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Level 90
Part I

Then it was possible, he thought, if he didn't find shelter—

No, it wasn't possible, he said, beating his wings faster—and he couldn't think like that when she depended on him. She spoke just a minute ago; her hands were still warm on his neck. If it came to that he would spill his boiling guts over her, cut himself open and become a warm sack for her to wait out the blizzard. It was impossible that Runa … But the rest house was out of sight; Snowpoint was lost and too far already. —We have to find shelter, Runa said. That was the last she spoke.

In a way it was Team Omega's fault. The weather people couldn't predict nearly so well now that all the legendary clones were released. The idea was that they would learn, come to understand naturally what it took to maintain the climate; but first took time, contact with the legendaries who controlled weather. The flock of Articuno, the report said, would probably stick to the mountains, a wall of snow but in the distance, a pleasant sight from the mountain pass even if it was all still white in this, the height of summer—but why didn't they expect it? When the flock split, the Articuno passed either side of Route 217; when they rejoined, the valley flooded in minutes, a wall of snow either side so thick, he thought, it appeared as like an avalanche, closing up along the entire route like a zipper. The idiot mon didn't know what they were doing! never learned how to live properly in the wilds. But to blame Omega for everything was false. If the rest house had had on the latest report, they might have guessed, gotten out before the winds closed in and he lost his bearings, blocked Runa's locator on the phone; if not for the press, for the rotten interview, they would not even be in Sinnoh; but mostly he was to blame. He should have known—should have refused Runa, when it was still nothing. The whole rotten thing was his fault.

Everything was white and dark; everything was frozen, his wings completely numb, only sure he was moving them by his motion. Runa's face still pressed into his neck. Oh, where was the forest? he thought. That would lead them to the mountains, to the cliffs; Runa suggested some sort of shelter, some nook or cave, she was thinking: a warm place to wait it out, lit up by his fire. Was he too high to see the trees? Perhaps he was only feet from the snow. If he touched the ground, they would be finished—buried in a puff of white, frozen instantly. He would melt away half the valley before finding her! Runa would die if he tried to fly above the storm, would die if he flew in anything but one direction, would die, he knew, in a few minutes, if he couldn't find shelter, if he couldn't protect—

There, he saw: that was a green tip, just visible below. He dropped: there were many more about, all stood at an angle, he could see, by the rising heights. Then he was near some sort of shelter, the cliffs, in that direction, against which the wind may be weaker. Might he try to cross the mountain, through the storm? But that was where the wind was quickest, whipping across the top. Perhaps, with now some direction clear, he might try to make it to the middle of the valley, find the rest house? But there was no time for that. They needed a shelter at once. At least they thought to bring her bag! he thought, pressing Runa against him, the only thing that kept her warmth.

He rubbed her hands against his neck where he held them, and she did not react. Was she still awake? Oh, he thought, falling faint in cold was very bad for humans. What were the rules for treating those who were very cold? How did he not investigate, when it might become the most essential thing? Runa, freezing to death on his back, he imagined, because he was too weak to save her! Any of the others would know what to do, Gaia finding a way out or a shelter, David waving his arms and creating a shield of light and warmth, all the night, and they walked to the city atop the glittering snow and discussed music, Torus teleporting them at once. Couldn't they hear his need, now? Were they on the way already?

This wasn't possible, he thought; he had a rotten dream, and in a second Runa would apply a revival shard and say, Shadow—you fainted. The gym would be all behind them, and the worry. But this was not a dream. In his dreams when he thought he lost Runa, he seized up, fell away from her … But there wasn't time for that. There was shelter about; there was safety. He would tear down every tree and pile them over her: he would build her a house of fire, keep her warm through the night. There, he saw—that was rock! The cliffs were near, just had to find a spot, and—Did Runa say something? Her last words, he imagined, and he missed them. But he could not feel anything from her now—no warmth at all.

Then it was possible, he thought, as he had not found shelter, and had failed her in her greatest need, that Runa was already dead.


—There's a sort of clarity before death, you see. He knows he's about to die, most likely, so everything else drops away, all his worry and doubt: it's just not important any more.

—But he's still going to die! They're going to chop his head off!

—Well, yes. That's how they did it in Kalos. But they're all corrupt, remember, and enslaving people. Imagine if the first human civilisation stayed that way? No, it's better, he's decided, that they're all wiped out, rather than going on living so poorly—maybe better the next time, he's thinking. Even if we disagree with his actions, that's why he's calm in the face of it. There's nothing they can threaten to do to him that he isn't about to bring on himself, if he succeeds, and this, he thinks, is the only way to restore the good. He's giving up his life, he feels, for the betterment of all, because really he still believes in Xerneas. Even if we wouldn't agree with him, it's kind of beautiful, isn't it?

—I don't get it. At the start he wants to help the people and start a new golden age, so he asks the kings and queens to help resurrect Xerneas, but by the end he's only about to free Yveltal, who'll kill everyone, so that Xerneas can come and start new life. But then he isn't helping people—he's destroying them! Hasn't he turned into the total opposite of what he was?

—That's why it's a tragedy.

—I don't get it.

—It's just theatre, mum.


The cave was an old Piloswine nest, burrowed into the rock. It was large enough for a bonfire with people round it, but it was at a slope, so that any hot air would escape. He blew flames on the ground to burn away the ice and Piloswine hair in a patch. Now the ground was scalding. He laid out the bag; he lay out Runa. All her clothes were caked in snow, and it was on her face. He blew hot air on her face, a very low Flamethrower which would only give heat. There had to be a constant source of heat; there were several things to do, but first was the heat, then the clothes, putting her into dry ones if there were any, then warm objects all around her. For the moment it was warm enough. Once ice was in clothing it took a long time to dry out without removing it. He took off her jacket, her snow pants, her shoes. She was sodden through. He took off her shirt and pants and socks and put her in the bag and blew hot air into it until it was very warm. He blew her jacket until it was dry and warm, and put it around Runa in the bag. He blew her pants and snow pants and scarf and shirt and socks until they were dry and warm and piled them all around her, checking that her feet were covered. He blew into the bag and closed the top.

Water stored heat very well. His backpack had bottles and juices. He emptied his bag onto the ground. How would he warm them? On the cave floor nearby was a pool of ice from some sort of run-off condensation. In ten seconds of Flamethrower it was mostly melted; in ten seconds more it began to steam. He emptied all the bottles and filled them with scalding water. It was critical that blood flowed. Blood flowed most in the neck and other joints, so that was where most heat was lost. He opened the bag and put a hot bottle inside a sock and nestled it under Runa's neck. He placed the rest of the hot bottles between her legs and arms where blood flowed. He felt her: she was still cold, but warmer. Still she did not move. He blew hot air into the bag again and closed it. He blew flames on the rock next to her until all the snow was gone and the rock was burning. Then he pulled the bag onto it, slowly to that the bottles would not slip. That would keep her warm for a little longer.

He flew out of the cave. It was very dark, now, but there were trees all about, just outside the entrance. One slash and one of the smaller ones fell. He pulled it towards the cave entrance and laid it along the front. Air could not easily pass a flowing barrier, so a fire perhaps would do it. He cut the tree again and fit it inside the entrance, and with a long Flamethrower it caught fire: the smoke would escape, but the heat would not, for as long as it was burning.

Despite the fire it was hard to see in the cave, and he turned on Runa's lamp. The cave air still felt cold. He let out flames until he began to lose the energy. He took one of the ethers Runa had packed and sprayed it, and once the energy had returned he let out flames again.

He opened the bag. Runa looked pale under the lamp, but there was red on her face. She felt warm on her forehead and neck, and he felt air from beneath her nostrils. Then Runa was alive—she was breathing, and in a minute, waking up … But he mustn't think about it. What else was there to do? A hot drink, something with sugar—lemonade, and hot tea, what she had in the flask in her bag. But Runa was living, would open her eyes and look—

He mustn't think about it. She may turn for the worse, if he didn't tend her. Surely the bottles were getting cold. He would replace them. He lifted the whole bag, put fire on the rock until it was steaming, lay her down again and removed a bottle.


—It's wonderful to see you home, Runa!

—Welcome home, Miss Runa!

—Good evening, Lady Runa.

—Please just relax—it's been a long journey, hasn't it?

—You're welcome as long as you like, Runa.

—Yes, take all the time you need.

—Your room is ready—just as it was, isn't it?

Devoir.

—And you've wonderful Pokémon, I must say.

—They don't all battle, of course.

Nine.

—I'm sure they'll be very comfortable.

—But that was very impressive, the sixth round.

Zard!

Gold.

—Yes, dinner will be in about an hour, if you're hungry.

—Oh? Of course … Gardevoir, why don't you take Runa to her room?

Ch.

—All right—Apollo will take you.

—We'll look after your Pokémon, don't worry.

—We'll send up a tray. Sleep well, dear.

—If you like, maybe tomorrow you'll show us your little book?


Runa faint in his arms; Runa surviving by his own body's warmth, he had imagined, dreamed it up again, ad nauseum, ad infinitum, as David or Torus would say in their moments. What did it mean, that involuntarily he so often had imagined her at risk, in want of his rescue? Perhaps such things affected everyone in love. He saw it in others, twisting fantasies—it was difficult to tell. All he knew for certain was that half the time he woke in a sweat, at once disgusted in himself—not a real lover of Runa, he said, actively wanted her in harm's way—and the other half he didn't realise, failed to realise until minutes or hours later that he had abused her, even if only in thinking; and, presumably, there were more times where he never noticed, only further internalised such wretched thinking. But that was not the same as wanting this. Always in his fantasies it was to save her, to raise her—to do the sort of thing that she found adorable by proving himself, expanding—and so if in fantasies she lowered, was at harm, it was only so that she could raise again. It was never like this, here in the blizzard, Runa nearly dying as he flew to pieces.

How long had he been watching her, checking her temperature and breathing? Hours, it seemed, but perhaps only minutes. The tree blew off flakes every few seconds. The cave was sweltering, but that was good. She hadn't moved, but she was breathing, had only been driven asleep by the cold, a wave passing through her, and now a wave of warmth to restore her. It wasn't very long they were in the blizzard, perhaps half an hour from the onset of the storm to finding the cave, perhaps ten minutes from when it grew really cold, and humans could survive longer than that even buried in snow—but it left her deathly tired. It was possible—it happened, sometimes—that she would not be the same when she woke up, or would not wake up for days unless a doctor saw her, or even after. So he'd take her, as soon as the storm ended; bundle her up and fly straight to a hospital, never leave her side until she was extremely healthy.

To think that some wretched gym battle caused this, he thought, that Runa suffered, nearly worse (he would not think about it), all on account of defending his honour—he felt sick. Everything went too far; it should have ended months ago, just a few words and that would have been it, for just a few words had started it. I'm just very proud of him, she could say; I got carried away and misspoke. They would say, You see? She's too young to take seriously; but it would pass in a week, most likely. Instead Runa defended him, treated his honour, his quality, as a thing, and it all blew up into something ridiculous; and then, Manda said, to pull out was impossible: she had fallen foul, could not quit without making a fool of herself. Gaia said to refuse her, that he was mad to fight such a battle—and then even Runa suggested he might forget it, that he shouldn't suffer for her mistake. But it would do harm to Runa, he thought, to pull out, now that everyone's attention was on it. It was nothing if he fainted, but if Runa withdrew … He had to battle. So they flew to Snowpoint City; and now they got caught in the storm, and Runa was here in a sweltering bag, suffering on his account. (He blew into the bag again, checked the bottles, still warm.)

But if he would battle, Gaia said, David said, at least it might be the sort of special circumstance he needed to approach her; and that too made him sick. For that too was how he'd imagined it: falling in battle, grievously wounded; recovering in a Pokémon Centre with Runa beside him; regaining consciousness as she held his hand, Black City all over again but turned out differently. When the nurses left he would take her hand and kiss it, just so, and she would look at him and by some process understand: his whole life was a series of personal injuries, each suffered to please and honour her, and that was the depth of his feeling for her, which felt nothing of faints if she only stood by him. And then, as he imagined, she would burst into tears, kiss his nose and say, If only I could love you!—but that lacking that, of course she would never leave him, never leave his side, now that she knew how she affected him, how well he fit into her philosophy. He would stand by her side, a noble Dragonite; he would have such a newfound strength that he never felt timid again, never let her come to harm. Every champion would visit; the Minister for Pokémon, he thought.

This is my friend, she would say: my life's companion.

This is my love, he would say: my love.

How fine, they would say, and carry on. It would be a new world, built by Runa.


Runa sniffed.

He looked inside the bag. Runa was moving: her nose was running: she touched it with a bit of clothing.

That was all it took, he thought, for all affect to crumble. And like a ship at last thrown into a calm bay, like a tumbling carriage off the Magnet Train, crashing to a stop in a great oak tree which shuddered and let off a million leaves, all the pent-up forces released: he burst into tears, fell over with his arms around her.

But never mind, he thought, wiping his face; never mind. She still needed him: he must keep tending. Runa was shivering; her forehead was boiling hot, he felt, but deep inside she had to be freezing, all the cold still thawing—a hot drink, precisely what she needed. He took the flask from the jacket, opened it (she wouldn't mind his mouth on the lid), poured the hot tea into the cup. He brought it to Runa's lips, and in a moment, seeing what it was, she drank. He pulled out her tissues and warmed them.

Runa moved, seemed to be getting her bearings. Wouldn't she like to dress? for she still had on only underclothes, what he couldn't possibly remove. She only turned, moved the fabrics a little; wanted nothing but to lay and be warm, have every warm thing around her. In Snowpoint City he would take her directly to the hot spring, the one in the hotel, and lower her in, fetch many pots of tea. He would lay out behind her so that she could rest her head on his arm as she liked and read entire books. He would not touch her without a towel. After several months of that he would accept her forgiveness; any less and he was a wretch, the worst sort of brute and villain.

She took the second drink as he offered and sipped three times, let it go. But now she held his arm; now she looked for something. What did she need? Oh, say! he thought, only whatever would help her. If she needed her glasses he had them; if she needed a pillow, he would give his nose, and blow warm air under her neck all night. Now her eyes were fixed in concentration. What did she want?

It was her bag. He laid it out for her, pulled open every loop zipper with his claw. She searched for a moment: she removed a potion.

"I'm sorry," she said. She tugged lightly on his arm. "Here," she said.

Anything but that, he thought—anything but Runa thinking of him before anything. She was the one who nearly died; she the one who suffered everything. And now something tore; something crushed; like a split berry his throat twisted and he fell to his side, burst into tears again, a giant bag of water which lay shaking and sniffing beside her. It was beyond conscience, he felt, ever to keep away from her, to make out that he didn't love her. Whether he loved her as a friend or otherwise, he ought to be near, but he withdrew, let it seem as if he didn't love at all, when all Runa ever wanted was to be near him—all these years, and that was it. She said something, not to worry, that he did well, perhaps—he could not listen. In a minute he would fall faint; and she would revive him, over and over, begin tending him, perhaps, telling him not to worry.

But now she moved inside the bag—took the zipper, began to pull it down. She was delirious, he thought, would let all the warmth out! She'd freeze if he didn't stop her: he held the corner down.

Runa said, "Come on … you're freezing. You can use me for warmth."

Then he couldn't pull away even if he wanted. He was not cold: he had never felt warmer: the opening being now large enough, Runa took his head and pulled it inside the bag. She curled up against him, touched her forehead to his neck, cradled his head in her arms, as she laid his arms around her.

"—Proud of you," she said.

For a moment he seemed to see from outside his own body, looking down at himself, head and neck tucked into Runa's bag, tail curled up like a Dratini in a girl's arms. But there was no one about whose eyes he might see from; the cave extended no farther; the PIloswine were gone, and all other wilders were sheltered in whatever fledging dens they kept, miles away perhaps. They were fantastically alone, hidden away in the mountains and forest: even if they were found missing at the hotel in Snowpoint, even if the press caught wind that they sheltered somewhere, they could not possibly commit a search. Now Runa was in his arms, pulled herself into him, all her own direction—didn't even wear her shirt, her bare middle flush against his nose, his breath taking in only her scent.

That night in the Dark Cave, he thought, was nothing. A Dragonair's skin was always shedding and insensitive, always in some way detached from accurate senses—like that diagram in a medical textbook, which showed humans as distorted creatures in proportion to how sensitive they were, Dragonair would be like a head on a stick, all nose and cheeks. As his skin shed poorly, so it retained a little more, perhaps increased the feeling slightly; but a Dragonite's skin didn't shed, was always soft and firm and felt everything, and now with arms and hands in the figure. When Runa rubbed cream in the fold from David's surgery, he nearly bit his arm off, so intolerable the touch without seeing it. Now her whole body was below his neck, her mouth just inches from his.

But Runa, he said (his arms were numb, now, might tighten without his realising), Runa had a wonderful philosophy, as every mon grown independent at the Academy demonstrated; and her mind was of the very first degree, quite above all burden of senses. Those were the things that really mattered—that was what he praised, when he told a young mon about monism. (She reached to better draw closed the top of the bag, resettled a little closer.) But the quality, the, the genius of Runa, was her mind, and way with Pokémon, and mustn't we stop and think about that? he'd say. Aside from heading the whole Academy with Torus, and leading the introductory lessons in monism, and working with Torus as head counsellor to make sure that every lone mon was cared for—too much for one girl, who yet made time for him—she also lead the training in reading mon, in teaching human instructors how to better understand their gestures and feelings, always emphasising, by reference to cool psychics, how they were the same as humans deep inside. (She moved the fabric touching his head, tried to make a bigger space for him, brushed his cheek accidentally.) And, he thought, and Runa, of course, never meant to say they were exactly the same, that one ought to feel … But Runa also had the quality of grace (as he'd explain it to the little mon), a graceful nature, which loved everyone equally; and she was never angry, not in any circumstance except when she saw mon being taken advantage of, and, similarly, to take advantage, as Gaia would say—

But Runa tightened again, drowsy of course, hardly noticed him any more as she laid her arm against his nose, and now he could not think. The valves shut off: the pressure was building to something impossible. Now the slightest motion of her hair against his neck, hardly more than her own breathing, seemed to set off an event, a cascade of extraordinary tingling, building up to his chin, rolling down his middle. That day in the Academy, when he kissed Gaia, meant to make her happy—that was was how she felt inside, nearly falling unconscious, would have produced an egg if she didn't get off him. He was breaking out in the breeder's reaction, the biological response, just holding Runa. It passed down his wings, both the tips trembling—never felt it before as a Dragonite. And it had happened in the Dark Cave, wrapped around Runa, but that was nothing like this, never so numbing as now. For rather than excite him to action, he felt, he could not now move if he wanted to, like the sleep paralysis Runa once described. But surely she knew, he thought—surely she felt it, sweat all over. Oh! he thought—suppose he rolled? Suppose he turned and crushed her, couldn't stop? How did she say to get out of it? Focus on a point, he remembered … there, a claw twitched, but that was it. He didn't have the same shape as Runa, the same muscles, what let her escape progressively, and now he lost the claw again. His entire body felt as if it were dissolving inside, a great energy building, what in normal biology would go to the egg. But that impulse was meant for mon. What happened when the other was not? Did it discharge, harm her some way? He had to move away! But the arm hung loosely. Wasn't he rolling already, he thought, rolling over to squash Runa? Now his arm moved; now—Runa was moving.

He grew too warm, perhaps, and she moved away. She was slow about it, seemed to stretch with great difficulty … Now she came towards him again. She leaned very close; and after a moment, she kissed him on the chin.

She only meant it warmly, he knew, a thank-you-for-saving-me. She only meant to say, I'm very proud; and as you won't let me do this awake, I'll get you when you're sleeping: then I'll have thanked you, in my way. But she knew at once he was awake, felt his arms twitch, the claws turning inward. Never was his heart so transparent! She had to notice; she would have to be a fool not to notice, and she was not.

Runa held still in his arms and waited.

Or was it possible, he thought, that she always knew? For she knew Pokémon so well—how could she not? Now she tested him. Now he couldn't get away. This is as close as I'm willing to be, she was saying: nothing at all between us. Would you take advantage? she said. She had to know that he didn't mean her harm, even if his lips parted, even if his quivering arms were slung around her. She had to know; she waited; she watched. And as she was not frightened, not yet, the urge to respond would begin to raise its carnal head; for in a minute the numbness would pass, and Runa's chin was just beneath his. She would expect it, his passion said; she wanted him to return the kindness, a little fond kiss. (But he may still resist it, he thought—he may.) She had kissed him on the chin; shouldn't he respond in likeness? Runa wanted him to respond. Only close the last inch, it said, and all would be over: a beautiful resonance with Runa, all the distance melting away, and every last bit of longing, if only he kissed. She would laugh and press him back, and he would roll over, smiling, and never would there ever be difficulty between them again, if only he got it all out and kissed her, now, on the hair, on the shoulder, anywhere, anything so long as it was now, at once—at once, and gotten done with.

And ironically—for it was his nature that caused everything, drove him to want for Runa and geared him to this terrible thing, and also to fear the thing—ironically as like one whose legs turned in two different directions at once, as sometimes happened after he evolved, and he only tripped and fell in a heap, his want and his fear crossed paths again; for as he turned downward, Runa moved her leg, and as it startled him, he only caught strands of hair, didn't even touch her; and he moved again, he placed his chin on her, and it was over, all control now returned. It was over; his chin on her head, arms around her, as close as they had ever been, and he gave nothing away but his timidity. He felt a stupor coming over him, the warmth reaching its peak, what in moments would surely make him faint, and he had resisted, escaped again.

Why then, he thought, as he proved at the very least that he could overcome even at the cusp of drowning in heat, why did he imagine Gaia throwing a pillow in irritation, and David forlornly tearing open a bag of crisps?


In the morning the storm had ended and the sky was white with little snowflakes. He woke when Runa left his arms: she sniffed, had developed a cold no doubt, had a runny nose, needed medical attention, but she dressed herself and said it was nothing. It was already late morning, she said, and people had expected them in Snowpoint; her phone had many messages, come in once a connection returned, and she called the family, let them know they were safe, as all the press it seemed turned wild with speculation. But they didn't have to go, she said. Would he like to forget the battle? She would handle everything, she said.

But she did not look at him so easily—she knew. She pretended that all was as before, but she knew that something changed. The foundation had cracked; water seeped in, would presently freeze over and, once expanded, blow out the whole reservoir.

He shook his head. He would battle for Runa.


Breakfast was the remaining stock of a little kitchen with double doors north of the gym; for he must eat, Runa said, must get his strength before the battle. Everyone watched as Runa entered, asked for everything they could make in fifteen minutes.

—Of course, Miss … Pondelore?

Who did they think it was? he wondered. She was there on every paper in the place, he and Runa—Runa-way, a paper said, A Shadow of Doubt, all such rot in great letters. When they failed to arrive at the hotel, the pack of press and reporters who, though they had probably camped in the hotel lobby for hours and knew as much themselves how difficult the weather was, decided that Runa had possibly fled the match, and issued their stories, emphasised the total lack of communication and left it with every undertone possible; then, in the sort of life which stories took on their own (the biggest thing, a patron said, to happen in Snowpoint since Galactic), the screen in the kitchen had all the commentators talking about the storm, how they were certainly caught up in it, were possibly stranded or worse, which was better at least than the papers, all stood on the rack looking ridiculous. And now on the screens they said it was irresponsible, but not of the press to publish it, nor Candice and the gym for not postponing the match in stormy conditions, nor even the Articuno who were really to blame—no, it was Runa, they said, for rummaging about on the routes like some common trainer (so one even said) who still needed practice—and in the process threatening, they didn't say, however much money from advertising. He never wanted to blast a screen so much! It wasn't the Articuno: it was because of them that the whole thing blew up: he would turn away from the cameras every chance he got. Runa asked that they switch it off. She was livid—not for the comments toward herself, but from some of the suggestions that it was his fault, that he bottled it, changed mind part-way and begged not to battle, and now lay low with her in some secret place. They were like fugitives, he felt, as if the night left a mark; as if they perceived it as a tryst, Runa's Shadow smothering her all night, which the reports would suggest any moment. Runa called David who called a paper, gave a short interview on the phone just to say that they were still coming to the battle; did not say where they were as Shadow, she said, was getting ready.

But someone let out—one of the customers?—left a message which begat more messages, which exploded across the world in the great network, and in twenty minutes twenty reporters appeared, pushing through the doors. Then the proprietor was livid, and he and his Machamp ejected them, brought the poor lady, he said, and her dragon to the back. It was faster that way, Runa said, right in the kitchen. He ate every pancake with maple syrup that the Machamp could make with four arms, right from the pan, and a bushel of bananas and every chocolate confection in the shop, and the lemonade, and a cooking pot of ginger tea.


He had avoided the sour candies, so Runa now picked them out—every bit of energy, she said, whatever he needed, even though he didn't need it. She indulged him, her little Dratini; she was blind around him, could not see clearly. It was what let her make an error, to defend him. And she knew something happened in the night, some tide shift, so he felt (still could not see her thinking); and so she went on distracting herself, focused on her irritation, how he was treated unfairly. She paced back and forth in the waiting room. He had never seen her so anxious, he thought … He should have said no, that morning.

"You don't have to see them after," she said—"I wont let them bother you. This whole thing is just a circus to them. They just want to see a Dragonite knock out a whole Ice-type team. They don't care if you're hurt. They won't get anything."

He put the candies back on the buffet table they'd provided, nearly untouched. The room seemed very small; Runa's pacing grew shorter. It was all a bad game of chess, like Hestia said: they drew Runa into playing and she didn't realise, and now she was in a bind. Some people wanted her to fail, and this was it. For of course he would faint: it was a foregone result. Training did not improve him far enough; he began to approach his peak, Gaia figured, as she had, where the special energies plateaued. Even his mutation would not save him, the papers said, for they had gotten it out of someone at the Dragon's Den (not Clair) and now everyone knew about that disorder, what made him for the moment the most famous Dragonite in the world. Then came the photographs from within the Academy, tourists selling pictures of him to the papers, and then it all became a circus, as Runa said, as commentators and so-called experts tried to guess his weight, his eating habits, his exercise regimen. Soon every gym leader and champion Runa met was being asked about him, and thankfully, for they understood their ways as well as Runa, they said nothing, or nothing bad, even Clair refusing to comment (for the war had reconciled her and Runa), when she might easily have mentioned his failing to battle for the badge, for at least the compact was behind her.

Runa picked up the bowl, checked for sour ones again, handed it to him. "Just relax," she said. "Just … don't worry. Whatever happens, it's all right. I know you'll have given your best. I'm so proud of you, Shadow. You could never disappoint me."

And she told the truth, he thought—even if she suspected him, even if she wondered at his kiss, still she loved him in her own way: after everything, he was still her favourite. He proved her entire philosophy; he showed that any mon, however weak in nature, could amount to something with effort. Anything that brought them closer—and this battle, if anything, had brought them closer—was enough to blind her of everything.

—And now, from Goldenrod City, Marjorie reports.

—Many know Runa as the youngest daughter of the Pondelore family—others, as founder and head of the Goldenrod Academy, the first college for Pokémon in the world. Perhaps most famous of her companions is Gaia, her shiny Dragonite, the Academy's head of Pokémon instruction and fourth-rank Dragonite in the world. But it's Runa's second Dragonite, Shadow, best known from reports from the Ever Grande Conference incident two years ago, and who makes a surprise entry to the top-five shortlist, just behind Gaia, who will be taking part in what some spectators are already calling the Battle of the Decade.

What was his secret? they asked—why did Runa rank him higher than even Gaia? (Did they even realise how rotten that sounded to say?) For he was inferior in every quality, they decided, had only his mutation, and that was little. Gaia told him never to listen, that they were full of rot; told him first he was an idiot to accept, then offered to replace him. She had already fallen once in battle, she said; he didn't need to spoil his record. He nearly snapped at her for even mentioning it—Runa being attacked left and right, and she figured in a thing like that?

The door knocked: a young man put his head in and said, "Miss Pondelore? Just letting you know that we're delayed two more minutes—twelve past the hour." Then he left; looked once at the Dragonite, he thought, the last to see him before the battle, before his encasement in ice on live broadcasts. The clock turned nine minutes past.

Runa said, "Shadow—" and looked away. But she badly wanted to say something—oh! She was actually tearing up. Runa feeling torn; Runa feeling guilty, he thought, for what she thought she did to him! But what on earth could he say?

She said, "I'm sorry it's all turned into this. No … don't." He withdrew his arm. "I know you blame yourself, but you can't. You've done nothing wrong. You're innocent." She touched his middle, didn't look at him. "It's my fault … my being proud of you and, and wanting to protect you."

As if it were the most delicate gem, as if the thing itself were a store of all her concern for him, she held in her hand a Yache berry.

"It's not too late," she said, turning the berry in her fingers, smiling, though she did not look. "There's a minute left."

And she would allow it, he knew, fail to walk out the door as all the world was watching, suffer that backlash, just for him. But of course, they both knew, it was impossible. He cupped her hands with his, held her palms up.

"All right," Runa said, and sniffed, looked at him. "All right. Open up."

He leaned down and opened his mouth: she dropped the berry aside his tongue, where it would tuck away until he needed it. Then she took his nose, stroked it as the dragon masters did: what was meant to soothe a dragon's spirit, but had the opposite effect on him. Her hand lingered for a moment: the clock was eleven minutes past.

"What I said about being tempered," she said—and her hand was still on his nose, his face—"forget it. Do everything to them. Don't get hurt."

And then for the second time in a day she kissed him, there, on the tip of his nose. But it was rushed; it was only a second; she pulled away, as if, he imagined, or perhaps didn't imagine? she felt he would take advantage. All's forgiven, she seemed to say, but no closer than this could be trusted. Or was it only again his own thinking, reflected again through the psychic?

Then that, he thought, was how at last he would demonstrate himself to Runa: for in battle, as every passion found some expression, with such a want to protect her honour somehow everything would become clear. She would see him in battle, and reading closely, she would understand everything in his behaviour, that he loved her, yes, but that he would sooner die before letting her come to harm; and that he would die without her, as an arm died without its body. And then, even if he fainted, there would be nothing at all left between them, as she was presently to see. So he knelt, put his arms around her—the most familiar embrace, he thought, and after all the same as she'd made that long-ago morning—and Runa put her arms round his neck, as if she'd only expected it, and kissed him once more on his cheek.

Now the clock was twelve past, already late, the man coming back any second; but she held, only brought her hands down his arms, his hands still on her shoulders.

"You've grown so much, Shadow," she said.

He said, "[You too.]"

The door knocked, and there was the man again, looking sheepish as he saw Runa step back holding her Dragonite's hands, in whose eyes there had to be tears. "Miss Pondelore?" the young man said.

She squeezed his hands, let go. "We're ready," she said.

[continues in next]