In a way, he supposed, he was the messenger. Because wasn't he the one who everyone thought was leading the rebellion? He was brave, valiant, handsome, strong, and everything a hero should be- yet it all didn't matter, did it? He had wanted to protect
It never mattered in the end, he supposed. He was just, and it scared him a bit to think of his little importance and how this was his only role no matter what he tried, a storyteller.
"K-Keep on fighting! There's no much more the Rebellion can take!"
Those words were music to Hugh's ears, sitting on the back of a Rapidash in the back of the battle. He watched them all fall down; people on their side, and on his, although he wouldn't have really cared anyway. He just needed to kill two of them. Either kill Rosa and Nate, or kill Hilda and Hilbert. That way, he would truly show everyone that he wasn't weak. He would show compassion, sure, but letting the remaining two survive, but he would show power and control, by ordering the other two to die; of course, he was getting a bit ahead of himself, seeing as how the Rebellion hadn't lost yet, but he could taste the sweet taste of victory on his lips.
The Rebellion had foolishly thought that they could attack at night; a huge miscalculation on their part. Their endeavor might have worked, if it wasn't for the fact that Hugh had had Curtis scouting the skies for any signs of movement, and the co-leader had reported back to him of the sudden change in direction of the ship.
Ah, but it wouldn't do, would it, to have the king and queen captured so quickly, would it? What fun would that be? That wouldn't be counted as "heroic". To be "heroic", he had to actually save the region from when they were being attacked, wouldn't he?
He needed one person urgently right now, though.
Yellow.
She was the maid from the past; that he was sure! The maid in the past had had the ability to read minds and heal the bodies of people and Pokemon, and that was what Hugh needed. He needed a storyteller; a prophet! He needed to make sure that he wouldn't lose this war. He had to know what had happened last time. The diary that the maid had kept was unclear in what happened in the end. The maid could tell him everything. He had to get her!
Some low grunts had came into his office, quivering, and Hugh only listened disdainfully to what they were saying, eyes growing more and more furious by the second at the retelling of the tale. In fact, Hugh decided, that only strict control could actually amount to anything, and (since wasn't he going to be king? He would be hero, and he would rule) that rules needed to be put into place.
So, he smiled sweetly at the three grunts, and then lifted his hand, back facing up. The grunts looked scared, as they weren't sure what they were supposed to do. Hugh closed his eyes, still smiling, and then cruelly flashed his teeth. Well, useless people should be discarded like the puppets they are, shouldn't they? He couldn't have weakness now; he would rule, he would rule, he would rule! Nobody would stop him! He was the most powerful! No one would stop him!
But wait; the people do not know why they're going against the two champions. They know that they're the enemy, but they have no motive to fight them! I need something to anger the people.
"Off with their heads."
Slash.
Ah, yes, that was what he would do.
"Fight on! We, the Revolution, shall never lose!"
It was easy conducting an army, Curtis observed. All they had to do was shout words of encouragement while trying to scout out the leaders of the opponent, and then they could even have many people in their armies killed and not even get blamed.
You are the co-leader of the Revolution. Ahaha, Curtis, aren't we friends? Let's be co-leaders, together, and save Rosa and Nate from the evil of Neo-Plasma!
What was his job, anyway? He wasn't really sure. Recently, Hugh had been looking down on him even more than usual. Hugh had constantly barked orders out at him, making Curtis flinch most of the time, because really, was this actually friendship?
(Remember who your friends are; never forget your foes. To stay alive, forget your happiness; to win, remember your woes.)
He wondered why it was all familiar. This feeling of emptiness. He had had this feeling before, that something was going to go horribly wrong today, and that he didn't want it to happen, but something would happen. That girl on the ship...Yellow, the flash of golden hair that he had seen under that ship deck, made him tense up with fear. There was something about that person that scared him. He knew there was something, something, something about her that made him want to scream why, why, why-!
(But deep inside, he knew he was garbage. Garbage, garbage, garbage. He'll be useless, he'll be a puppet, if it means that he can stay with someone...)
He's pathetic. He'll lower himself down to a useless puppet, not even a doll, to be abused and thrown away to the trash where he belongs, even if he hates what he's done. He knows that he'll never be better.
From down below, he suddenly sees a halt in the fighting. There's a horrible, marvelous, harmonious, discordant, cry of victory (cry of rage and turmoil) that echoes throughout.
The Rebellion has retreated, but has left two crucial people behind, much to the horror of Curtis. He wonders why in the Distortion World those two would be left behind, and how badly the Rebellion has messed up now. Both are bleeding profusely, from the mouth and from multiple cuts on the arm, and both are recognizable. Extremely recognizable. And Curtis hates himself for this, but he can't even save the people he's promised to save, because he's useless, he just wants to be with someone, and everyone leaves him and even he would leave himself if he could.
The two girls lying in blood stained dirt and mud don't even struggle against their capture, as they're forcefully dragged off the ground and thrown into arms of two bulky grunts, who kick the girls down to their knees as they let out grunts.
"Superstar reporter, Nancy, and Hero of Ideals, Hilda, you are now being captured for treason."
He hopes they're alright. He's still terribly frustrated and horrified at his cowardliness, at how he's so stupid and weak that he can't even save the girl he vowed to protect and the girl he used to protect in the past, that Hugh almost catches him. It's at dinner, and the Revolution is having a mighty feast in the castle, which was cleaned up and spruced with the scent of Budew. Indeed, everyone in the region was rejoicing at the capture of Hilda and Yancy; even the professors.
The professors.
Weren't they supposed to be worried for Hilda? Sure, they didn't know Yancy, but they had spent so much time with Hilda...
(He knew that they had no heart. They would blame it all on Hilda, wouldn't they? Blame it all on the girl who was used as a puppet for the madness of the world. Blame Hilda and Hilbert. Blame the heart. But still, a kid could dream, couldn't he? He wished that he could find the tiniest bit of sympathy from these people.)
"Christoph, are you alright?"
He's jolted out of his thoughts by Hugh, who is looking at him strangely. He then realizes how strange he must look, with such a sad look on his face! What if they realized what he was thinking!? So he smiles gently at the boy, who then narrows his eyes, but Hugh then looks away. Curtis then lets out a breath he doesn't realize he's holding.
If one day, he were to die...
He would be scared. Make no mistake. He'd probably blubber for his life like every other person out there. He'd beg for life. He knows that. And quite frankly, he hates it. He hates himself. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, if he was a tiny bit different, no one would leave him. He guesses that the reason why he's always stayed close to Hugh is because that in the end, even if Hugh was bad, he was the one who never left him.
So he sticks close to Hugh, while fretting about how Hilda and Yancy were being treated in the castle dungeons.
He secretly slips a few slices of bread into his pocket, and then excuses himself. He feels a gaze on him as he leaves, but he tries to brush it off, because hey; only a suspicious person would notice eyes on him.
Clank.
The dungeon doors slam shut right behind him. He's alright. He has keys. But he's looking at two of the many inhabitants in the dungeons, and they are sitting meekly in the cells. They are separated, and Curtis then hesitantly walks towards Yancy.
"...Yancy?"
The girl jolts at the sound of her name, and her wide eyes stare into Curtis's. He swallows the abnormally large lump in his throat as he stares at the girl who he hasn't seen in so long. It's amazing, really, what a few years could do to a person. Her face is narrower than it used to be, her posture less defiant than the girl who was adamant about being a reporter, and most of all, her eyes still bright. It was that that surprised him the most. In this war, no eyes were bright anymore. They were weary with losses, with sorrow, and with hatred.
However, and Curtis could feel himself falling in despair at the moment, he realizes that those eyes are not the ones that he wants to see. Those eyes are full of energy, of fight, and of ambition and dreams.
He doesn't want to see eyes like this.
He feels himself want to choke back a sob, because really, how far gone does someone have to be in order to love emptiness and sorrow more than anything else?
"...Curtis?"
He laughs meekly, awkwardly rubbing his arm. There he goes, off on a tangent again in his own mind. He swears that really, he could maybe even write all of his thoughts down one day into a little book. A little book, filled with all of his thoughts. A book...just a final reminder that there really was a person named Curtis who lived.
A second voice interrupted his thoughts, one that was hoarse yet so beautiful.
"...Huh? You...seem familiar."
Well obviously she wouldn't remember you, seeing as you were in your make-up that day, and you probably aren't important enough to remember-
She looked up at him, eyes slightly wide yet still blinking sleepily and yawning cutely, as if she knew that he thought she was cute and was trying to make herself even cuter. And then, from the back of Curtis's mind, came a stern "no". As if someone like her would know him.
"Ah. Yes, I believe we met once."
Hilda's eyebrows slightly furrowed in contemplation, as if she was trying to bring him up from her memories.
"..You...you're the boy who I crashed into in the sky before, aren't you?"
He could feel a huge blush rushing through his body, with the words she remembers me, she remembers me repeating over and over again in his mind, before he realized that she probably thought of him as an enemy.
And she would be right.
He wasn't quite sure what to do. So he reached into his pockets, and decided to take out the bread and split it evenly between Yancy and Hilda, both of whom looked at him warily. Then, they both reached for a piece, and Yancy thanked Curtis. He looked towards Hilda, expecting some words from her as well, but when he did, he couldn't see her face, as she had turned back towards the wall of the dungeon. Curtis sighed, and then, making his way out, wished both of them a good night.
"Good night...Curtis."
That was Yancy.
He didn't hear a thing from Hilda.
Well, she does think you're out to kill her.
(Shut up, inner voice.)
So when he returns to dinner, he comes back with a smile, although he's a bit worried when Hugh starts to question why he took as long as he did. He then bashfully answers, in mock embarrassment, that he had mild stomach issues, and had to spend quite a bit of time in the powder room. Hugh nodded, appearing to accept his answer, and the rest of the night came without a hitch.
He could've sworn he had heard Pokemon wings beating, but when he notified Hugh, Hugh didn't respond. Perhaps Curtis was just being a little bit paranoid.
That night, Curtis took out a small little journal that he had never used, that was given to him by a traveling stranger whom he had helped. The journal was old, the words worn out, and truly looked ancient, but for some reason, he felt as if this book could be the key to everything.
Then he started writing.
The two are puppets; dangling from strings cut ever quickly and severed in the blink of an eye.
He wonders what exactly he's writing about. He thinks that maybe, maybe, he'd like to be a poet. Or maybe, a writer.
So he begins to tell a story that he's not quite sure where he knows it from. It certainly isn't from any text, so he just writes along with it. He has an urge to write down actual names, so he does. He isn't sure where he knows these names from, and he definitely isn't sure why he just wants to write it all, but he spends the night writing about a prince and a princess, who were driven mad by rivalry and hatred, who were supposed to be executed.
He thinks that Rosa and Nate, if they were actually in this story, would be a prince and princess.
So he puts them in, and then he adds the others too, until everything he writes is just a tangled mess. He writes from the opinions of the others, if they were in this situation, and he writes about past legends and others as well, until he truly has created a world of his own.
He has two heroes who are forever by themselves. He has two kids who vow to kill each other. And he makes two pairs of those.
Ah, but he is but a small part in the story. He notices, and then he decides to make a fortune teller. The fortune teller doesn't know of his powers. The fortune teller is only important when he's not there. The fortune teller loves writing, yet is horrible at it compared to his sister. He had a sister who was taken away from him at the age of two, when he couldn't even remember her name.
The fortune teller is strange and perfect, yet no one ever stays with him because he can see the future, and other people are scared of him. The fortune teller is alone, always alone, and he loves a hero who'll only notice him at the last minute, when he forces himself into her life. He tells the leader of the revolution fighting the monarchy that the prince and princess aren't going to die. And the fortune teller is killed because of it.
It's tragic, he knows. He writes about how a maid, the fortune teller's sister, found the fortune teller dead, and vowed to use her powers to ensure that everyone would come back to life later on. And how the story ended. He tells of how the story ended.
It's a horribly complicated piece.
He doesn't know what to call it. It's strange, but even though the story stresses how important hope and happiness is, he realizes that the heroes in the stories are the farthest gone.
Then, on a whim, filling in the title slot on the ancient journal with ballpoint ink, he writes down two words.
He won't be able to change the title later, so he isn't sure why he's writing it in ink, but he just has this feeling that the title fits, not the work, but the heroes completely.
He names it "Faithless Ideals".
A/N
Okay.
Kill me.
This is complete crap.
Please tell me you guys know what I meant here, please? ;_; God, I don't even know anymore.
