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Mesprit loves its lake. In the beginning, when the world was just taking its first breaths, Arceus permitted the new-squeaking Guardians to wander the world as they please, so long as they would remain prepared to help bind the world, if ever needed. But Mesprit spends most of its days at its lake anyway, because it in its long, long life, it has already seen much of the world, and has found no place that it loves as much.
With each new day, Mesprit untethers its spirit and takes flight across the lake, weaving deftly between the pines (even though its gossamer spirit could pass right through them, but where’s the fun in that?) and listens to their needles in the breeze. It watches the Magikarp that give life to the lake’s water, and never ceases to be amazed by the way they leap, by the golden arc they draw through the air, by the glittering splash of water and the rings that ripple from the point where they slip back home. It adores the Staraptor that nest in the pines’ high branches to lay their eggs and have their Starly chicks, and it watches those chicks become fledglings and take flight and become Staraptor and take mates and make nests and have Starly chicks of their own, every year, every decade, every century, as far back as memory can possibly serve.
But—even with the breeze, and the pines, and the Staraptor and their Starly, even with the Magikarp and their dazzling splashes, eternity is a lonely thing, because nothing is exactly the same from year to year, from day to too-short day, or even from moment to moment. When the Starly leave their nests, Mesprit will never again see them as Starly. They will return as Staraptor, the cycle of life relentless. The pines are evergreen, but even they must renew themselves, shedding old needles on the last sighs of summer. With each moment, the lake shifts; if Mesprit focuses, it can feel each change thread through its limbs, and, if it thinks about it for too long, something like grief knots itself in its chest.
Uxie and Azelf are not bothered by this, the constant movement of the world, and Mesprit has asked them more than once, to see if the centuries change their answer the way that time changes everything else.
But is change not the inherent result of life, Mesprit? Uxie had mused, once. Though its eyes are ever shut, Mesprit always feels that piercing gaze, somehow. The flow of time and the ever-shifting nature of space—see, even in their framing, they are things of movement, and therefore of change, as Dialga and Palkia decreed it, as Arceus desired.
(Arceus, Arceus, Arceus. It always comes back to Arceus!)
So, you see, Uxie continued, it would be irrational to eliminate change.
I do not suggest we eliminate change, Mesprit had said, taken aback by the sudden assumption, I only wonder what you think of it.
Uxie had tilted its head, and was silent for a bit. Practical Uxie, who has never quite grasped the idea of thought without solution. (Or—was Mesprit truly enough of a hot-head to take such an action?)
Azelf’s answer had been even more frustrating, though Mesprit had expected this, and is still not sure why it had bothered to make the trip to Lake Valor.
Why should I care how things change? Azelf had said, flitting around its cave like a Combee. Never sitting still, that one. Willpower is meant to plow a way forth! So, things will change, so long as Pokémon and people have the Will to change it. And, so long as I am around, they will. Its gem glimmered with all of its bountiful pride, and that is how Mesprit knew it would not like what Azelf had to say next. Poor Mesprit, you worry too much. You allow those emotions you hold so dear to get the better of you. What a burden your gift must be!
Mesprit would have liked to make a new crater in Lake Valor, if not for the Magikarp—it is not their fault that the god who happens to inhabit their home never learned which thoughts to keep to itself. Mesprit quickly took its leave, before the prospect became too tempting.
So, even among its siblings, Mesprit was alone in its quiet and strange grief. Alone, alone.
Perhaps such a fate is fitting, Mesprit thinks, for the Being of Emotion. For Mesprit made grief, did it not? It cast it upon the world when it took flight. Maybe it is only fair that it shoulders the burden.
What a burden your gift must be!
(How infuriating for Azelf to speak truth!)
But, ah, Mesprit cannot wallow forever. Well—it can. It has forever to do so, after all. But what good would that do? Irrational, in Uxie’s words. Life, even eternal, is meant to be enjoyed, to be loved. And Mesprit loves its lake, it loves the Staraptor and the Starly, the Magikarp, and the world that holds all of it, even as time flows and space shifts, relentless.
And, sometimes, the flow and the shift bring wonderful things with their currents.
This morning, in the same way its lake is cradled in the earth, Mesprit is deep in its cavern and cradled in the wide nook of its favorite rock, softened by a bed of fallen pine needles. The cavern’s mouth is bright with the soft light of a new day, and Starly song drifts in.
And then: whispers of two joyful spirits on the breeze.
This is how Mesprit’s favorite days begin.
It knows these spirits by heart, because they have woven themselves into the lake’s life for almost twelve years now. One is a soft breeze that can turn into a tempest; the other is the splash, splash, splash of an excitable Magikarp, the blur of gold as it leaps through the air, underlaid by its swift but gentle swish through water.
Mesprit cradles the song of their spirits, warm and full of promise, in its chest as it untethers its own spirit from its body. With each moment, they grow louder, until they are a shout that is all at once as harmonious and cacaphonous as the children who hold them. Mesprit floats on the thrill of it to the mouth of its cave, and, as soon as it breaks into the sunlight:
“I WIIIN! I-win-I-win-I-wiiin!”
There he is: the Magikarp’s splash! Barry, the boy so blessed by Azelf’s bluster, comes storming through the pines and down the path, thunderous footsteps coming to a clumsy halt where the grass thins near the lake’s bank. The boy’s a mess of arms and legs that seem to want, so badly, to break the laws of physics. He throws his fists up in the air—the victor!—and his spirit is as bright as a scale catching the sun just right.
And then—her! Mesprit cannot help but spin in a burst of happiness. She’s coming in second, panting, chest heaving, as she stops just short of Barry. Her hands slam to her knees as she catches her breath, and the twin tails of her scarf fall limp at her sides. Mesprit feels a small flame flick to life in her chest. She straightens herself, plants her fists on her hips the way Mesprit remembers her mother doing.
Dawn, who holds the blessing (and bears the burden) of Emotion.
“Not fair,” she huffs, breath coming back to her, whether naturally or through sheer force of will. “You’ve got those long Rapidash legs!”
“Nuh-uh,” and Barry leans in, long torso bending so he’s eye-level with her, and his fists find his own hips to mirror her, “it’s not my fault you’re slow as a Slakoth!”
Dawn leans in herself, standing on her toes to keep eye-to-eye with him, her brow stitched tightly and nose scrunched. But Mesprit can feel the mischief from her like the tickle of a feather. “Oh yeah?”
Barry leans in even further until his nose is nearly touching hers. His face is scrunched to match hers, but to less effect, because he smiles too easily. “Yeah.”
They’re still as undisturbed water for a moment, until Dawn makes the first ripple by smacking Barry on the shoulder and darting off. “You’re it!” Mesprit feels the thrill bloom in her chest and rush through her limbs.
“Gah!” Barry squawks, Chatot-like, and the chase is on! But Dawn has already begun to thread through the thick of the pines, red scarf trailing behind her like a long exclaimation mark.
A run through the pines! Mesprit does a loop in the air and flies after them, deftly dodging the pines until it finds the thick trunk of the one Dawn has taken to hiding behind. Both of her hands are clasped over her mouth, stuffing back a fit of giggles. Her spirit cannot muffle its joy either, tinged with the tingle of anticipation.
Barry’s catching up, the crunch of footsteps on the forest floor slowing to a walk. “Daaaaaawn?” Crunch, crunch. “Dawn!” Crunch, crunch, crunch. “C’mon, you didn’t say this was hide-and-seek!”
Mesprit peeks around the trunk. Barry’s still a few trees away, but he’s looking too far to the left, and Mesprit considers, for a moment, whose side it is on.
Well, the answer is easy: whoever’s side is the most fun to be on! And it would be no fun if the game was just Barry walking around the woods, calling Dawn’s name.
So, Mesprit flits out from behind the trunk and over to Barry, does loops around him, points back to the trunk, but, of course, all for naught. She’s here! She’s here! it urges in its mind, fruitlessly, wishing its spirit could stir the brush or the pine needles like the breeze. But, of course, a spirit can do neither of these things.
Well, it is better to be with them like this than not at all.
A twig snaps, followed by a fleeting giggle. Dawn! If Barry were a Glameow, his ears would have perked. He tip-toes over, careful, so careful, to keep away from the pinecones. His stealth is exquisite! It is miraculous what a game of hide-and-seek can do to a noisy child! The tense silence is broken with an explosive “Boo!” as Barry leaps around the trunk, arms all a-flail like an Ambipom’s.
And they chase each other through the pines, bright spirits trailing behind them like ribbons, along with their scarves. Mesprit flies with on their unbridled joy, flitting from one ribbon to the next. The only thing more fun than picking one side is being on both of them.
Finally, their game takes them back to the lake’s bank. They charge to it, stampeding like a duo of Tauros—until Barry halts right at the edge of the tall grass. A few feet away, huffing and panting until Mesprit fears her lungs will explode, Dawn’s eyes go startlingly wide.
“Barry.” There’s an edge to Dawn’s voice that Mesprit does not hear often, and it is accompanied, as always, by the bright flick of flames in her chest. “Don’t you dare.” The fire is dulled by ragged breath, but there is no mistaking its heat.
But, oh, dear, Mesprit knows that look on Barry’s face, too, because it is the same as the shimmer of Azelf’s gem when poorly-chosen words are about to wreak havoc. “You mean, Barry, don’t you dare-y?”
(Wordplay? Oh, even Azelf would not stoop that low!)
“What—no! It’s not funny!” Mesprit feels Dawn’s fire flare, followed by a dousing of worry. “Please, don’t! I don’t want you getting hurt!”
The grass rustles—the breeze—but it still makes Barry jump a little, anyway. “I’m not actually going in, you know!” He rolls his eyes, slumps his shoulders theatrically. “Geez.”
Hands on her hips, again. Fire flicking, again. “Don’t geez me.”
“Well, I just did!”
“One more word, and you’re going in the lake!”
(Mesprit cannot tell if she’s kidding or not.)
“Ohhh, so you’ll throw me in the Magikarp-infested lake, but I can’t go in the tall grass?”
“Yes! Now, get over here.”
“Why would I go to the person who’s it?”
“Are you serious?”
“As my mom when she’s mad.”
“Oh my gosh, fine!” Dawn makes the symbol with her hands that, as Mesprit has come to know, means time-out. “Just get away from there!”
“Gahhh.” Barry trudges away from the tall grass and to his friend, and only now does the wear of their run seem to tug at him. His pep has run dry! What a rarity! When he reaches her, he leans against her theatrically. “Sooo tired…”
“Ack! You’re all sweaty!” Her fire has fully extinguished, giving way to giggles even as she’s telling him to cut it out and dealing with the mess of his lanky arms and torso. What an Octillery of a boy. Finally, she hooks her arm through his and, skirting carefully around the tall grass, drags him to the gentle dip of the bank. Mesprit follows. “C’mon, let’s go sit for a bit.”
“Wait, what? We just got here!” Barry protests, but he doesn’t pull away, follows along obediently.
“Yeah, and you already wore me out.” She tugs on him, even though he’s already coming along.
When they reach the slope of the bank, Dawn releases Barry, who looks solemnly at his reflection on the water’s surface. “I didn’t think you were really gonna push me in.”
Dawn laughs and shoves him in the shoulder, gently, always gently. “You’re on thin ice, pal.”
“No. The lake’s not frozen over.”
“Which is why you should be very afraid.” She unravels the scarf from her neck, smiling innocently.
“I’m always afraid of you. You’re downright terrifying.” He starts shucking his shoes and socks, and now, Mesprit feels rather left out. It hasn’t any garments to shed. (Does its body back at the cavern count?)
Dawn tosses her boots and long socks to the side, too, and now they’re sitting at the edge of the lake, shoulder-to-shoulder, feet swishing in the shallow water. The energy of their Ponyta-play was melted into contentment. Barry kicks his feet a little, making splashes and ripples that, for a moment, Mesprit imagines spreading out to the whole lake, somehow, one movement reverberating through everything. That is what it imagines sometimes when breeze stirs the pines, shuffling one, then a few, then more and more. It is how spirit is, too: it moves everything around it, everything, time and space ever shifting with its mere existence.
Despite the swishing water and Starly song, a dull fury cuts through Mesprit’s peace. How could Uxie think, for even a breath of a moment, that Mesprit would want the elimination of movement? That would mean the elimination of spirit, which is the elimination of everything, everything, and Mesprit loves everything, everything, too much. And here, at the edge of the lake it has known since time immemorial, Mesprit learns again, for some countless time, that love is a burden, too. Because neither Barry nor Dawn knows that it is sitting beside them, in spirit. This is the only way it can love these two spirits that give its lake so much more life, these days: from afar, body tucked away in its cavern, spirit here but not even a whisper on the breeze.
Then, as if he somehow heard the reverie of the god sitting beside him, Barry speaks. “One day,” he begins, also for some countless time, “I’m gonna get a Floatzel and swim across the lake, and see what’s in there.”
(Ah! If only!)
“You say that every time we’re here,” Dawn says.
(Mesprit nods. He does indeed.)
Barry leans back, palms in the grass, and puffs his chest out the same way Azelf does. “Well, one day it’ll happen, and I won’t say it anymore. ‘Cause I’ll have done it.”
“I believe you.” Then Mesprit feels the warmth of fondness threading through her. “Remember that time you said you were gonna get Regigigas to carry you over there?”
“I mean, I still can,” Barry says. “Dad’s still got it, you know.”
Wait, wait. Regigigas—the titan who towed the continents? Wait, wait, wait—Barry’s father has Regigigas? What on earth is going on over in Twinleaf?
Barry continues, as though it is perfectly normal for his father to have a titan, like he didn’t just manage to stun a god who has literally seen it all. “Buuut I won’t need to do all that, ‘cause I’ll have a Buizel for real, soon enough.” Mesprit feels an intensity in him, like a sapling trying to break through the earth.
Dawn shakes her head. “Not that soon. We’ve still got months and months to go!”
“Yeah, but that’ll go by in no time!” He punctuates with a snap of his fingers, then presses them to his temples. “If I close my eyes and focus really, really hard…”
Another gentle shove in the shoulder. “Stop.”
“What,” he says, oblivious, “you think I’m really gonna shift time?”
But Mesprit feels it before Dawn can even search for the words: the complex and confusing knot that is grief before loss has even happened. Mesprit knows it, because it made it, and because it has borne it itself, in strange ripples and waves, for countless centuries, when the Starly are born because they will not be chicks forever; when the first chill of winter means the flowers will wilt, soon; when a new gaggle of children begins to visit the lake, because they will grow up, one day, and they will leave Twinleaf for the wider world.
Dawn plucks at a stubborn knot in her hair, the one in her chest only becoming more tangled. “I don’t want to think about leaving my mom yet, you know?”
There’s a moment where only the breeze speaks, brushing against the lake’s surface until Barry speaks louder. . “You’re not leaving her.” He’s trying to console her, and he can, because he has no grief-knot in his chest, not that Mesprit can feel. “We’re not leaving anyone! We’ll still live at home, we’ll still have our rooms. All your plushies will still be on your bed.” He nudges her, and she grins, a little reluctantly. “But I mean, you know—it’s gotta happen eventually, right?”
Willpower is meant to plow a way forth!
No, he has no grief-knot, because Azelf laid too heavy a hand on this boy.
“I guess,” is all Dawn says, and Mesprit wishes she would say more, loosen the grief-knot, spill her words across the rippling surface of the lake, but all she does is lean against Barry, swish her feet in the water, savor the feeling of the grass between her fingers.
Above, far above where the pines try to touch the sky, a flock of Starly flies, and Mesprit can feel Barry’s spirit swell with the thrill of it.
One child longing for the sky, the other savoring the softness of the grass against her skin.
Please, Mesprit thinks, pointlessly, for it cannot eliminate movement, cannot slow or quell its currents. Do not grow up too fast. Stay here, on this soft grass beneath this patch of sky, for as long as you can. Stay here, where it is simple, and where you do not have to face a world with the grief my making.
Mesprit has loved their time here, and will continue to love it for as long as it lasts, but it is not enough, it will not be enough. When you have lived forever, a handful of years is but a drop in a lake. Not enough, not enough. How do mortals do it? How are they not forever mourning the impermanence of everything? Curse Dialga for the flow of time, and Palkia for the shifting of space, and Azelf and Uxie for their complacency, and Arceus—above all, Arceus!—who allows this, who wished for this, who let Mesprit give change and loss a new, terrible shape with grief, who will never know the meaning of any of these things because it cast that burden upon lower gods. Most of all, Mesprit curses itself, because Emotion is the worst weight of them all.
A ways away, a Magikarp splashes, and Mesprit can feel the joy leap in both of the children as they gasp and point. How many times have they seen a Magikarp splash? And yet, it is always like the first, never grows old. Maybe some things do not change.
Dawn and Barry begin to find shapes in the clouds, because mortals cannot languish in grief and worry forever, they cannot afford to. Mesprit shakes its own and joins them in spirit, watches the lively landscape they make of the ever-changing clouds and tries not to think about tomorrow.