Zekrom flew, and on its back were a human and a Pokémon…
Read the words. Mouth them silently, then aloud. Whisper them as you fall asleep, sing them to the dawn with the birds, trace the ink with your finger and rest your forehead against the pages. Understand them, absorb them. Memorize them. And finally, live them.
You know your friends are worried. You hear them, when they think you deaf to the world, discussing your behavior; how you won't eat, you hardly sleep, staying inside all day couldn't be healthy – and, of course, the most important question: What is so fascinating about those myths? And honestly, you want to tell them, but you know they won't understand, won't be able to help.
You are trying to forget N.
It's been hard, as you knew it would be. There are so many reasons – the fact that you are studying the creation myths, of all things, being among the chief ones – why you can't put the boy out of your mind. You had entered N-the-child's toy room and felt the presence of something sacred. (That train, going back and forth, trapped – you hadn't seen the significance then, but now you see it all.) You saw N in his most regal attire crowned with gold and draped in furs, seated on his throne. You thought, then, looking at his casual grace and almost thoughtless beauty, This is somebody I would follow to the ends of the world.
Seeing him in your mind's eye now, dressed plainly and seated beside you on the Ferris wheel, you muse, But this is someone I would follow to the next.
You find yourself almost unconsciously reaching for the warm Pokeball Reshiram is contained in and stop yourself. Three times, you whisper to yourself under your breath. Three times in the past half hour. You know, then, that you were wrong, thinking it was hard to forget N. It isn't hard to forget, it is impossible.
The last time you saw N, the day had been almost cruelly beautiful. You broke him – you know you did – broke his dreams, his fragile hopes, his trust in his own ability. He'd fled then, but even shattered he was still brilliant and dangerous, like a sharp-edged shard of a polished mirror. He knew – no, knows – you. Perhaps too well.
In the wake of Zekrom's flight a note had fluttered down, nearly falling out the building before you lunged and caught it. It had read, in N's delicate, flowing hand, Reshiram knows where to find me.
You bury yourself in your studies.
It has been three months. Three long, agonizing, painful months, filled with legends and creation myths and the dissection of every word and line in them. You can recite entire tales from beginning to end, and some time ago you came to realize why you are studying them. You want to understand N.
N, N, N. Every thought circles back to N. You have dreams, almost every night, of clambering onto Reshiram and whispering, "N. Find N." Yet you never do so.
Some days your fingers can't stay away from Reshiram's Pokeball, and as you read you find yourself caressing the smooth capsule absently, thumb tracing the edge of its raised button. The trigger is white and shines like an eye – I'm here, it says. You see me, and I know it. Press.
Some days, you even do it.
But nothing ever comes out of it. The great white Pokémon will stretch limbs cramped from its tight cage without complaint, even fly briefly, and then settle down on its haunches and give you a slow, steady look. You will look back. And then you will stand up and quietly, calmly recall it. Each time it happens, the pressure inside you builds up just a little bit more.
One day, you are going to explode.
It had been the photo, mostly. Just a scrap of paper, an innocuous bit of pulped tree bark and ink – who would have known how much it would affect you? It had not been the photo alone, though. All the pressure, the thoughts and feelings hammering against the inside of your head, had needed an escape. The photo simply opened a valve.
It was a picture of you and N, an obligatory snapshot after the Ferris wheel ride. You'd found it creased and stained with berry juice at the bottom of your bag when you finally gathered the energy to clean it out. It had been stuck to the lining, reluctant to leave, but you peeled it off the fabric regardless.
It didn't matter that N's shirt was off-white in the snapshot, or that his face was a bit smudged and you couldn't tell the color of his eyes (they're green, you know, but to your mixed horror and triumph you can't remember what shade). It didn't matter that you looked absolutely wretched, trying to shrug off the too-familiar touch of N's hand on your shoulder. It didn't even matter that you had to smooth out the folds in the photograph before you could see your face. Like you threatened to so many times before, you explode.
You run out of the house. Cheren and Bianca don't stand a chance.
You just grab your bag and your team and make a mad dash for the door, bumping into Cheren and knocking his glasses askew – hey! What's up with you?! – but not caring. The first clearing you reach that's big enough, you pull out Reshiram's Pokeball. By now you don't even need to look, just feel: the legendary Pokémon's capsule is always warmer, sending a tingling feeling of calmness and the image of a smile through your mind.
For the seventh time, you release Reshiram.
For the first time, you fling yourself on its back. Not even waiting for it to stretch, you say in a voice made hoarse with desperation, "N. Find N."
Then you're gone.