Mott wakes up in a luxurious bed. It's plush and velvet, adorned with satin sheets. It has everything he's missed so dearly these past few months, sleeping in dusty inns or at the side of a cold road. It's really wonderful. Truly.

He stares at the ceiling for who knows how long. Golden designs decorate the room, intricate enough to speak to the artist's talent. Intricate enough to speak to the Lord's wealth. The room is as shining and immaculate as he's longed for. Ever since setting out on this fool's errand to defeat Zekrom, this is what he's been fighting to get back to. This is his reward. It's his dream come true.

Why does he feel so hollow?

When he eventually rises from bed, he somehow ends up in the study counting dues. He doesn't remember how. It's just a repetitive motion that he hardly processes: one coin, two coins. These past few days have been a blur, in that way. One coin. A slow, monotonous, hollow blur. Two coins. He simply wakes up and goes through the motions until it's time to go to bed.

One coin. Two coins.

His motions feel like a dream. It's as if he's detached from his own body, watching someone else move his limbs. No matter how hard he tries to forget, his mind keeps returning to the night Lenny caught him. Every detail of the memory is crisp and bold, almost sharp enough to cut himself on. The expression on Lenny's face—that blank look in his eyes. Mott has never seen him look like that before. But what's really plaguing his mind is that he was the one to make Lenny look like that.

He loses count. He starts over.

It's difficult to keep the gold, silver, and copper coins separate. They all look the same to him. The unique luster and shine is dulled; they look like clouded, old metal. They feel slimy in his hands, too, like they were dug out of a dumpster. They might as well have been. Those bags slung over the tax collector's shoulders are just as filthy inside and out. Mott keeps having them washed, but it doesn't do any good. Maybe the filth is just in his imagination.

He's pondering this (but not really—his mind can't focus enough to truly ponder anything) when his uncle strolls by. His hands are clasped behind his back and he gazes around the room as he enters, as if he just happened to wander in. Mott can see right through his ruse; he knows Uncle Theobald is checking on his progress. He's done the same thing everyday since Lenny left.

Is that how Mott measures time now? By how long it's been since Lenny left him? Mott could almost laugh, imagining himself as an old man trying to count coins while he's too busy counting the years since he last saw Lenny.

Very suddenly, the thought becomes too miserable to even think of laughing.

Uncle Theobald eyes the large pile of uncounted dues. "You woke late again, I see."

"Yeah," Mott drones, routinely shuffling coins across the desk.

If he's looking for a more elaborate response, he won't be getting it. Just saying that one word has exhausted Mott beyond all reason.

"Montgomery, my boy," Uncle Theobald starts with a gusty sigh, "it seems that your work ethic has been slacking as of late."

Mott nods. "Yeah. Sorry about that."

"I want to help you get the family crest, I truly do," he laments, lathering the pity on thick. "But I cannot do it alone."

Mott nods. "Sorry."

"I see no way that I can help you if you continue on like this." His uncle shakes his head. "You must work for your own crest, you realize?"

Mott nods.

One coin. Two coins.

Uncle Theobald doesn't seem pleased with his lack of response. He taps his fingers irritably on the desk, as if waiting for something. Mott doesn't look up. He focuses on his counting. One coin. Two coins. The impatient tapping picks up speed.

Eventually, Uncle Theobald grows sick of waiting around. "Fine. I see you are in a wretched mood. Go on, feel sorry for yourself and leave me to suffer. I suppose I must be a terrible uncle if you feel so inclined to treat me this way."

Mott doesn't have the energy for a response, so he says nothing. His uncle's impatience spikes to a boiling point, and he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room, slamming the door. The back of the door is marked with the Alcott family crest. Mott drops his eyes from it. It just looks like a bunch of colors and symbols, to him.

One coin. Two coins.

He loses track of time. Counting eventually comes to a close, and he shuts the ledgers and puts them aside. Turning his head to the window shows that it's still early afternoon. A deep, discontent sigh rises out of him. What is he supposed to do with all this time? He wishes he could just go back to sleep.

He decides against it. His uncle is already furious with him, no need to make it worse by appearing lazy. So, he finds himself wandering the estate. He hasn't been here since he was a kid, and he hasn't done a lot of exploring in the few days he's been here, so now seems like a good time to give himself a tour. Even if every room looks the same to him.

His aimless tour brings him to a stuffy library and a bland dining room. The window curtains are tightly shut in every room, and for whatever reason this gets under his skin, so he tears open the nearest curtains to let the sunshine in. The light is pale and feeble, and it doesn't do much to improve his mood. He keeps waiting for a merry voice and a bright smile to try and cheer him up.

Obviously, he's not gonna find that here. Restless, he shuts the curtain and decides to go outside.

He passes a group of tax collectors as he walks by. They eye him silently as he walks by, shuffling away as if he has the plague. As his mood has declined, their desire to avoid him has spiked. That's fine with him. Everytime he sees their overflowing bags branded with his family insignia, his chest clenches and he finds it hard to breathe.

Before he leaves, he figures he better tell his uncle he'll be out and about. At this time of day, his uncle is usually in his study. Mott pokes his head in and calls, "Uncle?"

He doesn't get a response, so he walks in, looking for a sign of him. The desk is a little cluttered, suggesting recent use. Mott approaches it to see if his uncle is behind it, or something. Who knows, the guy is small. It doesn't hurt to check.

No such luck. He almost laughs at himself for expecting to find Uncle Theobald tucked behind his desk like some small, mousy vermin. The laugh dies in his throat when he sees several documents watermarked with the Alcott family crest.

He shouldn't snoop, but the crests are burning into his eyes, and he really just wants to turn them over. He hides one by tucking a document over it, and his eyes instinctively scroll over the writing inside. It's a will, he realizes, from his grandfather: the old patriarch of the Alcott family. Which means there's another damned crest on it.

He steadfastly ignores the symbol to scan over the contents of the paper. It's written in his grandfather's bold, pretentious handwriting, bequeathing a bulk of the family fortune to his own father while handing down investments and such to the other siblings. One thing that piques Mott's interest is the following: all existing properties and other such real estate shall henceforth belong to Lennox Alcott.

According to this will, Mott's father should own all Alcott properties. Why does his Uncle own New Crestmount City, then?

He spots another document—a codicil. In it, all properties are bequeathed to his father, except for New Crestmount City. It's written under his grandfather's name… but definitely not in his handwriting.

Interesting.

Mott wasn't going to snoop, but now he can't help himself. He shuffles papers around to see if he can rifle out any more juicy family secrets. A long lost cousin? A deadbeat relative? A forbidden elopement? The only scandal he can find is in a letter from his father to his uncle, detailing a pathetic family member who brings shame to the Alcott name.

Oh. It's him.

All the interest Mott had in rooting out drama is drained from him. He already knows how this story goes—how he's a worthless, useless, no-good waste of time, yadda yadda yadda. In fact, he sees those same words repeated throughout the missive several, several times.

He puts the letter down.

He's tired. He really should go outside, now.

When he finally gets outside, he takes a deep breath. The air is fresh, and it lessens the pain in his chest by a fraction. The courtyard is the epitome of opulent. Grand statues and flourishing gardens sprawl around him. He's surrounded by all the luxury he's grown up with his whole life, the luxury he's been fighting to get back to.

It festers under his skin.

He walks around with no direction, wearily perusing the statues and fountains. They're all lackluster and sordid. The only thing in the courtyard that retains his attention for more than a few seconds are the flowers. They're bright and joyful, and they remind him of bad singing and clumsiness and sewing.

Without thinking, he plucks a few flowers. He doesn't really know why. There's a yearning compulsion in him to gather as many flowers in his hands and keep them close. He wants to hold them tight so he won't lose a single one. Picking all sorts—purple, blue, red, pink, white—he collects a pile so large that he doesn't know what to do with it. Eventually, he ends up sitting in the middle of the courtyard, staring at the armful of flowers as they rustle in the breeze.

Just as suddenly as the compulsion to pick them crashed upon him, so does the immense guilt. Why did he do that? Now all of these flowers are going to die.

He feels, for lack of a better word, like utter shit. There has to be some way he can save them, right? They're still vibrant and full of color; surely they're not too far gone?

Obviously he can't just attach the flowers back to their stems. With the flowers tucked in his arm, he walks with a crooked limp to find a new place to plant them. He wanders farther and farther from the estate, away from the statues and fountains, until there's nothing but open field around him. It takes him a few more minutes to find a suitable patch of dirt where he might be able to replant them. He settles down and starts digging through the earth.

It takes an effort of vigilance to dig holes while keeping the flowers from blowing away in the wind, but he manages it. He places each decapitated part into its own hole, patting the dirt around them. The petals fold and flutter in the wind, but they don't rip out of the ground, so Mott considers it a success. Relatively. They look a little wilted and dull.

Maybe they just need water. Mott's got plenty of that. He ejects a generous couple gallons on them, hoping that will do the trick. When he's done, the water puddles unpleasantly and the flowers are flat against the mud.

…He's not exactly an expert at gardening.

Seeing the flowers all soggy and drooping doesn't improve Mott's mood. He feels like he's one of those flowers, sagging and miserable. The feeling yanks at his heartstrings. He made this mess, and then he made it even worse. The least he can do is see if there's any gardening supplies in town that might help.

He's reluctant to leave the flowers in such a state, but there's not much else he can do. If he doesn't figure something out, they're gonna end up becoming mulch. As he makes his way to the town, he wonders what might help the flowers and how he'll know it will help. He's studied a lot of things in his life, but gardening didn't make the list. He'd never even seen a farm until he'd been to Lenny's house. Not that Lenny's family farm was much of a farm at all; it was more like dirt and dead plants.

Would Lenny know how to fix the flowers?

Mott shakes the thought from his head. It doesn't matter what Lenny does or does not know, this is his mess to fix. Besides, Lenny made it pretty clear a few days ago how he feels about Mott right now. He can't imagine seeing him would be much of a delight.

He hopes Lenny's okay, though. He hopes he's not working himself too hard. If Lenny thinks someone needs help, he's not gonna rest until it's done. Lenny's awfully stubborn; he might be as skinny as a twig, but he can be as immovable as a rock when he wants to be.

But that doesn't mean he's invincible—these past few weeks have been a glaring reminder of that. Watching Lenny struggle to recover shoved his vulnerability straight into Mott's face. Seeing Lenny's skin stripped raw and the tender flesh beneath it bared had reminded Mott not just how fragile Lenny is, but how weak he himself is. How inadequate he is.

It's nothing new, though. Isn't that what his father has been telling him all this time?

His thoughts spiral and consume him until he bumps into someone. He snaps back into awareness, realizing with a start that he's already wandered into town.

"Sorry," he says, to the person he ran into.

They whip around with a disgruntled scowl, probably about to chew him out, but then they see his face. Their eyes go wide and any argument they might've made dashes away. Pale and cowed, they mumble something before ducking their head and hurrying off. Mott watches them go, stunned and bewildered. What was that?

It takes him a moment to remember that's how people usually react when they get in a powerful noble's way—especially one who takes all their money no matter how poor they already are. Being an Alcott who collects heavy taxes is sure to garner that kind of response, so Mott's not entirely sure why he expected anything less. Maybe it's because he's spent so many months as a nobody that he forgot what it means to be a somebody.

This is what he's fought so hard to return to?

He tries to shake the encounter off as he ventures farther into the town, but the feeling lingers. It doesn't help that the townspeople eye him warily, their sharp gazes trained on him with barely veiled disgust and hatred. Yet, whenever he meets their gaze, their eyes fall to the dusty street. They're afraid of being singled out by him, he realizes. They're afraid of having even more of their livelihood stripped from them.

A sense of wrongness clings to his skin like something sticky and unpleasant. As he travels down a crooked dirt street and more eyes dart away from him, the feeling grows suffocating. Part of him wants to turn around and forget about the whole thing, but he knows he'll regret it if he does. So, he presses on.

A few blocks in, he finds himself at the crossing of a familiar street. This is where he was when he promised the town he'd lessen their taxes, using his power as an Alcott to grant him an audience with their lord. He sees the person Lenny fed that day, sitting in the same spot and looking more dejected than ever.

In a few short days, this part of town looks worse for wear. It's as if the whole place has been uprooted and left for dead, and now the people are abandoned to wilt and droop and drown.

They need money. They're going to die at this rate.

Mott doesn't know why the thought strikes him so suddenly, so viscerally, but it pierces him down to the marrow and shudders through his entire being. Perhaps it's because he knows he's responsible for what's happened here.

They need money. Mott doesn't have any of his own—but he knows someone who has an excess.

Without hesitation, he spins back to the estate and breaks into a sprint. A few townspeople jump at his sudden motion, staring with taut hesitance and confusion. He's aware of how bizarre he must look, racing through the streets without a clear reason, but he doesn't have the time to explain himself. He manages to dodge a rolling cart and shout an apology over his shoulder as he barrels past, but that's about it.

His legs pump more vigorously than he thought possible as his heart beats at twice the speed. He can get them money. He ruined things, made a mess of everything, and nearly taxed the life out of the town, but he can make it right again. He will make it right again.

He can save them.

Relief and excitement wash over him in waves, encouraging a burst of speed as he tears through the streets back to the estate. A wide grin stretches itself across his face and he finds himself laughing into the open air. He's sure he's gone mad off the euphoria coursing through him, because everything that was dull and bleak this morning is suddenly bright and full of possibility.

Bursting through the estate doors causes a teensy commotion. Tax collectors who had just come in from an abundant haul jump at the noise, startled. One of them drops their bag and coins scatter all across the floor.

"Pick that up!" Mott exclaims in a sing-song voice, chipper and bubbling as he races by.

The collectors exchange looks of fright, likely wondering if he's finally snapped. He doesn't deign them worthy of divulging his plan to, so he simply dashes to the collector's storage room to find what he's looking for. Lucky for him, it's right in the center of the room: a large, wooden cart equipped with leather straps—easy for a four-legged being to pull.

In no time at all, he straps himself in. Some bags of money from previous collections sit in the corner of the room, so Mott hauls them into the cart. Trotting back to the hall, he walks out just as the collectors finish picking up the last coin.

"Thanks!" He chirps, snatching the bags from them and tossing them in the back.

The collectors stare at him as he leaves, flabbergasted. When they eventually realize he's not coming back, one of them shouts, "Hey! Bring those back, they belong to Lord Alcott!"

"Nope, they sure don't!" He responds, a dumb grin still stretching across his face. "They belong to the people."

He can barely hear their vicious curses and complaints as he grows farther and farther from the estate. One of them threatens that Uncle Theobald will be hearing about the incident, but it only makes Mott's smile bigger. Knowing that hell will soon rain down on him can't dampen this mood.

Returning to town the second time is a bit harder with a heavy cart tied to him, but he makes good time. The sun is just beginning to set when he returns to where he and Lenny announced they'd be helping. He thought it would be fitting—returning to where it all began.

The people watch him with astonishment and confusion, but they don't dare watch for long. Without fail, their eyes will skirt away after a few minutes, anxious about drawing unnecessary attention to themselves. But they can't bring themselves to leave; the curiosity in their eyes is strong enough to tell Mott why. Despite maintaining cautious distance, it doesn't take long before a crowd has gathered.

Perfect.

Unlatching himself from the cart, Mott gestures to the riches inside. "People of New Crestmount: I believe this belongs to you."

They don't jump on the opportunity. Instead, they train their eyes on the wagon as if it's a trap.

Mott waits for someone to come forward, but no one does. So, he explains, "These are the dues that the Alcott tax collectors took from you. The tax rates were excessive and unethical, so I'm redistributing the wealth. It belongs to you."

Some of the people mutter amongst themselves, but it never gets louder than a low grumble. Their eyes flick from him to the wagon. Their bodies don't move an inch. Are they afraid of Uncle Theobald's wrath? The money is technically stolen, even if Mott could argue that his uncle stole it in the first place.

"Don't worry about Lord Alcott. Any anger he has, I'll bear it myself," he assures, stepping aside to give them a clear path to the money. "He won't do anything to you."

The suspicion doesn't fade from their expressions. It's like they're bracing themselves for an attack, anticipating and holding themselves rigid. But from what? Mott glances around to see if any of the tax collectors follows him. What around here has them so high-strung?

It takes a moment for it to dawn on him, and even longer for him to digest it. But based on the wary fear in their eyes, like a child who's frightened of fire after being burned, he can put the pieces together: they're scared of him.

He's the fire. He said he'd help, they trusted him, and he burned them. Thinking of it that way opens his eyes to what they must be seeing: after being hurt by Alcotts for so long, they still dared to put faith in one, and it backfired—only for that Alcott to come to them again with another promise. In that position, would Mott trust a guy like him?

They probably think this is some back-handed trick, some ruse to jail them and snatch up their land so they have nothing left. The elation that filled him before deflates, his best efforts falling flat like a balloon meeting a needle. He thought he'd be able to fix his mistakes by returning the money, but his wrongs go much deeper than the surface issue. There's no way he can fix what he's ruined if they don't trust him.

Guilt gnaws at him. What does he do now? He's probably the one person in the whole world they won't accept money from, and no amount of apologizing or coaxing will convince them otherwise. There's no one here who can vouch for his genuine efforts, so he can't assure them with that. Is this it? Is he already out of options? Are his failings really so large that he can't dismantle them himself?

Biting his lip, his mind races as his worries pile up. There's really no fixing this, is there? The weight of his failure presses down on him; his inability to clean up after himself is crushing. He's gotten himself into some stupid, selfish messes before, but this really takes the cake. The only person he can think that would be able to untangle Mott's disaster is—

"What's the matter? Why are y'all looking so spooked?"

Him.

Mott hears his voice, somewhere deep in the grim, silent crowd. Mott's head snaps up, heart racing, trying desperately to spot the familiar presence. He hears a whispered response to the question come from his left, and he whips his head that direction. His eyes dart from figure to figure in the dense crowd until he catches a glimpse of yellow and green. They meet eyes at the same time.

His heart stops.

The crowd allows Lenny to pass through with ease, as if he's one of them. His presence doesn't frighten them; in fact, they seem to take comfort in Lenny's arrival. Of course they do. Why would Mott think it would be any different? Lenny's probably already made himself acquainted with everyone in town and made them flower crowns and friendship bracelets. They must adore him.

Mott adores him. He hates that it's taken a near death experience and a falling out to realize it, but he does. Lenny might just be the best thing that's ever happened to him.

When Lenny joins Mott in the clearing, Mott pauses to take him in. Dust sticks to his legs, likely kicked up from walking in the dirty streets all day, and he looks a little tired. What really worries Mott are his wounds—they're in worse shape than the last time he saw him. Red stains seep into the bandages at his arms, and his torso is bandaged again. He must have exerted himself too much and agitated the nearly healed wounds. As he suspected, Lenny has probably been working himself too hard, running himself ragged to try and help the city. That mission must be harder than trying to plug a leak with cotton.

There's a million things Mott wants to say and zero brain cells that will let him do it. All he can do is stand in stupefied silence as Lenny wordlessly sizes him up. His face is blank as he does it. Just as blank as that night.

Mott's heart hurts at the memory.

Mott doesn't know what Lenny was looking for in his slow examination. He doesn't know if he found it, either. But then Lenny tears his eyes away from Mott to look at the people and smile. His breath hitches at the sight. How is Lenny able to smile like that while he's dirty and bleeding?

"I know y'all are scared," Lenny says, his voice gentle yet assured. "But I promise, ain't nobody here gonna hurt you."

The people still don't leap toward the wagon, but their tension soothes. They pick their eyes off the ground, watching Lenny without hesitation or fear.

Lenny approaches the wagon, brushing by Mott in the process. His legs go weak at the barest touch, and he so desperately wants Lenny to smile at him like he's smiling at the others, but he doesn't say a word. He simply watches Lenny work, in awe of the way he artfully untangles Mott's mess.

Lenny counts the coins in a small satchel in the back before calling a name Mott doesn't recognize. When someone steps up, Lenny turns and asks her, "You said you and your family lost fifty gold pieces this week?"

"That's right," the woman responds, her eyes flicking from Mott to Lenny.

"Here," Lenny says, placing the satchel in their hands. "This should cover it."

The stranger accepts the bag, not warily, but cautiously. Her gaze lands on Mott for an anxious second before returning to Lenny. Lenny smiles and nods. Comforted, she rifles through the bag for a moment, studying the contents inside. When she's satisfied, she looks up at Lenny and beams with teary eyes.

"Go on back home, now," Lenny urges, waving her off. "Your mama is probably worried sick about you."

In a gesture that Mott can only describe as euphoric relief, the girl jumps up and down, throws her arms around Lenny in an embrace, and weeps happy tears. She releases him with a delighted laugh, racing off to return to her family with the good news. The crowd watches her skip down the street, their eyes shining with first slivers of hope.

"Well," Lenny starts, opening a new bag, "who's next?"

After that, it's like a dam has burst. The crowd floods the street, rushing up to the wagon to bury their hands in the coins and reclaim what's theirs. For an overwhelming moment, Mott fears the streets will devolve into a mob-like chaos, but Lenny hops into the cart and starts helping people find what they need. As if following by example, neighbors turn to each other and find what the other needs. No one takes too much or too little, and everyone looks out for the other.

This would be a stressful endeavor if Lenny weren't around, laughing and smiling at each person he hands money to. It would be an impossible one, too. Mott hasn't forgotten that this whole thing was about to fall flat before Lenny came around. He doesn't think he'll ever forget.

Mott feels the tangled threads of his mistakes beginning to loosen. In no time at all, everyone is provided their fair portion of the wealth, and people gradually begin to return to their homes and families. Some people stick around and thank Lenny, over and over, clutching to their coins while tears roll down their faces. Mott watches from a distance, feeling his own presence like a foriegn invader. Still, he watches and he feels immense gratitude with every passing second.

What would he do without Lenny? He's Mott's savior in more ways than one. These few days he's spent without him have been some of the most miserable days of his life; seeing him again has sparked an unparalleled joy in his heart.

Gradually, the remaining stragglers disperse. By the time everyone has left, the sun has almost fully set. Mott stares at Lenny's back, watching the last slivers of sunlight outline him like a halo.

Then, Lenny turns to him. His smile is gone. It's replaced with that same, blank expression.

He catches his breath. "Lenny," he says.

Lenny's face doesn't change. It doesn't even flicker. Mott's heart drops at the sight, and he suddenly feels sick to his stomach.

Everything he wants to say culminates into one massive gag that keeps his mouth shut. Whenever he thinks he's found something to say, he swallows it back down. It goes down rough like sandpaper.

"I'm sorry," is what he eventually manages to croak.

Lenny continues to stare. He's not moved by Mott's words. But he does respond.

"We need to talk."