Tomorrow came at a snail’s pace. George struggled to sleep that night; Hein’s words had struck a deeper chord than he’d expected, for reasons he didn’t understand. Had an old man’s ramblings gotten to him, or was there really more to it? On second thought, the former seemed ridiculous. No one loses sleep over the crazy ramblings of an old fool, even if some wisdom lurked in his words.

The next morning passed by at a similarly slow pace. It was quiet throughout breakfast, throughout the distance covered, right into lunch. Eat, walk, fight off ferals, then stop to eat again. George kept to himself, glaring at the Dusknoir on occasion.

‘He promised today. Not when today.’

As they were unwinding after lunch, Hein suddenly trailed off from the group, right over a hill. George spotted him as he made his escape, and called out to him. He didn’t respond. Terez didn’t, either. Baffled, the Dewott followed him through the grasses, then over the hill.

What greeted him on top resembled a framed picture. A vast grassland stretched out to the horizon, a river running its course in between. A quarter of the way to the horizon line, bits of stone stuck out like sore thumbs from the grass, some flanked by dirt patches, others nearly overgrown. On a closer view, the ‘stone’ in question resembled a stack of bricks, except built from plain old stones. Whatever it might be, it didn’t look natural. And it made George feel all the more uncomfortable.

‘...What is that? Some kind of… camp?’

A few seconds of staring out over the plains passed, before George’s eyes fell upon the Dusknoir floating low at the cliff’s edge. His markings bore a yellow glow, and his arms were criss crossed over his chest. George walked his way with a nervous bounce to his steps. Up close, the Dusknoir appeared to be gripping a wrist with his other hand.

“...Do you see this?”

Hein began to talk before George had even made half the distance. The Dewott bit his lip. ‘He knew already, huh…’

“I know. You wouldn’t know what you’re looking at,” the Dusknoir continued, his voice low and a tad too soft. “But the land before you has many tales to tell. Including mine. And I’ve wanted to tell it to you for many moons now.”

George bit at his cheek, before taking his place next to Hein. In spite of the size difference, somehow the Dusknoir didn’t seem any taller. “Why couldn’t you tell it earlier? Would’ve made a difference, right?” ‘If it’s actually capable of that.’

The Dusknoir echoed out a hollow sigh. “Personal issues. I needed to see this place again.” He sighed. “Welcome to Westholm, George. Or what’s left of it.”

Guided by the Dusknoir’s hand, George’s eyes panned over the landscape once again. On a second look, all sorts of oddities had snuck their way into the landscape. Gaps in the grass where roads used to be. Bits of stone floors under the walls, camouflaged by weeds. What remained of a water well. He gulped. A hand teaching you isn’t supposed to hurt, even when the teachers are slapped and crammed inside of you. Sometimes though, ignorance is bliss.

“...What happened here? How long has this place been… well, like this?” the Dewott asked, struggling to piece his words together.

To this, Hein lowered his head, then the rest of his body, before placing a hand on George’s back. “Let me start many decades ago. When I was still alive.”

* * *

I remember it well, those days. Happiness often gets devalued, George, but mark my words. True happiness in life is something you’ll never forget. And it is hard to forget those better days. Back when the town I called home still existed. Westholm.

Looking at it now, it’s hard to believe civilization existed here. But only six short decades ago, you would’ve seen a far different sight in the sunlight. Finely crafted timber houses, with every rooftop bearing its own colour. Blues, reds, yellows, anything flew as long as it was bright and tasteful. We had streets wide enough to accommodate all Pokemon, yet spaces for the small to congregate. We built canals and aqueducts to bring water in from afar. Grew our own berries in the city too, whether in community gardens or in our own pots or yards.

And I shouldn’t forget, there was housing for Pokemon of all shapes and sizes; the winged and grounded, bipedal or quadruped, bug, mammal... not to mention workspaces for every profession you could think of. Pokemon of all kinds called these plains home.

And among them was me. Not in this undead form, but as the Pokemon I once was. Back then, feathers covered my body, rather than this decrepit ectoplasm. I used to be a red-feathered Decidueye, the kind that bears a ‘hat’, as humans like to call it. You might’ve seen one in your travels. But I shouldn’t dawdle off - it’s no use thinking of better times. It’s too easy to get lost in. Far too alluring to get caught up on your own nostalgia, and mourn those former times.

Nevertheless, that’s who I once was. Decidueye Hein. I know I look nothing like it now, with this utterly horrifying body I’ve been cursed with, but there’s a reason I find humour in owl jokes. Remember Terez calling me a ‘know-it-owl’? There you have it. Some would call that self deprecating, others would say it’s the good old times. Personally though… I prefer coping mechanism. It helps take the edge off reality, you know, living in fantasy land.

…And there you have it. See how easy it is, to fall into your own nostalgia?

Ugh. Let’s… move along. Red Feathered Decidueye aside, that’s not all I once had. Back then, I had a family. A wife, a couple of children. Friends, too… and a proper job. Again, the whole concept may seem silly to you now, but could you imagine that I used to be Westholm’s mayor? A bit quiet, somewhat handsoff, but never soft. I always wanted to help other Pokemon solve their problems growing up. Even in school as a little Rowlet, I enjoyed helping my classmates with their work, or organising games during playtime.

That idea evolved with me into adulthood. In two ways - for one, I enlisted with the town’s guard. Plenty of feral Pokemon, thugs and all sorts of villains were out there back then, threatening innocent people. The more things change, the more they stay the same, no? Learned plenty of rump-kicking moves to help out there. Beyond that, I became interested in politics. It wasn’t an easy road to mayor, but enough time spent serving, and enough time in the public eye made people warm up to the idea. And eventually, I got there.

As mayor… where do I even start? It’s a job you have to truly know people for. And to truly know someone, you need to think beyond idle chit chat. Where do they come from? What are their hopes and dreams, their fears and worries? How does their species factor in? And so on. That goes for the people you govern over, as well as outside political forces. Back then, Eravate was far more divided. Most lands were under some petty count or monarch, and they enjoyed bickering with each other. But I digress.

But yes, my day to day duties were aimed at making life better for the people. Didn’t matter their gender, background or species. I quickly discovered that beyond all those classifications…. Most people are just people, at the end of the day. We all want to live happy and prosperous lives, we all have our prejudices. Westholm’s people were no different, in that regard. Flawed as they were, I learned to appreciate them all the more. I learned how to open my mind, too. It’s mandatory. Any good leader needs one.

In the fifteen years I was a mayor, I did precisely that. And I ended up shaping a society where folks learned to look past their own biases. Worked together. Accepted one another. Celebrated each other. Hard to believe that I myself managed that once upon a time… but old habits tend to die hard.

And that’s what happened in the end, George. Westholm died. Its people all disappeared into the mud. I died, too. All on one fateful day, some sixty years ago now… it might even be sixty one years. The days start to blend together when you reach my age. But that day is one I’ll never forget, even in death.

You’ve been told the stories of Yveltal, haven’t you? And the cult that worshipped that sub feral beast of a Pokemon? No one knows where they came from, or why. One day, they all rose up. Awakened their bestial master. Their goal? To kill as many as they could. Some said they were out to convert. I never bought it for a second. All they cared about was to satiate their bloodlust.

That all started here, George. To the south of where we are now, where Westholm used to stand, a crater sits in the landscape. Think of it like an inverted tumour, a cancer upon Eravate. Yveltal rose from it, and with its cult… set its sights on Westholm. I’ll never forget that screeching noise that started it. When it gets quiet enough at night, I still hear the echoes.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

As far as I’m concerned, it was the gates of hell opening. All the misery below was unleashed upon Eravate, and we were the first to fall victim. Right as the skies turned red, I crowed and sounded every alarm I could think of. Messengers to warn neighbouring cities. Mobilised the city guard. Ordered as many innocent people to evacuate, and everyone who could fight even a little to stand up. Protect their city. The city we had been building for years… I’m getting sentimental again.

Truth to be told, George, it was a desperate measure. They descended upon us like a swarm of feral bugs. Thousands of them, thousands. We did the best we could. Fought and killed as many as we could. But when the odds are so overwhelmingly stacked against you… there’s little you can do. Push on, hope for a miracle. Maybe fight to make miracles exist.

But we failed. One by one, the defenders fell. I watched my friends die in front of me. It wasn’t long before one of the bastards caught me right in the gut… A Scyther, if I remember correctly. A blade went straight through my heart. I collapsed, and life left me.

Or so I thought.

There’s… a strange peace in death. One you’re not necessarily aware of. It’s as if you’re floating in the void, with just your own thoughts to keep you company. Supposedly, you move on eventually, to what comes after. But me… I didn’t get that dignity. If death is eternal sleep, then I was thrown out of the bed.

The first thing that struck me when I regained consciousness was pain. My whole body was torn apart on all sides, as if someone strapped me to a table, yanked every last feather from my body, then smashed my bones into dust. The skin torn off, my every last muscle melting… I can hardly describe how agonising this was to go through. I never knew how much you could put one Pokemon through.

And there I was, at the beginning of my torment. My new existence. I woke up while the sky was still red, screams whispering in the distance. I couldn’t make sense of my surroundings, or myself. And that daze didn’t wear off until I caught a glimpse of my arm. My featherless, black, pulsating arm.

You’ve had this experience before, haven't you? When you woke up by the lake, lost in a foreign body. Imagine how it would feel if you saw your human self laying dead in the grass before you, drowning in a pool of your own blood. How would that be? Seeing your face stiff with one final emotion there? The hands you worked with, the arms you hugged your loved ones with… that was me. I recognised myself instantly. It… was an incredibly hollow feeling.

And that was before I saw my friends in the same state. My wife. My kids. The people I had sworn to protect. All strewn over the town like garbage.

George. You have an image in your head. You’ll have your own feelings on this whole idea while it’s only an idea. But how would you react to seeing all this? To experiencing everything I just mentioned? Let me share my reaction. It starts with a scream, and that’s the easiest it gets. A storm starts to rage in your soul. Horror, grief, anger, depression, and every other emotion stored inside Pandora’s box breaks free. You’ll want to tear yourself out of your own body. You’ll spend nights laying awake, weeping silently to yourself. You conjure up fantasies of pure rage. And most of all, you start to hate the world. Curse its name. Curse the people on it. And curse yourself for being on it. That’s what my life degenerated into afterwards. That’s all I was. A name and trauma.

But… I guess I had some ‘luck’, if you want to call it that. My grief… turned into anger very quickly. And that anger felt empowering. Demonically empowering. I had never felt anything like it before, nothing remotely close. I wanted revenge. Kill every last one of the vermin responsible. I floated through town. And by some miracle, who did I find besides the Scyther that had jabbed me in the gut?

I saw red the moment my one lone eye met him again.

It felt as if the Creator guided my hand. I descended upon that Scyther, and… made him regret every last decision he made in his head. I pressed my fingers right into his head.

This… has gone on for long enough. You’ve probably been wondering for months now why I am the way I am. A monster. A freak. Sick in the head. I don’t fault you for thinking this way. Deep down, that’s how I feel about myself, too. I am a monster. A beast. An abomination. None of this excuses my sins even a little. But… I hope you understand what this old man had to say, even if it isn’t much.

* * *

Once Hein had begun to speak, George’s eyes didn’t drift off him for a second. He’d kept his hands at bay, didn’t cut in with a word. And even once the Dusknoir had finished his story, it took a few seconds before the Dewott reacted. He looked back into the field, to where Westholm once stood. Every ruin had a story to tell.

“...I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t. No one is supposed to know stories like mine, let alone experience them.”

George lowered his head. “So every time I put up an attitude, you… Swallowed your pride and dealt with it, huh? Because who am I to talk back to you? Not believe you?” he said, his voice soft. In truth, he had no clue where this question was headed. He just didn’t know what else to say.

The ghost let out an echo; it sounded like he was breathing in. “To the contrary. You’d have to be a complete and utter fool to believe a word I say, no questions asked. Ghosts do not exist on Eravate. They are myths. Even the simple sprites are nigh unheard of. Let alone an ambassador of death like Dusknoir. My ‘species’ only exists inside folklore. At least, that’s what I believed.”

“...How does that work?” George asked.

“I wish I knew myself,” Hein grumbled. “I do not make the rules here. Arceus does, and he abandoned me long ago. But I digress. To get back to your question, if anything, you’ve got it the wrong way around. Who am I to get upset when others do not believe me? Some vengeful spirit that people are terrified of? I hardly believe myself sometimes even now.”

George raised an eye at that last remark. The wind began to howl as he stood up, fingers itching towards his scalchops.

“Hang on a moment. Do you mean you stopped believing in yourself?”

“For the longest time, yes. Not so much now anymore, but for the longest time.”

“Then… How come you’re still alive then, sixty years later? Fighting against whatever the hell we’re up against? You could’ve just sat crying in a hole in the ground for all this time, yet you didn’t. You met Terez. You have that… ‘Lone Eye’ nickname, right? And you’re taking me to someone you actually trust.”

George bit his lip. ‘I hope I didn’t pile on too much there.’

“Anger,” was all Hein replied with, before slumping forwards. “That Scyther was one of many. I screamed, cried, mourned, you name it. But I wanted revenge, and I wanted it bad. Every cultist bastard I could find, I killed, no questions asked. I’d stumble upon a group of them, unleash my powers on them, maybe leave one alive.”

“Why one?”

“Because dead men tell no tales.”

Hein turned his head towards George. “In all honesty, that sobriquet is anything but a mark of honour. It’s ‘the last thing’ they all saw, supposedly. The list of lives I’ve ended extends from here to hell. Picture the same being true of you. Is that what you want to be known for?”

The Dewott stepped back, being reminded who he was dealing with. “...No.” ‘It’s not what you want to stand next to, either…’

“Indeed,” Hein said. “In any case, my quest for revenge got noticed. That’s how I met my mentors. No, not a master. Mentors. And… They respected what I had been through. Helped me get back on track. Gave me something worth living for again.”

“What did they give you?” George asked, then clicked his tongue. What does he mean, worth living for again?’‘

The Dusknoir tilted his antenna sideways, into the direction he and George had spent the last several weeks marching towards. “A purpose. A place in the world.”

George blinked at him. “That doesn’t tell me anything.”

Hein folded his arms. “It’s hard to explain directly… For decades, I wandered the world to quench my hunger for revenge. Primal, self serving, that’s all my motivations were. Meeting my mentors changed my outlook on life. Instead of fighting for nothing, I began fighting for a better world. For a just world… One where what became of Westholm and so many other towns couldn’t happen again. That is my goal in life, now. Fighting for Eravate… Because Eravate deserves better than this.” The ghost’s maw opened, sucking in a deep gasp of air before closing. “Perhaps my reasoning could go more in depth, and I’m sure there’s plenty more I’d do this for. But I hope this is clear to you.”

Reeling a little from the paranormal, George rubbed his hands together. His hands were cold. “Clear enough,” he said. “I… Well, if I was in your shoes, I’d do the same. It’s not like you had much of a choice. Couldn’t even die peacefully, could you?”

Hein leaned away. “They say nothing in life is guaranteed, besides death and taxes. Little did I know Death could be bribed…” he groaned. “But yes. I’m supposed to be a skeleton buried in the plains before you. Yet here I am.”

George stared out over the plains again. With Hein’s story in mind, the sight went from peaceful to unsettling. No one had tried to settle here in the last sixty years, had they? As if the land itself had been cursed ever since. Maybe crops have wilted here ever since, buildings sinking into the soil… But no. That wasn’t realistic. Only in novels do buildings collapse when their spirit is lost.

‘They’re still there, aren’t they?’

Each patch of grass down below may as well have been a tombstone. A marking of what once was; if Hein told the truth, the plains ahead were one massive graveyard. His original self was there. His family couldn’t be much further away. Wife, kids, even his friends… They couldn’t have been left in the open, could they? No bones stuck out in between, as far as George could tell.

“Did you-”

“Bury them?” Hein filled in. “Yes. After I wiped out whatever stragglers remained, I buried my people.”

The Dusknoir said no more. A cold feeling pulsed through George’s veins. How long did it take him to bury everyone? How did he manage? Thinking about it only intensified Goerge’s discomfort. Some questions were best left unanswered… though one in particular still bothered him. Hein was married, had children, a social life, and yet…

“...Say, Hein. You never mentioned anyone by name. Not your family or friends, or anyone else. Why?”

Hein slowly turned his eye onto George. “Do you really want to know this?”

George swallowed. “I-If you don’t mind.”

“You should be asking yourself if you’ll mind,” the Dusknoir replied, to which the Dewott bit his cheek.

‘I’m going to regret asking this, aren’t I?’ “No. It’s fine.”

Before Hein echoed out another word, he put a hand on George’s shoulder. It felt lukewarm to the touch. “Sixty years is a long time, wouldn’t you say?”

“I haven’t even lived for a quarter of that.”

“Indeed. You’ve had a rough life. Been through too much for just a boy. But be glad that you could find peace at night on most nights. That you didn’t exist in a living hell, where you constantly remembered what you used to be, what you used to have… And most importantly, who you used to have. My name, soul and memories were all I had left. And truth to be told… I’d have preferred it if they were taken, too.”

“Why?”

“Because then I wouldn’t cry every time I remembered my family, George. I wouldn’t lie awake at night mourning my friends.” Hein shielded his chest with a weakly curled fist. “You’ve lost Blitzer. You know what this feels like, except you still have hope. Hope to see him alive one day. I lost everyone I ever knew and loved in a few hours’ time. And it’s the littlest things that trigger my memories of them. Sayings, jokes, situations, even a misty sunrise. I won’t tell you their names because… because they…”

Suddenly, Hein lowered his antenna into his hands.

“I… Do you mind if we stopped right here? G-go to Terez. Tell her whatever you’d like. Please.”

George’s heart skipped a beat as the Dusknoir buried his face. It was as if the ghost wanted to tear his head off, right from the antenna. “N-no problem,” he said, jumping away from the cliff’s edge and drifting away, only looking back after hopping his way back on top of the hill. Once there, he stopped, his ears flickering. He heard the Dusknoir weeping.

“E-Erva…”