Important Note: There has been a change to an original story detail. Instead of being missing for 10 years, Ash has been missing for 5. Reasons for this change is that, ten years would be an unrealistically long time to be hung up over someone. No matter how powerful love was, time is a healer of all things and humans are resilient. Also, the voice I give Ash in the beginning is too self-aware for a 15 year old, which is what I originally imagined he and Serena to be. Instead, their relationship began when Ash was 18, and Serena 17. Thus, five years, also keeps them within the span of their youth-a very moldable and transitory phase of life, which is the one I want to explore :)

Full Summary:

Ash is the world's most powerful Pokemon Master, but at a price. After years of annihilating his opponents, the bargain he's made for his power is catching up to him and he disappears, changed. Ten years goes by and old friends continue to search for the boy they knew, but they find a man twisted and dark and possessed with a strange power that has tainted his heart as well as his pokemon. Meanwhile, Serena has been healing the pieces of her heart that were shattered by Ash's betrayal, but soon she realizes she's needed to help find Ash and bring him home before his soul is lost forever.

Chapter 1

Taylor didn't want any trouble. He kept his head down and wiped down the counter as two strangers dressed in foreign clothes drifted in to bar, slamming the door on the snow storm that howled outside and shook the small wooden building. This was a rough part of Kalos. Picks was a mining town tucked in to the mountains northwest, way past any trainer map, and the two men that just walked in weren't from around here. When they sat down at the far corner of the bar, Taylor noticed their more affluent equipment. He wondered what the hell they were doing around here and felt sorry they had stumbled in to a tough joint. The locals around here were either as broke as sin or crooks, and they were already eyeing the foreigners like pieces of meat waiting to be cut, dried, and sold.

"They better have some strong pokemon, cause I sure ain't helping their sorry asses," Taylor muttered to himself and poured an ale from the tap for Mike, an old local miner sitting at the other end of the counter.

"I'm sure they do," coughed Mike, who'd overheard his friend. Some foam stuck to his grey beard as he peeled his lips from the glass rim. "I don't think one travels so far up the mountains without strong pokemon."

True. Taylor mulled the thought over.

"You know what they're doing here, though?"

The old miner shrugged. "Either running away from something or looking for something. It's all the same."

Just then, the two southerners stood up and walked over to the counter. One, Taylor noticed, was enormous. He had to be over six feet with broad shoulder, muscles that could smash a pokeball in to pieces in one hand. He looked like he was from the mountains of Kanto, with thin slits for eyes, dark skin, and dark hair. The companion was not as tall, but not much shorter either. However, he was skinny, with blonde hair and blue eyes and thin glasses Taylor hadn't noticed before. He was definitely from Kalos; from the central region were all the aristocrats live. This kid looked like he had money and next to his broad shouldered friend, the blonde stranger looked fragile and much younger up close.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Taylor asked, avoiding the eyes of the darker stranger.

"A couple of lagers, if you please," spoke the blonde stranger, giving Taylor a friendly smile.

Taylor slid two bottles their way, trying to hide the suspicion hanging from his brow. "Anything else?"

The blonde boy was about to speak when his companion interrupted him.

"Actually yes,"

"Brock-,"

"We're looking for the anyone around here that can read this," the dark man, named Brock, announced, cutting off his friend and unfolding a piece of paper tucked inside the pocket of his jacket.

Taylor studied the markings and symbols on the paper. They were completely foreign to him—unreadable. The ink stained paper had been burned away in one of the corners, and there was blood at the bottom, troubling the old barkeeper.

"What is the meaning of this?" he sneered.

"It's Kalon-the language, that is-," said the blonde boy, growing red with the tension and suspicion being aroused, "we were just looking for someone who could translate it for us. You see, it's a very ancient language, but we heard there was someone around here who could read it."

Taylor looked from him to Brock, who stood looking indifferently down at him. "Get out of my bar. I don't want any-,"

"Now wait just a second, Taylor," Mike coughed a few seats away and waved the two strangers towards him. "I don't think these men mean any harm. They're just looking for some help."

"Exactly! That is precisely what we are doing," the blonde boy exclaimed nervously, "we don't mean to cause any problems, um-,"

"The name's Mike," the old miner gave the two a toothless grin and led them over to a table away from the small crowd, hobbling on weak bony legs.

Taylor just rolled his eyes and went back to his business. So did the rest. Brock made sure no one was close enough to listen as the three got comfortable around an rotting wooden table.

"You can read Kalon," Brock presumed, eyeing the old man suspiciously.

"Yes," Mike said, nodding, "it's been in my family for generations. These parts are losing it more and more now, but it used to be the only language spoken among Kalosians for many years. When foreigners came in, the language moved north in to the mountains and eventually died off mostly, but the miners used it underground, writing symbols on the rocks in order to relay messages as they dug deeper. But this, my friends…"

Mike paused to look around the bar before leaning in close, "This was a powerful language, said to be full of meaning and discipline. Many believe it was spoken by the legendaries of the mortality duo and ancient Kalosian trainers used it to train Pokémon to levels beyond our imaginations. Pokémon Masters were expected to learn it, speak it, and write it, regarding the practice as the highest form of training."

"How does a miner know all of this?" Brock grunted, regarding the old man uneasily.

"Most miners know very little of the language, and they do not know its significance. However, my father was a very learned man and taught me many things you would not expect, such as the language and its purpose."

"Can you tell us what this says?" Brock grunted, sliding the paper towards Mike.

"Only after you tell me your names and why you need it translated."

"Well I'm Clemont and this is-,"

"Why does any of that matter. Can you please just read the paper?" Brock interrupted, leaning forward with a forced whisper.

"I need to know because the symbols hold many meanings and names," Mike explained with a grin, amused by Brock's impatience. "For example, the symbol for sky also could mean grain, vessel, bird, etc. depending on the context."

Brock leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. He seemed to be contemplating, his eyes were dark and still on Mike.

Clemont shifted in his chair. He waited a few moments, looking at Brock, and said, "We are looking for something. A place, if you will. We're thinking it may be a cave or an island."

"Hm." Mike said, tapping his bear, "I see. Anything else?"

The two stayed quiet.

After another long moment, the old man bent his brittle back over the table to study the paper. Then he looked up.

Brock leaned in again, seeing that the old miner was unsettled. "What is it? What did it say?"

Mike scratched his beard. "Are you certain you are looking for something and not someone?"

Brock and Clemont both stiffened. Brock looked as though he would break the table at any moment and Clemont looked more confused than anything.

"What are you talking about," Brock seethed, "we told you all you need to know."

"You think you're being secretive? You come in dressed in clothes the southerners wear, holding up a piece of paper written in a language thousands of years old, known only to Pokémon Masters of old and maybe some obscure miners. I know whom you seek,"

"Stop!" Brock shouted, slamming his fist on the table. The whole bar went quiet and turned to watch the scene. "I-I'm sorry," Brock relented, shocked by the old man and tired of secrets, "I'm sorry."

"You alright, Mike?" asked a gruff man from the bar.

"Don't worry, Pete. My fault, I was messing with them," Mike waved and smiled, and the others turned around, but with their hands not far from the Pokémon at their belts, just in case. Mike was testing them. He did not know if he could trust them, or if the symbols on the paper, if translated, should bring harm.

"Who are you?" Brock demanded.

"Well, my name is not what is appears to be, but it will do for now," Mike took another gulp of his drink, "the more pressing question is who are you? And why do you seek someone who is lost?"

"Please just tell us what the paper says," Clemont pleaded, running his thin fingers through his hair, trying to keep his expression calm. "We're his friends. He's in trouble."

Mike watched Brock glare at Clemont as information—personal detail—leaked from his throat riding close to a sob. Mike's heart suddenly broke for the two at that moment. The boy looked helpless, the faint hope in his blue eyes was dimming, but he did not want to let go. He couldn't. Loyalty would not let him.

The old miner saw the same in Brock; a man weathered by the pain of loss, burdened and hardened by the years of searching and never finding.

These were the two Mike was foretold about. He knew it now. He hadn't expected to wait so long for their coming.

Mike's voice then changed. It grew deeper and more authoritative, and his face, only to the two before him, morphed in to that of a young man, whose face glowed through light so dim, Brock and Clemont did not seem to believe it was there.

"Young Ash has been missing five years," Mike whispered and the two faces, in shock, before him winced, as though a returning dagger had been stabbed and twisted in to their innards. "His disappearance is perhaps the greatest mystery in recent times, and it has bred many myths. He has become a captive to the whisper we all hear but ignore, afraid of its presence in the wind. But you two are listening for it. I know why, and I have been placed here to help, but I cannot tell you anything more quite yet. Give me the paper."

Mike looked at the paper again. "Now, these symbols together mean many things. It means peace, or desire for peace and stillness. Desire for rest. Or a desire for home."

"That doesn't really help much," Brock murmured, rubbing his temples.

"Yes, but the symbols also could stand for a name."

"A name? Like the name of a person?"

Mike nodded.

"Well?" Brock leaned forward.

"The first symbol is the adjective 'serene'. The next symbol, is the vowel 'a'. Put them together—,"

Clemont's eyes grew wide and Brock could only let out a long breath.

"Does the name, Serena, mean anything to you?"

Please R&R