Chapter II

Entry #1303:

It will be August's seventeenth birthday in a week.

I wonder if she still believes in miracles.

I don't have much time left. The pirates know I'm close to solving it – they know that I have all the pieces of the Ever Grande Map. Their Pokémon keep trying to wreck my ship, and it's working. I don't know if she can last much longer.

Tonight, I leave everything behind.

The ship has to go. I have no need for it now.

The diary has to go. The pages will be ruined in the ocean.

All I have is my Pokémon. I hope that will be enough.

So, this entry may be my last. There is one more I need to make, though. One last final message to say.

Then, I leave it all behind. And enter the Temple of the Sea.

August sat on the dinner table, the tension so thick that it was suffocating. Her hand clung onto the table, weathered and grey from years of her spilling hot tea on it. Meanwhile, sitting across from her, Crasher Wake blinked at his cutlery.

Even after years of marrying a Backlot, he had no idea how to use a fork or a spoon. Or, well, he claimed he didn't – August suspected that he just preferred using his hands to efficiently toss bread into his mouth.

He didn't look at her. She didn't look at him.

Instead, she stared at the wall, where the Splash Plate was. It was the pride and joy of their mansion – a stone of Arceus, clear and blue, where the surface of it seemed to ripple as though it were alive.

August had heard the story of the plates. There were eighteen of them, all gifts of Arceus, scattered across Sinnoh.

And one stood only metres away from her, barricaded by a glass frame.

Sometimes, August felt like that was the only thing she had left. She was no longer a pirate, a scholar, or an adventurer – but she was still a Backlot, protectors of the Splash Plate.

She could hear the ticking of an old clock. Something was making her nose itch, and she couldn't quite place what. Was it the dust along the thick Absol carpets, or was it the smell of her father's goblet, sloshing with whiskey? Or perhaps it was her tunic; the nobleman in the library had been coughing all over her tunic and blouse.

After a few minutes of glasses clinking and muffled hums, Wake cleared his throat.

"How were the classes?"

August glanced down at her plate. It was still empty – their mother hadn't come home yet from the bakers. "Good."

"Did you learn anything interesting?"

"No."

"Did you meet any new friends?"

August gave her father a sour look.

She didn't make friends. The last good friend she had made had sailed off to another land without telling her, and had never sent her a single note.

She had since decided that she didn't want friends. She didn't need them.

Crasher Wake sighed. "Look, Gussy, I know—"

"August, Father. My name is August."

"August…"

Her chair screeched as she stood up. "I should go do some reading."

"Wait!"

The urgency in his voice made her freeze.

She didn't mean to be so distant with him. She really didn't.

But what was there to talk about? He was too scared to talk about his pirate business with her, and she knew he didn't give a Bidoof's arse about the old tales she read. They were just two completely different people.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about something," Wake said. "It has to do with Steven Stone."

That made August look up.

She had never seen her father look so worried. He was always that pirate with the radiant smile, the trimmed beard, and that ridiculous blue mask with appendages that were supposed to look like Swanna wings. But, without the mask, she could see the dark circles under his eyes and the stiffness to his smile.

"I got a letter from my brother," he said.

August blinked. "You have a brother?"

"Lass, of course I had a brother. Yer grandmother didn't sit around knitting gowns all day—"

"Father!"

Wake laughed at the horror in her face. "Alright, alright. Me brother. Yer uncle, Norman. He sent me a letter."

"Is yer brother… Is Uncle Norman a pirate?"

"Ha! No!" Wake folded his arms over his leather surcoat, snorting. "The lad couldn't even hold a sword! Besides, he sailed the seas, found some land, claimed it as his own island, and you know what he called it?"

"No?"

"I told him to call it Red Skeleton. Or Bone Shredder. Or Crasher in the Wake. But he called it… Petalburg."

August blinked again. Slowly. "So… he sailed the seas, claimed his own island, but… he's not a pirate?"

"Nah. He calls himself something different. A Deep Low Mat."

"Diplomat?"

"Aye, aye, that thing."

August felt herself smile. So did her father, and she could have sworn that the torches along the walls made his face glow brighter.

"Anyways, yer Uncle Norman sent me this little book. It's signed by Steven Stone."

The smile vanished in seconds.

"Is he…"

August couldn't finish her own question. She couldn't bring herself to say the word.

Dead?

"We don't know," Wake said grimly. "But they found his ship. Completely shattered. But the journal… well."

He licked his finger. Flicked at the pages.

And August felt her breath catch.

There was a sketch there. Of her.

Or, at least, she thought it was supposed to be her. There were some things that were right – the blue ink splashed over her eyes, the brown streaks of her braids. Her face shape was all wrong, though, and what, did he really think her teeth were that wonky?

But it was the arm that gave it away. Because the girl in the drawing only had one.

Still.

He had drawn her.

He had been thinking of her.

"There are journal entries in here," Wake said. "Something about finding a Sea Temple. Something about being chased down by pirates. He sounds like a rowdy lad. He'd make a bloody great pirate."

But August's head was spinning.

The Sea Temple.

Had he found it? Had he worked out where to go?

And if he was being chased by pirates—

"Father, when was the last entry?"

Wake shrugged. "Oh, lass, you know I don't know what the numbers mean. I—"

August strode over to him. Breathed in all those smells that she had missed – the salt, the whiskey, the steel.

Then, she yanked the journal from his hand. Flicked over to the last pages with ink scrawled across them.

Entry #1303:

It will be August's seventeenth birthday in a week.

I wonder if she still believes in miracles.

And felt her world fall still.

He remembered her.

He thought of her.

"Father," she found herself saying. "This last one was written a week ago."

Wake read over her shoulder. "Wait, lass, you're seventeen? I thought you turned eighteen—"

August nearly scowled.

He had been getting her age wrong for the past ten years.

"Father," she said slowly, "I think he's still out there. He's being chased by pirates. And… And he knows where the Sea Temple is! You can send your own troops out to go save him. You can bring him—"

Wake's giant, warm hand fell onto her shoulder.

"August."

"Father—"

"He's gone, lass. His ship was wrecked. Norman only sent this to me because he wanted you to keep it."

August shook her head. Stepped back.

"No," she said again. "He's alive. I know he is. I feel it. You have to believe me."

And he still thought of her.

He still cared for her.

"Lass…"

A sharp clang made them both flinch. There was a stream of curses from behind the kitchen door – a long thread of what sounded like, "Stupid bloody baker couldn't keep his stupid bloody hands off my stupid bloody coin."

Wake sighed.

"That'll be yer mother," Wake said. "With cake. I'll go get her."

August watched as he slipped through the door. And, even with the long slab of wood between them, she could hear her parents' muffled voices.

"Did you tell her? About Steven?"

"Aye."

"Did she take it well?"

"She thinks he's still out there. I told her the ship was wrecked but…"

"Poor lass. She's in denial. She just needs a friend…"

It was a slap in the face.

They didn't believe her.

But she was right. She knew she was right.

He couldn't be dead.

He still thought of her. He still cared for her.

He still—

Strands of blue light stung at her eyes. Not tears – but real light. Coming from the…

She glanced over at the Splash Plate. The surface was dancing – weaving out beams of crystalline blue, waltzing across the room, tough and humble and beautiful.

And she saw. A vision, not unlike the one she had all those years ago.

Herself. Steven Stone.

Surrounded by marble pillars. Breathing in a purple ocean. Laughing together.

The Temple of the Sea.

And she knew what she had to do.

A few minutes later, Wake would walk into the room, singing an old shanty about birthdays.

"Happy Birthing Day to ye! Happy Birthing Day—"

Then, he would see the shattered glass.

There would be a gaping hole in the crystal frame that had once framed the Splash Plate – but now only contained air and shards of bloodied glass.

And, on the other side of the table, he would see a hole where there once was a window.

As for his daughter, August? The Pastoria Prodigy? The failed pirate, the failed scholar, and the hopeless adventurer?

She was gone.

Her scarlet bandana?

Check.

The Splash Plate?

Check.

The map she and Steven had once tried tracing on?

Check.

The balls of absolute steel she would need to row a whole bloody canoe across an ocean?

Oh, Arceus.

August stared at her little canoe, Miss Tidal.

What had she been thinking? She couldn't get on a freaking boat by herself. Her whole body was already trembling at the sight of the stiff wooden boards, and the oars already had algae curled around the grip.

She couldn't do this.

She hadn't been on a boat in so long. Not since Steven had left.

And what if she came across some vicious Pokémon? This measly canoe couldn't protect her.

But Steven Stone was out there.

He needed her help.

She could do this. She would do this. For him.

But he had left her two years ago.

That was his problem. Not her own.

And yet, he still thought of her. He still wrote about her.

Somehow, her boot had found its way onto the canoe. It rocked, stirring in the waves, knocking into the pier. And even though it was enough to make August gasp and squirm, her second boot had made it into the canoe.

She dropped the Splash Plate and map onto the seat where Steven used to sit. Then, she found the steel bucket and scooped out the shallow layer of water along the bottom of her boat.

Then, she froze.

How the hell was she supposed to guide this canoe with one hand – one hand that hadn't properly lifted anything heavy in years?

"Gussy! Gussy!"

Her father's voice. Getting closer.

She glanced up.

It was a funny sight – her father, running clumsily towards the pier, his face bright red and sweat soaking through his blouse. It was strange to see him panting and yelling, when above him, the stars were a choreographed blizzard, tumbling and darting through millions of different skies and yet staying completely still.

She saw one of the stars burn like a golden light, falling lower and lower into the horizon.

A shooting star.

A miracle, even.

"August!" Wake called out. "Where are you going?"

She grasped onto the oar. Plunged it into the water.

Onwards, to Steven Stone.

And the oar slipped.

The wave had completely torn it out of her hand before she had even glided it through the first plough of water.

Leaving her in a canoe. By the pier.

With nothing to move her.

Oh, by the heavenly seas.

Her father was at the pier now, shaking his head.

"You gave me a fright, lass," he was saying. "I've never seen you do anything like— Is that your friend?"

August followed his gaze.

In the water beside her was a Pokémon. It was a serpent, the colour of cream, gills along its neck and blue fins scaling from its tail. Red eyes bore into her.

Red like her bandana.

Red like the Sharpedo eyes.

Red like the blood that had seeped from her arm on that day she had lost it.

"August," Wake said slowly. "Calm down. It's only a Milotic. It won't hurt you."

She hadn't realised she had been gasping for air. There was just a sharp pain in her chest – burning, aching, screaming. And her fingers were cold again and sweat or tears or both were clouding her eyes and—

"It's friendly," Wake said again. "August, look at me. It's friendly."

The Milotic's pink antennae brushed against her arm. It made a soft, low hum.

August felt her pounding heart slowly rest. She felt her voice come back.

"I… I want to go home."

Wake gave her a warm smile. "Let's go home. Yer mother is worried sick-"

Then, the Milotic hissed.

Wrapped its tail around the canoe.

And wrenched it away from the pier.

August heard her father scream. She wanted to scream with him.

But, as the Milotic clung onto Miss Tidal and dragged them through the waves, she could only latch onto the her Splash Plate, Steven's journal, and the map. Each bump made her stomach lurch, and she could taste blood from each moment her teeth chomped down onto her lip from the impact.

The Milotic was going too fast.

And the waves were too dark. Too giant. Too evil.

The wooden floorboards, riddled with algae, bounced higher and higher, slapping the waves hard with each fall. August found herself crying, praying to Arceus, but—

She saw the black wave before it hit her.

It rose over her, giant and gaping, ready to tear into her body.

This was it.

This was the end.

When it came down with all the might of a storm, August felt a sharp crack. Felt a whirlwind of agony hiss through her whole body.

There was no canoe.

No Milotic.

No Splash Plate.

It was just her, sinking into the depths of the ocean, holding onto Steven Stone's journal.

Entry #1304:

Happy Birthday, Gussy.

I hope you still believe in miracles.

And that's a wrap!

My chapters are going to be a lot shorter now, by the way! It just makes them a bit more manageable. Also, sorry for not being so intense on the worldbuilding; we are currently in Sinnoh, travelling to Hoenn, so I want to save the bulk and meat of the worldbuilding for when we reach where we want to stay. Spoiler? Perhaps. But... hey, it's in the title.

Am I projecting by making August crush on Steven Stone, who was my childhood crush? Absolutely. I have no shame.

Hope you had a fun time!