhaps, arguably, autumn was the beginning of a cycle.

So here he was, bundled in Gaeric’s delightfully beefy arms, politely complaining (or whining, as they say in Hisui) as his kidnapper reroutes to one of the huts near the northern part of the village. Or Ingo thinks that’s where he’s going. It’s hard to tell when your field of vision is obscured by Gaeric’s pillowy… Yeah. Best not follow that track, it’s far too vulgar. Think of the children, Ingo.

With a resigned sigh, Ingo flops, going limp. It’s too cold for this. He just wants to sleep. Now. Please . 

“Gaeric… I assure you, my systems are optimal. There is no need for this. I just-”

“No.”

“Surely you are tired-”

The grip- although gentle- tightens slightly. Ingo stops complaining. “We are going to see Calaba.” Gaeric remains firm, just like those rather lovely, bountiful pectoral muscles that Ingo’s face is laid against. At least there is one positive found in this predicament.  “She can help you.” 

“I do not think there is anything to help.” Ingo repeats once more as a door with a familiar paw-like crest, one that he had seen only a little earlier that day, comes into view. “I am-”

“ELDER CALABA! ”

Laid out on one of the healing cots, Ingo decides to simply surrender himself to the incoming poking and prodding. Space is sacred in the Pearl Clan, unless you’re a very old healer/Warden who is quite frankly sick of the troublesome youth, and as such there’s no point resisting; Calaba is far too great of a force. She can and will get her way.

So Ingo sighs, and accepts this detour.

“So your ailment has progressed, boy?” 

Warden Calaba hasn’t changed a bit since the last time Ingo had seen her. 

Which was good considering Ingo had last seen her a grand total of… Maybe nearly an hour ago? If she had changed, Ingo would be concerned that he might’ve taken another tumble off a nearby cliff and forgotten.everything again. Which is apparently a possible and plausible situation. Horrifying. Maybe even more than horrifying, but Ingo doesn’t yet have the word to truly encapsulate the situation. He only knows some Hisuian, after all. But- What does he do now? Is this- Will his fragmented memory continue?

Oh, he’s going to have to keep a log now, isn’t he?

“-and he’s gone. As you can see Elder Calaba, I’m rather worried for him. Is there anything we can do to help?” Gaeric’s faint, worried voice derails his thoughts somewhat. “This is just like those times before. Even in the meeting earlier, he seemed elsewhere.”

There’s a soft sigh. 

“Herbs and poultices can only do so much for the flesh, Gaeric. When it comes to the mind, we can do little.” Ingo barely registers the wrinkled hand hovering just by his side. The veil of the creeping darkness easily hides it from view. “This is an ailment we cannot treat. His health is in the hands of the Almighty now. We can only believe. Not treat.”

That was a fact Ingo knew oh too well. Hours curled up in a sick cot, wrapped in bandages and slick with mashed herbs. Days passing by in a blurred slurry of time. Every day in that state might have barely healed his aching body, but his mind? It had not an ounce of effect.

“Elder Calaba, I-”

“I understand your concerns, but look at him.” 

“I am looking.”

“Look at his complexion. His eyes-” Creak. Click. Is that noise Calaba’s bones? Or is it the sound of a cane? “-he is well. There is nothing more I can do for him, other than support his recovery. That is my place, and it's yours too.”

Put his life in the hands of Sinnoh?

Believe in a miraculous cure? Is that what Ingo is meant to do?

Believe. 

Pray. 

Believe.

Pray.

How many times had he already tried that? Kneeling in front of altars, an offering of the finest berries and minerals held in his shaking hands. How he’d whisper the ancient mantras to an audience of none, over and over. How he’d pray until the snow-smothered sun dipped below the horizon once more.

Ingo had believed. Ingo had begged.

Never once did the deity answer his calls. 

Only a sense of growing dread.

“Hope. I can do that, Elder Calaba. This is just another form of training. I will- I’ll climb to Snowpoint Temple, the Almighty will surely hear me from there!”

Laughter. Not truly happy, yet relieved. Maybe even melancholy.

“You are kind Gaeric. A heart larger than life, a heart too loving.”

“Sorry Elder Calaba! I have to go-!” There’s a slam, the noise startling even his frayed reactions. 

With that, footsteps signal Calaba’s movements. The soft ‘puff!’ of a pillow, and the cabin is silent once more. 

There is no one else left here. Just a healer and her drifting patient.

And so, there is no one left to hear a soft, pained confession into the dying light of the candle.

“Oh, I envy you so, Warden Gaeric. I wish I could love like you. I wish I had your hope.”

Ingo wishes that too.

Chapter Text

“Hello again, dear sibling of mine.”

“Ah- Hello brother. What brings you here?” 

“Well. You’ve been rather busy, haven’t you? I was rather curious, you know.”

“Oh?”

“And- I overheard Dialga recently.”

“Oh no.”

“And get this! Dialga says that you’ve taken a champion.”

“Perhaps. Does it matter so?”

“Of course. In all of our years, I have not once heard of you blessing a mortal before. You’ve always been one for the natural order. To defy it so, it’s most unlike you.”

“Maybe I wish for a change. After all, you tend to be the one to violate the order. Why care when I do the same?”

“Life isn’t your domain. So why, why let this one live? Why do you refuse to accept this one into your embrace?”

“Because this mortal was not meant to join me for many a decade yet.”

“You have not taken action before, in circumstances such as these. When Mew’s boy fell, you did nothing.”

“Fair, but this one faced death at the hands of our sire.”

“All the more to let them pass, then. The will of our Creator is not one to be ignored.”

“The Creator made a mistake.”

“That I do not believe.”

“Brother, they are not flawless. Nothing that lives is. You of all beings should know that.”

“Still. Why?”

“This mortal, he had been ripped from his home, thrown through time due a simple accident. Our sire had found Themself a hero, thus They  did steal a child, and this mortal away.”

“And?”

“I felt pity.”

“So it was pity, then? Naught more than a glimpse of shimmering emotion?”

“Maybe so. Maybe I wished to be kind, rather than cruel. Maybe I saw something in that man, abandoned to the snow.  Frozen and blood-stained. Bones glistening in the starlight. He made a beautiful sight, a true picture of death. But-”

“But?”

“He accepted me. Even though he wished, he begged for a chance, he did not resist. Tear filled eyes and a bitter smile. One who awaited me with reluctant, but open arms. That was unusual, and so, I made a choice. A champion. That is what he seemed to be.”

“And so you gave him the blessing of ceaseless eternity.”

“For now, yes. Life for a life.”

“Life for a life. I- Oh, dear sibling of mine, that was what you offered him?”

“One’s memories are their life, no? Without memory, can you truly say you have lived? Death does not have to be physical, after all.”

“Strip a human of their memories, dismantle personality and scrape away individuality, leaving a doll behind. A being of absence, that- That truly is a fate worse than death.”

“Yes. A cruel blessing, is it not? I had no choice, it was do or die. He accepted. I bestowed. It was not a blessing that could be given lightly.”

“Why let the mortal live then? That is no existence.”

“An experiment. To truly understand what these creatures are. His body is fragmented, memories wiped clean, yet he carries on. Fuelled by a long-dead man’s determination. How much can be replaced until he stops? I await the results eagerly.”

“You are cruel, sibling mine.”

“Call me that all you want, but I will make sure this man reaches his goal. The injustice will be righted, even if the mortal is worse for wear.”

“He will not heal! You can’t perform a perfect resurrection, that man will be little more than a walking corpse!”

“Will you intervene?”

“I’m not sure. I do not think my powers would even help this man, not after you've left that mark.”

“Then let me watch. Let me rend his flesh apart, let me fill the void with mine own energies. I have longed for one of my own, brother. You have had your champions, twisted creatures they might be, so let me have mine.”

“Touche. I do not wish to, yet mine hands are tied. Do what you wish, sibling mine.”

“Magnifique.”

Chapter Text

Memory is not permanent.

Neurones live and die. 

Brain cells wither and fade.

The impermanence of Ingo’s life weights heavy upon him, as the blood-curdling realisation begins to dawn upon him. His memory is fleeting and fractured. Today he might know his own name, but tomorrow? Tomorrow could be another day of loss.

One small accident is all that it could take. One tragic slip, or a flash of a wee Sneaslet’s toxic claw, and Ingo will be no more.

This will not do.

Ingo has an idea.

“Ah, my Lady, it seems as though another distortion has opened.” Eyeing the rainbow mass of colour in the distance with vague concern and bubbling intrigue, Ingo feels as though he is at an impasse. “A group of merchants should be arriving soon.”

And they’ll walk straight into it if we do nothing. 

“Snaw.”

The Lady, in a startling humanoid manner, bobs her head at the Ingo’s muttered observation whilst glaring at the Blob of Terror in hopes that it might do them a favour and simply poof out of existence. 

“It looks as though it has settled near the Clamberclaw cliffs. Close to the trading route.”

The Lady continues to glare daggers ( or claws, perhaps?) the rift. Although Ingo lacks the ability to read minds, he has no doubt that she’s attempting to manifest it’s sudden closure. 

“So.” Ingo coughs awkwardly.  “I think…”

Another ripple. Sneasler’s eyelids begin to thin, scrunched up in a way that makes her beady eyes seem to be even more irritated than before. As time passes, the look becomes more familiar. 

“I suggest that-“

The colours flash. The bubble flickers, then vanishes. Sneasler bares her fangs again, briefly triumphant. Did it work? Has victory graced her domain once more?

“Sneer?”

Nope.

It’s back. Instead, the unruly splodge of SInnoh-damned sensory slime darkens. It lives, baby ! 

After all, like its fellow obnoxious space-time brethren, this red-blue-green Bubble of Doom doesn’t seem to care for the opinions of others, and thus continues to pulsate in that slightly unpleasant, jelly-like way. Gross . 

Sneasler deflates in disappointment. 

Same . Mood.  

A stomach ache- stress induced, no doubt- already churns. An omen of sorts, perhaps? Ingo has no reason to doubt a warning from the Almighty (or his tummy). A U-Turn is needed. “We should reroute. If one of those Pokemon emerge, then those merchants could be at risk.” 

Those Pokemon. The twisted denizens of the distorted lands. Nightmares given form.

Ingo had already heard whispers of a blood-sodden tale from the Coastlands. Yes, Ingo even had the chilling fortune to meet with the only survivor. Even now, the phantom image of misty, shock-ridden eyes and the Elder’s lingering shudder still haunts him. Curse the Almighty, for it was truly cruel that one of the few memories that he held was one tinged with a faint, anxious nausea. 

“Another series of deaths would… strain relations-“ and his appetite, among other things. “-We should hurry.”

Time for basket boy hours, because Ingo has an entourage of blonds to save.