Spruce planks writhed in a sea of stars over Karp Tail Pass. She crossed the bridge with hesitant steps.
The white beast padded halfway across and watched her comfort Ralts. She wished to meet it again so that she may comb its thick white furs. Diantha smiled its way and watched it vanish, quiet as the wind. She already missed its presence.
Her mind guided her south beyond the birch trees until she saw the ruby waters of the Red Viper in the distance. The reflective surface shimmered of slick, cloudy blood. She knew its reputation well. Everyone – from the Frost Cavern to Nebel Plateau – knew of its rage. Few dared follow its waters east toward Victory Road, and those that did rarely returned.
Far worse tales came from the bloodied river’s sibling: Blue Snake. It left a trail of lifeless bodies, drained of blood and bone, with both humans and Pokémon dying within days of first contact. Diantha’s mind flashed back to New Year’s Day, four years ago, when she had seen the bloated, pulpy remains of Ace Trainers drifting alongside the Red Viper’s smooth bank. Her father’s voice echoed in her ears, speaking of the Red Viper’s insatiable hunger and of how it fed on the lifeblood of the Blue Snake's prey. She had never asked him to explain. Now she wished otherwise.
Diantha grimaced. The Three Fanged Crossing dampened her mood; Karp Tail Pass inched northward, crawling slower than normal toward the fisheries northwest of Rosewood. Beyond, to the west, the waters grew thick and sloshed into a heavy burnt sienna. The Lumiose Freepass drained through seven colossal sewer grates embedded in the city’s vast steel wall. It thundered for no more than a mile, forcing Pokémon deeper into the forests for solace.
By the strange sounds whistling back through the grates, Diantha found no strength to judge them but instead to praise their wisdom. She wanted nothing more than to never lay eyes on it again. She wished less to see her father; this was but an unending, terrible argument she’d had with herself every day for months. And every day thereafter, she would slink from the garden and see the grates again, just as she'd see her father by dawn.
I hate this life. Why couldn’t my mother whisk me away? Oh, my prince! How could you abandon me again? I dare say I shall seek the beast next time – maybe he can do what you cannot. Lesser the need for a soldier when presented with a beast, I say. He would tear Father limb from limb with his bare teeth.
Beside stacks of broken bones and torn flesh, which had crept above one of the river banks like a marble talus, a long line of golden-red trees vibrated in the early morning tremors from the Kalos Power Plant. If it hadn’t made her innards rock to and fro, Diantha would have smiled, but the familiar queasiness had affected her.
She hugged Ralts close.
Time and again, the Pokémon shivered. She considered her frail friend carefully, worrying about the onset of Winter Chills. The sickness was a rare thing but it did still exist, often found near the thick forests concealing Terminus Cave. Few humans survived its horrifying symptoms. It turned blood blue and frosted the breath regardless of time or place.
Her grandmother had died because of it.
Ralts would not.
High above the Drenched Quagmire, a threatening squall of silver threatened to drown the land. Several Pidove flapped their short wings in frantic panic, countless Buneary hopped from their burrows and made for the golden-red trees, and countless others tried to pass Three Fanged Crossing. Some failed to make it across and vanished beneath the growing currents, though not all were unlucky. Several Furret were strong enough to bridge the gap using algae-covered branches.
She rushed for the public toilets further up the hill. Rain poured down her blazer, soaking both of her shoulders and catching the nape of her neck. She shook her hair free of its starry pattern, eyeing the growing storm with fear.
Explosive bolts of lightning – green vines that grew into verdant lassos – sliced through the clouds, leaving patterns of smoke in the sky. It was all too much… everything was glowing and watching and waiting for her to make the wrong decision. She had more eyes on her every breath than ever before, though she could not tell – least of all from the comfort of a small building – where their eyes were located.
As far as she felt, they ought not to exist at all.
“Can you see them?” she asked Ralts. “The eyes… they’re everywhere, but I cannot see them. Do they belong to a Pokémon?”
Ralts kept her silence. Diantha felt like crawling into a ball all over again. There were no dark spaces to hide inside the brick building. Purple fluorescent lights flickered above like oblong amethysts, latched to the ceiling in pairs that stretched too far for her comfort.
I like their gaze compared to the ones outside. They feel comforting, in a sick, twisted kind of way. Maybe this headache of mine will ease in the purple light. The longer I look away from the teal waters, the better I’ll feel. It is either this or I shall throw myself from my tower and see what the servants and maids think of that. Probably prophetic, if their hushed whispers are anything to stand by.
Diantha closed in on a large wall of mirrors, placing her hand on the edge of the sink.
Her eyes flicked to each half-open stall lining the wall behind her. She was alone.
Freedom did not seem to exist in the room to her. There were still things lurking outside, things she doubted were Pokémon at all. Every minute or so, the toilet door’s hinges would rattle as if pushed by something. The handle turned with a tight squeak one way and then groaned when turned the other. It tickled her amusement so much that she started crying.
Her tears became mirthful. Dry, hysterical laughter filled her ears. It was a horrid thing full of lies. But she hadn’t a clue what else to do. There was no chance of fighting – her arms and legs were stick-thin, after all – and there were no windows through which she could crawl to escape. Ralts was of no help, deciding it best to ponder her own reflection while the door rattled with increasing fervour.
She weighed her options carefully.
There is nothing for me to do. If someone wants to end my life, let them work for it. For now, I must tend to my hair. I haven’t the patience for Mother’s techniques, so I’ll let the strands fall as they please... mostly. At least I don’t look as dead as I feel. My skin still looks quite healthy, and I am without pimples. My mascara hides plenty. It has to. Father hates my face when it isn’t all… pretty. I do not see value in hiding myself, not here where I cannot and should not be seen. Let us break some more rules on this awful night.
Her eyes roamed the stalls once more, slower and more maddened. Most of the doors were heavily dented, and their locks were still as broken as they had been from her last visit. Her bladder ached and stabbed her with needles of pain that wracked her sides. She drew a hip against the cool basin. With the later month crawling to a stop, a new one just around the corner reminded her of an all too unpleasant future.
Diantha patted her shoulder. Her teeth chattered loudly. She patted it again with tired, lazy eyes. The absence of her handbag winded her greater than any punch. With her toiletries floating further north, likely beyond the northern grey soils of Rosewood – Grey Ground, if she went by its moniker – there was no chance of getting them back. Her chances dwindled the longer she waited to tell her mother, but she wouldn’t ever muster the courage to do so. It built into a bitter resentment that teased and jostled her something horrid.
What excuse is there for this mess? That handbag was a gift from Mother. Oh no. At least the water only troubled the sleeves of my blazer. Had I suffered Ralts’ misfortune and bled, I dare not hope for an easy punishment. If I am quiet enough, neither Mother nor Father will have time to notice anything amiss. Yes, it will be easy. Like always. Father sleeps like an Ursaring, and even more so my Mother. Though, as she often tells me, she rarely stays the night with her husband.
Mother cannot be an obstacle. I’ve always known this – what is happening to me? Have I taken leave of my senses? She is not home yet and Father cares not for my presence beyond twilight hours. My only real concern is crossing paths with a servant, who no doubt waited for Mother’s return with envy. The serving staff are all young women, pure as marble was white. If they thought I was as fortunate as Mother… it would take but a single whisper in Father’s ear to ruin everything.
She tugged hard on her white choker – a gift he had provided no less than twelve minutes past midnight on her sixteenth birthday. June eighteenth… the date grew like a nasty weed. It stretched longer than yesteryear when she had presented her first knitting to her mother. It had not been her most pleasant day; it had been the only time her father had ever bothered to gift her out of his own hand.
How I yearn to stain this terrible thing. I could wash it in filth for a month with a smile. I could make it look like the ring of rust around the drains. But I won’t because I am afraid. Where would I go? He owns me as he owns his socks; there is no time in memory where he looked at me pleasantly, not even on the day of my birth. A small, weaselly thing he had called me.
Diantha brushed several strands of hair from the cleanest sink. Some stuck to her fingers and tried to sink into her skin like knives. She felt less annoyed about it than normal. Her mind still whirled in pain every few seconds, fuzzing her vision. Scared, she flicked on the cold tap and splashed water on her face over and over.
She cared not for the foundation dripping down her cheeks like waxy, melted skin, even if it looked terrible. She had not applied any primer, all too desperate for a quick and easy escape to realise the mistake when she had readied for her nighttime journey. Ralts looked at her like she was a monster, watching wide-eyed as the expensive droplets of henna pattered against the sink.
“Pretty girls like you need not use such things,” she said. “Pokémon are always beautiful. Remember how you handled your first battle? With elegant, powerful force. You looked ever-so divine and relaxed. By no account are you any less beautiful now, Ralts. When I wake, how long do I spend in that godforsaken bathroom? You look splendid when fighting for victory – the same cannot be said of me.”
She rubbed her mascara away, displeased, and began cleaning Ralts’ legs. The mud had started to dry, but not enough to dissuade Diantha’s work. Her friend’s legs were small and weak and in terrible shape after the fall. A pit formed in her stomach when Ralts tried to shimmy out of her hold once her thumb pressed against her Pokémon’s knees. She was undeterred by the warmth spreading across her scalp, down her bony shoulders, and into her arms.
This was not the first time she had fought Ralts’ power.
They were both too distracted and repulsed by a used tampon crawling down one of the mirrors, still covered in dried blood, for their fight to continue. Ralts finally gave in, glaring at the redness instead of at her. Diantha felt unamused by the old schoolgirl trick. She knew it was a ploy to scare younger girls, but she was not so immature now. She had bled before and many a time since.
Four soaked brown paper towels circled and swirled in a small whirlpool beside her foot, drawing her eyes away long enough for Ralts to crawl free. Though she considered it scruffy, Diantha found a peacefulness to their dance – it reminded her of an old ballet show on the television. Her breathing eased.
The door handle rattled again.
She searched for the cleanest stall, slamming each door open in her wake. With each bang and clatter, her nervousness faded into a bleak fear. Her boldness strove deeper into the room. Cloaks of purple light slithered down her back, brown specks of excrement seemed less of a bother, and the rattling of the door faded into a crowd-like cheer.
Yes, I can do this. I am brave.
Aches crawled over her skin like Nymble swarming a felled Pokémon. She could not stand her pained bladder a moment longer, thrusting the last door open with veiled disgust. She had long used her private bathroom with its golden sinks and marble-white toilet; the new change could not have been any less welcome. Yet she felt no sacrifice of dignity, for that had been lost so long ago she scarcely remembered its existence, nor whether she had liked it at all.
So she sat, watching Ralts shuffling around urine on the floor, wiggling her backside atop a bed of tissues circling her seat's rim, tapping her foot impatiently.
The flushing mechanism failed. She wanted to tear it from the earth.
Diantha washed her hands slowly. A wave of pink soap lapped against her arms, frothing and bubbling. The brightness reminded her of the handbag she had so kindly misplaced. She poured more warm water into the sink – its sudden discharge great enough to make the pipes groan. She did not care. More bubbles floated into the air until sight became but a wish of the past, one she disliked immensely.
The sea of bubbles grew until they expanded over to the next sink, and so on. It was such a strange, incredible sight that she allowed the water to continue running.
An old memory came back to her. She stopped smiling.
It had been a rough day – the sky had wept endlessly, the grassy quad had burst its saturated ground over the sidewalks, the bell tower twirled and shone with droplets of slick silver racing down its face, and hundreds of Pidgey fluttered anxiously in their birdhouses. She had needed to the toilet. There were countless other girls already there, all lined up like soldiers ready for war, elbowing and hissing at each other with growing frustration.
Even in the public toilet, she could easily recall the loud cackling of her old classmates, the loud kicks that would rattle her locked door. Worst of all – even now – she could hear the crisp tears and crinkles of paper towels. Then came the bangs. One. Two. Three… and then a fourth. She used to watch the soaked paper plop against the floor fearfully, wondering when they would eventually catch her outside.
Such an incident had never come to pass. It had taken one of her complaints to the headmaster to see the girls off. That had been when she learned of the weight of the Delacroix name – her name. It had been the only time Diantha saw use to its advantages, though she had not used the power since, and it had led her astray in her lessons; few people spoke to her thereafter, dubbing her ‘Princess Prissy’.
Not a soul threw anything her way, word or object, even on the approach to her final day. On the day itself, she remembered most of the girls sighing in relief.
Diantha felt grateful for her discontinued physical education, too. That had been a most pleasant gift she revelled in for some time. She had rarely caught the Pachirisu runners with her stick legs and soon found it more a mercy than treasure. What she had loved better than anything – even now, it remained fond and true – was avoiding the colourful clouds of orange and strawberry spray that, on more occasions than once, had cursed half of the girls' changing room with mad coughing fits. One girl who had asthma fell unconscious in the chaos. Her lungs had recovered days later. She refused thenceforward to step a foot inside the changing rooms and demanded the disabled toilets for her private use.
Diantha smirked at that.
She hurried outside and met the wrathful clouds head-on. The handle to the entrance had been scratched by a thousand needles. Some were still stuck to its underside. Diantha decided to leave it be even though she saw Devil’s Twirl close by, lurking about a nest of vibrant ruby hellebores, watching her leave with deadly, uncomfortable intrigue.
The further she travelled up the hill, over its rocky skin that stretched a mile or so, Diantha felt the need to up her pace. Ralts made a rustling sound about her neck. There was something following them. It was doing so quietly and yet felt bold enough to be out in the open. It wanted her to know it was there, watching, waiting, scheming; the thought did not leave her – instinct screamed for her to run and run forever, hope for a safe passageway ended with a hero donned in armour so silver it might well have been cut from the moon itself.
She quickened her pace.
Gravel crunched underfoot as she trudged further southeast, passing by half-buried stone monuments and the remnants of an old granary. This was the last checkpoint, and undoubtedly the deadliest. Here she could be seen from La Flèche du Diable, her father’s spire of horror. It pierced through the heart of Château des Rêves, its stone burnt a rich claret, and climbed far taller than its sisters.
It always gave Diantha the shivers. On this day, it was different. The usual leer had melted into something sinister, something wrong and evil that gave her little comfort, more so than usual. It was so angry, so hateful. Something had happened within – she was certain of it – and the thought as to what could have happened played over in her mind again and again.
The absence of light unnerved her.
“We must be quiet. Refrain from talking. We’re almost done now. There is not far to go now.”
But there was.
The Three Fanged Crossing awaited her. The treacherous waters and unstable banks made her feel sick. The currents shifted before her eyes, dragging several Rhyhorn to and fro until they tired and slipped deeper into the river’s depths. Many people often died before being put in a position to tell anyone what it was that lurked amongst the stones of the river bed.
East of the trifecta of chaos, she acknowledged the deep crimson waters of the Red Viper. It was Diantha’s worst nightmare to find herself anywhere near it. And yet she passed it by, day in and day out, unwillingly yet necessarily to see herself out of her father’s watchful eye.
Now it was time to pass it once more. This would be beyond the hundredth time she had done so, but first came the Three Fanged Crossing. She was anxious to see the tail end of the water swifter than that of Greninja’s Water Shuriken.
Along the waterside, a commotion caught her attention. Tiny fish Pokémon with cyan eyes and undersides of a calcite-white were forced ashore with hardly a fight. The culprits were well-known to Diantha as her father’s Chewtle. They were vicious, uncontrollable beasts with free reign over the lands and waters he owned. She had rarely seen them – this was the first time they blocked her way, unknowingly, from returning home.
A newly built fenced-off area with short security gates tempted her; their tops were without razor-sharp barbed wire, and the ground lacked Poochyena sniffing about for potential intruders. Flashlights of golden light illuminated the surrounding area in frantic, swinging arcs.
“Did you see that?” she heard. It was a man. His voice was higher than her own. “Davie, look! I swear I saw somethin’.”
“See what? Lost your mind again, Darry? You stupid cuck – we ain’t supposed to be lookin’ this way. Boss’ll get all upset again. If my pay gets docked because of you, I’ll drown you and your stupid cunt of a boy,” Davie replied. It was cold, deep, and inhumanly cruel.
“What?” said Darry. His voice wavered slightly. “You wouldn’t! The boy’s hardly ten, and I’m no easy fight. D-Don’t threaten me for doin’ my job!”
“Or what? I’d love a night with your wife. She’s a good fuck I reckon.” She heard someone crack their knuckles. “Bet her cunt’s tighter than a tarpaulin, eh?”
“She’s faithful. I know the truth. You’re one to talk, you filthy sod. How many bastards do you have?”
“Six, if we count your boy.”
There was a moment of silence until they burst into a fit of laughter. Diantha had feared Darry wouldn’t survive the night, only if lasted for a second or two. Her lip tightened at their words. They did not deserve the pleasure of love… It irked her greatly.
More flashlights appeared and traced the lower bank. They were headed her way. She felt a chill in the other man’s tone. It was a passing of air that raked its frozen touch down her spine.
Diantha pulled Ralts close, turned away from the security guards, and crawled over filthy soil that had turned pale green from old barrels of waste. She felt – for the briefest of moments – a light touch of warmth flash over her hip. So brief was it that she thought it a dream. But when the yells died down, she knew they had seen movement. Her back pressed firm against a large boulder, its rough surface threatening to tear at her clothes, as she waited with bated breath for someone to demand her to show herself.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“See it then?” came Darry’s voice. Its pitch fell. “Somethin’ is lurking out there.”
“Doubt it’s anything to care for. We’ve seen weirder things than a shadow. Remember that young girl with red eyes? Weird, that one. And those other things… the ones without eyes at all… the ones that crawl through the brush with arms longer than legs; I don’t like this assignment at all. I’m jealous you have someone to sleep with, you bellend. My bed’s been cold for a while.”
Diantha looked over her shoulder, envisioning towering arms of cold white flesh skittering her way like a clutter of undead Ariados. Her heart hammered against her chest.
“Heard monsters like those can lend a hand… or mouth.” They both chuckled, though it sounded pained. “Come to think of it, I haven’t heard from base in some time. Odd, don’t ya think?”
“It’s the same on all channels. I haven’t heard from the Ranger lads in several hours. They kept muttering strange shit to each other, remember? Something about those monsters crawling away from their watchtowers whenever the searchlights faced north through Blackwood Forest. I reckon they’re guarding some kind of treasure, them filthy things.”
She heard the fence rustling. There was no breeze. Diantha remembered the Ranger gazebos and had to stop herself from calling out. All of the Rangers were missing – likely dead. Her teeth began to chatter, far too loud for her liking.
Darry’s voice dropped even more, matching that of his comrade. “Do you think we should… you know… leave? I dunno what’s happenin’ but I ain’t getting caught on the hard side of it. Wanna check the wineries again? Doubt old Gerald has drunk all our refreshments, at least not yet.”
“Say no more.”
Diantha swallowed hard, propping Ralts on her thighs. “How do we get around those Chewtle and help those poor Pokémon? This is an awful position to be in. If we’re not careful, we may join the skeletons rolling in the water.” Her courageous words betrayed the fear she felt bubbling in her gut, unruly and riotous. “Yes – I have it. We’re going to shove those overgrown rock carriers on their backs and let the Red Viper do the rest. How we’re to get them down the bank, however, I do not know.”
Ralts made a disbelieving whine and wrestled out of Diantha’s hold. The Pokémon leered around the boulder’s side, watching the Chewtle observing their prey as they asphyxiated. She then signalled for Diantha’s approach, her horn aglow in magenta light.
The stormy sheets of silver and pale green rain subtly turned to face the encampment on the other side of the river. She whispered an uncertain quiet thanks to Ralts, crouched low, and made for the next boulder. Both Chewtle were distracted, too busy snapping at one another to notice her approach.
“Leave them alone!” she hissed. “Or is it that you’re frightened of a fair fight?” Diantha kept to the shadows, watching the Pokémon whirl around in panic. “Go on, run!”
They did not obey her command – they rarely obeyed her father, after all, and ceased caring for other Pokémon long ago. Both Chewtle approached her side of the boulder, just as she had expected. They ate through thick reeds that held each of the seven boulders still without concern. By the time they realised what had happened, it was already too late. Each sphere of stone pushed them across the land, further down the slope of slick mud and into the water… which was no longer red.
Teal waves splashed and spat her way. She recoiled as if struck, jogging backwards until she nearly tripped over a bed of bright red hellebores.
Gentle mists rolled over the earth before her feet; it was a soft thing, caressing her exposed skin in earnest. She found an immediate affection for it. The sensation enticed her – she wanted to feel it from dawn to dusk, caress it in return a thousandfold. The air thickened until Diantha dreamt of a sea of emeralds; herself lazing away on its mountainous crests, watching the world fade over the horizon into a great wall of darkness.
I want to see the edge of the world. The Emergers tried and failed. They were the first humans to walk the earth, and their stubby toes and flat faces have long lurked in all my dreams. No woman has ever gone so far, seen so much. If I were the first, I’d write a book of it and call it Journey’s End. Yes, that is a perfect name – Ralts can choose the cover, she is always the adamant artist. It’s all so clear… vast white deserts… tall mountains that crawl from the earth, dark as a midnight sea and taller than the clouds were high; they want me to see them. And I shall, but only if I walk deeper into these lovely clouds of emerald.
Diantha composed herself and turned away. It took all of her willpower to do so. They were but dreams. She knew better than to chase them and hated herself because of it.
Mud clung to her boots like growing mounds of viscous tar. She would not be deterred. A fire breathed at the back of her mind, alive with youthful joy. Her body moved with unnatural grace where it had once been lacking, stepping over roots long disguised into the floor, and over remnants of old scree, which she swore no human could have seen. But she did. That thought bothered her more than Devil’s Twirl; the old tree wrestled through shadows of old oaks and towered over slick mossy stones, keeping apace at a distance.
It always made itself known, she found. Her heart doubted it would be so kind if she had done anything amiss. But she was a good girl, born and raised to do herself and her family proud. Chancing a smile, her head turned to face the strange tree. It froze stiff and most of its roots thumped against the ground where they once writhed in the air.
She felt no fear of it now. It was a pleasant companion for the sick and mad. It destroyed barriers such as icy streams with ease. Icicles rained down around her the size of Rhydon horns – their weight so extreme they tore through roots older than herself in seconds, maybe less, and slid across the grass as a sea of iced steel; she reached for one smaller than the rest. It was warm to the touch and melted through her fingers, its liquid pure and bright as a summer’s sky.
Diantha knelt alongside the tired small fish and scooped them back into the river. After the thirteenth handful, she paused. They should be dead. She sent a long look into the mists; more visions plagued her, these far less pleasant. An endless blizzard of ice swept across a continent, sharp teeth of deep-sea blue rose from the surrounding seas, and with it, an army of strange people with long frozen claws, leathery skin, and breath that froze every fire in the world.
It made her wish for the face of lightning again. It made her scream in anguish. It made her hateful of ever leading her eyes astray.
She patted the heads of both Chewtle with contempt, but they were surprisingly docile, and she thought herself brave for doing what others could not. They snapped their thick jaws shut over islands of algae, then scarfed the remains of dead fish. She skirted around and pulled Ralts into a tight embrace.
The white beast was not waiting for her on the hilltop. Instead, the same short pavilion with dusted floors and muddied frisbees waited for her as it had every day for months on end. Several Weedle hung from silk ropes against the door frame, thudding against the old wood.
She nudged it open and walked through to the other side. Snap snap snap. She turned. Snap snap snap. Long pale arms… empty eyes… Snap snap snap. She wanted to run, but hadn’t the strength to warm the muscles in her legs. Her blood had long grown cold.
There it was, at the bottom of the hill, hidden in the mist. It was majestic and beautiful and terrifying. She lowered her eyes, respectful and quiet, waiting with panicked breaths as it clopped over root and soil. A warm, sweet huff of air blew strands of ashy brown hair out of her eyes. Everything went silent. And then it was there, stood before her like an angel from the stories of old. A long leg covered in gilded, blade-like trim scuffed the ground beside her boots. It was taller than her by an arm's length; its antlers were aglow in yellow, red, pink, and blue – a shimmering, breathing rainbow of light.
Ralts shimmied from her grip and approached the… strange being, muttering and whining about something Diantha could not understand.
Tears ran down her cheeks. She wished the world could see through her eyes. She also wished for a farewell to her mother. She wished, beyond anything, that her terrible headache would vanish.
The land west of the river screamed, and Diantha heard no more. Ralts begged for her help again, patting her knees timidly. Tired feet carried her through thickets and brush without anything snagging her clothes, even though the sprawling branch-like fingers were dense enough to block smatterings of rain and sleet.
She did not think of where she was going, nor did she much care. Anywhere away from the large, strange Stantler – with each of its tines breathing more life into the world – would do well to calm her nerves. It was an unnatural creature of the like she had not seen before. But the splendid sight did bring a memory to her – it was an old rhyme sang to her when the nights were restless, and there were no openings for sleep.
In shadows deep, where forests sleep,
A beast of ancient yore,
Xerneas gallops, with not a creep,
Baring antlers touched by war.
Hooves of gold and ghostly silver,
And twilight’s whispered plea,
In lands where moonlit rivers slither,
A god, forever free.
Château des Rêves climbed the horizon, its shadow lightless and cold, cleaving daybreak into six partitions of strawberry red ichor; between, winged shadows soared through bounding mains of powder-blue sky, fetching the early morning Dustox and Ledian for breakfast before Braviary took flight.
Stormy clouds circled the Drenched Quagmire still, most half-frozen in their glacial shift southward. Diantha squinted – there was something in the eye of the storm… Something alive. Long shadows of deep ruby tipped with coal-black claws raked the flanking lines of the storm. Far above, two eyes of burning sapphires burned with the hate of a soul long tarnished.
“A god,” she squeaked. Her knees trembled. “Please have mercy!”
Panting and heaving, Diantha closed in on her spire. She did not turn to face the storm again – yet she knew it watched her, and took deep pleasure in her fear. It was a game to the god, she thought bitterly. Why must this day worsen? What have I done to anger the world so? And to awaken a god too…
She rubbed her eyes and looked again. The eyes were gone; crimson wings still fanned out from the eye of the storm, though found resistance near Karp Tail Pass. The storm pushed against the river once, twice, and one final time before fanning east to the Pokémon League’s Headquarters.
Spiny leaves of yellow lilies and bright brown-eyed Susans tumbled over the hillocks on either side of the beaten path before her, swaying edgewise, pointing her way. She appreciated the welcome, though no more than what lurked beyond the stone columns.
A clashing threnody played from one fountain to the next, splashing and spitting virulence as she passed. Polished granite confined the spume to a twenty-metre radius; ghostly clouds skimmed the rim of the basin, never high enough to overflow and drench the surrounding amber spotlights.
The largest of the three – the Palafin fountain – stood ten feet taller than the other two. Tinctures of indigo had long since smudged over the Pokémon’s heart-shaped mark, seeping deeply into the underlying scarlet. Diantha loved it for that alone, as there was no soul on earth that would deny the purity of a Palafin taken true form, and yet here it was dirty and left for the elements to do as they pleased with the old sculpture.
The Palafin fountain crashed and splashed – concealing her movements with hardly an effort – against its marble prison.
Creeping ivy swarmed above the large redwood front door, shifting here, there, and everywhere. Pitch-black shadows swayed through the stained glass panes. Diantha felt a growing sense of fear bubbling in her gut. She waited with her fingers against the redwood. The shadows purled deeper into Château des Rêves, climbing the glass panes of a very small cabinet she knew all too well. Within, a ruby-studded Fabergé egg swivelled clockwise, elevated an inch and a half above a platform of silvery-blue pistils, bathing the darkness in blood-red stars.
Ralts writhed against her chest, even more so when she hastily entered her home and locked the front door.
A pale white figure reflected her growing unease. The mirror saw no use in lying to her, not today. She looked awful.
I have never felt so filthy in my life. Mother would fall apart if she could see me now. Still… I like it. It would be best if I returned to my bedroom before a patrol catches me off-guard. I dislike that. One rule for the lady of the house, another for me. Oh well – let the hours prepare me for what is to come. I could use some rest, and I shall pray for the storms of this world to fade away.
Under the cover of darkness, she could still see the fresco above. A tall, brutish man stood beside a broad-shouldered woman, whips in either hand, punishing a herd of Mudbray into submission. A sour taste filled her mouth – it was common for her to feel this way… Diantha hated the ‘art’ with every fibre of her being. But she could do nothing about it, and her complaints had always fallen on deaf ears which only made it worse.
Her thighs were terribly cold to the touch. Four unseen needles slipped beneath her skin, digging deeper the longer she remained idle. This was where he punished me hours ago, right here.
The pain faded the longer she walked. It was too quiet. The odd late-night cleaners had left their expensive equipment against the living room door, most still filthy and covered in layers of dust. The cleaners had never been so lazy before.
Ralts murmured something against her ear, though Diantha still troubled to discern anything she said. There was something watching her, she knew. Alertness flashed in the back of her mind, blaring and screeching for her to turn now!
A pair of arms pulled her into the shadows near the glowing Fabergé egg, tightening around her before she could scream. For a moment, she considered their length and thought one of the creatures of the Blackwood Forest had finally caught up to her. It had waited in the dark out there, waiting for orders from its master in the clouds, and now it had struck her where she could not hope to run or scream.
However, Diantha’s fear soon floundered and died. She felt so safe and warm that the arms could never belong to a monster.
“I thought you were lost,” her mother whispered. “What possessed you to scare me so?”
Margaux Delacroix – bouncing on the padded flesh of her feet – glowed like a white shadow in the streaks of red passing through the windows in the kitchen. She was tall, slender, and had stormy grey eyes. Dark silks clutched to her frame, flowing like a river of transparent purple basil stopping short of her knees.
Diantha pulled away from the embrace. Tears welled in her mother’s eyes, threatening to fall with each passing second. There was a beat of silence, and then a sob. From whom it originated, Diantha cared not. This was her home – with her mother and Ralts – and so she brushed aside her mother’s tears, tilting her head in confusion.
“Your father is deep in his drinks,” said Mother, “and it is best we both leave him be. Come quietly, or he’ll do as he wishes. Mind the third step.”
The third step of the lavish curved staircase had taken many bones over the years; most were beneath the knee, frequenting ankles more than any other part of the body. Diantha had not yet fallen victim to it, even though everyone else already had.
“It is only a matter of time before it gets you,” said her mother, almost teasingly. “Be careful.”
The wine-coloured carpet flattened under her socks, only diverging on the third step in a peculiar ripple that tried to latch around her feet. Her mother continued muttering in quiet whispers, “Thirteen ankles… Your father always found amusement atop the bannisters, watching people fall and break their bones. He claimed it made them stronger – yet physical might can only go so far.”
Diantha kept quiet. She felt out of place. Her hands went to her ears, terrified there were other ways her father could be judged. He had so few decent qualities to begin with, the kindest being his ignorance of her presence most hours of the day. She worried more information to poison her silver tongue. Her tongue had thrice earned her a punishment unlike any other. It had been a terrible thing… black walls… no furniture… an isolation tank overflowing with a viscous saffron liquid… no oxygen…
They hurried up the rest of the stairs, sidestepping the Ursaring rug on the landing while minding every sound they made.
I wonder what Mother wants? I cannot say she has ever guided me to my room before. She wants me to hear something. I must not let her speak. The less I know, the better. But I cannot voice these thoughts and risk waking Father. He wouldn’t want to see me so filthy – I must always be pretty.
By the time Diantha made it to the fourth and final floor, her mother was halfway across the landing above.
Gilded shadows danced, stretching down the stairs and over her feet, in great movements hard to discern. Chandeliers and expensive tapestries shrunk beneath the intense flickers of light, still half-cold from the open windows nearby. She closed it gently, wondering why the window had been opened at all. It had always remained closed for as long as she could remember – the latch had turned a bluish-green and hung so low it reminded her of the vines above the front door.
Polished marble made up the last of the stairs. The change compared to the floors below was stark, beginning with carefully carved slabs of black diamond phasing into a dark topaz, followed thereafter by shiny garnet that glowed like a thousand setting suns. Already, she could feel her confidence returning.
Armoires and vanity tables stood sentinel-like away from her golden bedroom door, gleaming white as snow against the cream-painted wall. She preferred them as far from her bed as possible. It was all because of a silly dream where her reflection lurched forward and throttled her, deciding her wakefulness was lacking enough to finally usurp the true master.
Diantha crossed the mirrors with haste.
She found her mother’s shadow leering at her through puddles of silvery moonlight, dashed in spots of ruby. Blood-red streaks of sunlight flowed through the emerald drapes, which had been tied with thin golden cords, and was notably weaker than its counterpart.
When was the last time the sun and the moon shared the sky, shared their light? There was an eclipse many years into my youth… I can’t remember if there were similar lights as there are now. At least the moon still exists – I cannot say what would happen if it did not. There are stories of Clefable that steal light and play with rainbows for fun… perhaps one has a hand in this mess.
Her cheeks flushed. She had forgotten to close the windows before her late-night escapade. Thin layers of early morning frost shaded the balcony a dull blue – though her sun lounger looked like it had been buried in a blizzard; icicles formed on the wooden supports, black ice coated the backrest until it looked like black agate, four potted plants were crumpled into icy claws, and the wall beside her solar was dripping snowy-white liquid to the world below.
I know the storm didn’t cross Karp Tail Pass… if it did, I would be dead with the poor fishermen, or injured at the very least. I do hope they, along with the Rangers, are doing better than I, though there should be no trouble on that end. When was the last time I felt such exhaustion?
Her mother was not alone in the bedroom. Two servants were quietly zipping from one corner of the room to the next. They were folding clothes and shoving them into several suitcases – uncertain of what to take or leave – so quickly that Diantha had trouble tracking them.
She withheld the urge to scream.
“Remember her quills and ink pots,” said her mother. “She loves them all, so be careful.” Her back was stiff and shook quietly. “Remember that speed is more important than cleanliness.”
The servants somehow moved faster.
Diantha drew closer to her mother, who had now emerged from the shadows. Yellow blotches marred her wrists, and where her ears met her head, patches of hair had been savagely torn away. The flickering firelight from the hearth cast her mother’s face in harsh relief – skin raw beneath her brows, dark rings spreading like bruises beneath her eyes.
Her mother’s smile was wrong, too; several of her front teeth had been chipped, damaged by something fist-like and heavy. She smelled like a lush vineyard in summer – the culprit, a half-emptied decanter left on its side, trickling its contents onto her marble floor.
“Where are Marie and Jackie?” Diantha asked her mother. She failed to keep the worry from her voice. “Are they all right?”
“No,” replied her mother. “They’ve been sent away for reconditioning. All done on your father’s command, like normal.”
Diantha’s legs gave out beneath her. She may have screamed, but she was unsure if it had been louder than normal. Her throat ached and her eyes burned. The fear returned: a tank of thick fluid swashing from side to side, calling to her… and she wished desperately she could call back. The memory faded, however, and left her feeling less whole than before. She eyed the small puddle of wine, suddenly feeling very parched.
This is not the first time I have lost friends. How many times have they come back with the same face, the same voice, and yet not a shred of warmth that once flowed with their every word? They forget our kind, private words often… I miss having such good friends. But they will be back soon. They always come back eventually.
“Father would not hurt them again,” Diantha muttered. “He promised he wouldn’t… I behaved as he wished… why?”
“He made the same promise before,” her mother whispered. “He loves lying. Remember your earliest memory, my love. He has lied to you from the moment of your birth. There are things he hides from everyone, some things that would best be kept from the ears of his daughter.”
Pink pillows swallowed her on either side. She wished they had been placed over her face, to be done with it and let her find some peace. The servants still scurried about the room and made no effort to break the silence. They should be reconditioned, not her friends. Why should they be free? Curse them, a dark voice whispered. Curse them to the god of the storm, the great bolt of yellow lightning that wanted to see you so badly.
Let them bleed from their eyes, she thought sincerely. Yes, then their mouths. Let them taste death and drown in a sea of copper. Let them die. Do not heed their prayers, do not hand their fates to the kind. Please let them die. Have their escapes ready, clean or otherwise. There is no more life to be had here, for death is my maid, my mother, my everything. Turn me from the pearly gates if you please; I no longer care.
Through sharp eyes, she watched the servants strip her four-poster bed bare. The low firelight beat from the hearth in anger. Amber warmth crept over their frantic, desperate faces. Red silk pooled at their feet, and her bed breathed cold air for the first time in years.
“Dia?” Warm hands rubbed her cheeks. She didn’t move. “Jasmine and Nelly are almost done. If there are any important things left that remain unpacked, speak now.”
Vanilla-scented candles. Roses. Fur throws tucked away in storage. More quilts. My old companions: Marie, Jackie, Arrie, Lily, Halie; half of that decanter, custard tarts, Ébène Royale... Give me all of it. Take me far from this place, and never let me return. Come with me, Mother, and paint away the rest of your days.
What words had been spoken and what had been left unsaid, Diantha could not tell, but Jasmine and Nelly placed the decanter in her hand, balanced a tray of custard tarts across her lap, and lit a candle by her head – though it carried no trace of vanilla. She took their kindness, guilty all the same.
The air thickened with the cloying scent of honey, which grew more sickening with each passing moment. She despised the clothes chosen for her even more. Her mother remained as silent as the Blackwood Forest, fingers tugging through the tangled strands of Diantha's hair, whispering soft nothings in her ear. It was enough to drive her mad.
Warm-fruited blood swashed from one gum to the other, clashing like great hammers against a wall of moonstone. She glared at the spiced wine through tired, half-lidded eyes. A sea of warmth was swallowing her limb by limb, pleasant and gentle. And she found herself smiling – it was so real she blinked twice at her reflection, unsure if her dreams would come true or not.
After ten minutes of heavy drinking, Diantha reached her walk-in wardrobe. Most of what she'd been wearing now lay in a crumpled heap near the entrance. Her mother was always close behind with a hand gripping her arm to steady them both.
Ralts held up a few dresses, red and black, for her to choose from. She settled on a sleek black satin, dark as a starless night. Lace cascaded beneath, brushing her legs, though most of it clung to the edges of her tight bodice. The wine had softened her nerves and loosened her tongue.
With reckless eagerness, she downed the last of her drink, then hurled the decanter into a shelf of high heels she had never worn. It shattered with a low growl. Red wine – like spilt blood – soaked into her shoes, splattering the white wall behind, turning it into something grotesque, an accidental work of art. The black heels left unmarred were the only shoes fit for Diantha to wear comfortably.
She watched it with a drunken smile… and then belched, half-delirious, her mother’s way.
“Bothered, Mother?” she slurred, feet unsteady. “Want me to sleep? Never. Let’s… let’s dance to somethin’. Where –?” She belched again. “Where’s the spinny singer? I want him back – her back. I don’t care who...”
“Sit down,” her mother pleaded. “Try to relax. It’s your first time drinking, isn’t it? It’s always strong with the first taste. It’ll fade in time.”
No… I had more than a few fine drinks from Father’s cabinets. I can still taste the vomit from that cursed night. Now shut your mouth and stop talking. Don’t say another word. Why are the servants staring at me like that? Who do they think they are? Why won’t you answer me, you pair of thimble-headed fools?
The next hour dragged on, slow and muddled. The early morning warmth greeted Diantha as she stumbled down the stairs – her ankle caught on the third step, snapping against the floor, though the wine had numbed her to the pain. Her mother was beside her, face flushed a deep maroon as she tried to explain what would come next.
But Diantha wasn’t listening. Her mind was adrift, wandering through dreams of her three castles, bloodthirsty plants, and a man with eyes that glowed like molten gold. She didn’t notice the shadow – a cold, blue fire creeping over her home, from spire to spire, wrapping the walls in a frozen flame.