Sastrei
Emotional spelunker
Chapter Two, Prelude: Three Lives at Once
Kanto Region, Cinnabar Island
Winter, 1985
---
The mirror lies. Or at least that's what Blaine keeps telling himself.
Though the day outside is overcast – typical of the Island's depressing, if brief, winter – enough evening sunlight is coming through the bathroom window to make his internal declaration hard to believe. At forty-five years old, it's not like he's a dead man. Why, many of the Island's residents of similar age and gender have proudly stated, "fifty is the new thirty now!"
Blaine pulls down on one of the bags hanging under his eyes. That's not entirely from age – he's historically been terrible at sleeping, with a brain that just doesn't seem to shut up, and never has even from childhood.
The worst part of the mirror, though, is the shiny, conspicuous patch of bare skin smack on top of his head.
Blaine hates being bald. With a disgruntled sigh, he palms a small glass bottle on the marble sink and splashes a few drops of tonic into one palm, only to begrudgingly rub it into that same bare patch of head-skin a moment later. Mister Fuji – who of course has a full head of thick, wonderful hair still – says this stuff works miracles. Blaine is so far vehemently unimpressed.
Abruptly, nearly causing the bottle of 'miracle' tonic to jostle loose from his hand — there's a knock at the front door. Blaine's charcoal eyes widen even as he frowns in curiosity, the lines around his mouth deepening.
This is strange for two reasons: one, it's the off-season and hardly anyone visits the Cinnabar Gym in the winter, and two, well – there's not a whole lot of people Blaine talks to, in general. Other than his Pokemon of course, but he has yet to teach his Magmar how to knock prior to entering a room. Human manners are lost on most Pokemon, particularly Fire-types, that live with such vivacity and tenaciousness.
"Coming," he announces, with a swift clear of his throat. He's still in his gold and red silk bathrobe but he doesn't care as he makes his way to the front door, past looming statues of majestic Fire pokemon from all over the world, their stances and bristling fur seeming to radiate heat.
When he opens the door, he completely forgets about his hair.
The woman in the entryway is about his height, if slightly shorter. She's wearing a lavender, wide-brimmed hat that hides her eyes. Her shoes were once nice, of the same color, but the scuffs at the toes tell of some recent neglect. Just peeking out beneath a long beige trenchcoat is a suitcase. A bit of what looks like a sleeve is sticking out of the top of it haphazardly.
The circular black glasses clinging to the bridge of Blaine's nose tumble to the ground, landing on the welcome mat. "Lor… Lorraine?"
The woman lifts her head now, just enough to reveal a pair of emerald-green eyes, ashen skin and a desperate, if hopeful smile. "Hello, big brother. I hope I'm not bothering you."
Blaine blinks, a thousand gears in his mind clinking at once, but he has the right of mind to at least step back and allow her inside. "Ah, no, not at all. Not much going on around the Island these days, truthfully." As she steps inside he notices she seems to be favoring one leg. There's also a small, but conspicuous rip in her pantyhose, just beneath the hem of her knee length skirt.
Something dark sinks into Blaine's stomach. "Is everything alright, Lorraine?"
She shrugs as she sets down her suitcase beside the sofa. "Yes and no, I guess."
"Not that I don't adore seeing you, sister, but you're not usually one for unannounced visits. Only reason I'm asking, honest," he continues, cementing her welcomed status as best he can.
That lavender hat is hung on the series of hooks by the door. Now free, Lorraine shakes loose a head of thick, reddish-blonde hair (Blaine has always been jealous that she got the good-hair genes). She keeps her trenchcoat on though as she looks around the room, pursing her lips slightly, and nodding as if in approval at his decorative tastes.
"Do you have any chamomile tea, by chance?" she asks. A few of her slender fingers reverently trace a stone Arcanine's face as it guards the doorway.
Blaine nods. Then waits. Then waits some more, only to finally realize there's no more conversation happening right now. At least, not until tea is involved.
"I'll make some right now!" he announces cheerfully, cutting this decidedly strange mood with forced alacrity. "You still like yours with honey?"
"You remembered," Lorraine says softly, a smile ghosting her lips. She still won't sit down and keeps idly wandering the room, her heels clicking on the tile. "You were always the softie out of the two of us."
"You're my little sister," Blaine intones proudly from the kitchen, putting the kettle on. "Plus, I might be 18 years older than you, but I haven't lost my wits yet. It's my job to take care of you, after all."
He hears her footsteps follow him into the kitchen now, amid the clinking of porcelain mugs and the first hisses of boiling water. When he turns around she's right behind him in the doorway. He blinks, surprised.
"I… Well, I was hoping you'd say that," Lorraine all but whispers, her gaze dropping to the floor. Gingerly, she undoes the trio of buttons on her trenchcoat and beneath all that beige canvas fabric is a dark grey blouse that clearly doesn't fit. Why doesn't it fit? Blaine's eyes thin in confusion, it's like her proportions are off, or maybe she's just eaten a really big meal before she arrived –
Oh.
Oh.
"I wasn't showing this much until a few weeks ago, I swear," she continues, laughing a little as she peers down at her rounded stomach. "But you can only hide it so long, I'm afraid."
The kettle is screaming now, and Blaine nearly burns his hand fumbling to remove it from the stove. "I – Lori, I didn't even know. I'm so sorry. Holy jeez, congratulations!"
That's what you're supposed to say, right? Blaine and Lorraine (yes their parents rhymed their names on purpose; trickery and irony runs in the family) haven't had a bad relationship per se, but they've never been what Blaine had considered close. He's trying his best to handle this like not only a big brother but a decent human being. What's a normal thing to say next, um – "How far along…?"
"Three or four months, I think," she says, and the smile on her face now is genuine and kind. It makes that hollow look on the doorstep seem lightyears away.
"That's wonderful," Blaine beams. This is his sister. He's going to be an uncle, and that's abruptly the single coolest, most exciting thing to ever happen to him, even if he didn't think it was possible.
"He left," Lorraine says flatly.
Blaine's elation deflates like a punctured balloon. "W-who? The father?"
"We were engaged," she continues, trying to hide her eyes behind her hair as they glisten with tears. "I lived with him, I– he was everything to me. But when I started showing, he left. He didn't want a baby."
And now a new emotion surges in Blaine's chest – this is a veritable kaleidoscope right now, isn't it? It's white-hot, and simmering, even in his voice when he asks: "Why?"
"I don't know," Lorraine says, her voice cracking. She holds one hand to her mouth. "I don't know, Blaine. I feel so stupid. I'm so sorry to come here, I know you have your own life, but I didn't know where else to go, and I–"
Her voice is like shards of glass and he silences it with a gentle, life-affirming hug. She instantly starts crying into his shoulder, and even though his brain is still reeling there is a definite grounding in the raw, human pain of her sobs. They stand there in the kitchen doorway. He's never been good at this. Should he say something? What can he say?
He decides to just be a human with her, to share in this moment of darkness with no expectations. And he doesn't know how long passes before those sobs start to ease, but they do.
"I've got you, Lori," he manages hoarsely. "Both of you. Don't you worry about a thing."
She seems to only have the strength to nod against his shoulder. It's easy to guide her down the hall to the bed; he brings her suitcase with them, and leaves it in the room with her as he begins to close the door.
"Thank you, big brother," she whispers.
He smiles a little as he closes the door. "Get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up."
Click. Door closes. Blaine stares down at his bare feet, toes squishing into the grey carpet. Numbly, he manages to get to the living room couch and collapses into it like so much jam preserves. Apricot, likely – that's his favorite. He absently realizes he's hungry; his stomach groans at him like a perturbed frog.
"Well, shit," he declares, to no one. "Time to get to work."
Johto Region, Northern Blackthorn Mountains
Winter, 1985
---
Just because he's not four yet doesn't mean he can't be the leader.
"Come on!" Lance shouts, waving one arm with enthusiasm. His voice echoes through the trees and forms a huge puff of steam from his lips. The air up here this time of year is like breathing ice; Lance doesn't mind the cold, but it does mean he's bundled in about a half dozen layers of clothing his mother won a hard-fought battle to put on him ("Hold still, you wiggly Dratini," she'd told him through simultaneous laughs and sighs). Though it keeps him warm, Lance feels slow and clunky as he clambers over piles of ancient boulders on all fours, his face beaming, gloved fingers fighting for purchase on the uneven granite surface.
It's stupid he doesn't have wings. Dragonite have wings. Why can't he?
This thought causes a momentary frown as he shoves his foot into a stony opening, using the leverage to launch himself up the last bit of hill and finally onto flat earth.
Behind him, the grown-up members of his clan have chosen to walk the premade, smooth dirt path to the same location, which isn't nearly as fun as what Lance has done. Grown-ups are so boring.
All of that is quickly forgotten, though, when his wide eyes – an iron-grey his father has mentioned reflects his spirit well – land upon the still, half-frozen lake amid the clearing just in front of him. It's midday, and the sunlight makes the ice sparkle brilliantly.
"Whoa," Lance breathes, creating another puff of breath.
This is the first year he's been old enough to accompany the clan elders to this place. A Blackthorn clan tradition, the Midwinter Meet is held on the shortest day of the year, when sunlight holds the least sway – in order to honor the natural powers of cold and ice, one of the Dragon's most prolific weaknesses.
No one type of Pokemon is strongest; Lance has already learned from Kaburagi that nature keeps itself balanced that way, but both Pokemon and people can grow stronger over time by consciously acknowledging their weaknesses. This, he's learned from his father, who ruffles Lance's windswept reddish hair as he strides by.
"Can we start th'fire yet?" Lance asks, jostling from one foot to the other to stay warm.
It's Kaburagi that answers; though in his early sixties now, the respected leader seems no worse for wear after the hour-long hike. He gives Lance a mischievous grin as they all head towards the lake. "Already too cold, are we, young one?"
"Nuh-uh," Lance retorts promptly. "Not cold. But I want Matron to make stew. 'S lunchtime."
Kaburagi pats him on the back. "Then make yourself useful and gather firewood! We all have a part to play, including you!"
Lance's face becomes awash with singular, pointed determination. "Right!" And he's dashing into the woods, gaze scanning the ground for appropriately sized twigs and branches. Behind him, he hears the clan members conversing, dragging the old, worn wooden benches around the fire pit, setting up the cast iron pot. Excitement bubbles in his stomach. Or maybe that's just hunger.
Turns out that the trees right around the clearing are pretty skinny and useless – Lance has only managed to shove like four twigs into his satchel, not nearly enough to impress anyone – so he presses onward. There probably should be a nagging thought in the back of his mind to not go too far – but at this point in his life, he's been reminded of safety less times than he's been reminded to show bravery and strength, so the latter wins easily.
Eventually he finds it: the perfect pile of dead branches, nestled beside a sprawling, barren tree. It looks like a wooden mountain to him. In fact there are multiple mounds of dead wood here – they almost seem to form a line, or a fence that curves out of sight, beyond a stony outcrop nearby.
Then Lance is instantly and haphazardly stuffing as many pieces of wood as he can into his satchel. He's humming a song to himself, the one his mother often sings while tending their garden in the summer.
When he picks up the last one – the bag is really heavy now – he stops humming.
Beneath the empty space left by the branch, something moves.
Lance freezes in place. Sheer surprise wants him to stumble backwards but even being a kid still, he knows this is a wiser decision than turning tail and running.
What's sitting there is black, mostly. The longer he stares at it, he can see the black is surrounded by something green and… well, scaly, Lance thinks. It kind of reminds him of pictures of a Dragonair's skin. This thought instantly comforts him – Dragons are kind and strong protectors, after all – and any fear that remained now turns into sizzling curiosity.
So he pokes it with a stick.
Beneath his boots, the ground thrums. Snow falls from the nearby trees. And in the middle of all that darkness he poked, a vibrant yellow eye twice the size of his head snaps open.
Its pupil is round and so deeply black, he fears he might fall in and never come out. Those mounds of wood start to shift and shiver; their collapse sounds like a sudden rainstorm. He sees more green skin – it's everywhere among the grey, naked trees. Only now does Lance realize whatever is in front of him is also over there, which means this thing is huge, and maybe those aren't tree branches after all, but horns?
Run? Scream? Wet his pants? All three?
No, not an option. If this is a Dragon, he can't run.
Instead, Lance bows. So deeply his torso is parallel with the earth, and partially because if he just doesn't look at it, maybe it'll go away.
"S-sorry," he chitters; the cold and fear are combining to wage war with the steadiness of his voice and jaw. "For p-poking you, I mean. Hope it didn't hurt."
He keeps staring at the ground, eyes wide, listening. Possibly waiting to be devoured whole. There's more of that rainlike wood sound, more vibration beneath his boots, shaking his bones. And a slow, calm hiss like a sigh.
Only when silence remains does Lance look up. Through the falling snow, he barely catches a glimpse of flashing emerald green, smudges of yellow and red, before the thing's long body disappears above the low clouds.
"Whoa," Lance says again. He's smiling as he picks up the last stick. The satchel is so heavy he has to drag it on the ground, leaving a trail in the snow.
Within a few minutes, he makes it back to the clearing, although he's calling out much sooner: "Kaburagi! Elder! Father!"
All three men are seated in a semicircle around the stone pit. Kaburagi finishes sipping from a wooden mug, then flashes that bright, gap-toothed smile at Lance again. "That bag weighs more than you, boy! Well done–"
"I saw something!" Lance announces breathlessly, finally dropping the bag at the unlit fire pit. One hand is pointing furiously to the sky. "It was sooooo big, and it flew away when I poked its eye with my stick!"
This garners mixed reactions from the three men before him, ranging from mirth to keen interest. The Elder is first to respond, his long braided silver hair hanging down over his shoulders as he bends to more clearly see Lance's face. It's well known the Elder is going blind, although not completely. He motions Lance closer, who obeys, still gulping down breath.
"What did you see?" the Elder asks, his weathered voice intent. "And be specific."
Honestly, this is more intimidating to Lance than that thing in the woods. He swallows hard, digging the toe of his boot into the snow. "Um. It was real long. And green. And had a big yellow eye. I think its mouth was red. I thought it was gonna eat me, maybe," he finishes, somewhat sheepishly.
Father, Kaburagi, and the Elder all exchange a tense, silent glance. Lance has that feeling he gets often, like the grown-ups are talking without talking.
"He's ready," Father finally says. He sounds sad, somehow.
Kaburagi breathes a huff of protest. "He's too young!"
"It's the Dragon's decision," the Elder interjects. "On today, of all days? No coincidences. We must obey."
Their voices are so weird. Lance doesn't like it. Besides, he's even colder and hungrier than he was before the Big Yellow Eye. He starts stacking his branches in the stone pit, pretending not to listen. It's not the cold that makes him shiver this time.
"He's ready," he hears Father repeat.
Kanto Region, Cinnabar Island
Fall, 1986
---
"She's ready," the doctor is saying. He sounds almost excited; Lorraine is anything but, sprawled on a small hospital bed in a messy tangle of limbs and wavy strawberry hair, breath hissing through gritted teeth. A stethoscope is being held to her bulging abdomen; she hopes her voice makes the man go deaf.
"She can't be ready," Lorraine growls, but she's also crying too, because of hormones, because of this shitty situation – "It's too early, isn't it?"
"Well, technically, yes," the doctor divulges. He's a portly man in his sixties, the only obstetric specialist on Cinnabar Island, or else Lorraine would've switched him out months ago. "Four weeks is just on the edge of preterm labor, but many infants do well at this stage."
"'Many'?" She mocks incredulously. "This is my daughter, not a statistic! Has anyone found my brother?"
A nurse somewhere nearby speaks up, softly: "We're trying, ma'am, but it seems he hasn't returned from his trip as scheduled."
Of course not, Lorraine thinks, her head sagging back against the stiff pillow with its crunchy paper case. Granted, labor four weeks early was not part of her or Blaine's plans, but he just had to go on that stupid expedition up Cinnabar's highest mountain with that friend of his, Mr. Fuji. The timing is just right, he'd told her, that sparkly light of curiosity and discovery in his eyes that made him seem like a kid again. If we leave tomorrow, we can have a perfect view of the comet!
"Her heartbeat is healthy and steady," portly doctor is telling Lorraine, for once saying something she actually wants to hear. "Right now, there is no urgent rush. Might I suggest some controlled breathing? It may slow the contractions."
Controlled breathing. Okay. Lorraine can manage that. She purses her lips, brow furrowed, and inhales slowly.
It took a lot of controlled breathing when she first packed her suitcase, intending to head to Cinnabar.
Even more when she had walked aimlessly around her apartment back in Celadon – past gaping, haunted holes in the wall – desperately trying to believe she wasn't left alone, or there was a note somewhere, or that her fiance's departure was simply a mistake.
There hadn't been a note, and it wasn't a mistake.
"I can do that," she whispers, the pain in her pelvis easing into a dull ache. "Just, please, someone find Blaine. He's up the mountain studying comets. He has to be here."
Her eyes are closed now, in meditative concentration, but she hears that same nurse with the sweet voice: "Yes, Ms. Katsura. I'll send someone right away."
—
This wasn't supposed to be happening.
Blaine considers himself a man of above average intelligence. When planning this expedition – which had taken weeks – he and Mr. Fuji had been sure to check and double check every weather forecast. Clear skies, they said. At most, a stray cloud. Perfect comet-viewing conditions.
Definitely not sheets of biting snow.
"Fuji!" Blaine yells, but his voice is getting hoarse by now, and the wind's grown so loud he knows the sound probably isn't carrying that far anyway. Even though he's wearing thick, rugged boots, his toes are getting cold. And forget about his fingers, or rather, small icicles – his packing list had definitely not included gloves.
About ten minutes ago he still had sight of the nearest trail marker. He doesn't know where Fuji is, and until now finding his friend had been his priority. But there's so much snow now – Blaine is squinting through it, his glasses having been tossed from his face by the wind ages ago – that he can't see the marker anymore.
He pulls his arms inside his sweater vest for warmth. Vaguely, he senses the way he came from, but it's entirely possible that's just fool's hope.
It has to be good enough. He trudges forward, one laborious step at a time.
—
Many miles away, Lance is also very cold.
His iron-grey eyes are wide with hesitation as he stares down at the lakeshore. The toes of his boots are right in front of the transition point, where cold sand gradually gives way to sprawling ice. It's late enough in the fall season, and high enough in the mountains, that the freeze has already begun.
He was here earlier this year, too. He's spent several months since then beholding tales from the clan elders, about how his personal contact with the Dragon God meant he'd been 'chosen'. The elders had made him draw the Pokemon he'd seen, to the best of his ability – which as a three-year-old was rather limited, but enough.
Apparently, the Dragon he'd encountered had never been seen in the Blackthorn mountains before; when it chose to visit Johto, which it rarely did, it nested itself on the opposite side of the region in a very old tower built by people from another land. So Lance finding it where he had was downright miraculous.
Despite all of their talking, Lance is still a little confused. But he knows that today, because of his chosen status, is his trial.
Usually, young ones underwent their trials around age ten. That age was safer, and had a higher success rate. Even so, several other young ones in the clan still hadn't fulfilled their trials the first time. He remembers their defeated return to the city, the pained looks on their faces, the sheer exhaustion in their eyes.
Though he's trying his best not to show it, this makes Lance super nervous.
But all the elders are behind him, figuratively and literally, right now. Dozens of them, in their ceremonial blue, ocher, and black uniforms, dotted between the evergreen trees. He can feel their eyes on him. No one speaks. The Matron is singing a low, slow song in a language he only partially recognizes.
He hears the crunching of snow; though his gaze is fixated ahead, he senses Father beside him. A familiar low, quiet voice tells him:
"It's time."
Lance swallows hard, but he nods. Then, step by step, he walks onto the frozen lake, alone.
—
"It's time," the doctor is saying now. He pulls his stethoscope out of his ears and wraps it around his neck. All traces of his relaxed demeanor are gone; his puffy, red face is tense with urgency. "I'm sorry, Lorraine. She can't wait any longer."
The cool towel on her forehead is doing little to stem the sweat. Lorraine is grabbing fistfuls of the aseptic white sheet beneath her, twisting her hands until her knuckles are white, too. "My brother?" she manages, though it's more of a growl.
This time, it's not just the nurse's voice, but a small, kind hand on her shivering shoulder. "We're working on it, ma'am. It seems there was a freak snowstorm up on the mountain tonight. But I'm sure your brother is alright."
Why in all the hells would they tell her this now? As if labor alone in a room full of strangers isn't enough –
"Don't worry about that right now," comes the doctor's voice. Lorraine doesn't hate him as much anymore. "I need you to push."
With a scream, she does as she's told.
—
Blaine's legs are jelly. His jaw aches from chattering teeth.
I have to push on, he tells himself. There's a sense of tiredness in his bones that he didn't think could exist, like he's wearing a one-ton backpack. His eyes are heavy; he can't feel his fingers anymore. Either he's going deaf or the wind is dying down, he isn't sure which.
He forces his gaze upward, through the whirling snowflakes. He blinks. There are no stars, not even a moon, certainly not any comets – but just behind the edge of a distant peak, something starts to glow.
He blinks again, almost certain he's hallucinating. The glow remains. It's a reddish-orange, the color of flames.
Despite everything, Blaine smiles. It's goofy and lopsided. His brain isn't working too great right now and the only thought he can coherently form is I like flames. Just enough feeling returns to his legs for him to take more steps. The light is closer now, cutting though the cold darkness brilliantly; he finds himself reaching for it, with those fingers he can't feel.
"What are you?" He asks the flames. They're taking shape now - a pair of wings, a graceful neck, a long beak. They don't answer, but he still follows. "How much farther?"
They don't answer that, either. But their warmth is reason enough to keep going.
—
"How much farther?" Lance asks no one. He has to make it across the lake, by any means necessary. He's been walking for what feels like hours – it's really only a few minutes, but fear stretches time thin for a three year old. During the trial, you're not supposed to look back to the shore, so he doesn't.
Not when he starts hearing cracks in the ice. Not even when he dares to gaze down at his feet, only to see liquid water a few inches under a thin, glasslike casing. Slightly ahead of him, the water starts to ripple a little, like there's something swimming under there. A Pokemon?
Another step – the breath leaves his lungs. His eyes sting; up becomes down and he's plunged into a world of cold, senses bombarded on all sides with crushing, frigid water, colder than anything he's ever felt, slamming up his nose and down the back of his throat. Somewhere in a corner of his mind he remembers he should swim, but he can't breathe, and it's so dark here, and his feet are so far from the bottom. He coughs but all that does is release bubbles.
Bubbles float. Bubbles go up.
Chest burning, Lance tries to do the same.
—
Something soft is under Blaine's cheek, and heavenly warm. He pries his eyes open to see a blazing electric sign above him – "Hosp." What's a hosp? There's a plume of fiery feathers, and they move now, slightly – "ital" is behind them. Oh, okay. Hospital. That makes more sense.
What doesn't make any sense at all is that he's clearly on the back of a Moltres. A Moltres. It is looking back at him calmly, over one folded wing, now that they've landed. He feels paralyzed by its gaze, though there is no malice whatsoever in its ancient, sky-blue eyes. If it could talk, it looks like it would be saying, 'anytime now, strange human.'
"Ah, right," Blaine blurts, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment. Probably rude to keep laying on the back of a legendary Pokemon now that he's awake. He expects to feel sore as he slides to the ground, given he just nearly froze to death, but honestly there's not a single twinge of pain anywhere in his body.
He turns to face the Pokemon now, and reflexively puts a hand over his heart. It is no exaggeration to say he's waited his whole life for this sight. Every single depiction of the beast falls pathetically short. His other hand reaches out tentatively; he's a child again, petting a Growlithe for the first time. Moltres meets his palm with the side of its head, which makes Blaine weep openly. Twenty minutes ago he was fairly certain he was going to die. Now he's in front of a hospital with his fingers in those impossibly flaming feathers.
"Beauty," he mutters numbly.
When Moltres straightens its lithe neck again, he's left with one of those feathers, barely-there and gently warm in his hand. The bird looks past him, towards the building's entrance, and Blaine follows its gaze, clutching the feather protectively. Was he brought here because Moltres thought he needed medical attention? He felt fine though, but maybe the Pokemon hadn't known that.
"Thank y–"
It's that quick. In a shower of embers, drifting lazily towards the ground, the bird is gone.
Still clutching the feather to his heart, Blaine sinks to his knees. He feels wholly and completely unworthy, but just as grateful, and just as full of warm, thrumming life.
"Mister Katsura!"
Someone is shouting his name; his mind is like scorched earth right now, but the sheer urgency and panic in that shout brings him to his senses. He stands up just as he spots a nurse running towards him, pointing frantically towards the hospital entrance. "There you are! Please hurry! Your sister is having her baby!"
This does the opposite of what Blaine thinks it should, really. There's no fear, no surprise. Just a pleasant, quiet warmth, similar to that feather in his hand.
"Thank you," he says. "Please, take me."
—
The sunlight is just above Lance's head. He didn't know his muscles could hurt this much. He flails frantically upwards, towards what he hopes is the surface. His feet keep kicking; his winter clothes are so heavy, and they keep pulling him back faster than he can go up. There's black at the corners of his vision. His chest is burning. He kicks again, but his eyes are closing. One last kick, one last push -
His right foot finds purchase on something. Then his left. Something else - or maybe the same something? - wraps around his waist, not to hurt, but to lift. Lance explodes out of the water, coughs wracking his small body when his lungs realize air is available again. Just as quickly as he's out of the water, he slams back onto solid ice, turning over onto all fours, breath sawing in and out of his throat in great heaves.
He's soaked, obviously, and his red hair is swept all over his face and eyes. Shivering, he pulls it back with one hand and blinks rapidly, which is a weird feeling since his eyeballs are completely numb.
Coiled in front of him, the tip of its cerulean tail flicking curiously, is a young Dratini. Its wide, dark eyes blink at him, their edges glinting in the evening sunlight. Lance gapes at it in awe; he realizes absently this Pokemon really shouldn't be here, it's way too cold, but so is he, and he thinks he shouldn't be here, either. Already they have something in common.
With great difficulty due to all the shivers, Lance points to the shoreline, where he hopes his family is waiting.
"Thank you," he rasps, with one more cough. "Please, take me."
The blackness behind his eyes wins, now. As he passes out onto the ice, the Dratini catches him, easing his limp body onto his back. It leaves a winding trail in the snow as they head for the shore.
—
"Where the hell have you been?"
Blaine deserves that. Lorraine's words are mostly roars. This whole day is a blur; he doesn't have it in him to feel overwhelmed, or guilty, or useless. He observes the chaos of the delivery room in quiet veneration. Never before has he been so acutely aware of life itself, both its power and fragility. His sister is seething, but it's hard to tell what's anger and what's raw, unfiltered strength as his one and only niece enters the world.
"I'm here now," Blaine tells both of them. He's still holding Moltres' feather in one hand, and it's still flaming with an impossible gentleness. The other takes his sister's hand and squeezes.
Lorraine's head sags back onto the bed in pure relief. The hospital staff rush around in silent, rehearsed movements – scissors here, a blanket there. And with a sharp, ear-piercing wail, she is handed her tiny human, all wiggles and fussy fists popping in and out of the soft fabric.
"Hello, Cora," Lorraine says.
All traces of suffering have vanished from her face. She beams at her daughter through strands of strawberry hair, just beginning to catch the last rays of sunlight from the ward's one and only window.
"Cora?" Blaine echoes, testing the name's sound. He smiles as he says it.
"It means 'heart'," Lorraine tells him, proudly.
Considering his glasses are somewhere up on the mountain, Blaine squints a little as he leans down to see his niece. She is understandably upset, having just left the quiet confines of her one and only home to enter into this cold, loud new world, and she is unrestrained in telling everyone just how upset she is.
"Blaine," Lorraine says, a little warily, "is your hand on fire?"
He holds up the flaming, golden feather, turning it this way and that for all three of them to see. Well, just he and his sister, really. Cora hasn't opened her eyes yet.
It occurs to him in a crash: Moltres hadn't brought him here for medical attention.
No, he was here for a greater purpose, indeed.
"It's a gift," Blaine decides. Cora's itty bitty fingers are opening and closing; he slips the stem of the feather between them, when he can, and much to his delight, she holds onto it instantly, clutching it close to her chest. "A gift from a friend."
—
When Lance awakens, he sees fire.
Before him is a blazing stone hearth; he groggily recognizes it as the Elder's den, where the clan often gathers for meetings or meals. Lance, though, is lying on the floor, on a pile of blankets at least a foot thick, and beneath one of similar size. There's still a lingering cold in his fingers and toes, but it's so much less intense than before he'd passed out, before he'd been rescued–
The memory bursts to life like a firework, and despite his woozy head he shoots up straight, scanning the room with wide grey eyes. They soften a moment later, though, because stretched out around him, in a gentle curve, is the dratini from the lake. It looks like it's just waking up with him, slowly raising its head and swiveling the white fins at its cheeks. At Lance's gaze, it lets out a small, curious coo.
"He hasn't left your side once," Kaburagi is saying, strolling into the den barefoot, a broad smile beneath his white mustache. "Barely lets anyone get close to you, in fact. I've never seen such a remarkable bond before."
Lance meets the dratini's eyes, feeling his own start to well with tears of shame. "But I didn't finish the trial, Kabu. I failed."
"Failed?" The elder laughs, taking a seat in his favorite wooden rocking chair, the creaking noise instantly familiar and comforting. "My boy, you're now the youngest Blackthorn Clan member to ever bond with a Dragon. Why there was a lone dratini swimming in the lake this time of year is a complete mystery, but the Elder and Matron both believe your meeting was fated." He bows his head now, reverently. "The Dragon God's wisdom prevails. The two of you are destined for great things. If only your grandfather could see you now."
Slowly, Lance's sense of dark failure becomes alight with curiosity, then realization, then a spark of excitement. He shakes the hair from his eyes and smiles a little. "You mean, I– I've got a dratini now? Really?"
As if in confirmation, the pokemon's blue tail lifts up, then flops across his lap like a seatbelt, the very tip twirling contentedly.
"More accurately," Kaburagi is grinning again, "the dratini has you."
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