Chapter Text
Everything starts with an insignificant itch. An annoying ache that stubbornly endures at the very center of Dusknoir’s core. A ragged, hoarse sensation reminiscent of the pivotal seconds just before one strains their voice.
At the time he doesn’t give a second thought to something so insignificant (it’s the cold getting to him, that’s the only thing that makes logical sense) , instead focusing on his current, more pressing problems. And by problems, he specifically means Grovyle. The complete fool of a thief was too trusting, all things considered. Trudging through the deep, frozen fields of snow and ice side-by-side despite all of their built up bad blood, all of their disdain. And yet, they’ve been cooperatively traveling together for over a week now and have fallen into a familiar (he despises that word, oh he loathes it when thinking about Grovyle) sort of rhythm with each other. An admittedly comfortable push-and-pull. They don’t speak much beyond what is necessary, but the silence (even the silence) gives him a strange, lingering sense of security that he’s never experienced before. Idly, he wishes for that unwelcome, invasive feeling to stop.
Overall, their current situation is absolutely miserable, but such is life in the dark future (he misses the daylight, the breeze, the seamless shift from dawn to dusk and back again). The only upside beyond the minimal rest, shortage of food, and grueling days of trekking through wastelands was the single, satisfying fact that his plan (deceit and betrayal, he was so close) was actually working. Just a little farther and it would all be over. He would finally be in control. He would no longer be afraid.
And really, this was easy, much too easy-- all he’d needed to do was play up the theatrics, the drama of it all, and Grovyle had willingly eaten it out of his hands like honey candy. And that simple fact almost makes Dusknoir feel filthy, wicked even, taking advantage of him so effortlessly. The sudden flow of negative thoughts confuse him, because what is there to feel badly about? This is all for survival. Self-preservation against all odds. How could he regret something like that, especially when he’d come so far at the cost of so much?
While I live, I want to shine. Within his heart a familiar voice resonates words spoken mere hours ago, yet have repeated in his mind like a neverending mantra, a mocking curse. And as if on some horribly timed cue, Grovyle offers a small, reassuring glance over his shoulder, completely oblivious of his imminent fate-- of the elaborate trap ahead and apparently (surprisingly) content with his company.
Stop looking at me like that. You're a fool for believing in me. A hopeless, selfless idiot! You'll die because of that asinine, ludicrous trust and I'll be better off for it. Thoughts raging faster than he can quell them, Dusknoir lets out an indignant huff and turns away, crossing his arms over his chest in mock frustration. This abrupt gesture earns him an amused chuckle from Grovyle, who shakes his head exasperatedly, and yet the welcome sight (a smile directed at him and only him, why, why, why ) causes a flash of pleasant heat to bloom inside Dusknoir’s chest, foreign and strange and wonderful.
The little, incessant itch at the back of his throat grows stronger. And as they hike through Icicle Forest together, the fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach begins to burn. On instinct Dusknoir coughs into his hand, just a small puff of air against the brisk, frigid cold of the dark, frozen world around them. Hand falling away, a single yellow petal-- the hue of bright sunlight, of golden warmth -- floats down through a wisp of breath to rest atop the perpetual snow. Its vibrance is like a beacon against this world’s devoid, lifeless gray.
Neither of them notice it, and as they continue onward, the petal is left behind. In stillness, in nothingness, it remains.
They don’t have much time but they need rest, oh Arceus, do they need rest.
Celebi, who is exhausted and weak from the effects of Spiritomb’s infernal grip, all but collapses. As soon as she falters in the air, her little wings stuttering and seizing up from the searing pain (because she’s burned, she’s singed like charcoal from his wicked fire that no Heal Bell can soothe, and Dusknoir doesn’t know how she’s managed to keep going this long without fainting), her head limply lolls back and she drops like deadweight. On instinct Dusknoir lunges to catch her before she can hit the ground and crack her head against stone, and she curls into him with a whimper. Without a second thought he gingerly cradles her against his chest, into the crux of his arms, careful of her worst injuries. A silent promise that he intends to keep.
Beside him, Grovyle hoarsely speaks, “We need to stop.” He’s burned too, but not from Spiritomb’s fire. His wounds are jagged and ugly and unnatural like split trees scorched by lightning, his skin peeling in spots from the potent shock of electricity that had coursed like an unrelenting wave through his body, his mind, his soul, to melt his spirit and render him a husk. And Dusknoir can hardly bring himself to look at him. The guilt, oh, the guilt. Another regret that he’ll have to shoulder until the very end.
“Stop where, Grovyle?” Dusknoir snaps through thinning patience, frustrated with the poignant reminder of his humiliating mistake and from his own irritating wounds. His true eye still aches, raw and sore, and his vision is slightly blurred at the edges, disoriented. The memory of Primal Dialga ripping his face to shreds as punishment for his betrayal is still fresh, still vivid, still haunting him enough to make his spine tense and his stomach churn. A single attack (a Dragon Claw, a torrent of power, a vengeful hate directed solely at him, intent to kill) had done so much damage. Enough to scar a ghost-type, those who are usually infallible to mortal wounds. Pokémon like him can sustain damage, of course, but he’s never had a physical injury stay before. Not like this. Each time he blinks it sends a shock of sharp pain through him, pain he’s never experienced so intensely. He wonders if it’ll be permanent, if it will scar, if it will be an eternal reminder of his greatest disappointments. He supposes he deserves it.
“We’re out in the open,” He states, “There’s nowhere suitable.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Grovyle winces, hobbling in place because he’s balancing most of his weight on a single foot. The one that he is nursing has become a nasty black and blue, reaching from his ankle to his knee, “Just stop right here. Please. ”
For Grovyle to suggest stopping, to insist on resting during a crisis like this, to stoop so low that he would beg -- especially given how reckless and headstrong he is by nature… things are bad. Horribly bad. That much is true.
But Dusknoir wants to refuse. At this point rest is a luxury they cannot afford, wants to say with what time, Grovyle, because the entire world is hanging in the balance, is counting on them to help save it-- but Dusknoir swallows those words and snarls instead, a deep, angry, rumbling sound that parts the dagger-like teeth of his stomach and makes Grovyle stiffen like a wooden board, raise his elbows in defense, take a fighting stance.
They stare at each other with such venom it’s akin to a silent duel, an impasse, both waiting for the first move, the first outlash, for the dam that is their truce to come crumbling down. Grovyle-- the leaves of his arms sharpened into vicious, serrated points. Dusknoir-- cradling Celebi stubbornly, but rows and rows and rows of layered teeth bared and a bottomless mouth of malevolent shadows ready to burst forth and claw, tear, slash, shred. That is, until their charged deadlock breaks like glass and all of the animosity built between them dissolves as quickly as it arose. Dusknoir slumps. He sways and sinks to the ground like he’s been dragged, twisting to land on his back-- and he does, still clutching Celebi tightly, who doesn’t even stir in the midst of her exhaustion.
“One hour.” Dusknoir bites, feeling incredibly dizzy now that he’s actually taken a moment to lie down. There is a stone digging into his back, and it’s uncomfortable, but he hadn’t realized just how heavy his arms-- no, how his entire body feels heavy and numb, and when he blinks it sends another savage wave of pain through him. “Just one hour.”
No objection is made. And Dusknoir blinks again. He flinches at the sting. He stares up at the dead, frozen sky. At the great expanse of gray that stretches beyond the reaches of his sight, at the endless swathes of clouds above that are permanently suspended in static and darkness.
And then, the sound of unsteady footsteps approach. Quietly, hesitantly, the pleasant warmth of another body presses up against the curve of his shoulder and remains there. It’s Grovyle, Dusknoir knows, but that knowledge makes it harder, not easier to rest. His true eye slips closed, trying and failing miserably to breathe with some semblance of a slow, steady rhythm. But it’s difficult, really difficult, when his attention keeps fixating on the gentle rise and fall of Grovyle’s breathing instead. On the faint thrum of Grovyle’s heart pressing into his skin like the beat of a song.
“You’re hurt too. Even if you want to act tough about it.” It’s blunt, said around a lazy grunt, but Grovyle has never sugarcoated things. Dusknoir supposes he won’t start now.
“Don’t care about acting tough, anymore,” Dusknoir retorts, and he wants to shake his head but he’s tired, so tired that he didn’t even process it, and maybe it’s that overwhelming tiredness that’s got him running his mouth before he can think twice to filter it out, “Just want to keep you both safe. Hard to do that when I need rest.”
Dusknoir can feel it when it happens, when Grovyle’s breathing hitches at those words, and Dusknoir prays that he hasn’t said anything wrong. That this little bit of bruised honesty, pathetic as it is between them, hasn’t soured whatever remaining respect Grovyle might still harbor towards him. But Grovyle doesn’t reply or retreat or scoff in disdain, just stays. He stays.
“I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” The apology escapes, recalling the deep, horrid snarl that had left him and feeling ashamed, disappointed with allowing his control to slip earlier. Dusknoir smooths a hand over Celebi, brushing his fingers over her little wings, and one twitches in her sleep at his touch.
“S’fine.” Grovyle shrugs, Dusknoir can feel the gesture as clearly as seeing it, and then Grovyle’s head is falling against him too-- the back of his skull pressing into the space where Dusknoir’s frills meet his neck. It tickles, just a little bit, and that in itself should be embarrassing. He finds that he does not have the energy to care.
Together they lay there like the dead. Unmoving, silence stretching between them for so long that Dusknoir inevitably feels the familiar tug, the urge in the back of his mind to let his consciousness slip into standby, into stasis, into a void of nothingness that ghost-types need in lieu of mortal sleep, and he can’t recall the last time he’d felt the temptation to just let go in such a way around someone else. Had he ever felt that at all?
But that innate tug vanishes when Grovyle lets out the smallest, content sigh, “Feels nice,” He mumbles, voice heavy and slurred with fatigue, and he leans back into Dusknoir just a little bit more, tucking against him like he wants it, needs it, and a violent flare of affection so white-hot pierces his chest that Dusknoir feels like he might melt into dust. “You’re always cold, Noir.” He doesn’t feel cold anymore, he really doesn't. “S’helping where it hurts…” A yawn, and the remaining tension in Grovyle’s body relaxes, his breathing evens out, and he falls asleep.
If Dusknoir had a heart, a real mortal heart that pumps blood and sustains life, he was sure (beyond a doubt) that it’d be racing right now. And it’s stupid, so utterly moronic and pathetic and mortifying that he’s apparently got enough gall to even admit this awful revelation to himself. That he’s become so hopelessly, pitiably consumed by Grovyle’s wanton approval that such a simple statement could leave him a floundering, flattered, humiliated mess.
In a moment of weakness, a diversion, his thoughts drift to their imminent disappearance. About the brutal desperation of their current suicide mission and how despite everything, despite his injuries and regrets and looming death… somehow, in these very seconds of life, he is remarkably content. Dusknoir has never been a believer of good fortune (a fools mistake, the dogma of heroes of which he is not) but he’s certain this is the luckiest he’s ever been-- just resting here on the cold ground with Grovyle and Celebi, his former enemies (his companions, his partners in this darkness, is it acceptable to call them that when he’d hurt them, betrayed them?) , beaten and bloody and exhausted at the end of all things.
He wishes he could express how grateful he is with well-crafted words and praise (he does not deserve their trust, he does not, he does not) , but he has no way to formulate the depth of what he is feeling, has no idea where to begin. He is good at lies and deceits and falsehoods-- can craft them effortlessly, naturally, as easy as muscle memory. It is truths that he’s never been good with-- a struggle, a festering, bitter frustration he cannot overcome because of the fragile mask he wears, the mask he created to protect himself. The mask that morphed into his crutch.
So instead, Dusknoir leans into them, into Grovyle and Celebi. A touch, a comfort. A vow. A wordless promise that need not bear audible truths. He will not fail them. And all the while, in the back of his throat, Dusknoir feels an itch. Persistent. Lingering. A scratch that rubs the wrong way. He swallows around it, then decidedly ignores it along with his other injuries.
One hour, he’d said. One hour and they’d need to scrape themselves off the ground to finish the grueling hike for Vast Ice Mountain.
One hour.
He gives them two.
By some miracle the future is saved.
They do not disappear.
The light of dawn is unfathomably beautiful, mesmerizing, dazzling-- an endlessly serene sight that makes Dusknoir’s soul soar with indescribable euphoria-- and he wishes that he could watch this sunrise forever. Wishes so deeply and wholly that he could absorb it into his memory, affix it to the forefront of his mind like a delicately framed painting and never look away, because he knows, without a doubt, that he would be comfortable staying here for an eternity.
But, unfortunately, nice things do not tend to last for him.
“What will you do now?” Celebi interrupts, her gentleness cutting through his reverie, his appreciation for this new world and its color, its light, its wonder. She flies over to him with a small stutter in the air, and Dusknoir notices a jagged slice in the flesh of one of her wings. It must be hindering her movement, a sore wound just beginning to heal, the thin membranes bruised with a nasty smattering of purple and blue. And vaguely, Dusknoir recalls her bravely shielding Grovyle from a particularly bloodthirsty Metal Claw. The enraged, vengeful shadow of Primal Dialga flashes before him like a nightmare of sharp silver and diamond, and he wonders if that particular attack had dealt the blow. He wonders how many more she would’ve taken just to keep Grovyle safe. And, at his core, Dusknoir feels angry on Celebi’s behalf that Dialga had not fully healed them upon their revival.
“I do not know.” Dusknoir admits, considering his options since he is still alive . On his skin he can feel a lingering chill in the wind that is slowly being snuffed out by the warmth of the rising sun, and that means he is here. Against all odds, he is still here. “My purpose is gone. I have no home. No master to serve. And regrettably, I have greatly wronged both the past and this future… Truthfully, I think it is justified to believe that I belong nowhere. How can I when my mistakes are so unforgivable? Quite the conundrum.”
Sitting there, exhausted and weary but breathing, Dusknoir sluggishly flattens the palm of his hand against the earth. His fingers brush over a patch of grass, its thin, soft blades catching in the spaces between his knuckles. It’s green, so very rich and green, and it’s so jarring that this same earth was covered in naught but ice and rock and gray such a short time ago-- a static, doomed future that he had once fought so arduously to preserve. It had been so bleak and numb and dead. It had been paralyzed and that single, horrifying thought makes Dusknoir feel distinctly sick. And he’d wanted it that way. Burned bridges for it. Dedicated his life to it, to misery and suffering and strife. A quiet sigh, and Dusknoir deflates, “What is there for someone like me to do, Celebi? In a world like this.” Alive, alive. A world so very alive.
“I wouldn’t think like that, darling.” Celebi says with a fragile, wet smile-- she’s about to break into pieces, just like him, Dusknoir can feel it like a punch to his gut -- but she doesn’t break, because she’s strong, so strong, and so unlike him in the ways that matter. Instead, Celebi lands beside him, plopping down and taking a seat in the grass that had so easily enraptured Dusknoir’s attention. She looks up at him, an overwhelming exhaustion present in her expressive eyes despite her obvious elation that they’re still here. That they’re together. “We just helped save the world! Surely we can find a little peace.”
“Perhaps,” Dusknoir says, unconvinced by her optimism. Just moments ago, they’d nearly been erased and in those last fleeting seconds he had accepted his fate. He’d been ready to disappear. Ready to finally let go of all his mistakes, his pain, his regrets-- to sink into nothingness and cease to exist. He’d been satisfied with his last memory of Celebi and Grovyle collapsed beside him, battered and bloodied and drained but victorious, proud, happy. They’d smiled at him in their final moments together and he’d nearly wept with how grateful it had made him feel, how loved. So relieved that he had managed to finally do something good, something worthwhile with his last living seconds and that maybe, just maybe, his spirit could shine in the midst of his sacrificial redemption. But now they were alive with no semblance of a plan, with nowhere to go. None of them had expected to survive and suddenly this gift of life-- their blessing, their second chance-- was morphing into more of a curse than anything else. And bitterly Dusknoir knew that without the finality of his intended sacrifice, he highly doubted he was redeemed. Certainly not in his own eyes, never, not ever . And undeniably not in the eyes of others he’d wronged.
He tries to shove that rotten bitterness away. Tries so hard to quell it at the source, but it hurts. It hurts.
Picking at a blade of grass, an odd one that sticks up just a little farther than the others-- breaking their unison, their natural uniformity, an outlier that does not match -- Dusknoir frowns as he unceremoniously plucks the offending thing from the ground near Celebi’s feet. He twirls it between his fingers, watching as the softness of it melts under the pressure of his strength, and he hates how its moisture stains the pads of his gray flesh green, green, green.
He crushes it into his fist, then tosses it to the ground.
It’s quiet now, too quiet. So Dusknoir breaks it.
“I must say,” He starts talking just to fill the void, a lilt in his voice, “Given our circumstances your positivity is astounding, Celebi, truly a marvel. You must teach me the art sometime, though I fear I am quite a poor understudy. Keep in mind that you’ll have to be patient.” Dry but not sardonic, not condescending and instead just the tiniest bit teasing (because he needs to cure this ache in his heart, this hurt, and he doesn’t know how so snark and wit always becomes his mask ), Dusknoir offers Celebi a weak shrug as he tilts his head down to regard her with some attention. And she gives him a small, fractured laugh in return. She sounds happy, relieved at his joke, but splintered in her own disbelief, her own pain that he can tell she wants to cover up and bury.
Celebi’s focus lingers on the discarded, crushed, broken piece of grass lying abandoned atop a chunk of undisturbed, rocky earth. At first, she doesn’t speak, just watches as the breeze picks up ever so slightly, and the crumpled blade catches on it, stirs, and jerks into the air. It twirls, sinks, then floats away. Carried so tenderly by the wind until it's out of sight.
“You always do know how to lighten the mood, Dusknoir.” She finally replies, this time more collected, more pure. More believable. And when she lifts her head to look up at him, the wetness that had persisted at the corners of her eyes is gone. “I like that about you.”
Her words, though off-handed, strike him deeply. And Dusknoir finds with a flash of bubbling anxiety that he suddenly cannot keep looking at her. It aches, it stings to look because he thinks that some part of her might not be lying, might not be making a flippant joke of her own, that she might be genuine in such sentiment-- and that scares him. Cuts him to the very fabric of his being. Settles in his soul like the slow creep of ice that culls fields of wildflowers.
He turns his head away as if he’s been burned, and he can hear her make a weak, disappointed sound from her spot beside him, but he pointedly forces himself to ignore it. Because to acknowledge it would mean admitting to himself that, against all odds, he found that he truly liked her too. That he wanted Celebi around. That somewhere deep down, now that he knew the joys of partnership (that indescribable, weightless feeling of being needed and trusted ) he was terrified of losing it and being alone again. It was beyond pathetic but the possible threat of going back to his haughty, lonely, one-man-against-the-world charade might just kill him in every sense of the word. He couldn’t bear for it to come true, to live out the rest of his life like that.
This realization is sour and a grimace pulls at his mouth. And then, Dusknoir’s eye flicks to the edge of the mountain’s peak.
There, perched at the precipice, Grovyle is kneeling in a bed of white clover. At his feet, the soft, round blooms sway in the cool morning breeze like they’re dancing to a beautiful tune, its sound unheard by the rest of the world. Echo! Sora! Can you hear me? We are still alive! His earlier words reverberate through Dusknoir’s psyche like an earthquake, and he watches as Grovyle stares out towards the horizon-- like if he concentrates hard enough, somehow his sorrow, his hope, will bleed through time itself. A message on the wind. His shining spirit.
“I’m certain that they heard you, somehow. Your message.” Dusknoir is speaking before he even considers holding his tongue, reassuring Grovyle (to think they used to be enemies, that they hated each other so fiercely, that now he offers comfort ) and hoping to ease some of Grovyle’s obvious sadness, which is present in the slouch of his shoulders and the droop of his posture. “And if we survived then those two are fine, no doubt.”
“I know.” Grovyle replies, a wistful smile on his face and the glint of unshed tears in his eyes. “And I’m so proud of them.”
Life begins to move ever-onward under the watchful eyes of Dialga, God of Time, who at last in sane mind and body ushers in the birth of a world entirely different from the dismal dark future. Because of their efforts the land is bright, alive and at peace.
And yet, a lingering unease eats away at this new, fragile solace.
Dusknoir’s companions refuse to let him out of their sight. He has no intention of sneaking away (his days of skulking through shadows are over) and he tells them this in confidence but they do not listen. While they travel-- trying to enjoy this new world, this treasure they’ve helped save-- Grovyle often rests a palm against Dusknoir’s elbow, a soft pressure, a reassurance, a quiet vow of trust and silent plea to stay, please stay . Or he jumps up and clings to Dusknoir’s shoulder, perching there with ease, and it's a pleasant weight that Dusknoir no longer resists or tries to shrug away.
And Celebi, more often than not, takes refuge atop Dusknoir’s frills and buries herself against the crook of his neck. Half of the time she isn’t even napping. She just likes it there, she says shamelessly, and admits that it makes her feel safe. The idea causes him to scoff (safe with him, as if, it’s a joke to think so) and yet when she leans into him, he cannot stop himself from leaning right back into her.
With this behavior, it's as if his partners both fear he might suddenly disappear, that he might fade from their grip entirely. The sentiment is ridiculous (he has no intention of abandoning them) but Dusknoir appreciates it nonetheless. He doesn't want them to abandon him, either.
Together they dedicate some time to simply living. They explore, they learn, they form Exploration Team Dawn (a name that was Grovyle’s idea because of course it is, and Dusknoir wants to say that he hates it, that he would’ve picked something more profound, more impactful, but he can’t because he is, in truth, quite fond of it) and they even partake in some occasional rescues when called upon. As a team they try their hardest to appreciate and experience every single wonderful change in this bright future.
Months pass as they give it their all. Months pass as they try to make things work, as they try to settle into some sort of functional life, but it’s no secret that they're not happy.
Grovyle often gets a far-off look in his eyes, one of heartbreak and longing (sadness, so much sadness and yearning) and sometimes he sits in silence for concerning amounts of time, staring at nothing like some sort of empty shell. His pain is obvious though he masks it under a resolved facade, and Dusknoir knows without a single doubt that he is missing Team Wish. His heart belongs in the past with them, a place so very far away from their own current time that it may as well be a distant memory.
Celebi looks just as miserable most days, even though she forces a happy smile through her own suffering. Always trying to stay positive even when it's hurting her just as much. Dusknoir could never be as strong as her, not ever. He knows that without a single doubt.
It takes a lot of deliberation and reflection (and self-encouragement because he’s terrified, absolutely petrified to even be considering this utterly insane option) that leads up to the point when Dusknoir pulls them both aside one morning. He wrings his hands together, feeling indescribably nervous, and then steels himself to boldly suggest returning to the past. It's almost immediate the way his partners light up for the first time since they'd saved the future together. Since they’d seen the rise of this world’s very first dawn.
“Why didn't you ask me about this? Neither of you said anything.” Dusknoir questions while noting their eagerness, their disbelief at his unexpected suggestion, despite trying to downplay it. Grovyle, especially, was doing a poor job of reining in his excitement. It’s more life than he’s shown in weeks. “We could have gone back much sooner.” Dusknoir chides, softly.
“Because expecting you to return to the past with us is wrong,” Grovyle supplies, but there is a spark in his eyes that has been absent far too long and Dusknoir is so relieved to see it, “Just because we are comfortable with it, just because we want it, that doesn’t give us the right to put you on the spot.”
“We knew you would agree,” Celebi adds, likely having seen a thousand possible outcomes of him begrudgingly respecting their wishes rather than hold true to his own just to please them, “Even if you preferred to stay here you would’ve said yes, and we hated that! So we wanted to give this world a chance with you.” And they’d tried, Dusknoir knows, because he’d lived it with them. They’d really tried. For him.
In the end, they hadn't broached the subject for Dusknoir's sake, knowing he'd be reluctant (afraid, so afraid) to spend a single unwelcome second in the past again. Both of them had been content to sacrifice their own happiness for his comfort and the sentiment makes him feel unsteady, shaky, woozy. Why they would consider his feelings above their own when he’d treated them so wrongfully in the past, he cannot begin to fathom.
But he accepts. Tells them with as much courage as he can muster that he’ll go wherever they do, that they’re partners-- and that makes twin smiles break out on Grovyle and Celebi’s faces. That sight alone makes everything worth it.
So they pack their possessions, their few belongings and provisions neatly into a bag that Dusknoir deposits into his mouth for safekeeping. And as they ascend Vast Ice Mountain (not so icy anymore, really), stopping just before the Passage of Time, Dusknoir makes a point to say goodbye to the Sableye. The mischievous little scamps had climbed to the peak alongside the trio without Dusknoir even having to prompt them, dutifully escorting their friends up the mountainside to bid them a celebratory farewell.
“Don’t worry, boss,” Says one of the Sableye with a lopsided grin and twinkling topaz eyes, who Dusknoir recalls had chosen the name Gritt many years ago, and their gemstones shine when they offer a cheeky salute, “We’ll keep an eye on the future for ya, swear on our lives.”
The rest of the Sableye let out various enthusiastic agreements, looking pleased with themselves. Proud even, to be trusted with overseeing the welfare of Dialga and the Time Gears in this reality-- a task that Grovyle had asked them to shoulder, and they’d obliged with their heads held high.
“Just promise to come visit sometime soon, sir!” One of them chimes in, a Sableye with a chipped emerald for a right eye (Hunter, he remembers fondly, her name is Hunter) and a slightly crooked ankle, an old injury that never healed correctly. “It’ll be strange without you around. Who else’ll keep us in line?”
At that, Dusknoir chuckles. “You will be fine without me, I have no doubts.” And when he bends down to be closer to them, the Sableye immediately form a huddle. For a second, Dusknoir feels a flare of affection for this rag-tag group of impish lackeys. They’ve been loyal to him for years and he never had properly expressed his appreciation. Regretting that choice, he extends an invitation, hoping they’ll pick up on his desire to see them again, “But perhaps you’ll have to visit me if I am absent for too long, you sappy creatures. As soon as you’d like.”
The Sableye break out into a collective of wide, toothy smiles. Dusknoir is thankful.
“Oh, yes yes! We’ll do that, boss! You can count on us!”
“You betcha!” Another hollers.
“Hmph, I’ll be waiting then. Don’t disappoint me.” Dusknoir replies dryly, teasingly, and the Sableye nod eagerly amongst a flurry of whispers-- already planning their next excursion to the past. And this gets Dusknoir to grin, if only for a moment.
The Sableye gather around the portal. They all offer parting words, wishing good luck, asking to see them again soon. Dusknoir cannot help but chuckle at them, watching as they each wave a hearty goodbye. They’ll do fine together, he thinks. Though, belatedly, he knows that he will miss them and their wild antics.
“Ready?” Grovyle asks, looking up at him, searching, prying, giving Dusknoir one last chance to change his mind because he’s always been insufferably kind, “It's not too late to turn back.”
A sigh, a single shaky breath to prepare himself, "I’ll never be ready. And I'd have to be delusional to think they'd ever want to see me again," Dusknoir says, standing before the Passage of Time, awash in shimmering blue, vibrant light and the gentle hum of insurmountable energy permeating his very center, straight into his soul, "They hate me. I am not a fool.”
“I won't let them.” Grovyle promises, staring dead-ahead into the portal’s colorful void, its torrent of time and space, “I’ll make them listen.”
“Don't worry, dear,” Celebi hushes him, and one of her little hands smooths over his frills, a comforting touch. He can’t begin to describe how it makes him feel, how appreciative he is of this gentle reassurance in spite of the little whispers of guilt at the back of his mind that say, you don’t deserve it . He tries to ignore that negative thought when Celebi smiles, softly, “We’ll figure things out, together.” And even though his mind is clouded with doubt-- in his core, he finds that he believes her.
They step forward together as one. Blue light engulfs them.
And then only darkness.
They land on the beach in a heap. Dusknoir nearly swallows a mouthful of sand and makes a horribly undignified yelp, Celebi gets blasted with a wave of seawater and is nearly carried out by the current, and Grovyle squirms underneath Dusknoir’s arm where he’s helplessly pinned. It’s dark, long after dusk already, and the night sky above twinkles with stars.
It takes a moment to orient themselves, to sit up and breathe through the wave of nausea that always accompanies Time Travel-- and then Celebi confirms it. They’re in the past. Close, definitely close enough to their intended destination that they should be within a few years of their last venture here. They’d made it.
So, naturally, they sneak into Treasure Town in the dead of night.
On principle they avoid the Guild altogether (Dusknoir would be attacked on sight, no doubt, even at this hour) and instead head for Sharpedo Bluff. They could wait for an opportunity to contact Team Wish there, Grovyle says, he’d done it before through leaving behind letters. It’s a decent plan, but Dusknoir wonders why Grovyle and Celebi won’t simplify matters by leaving him behind. That way, they could locate and approach Team Wish without him. It would be safer, easier and considerably less stressful. They could meet up with him afterward and avoid any potential trouble that would surely occur if the townsfolk noticed him and made a fuss. But when he voices this, Celebi and Grovyle shake their heads, refusing.
“We’re partners,” Grovyle says, determined, “I won't have you hiding just to make things easier. That's not right.”
And the sentiment should be flattering, but in the back of his mind, Dusknoir contemplates whether or not they truly trust him enough to leave him out of their sight. And it’s a bad feeling, a wretched feeling that has Dusknoir even more nervous than when Time Gears were being snatched up left and right from underneath him. More anxious than climbing Vast Ice Mountain towards his impending doom. Even more terrified than facing Primal Dialga in a desperate fight to the finish. He doesn’t admit this though, quietly trudging along behind Grovyle and Celebi-- walking, walking, walking…
Until finally, they reach the end of the long, winding path leading out of town. And sitting there in the distance, overlooking the topmost edge of Sharpedo Bluff and staring out to sea, is an unfamiliar figure.
“Is that…?” Celebi murmurs in disbelief ( hope, so much hope), fixated on the silhouette just as much as Grovyle and Dusknoir. Their hearts are all racing, a steady thrum of increasing anticipation.
Shining, glowing golden rings and fur darker than the deepest shadow. An Umbreon-- a stranger in body, but with a stern expression that is so sharp and so familiar that it causes Dusknoir’s heart to climb into his throat. This is Echo. Despite the changes in appearance he would know her anywhere-- her precise grace, her calculated intent, the weight of her gaze (oh, how small she makes him feel, always, always ).
Upon seeing her for the first time, Dusknoir nearly starts crying. He’s overwhelmed, immensely so. Despite his every misdeed and regret, she looks just like him. That fact is more than he can wrap his head around. He’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to fully process it, let alone accept it.
“What was that you said before?” Grovyle asks with a knowing grin on his face when he notices Dusknoir tense up-- who is staring at Echo in absolute, pure awe, a mixture of both pride (so, so proud) and guilt (so, so sorry), “About the likelihood of them evolving into a Leafeon?”
Not long before, the trio had entertained the idea of Team Wish having evolved in their absence. With how much time had passed since their fateful return to the future it only made sense to assume such things. It was a necessity to speculate, really, seeing as they’d have to try and recognize Sora and Echo after these long years away. How else would they find those two? At this point they could hardly risk asking the townsfolk for help, knowing their negative opinions about Dusknoir and the resentment towards his past choices. And to make matters worse, there was no guarantee that Sora and Echo still lived in Treasure Town. They’d have to search for Team Wish in secret or be willing to face the consequences of which Dusknoir was long overdue.
So the three of them tossed around ideas. Sora was easy enough to predict. A Riolu had no other choice of evolution, so Lucario was her inevitable form if she had chosen to take it. But for Echo, an Eevee capable of many branching choices, it was much harder to deduce what decision she would make. Celebi had guessed that Echo would be most comfortable with the evolution of Glaceon, an accurate manifestation of her sharp wit and stinging words that bite like the coldest ice. It was fitting enough and Dusknoir supposed the personality traits aligned a bit with ice-typing, even though he had his own opinions on the matter. However, Grovyle disagreed. He had concluded that Echo would’ve forgone evolution altogether, saying it didn’t seem like their style. That they would reject change and remain an Eevee.
“Echo was already forced to change once.” He had said, reminiscing about Echo's past life as a human and the struggles they had faced because of it; the trauma of losing their memories along with their previous body in order to become something entirely different: a pokémon, “Because of that, I do not think they will willingly evolve.”
Obviously, none of their hypotheses had been correct. Echo had become an Umbreon of all things. An Umbreon. A dark-type pokémon, a creature of shadows and gloom and moonlight, with vibrant golden rings that uncannily match the ones etched into his own skin (a match, they’re a perfect match) . It was wonderful, it was awful. He hated how he loved it. Loathed the shame pooling at his core despite the irrepressible flickers of pride, knowing too easily that he must have influenced this outcome somehow. Regrettably.
That lingering pride falters and soon Dusknoir only feels a nagging sort of emptiness. She should’ve evolved into a Leafeon, oh, she should have. For Grovyle, for their strong bond, for their lasting kinship. Not for him, never for the likes of him. This couldn't possibly have been intentional, not after everything that happened. An accident was the only explanation.
“I thought-- I thought she would. To be closer to you. To honor you.” Dusknoir says, still frazzled. “You mean so much to her. It only made sense.”
Grovyle huffs, a knowing grin on his face lacking a single trace of disappointment, “You meant a lot to them too, y'know.” And Dusknoir tries not to dwell on the weight of his words. On whether or not it’s true. He doubts that it is.
“Echo!” Grovyle calls out with claws cupped around his mouth, and confirming their suspicions (it’s her, it’s really her) she instantly turns towards the source of her name, backlit against the sea’s midnight horizon. In that split second she looks surprised, eyes wide when her attention locks like a vice grip onto Grovyle, her partner, her closest friend, her family . Silence stretches out between them that feels like an eternity, their heartbeats a drowning drum in their ears-- until Echo shatters it.
“Took you long enough.” She teases (of all things!) and a knowing smirk appears on her face that says, I knew you’d come back.
And Grovyle laughs at her terse greeting, a sound of immense relief (warm, so warm and bright) and bubbling adoration, like a million burdens had instantly lifted from his tired shoulders, like he was home. He breathes deeply to steady himself and in a flash surges forward to close the gap between them; wasting no time to embrace her, pulling himself directly into Echo’s chest (it’s so strange and different, they’re taller than him now, just like when Echo had been human, when they’d first become family). And Echo doesn’t even recoil at the blur of agility, instead she nuzzles into him warmly, slowly, and she rests her chin against the side of his temple (happy, so happy).
Then, out of nowhere, her gaze snaps towards Dusknoir from over Grovyle’s shoulder, bright eyes transfixed and pupils narrowed into razors. Dread floods Dusknoir’s entire body as he prepares for the worst.
But nothing happens. She doesn't say a single word to him. She doesn't even acknowledge him beyond the deadly venom of her stare and an angry flick of her ears. It’s jarring and confusing-- so much so, that Dusknoir finds he deliberately wants to rile her up, scream and holler and forcefully pry into why she’s acting this way, why she doesn’t care. But before Dusknoir can formulate words or some sort of poorly fabricated backup plan, their shared trance is broken. It ends when Grovyle pulls back to get a better look at Echo, palms resting at the base of her neck-- over an angry scar that has warped her skin there, red like blood and edges sharp like claws-- but Grovyle just smiles. He is reluctant to let go, holding on so tight, they’ll never be apart again and Echo’s attention returns to him, a smile on her face (a rarity on its own), and starts to catch up with her oldest friend.
“Hey there, sunshine.” She teases like it’s tradition and Grovyle laughs-- absolutely beaming, and Dusknoir has never seen him look so happy. Not even in the precious moments after they’d saved the future together. Mesmerized, suddenly he feels inexplicably compelled to absorb every minute detail of Grovyle’s face, fixated on the light in his eyes, the curve of his smile-- and stops only when his focus is broken.
“You look like shit.” Echo comments, grinning impishly as she unceremoniously nips at the dried, battered leaf adorning Grovyle’s head. And it’s true, he does look awful-- months of heartbreak and stress having taken its physical toll, even in a place as warm as the bright future. But Grovyle dodges another of her teasing touches like a seasoned professional and grimaces, giving her a weak shove in retaliation.
“And you look completely new,” He retorts, watching the rings on her fur glowing under his palms and then settling into a dim, metallic gold. And at this sight, he smirks mischievously, like a complicated puzzle had clearly pieced together in his mind, “An Umbreon, huh? It’s a bit obvious, don’t you think?”
Echo scowls, irritated, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She snaps.
“Like you don’t already know.” His grin widens.
Echo frowns and half-heartedly shoves him, apparently understanding this vague jab. “And to think I actually missed you.” She comments and Grovyle just chuckles at her, smiling.
The whiplash of these two falling into normalcy and sharing a pleasant conversation (how, how is she so calm?) sends Dusknoir’s mind into a whirl, and that’s without focusing on the glaring implications of their words (obvious? Obvious? OBVIOUS?) . What is that comment supposed to mean? Surely not-- no. No, he wouldn’t even consider that. He’d been ready to accept that perhaps he had influenced Echo’s evolution in some negative form (an unfortunate accident, certainly), but for Grovyle to suggest she’d chosen it purposely-- No. Never.
Impossible. Entirely improbable.
That distressing line of thought ends when Echo glances at him again, gaze focused. Her expression morphs into something more stern, more cold. This passive display of malcontent she keeps giving him is uncomfortable in a way that makes him anxious, but in truth, Dusknoir had expected a more animated reaction than, well, whatever this is. Something akin to anger or irritation, not indifference . Echo gave him absolutely nothing and that sends horrified shivers down his spine (why, why, why?) . He stares at her unblinking, watching, waiting for some sort of impending explosion (she must be furious, she has to be, nothing else makes sense) but she continues to ignore him. For some strange reason, this purposeful neglect hurts even more than her potential rage.
Celebi, entirely unfazed and vibrating with excitement, seems to disregard this lackluster response from Echo and instead flies over to join in on their reunion. She laughs happily when Grovyle grumbles at her for intruding, amused.
“Echo, my dear, I’ve missed you,” Celebi says, giving her an enthusiastic squeeze and petting through dark, soft fur. The sharp contrast of pastel pink against pitch black is certainly something to behold. “And look at you! You’ve evolved! Oh, you're so beautiful I can hardly stand it.” She coos, nuzzling her cheek onto the crown of Echo’s head, directly into the shining circles of light that pulse like a steady heartbeat.
Echo just sighs at these compliments and ducks downward to give Celebi’s tiny chest a friendly headbutt, an affectionate greeting that Dusknoir has rarely seen her gift to others. It is obvious that Echo has missed Celebi too, even if she doesn't outwardly voice it. And the welcoming action makes Celebi giggle in delight, giving Echo another tight hug in return, nearly disappearing into her dark fur as she squeezes.
It’s awkward but Dusknoir just floats there, not entirely sure what to do with himself. At this point it feels like he is invading a moment that he’s not supposed to be privy to-- even though that particular thought is moronic, because he’d been invited along in the first place. Grovyle and Celebi want him here, they've said so themselves, as bizarre as that concept is. So he stays in place despite his urge to abscond, folding his arms over his chest and planting himself there with all of his remaining willpower.
“Echo,” Grovyle says her name with care (he can't believe they’re here), hands still at her neck and smoothing over fur, desperate to stay as close as possible (out of fear, surely, fear that his best friend would disappear before his very eyes again and again and again like some neverending nightmare). “Is Sora with you? Can we see her?” And at that question, Celebi nods eagerly in agreement.
Echo blinks, slowly (noting his anxiousness, his need to see Sora again). “Yes. She’s inside.” She replies, gesturing towards a locked wooden hatch that leads down into the great stone jaws of the cliffside, “We no longer live at the Guild, so we’ve made Sharpedo Bluff our permanent home.” And then, a grin, “She’d be happy to see you, you know.”
At that answer, as expected, Grovyle becomes even more excited (full of life, full of love, so bright that it hurts)-- a hint of a smile on his face and a spark in his eyes. It was no secret that he had grown very fond of Sora during their short time together (while separated, he had lamented losing her just as much as Echo, ripped apart by grief and longing) and Dusknoir was painfully aware of their overlapping similarities. Both of them were loyal to a fault. Foolishly curious. Ridiculously persistent. And annoyingly empathetic at times, even to their own detriment. The rate at which they had bonded, going from sworn enemies to lifelong friends in a mere matter of days, had been so abrupt that the transition had been completely inconceivable.
“Take me to her.” Grovyle urges as impatiently as always, and he takes an instinctive step towards the door latch, unable to stop himself.
Sighing at his urgency, Echo nudges him in the side to break his focus. “Slow down.” She chides, and he grunts out a blunt complaint. Celebi just smiles at their antics, her wings fluttering, as Echo then guides them all towards the door.
Quietly, a few feet back, Dusknoir debates staying behind. And he almost does, until Grovyle hesitates-- turning to look back at him, watching, expecting him to follow-- and so Dusknoir does. He follows.
Approaching the door, Echo does not produce a key. Instead, she halts, focusing on the padlock with the intensity of a tidal wave. In a fraction of a second, her irises go from scarlet to bright sky blue and with a flare of her shimmering light, a shiver passing through the air like a condensed Sheer Cold, the lock gives a metallic click and falls open.
A single blink and the blue of her eyes is gone. Only red remains.
Echo can use the move Psychic now, evidently. And Dusknoir takes a mental note of this development (certainly not out of fear, no, of course not, he’s astonished and impressed at her new power not terrified, there is a distinction).
And then Echo boldly leads them down the steps, not even hesitating despite the company she harbors. Grovyle and Celebi fall into line behind her easily, but Dusknoir dwarfs the doorframe and has to angle his shoulders slightly before ducking inside, bracing himself with one hand against the cut stone of the wall. It's either this option to keep his balance or phasing his physical tangibility, and Dusknoir doubts that anyone present would feel comfortable with him popping in and out of their sight. It's doubtful that he’ll be welcome even without sneaky surprises like that.
Near the center of the cavernous room Sora is cooking over a small fire, a pile of prepared food items laid out in crudely carved bowls. Her back is turned away from the door but she must have expected to hear returning footsteps, because the second Echo’s paws hit the floor she whirls around with a smile on her face.
“Just in time, Echo!” Sora’s happiness is reflected in the pleased tone of her voice, “I’m almost finished with--”
In their eagerness, Grovyle and Celebi push past Echo and move to the front of their little group, and Sora gawks at them. Her mouth moves wordlessly, like she wants to speak, but only a weak stutter escapes-- too shocked to manage anything else.
In that fleeting moment of quiet, Dusknoir remains in the shadow of the staircase and absorbs everything about her. She’s evolved (and he’s proud, so proud of how far she’s come) and yet despite the obvious changes in her appearance there is still so much familiarity, so much he recognizes within her maturity. His gaze flicks towards the deep chip in Sora’s left ear, a dual-sliced dent courtesy of Grovyle’s sharpened leaves at Crystal Cave (something Grovyle regrets, he knows without a single doubt). And trailing down to her sensory receptors, he sees the distinct notch of three thick claws-- a parting gift from that rotten Team Skull leader Skuntank, no less, he remembers Sora telling him the story years ago. And beyond that, he notices even more scars; ones that he does not know the origin of littering her skin, likely the result of more recent battles.
And then, he sees it. Something he had desperately wished would not be there. Something he did not want to remember for fear of acknowledging it. Encompassing a huge chunk of Sora’s tail is an angry-looking burn mark (the shape of a hand, his hand , seared into her flesh like a curse, an evil branding). Instantly, Dusknoir feels both horrified and disgusted-- recalling the vivid memory of how she had violently recoiled in his grip when he’d unleashed a vengeful Will-o-wisp, a burst of eerie flames meeting delicate skin. A last ditch effort to thwart her escape, a desperate attempt to incapacitate her, to trap her in the future with him, to kill her . It’s overwhelming, and when Dusknoir notices just how dull Sora’s eyes are now (she used to be so full of life, so happy when he’d first met her, so eager to prove her worth and chase her dreams, and that meaningful light isn’t there anymore ) that he feels nothing but immense shame. He’d hurt her, scarred her, in more ways than one, and there was no taking it back.
He’d give anything to take it back.
“Grovyle? Celebi?” Their names finally leave Sora in a whisper, her every fiber filled with awe and hope and disbelief. “How-- when-- I can’t believe you're here!” She exclaims in a flurry, haphazardly dropping a wooden spoon that she had been using to stir a pot of soup hanging over the firepit. It clatters to the stone floor, forgotten. “We thought you’d disappeared because the future was overwritten!”
Sora takes a few hurried steps forward-- so caught up in her elation-- but when she approaches them Dusknoir slinks back ever so slightly, and the movement causes Sora’s eyes to finally lock onto him, onto a flare of gold within the shadows. Instantly the joy drains from her face, no longer blinded by happiness. She’d noticed him at last.
Sora goes completely still, she doesn't even breathe and Grovyle immediately jumps into action to ease the rapidly building tension. “Sora, my friend. We can explain--”
“He has five seconds to leave or I am going to shred him.” Sora bites, posture stiff and paws clenched tightly. Her eyes are fixated onto Dusknoir, her pupils angry slits. Gone is the excitement she’d expressed moments earlier, now overshadowed with only festered hatred. “I mean it.”
Grovyle blanks at that, slightly stunned at her abrupt shift in demeanor because Sora is never like this, but recovers and approaches despite her threats-- determined to get her to see reason. “I know this is unexpected, but it took a lot of effort to get here. We’re tired and have nowhere else to go, can the three of us stay with you until morning?”
“No.” Sora retorts, sharp like steel. “Not the three of you.” And it's no secret what her words are implying. One of you is unwelcome.
Echo, having moved over to sit by the firepit during the commotion, is now entirely motionless. Without uttering a single word she watches Sora’s anger bubble up like molten lava. Dusknoir wants her to say something, anything to him but she still offers nothing. Instead she remains near the embers, a living shadow among flickering flames that dance across the cavern walls, a quiet observer. Dusknoir cannot help but wish she’d end that silence. He cannot begin to predict what she might be thinking-- seeing her beloved partner-- seeing Sora react in outlash like this. Seeing him again, of all things.
Dusknoir raises a hand in a measly show of goodwill, and his arm trembles with nerves he hadn't realized were building, “Sora,” Her name feels like lead in his mouth, like a crater in his soul, like a lingering regret that he cannot gouge out, “It is so wonderful to see you.” He finally manages to speak and attempts to pacify her anger with a calm greeting, but instead it only opens the floodgates. “I was hoping that we could start over--”
“Save it.” Sora snaps, “I’m not in the mood.”
“But perhaps we could talk and--”
“You can rot for all I care!” Sora’s fragile control shatters and she growls with bared fangs, furious, hot tears welling up in the corners of her eyes and threatening to spill over. She takes a sharp step forward, the bright blue of her aura flaring up like an ethereal whirlwind, an obvious threat to give her one reason to lash out and retaliate. And even from this distance away, the wicked flame of her aura burns. “I’m done talking! I'm done listening! We trusted you! We cared about you! And you turned around and backstabbed us like we were nothing!”
The venom, the hostility in her tone is palpable-- so much so that Dusknoir expects her to advance despite her obvious restraint. In defense he carefully flinches backward and Sora’s eyes narrow at his fearful retreat. You're a coward, says her intense glare and Dusknoir cannot deny it.
“Sora,” Meekly, he begs, “Please.” What should he say? What can he say? He has no idea where to begin. Contrary to Dusknoir’s original expectations, Echo is the relatively calm one and Sora is seething with rage-- quite opposite of their usual dynamic and therefore leaving him entirely unprepared. Echo had always been more prone to bouts of rage despite her usual brand of stoicism. Sora being visibly angry was a rarity, and this was pure, unbridled fury directed entirely at him.
In the end, it would seem he had miscalculated.
“Dusknoir,” She spits his name like bile, like the taste makes her sick-- and yet, he is so happy to hear it again. The sound of his name in her voice, something he has dearly missed despite all that has transpired between them. “I’m not joking. Leave or I’ll rip you apart.” She punctuates that statement with a tight clench of her fists and when he doesn't immediately move, Sora angrily lunges forward a step. “I said leave!”
"Now now, darling, let's not get so worked up," Celebi hushes, her little wings fluttering as she places herself between the two of them, blocking any sort of rash advance from Sora. She gives Dusknoir a reassuring glance to calm his nerves, trying to prevent him from retreating altogether, but that only serves to upset Sora even more-- and her gaze flickers between Celebi and Dusknoir, unable to accept that the two seem to trust each other.
"Worked up? Worked up!" Sora roars, her ears folded flat to her skull in a show of genuine wrath. She advances on Celebi this time, pointing furiously at Dusknoir who is shielded behind her. The sight of a tiny thing like Celebi attempting to protect a ghost-type that towers over her should be humorous, really, but Sora growls rather than laughs. “He comes crawling back here after everything he did and you expect me to just be okay with that?”
Celebi gives her a pleading look, arms outstretched in peace, trying to get her friend to calm down, "Sora, honey, please , no one is expecting you to pretend everything is alright. This is asking a lot and we know that, but we love you, and we can talk things out together--"
"I don’t care!" In blind rage, Sora lets loose a vengeful Poison Jab, a blur of bubbling, acrid toxin as she slams her supercharged fist into the ground. The earth cracks under the force of her strength, acid splattering like violet rain, a sickening sizzle charring stone and filling the air with trails of pungent black smoke.
Celebi flinches away in haste, so quickly that she accidentally bumps into Dusknoir's chest. When her wings stutter at the impact he catches her instinctually. And Celebi, without hesitation, buries her face into him, eyes closed and intentionally turned away from Sora. She’s trembling in his grip, and at first he assumes it is because of the unexpected Poison Jab-- a move that most grass-types would naturally fear-- but it is not from fear, he realizes. Celebi is angry , which is clear if the clench of her tiny fists and the hard line of her frown is any indication . Angry with Sora, no doubt, and trying to calm herself down without causing anymore confrontation. She’d sought Dusknoir out for comfort, and that is mind-boggling. He doesn't even know how to react to that particular revelation.
"That's enough!" Grovyle growls as the leaves of his wrists flatten into glowing blades, clearly having lost the last of his patience. The harsh tone of his voice startles Sora into stunned silence, and eyes wide with tears, she gives him a disbelieving look that says, how could you?
“Dusknoir, go wait outside,” A Leaf Blade at the ready, though hesitant to actually unleash it, Grovyle barks an order at him, “I want to have a word with Sora in private. Now .”
He hesitates. Eye flicking from Grovyle, to Sora and Echo, then down to Celebi who is still tucked into his arms.
The last thing he wants to do is look like a complete joke, a total pushover-- and right now, that seems to be the case. He cannot defend himself without making things worse. He cannot even string a decent, somewhat respectable greeting together under this pressure. How incomprehensibly stupid, how pitiful. The Great Dusknoir, Explorer Extraordinaire and Paragon of the Future who used to flawlessly bend the wills of others to fit his own grand design… reduced to a spineless, witless weakling.
“Outside,” Grovyle repeats, “Go.”
It’s pathetic but Dusknoir obeys. There’s nothing he can do right now anyway (can’t think, can’t speak, what an idiot, what an idiot) and if he stays then Sora is certain to become even more upset and unreasonable. He cannot let that happen, after all, Grovyle would be crushed if things didn’t work out and Dusknoir wished to avoid that. He refused to come this far for nothing.
He heads for the stairs but before he can ascend, Celebi wiggles in his arms. She isn't trembling anymore and pops her head up, smiling up at him appreciatively. Her previous anger is diminished, like it had never been there at all. “We’ll only be a minute.” She reassures, and Dusknoir notices the restraint in her voice, the hold on her own emotions, but he loosens his grip a little, “I need to talk with her too.” And then leaps out of his arms and into the air, her wings carrying her to Grovyle’s side.
Turning to leave and feeling somewhat dejected, Dusknoir twists so that he can fit through the staircase. Behind him, the heated conversation continues.
“There’s nothing you can say to convince me, Grovyle.” Sora warns, irritated. “He’s not staying here.”
“Stop that,” Grovyle retorts, clearly trying to regain some patience, “All I want is to talk. I didn’t come all this way for you to start fights.”
At that accusation, Sora hesitates. “You’re seriously defending him? I can’t believe this, Grovyle. Think about what he put us through!” Sounding offended, she then says, “What is he doing here, anyway? You two hate him. We hate him.”
“It’s a long story,” Celebi adds, “Please, just let us explain.”
“You're kidding. You're not actually going to pretend you want him around, are you?”
“Sora!”
“And you,” Sora fires back, redirecting her anger, “How could you bring him down here? Echo! What were you thinking?!”
“He’s with Grovyle and Celebi. They're not stupid.” Echo's voice carries over stone, calm, as if her blunt words explain the very process behind her unexpected actions, her lack of fury. He doesn't even need to see her to know that she’s shrugging, “And they wanted to see you.”
“That doesn’t make it okay!”
As he climbs, Dusknoir can feel a pair of eyes on him lingering like a nightmare, following him up the steps, tracing his every move. He isn’t sure who is glaring at him-- though, perhaps it is Sora. With her current distress, it would make sense.
He exits the stairs and hastily shuts the door hatch behind him. Instantly, the quiet of the outside envelops his senses. The crash of waves far below the bluff, the heavy brush of the salty sea breeze, the sweet string melodies of Kricketune reverberating through the nearby woods. And far above the stars are out, blanketing the sky in an infinite, sparkling ether. He takes a breath, deeply, letting everything settle over him all at once. And then he sighs. It is a bit hard to accept in the wake of his past scorn, but he has missed the past and its charm. Much more than he’d initially realized.
Dusknoir comes to rest at the peak of Sharpedo Bluff’s cliff-face, the spot where Echo had been perched when they’d first stumbled upon her. And in a moment of weakness, unable to control his innate curiosity, Dusknoir tries to focus his hearing. He strains to see if he can make out the muffled sound of voices emanating from the mouth of the inner cavern-- to hear what Grovyle had wanted so badly to say in private-- but no, instead he is met only with the disappointing, dull roar of the sea below. He sighs and gives up. He supposes if he really wanted to eavesdrop, he could phase out of physical tangibility like any self-respecting ghost-type and go back down there. It'd be extremely easy to spy on them… but, truthfully, he has no energy to do it. It’s likely that what he’ll end up hearing will just upset him, anyway. And he’s already feeling defeated enough.
He thinks of Sora. Her anger. Her overwhelming sadness. Her justification in despising him. You can rot for all I care. That line thrashes around in his skull and Dusknoir wishes he could tell her just how sorry he is. That by some miracle she would believe him.
He thinks of Grovyle. His steadfast protection. His unwavering loyalty. His spirit. While I live, I want to shine. And Dusknoir hates that he hasn't expressed his gratitude, his thankfulness for the belief Grovyle has placed in him despite the ocean of bad blood between them. Despite everything.
Out of nowhere, a dormant flutter in the back of his throat surfaces. He heaves, bringing a hand up to shoddily cover his mouth. Serrated teeth part into a gaping maw and an ugly cough tears through his lungs. Pain flares up like wildfire at his core and then in the midst of another cough, something soft and virtually weightless lands on his open palm. He breathes in a shaky gasp, feeling unusually light-headed, and looks down through the haze.
At first Dusknoir is confused at what exactly he is seeing, then completely bewildered-- having expected anything but this. Clumped together there are several small, flat objects shaped like elongated diamonds with rounded, delicate corners. Each a burst of bright, golden yellow. The color reminds him of sunlight, of warmth.
He pauses, astonished, and then the realization begins to settle in. These fragile objects are petals. In his hands are crumpled, yet undeniable, golden flower petals . How? Why? This makes no logical sense and he inspects the bizarre flora with disbelieving curiosity, unable to process where they’d just come from. Bringing up his free hand, he touches one gently and the petal folds under the pressure.
Surely he hadn't just… coughed these out? That idea was completely preposterous. Not to mention physically impossible.
A twig snaps. On reflex Dusknoir crushes the petals into his palm and ignites them with a vivid, hot flare of Will-o-wisp. The delicate blooms burn away into ash and dust within a millisecond, and when Dusknoir whirls around on instinct to face the intruding sound he expects to see Grovyle approaching with Celebi not far behind. Instead, reality makes his body go cold.
Echo stands in the dark like a statue, motionless-- rings aglow with gentle light and staring at him with calculated intent. How much time passes, he is unsure, mesmerized by the glint of Echo’s bright eyes. A pair of twin rubies against the gloom, a beacon glowering back at him, a reckoning.
The sight makes a shiver travel up his spine, and suddenly he gets the intrusive feeling that she can see into his very soul (of course she could, he only expects as much) . He swallows down lingering fear, wanting to say something-- anything , but finds that he cannot. A struggling Butterfree tangled in the web of a hungry Ariados, the unsettling image flicks into his mind like a bad omen. And that is exactly how he feels, caught, trapped (there’s no use in running, she’ll catch me, what good would it be) .
By scribz-ag24
The silence is stifling and Dusknoir feels like he might be drowning, but eventually the stalemate between them ends. Echo makes the first move. She walks over with poised grace and settles into the grass beside him, looking out over the edge of the clifface and towards the great expanse of sea, its water a glittering mirror. It takes all of Dusknoir’s willpower to keep himself there when every nerve is alight with the urge to (run, run, run). But he doesn’t run. Instead he folds his hands together, squeezing so tightly that his fingers are numbing, and his eye travels up her form-- waiting, watching. She’s so close that if he leaned over just the slightest bit they would be touching, and his heart aches at the loss. The poignant memory of cradling her in his arms (precious, so precious, he wishes he could do it again just one last time, oh he wishes) is a fleeting thing of the past. It evokes a sharp sadness at his core, a melancholy that he recognizes. She’ll never trust him like that again and he is grieving.
“Grovyle is still talking to Sora.” She says, tired. Very tired. And now, for some reason, she doesn’t look him in the eye-- gaze cast out towards the horizon instead. And Dusknoir, absorbing the fact she has finally acknowledged him directly, finds that he has missed the sound of her voice so much. "She's calmed down a bit, but I wouldn't risk going back in there. My bet is that she'd strangle you."
“It wasn’t my intention to upset her.” He murmurs as a wave of sour guilt overtakes him, and it’s pathetic, really. But what other excuse could he possibly make? And suddenly his lungs feel shallow, constricted, invaded. Why is it so hard to breathe?
Gold overtakes his mind. Delicate flower petals shaped like diamonds, and he violently shoves that stray thought away. He needed to focus on Echo. She was finally acknowledging him, speaking to him! And he couldn't miss this turn of events even if she had nothing good to say. Anything was better than her strange, indifferent silence from earlier.
A sigh, a steadying exhale, “You really, really hurt her, you know.” Echo explains, unnervingly patient despite her every right to be just as angry, just as furious as Sora had been mere minutes ago, “She has nightmares, Dusknoir. She barely gets any sleep. It’s been five years and she still jumps at shadows thinking they might be you, that they might be the Sableye. I can’t forgive you for that.”
Dusknoir flinches at those words but his response is hasty, apologetic, unwilling to let this chance to talk slip away from him, “I’m not asking for forgiveness. I would have to be a fool to expect that from you both.” Forgiveness was impossible, he knew that much. He didn't deserve such a miracle. “I just want to make things right.”
“I’m not sure you can." She replies, the light of her markings flickering like the pulse of a heartbeat, "And I'm not sure we’re willing to let you.”
“Please, Echo, I’ll do anything--”
“Prove it then.”
The finality of her tone causes Dusknoir to blank, completely stunned. He lets out a feeble sound, something akin to a disjointed, “Excuse me?”
Turning now, Echo faces him with purpose, and the weight of her gaze makes him feel utterly insignificant all over again. Powerless. “I said prove it. That you want to change. That you have changed. Grovyle and Celebi seem convinced of your sudden transformation but I’m not so trusting.” Her voice cuts over the distant crash of waves against the jagged rocks below, “You’ve always been a talented actor, you had us all fooled before-- had us wound up like puppets in your little mind games. Show me that this isn’t another fancy trick, Dusknoir. Do that, and maybe I’ll allow you to make amends. Maybe Sora will too.”
The implications of her statement causes a spark of hope (he doesn’t deserve it, why is she saying this) to ignite inside Dusknoir, and he can’t help it when his hands begin to tremble. He needs to say something, and starts, “Echo, you two… mean more to me than I can properly express. I know my deplorable choices outweigh those feelings and that I hurt you, but I truly regret what I did. My mission was a mistake, I see that now. I was a coward interested only in self-preservation. It was selfish but I was terrified of disappearing and because of that you two suffered needlessly.”
There is a distinct frown on Echo’s face, but she makes no move to argue with him.
Everything comes out in a rush after that and Dusknoir wants so badly to tell her how he feels, his desperation to make amends. His need to be with her again, with Sora. "I want to be in your lives. In any way that you’ll give me, please. Even if it takes me years of work-- even if we're never quite the same as we were before, I still want to know you. I want to exist in a world with you in it." His own sincerity shakes him (only she could cause this, draw this confession out of him, could make him question and yearn) and he knows that his chances of convincing her of his wishes are plummeting by the second with this shoddy apology, this half-baked plea. But he doesn’t know what else to say-- or how to say it-- he’s run this exact scenario through his head a million times since he’d first agreed to return to the past and still, he feels so underprepared.
A pause. An eternity. The unbearable silence of Echo’s scrutiny forces Dusknoir to keep speaking, "If you want to send me away, I respect that. But I will not be apart from Grovyle or Celebi. They wish to live here in Treasure Town to be near you and Sora, so I must be here too. I made a promise to them and I refuse to break it." He says that last part with as much confidence as he can muster, crossing his arms in a silent display of adamance. No matter how furious she was at him, at his immoral actions-- he would not leave his partners. He owed them his life.
Echo, stern as ever, shows no sign of pity. She also does not look impressed. “I can’t speak for Sora. I don’t know if she’ll ever be comfortable around you again. I can’t even promise that she’ll tolerate you.”
(His heart shatters, oh he should have known--)
“But it’s different for me.” Echo interrupts, softer now. Less acidity. Dusknoir is almost taken aback by the subtle change. “I’m still furious with you and I don’t know if that will ever go away. I doubt it will. But I’ve done my fair share of fucked up things too. Choosing to ignore you out of spite would be hypocritical.”
Puzzled, Dusknoir can’t help but lean down just a fraction, curious despite it all, "What? How so? You haven't done anything wrong."
She huffs, noticing the way he’d invaded her space yet holds her ground. "No, I have. You don't know me as well as you think you do." She explains, the sound of the waves louder now, closer, "Even Grovyle has no idea. Before I met him as a human… I wasn’t the most honorable individual. A real piece of shit, actually."
That makes even less sense. "I don't understand."
“You don’t need to.” Firm, she speaks, “That's a story for another time. If we can come to some sort of understanding, I’ll introduce you to Cresselia. She helped me piece together the truth about my past. But if I keep talking about it now, it’ll just make things worse. The important part is that I got a second chance when it mattered most; when I was at my lowest. I got lucky.”
How could it possibly make things worse? He finds that idea ludicrous considering their current situation. Now there are a million unanswered questions on his mind, but he holds his tongue regardless. The name Cresselia sticks to the forefront of his thoughts, lingering despite his efforts to push it away. Where had he heard that before? It was familiar. Perhaps an old text that he’d read once upon a time..?
“In the end, even though I didn’t deserve it, it was because of kindness that I was able to change. I was surrounded by others that made me better, pushed me to improve. So I’d like to think that maybe you can change too.” It was because of Grovyle, because of Sora, that I am here today. I exist because of their patience. Because they believe in me. Her words go unsaid, but Dusknoir understands them all the same. He feels that way too, deep down. And it’s strangely comforting that even now, after everything, that they are similar in at least this way-- in their loyalty, undying. He wishes he could voice this realization but doesn’t think of anything proper. Nothing seems adequate enough.
“Fool me once, Dusknoir. Fool me twice?” Echo supplies then, ice in the bite of her voice, “And you’ll regret it.”
Those words are a vow, a solemn threat veiled in pleasantries. Break my trust again, and I’ll kill you.
Dusknoir fights back a nervous, overwhelming shudder. It’s ridiculous, really, but he has never felt more intimidated. Not by Primal Dialga. Not by the weight of his own looming disappearance, clawing so desperately at a world he had forsaken and betrayed-- all to save himself, to preserve his pitiful life. It haunts him.
“I won’t disappoint you. I swear it.”