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Word travelled fast. Ginter mentioned the new face to him less than a day after she fell. He observed, at a distance, the bustling village, their ever-changing routine barely upset by the miraculous birth they had witnessed. They had no idea how fortunate they were. Innocents, blessed and unaware.
He saw her for the first time, clad in white, strange garments, Child of Arceus, foamy spit at the feet of the ancient people of Celestica, guided by a foreigner’s hand. He moved with compulsion, electricity in every step. As he approached, he forced his feet to a casual stroll that did not belay the uncouth slurry of anxiety and excitement that roiled just beneath his skin. He approached the gate, eyes scanning hungrily from beneath the veil he wore so well.
She stole his breath from his chest. His smile pulled taut. She looked for all the world like a skittish starly, and he could hardly wait to see what she had to offer, what made her so worthy to come down from on high.
Their battle was unremarkable.
Pleasantries and generosity coated his disdain. A hollow grew in his chest. He all but forgot his second skin, turning to leave with uncharacteristic abruptness, having not made a single sale, the sentry watching after his quick steps. His mind ran miles ahead. Perhaps her win was a fluke, and she would die in the wilderness. Perhaps he had merely been dazzled by her strange garb and odd way of speaking, and she was nothing more than a simple, everyday girl from beyond the rift, an accident, an abortion, a test to distract him from his sacred mission.
No, there was something there. Something magnetic, something useful. One battle wasn’t enough to feel her out.
His feet had taken him from the path and he meandered, vaguely, in the direction of the nearest Galaxy Team camp. The copses and knolls rustled and chirped with life. He imagined silence.
He followed her, a luxray stalking an unwary bidoof. She was easy to startle, and he smiled when he saw the whites of her eyes. He could devour her in an instant. Nothing would have stopped him, but he coaxed himself back. In truth, her potential burned before him like a solar flare. A fascination and an anomaly. Arceus, in His unknowable wisdom, hadn’t come through the tear in space and time; instead he sent something in his stead, something frail and new, umbilical cut, sand sticking to damp skin, trembling lips and darting eyes. She radiated warmth that oftentimes became too intense for him, turning his stomach, forcing him to retreat abruptly and make his way to the highlands to walk among the ruined pillars and crumbling foundations that filled him with a safer sense of yearning.
Sitting at the foot of the ruined monument to giratina, the sudowoodo and nosepass still as death around him, he closed his eyes and touched the overgrown stone. He projected his imagination over the landscape, raising up elegant architecture and painted murals, intricate mosaics and beautiful ghosts; the smell of food and dung and perfume. His soul meandered lovingly among the buildings, peeking into windows at peaceful scenes of people and pokemon. He saw altars and rituals and offerings, festivals and feasts, stories and lives playing out on a long-empty stage, a celebration of uncorrupt Creation.
He opened his eyes to the retreating sun and the soft crunch of grass under the path of a passing voltorb. Too late to make his way to Cogita’s retreat, or to meet up with Ginter and Tuli for the night. A pale half-light fell over the ruins. The world faded into muted greys and dusty shadows. He removed his hat and knelt in the dirt, bowing his head in prayer before the swirling miasma in the sky.
Lord Arceus, You have created a cruel and unjust world, and Your suffering is inherent in all things. Lord Arceus, Your disciple shall follow Your will and set You free, and remake Your world without pain and conflict.
Calm swept over him. Satisfied and resolute, renewed in his purpose, his meditation turned to the girl.
Lord Arceus, Your disciple humbly accepts the blessed tool You have granted unto him.
His thoughts faltered and chased themselves circuitously away from communion. A crease formed on his brow. He bit his tongue, hands clasped tightly, nails buried in his own skin.
Your disciple does not deserve Your Grace and trusts You will reveal Your mysteries when the time has come.
He dug his knees harder into the ground, shoulders bunching up. He could feel the swell of emotion rising in him, inevitable as the tides. He couldn’t shake the feeling the girl was, somehow, standing in his way, an opponent rather than an ally in his noble journey to fulfill Arceus’ final wish. Unthinkable thoughts buoyed upward despite their weight.
Lord, if You have taken on a mortal form to observe Your broken world, if You shall see fit, reveal Your will unto Your disciple so that he may better serve You. If You have done so to place Your Grace into Your disciple’s care, or even to be undone by him...
He fell forward, face down on the dirt, quietly begging for a reply, a word or sign to soothe him. The stillness and distant echo of gligar were his only answer. Tension shook his form. He had followed this path too far to turn back. Blasphemy.
Please.
His body wound up like a spring, coiling tighter and tighter until he could barely feel his fingers, stars dazzling his eyelids, lungs burning with bated breath. He could pass out here, and be easy pickings for the luxray baying up the ridge. What would he say when he met his Lord and told Him that, in his moment of spiritual weakness, he had been consumed by the cruelty of Creation, and failed Him?
His breath rushed out, hot against teardamp earth. He unfolded himself stiffly, peeling his hands apart, savoring the red crescent burn and tingle as blood slowly awakened numb fingers. The moon peeked above the rocky horizon, casting stark, long shadows from the shattered remains of history, black bars jagging over crumbling walls and stone.
He moved slowly, unfurling his bedroll in the void below the chalky pedestal. There was precious little fuel here, and he didn’t bother with a fire; the cold would be a well-deserved reminder of what he strove against, and a fitting punishment for indulging his doubts. If she was an enemy, Arceus would make it clear. He must trust that she had fallen from the rift to be his Helper, and he must be grateful, and he must use her to her full extent.
Nearby, the dying shriek of a stantler quieted the howling luxray, and silence returned to the ruins.