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.