Chapter 35
Bond
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
The endlessly repeating sound of his footfalls in the snow had long ago ceased to annoy him. The majesty of the snowy crags all around no longer filled him with awe. Every morning, the sun rose between his right-hand side and his back. Every afternoon, the sun descended between his left-hand side and his front. Northwest, he walked. Always northwest. He had no control over the natural contours of the mountain ridges that were his path, but there was always a route to get back on track.
His world was white due to the blanket of pure snow. The hailstones had melted. As a human, he was sure he would have become snow-blind. The brightness of the sunlight reflected off the snow was inescapable. At the high altitude, the unfiltered light was intense. As a Water-type Pokémon, his eyes remained moist and unagitated. The cold from his barefooted steps in the snow were similarly insufficient to bother him. Within the hollow he dug in the snow nightly, he slumbered adequately if not snugly. His days in the mountains were tolerable, even comfortable at times. Had the cold of the Ice-boosting storm persisted, it might have been a different story, but the numbingly icy winds were but a memory.
The first day was simultaneously the easiest and the hardest. The memories were still tangible things that he could reach out and pull into his awareness, overlaying the canvas of endless white snow. He could forget his solitude. Yet the pain was also fresh. The wounds of his departure had not begun to heal. On that first day, when the shape of the slopes permitted, the northernmost reaches of Weird Wood were visible. The boughs of the dark pines had been coated with white like the rest of the scenery, but Wartortle knew what lay beneath that dainty exterior.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
On the second day, he caught glimpses of a valley nestled among the towering peaks to the east. Cradle Vale. The location and description matched what he knew. Spots of color peeked out of the snow even from his distant vantage point. Shrubs? Flower petals? Or more exotic vegetation like mosses, lichens? No way to know without an unnecessary detour. Every chance he got, he scanned the valley for signs of the tall rock formations that would mark Needleloft. Where Team Recover had confronted the Dedenne and saved the evolution ceremony. He never spotted the rocks.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
On the third day, the only scenery was the mountain range that surrounded him. These peaks were the tallest yet. Possibly the tallest he would ever encounter. When his path brought him near the summit of the colossal mountain he was currently traversing, he elected to deviate slightly from the optimum route. Half an hour of amateur rock climbing took him to the very peak of the snowy mountain. The chilling wind moaning in his ears was the only sound. He pushed his tail against the rock beneath the snow and lifted his body into the air. There, balancing on the tip of the tallest mountain, he could see he was the highest point for at least fifty miles. If this was the largest mountain range in the land, and he suspected it was, then he was the highest point for who knew how far.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
On the fourth day, he realized that the effort of his breathing had become marginally easier. The thin air of the high altitude had evidently been affecting him previously, but not enough to slow his pace. The elevation of the peaks he passed reached, overall, lower and lower heights. They each still remained gigantic to him, as a small Pokémon that could boast only three feet of height. Nonetheless he was descending every now and again. With that knowledge he knew he'd entered the portion of the mountain range called Snowcap Crags. The blanket of snow in the lower altitudes had begun to grow spotty in places, but the name was still accurate. Every peak was cold enough to preserve the snowfall of the storm.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
On the fifth day, he set a new record for fewest battles fought. The sole combatant of the day was a Flying-type coated with metal, marking it as a dual-Typer. Steely gray wings, plates around the base of its neck, silvery skin instead of feathers, talons of solid steel – all was metal. Though he could not recall the name of the species, it was certainly a welcome change from the multitude of Rock-type and Ground-type Pokémon he'd been encountering. Amazingly, Normal-types and even Fairy-types had been more common than Ice-types despite the snowy and cold environs. Hayzin had been on point with his belief that Ice-types were highly uncommon.
The battle with the Flying and Steel-type Pokémon went as well as the majority of his previous battles on the journey thus far. It was very close. He had to pull out all of the stops in order to scrape by with a victory, which was a welcome change from the pushover battles resulting from traveling in a large team. Now he had to be predicting incoming techniques for a chance at dodging them in order to win. Utilizing the cover and height differentials in his environment. Smart choices and timing for his techniques. Most importantly, making the moves forceful but accurate.
The temptation to allow his fighting spirit to consume him completely during a battle was as strong as ever. With his new body, he found delight in testing his abilities and physical limits. The moment that he lost his mind in a battle though, he knew he would probably lose. If he weren't losing already. He'd seen enough of the way Pokémon fought to know that it was sub-optimal for winning. Throwing out powerful techniques one after the other was a methodology, or lack thereof, that eliminated finesse and strategy in place of brute force. Sometimes it was what the battle called for. Most of the time, it was not. That was where his reasoning mind would shine. That was where he found the advantages that let him defeat tougher, stronger Pokémon. Finding patterns in the enemy's offensive and reacting intelligently to them. For example, using Bubble to keep an enemy at bay that favored close-quarters physical strikes.
Even so, losing some battles was inevitable. He absolutely refused to use any supplies from his backpack for a wild Pokémon battle, as he'd need them for the trials ahead. On the occasion of a loss, he would back off as protocol mandated and take an alternate, longer route. To return was to be beaten up once again and have his journey delayed even further. He knew that now from experience. On his second day, he'd been literally thrown off the mountain after encountering a Pancham for the second time. The Pokémon had shook with mirth as it watched him tumble and bounce down the mountainside. He'd been tired out by the ordeal, but of course nothing was broken when he came to rest near the bottom. He began the long trudge back up to the ridge, wishing he could see what new scars might be found on his shell.
By his quick thinking, he'd immediately spun the backpack over to his belly side during the fall so he could shelter it with his limbs and take the blows on his shell-back. Thankfully nothing within was damaged. From that point on, he wore the backpack on his belly side with the straps wrapping around his back. That way, he could utilize the harder part of his shell as a weapon or shield without fear of harming the backpack's delicate contents. The thought of the backpack being more precious and fragile than his own body was a humorous inversion from his past life that put a smile on his face for some time.
On the two occasions when he came upon an Ice-type, he fled. Immediately. Defeating one in a duel would prove nothing. Losing half a day or more to a sluggish recovery and rewarming of his body was not a risk he had any intention of taking. He consoled his mildly wounded pride by telling himself that he'd show them all who was boss once he solved the boost problem.
Completely by accident, he discovered an excellent way to escape his foe while he was running from a Froslass. A misplaced foot into a small cavity hidden by the snow tripped him up. After landing on his shell-back, the worst position to be in, he found himself sliding down from the mountain ridge faster and faster. The smooth surface of his shell acted as a personal sled. After the Froslass had been left far behind, he lowered his tail so the tip caught the snow, catapulting him end over end until he face-planted further down the slope. While embarrassing and a bit terrifying, he could not deny how effective the escape had been. Nor how fun. Then he was back on his feet, taking a more roundabout route toward his goal.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
On the sixth day, he spotted the next major landmark. The directions had been essential thus far in keeping him on track to Iyrodenin. A conspicuous cave mouth high up a cliffside on the second day. A trickling stream he had to keep on his left on the fourth day. No doubt it emptied into the Karp river on the western side of the mountain range, far from his position. Now, on the sixth day, a waterfall was in sight. Origin Falls. It marked the point at which he needed to bear northeast instead of northwest, as well as a sure indicator that he was getting close to the volcano. While the waterfall was higher up the mountain than he needed to go, he was compelled to take a closer look. If by a one in a thousand chance the water came from a hot spring, the short ascent would be well worth it.
The waterfall dropped into a lovely pool of aquamarine waters. Quiet runnels of water leaked over the edge to drain away into a meandering southward flow. He wondered if the Karp River originated from this very pool as opposed to any of the other waterways in Snowcap Crags. He dipped a foot into the water. Cold. Yet water was water no matter the temperature, and he yearned to explore any excitement the pool's depths had to offer.
In the end, he spent more than thirty minutes in the turbid water. The clarity of mind granted to him was wonderful as always, even though he had no conundrum to ponder. He'd had time enough to think in the serene atmosphere of the mountain ridges and cliffside paths. The bottom of the waterfall pool was surprisingly deep. Most of it was solid rock as opposed to pebbles or mud. Its curves and dips, in combination with the low visibility of the water, made the underwater terrain seem larger and more thrilling than it would have otherwise been.
At last he came up for air. The water had rejuvenated him in mind and body. He felt ready to spend the rest of the day hiking toward Iyrodenin. The sight of a Pokémon at the pool's edge stopped him from launching out to retrieve his backpack and contine the march.
Three feet tall when standing on hind legs. Short fur of dark blue and creamy white. Mohawk of fire.
No doubt about it. The Pokémon was Quil. In the flesh. Standing at Origin Falls, over a hundred miles from Cavetown, somehow. Question upon question rose in his mind like the bubbles of a giggle underwater. He ignored them all in favor of a disbelieving laugh, and a shout that came out more as a croak.
"Quil!"
In a flash he was hugging his friend, his face buried in fur. Quil wriggled in his grasp, but he didn't let go until the Quilava yelped out an explanation.
"Hey, get off Wartortle! Please, you're dripping wet!"
Wartortle pulled away with dismay at the wet fur he saw in Quil's coat, though he couldn't lose the grin on his face. Quil was here! Quil had come! How and why were irrelevant. Simply hearing his name again from Quil's lips brought him joy. He realized he hadn't spoken or been spoken to in a week, other than the wordless vocalizations of battle. When he spoke, his voice was extra gurgly from disuse. Quil's was hoarse too.
"Quil, I can't believe you're here!" All he could do was grin up at his friend. Quil was smiling too, albeit hesitantly.
"Aren't you mad at me? I left Cavetown. I left the Resistance."
Wartortle tried to rally his emotions. Yes, he should be angry. He would have been angry had he found out in a way other than Quil appearing before him. "I think I am angry. Or I will be. Right now, I'm happy you're here to be honest. In case you couldn't tell."
Quil chuckled, and led them farther away from the dull roar of the waterfall to better hear one another. "I could tell, actually. I wanted to be happy too, but I was worried about your reaction. Even after almost a week has gone by. I thought you always considered 'logic and reason' and whatever first, but..." He shook his head. "I'm glad that you're happy to see me!"
"Time enough for that later." Wartortle slipped on the backpack. "I want to cover much more ground today. Are..." He hesitated. His reunion with Quil might not have been caused by Quil's desire to travel with him. His friend might have sought him out on business, so to speak. If he asked the question, the answer might bring his elation to a screeching halt.
It took a moment for Wartortle to work up the courage to ask. "Are you coming with me?"
Even though the fashion of Quil's reply marked it as rehearsed, Wartortle was no less touched than if it had been spontaneous. "Not too long ago, I was a Cyndaquil carrying a heavy burden. I was stressed, anxious, and alone. You were a Squirtle who didn't even know how to Tackle. You had all the questions and none of the answers. Back then, before the Resistance, before we started helping other Pokémon, we supported each other. We were partners. That was all. Two unevolved traveling Pokémon."
"Now the world's more complicated. There are two boosts, and our big organization trying to keep 'mon in balance. My Pilgrimage is pointless since I'm a Quilava. You're looking for 'mon straight out of legend. Nothing is simple anymore. That's why you can't go alone. You can't try to do this by yourself."
"Quil," Wartortle began but the Quilava held up a forepaw, determined to finish what he wanted to say.
"But more importantly, even once things got complicated, you still always watched out for me. You watched out for all of us. You did what you thought was right, always. You never stopped trying to be the best 'mon you could be. You're even willing to go to Iyrodenin alone just because you're afraid it'll be for nothing. You don't want to drag anyone with you."
"Quil, you-"
"Do you remember what I said the first night I met you? You were really upset because of how crowded Swanna's lodge was, and I said that I wanted to help because we were partners. I said I had to keep you happy and healthy, because you would do the same for me."
Quil's eyes were glistening. "I never showed enough appreciation. But I can with this. Wartortle, I still want to be your partner, if I can."
Wartortle turned away from the sun, shadowing the building moisture in his eyes that otherwise might sparkle in the sunlight. This way, Quil wouldn't be able to see. But no. No, Quil had come all this way for him. He'd opened his heart to Wartortle. How despicable would he have to be to return those feelings with feigned apathy?
He faced his friend and forced his quivering lips to smile.
Together, Quil and Wartortle walked past the waterfall, continuing the journey to Iyrodenin they'd begun long ago.
The abrupt shift from silent trekking to enjoyable conversation was a strain on Wartortle's voice. He wasn't complaining though. Now the journey was a pleasant hike through grandiose scenery instead of an interminable slog with nothing but his dark thoughts to keep him company. They chatted about many topics, beginning with the most pressing.
Quil explained that he'd set out to follow Wartortle the day after his departure, but was careful to remain out of sight and well behind him. His rationale was that if he waited until they were past the halfway point to reunite, when inevitably Wartortle forbade him from coming along he would explain that they were closer to Iyrodenin than Cavetown. It would thus be silly for Quil to walk all the way back to Cavetown instead of helping Wartortle find one of the Legendary Birds. Plus, he could use his Cyndaquil line knowledge of the volcano and the Pilgrimage as a bargaining chip. Wartortle admitted Quil's strategy was clever. Although he hated to think how the Resistance had been affected by its charismatic founding member's disappearance, what's done was done. Quil's idea paid off; it would indeed be silly for Quil to go back now instead of continue to Iyrodenin.
Wartortle laughed when Quil mentioned how after Wartortle had gone under, he'd stared at the pool at Origin Falls for so long that he grew fearful for Wartortle's safety. He hadn't known that Wartortle could remain comfortably submerged for so long. Evidently Water-types were few and far between in Steady Steppe.
At Wartortle's prompting, Quil admitted that he was curious to see Iyrodenin for himself. Quil hoped it would shed light on the mystery surrounding how it triggered the evolution of every other Cyndaquil. Wartortle had a hypothesis regarding the Pilgrimage and the volcano's involvement in it, but he held his peace. They'd find out for certain in a few short days.
The pair also talked about serious matters. Moltres especially. How to objectively explain to it the disruption caused by the boosts. Tactics to avoid a battle if the Moltres wanted them gone for whatever reason. What to do if the boost could not be reversed. Quil tried to hide it, but Wartortle could sense his skepticism about the existence of any Legendary Birds. Nonetheless, Quil participated in the discussions as if he expected them to be successful on their search, which Wartortle greatly appreciated. With Quil, he never felt like he was being manipulative or intimidating in speaking his mind and suggesting courses of action. The Quilava had a quiet passion that had grown since the day Wartortle had met him.
Their conversations were broken up by encounters with wild Pokémon, as usual. Wartortle confirmed with Quil that responding cooperatively and strategically was perfectly fine, as opposed to fighting individually and instinctually. The battles were a throwback to the time when it had been only the two of them traveling together. Old favorites like Ember Arc made an appearance, but Wartortle invented new ways to maximize their potential based on their new movesets and combat prowess. Every battle brought the duo closer to fighting like a well-oiled machine capable of responding optimally to any scenario.
Quil was not helpful in the way of formulating ideas, and only barely assisted in refining the ones they had, but he gave them life in a way that Wartortle could not. The positivity that Quil brought to each fight was too exuberant for Wartortle to match. Quil complimented Wartortle's successful strategies, then stopped Wartortle from being too hard on himself when a tactic or entire fight went poorly. Quil never complained when an order caused him to abandon what he was already doing, or to take a hit. Between battles, he would motivate Wartortle with a few reassuring words or a bright smile that showed his faith in his friend.
Quil was a bundle of undying spirit. His role in the Resistance had rubbed off on him more than Wartortle had realized. The energy had always been there, as shown by Quil's excitement to explore the Prison, his firm decision to help the Pokémon of Blindhollow, or the moments of fire in his speeches. Now, however, whatever barriers of insecurity and anxiety preventing that energy from shining through had been lifted. Somewhere along the way, it seemed Quil had decided to unfetter his passion. With Quil at his side, Wartortle caught himself believing that anything was possible with enough dedication.
These strong feelings got Wartortle thinking about his friendship with Quil. Its authenticity and cause in particular. As a human, he never would have built such a rapport with anyone, regardless of who they were, in the time that he'd known Quil: scarcely more than three weeks. Nor would he have built the loyalty and closeness that he had with Quil. While Wartortle did not mind the sense of attachment, his analytical mind was skeptical of how natural it could be. Ever since Day One, the thought of parting ways with Quil had caused Wartortle's insides to squirm. That had been the first clue that his Pokémon nature was greatly influencing the relationships he forged. Granted, he was lost and vulnerable in a new world on that day, but the bond had persisted and grown thicker every day thereafter. There was also the 'Pokémon trainer effect' to account for; if his humanity was influencing the development and battling strength of those he associated with, surely it might engender a greater personal connection with them as well.
Yet Wartortle thought it more likely that his Pokémon aspect was at work here, not his humanity. It fit with what Blindhollow's Wartortle had mentioned of the social behaviors of the Squirtle line. He'd said they live in the pond of their hatching until they're ready, if they even leave at all. Wartortle had been transformed into a Pokémon with a biology that facilitated social bonding. Quil was the first Pokémon he'd met, and certainly the first one he trusted enough to call a friend. That had to count for something.
Examining his gut feelings with such care was almost counter-intuitive. One did not typically analyze the way one felt. One merely felt a certain way. Especially in this Pokémon culture. Somehow, Wartortle was happier about his friendship with Quil than ever before. Pinning down the reasons it had arisen had reinforced its legitimacy. More than at any other time in the past, Wartortle dreaded the idea of leaving Quil for that long ever again.
If I can swing it, Quil and I are going to be thick as thieves from now on. We're an excellent team, our goals are aligned, and we've been through some harrowing experiences together. We even have Types that complement each other fairly well. He glanced at Quil, whose blunt snout currently wore an expression of contentment. I won't make the mistake of abandoning him again.
At night, Quil curled partway around Wartortle's shell in the hole they dug. The labor took much more time than Bein had ever needed to spend and the result was messier, but making a hole was worth it. The added bit of warmth from the hole and their body contact made the night more comfortable for both of them. However, the heat from Quil's fires, added to their combined body heat, caused a problem that neither foresaw. Wartortle was awoken in the dead of night by Quil scrambling to escape their little hollow. A layer of wet slush lay at the bottom. The icy water in contact with Wartortle's belly failed to bother him by virtue of it being water, but Quil refused to sleep in it. They had made great strides together regarding Quil's fear of water. Unfortunately the distaste remained in Quil's head, like a catchy tune that could never be fully erased. He dug a new hole and extinguished his fires in order to prevent the problem from reoccurring.
The seventh day was windier than the others. The wind was westward, bringing the alpine cold of their mountain ridges to the dusty, arid lands that had come into view in the east. The desert, if that was what it was, was not one of sun-baked and barren flatlands, but of fractured rocks, rugged shrubs, and rust-colored soil. To the west, only more of their mountain range could be seen. Neither of the pair knew what lands lay beyond. They wended their way around patches of snow on the lofty paths. Every hour that passed presented them with shorter peaks, gentler wind, and less snow on the ground. The snowy wonderland Wartortle had grown so used to was gone by the end of the day, replaced by dark rock and powder-fine dirt.
The eighth day brought their goal into sight. The volcano was designated by a modest plume of smoke rising from its top. Far more striking were the orange rivulets of what could only be lava. They formed a chaotic latticework on the steep slopes. Fortunately the lava flows were concentrated on the western side, offering them them the possibility of ascending the mostly rocky eastern side. While the volcano did not match Wartortle's mental picture of a menacing behemoth hidden behind back-lit black smoke, it was nonetheless unmistakable. Its height did not set it apart from the surrounding mountains. The smoking top fulfilled that role admirably. The starkly contrasting colors so much like an Arcanine's pelt did not hurt either.
Were the volcano a flirtatious Pokémon showing off its flashy color to prospective mates, it would have no need to take further measures to attract attention. Nonetheless it had placed itself in a position to frame its blacks and oranges with the perfect backdrop: the sea. A great blue unbroken vastness spread from the shore to the untouchable horizon. The coastline west of Iyrodenin was obscured by the rest of the range, and the eastern coastline was sandy before quickly transitioning to the rocky desert landscape, but Iyrodenin itself emerged from where the sea met whatever landmass they were on. Island? Continent? Wartortle knew not. The mountain range had led them directly to the sea. The volcano marked the edge.
"Wow," Quil said. Little more was needed. 'Wow' summed up the picturesque sight quite nicely in Wartortle's eyes. Nature's potential for beauty had been fully realized in the view of Iyrodenin. If for no other reason than grandeur, he could see why the volcano might be held in such esteem by the Cyndaquil evolutionary line.
At length, Wartortle said, "I grew up in a seaside city. Saw the ocean almost every day. I thought I'd take the sight of the sea for granted when I finally saw it again. I was wrong."
Wartortle expected Quil to chuckle, but he did not. "If I saw this every day, I would relocate. That much water is...you can't win against that. You can't walk around it. It's hard to imagine that there are Pokémon that live in that their whole lives. Underwater, swimming through the wetness every second of every minute." He dropped to his forepaws, his shoulders hunching as he shook.
"First time seeing the ocean?"
Quil nodded. "I heard you can also see the ocean not far from where my family lives in Steady Steppe. A little way beyond the western hills. I planned on never looking for it, and that plan has definitely not changed. If we make it to the top of that volcano, I think I'll have an ocean view to last me forever."
Wartortle hummed in agreement. "That'll be a sight. The ocean blue, from the top of Iyrodenin."
Ten minutes later, he allowed Quil to nudge him away from the gorgeous view. Their day's march was calm, yet tenser than any of the others. The volcano was always in sight. Wartortle could bring his mind to think about little else. The same questions and worries about the journey's end held his attention just as the lava flows oozing down the slopes held his gaze. Once the sun had set, the volcano glowed. The burning light of the lava was brighter than any star, or even the silver of the waxing moon. Quil voiced his opinion that the volcano's beauty was far more pronounced at night than in the day. Wartortle almost agreed, but the absence of the blue of the ocean detracted from the volcano's allure for him. The reverse was true for his friend. He found amusement in the fact that the mere sight of water subconsciously slanted their opinions. Not too long ago, Wartortle knew he would have been appalled by his body's meddling with his preferences. Now it was easy to laugh off. He was a Water-type Pokémon; of course the volcano would be more attractive to him by its proximity to the sea.
Quil and Wartortle climbed Iyrodenin on the ninth day.