MAJESTY

The sewers vanished like crumbs swept off a tabletop. Suddenly the world was white, incredibly white, so white Martha thought it had stopped existing – it wasn't a colour that blinded, but a colour that suggested nothingness, an eraser that erazed and erose to cover everything, everywhere, the white flowed into every sense, she tasted white air and heard white noise and smelled nothing, her skin was numb and number and numbed and why did you listen to her she's killing you she's taking you into the underworld into –

– somewhere. The world was colours again and she felt dust and dirt underneath her feet, scraped her soles against the floor to feel that familiar sensation again; heard a quiet breathing from Agatha and another, more harried breathing that she realised was her own; smelled the stuffy air of a small room that must have been closed for years…

"Sorry 'bout the landing spot," mumbled Agatha ahead, letting go of Martha's hand. "It's the only room 'round here people never use, and it's always best to be sure not to land on anyone."

Martha blinked. There was no light in the room but her eyes were somehow used to the darkness straight away, like they were trying to claw back as much sight as possible, like the trip through nowhereland had frightened them into working harder. She saw the silhouette of a locker to the left, the contours of a cleaning rack to the right, both close, only a couple feet or so away. Blackened buckets stood on the floor, mops hanging off the side. A single step had taken her from the sewers into a broom cupboard.

Light poured in as Agatha opened the door, but Martha was looking the other way, looking for a hole, looking for a drainpipe the size of two women and a small turtle, looking for something that could sensibly explain why they were here all of a sudden but no, all she found was a sink with paint on it. She couldn't even get her pinkie through the holes in the bottom.

what did you expect i don't know something you don't know anything you stupid bint i know that this doesn't make any sense "Yeah, sorry, it doesn't make much sense, does it?"

It took her a while to realise that Agatha had said that. The old woman was standing in the hallway outside, looking somewhat apologetic. "Specially not when you've been in Pallet all your life," she went on. "That's a moat, we call it, there's thousands of them all over Kanto."

Martha could only mutter "… The sink?"

"No, of course not – well, I… That's a good question, actually," said Agatha, scratching herself on the elbow. "It's more like the room itself is a moat, but I don't know exactly what it springs from."

"A… a moat?"

"Oh, right – well, you know castles?" Martha nodded. "Well, castles got moats. They're like ditches with water in them, to stop people coming through you don't want to. But if you can swim, moats are just really wet roads." Agatha chuckled, stretched out a hand. "And you, lady, just learned how to swim. Get on out of there, now, the King's waiting."

Martha handed Agatha her free arm, and then she was being pulled through a rickety corridor, through creaking floorboards and rusty steel nails and blinking fluorescent lamps and towards a door in the distance. There were holes in the walls and through the roof, occasionally a piece of rotting wood hung off some hinges, only partially hiding a dark dusty hole into nowhere.

This didn't look like a castle. It didn't smell like a castle. It didn't feel like a castle. Martha didn't know what a castle felt like but she knew it'd feel different from this. This was just… decay with a broom cupboard in it. And yet, a king lived here.

"A king lives here," she said, but it was a question.

"The Blood King, yup," Agatha said, but it didn't answer.

The Blood King.

The Blood King.

"If… if he's a, a king… Why haven't I heard of him?"

They stopped. Agatha first, and then Martha by almost walking into her. The old woman didn't turn around, but Martha could practically see the expression printed on the back of her neck.

"… You have," came the reply, drawn-out, slow. "You don't know him as the Blood King, but… you most definitely know him."

"Who?"

Agatha bent her neck. Her bun pointed towards the derelict ceiling, her nose towards the likewise floor; she breathed, but didn't say anything.

"Who?" repeated Martha, and now she could feel a trace of panic in her voice, just like she could feel the trace in the back of her mind and in the fingers that held Agatha's hand because nobody would ever be silent like this without a very, very bad reason –

But Agatha only mumbled, "You'll see" – and then started walking again.

Martha knew him. She "most definitely" knew him. But she knew no one, she knew nobody at all. Pallet had been her life for as long as she could remember and in Pallet, nobody lived – except her, and the kids, and –

– and Samuel.

But… Samuel wasn't a king, was he? He was just a professor with a radio show, he was…

… famous across the region regularly on trips out of town always hidden away in his laboratory once the Kanto champion said to be the reigning authority on Pokémon –

Was that where Agatha was taking her? Back to Pallet, back to the prison that was her house, back to another nineteen years – no, she couldn't be yes she could she damn well could be but what about Mer Mer doesn't belong to Samuel who cares about that thing tug your arm away tug my arm away run back to where you came from don't look back but…

… they'd just find her again, force her to return. This way, she could face Samuel with dignity.

As much dignity as she could muster after trekking through a sewer in low heels, at least.

And yet…

She looked down at Mer. It stared back, wide-eyed. This little creature had been run over by a car and since then, it had stayed with her, calm and unflinching. All this time waiting for her to give it medical attention.

She couldn't just give up on it now. She must get it to a doctor somewhere, and then… then, she'd have to figure out some other excuse to stay out of Pallet.

Somehow, they were at the end of the corridor. A big wooden door stood in their way. There was a painting of a crown on it, peeling along with the ancient oak it was smeared on, faded from a probable gold to a barely visible lemon. And yet, the door felt – big. If Martha reached her hand up, she could probably touch the top jamb, but still her mind insisted that it was much larger, that the walls on the sides were much farther than they seemed.

"Through here," said Agatha, and Martha almost pulled her hand away. "The Blood King's court. Remember to bow your head when he speaks" bow my head to Samuel? never "and also, it's a pretty good idea to address him with 'sire' or 'my liege'" I'll bloody well call him Samuel like I always have "and, oh. He remembers you, but you might not remember him" and that – might not remember Samuel? Why wouldn't she –

– but Agatha was already pushing the door open, and it didn't creak but it shrieked and screamed and beyond was a pale murk flecked with blacker shades, and a single candle in the middle that flickered and spat and threw a crimson glow on a blotchy carpet, and the floor crawled slowly towards the back wall, and so did Martha because Agatha was pulling her arm, leading her deeper into the darkness. A shadow moved to the left, then another to the right, moved with Martha, almost like they were her shadows.

This was not Samuel's court. This was someone else's. And that someone was sitting almost right in front of her now, only yards ahead.

Agatha got down on one knee, and said: "Sire, the Squirtle is here. And so's… Martha. Martha from Pallet Town."

"Really?" came a voice, and Martha could see where it was coming from, but only in outlines. A half-circle rising from the floor, behind a chair that looked like it had wings, and in the chair – a reclining figure.

"Aggie," the voice went on, "you must be joking. You simply must."

"I'm not, sire," replied Agatha.

The figure moved. It seemed to be getting to its feet – she saw lines like legs touch the floor, saw a ball like a head rise up, up, up…

It came closer, towering at least two heads above Martha, and she saw that it was bare-chested, with a torn-off shirt poking out of its trousers, and she saw that it was skin and bone but very little else –

And then it turned on a flashlight, turned it up to its own face.

That face was a face she had first seen in Pallet, more than nineteen years ago. She remembered the eyes, she remembered the nose, she remembered the chin and cheeks that were by now hidden behind layers of black stubble and brown dirt, remembered everything from when it was far, far younger. The Blood King's name… was Red.

"Hello, Mother," he said.