There along the cobbled streets of adamant Noe, below the shadow of the Cerberus returned two weeks past, there was a home. It was not found along the main roads where the Explorers had returned to in triumph and were met with great fanfare, but was instead along in the back alleys where the downtrodden and refugees, who had nothing to their names save for the cloth on their back and trinkets in their pockets, were found.
The home was once a tavern, one that had cheap prices so the poorer pokemon of Noe, in those better and bygone days before the war had erupted anew, could afford to drink away their miseries and woes. The owner had been killed beyond the walls. Some said it was a demon, a straggler that pounced upon her. Others said it was a buizel, the mad one with a dagger stained red by the blood of the innocents he had slain, and though the bandit was executed, he confessed to only half of the murders he was accused of, the owner not among them. It didn't matter. It was handed from the paws of the heir to the claws of a merchant, then once more paw and claw shook, then again and again until it stood forgotten.
It was inhabited now, though, but not by any one being, nor even a family. It was the home—the pulpit—of a revelation, an absolute truth, a story that had been told since the long and winding river of time had begun to flow from the wellspring of life. It was a tale from before the Gods had watched them all from above, and necessarily so, since it was a tale of how they came to be.
Mire was a venerable cubone, one who used the bone he always carried as a cane, the once-sharp end of it worn away after years of use. He was once a revered member of an isolated village some hundred leagues from Noe, one that was evacuated after the war had begun.
"Resumed," said Mire in a hushed breath, "resumed the advance, did He."
In these troubled times he would often speak aloud to himself, reciting memories of strength from that tale that his parents had told him, a tale that was told to them by their own parents, and so on and so forth, there within that little village that no longer existed. It was one that had existed in the mountains, those that were found in the cold north of Mist. It stood beside a foggy lake, one where water seeped into the soil and formed a murky mire that was difficult to farm, only able to produce enough for the tillers and their children. So never went the merchants, for there was nothing to trade, and so never followed the missionaries, for the paths had been forgotten in those days of old. It was through that isolating quagmire that the cubone received his name, for his parents bestowed that name upon him with the hope that, when his time would come to till the fields, the harvest would be favorable. It never was.
Cyndaquil was as usual the first to come through the doorway of the home. He peered in at first, checking that no drifters had occupied the space. After the first few times Mire told his tale, though, there never were; too many began to venerate the home as word spread, and it remained untouched save for the fifth day of every week.
He saw Mire and rushed to help the hobbling old cubone, trying his best to guide him towards the seat at the pulpit. His old leathery flesh guided by the soft paws of Cyndaquil, Mire sat with a sigh, the old wood of the seat creaking under his weight.
"Thank you, Cyndaquil," he said, shuddering beneath the weight of his old age. He closed his eyes. He felt tired, as always. Without a home, forcibly evacuated from the village he saw burn as the Explorers fought off the demons that assailed the town, leaving only a handful of scattered survivors, aimlessly he had wandered the streets of Noe. Mire, paying no heed to those around him as those ripe with age tended to do, spoke to himself that tale, trying to imbue within himself strength to go on in the decadent times he found himself in.
And yet, his whispers were overheard by a passerby, who in curiosity asked him to repeat to him the story in the full. He gathered a small audience, then a larger and larger one with each subsequent retelling. Cyndaquil had been the one who found the abandoned building the two were now in. The home, with its large empty room and chimney above it that opened up to the sky, was the perfect place for Mire to tell others of the war waged against heaven so long ago. When night settled upon the city of wrought iron and the poor and scattered sought for a light to guide their souls laden with misery, it was there they, guided by guarded whispers, went.
The door to the home creaked open once again, and a light grey vulpix, Keokeo, entered. In better times, the soft fur of Keokeo would have been an illustrious white, but the soot of the alleys of adamant Noe entrenched itself in his fur, darkening it to an unsightly grey that was all too-common a sight seen on the refugees from the northern parts of the Mist continent. Trailing behind his six tails was a companion whose once-white feathers found itself in the same state as Keokeo's, a timid xatu who introduced himself as Aemis.
The two sat quietly, respectfully, by the hearth that stood in the middle of the room. They were shortly joined by Seris, a bold and dashing lucario who had recently grown silent. Mire had been concerned for the boy and considered telling him something today, but floating behind him was a starry-eyed shaymin meant for the skies, one who likewise didn't speak, but looked about the room and its inhabitants with curious eyes. Mire smiled. It seemed Seris, though silent here, was still all-too happy to tell others of the tale of hope that Mire now lived to share.
Mire nodded at Seris who nodded back as he and his friend sat by the hearth, just as Keokeo and Aemis did, all of them wishing to be as close as possible to Mire, and the cubone was thankful the skull he wore hid his light blush. Rarely did old men get such attention, though he knew in his heart that it was because they, like he, sought the truth.
The door opened once more, and in came Morgrem with little Noibat in tow, both regulars and friends who never tired of the story. They were the vanguard of the main group, for the door behind them remained open as a flood of endless bodies followed them in. Many were familiar to Mire but many still were new, all equally welcome to hear the story of what happened before the war.
Once they had all been settled, shoulder-to-shoulder and tail-to-tail with one another to fit as many as possible, Mire stood from where he sat, using his cane to prop himself up. He looked over the faces, faces which held so much more variety than the ones at his village so long ago and smiled, grateful there were so many around that longed to hear the order of the world.
Cyndaquil went to the hearth and, stoking the fire upon his back, ignited the gathered kindling, the smoke rising into the air and providing warmth to those inside. Mire preferred to be obstructed by the smoke, a fact Cyndaquil first learned with surprise. But after hearing him tell the tale of the war against Heaven, he understood why. With Mire obstructed only his words remained, words describing something beyond them all, beyond what their eyes alone could see. It was only appropriate.
With the fire crackling and the teeming pokemon now silent, Mire stood up and breathed a deep breath. Still, Cyndaquil was not done, and he turned to his friend Keokeo and said with a soft voice, "Please, Keokeo, you've heard Mire many times. Would you go and shut the door and stand watch outside? I worry so greatly for his safety and ours; many are those who would wish us silent."
With a nod Keokeo understood, whispering to Aemis that he would be right outside. He trotted over, brushing past many pokemon, but froze still when Aemis let out a gasp. The xatu's voice was a sharp sting, a shattering of a vase cutting through a silent night. Startled, all there looked upon him; even Mire squinted his eyes to see through the smoke.
Aemis apologized for the outburst, turning to the litten sitting beside and patting her head in reassurance. Slowly at first, but finding greater confidence with each word spoken, Aemis turned to the room and said, "I... I have seen a vision. One that flashed before my eyes just now, though it was obscured by smoke. Still, with even only an outline the finality was clear."
His eyes darted upward as if studying a memory and he held his wing to his beak. Finally, he said, speaking to them all, "I foresaw that here, among us all, your words will herald... the Truth."
A shallow sigh of relief was exhaled throughout the room, and Mire smiled. If a xatu could indeed corroborate that his tale—especially since xatus came from the continent of Air a whole two oceans away—was true, then it would only solidify to the gathered audience what Mire had known since he was hatched.
The door shut, Keokeo now outside, though the grey vulpix's ears still focused inwards, straining to hear the story he had heard dozens of times already. Mire, obscured by smoke, seeing only silhouettes of the gathered pokemon, donned a mighty voice, one that did not quite fit him at first glance. It was as if the Truth itself had entered his lungs; it was as if Arceus Himself had come and spoke through him, for Mire told the tale the same manner his parents did unto him, in the speaking ways of old and renown. So said he to them all...
I ask, my friends, that you listen before speaking. The tale I am to tell, the one I have heard since my birth, the one that has been passed down generations upon generations, back from the beginning of time, will doubtless seem strange at first.
I dare not label it heresy, for I do not reject the divinity of the Gods; Arceus, as we all know, is our shining star in the sky, guiding us through the great black night Hell has levied against us. Others might consider this tale so, but that is because they refuse to listen. Listen in the full, I pray, and you will understand.
I see there, beyond the smoke that sits in this room, one or two bodies that stirred upon the first of my words have now settled back down. Please, my friends, fret not. So many beside you felt the same at first, but have come to realize that the tale I relay to you is Truth. Is that not so?
And so begins the Truth before the storied histories so many of us know. It begins when not the Gods, but rather others, Ancient Ones, they are called, first tread upon the same earth we do now. Long ago, in that distant age from when before tales could be etched in parchment and carved into stone, where stories were told in hushed whispers from one to another, that was when the Ancient Ones first tread upon the earth.
Oh, how beautiful was that world, that time that to those in the bygone past was bygone, so distant and faint I can offer no further description aside from it being of beauty beyond our comprehension.
Listen, now, with care. What I say is Truth, you will find, but a harsh one. Steady yourselves.
It was in that time that the Ancient Ones made us, the pokemon. All of us, all in varying, different tribes, came to be. But there had to have been a first, a first among equals. One closer to them than the rest, inheriting greater degrees of their sublime nature. It was in that firstness, that closeness to the Ancient Ones in the midst of their creation, that the tribe of the Arceuses hatched from their eggs.
Silence! Already have you forgotten what I said but moments ago, how you must listen in the full or not at all? To listen and know: that is to do justice to Gods and Arceus and the tale I tell. To leave here with a half-understanding, that is to lay yourself bare for confusion, corruption, for the blasphemy of what for us Arceus has done. Stay, I pray; my claim that our Gods were themselves created will in time make sense.
Silence. Observance. What I ask of you now is what was done by those who first hatched did when they saw at a moment's glimpse the faces of the Ancient Ones. So incomprehensible to us were they that for all the wisdom they had, never once could they describe their visage. But indeed so beautiful were the Ancient Ones of old that their being was etched into the very essence of the tribe of Arceus. They alone, then and in the generations to come, knew what the Ancient Ones looked like in all their indescribable magnificence.
Time, of course, would pass. The Ancient Ones, having finished bestowing upon all our ancestors the gift of life, left. I know not why they could not remain beside us, their creation, and bless us all with their presence. I know not why they could not teach us how to tend the garden of the world they had left behind. I know not why only those who could see what they the Gods looked like could commune with them. I know only what has been told, and what has been told is that this is simply what is so. The reason, perhaps, lost to the mysteries of time or never said at all. It matters not, for we know not.
They left, leaving only this world to their creations to do with as we pleased. But without the knowledge of how to tend their garden, it fell into disarray. As time went on, as the vibrant presence of the Gods that was once felt in every brush of wind and tide of the seas diminished, so too did our reverence, the feats held in their honor fading from tradition.
The world around us was beautiful, before this war was struck anew, but incomparable to what once was. Anything without the touch of the Ancient Ones, by the flows of time, was slowly removed from their magnificence at the time of creation.
With time, so the tale goes, came forgetfulness. If it was because prayers went unanswered or were never sent out to begin with, I know not. But what I do know is that they forgot the ways of old, and the prayers to the Gods stopped.
The world was becoming more and more far removed from the glory it once beheld. So realized a member of the Arceus tribe, one who, in that bygone age, was so obsessed with their own bygone age He looked towards Mount Origin. Some whisper that this is Revelation Mountain in the continent of Water, others claim it is Eritas of the Mistic mountain range, whose peaks can be seen in the distant horizon here in Noe.
It matters not where it was, only that Arceus looked from the foot of the mountain upward, to where the earth met the heavens, the abode of the Ancient Ones. He started up the path, one long neglected, where sharp thorned bushes overgrew the trail, where fallen trees hadn't been cast aside. The path, weathered by storms and neglect alike, was harsh during His ascent, but He persisted.
Four days He climbed, three nights He slept under the shadow of Mount Origin. Each night, below the shadow of the palace of the Ancient Ones, He had a dream.
The first dream He had was of the aftermath of creation, when the Ancient Ones left the world and returned to their abode upon the peak of the mountain Arceus now climbed. He saw their court, a colossal chamber with pillars that reached towards unseeable empyrean. The pillars had inscriptions He could not read what they said, but their words were beautiful all the same.
The smell of incense was rich and heavy. There was a table of the berries and herbs and grains He had laid his eyes upon. The cheer and din was loud and incomprehensible. He saw there, though the haze of the smoke of the incense, beneath the divine, midday light that shone from above, feasting upon the offerings set out for them, glimpses of the Ancient Ones. His inheritance allowed it, though even through the smoke it was difficult to see. Before each of them was a square plate from which they feasted, each attuned to the respective Ancient One; He focused on this instead of the Ancient Ones so as to not be driven mad.
He saw how the plate, each a different color, was filled to the brim with food offered to them, nothing like what He had seen on earth below.
And yet, shining through the smoke, outshining the light above, at the far end of the table opposite of where Arceus was, there was another Ancient One. There at the head of the table, sitting alone on a throne gilded with glittering gold—a mighty seat whose back was a wide and heavy and towering door—sat another Ancient One. It was more indescribable than the indescribables, more powerful than the powerfuls, more holy than the holies; it was the Ancient One who created the first pokemon. The Ancient Creator, He understood in an instant.
For a fraction of a fraction of a second, Arceus saw the Ancient Creator. As with the other Ancient Ones, He had to avert His gaze; the white-hot headache that took hold at a mere glimpse was preferable to the madness that would follow had He held his vision an instant longer. But for the fraction's fraction he saw the Ancient Creator, He saw that it wore a smile. It did not see Him.
Just the sight alone woke Arceus with a stir, a gasp of breath drawn in surprise. Had this Ancient One been seen before? Did the stories of old, back when this mountain was climbed, tell of dreams and visions? He received no answers in the lonesome silence of the mountain. He looked upon the long path to be taken and, informed as if by the whispers of the Gods of the Gods, knew the ascent had to be completed.
Four days He climbed, three nights He slept under the shadow of Mount Origin. Each night, below the shadow of the palace of the Ancient Ones, He had a dream.
The second dream He had was sometime after the first. He had returned to that celestial palace, but He could see both more clearly and less; though the dense smoke of the incense had lessened, the light that shone from above, from beyond the pillars, likewise was diminished. The berries and herbs and grains that once populated the table were practically nonexistent; what was there were discarded foods instead of the best to be offered. Though still incomprehensible, what was once a rousing, celebratory cheer had instead become low whispers and conversations. He saw there, sitting around the table, the Ancient Ones. Their plates were empty save for scraps. They seemed to be less harsh on the eyes; Arceus could see them for two seconds instead of one before He had to avert His gaze.
And yet, ever-radiant and through the smoky haze of the table, opposite of where Arceus was, was the Ancient Creator. For a fraction of a second, Arceus saw the Ancient Creator. It wore a frown, concern plastered upon its indescribable face. The seat it sat upon, that golden throne, had a sharp line down the middle, as if it were a crack upon a barely-opening door. The Ancient Creator glanced at Arceus and saw Him.
A look from the foremost of the Ancient Ones woke Arceus with a start, a startled gasp made in shock. What was happening to the Ancient Ones? Was he able to better see their visages by virtue of him closening to their abode? He received no answers in the lonesome silence of the mountain. He looked upon the long path to be taken and, informed as if by the whispers of the Gods of the Gods, knew the ascent had to be completed.
Four days He climbed, three nights He slept under the shadow of Mount Origin. Each night, below the shadow of the palace of the Ancient Ones, He had a dream.
The third dream He had was after the second. Once more he was in that heavenly hall, but he could see as clear as ever and as impossibly as before; the smoke and scent of incense was now absent, but the light that shone from above was replaced by the low glow of twilight. The berries and herbs and grains were now gone, the bowls and plates that once held them empty. As alien as the murmurs Arceus had once heard was the silence that now befell the palace of the Ancient Ones. He saw there, strewn across the table and hall, the reason why silence had come. The Ancient Ones were unmoving, deep in sleep, though even their comatose bodies could be seen for only a minute before He had to avert his gaze.
And yet, still with a ruddy glow, opposite of where Arceus was, was the Ancient Creator. For a full second, Arceus laid His eyes upon the Ancient Creator. It was hunched over, breathing shallowly. There was a frown, pure misery plastered upon its indescribable face. The seat it was interred upon was bulging, shaking. Arceus saw that the throne was lashed shut with chains. The second He looked upon the remaining Ancient One was an eternity, enough to hear a symphony of gnawing howls emanate from the door. Arceus realized the warm glow that was the sole light in the room was not from the Ancient Creator, but from whatever light shone from that crack in the throne that, with a deafening banging sound, shook the entire room. Cries and screams came from it.
Stirred by this, The Ancient Creator looked up and glared at Arceus, tears flowing from its wild, hungry eyes. It did not see Him.
With a gasp of breath as if He had been drowning, Arceus awoke from the dream. Could the vision he had seen been true, that the Ancient Ones were endangered, at the doorstep of death? What could possibly be beyond that throne the Ancient Creator sat upon that it would have to lash its own throne shut? He received no answers in the lonesome silence of the mountain. He looked upon the long path to be taken and, informed as if by the whispers of the Gods of the Gods, knew the ascent had to be completed.
On the eve of that fourth day, as night settled upon the cold and frozen reaches of Mount Origin, Arceus was there at the peak, panting from exhaustion. He looked about and saw nothing. He looked at the sky and, though seeing aurorae dance in the night, saw no stairway to the palace of the Ancient Ones, no path to Heaven.
Arceus, trembling from what He had seen in the vision, wept. Was He too late? Was He on the right mountain at all? He knew not how to pray to the Ancient Ones, His creators, for that had been lost to time. He had come back to learn and return the world to how things once were, in better and bygone times, but no one was there to teach Him.
Four days He climbed, three nights He slept under the shadow of Mount Origin. Each night, below the shadow of the palace of the Ancient Ones, He had a dream.
But on the fourth night, not below the shadow of the palace of the Ancient Ones but rather at its doorstep, there at the peak of Mount Origin, he did not have a dream.
No, as he collapsed from exhaustion and helplessness upon the ground where the Ancient Ones in those better, lost days, had first set foot upon the world, he was granted entrance to the place where the Ancient Ones once resided. The rules of old had been done away with; He entered Heaven.
He found himself in the place He had dreamed of for three nights. It was not, however, in the condition he had seen it then. There was a glow from above, but it was neither the bright blue of the midday sky nor was it the dull dark of twilight; it was instead a weeping and tired grey with flickers of orange every which way, tearing across the sky like lashes against a back. The smoke had returned, obscuring the vision of Arceus, but the smell of incense was nowhere to be had. It was replaced by the scent of melted gold, scorched marble, and seared flesh.
A voice, one Arceus could understand but one whose echoes in the empty hall rang with otherworldly words, spoke, saying, "The road to Heaven feels like Hell, does it not?"
Arceus shirked back at the voice and the power that it carried as it reverbed throughout the room. He looked forward, past the empty seats where the Ancient Ones once sat, to the head of the table. Food was piled high, obscuring the speaker.
Arceus, gathering his courage, advanced. He, walking upon the table, the empty plates of the Ancient Ones flanking Him, made His way to the unseen speaker. With an unsteady voice Arceus answered, "Hell? That place spoken of in ancient tales, the opposite of Heaven, where the evil souls of the passed are doomed to torment for eternity?"
Once more the voice rang out, savoring the words, saying, "You know much, little one, dearest child, my progeny. More than I would have thought in these terrible, miserable times where it seems we have been forgotten. Yes. That is Hell."
Arceus answered as he walked forward unsteadily, "Then indeed. The road to here was rife with neglect and mired by hardship. Indeed does the road to Heaven feel like Hell."
A chortle, one that made Arceus nearly collapse, echoed, "Then the road to Hell feels like Heaven."
Arceus was closer, now, and looked upon the food the speaker was feasting on. Though at first he would have been able to look at it for a single second, and then two, and finally a full minute, He could now look at the food the speaker feasted upon without being driven mad.
The speaker, with an incomprehensible claw, paw, or other appendage we simply could not fathom, swept aside the food. A crunch of bone accompanied the sound of the gnawed remains of headless corpses falling to the table.
Arceus could look at the speaker for hardly more than a second before He averted his gaze downward.
More bone was gnawed upon as the Ancient Creator spoke, "I have known hunger. Deep, unimaginable hunger. My duty, my guardianship, required me to remain awake. So deep is my love for my creation that I remain awake. But I am so so so so hungry."
It screamed, and Arceus cowered before it. "HUNGER. DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND? I WAS LEFT WITH NO CHOICE. ALONE I COULD SEEK NO COUNCIL. ALONE WAS I. WITH EVERY PANG OF HUNGER THAT ECHOED WITHIN ME, HEAVEN FELT THE PAIN. I HAD TO EAT. OH HOW TERRIBLE MY MIND CRIED AS I COMMITTED, THIS UNHOLY ACT, BUT HOW WONDERFUL WAS THE SILENCE THAT OVERCAME MY HUNGER. "
It hunched over, gasping for breath, inhaling and exhaling for a full minute before it could recompose itself. Softly, now, it said, with sadness, too, in its voice, "Why did you neglect me? Why did my own creations abandon us?"
Arceus, taking a minute of silence Himself, with just His own heartbeat thudding and echoing in the hall, said finally, "I have come to return things to how they once were. With your guidance, we can restore things back to that bygone age."
The Ancient Creator said back, over and over again, "Return? Return? Return?"
Arceus tried to answer, but was silenced by a roar, "I HAVE FEASTED UPON ALL THAT I COULD EAT HERE. BUT MY HUNGER CONSUMES ME. I KNOW ONLY HUNGER. IT CANNOT BE SATED. THIS IS NOT ENOUGH. NEVER ENOUGH. I HUNGER. I NEED MORE. MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE."
It stopped its scream as if struck with lucidity and said, though, in a deafening whisper, "Would you like to see what I have come to safeguard? I insist, my scion, my child."
Arceus could do nothing other than oblige with a nod.
A twisted smile met Arceus, and the sole Ancient One stood up from its seat and stepped aside. It revealed its throne, the doorway that was once lashed shut with chains in the dream of the Ancient Creator's weakness. The chains were shattered now, strewn upon the ground. The doors were open.
Arceus glanced inside. He saw an ashen sky and dead grasses on rolling plains and fields. A moon, as if an eye, glared at the intruder. Arceus could not stand to be in such a place and retreated. Turning away, trembling, Arceus managed to say, "You... You are the keeper of Hell?"
The Ancient Creator shook its head, shaking as it spoke. "Never was there a Hell. We told the story to ensure those below would show reverence, to feed us and keep us healthy. How could I ever, truly, condemn my dear children to damnation? How could I do such a thing to my own creation?"
"So then what have I seen?"
"You are in our plane. Why would I want separation from the souls of my children? Have you forgotten? The palace of your Gods, your creators, is situated in the center of Heaven. I have merely opened the gates to the surroundings; you have glanced at what Heaven has become."
Arceus shook his head. "No. No. This cannot be so. It is supposed to be a place of rest for tired souls after a long life of labor and hardship."
The Ancient Creator nodded. "It is! Truly, it is! Please, go forth and spread the word. Return the world to how it once was. Let me tell you how things once were so that Heaven might be restored."
Arceus was about to accept but then, hesitantly, asked, "Would your hunger be alleviated? Would you be restored to how things once were?"
The Ancient Creator nodded in affirmation, but bubbling from his throat came Truth in a different voice entirely, a harsh and draconic one, "No. We cannot. We are unable to forget. How could true Gods forget anything? This hunger now known can never be forgotten. I have been consumed; we all have, all our hunger compounded towards infinity and infinity again."
A crunch from within the Ancient One echoed out, the sound of a skull being crushed and bone being ground to smithereens, and the draconic voice grew silent. In its place were the dying breaths of one who spoke like stoked coals, "We have seen the furthest stars."
Another crunch. Another voice. This one a harbinger of boundless ocean.
"We have seen the furthest edges of the world."
Crunch. A voice that sounded like thunder rang out.
"None of it compares to the hunger we now feel, your creator now feels."
Crunch. Crunch.
"You must refuse. You must run."
Crunch crunch crunch.
"Your creator has turned its back on you."
Crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch, came the deafening and unceasing sound, skulls from within the—crunch—gut of the Ancient One being crushed and their respective voices fading with their last sound a warning, a cry, all being assimilated—crunch—into the wildly nodding head of the Ancient Creator until one voice remained, one laden with frost. Weak though it was, its words were sharp, cutting through the air and sending a shiver down His spine.
"Take from where we feasted. Our power comes from the offerings. Let it be the source of your power. You must withstand us. We all love you. We forgive you. Our last efforts prove it so."
Crunch.
Silence.
Silence for a million infinites ensued, Arceus standing before the lone Ancient One, nodding its head maddeningly, jerking it up and down as if the sheer force of the movement could undo the echoes of the lesser Ancients.
Arceus, finally, spoke, only barely able to honor the requests of the echoes of the Ancient Ones. "No. I cannot guide others to you. Look at what you have become."
The Ancient One stopped nodding and looked at Arceus. It said, cooing, "You must. I want my children to return to me, to reside beside me. The doors to my palace are open at last."
Arceus, spoke, Him alone able to contest the commands of an Ancient One, "To return to that abominable realm? To be consumed as you have your own brethren? No. I cannot do so. Why would I want my peoples to reside in such a place for all eternity? Surely annihilation, nothingness, is preferable to that. You... you have been driven mad."
The Ancient One opened its maw, slack-jawed, and began to laugh and roar at the air, its head turning to the empty seats and plates. "SEE NOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. YOU HAVE BEEN CONSUMED, YOU ALL, NOW A PART OF ME, FEEL HOW DEEP AND ENDLESS MY HUNGER IS. BOUNDLESS AM I, BOUNDLESS ARE WE INFINITE TIMES OVER. BOUNDLESS NOW IS OUR HUNGER. DO YOU NOT REGRET YOUR ACTIONS?"
The Ancient Creator turned to now Arceus. "AND I? DRIVEN MAD? IF ONLY YOU KNEW HOW GREAT THE HUNGER WAS. YOU COULD NOT POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND. IT IS MY EVERY ECHO, MY EVERY THOUGHT. IT REVERBERATES UPON THESE WALLS, INSATIABLE THAT IT IS. AND NOW? MY CHILDREN REFUSE TO ALLEVIATE IT BUT A LITTLE? SO BE IT."
The Ancient Creator raised a claw that reached towards the heavens of Heaven, ready to slam it upon Arceus who cowered. But it remained stretched upwards, trembling, and it said, "EVEN NOW WE LOVE YOU SO, AND I CANNOT BRING MYSELF TO PUNISH YOU. MY HAND IS STAYED, OH HOW DEEP MY LOVE GOES FOR YOU. IT IS AS UNFATHOMABLE TO YOU AS IS MY HUNGER. I CANNOT HARM MY OWN CREATION. BUT I CAN MAKE CHILDREN ANEW. ONES WHO CAN ACT WHERE I CANNOT. I REMEMBER HOW. THOUGH HUNGER RINGS NOW IN MY MIND WITHOUT END, I COULD NEVER FORGET."
It hunched over and, still gnawing on bone, created from the ash and dust a pokemon. Rising from it, was once more the first of the ashen demons. It was a mirror of Arceus, its eyes with a white, otherworldly glow.
Arceus stepped back. The demon advanced its eyes now red. Arceus ran back, stumbling, falling upon a plate, one that chilled his very spine. The demons towered over Him.
It had no mouth, but still it opened one. The Ancient Creator, in its final moment of lucidity, said, with a regret so deep it caused the walls to crumble and the orange lashes of the sky to flicker evermore, "They... they have inherited my hunger."
Arceus, blessed by the owner of the plate, the power so great it changed the gold of Arceus to a frigid blue, drew power from it. A spear of frost sundered the demon. It crumbled to ash.
"MORE. I WILL MAKE MORE. AS ENDLESS AS MY HUNGER THEY SHALL BE. THEY WILL RETURN TO ME WHICH I MADE. THE LANDS BELOW, THE SOULS BELOW. ALL SHALL RETURN. BUT THEY, MY FIRST CREATIONS, WILL SURELY RESIST."
Arceus ran, retreated, gathering the plates of the fallen Ancient Ones, among the toppling ruins of the once-great palace. The plates' power, though diminished, still reverberated beneath His touch. It was almost too much to bear.
Before He exited the hall, the place where Heaven was, he stole one more glance at the crumbling pillars that held up the sky of Heaven. Though the words were as indecipherable as ever, their beauty was long gone. He heard one last echo from the Ancient One, the Nemesis to its own creation.
"THUS I WILL BRING HEAVEN ONTO EARTH."
Nick Roder's The Heart of the Woods
Arceus woke with a start at the peak of Mount Origin. He wept, tears of fright and misery and fear streaming down His eyes. He wished so desperately that it was a dream. The plates, each imbued with the energies of creation, with the elemental affinities of the Ancient Ones, told him it was not so.
Four days He ran down the mountain, three nights He slept under the shadow of Mount Origin. Each night, below the shadow of the palace of the Ancient Ones, He had a dream. He never said to another soul for as long as He lived what the dreams were.
Finally, exhausted, panting and nearly driven mad, He was at the foot of Mount Origin. He rushed to the nearest tribe. The species He spoke to is extinct now. They ignored His tale, thinking Him a madman, but still with hospitality they showed Him the way to the nearest major town where tribes would intermingle. He left in a rush, ignoring the laughter rising behind Him. He was too far, too focused on relaying what He saw, when the laughter was replaced first by shouts and screams and growls and howls, their misery the first lesson when one does not heed the word of Arceus.
Mount Origin, overlooking it all, height of the world, rumbled in delight. It needed more. More and more and more and more. Never was it enough.
At the nearby city, its name and place lost to time, He went and told others of what happened, of what He saw. He was like before scoffed at, jeered at, told He was driven mad. Oh, how wrong they all were when the army of ash and dust came at their doorstep.
They were unprepared to combat the horde of demons, and the town fell, but by fortune its resistance let Arceus flee once more, with other survivors as well.
Now, no longer alone, Arceus and His apostles spread word of the approaching storm. He even returned to His tribe and gathered all who believed Him and gave to them each of them a plate so that they might use the power of the Ancient Ones.
He was left without a plate, but by then had a following surrounding Himself. Prayers began anew, but they were not directed towards the Ancient Ones. They were instead made towards Arceus Himself, a God standing among them all.
Even with endless supplications and offerings and reverence, Arceus could not be everywhere at once. Where He stood, He pushed back the forces of Heaven. Where His apostles stood, they resisted and held the line. But elsewhere, all was lost. The times became desperate, the unwavering stream of the demons flooding from Heaven washing away the lives upon the earth.
He realized that in time, should the path remain unaltered, the war would be lost. He sent couriers to gather His apostles and the warriors of His tribe to bring them all together. Along the way they called for gathered warriors, beseeching them to abandon their posts for one final effort. Such a thing was a terrible ask, but how could they refuse their God? The couriers returned with the apostles and Arceuses and bands of fighters in tow, though in their wake villages and towns and cities were feasted upon.
Arceus, the Arceus, Arceus the Foremost, stood tall in a town that no longer exists and said to them all, "We must go forth and strike at the source of our misery, to annihilate where Heaven meets earth. We must not sit and allow the demons of Nemesis to bring war against us; we must bring war against Heaven."
They all left the town, and in their wake they heard it burn. It only fueled the warband, and not a single life of theirs was lost as they advanced towards where the world had begun, where the Ancient Ones had once set foot upon the earth.
They found themselves at the base of Mount Origin.
"The world is becoming more and more far removed from the glory it once beheld. How, how great a shame it is that what was once light has now turned into darkness. How great a misery it is that what was once Heaven is now Hell," said Arceus to His followers as He stood at the foot of Mount Origin.
The demons that guarded the base of the mountain had been dispatched, reduced to dust, but surely they would be teeming on the path where the earth met Hell: the fallen abode of the Ancient Ones. He started up the path, one repaired by demonic hands, where sharp thorned bushes graced the path, where demons lurked from behind removed rubble. The path, weathered by storms and the underfoot of demonic armies alike, was harsh during their ascent, but they persisted.
Four days they climbed, three nights they fought off incursions under the shadow of Mount Origin. Each night, below the shadow of the palace of the Ancient Ones, they lived a nightmare.
They lost half of the warband; Arceuses fell just as common warriors did. Even an apostle gave their life for the cause. They turned to Arceus, looking upon their God to see what to do against the onslaught of Hell streaming down upon them. Wordlessly, he stood and looked at the path. Death loomed ahead, but so too was it behind them. Misery was forwards, but so too was it behind them. Their advance would bring forth death, He knew, but so too would retreat. The former to those who stood on the path towards what was once Heaven, but the latter to all who stood behind them.
There was only one answer a God could give. In spite of the pain that He knew would await Him, resumed the advance did He. Onwards to the peak of Mount Origin did He climb.
They followed, the whole of the warband, banners of their peoples and tribes held high so they could remember what they fought for. So it went the next morning, and the one thereafter, day shedding light upon the losses and martyrdoms they suffered.
On the twilight of the fourth day, few remained. Half the apostles remained, standing beside Arceus, one-one-hundredth of the warband of commoners remained, and all the Arceuses, they who were granted plates at the onset of the war, perished.
Arceus—the God—stood alone, last survivor of His kind. The tribe He had left behind, the tribe those, the receiver of plates, had likewise abandoned for the greater good, was among the first targeted by the forces of Hell. Their own creator desired nothing more than to return its creation most close to it, and now only one remained alive. Most were consumed and the now-fallen warriors' remains scattered along Mount Origin. Only Arceus remained.
All those who stood upon the peak are our Gods. No doubt Arceus is the foremost of them all, but the surviving apostles, too, are Gods; could not only Gods have survived such an impossible ascent? And the warriors who stood by them, they are the saints we all turn to. But He the foremost stood there, at the peak, the plates lashed upon His body. The deified warband of warriors and apostles beside him, carrying banners up high, swords and spears drawn and bristling, waiting.
A break in time and space opened there atop Mount Origin, that which Arceus didn't see on His first ascent on account of his unconsciousness. He saw it now, though, the portal that separated this realm and the domain of the Ancient Ones, a fracture of light that formed a giant circle.
From the portal streamed endless demons, gnawing and lashing, their inherited hunger driving them onward. Arceus stood firm, unwavering. The plates of the fallen Ancient Ones, lashed upon His body, let out at first a multichromatic glow, but as their radiance grew, together they shone as one. Though it was twilight there on the peak of Mount Origin, a sun emerged, a divine and golden brilliance which shone upon them all as He let the plates' energies flow freely through Him. He stepped forward to meet the demons.
"Our God advances!" cried the warband, "Our God advances, and we shall join Him! We shall know no fear beneath this second sun! We shall not falter while warmed by His divine light!"
Resumed the advance did He, His head held high as the warband at His sides marched onwards with Him, pushing back the demonic hordes that were trampled below His approach. So illustrious was His glow He turned not only Himself, but the warband a pure, undying white, standing firm and unyielding against the black ash of the demonic horde.
The demons were endless, and endlessly they were annihilated. Came forth behemoths, then leviathans, each widening the portal in their wake, but even they could not contend against the earned divinity of Arceus. But the portal widened further, gripped and torn wide by otherworldly claws forcing it open, and a glimpse of the indescribable appeared.
Half the warband—those whose eyes were opened—died instantly, their bodies collapsing to the ground, the sight of the Nemesis too great to bear.
The others who averted their gaze in time persisted, trying and struggling in their fight to remain alive. But whispers, unintelligible to the faithful, beaconed to some, and to those survivors who were there upon the peak of Mount Origin, those who had not believed with all their hearts and souls in Arceus, they gave into the whispers. They gazed upon the Nemesis to Arceus and, in an instant pledged their allegiance towards it, turning on their allies, each death on their traitorous hands signing in blood their title of Archdemon.
Arceus realized, at that moment, as He stood against the Ancient Creator, as his comrades fought against the demons and the traitors alike all while averting their gaze, that they could not win. But He noticed that the portal Nemesis stepped through was of the energies it had consumed from the fallen Ancient Ones. Infernal now, it was, but the primal energies that made up the whole He still had. He redoubled His energies into the plates, each glowing bright, readying to exhaust their reserves of boundless power to shut the portal. But, Arceus realized, one was missing.
A plate, that which belonged to His Nemesis, He never possessed. The warband cried out as they were slaughtered. With each heartbeat ten more died. But each heartbeat echoed in a body that, in its closeness to the Nemesis, consisted of the same qualities of its plate.
Arceus let flow the energies of Himself, of all the honors and prayers and hopes and dreams He had received over the course of the war, expand within Him. Simultaneously, all the plates and Arceus Himself let loose their energies together as one, none above the other and all equal in their magnificence.
Oh, how great and holy was this final act of Arceus; who else but the God of Gods could do such a thing?
The demons were obliterated, scattered, reduced to ash and dust. The traitors, those lamentable Archdemons, were flung back to the portal, condemned to exist beside their new master. And the last Ancient One, Nemesis, even it could not for a moment contend against the sacrificial release of Arceus, and was likewise forced back, back into the portal to Hell from which it came. He, Arceus, granted the world a second chance, for his energy overwhelming lashed against the portal.
The second day ceased, the holy light pushing back against the night faded away. The survivors, the apostles and warriors shielded by faith, having not so much as a scratch from the sacrifice of Arceus, looked upon where He once stood.
Nothing remained. The portal had ceased to exist, seared shut by the holy light, but so too was their God gone. But they, too, were Gods, and they commanded the saints to go forth and spread word to the towns and villages that the portal had been shut, the war was over, and it was Arceus who had sacrificed Himself for them all.
They, the apostles, Gods in their own right, remained, gathering the remains of the fallen strewn across the whole of Mount Origin. They gathered the plates of the Ancient Ones, the remains of Arceus the foremost and His brothers and sisters that gave their lives during the ascent. They gathered the now-holy relics and weapons of the fallen warriors and apostles alike.
They the Gods returned to the world from Mount Origin a day and a year after the portal to Hell was purified, and found a world devoted to them and their God, Arceus the foremost. But all that was told was that Arceus, with the help of His fellow Gods, sealed the portal shut. What they the apostles had come to know, that the forces of that beseiged them were of Heaven, that there was something beyond, too devastating to even glance at, that their own creator had betrayed them, was not relayed.
Whispers of the Truth of what happened of course ensued, but the greatest tale of them all—how Arceus stood against the incursion of Hell—rang true without.
The apostles, in council, agreed that reverence towards Arceus would prevent reverence to their enemy, the Ancient Ones. They led a crusade, cleansing from the lands the knowledge of the old world, ensuring that all that was known was of Arceus and His sacrifice.
The story they instead told to say, one that would over generations and time be that of Arceus creating the world anew, cleansing the earth of the demons that inhabited it, would be the one we all know. How Heaven has always been Heaven and Hell always Hell; such is the word of the Church, all else relegated to heresy.
But you all, I see, through the haze of the smoke that warms us all, do you not see why this tale is one of joy? Why this tale is one that inspires and drives us all forward, onward, in spite of hardship?
Arceus is not some divine being that created us; no, He walked among us. Though He was a first among equals, able to see the true Ancient Ones that gave rise to us all, still was he an equal.
An equal! It was an equal who rose up from the masses and uncovered the corruption of Heaven into Hell! It was an equal who achieved divinity, earned a place of worship from us all. Look at us! We are the downtrodden, the forgotten, but the True tale of our God and His war against Heaven rouses us. We can, if we so wish, upend the terrible order that drives us down. Is this not Truth?
I see so many shudder quietly. I know. This is a conclusion that scares me, also. It is why the Great Dragon split into two, under the pain of the knowledge of what happened in those bygone days. The ideal world, one where the Gods existed from the beginning, one where Arceus will one day return from His abode in the Heavens and cleanse the world of demons, is so kind. It is warm, like the hearth before us all.
But it is not true. We risk extinction if we live passively under such ideals. We need Truth, and that is what this tale is! Truth that the world is in our paws and claws if only we acted upon it. We, the downtrodden, those trussed by misery and besieged by pain, we cannot go and wait for change to occur, for betterment to merrily greet us one dawning day.
No, we must act! Truth, above all else, is that we must walk in the footsteps of Arceus, wresting control of the world just as He did. Oh, how terrifying it is to know that only yourself can be blamed, but stop! Feel that, focus! There is warmth stirring within you. No, it is not the fire from the hearth, for the heat you feel now comes from within. That is liberation. That is Truth, that you can change the world just as He did!
They, the Church, invoke the Ideals that seek to pacify us, but such ideals cannot be the way to win the war. Arceus, in His might, preached the Truth of what he saw, and from that they rose up against the Ancient Ones! We must do the same! Truth! Truth shall ring in our hearts, freeing us, guiding us in these times of decadence. Only though action can we, like Arceus, rise up. Truth, as if were flowing freely from the mouth of Reshiram himself, it alone can—
Mire stopped speaking, the skull covering his face jerking upwards loosely as his attention was caught by a sharp, quick standing. The fire was dying, for the story was nearly complete, but the smoke was still as thick as ever.
The venerable cubone had to squint to see through the haze, to see the silhouette of the spectator that had suddenly decided to leave. He noticed after a moment the gait of Seris. The lucario, his face looking at neither Mire nor the sitting pokemon he walked by but rather at the door he silently walked towards, had in tow the guest he brought, the shaymin who ears held him aloft.
Mire could not suppress his surprise; though his memory was not as sharp as it once was, the purpose of this tale, the call to hope, to act, to wrest control of your lives even in squalor, just as He Arceus had done, was Seris's favorite part. But the lucario's tail did not wag as it once did so many times before. It was still as he approached the door.
"Seris," called out Mire.
Seris stopped. His red eyes, piercing through the smoke, met Mire's. He was still silent, so Mire spoke instead. He would have rather spoken privately, but Seris leaving at this moment worried him.
"Seris, my dear boy. Is all well with you? Why have you stood up as if in objection of the Truth?"
Murmurs rose from the crowd, all in agreement with Mire. They all heard the story in the full, and as Mire promised they found themselves in a state of understanding. But Seris only scowled, saying nothing.
Instead, he made a flurry of strange gestures with his hands. Mire had no clue what to make of it, not through the veil of smoke. But Shaymin, floating beside the lucario, neither obscured by smoke nor uninformed of Seris's true nature, easily interpreted it. He spoke in Seris's stead, saying, "She... objects to how basely you invoke the name of the Vast White, how easily you use the God's name to uphold this story."
Mire could only mutter "She?" before Shaymin spoke once more.
He, floating by the door, his lofty voice drowning out the old cubone, said, "I, for one, found myself in conflict. You tell a tale of hope, that we ourselves can fight, can ascend to Godhood. This is in line with the message of Arceus, but to say He was created? That strikes me with disbelief. Truly, how could our foremost God be below another? How could the Hero of Heaven cower beneath the shadow of another? A noble message, but one I fear that contains subversion. This..."
Shaymin stopped himself, floated, then rapped at the door before speaking once more, his voice a low grumble, "This is, without a shred of doubt, heresy."
Shaymin quickly moved aside as the door was flung open. In flew a blur, a blur of what was once a pure, soft snow white that was made a sooty grey by a life in adamant Noe.
In flew the body of Keokeo, and it hit the floor with a sickening thud, rolling until it came to a stop, its limbs flung about maddeningly. Though the grey was now stained red, the blood had already dried. All those within the house murmured, a tingling fear springing from one mon to the next within the room, as in walked three nuns from the Order. Though they were officially called the Holy Order of the Daughterhood of Arceus, the Foremost God of Gods, it was clear why even the Daughters referred to themselves in the shorthand.
At the fore of the trio was a lopunny clad in red robes who looked over those in the house, judgement boiling in the crimson of her eyes which seemed all the more deep when in contrast against her black sclera. She held in one hand a shield with the image of Arceus carved onto it, in another a flail that was stained the same shade of red as lifeless Keokeo. Her armor was ornamented in gold, inscriptions of passages from when the Gods were apostles and wrote of Arceus's teachings during the war. While only a few of the pokemon within the house were literate, those who were could clearly read the verse which said, "I ALONE EXECUTE JUDGEMENT."
At her flanks was a jolteon—clad in black unlike the other daughters—whose purple eyes darted from one face in the room to the next as well a coffin painted red and ornamented with various seals which had steel limbs that jerked about in sudden, mechanical motions.
There was only silence—even Mire was unspeaking—as Lopunny asked, speaking over the crackle of the dying fire, "Heresy? You are certain?"
Shaymin raised a paw and prepared to speak, but a raised shield stopped him. Lopunny spoke once more, "I heard you the first time, Morale Officer. I speak to the Infiltrator, the one bound by Truth. She I can trust."
The crowd, now free from shock, began to rise and murmur, but still Mire stood silent and in shock, only watching as a blue fire enveloped the lucario, burning away at the cerulean fur and replacing it with black and red. A golden medallion sat at the base of the zoroark's neck. Though she wore no gauntlets, her claws were sharp and tense.
The zoroark signed, the first few signs hesitant before waving them aside entirely and starting anew. Shaymin spoke, "The tale told here contradicts that which is taught by the Church. The cubone says there was a creator of Arceus Himself, that He waged war against the forces of Heaven rather than Hell."
"No!" cried one from the crowd, "Do you not know your own history?"
"Get him," said Lopunny to one of her companions, who grabbed the speaker and struck him down with a flail. This caused the crowd to rise in anger, to begin to push and shout, which in turn led to the other Sisters to step in and contain them. In spite of the growing fervor, Lopunny spoke above it all and asked, "Does Shaymin relay your words in Truth, Infiltrator? Tell me directly; a simple nod will do."
Slowly, the zoroark nodded.
Lopunny then looked back at the room, her eyes beholding as much disgust as her tongue as she said, each letter having weight of a hundred pounds. "Heresy," she spat.
"NO!" cried the many from the crowd, "No, we do not speak of heresies! A different story but the same message! We are all followers of Arceus and His and our Gods!"
Lopunny ignored them, instead turning to the walking tomb and saying, "Bound by Truth, scions of the Vast White, the Infiltrator has done her duty well. She has confirmed the heresy we suspected. Sister to myself, Daughter of Arceus, Clamperl! Douse the fire that illuminates their sin. Cleanse the room with holy water. Wash away the heresy here; we will not have them taint the presence of the Foremost God with their filth."
The mechanical being jerked forward, and with each step the visor shuddered up and down, revealing a clamperl inside. Water flowed through the body, empowering the hydraulics that let it walk, stand upright, and raise its arms to the crowd. More water flowed, but this time they went not to the hydraulics, but instead flowed outward through the cannons at the palms of the hands, snuffing the fire and dousing the room and its inhabitants with an oppressive stream of water.
The heretics shielded themselves from the waters which washed away their sin. They began to use their own untrained energies to defend themselves, realizing what was to come: a spark of fire here and a flurry of dark energy there, these were levied against the Sisters of the Order. The Sisters raised their shields to guard themselves against these attacks, but Lopunny did not, her faith alone her aegis. It was clear to her the heretics wished to fight so she ignored Mire's calls for understanding, to listen to what he had to say, and turned to Jolteon, saying, "They are clean. Enough. We, fellow Daughters, are unworthy to judge. Send them, Jolteon, before Him so that He might, in His boundless wisdom, give them judgement fair."
Their attacks became more erratic and desperate, but it hardly mattered against the tempered iron used by the Sisters as Jolteon raised an arm and crackling sparks began to dance on the black cloth of her clothes. The fur on all the pokemon in the room stood straight, the room began to reek of ozone, and the yells of anger began to turn into screams of fright.
But neither scream of fright nor whisper of regret, neither curse of damnation nor prayer to their Gods— no, nothing—could overcome the deafening sound of a thunderclap.
A flash blinded them all as electricity shot across the room. But it was only the Daughters of Arceus Above, the Infiltrator and her companion the Morale Officer who could see once again.
It was only they and a lone cubone who withstood the discharge of divinely-sanctioned energy that could see once more.
Weakened by the spray of water, Mire struggled to get to his feet, the bone he used as a cane strewn across the floor. He reached for it, but an armored foot stepped on it and pushed it aside. He looked up to see a mienshao and salazzle, clad in the red robes of the Daughterhood. Wordlessly they lifted him up and carried him stepping over the bodies scattered about.
Though soaked to the bone, the skin beneath the skull he wore further wettened as he saw the unmoving bodies of Morgrem and Noibat, of Cyndaquil and Aemis. Mire recalled the words that the xatu had gasped at the beginning of his tale, and they made him shudder as he was thrown before Lopunny who stood above him, watching him. The Daughter said, "Your withstanding of such a holy attack only proves what I know: you are an agent of Hell , sent to spread heresy, untruth, under the guise of the correction of history. Your actions declare war against Heaven."
Mire said nothing to her, instead turning to the zoroark that wore the emblem of Reshiram upon her neck. He said, "You cannot allow this. You know this is the Truth, do you not?"
Zoroark scowled and turned her head away, unwilling to give any credence to a doomed pokemon's ramblings while Shaymin watched distantly. Lopunny, paying no heed to either, continued, saying, "To undermine the word of the Church is to face trial. But so grave is the charge, so dangerous is what you claim to be so, that we cannot risk allowing your heresies to be spread further; there is no greater danger than corruption donning the mask of hope."
Mire continued, saying to the Infiltrator, "I accept my death. But do not let the Truth die. You heard what I said, the tale I told! Only if we follow in the footsteps of Arceus, embrace the Truth, can we win this war. "
Lopunny raised the flail high and said, "Enough! No more of your falsehoods, of your perversion of reality into whatever foulness you've spun. There is only one that can safely judge you and pick apart your truth from untruth. I will merely send you before His court."
Mire cried out, "Why else would you lose your tongue upon knowing the Truth? Why else—"
Crunch.
Fragments of bone were flung into the air.
Crunch.
The second time rended flesh and blood was strewn across the room.
Crunch.
Bone and blood alike once more showered them all.
Lopunny, her breath heavy, broke the silence and said, "Thank you again, Infiltrator, translator. The duties of uncovering the heresies that stain this room fall to the Order; you two need not worry further. Please, both of you, return to your venerable ship. Recover from this terrible untruth your duties subjected you. Beseech Arceus to cleanse them from your mind; I have full faith He will reward His faithful."
Ari the zoroark merely nodded a quick acknowledgement and walked out of the house that was once a bar and a pulpit and now nothing more, followed by Shaymin who floated beside her.
He reached into her hair and pulled out his jacket, but seeing a fragment of bone stuck to it. He looked at the fragment then backwards, noticing a Sister watched them depart.
"Ari," he whispered to her, his eyes trained on the fragment, "this tale that was spun... it was indeed heresy, was it not?"
She nodded, her claws remaining by her side.
"It does not feel as if so," Shaymin admitted, letting the fragment of bone clatter down onto the cobbled streets of adamant Noe, along the path of the downtrodden, returning to the shadow of the Cerberus. As Shaymin put on his jacket, Ari glanced back for but a moment, looking at the building and corpses they left behind, the tale told and pleas made stuck to her like the smell of smoke. She gritted her teeth but pressed onward to the Cerberus; rare were the times she wished she could speak.
Story written by DrakonFish (Find him on Twitter and Bluesky) Co-written and inspired by the universe of goblin_serf (Find him on Twitter and Bluesky)