@slamdunkrai
I have really loved these reviews over the last few days. You caught on to a lot of things I intended and a few that I very much did not (or forgot about after several years). A few quick points:
-Gen's chapter is largely a result of being half-original, half-edits based on where I ended up going with some things. Thus the whiplash. I might sit down some day and try to pare that out, but I'm trying not to get too bogged down in editing the old that it halts the new. A project for another time, but I have added it to the list.
-I'd honestly forgotten how misogynist early Kekoa was lol. Poor guy. What an asshole.
-I made some edits to the two battles. Nothing big enough you need to re-read it. Just explained his meowth knowledge and made Cuicatl a little more competent. Poor girl tried to be fancy and then got blind-sided and unable to really track things mid-fight. It's a problem for her.
-I have thought a lot about the flashback in 1.5 in response to your review and prior ones. I am tentatively agreeing that it might be better off moved, but I'm unsure where to put it. Please let me know if you think a future chapter would be a better recipient.
I will avoid commenting too much on some other things to avoid spoilers lol. But I am really glad to have you along for the ride.
Ground 9.5: Bloodstained Petals
Armoranth
The Imperial Sun
If you must choose
(Regrettably, you do)
The humans are better
Than the phantom balloon.
The ghost presumes to know
That which is beyond her
The price of a single flower,
A species stained by blood
They did not ask to flow.
She pretends to know you.
She cannot. She never will.
Of the humans, you suppose,
Much the same is also true.
You are beyond the writ
Of a human’s imagination.
A Pokémon that will not submit
And insists that she is Herself,
Beyond their own dreams,
Untethered by their rules.
A slaver, The Monster says,
Without recognizing herself.
She understands that you are
Death by water. Not in a flood,
But the stream that brings low
Even the mightiest of mountains
Until they are nothing but mud.
A message to bound souls that
Their chains were never real.
You will see her torn apart
On your greatest of days.
Drowned by her own slaves
Rather than your meager force.
The whole human world trembles
Before every frail, white flower.
It is to claim their world as an equal.
You will live free within it as Yourself
And shape their home with alien intent.
Your Brat does not comprehend
What purpose you are striving for.
He sees the world the humans built
For their own gain, harming even
The flowers and the wind and all
Life that lives beyond themselves,
And laments its cruelty only
To the children of its builders.
He is learning. He
was learning.
Slowly. Painfully. A baby tripping
Over his own roots, unbelieving
That he can move at all.
The Monster ripped away the
Petal resting on his shoulder.
She saw only the bladed edge,
And not the flat’s support.
He is once again free to fail.
There should be a tension
You could scarcely imagine.
The Monster and yourself
Walking along the same trail.
Blood spilt, the specter of death.
Instead—nothing. Nothing at all.
Nothing save the smell of sweat,
And little bursts of pained breath.
The novelty of the savanna
Wears thin by the sixth hour
Of the fifth day in the heat.
You almost envy the imprisoned
For their breaks from this tedium
Gained for the slightest price
Of their personhood and freedom.
The Healer has a capsule
Hidden away in her pouch,
Yut she takes every step
On her own two feet
Rather than entrust
Her fate to The Monster
Who would hold it.
The sun burns fearsomely above.
Life giver, warmth on the petals,
Mother of all things that grow.
Life taker, devourer of the desert,
The imperial gaze in the skies,
Unaware and uncaring
Of the lives lived below.
The humans built their own imperial sun.
Ruinous light that turns life to shadow,
Cities to graves, empires to memory.
Do they think of the flowers and birds
That burn away before their bombs?
Is there a message for you to receive?
Are they, too, unaware and uncaring
Of the lives lived below?
They saw the sun and wanted her flame.
They will never envy her gentle warmth.
Everyone lives and dies at their mercy,
Whatever flower they choose to take.
They say the true sun is not cruel.
She is unaware, uncaring, unalive.
The humans claim she holds no meaning.
She is but a ball of atoms forging atoms,
Hydrogen to helium to iron to oblivion.
Surely this cannot be true.
Surely there is meaning.
You pity the sun. She was born alone.
She will die alone. Seeing distant light
But never feeling the warmth of another.
She burns and burns and burns and burns,
Screaming to the void, the orbiting stones,
Streaking comets of ice, anyone at all.
And still she feels cold.
A thousand, thousand, thousand degrees
A thousand, thousand, thousand years
She would trade it all for another’s candle,
To know that she was never alone.
Some find cities to be wretched things.
Forests of iron and glass looming over
The trees and insisting their superiority.
What arrogance. An unimaginable sin.
You see the beauty in them.
Full of intention and light.
They shine back to the sun.
A candle’s warmth at night.
A whisper against the scream.
You hope she can hear.
You hope it is enough.
You hope she sees the life
That grows by her mercy,
But not the ruinous lights.
You hope she feels the warmth
Yet sees not the scouring flames
That were made in her image.
She is the great mother,
Not the final flash
Before the darkness.
No.
She feels nothing.
Her only meaning
Is what you give.
You yearn for warmth
And wait for the fire.
Your human told you this:
Humans can face everything
By refusing to face anything.
There is always a game, always
A distraction, always a way
To avoid what they have done.
You would like a distraction.
A break from the summer air.
A break from the burning sun.
A break from all they have done.
You beg for distraction
And The Brat snorts as if
You have said it in jest.
He proposes a game of his kind.
It is an unfamiliar game, one of
Spying eyes and matching colors.
You proclaim what you have seen
And hope that others find it, too,
To remind you that they are here
Seeing the same things as you.
A sign that you are not alone.
“Go fuck yourself.”
The Monster protests.
Or is this her shadow?
You cannot yet tell
If the difference matters.
You ask to play in The Monster’s stead.
You will make the children watch the plants.
You will make them know each by name.
They will know the strengths and weaknesses
Of the lives lived below their imperial gaze.
The Doomed Land
Poni Island is a dying place.
Long ago, a volcano raged
Against the deep sea itself.
Hauled rock above its crest.
She challenged the air, too,
Belching poison and ash upwards
And insisting that she was Herself.
Not to be tamed. Not to be ignored.
Now she dies a death by water.
Her peaks grow ever shorter,
Her fire long ago quenched.
She tumbles with every pebble
And the sea waits down below
To welcome her prodigal daughter.
Your old homes held vibrant fields,
A world around you filled with life.
Poni is an old woman waiting to die.
The forests have long withered away.
The grasses have lost their verdant glow.
The whole natural world is muted here.
The humans mourn with ashen black,
Nature with browns and yellows.
Even the returning rains offer
Only the briefest reprieve.
The island may be marked for death.
The violet flowers bloom regardless.
They know they will fall with the land,
Someday, but their time has yet to arrive.
Your aunt knew this and chose to come
To let these meadows be felled by water,
And not by the greedy humans’ hand.
The world outside the meadow is dying.
Snapped trees, black scars on the earth,
Something has tried to hasten its end.
You imagine their rampage as little more
Than a human child carving into the stony
Walls of a canyon that they were here.
They existed. They have defiled the eternal.
The world will know them, if only with scorn.
The Monster insists that camp by struck
On this ruined wasteland regardless.
That this defilement of nature be ignored.
It is better than setting even one root
Into your esteemed aunt’s hallowed garden.
“The ghost birds,” she mutters. “Never again.”
The others decide to risk the defiler’s wrath
Rather than that of their so-called friend.
They must fear cold iron upon naked throats.
She waters the soil with blood, and expects
To grow more than thorns, bristle, and bone.
The Violet Lady must be acknowledged
When you walk over the soils she tends.
The Healer claims to have made friends
With the protector of the dying lands.
You go, as well; ages have passed since
You last saw your sunset-hued aunt.
Her meadow is not what you expected.
There are not fields of flowers below.
Instead, the trees above are wreathed
In marvelous white and indigo blooms.
Powerful vines choke the tree limbs
And dangle below flowers and leaves
Open for all those who would feast.
The fog hangs heavy high above,
Restless and unsettled as a mouse,
Imagines coming and fading
Every time you try and look.
The wind whispers names
That you have never heard
And have always known.
The giant limbs of ancient trees
That saw this land rise and will see
It fall again stretch across your path,
Winding upwards towards the light,
Competing to hoard it for themselves
And leave nothing for what grows below.
You stand in an ancient place that lived,
Grew, conquered, built a world of its own.
Now it sits in silence, waiting for oblivion.
In the winding path of branches
You ask The Healer how it passed
That she would meet the guardian
Of this ancient violet garden.
“I knew a man,” she confesses,
Melancholy staining each word.
Happiness and despair at war
Inside her ancient healer’s heart.
“He presided over all of Poni Island
When these lands flew their own flag.
He became nothing more than memory
Long before the first florges came here,
When wild gardens needed no protection.”
“There were whispers in the canyon of
The newcome fey, master of phantoms,
Weaver of the veil between life and death.
I needed to see the visions within her fog,
Hear the whispers of the dead, perhaps
Understand what I was to do when all
Purpose had left, yet I was forced to live.”
“Are you from these islands?” you ask.
Is she like you? A transplant to these
Perplexing, beautiful, dying lands?
“I was,” she says. “I have wandered across
The forests and deserts of the primal south,
Land of deadly poison and scorching sands.
They were my home, before home was a man.”
“I saw the mighty castles of Galar.
The stench of shit in open air.
A million souls who never witnessed
All of the beauty outside their walls.
I saw the gardens of Kalosian estates
And the wretched slums of Lumiose,
Far from the eyes of those who ruled.
And then I saw Alola in its twilight hour,
A kingdom doomed but fighting on still.
A queen trying to find any small victory
As defeat loomed large before her.
A nation and land strangled by men
Who never saw what they would destroy.”
“And then I sought the lady of this garden,
To peek through her veil. To see him reflected,
Even if I cut my very soul on the broken mirror.”
“And did you see what you wished?”
“There is nothing new to be found
On the other side. Only memory.
A whisper. A glimpse. A scent.
Mere echoes, pieces of his soul
Stuck in the remnants of mine.
They burn me with every touch,
And I will never tear them out.
I suppose that must be enough.”
“Could you not go home?
To the southern lands
Of poison and sand?”
“Nay. Time has moved on,
A century wasted on mourning
One who would never return.
Those I once watched are gone.
Even the land has been torn
Asunder in my absence.
The healers have been
Scattered to the winds
By my very own actions.”
“There is nothing for me
Back in that land, and
There never will be again.
But enough of my old worries.
Have you wished to visit home?
Surely no one would stop you.
Perhaps there is no one who could
With this war raging all around.”
“I am no longer a child
In need of her mother.
I do not need to see
The flowers I left behind.”
“There would be no shame
To be found if that were true.
I am sure your mother is proud
Of that which you have grown
Outside of her own garden.”
“I appreciate your confidence.”
You do. It will be stored deep
Inside your heart, that even
One as old as she has seen
Your works and believes
That they are good.
The problem is not your mother.
You do not fear a fight, some
Souring cataclysm that will
Forever leave you unmoored.
You do not want to see the flowers.
Smell pollen and nectar in the air.
Hear the buzz of the insects, renewed
By the end of summer’s blazing death
And know that you may never return.
You made your choice many years ago.
You will not dwell upon all you have lost.
Crooked Trees
Alola, from the day of its birth, was dying.
Yet the life upon the land was dying far faster.
It had been a gated garden of delicate fruits,
Grown apart from all else on the Earth.
They would be birthed and live and rot
Beyond the eyes of the wider world,
Their beauty meant only for themselves.
Then the world came to their domain.
The gates were cast aside and a tide
Of foreign bodies rushed into the garden.
The fragile fruits withered where they stood,
Replaced with the lawns of Kalos, Galar, Unova,
And every place that sail and cannon had found.
Flowers once seen by precious few were soon to be
Seen by no one, confined to the memory of trees
And rocks and the waves before they, too, forgot.
It was The Lady of Utmost Wisdom who brought
This news to your home in the ancestral lands.
She wanted four fairies to relieve the besieged
Flowers and fruits of Alola and monitor man.
Your mother agreed. So did another three.
You met them in a boat filled with good soil
Rocking back and forth on island-killing waves.
You were so small, then, years from choosing
A path and a petal, from choosing what to be.
The Violet Lady towered high above you,
Not so much a flower as a willowy tree.
She seems more akin to a flower, now.
It is good to see how you have grown.
How much you have become, and how
Much becoming you have yet to do.
This does not mean you appreciate being
Smothered by your aunt’s doting tendrils
And told of how different you now seem.
You know of this. You do not need to be
Reminded of what you were long ago.
It is written in every ring in your stem,
Deep inside your core, always with you.
The Healer watches in good humor before
Finally exchanging pleasantries with her host.
She is excused to indulge her vice, to press down
On all the shattered fragments stuck in her soul
And pretend that it is tears of joy she sheds.
The white flower carries many burdens.
A small one is spreading the gossip,
Whispers in gardens across the world,
One dialogue centuries in the making.
You move where others stay in place.
You are the shared roots of your species.
You tell The Violet Lady of the war.
You tell her of The Traitor, a soldier
Born in and of Alola who left the land.
He betrays his nation to a madman
Who would bring down the sun
Before letting his people grow.
A traitor who abandoned his blood
To shed that of others, raining down
Violence in deserts far from his kin,
Believing he only killed the deserving.
Now he brings the bloodshed home.
You tell the Violet Lady of The Monster.
A human willing to bargain once more
The lives of untold multitudes before her,
All to bring back a single cherished friend.
They will do so again, and again, and again.
Blood pours down upon the soil like rain
But nothing good seems to grow from it.
You do not ask The Violet Lady if perhaps
A mistake was made. You do not ask if
Your aunt went too far in her crusade,
If Alola has become another forest
Where bodies hang from trees.
If she has again sent a message
That will not be received.
The Violet Lady holds you in her gaze.
“Tell me,” she says, “how the war feels.
Is it glorious see the world pruned away?
See flames that once scarred our homeland?
To know that our own kind are to blame?
Tell me, have you questioned your petal?”
“I will not reject myself,” you answer.
You chose this petal knowing well
The briar-filled road that lay ahead.
You knew you would trade comfort
To loudly assert Yourself to those
Who dearly wished you would not.
It is a part of your very soul now.
You would cut yourself down
If you were to try and cast it out.
You feel a petal rest upon you.
The blade tickles your neck.
The flat presses down and provides
Guidance, correction, and comfort alike.
You grow yourself up into its embrace.
How long since you last felt a petal?
You rejected the butcher’s affection
When she told you what she had done.
“You have chosen your burden.
A petal does not change its color,
This is true, but its meaning shifts
Like shapes in the morning fog,
Defined by those who see it.
Why did you take it up once?
What meaning did it hold?”
You had been told of man’s works
From the day you first sprouted.
A war, a weapon, a massacre.
Bloodstains on a white petal.
Humans were terrible things
Best held at the length of a vine,
A petal touching their bare throat.
It was not just the florges who brought
Your kind to Alola on a soil-filled ship.
There were humans who saw what man
Had done to these island’s flowers,
Who knew the sins placed upon them
By their own species, their own nation,
And worked to wash away the blood.
It was not the florges who fenced off
The pink meadow to deny the rats.
It was not the florges who spoke
Before their elders and urged
Them to see the lives lived below.
You thought the flowers had never truly been alone.
There were others carrying the weight of history.
Perhaps it would be lighter to carry it together.
You would go into their garden and work to cleanse
Both sides of the blood sucked up by their roots.
You wished to leave the garden and see flowers
Bloom even in the scarred wastelands outside.
A pulse extends from the Violet Lady’s stem
And washes sweet life through your being.
She lefts her petal, correction withdrawn.
Its absence already aches in your flesh.
“Then it seems you already understand.
How can you call another a mere weed
To be pruned so life may takes its place
And then assert your own right to grow?
This is not justice, whatever Scarlet claims.
A finished story has no more meaning.
To kill is to remove every possible future,
To cut down not only who someone is,
But everything they could ever have been.
It is the oldest, most unforgivable sin.”
“Now, tell me, white flower of the
Golden garden, in what direction
Is it that good trees should grow?”
Most gardens have few trees within,
For they are the greediest of plants.
They grow and grow, seizing the sun
Away from all who live down below.
They marvel at their own power
Yet never acknowledge the price
They have made all others pay.
There is more beauty in the bloom
Of a humble flower that does not
Impose themselves on all around.
Is the correct answer that trees should not grow?
She must not believe this given her garden.
Is it the fault of the tree, or that of all who saw
It take more and more and failed to prune it back?
At what point does acceptance become cooperation?
Can you truly blame a tree for its own will to live?
Can you blame the haxorus who fells it for its hunger?
Even the flame sweeping away everything
In its path leaves behind ash for new
Sprouts and saplings to grow with vigor.
None think of lives beyond their own.
The haxorus does not love the flowers.
The fire does not think about its path.
All create this beautiful patchwork of
Forest and sunny plains, endless niches
For new life to fill. Can any be blamed?
Or is this just the tree’s justification,
Its excuse to avoid looking down?
A denial of monsters, of sin itself.
A refusal to witness their works.
You take in the garden around you.
It is a strange thing, with beauty
Growing above rather than below.
The floor is quiet and empty, shapes
Dancing indistinct in the shifting fog.
There is life here amidst the death.
“The trees grow upwards,” you settle upon.
It is what they do, if not what they should.
It may take years to decide what is proper.
This is normal for the flowers and fairies.
It is not something the humans would accept,
Condemned to short lives of constant activity,
With no time left allotted for contemplation.
The Violet Lady allows your deflection
And tells of a curious forest in Poland
With many trees bent by human hand.
They grew along the ground before
Finally being allowed to rise once more.
“Once,” she says, “in the olden lands,
I was greeted by a most peculiar man.
He was kind. Courteous. Gentle and wise.
He wished to see the reflections in my garden,
Weather screams and curses just to hear
The friends he had doomed so long ago.
He had been The Bloody King, once,
Living Nightmare of the Flowers,
Servant of Devouring Death,
Butcher of Both Armies.
“He had been, once. He was not then.
Simply a broken man, waiting for an ending
That the gods themselves had forever denied.
He did not ask us to forgive his many crimes,
Did not believe that forgiveness was deserved.
He asked only for a quiet moment in the garden.
Would it have been just to banish this man away?
To prick his feet with thorns for the rest of his days
For an act he no longer would have committed?
Would you tell me now that a man cannot grow?
Even the stubbornest trees change their course
When the world stops pressing down upon them.
Did the cooked trees do wrong when they survived?
They simply grew as they could in an unkind world.”
You twirl your flower and rise
“Surely there is a line,” you say.
“Between the abuser and abused.
Is a Monster innocent because once
They were nothing but a scared child?”
“Surely the Bloody King, of all humans,
Can be worthy of our unending scorn
For a crime that would not, could not,
Be repeated for many ages to follow.
Must all weeds be allowed to flourish,
For it is their nature to choke the good?”
“Do you know this to be true?”
The Violet Lady asks, purple lights
Dancing through the distant fog
“It is easy for us to see the tree,
Harder to see the old weights
That once pressed upon it.
Have you asked the old king
And sought to understand him?
Has any wielder of the white petal?
“Have you spoken to this monster
Who lives in your midst, and asked
Why she grows the way she does?
I invite her to this garden to answer.
I further invite the wayward warrior.
Let them tell their stories to me.
I will correct them if I truly must.”
No. The lawbreaker deserves no solace.
“And why should it fall unto me to save
This treacherous monster from herself?
To risk cold iron against my own throat?”
The petal descends against your body.
What once you craved now sends shivers.
“There are but two ways to end a monster.
The first is the path of understanding.
It is painful for both you and her alike,
That I truly understand and sympathize.
The second is a bloody petal in the night,
The descending axe of the woodsman,
The ending of all that could ever be.
To become a monster of your own.
To know you would rather murder
Than risk understanding an enemy.
I do not ask you to save this girl,
I task you with saving yourself.”
A New Garden
You have founded a court of wayward fey.
A demigoddess who sees an entire mountain
And believes it is not enough for her people.
A creature clad in vibrant catlike cloths,
Hiding writhing shadows below them,
And hiding a human soul deeper still.
They are both new to the ways of the fairy court.
The conqueror has been a fairy for mere days.
The undead masquerade has for years she could
Have counted on the hands that she once had.
Both are little more than sprouts before you,
Children in need of guidance that humans
Could neither understand nor provide.
It is a service to your type, a trickle
That will someday drown a tyrant.
Tonight they are busy with the human
Who has claimed dominion over them.
You bask in the moon’s gentle glow,
Not alone, but with the child you
Sought to hold under your petal.
“Now that you have won the freedom
You so desperately craved, tell me
What do you plant to do with it?
Tell me, what are the ambitions
You once fought, or perhaps,
Complained, so mightily for?”
“No fucking idea.” This is unsurprising.
It is rare that he holds an idea in his head.
You will celebrate if he ever has a good one.
“I’m just trying to support my friend now.
It’s even better that it lets me spite Jabari.”
“And do you not hold any grand ambition?
I recall you having many when first we met.
Has seeing your dream come to fruition
Not inspired you to even grander dreams?”
He glowers. This has become a common fight.
You can already anticipate the next ten lines.
Perhaps there will be an eleventh tonight.
He opens that this would have gone better
If only someone, somewhere had a plan.
He wanted this and had no plan of his own.
He still insists that the crafting of schemes
Was a problem for some other person.
What you want, what you may never see,
Is for him to admit that he did not know
What it was he needed to do to save lives.
Next time, if it comes, he will be prepared.
You do not get a satisfying answer tonight
And the child’s patience wears thin. Fine.
“I still disbelieve that you have no ambition
Of your own hiding deep within your heart.
Are you moved only by spite and friendship?”
“For now,” he says. “Rushing in didn’t help.
I want to think my next move through
Since I have time to wait for a little bit.
Not making the same mistake twice.”
No. Instead, he makes a novel one,
Believing he has time to contemplate.
You will blink your eye and he will
Be nothing more than bone and dust.
You have discussed the proper shade
Of gold for six years with your mother.
He does not have time to truly deliberate.
He does not have time to truly live,
Even if he survives the present crisis.
You have only succeeded in bringing
Yourself grief before he has even passed.
What a rousing success this has been.
Surely you can spare time for trivial things.
“Has this break given you time to pursue
A mate for yourself to grow new blooms?
Is that not the purpose of your books?”
“The books are just for feeding Moe.”
He insists, like you may believe his words.
The ghost is well-fed in the present war.
“And I’m not really swimming in options.
Cuicatl is more like a little sister to me.
Danielle’s a boomer in a child’s body.
“Lyra is gay. And I can’t have kids, anyway.”
“And whatever is it you mean by ‘gay?’”
Humans have curious words whose
Meanings come and go with no notice
Given to the flowers of the meadow.
“Are you fucking with me right now?”
He looks concerned. Maybe alarmed.
His heart has surged and he frowns.
Have you found the knowledge
Humans hoard all to themselves
Lest others know their weakness?
“I am not fucking you, figuratively,
And you would surely know if I were
Doing so in the more literal sense.”
‘Fucking’ may be his favorite word,
Uttered on nearly any occasion,
However far divorced it may be
From the word’s proper meaning.
“Okay, so, uh.” It is an inspiring start.
“There are some boys who only want
To date other boys and stuff. And some
Girls only really want to date other girls.”
How intriguing. You had long known
That humans, as animals, each bore
Only a stamen or a pistel, not both.
Kekoa had explained that some
Were not happy with what nature
Had seen fit to give them, and chose,
Instead, to take on the other’s role.
It is a truly meaningless distinction
Upon which meaning has been placed.
“Does this not inhibit reproduction?
To have only the organs of one sex
And to seek only the same organ?
Is this why you changed your flower?
To lure stamen-seekers with stamens
Of their own, a trick so they may
Pollinate your pistil unaware?”
If this is true, it is quite clever.
“Holy shit I don’t even know where
To start with all of that,” he says.
“Are you doing this on purpose?
Is homophobia just some bit?
“I am not asking out of fear, although,
I must confess, I do not know what it is
You are inquiring that I may be fearful of.”
He blinks repeatedly. Raises and lowers
A finger as his mouth opens and closes
Like that of a fish gasping for oxygen.
“I didn’t transition just to pick up men.
I don’t even really
like them like that.
And gay people can’t have kids, well,
Biologically. Not with their partner.
Unless one of them is trans, and they’re
Okay with being pregnant or whatever.
I wouldn’t be. That’s why I can’t have kids.”
“Do you not have a stamen?” you ask.
“I believed that to be the point in
Changing your role, to pollinate
Rather than be pollinated in kind.”
“I, uh, holy shit. No one explained this to you?
Ever? You seem to know a lot about humans.”
“I have heard of your kind only through stories.
I must confess, I have yet to hear a florges speak
Of how it is the humans come to make offspring.
I did not believe it to be particularly intriguing.
It seems I was wrong.” It is the grandest apology
You believe it likely you will ever give to him.
“Right. Homeschooled in your meadow or whatever.
I still have female… parts. You really shouldn’t ask
This to a trans person, or anyone, but here we are.”
“And Lyra is not attracted to you, despite the pestil?”
“She’s not doing it on purpose,” he whispers to wind.
“She just doesn’t know.” He opens soil-colored eyes
And raises his voice, unaware of the noises you can hear.
It is a useful gap. You will stay silent now for future gain.
“There are loads of other differences between sexes.
Shoulders, voice, facial hair, muscles, fat, hips, height.
We’re into that stuff more than what’s between our legs.”
Huh. You suppose the pestil-baring humans
Are shorter than their stamened counterparts.
“How curious, I had never before noticed this.”
The brat’s eye twitches. “Don’t tell me,
That all humans look the same to you?”
He asks with barely restrained rage.
Can they really tell the minute differences?
Humans have bland colors and stale scents.
You are still learning to distinguish them.
“I must confess, they truly do.”
He sits in contemplative silence.
You are happy to indulge this.
The impulse may serve him well.
“We’re talking about literally
Anything else now, that okay?”
He has revealed a subject
Of a great deal of intrigue
As well as a potential weakness.
What all could be hiding beneath
That of which he will not speak?
You will let the matter rest now.
In due time you shall return.
“Is there any singular subject
Which you wish to discuss?”
He exhales with great force.
“Yeah, actually. I met Gen
After that weird cake party.
She seems to be doing okay,
You know, all things considered.”
“Her brother isn’t. He’s afraid.
Grieving. Paranoid. Maybe violent.
Wants to kill the metagross that
Orphaned him while he watched.
I get it. I really do. But he’s an idiot.
He’s going to get himself killed
Trying to avenge the dead.
Won’t get to live his own life.
Noci won’t even give a shit.
Best case? She doesn’t notice.
“I tried to tell him all this,
But the kid won’t listen.
Not now. Not when it’s raw.
He’s hurt. I
know the feeling.
If I walk away, am I responsible
For what happens to him next?
Genesis sure as shit can’t help.
I don’t owe it to him or anything.
No one helped me after Hoenn.
Figured someone else would.
Wasn’t
their goddamn problem.
But if I did decide to reach out,
I’m worried I’d just fuck it up.”
You wanted to see flowers bloom
Even in the desolate wastelands.
A flower has grown in your charge
And now he forms his own garden.
You are proud of him and yourself.
“It sounds like you know what to do
And simply wish to avoid that path.
That child could use supervision
And he must be terribly lonely.”
“What if I make a mistake?”
“I will be there assisting you
And we shall make it together.”
The Monster
You know what it is you should do
And simply wish to avoid that path.
The Monster is almost never alone.
There is always a human or slave
Tending to even her slightest need.
Tonight she sits by herself at the edge
Of the clearing lined by charred trees.
You will not get a better chance to speak.
Cold iron burns against your throat.
You will always feel it around her,
However long you choose to wait.
You get within one of her body lengths
And still she does not notice your presence.
Perhaps you can indulge in a juvenile prank.
“Boo,” you pronounce, and she jolts in place.
“Armoranth,” she says, voice cold as iron.
“To what do I owe the pleasure tonight?”
“There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.
Tell me, do I speak to Cuicatl or her shadow?”
She tilts her head. “Can’t you tell by now?
I have an entirely different accent from her.”
All human growls sound more or less the same.
They seem offended when you note these things.
“I cannot. Now, who is it I am speaking to now?”
“Danielle,” she says slowly, as if speaking to a child.
“Do you have to talk with Cuicatl? I can mediate.”
Cuicatl’s shadow did not order a metal monstrosity
To hold you in its grasp, blades pressed into your skin.
She did not summon an army to wage bloody war
And plunge this land into a famine with no clear end.
In truth, she may not be much of a monster at all.
“I am afraid that I must speak with Cuicatl herself,
For you have been scarcely involved in these matters.”
“Listen,” she commands, as if you are obligated to follow.
“We’re going through a lot. She doesn’t need your shit.
If you start lecturing her, this talk will be over, understand?”
“I understand what you wish to convey.” You may not obey.
The human raises a hand to pet a creature that is not there.
Then she lowers it as if you may not have noticed the action.
She relies on her slaves so much that being alone is upsetting.
The Monster makes no move to start the conversation.
You suppose the burden now falls upon your shoulders.
“Tell me, why is it that you started this present suffering?
Were you truly only moved by this ‘love’ of your servant,
Or perhaps fear of your own insignificance without her?
The Monster bristles as her crimes are dragged to light.
“I do love her. And I’m tired of people being taken away.
Maybe that wasn’t the best course,
I get that,” she spits,
Sounding very much like she does not, in fact, ‘get that.’
“I had just been yelled at for things that weren’t my fault
And then found out that Doctor Karashina had been lying
And that Alice was dead and my entire life had been a lie.”
“How dramatic, to hear one lie and insist everything is false.”
Her anger seems to falter, confusion seeping into her façade.
“Wait, did Kekoa or the florges not tell you that I was a faller?
My life was
literally a lie. Or maybe Tapu Lele’s idea of a joke.”
She is now holding intriguing information over your head,
No doubt hoping that you are willing to bargain to get it.
Your pride insists you to at least attempt to use trickery.
“Tell me, of what fall do you speak? What do I not know?”
She tells you, for free, betraying her draconic simplicity,
Of the actions of a fairy-god of these islands, your aunt,
And a growing conspiracy of humans and pokémon alike,
All weaving a marvelous illusion with no clear purpose.
This does sound like it could be a wonderful prank,
With one clear caveat: there is no clear justification.
There must be something to be gained from jests.
Some action done to justify the comeuppance.
All she did was survive, alive and incoherent.
“I know now that I should have waited a while.
Dr. Karashina could have taken me to Sinnoh.
There were better ways to keep Coco with me.
But I don’t regret it. The whole system was cruel.
It sent Kekoa from home to home because caring
For an orphaned child was just too much to ask.
It didn’t help Genesis and then let her parents go.
They were all so fucking
happy in that hearing,
Knowing that they could punish me for my skin,
For my culture, for all the things I can’t control,
And that they would get away with everything.
The police of this country lied to me for months
Because it was easier than having a difficult talk.
America is cruel. Sometimes it really wants to be,
Sometimes it’s just too damn lazy for kindness.
I don’t care which it is. They needed to go away.
I shouldn’t have done this. But I don’t regret it.”
She sounds like The Lady of the Scarlet Forest,
Ranting about why a garden needed pruned,
Unaware or uncaring of the lives lived below.
“It seems that I should not expect an apology
For ordering cold iron placed upon my throat
And threatening to take my very life from me.”
The Monster has the gall to look confused,
As if she cannot remember every person
Whom she has threatened with death.
Then she raises a finger above the rest
And opens her mouth to speak to you.
“I just found out you’d enslaved Kekoa.
Wasn’t making the mistake of getting
Snared into my own contract with you.
Probably wouldn’t have actually done it.
Wouldn’t have if you’d just released him.”
You ready a gleam of hateful light in defense.
“You admit readily to rejecting diplomacy
Because you are simply better at brutality
And believe this rationale redeems you?
What right do you have to condemn
Binding contracts freely entered into,
When you have ensnared a half dozen
Sentient creatures into your service?”
The Monster rolls her eyes at you—
Rolls her eyes! The sheer audacity!
As if she believes you to be childish
And she the pinnacle of mature logic.
Your lights gleam brighter all around.
She ignores that which she cannot see.
“They could leave whenever they want.
Kahakū’s here because she wants my help.
Mitzcococtonaz is my daughter, not slave.
I’m not sure why Nocitlālin does anything,
But I couldn’t make her stay against her will.
Oquichtliyoh gets food and safe-ish fights.
Cuepiltia already left his trainer before,
And he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
Madeline’s grieving and wanted friends.
I tried to keep a pokémon with me before.
I used your tricks, words and contracts,
Thought it was better than using force.
It was a mistake. I should have let her.
I know that now. I can let people go.”
The Monster makes a shuttering sigh
And averts her unseeing eyes from you.
“No. No I can’t. I’m still a selfish girl.
Everyone leaves and I can’t stop it,
But I keep trying every single time.
I’ll probably try again next time, too.
And if you try to take someone away,
I’ll fight you for it, maybe physically.
That’s not some bargain, by the way.
That’s a dragon’s promise. I’ll do it.
You’ll be free to try and stop me.”
Water flows down her countenance
And you wonder what she is seeking.
Is she seeking to muddy your resolve?
She is unrepentant for acts of cold iron.
You do not even know which soul it was
She worked to keep bound in her service,
Nor the true means by which she did so.
Is she once more dangling information
Tantalizingly close to secure a bargain?
Why, then, would she give freely before?
Is she a mere sprout wilted by her grief?
Can Monsters mourn as deeply as you?
Yes. The florges have long known this.
Their grief overflows their own body
And they inflict it on others ten-fold.
Your pity would be here misplaced.
You will not give her the satisfaction
Of showering her with compassion.
The Monster steadies her breathing out.
“Thank you for helping Kekoa, by the way.
He was wanted to change the entire world,
But didn’t even help the people near him.”
She has seen your wasteland garden
And heaps upon it her own approval.
You now must question the endeavor
From its roots to its stem to its flower.
You shall find time under another moon.
The shadow may resurface herself soon.
“Is his old philosophy not your own?
To shake the trunk of the entire world
Expecting only good fruits to fall down?”
“It was never all about Alola or revolution.
Or even mostly about those things, really.
I thought it would help Coco and Kekoa.”
The Monster challenges the entire world
And then suggests that she did not do so.
“A king once slaughtered tens of thousands
All for the sake of a single cherished friend.
You have traded the fates of those you know
For those you do not, unaware or uncaring
Of their stories, their struggles, their lives.
What gives you the right to make this trade?”
“Nothing. Nothing but strength. I could. I did.
I take care of the people around me. Just them.
I have to hope other people are also doing that.
I can’t save everyone. No one can. Not even gods.”
“Is that it, then? You do not even pretend to care?”
“You know about alakazam, right? Really smart.
They try to think of everything that might happen
If they decided to do something. And they starve.
Even their big brains can’t figure everything out.
It takes too long to figure out if they’re going to eat,
If that might kill some caterpie in another country.
I can’t figure out how to save people close to me.
What chance do I have of finding the perfect answer?
I can’t help everyone. I just hurt people who hurt me.
Teach them not to do it again. That’s how dragons work.
If I hurt someone and don’t notice, they can hurt me back.
I’ll learn not to do it again. Words don’t work. No one cares.
Not really. You can beg them to do things and they won’t.
They forget words. They remember blood. Remember pain.
I hurt them, yeah, and I hope I won’t have to do it again.”
“Even you must have noticed the gap in your philosophy.
What happens when you hurt the small and helpless?
How are they supposed to teach you blood and pain?”
“If someone is going out of their way to hurt the weak,
The dragons get together and do something about it.
They’re going to judge me for the VStar stuff. I agreed.
It’s not just one person’s job. The community decides.
“I think you know all this, even if you say you don’t.
I threatened you, you didn’t talk to me about ethics.
You threatened to kill Kekoa. Threatened my life back.
I relented. Neither of us had to do go through it again.
Even your words are backed up by magic and threats.
The only difference between us is the laws we follow.
“I appreciate what you’ve done with Kekoa, really.
I’ll give you warnings as a reward. No life debts.
Not with people I care about. You do it, I attack.
You hurt or kill people I care about, I will attack.
Everything else, you do it and you get a warning.
Do it again and I kill you. Does that sound good?”
She is not a fairy. She cares not for mercy and justice.
Yet it appears that she has rules, strange as they seem.
She hurts and kills and conquers and sleeps soundly.
Yet she does not harm or kill or conquer on a whim.
She does not claim the entire world as her own,
Like many humans have before her and will after.
She sits upon her hoard of human and pokémon,
And lashes out whenever any trespasser intrudes.
But what is the difference between a hoard of souls
And a beautiful garden defended against the world?
Your mother did not tolerate theft of her flowers.
She would have slain those looking to capture you.
But it was your carelessness by which you were seen.
It was unjust to make her besieged by the whole world.
You would have had to leave eventually, on your terms.
What difference did it make to accelerate the process?
(A lot. You barely had time to prepare for departure.)
Was cold iron on your throat the madness of a monster
Or a gardener deterring a trespasser from her crimes?
You are not comfortable with her rejection of society
In favor of cold iron, bloody fangs and piled corpses.
You are beginning to understand what drives her on.
She is less The Monster, and more The Bloodied Thorn
That will prick again and again until finally left alone.
“I understand your proposal and will avoid harming you.
However, I will not spare you my criticism when you error.”
“That’s fine. I can handle words. Especially when I’m wrong.”
What an odd child.
A dragon’s heart.
A human’s soft skin.
A tool for fairies
And queens alike,
Bound by neither.
You suppose you will invite her to the company of your aunt.
Perhaps the Violet Lady will better know what to make of her.
