Chapter 13

Serena could feel her strength returning to her slowly, in little increments that built upon each other throughout the day. She still couldn't be sure how long she'd been here in this cabin. Her hours were full of drifting in and out of consciousness, often times leaving behind memories of the moments before. Sometimes, Ash was there, and sometimes he wasn't. Serena would look over and see a tray of food and tea sitting on the nightstand. They hadn't spoken much since she slapped him. Whenever she was awake and he was there, he wouldn't stay long. He'd mutter a few things and leave the room.

During the day, she'd sometimes look out the window and see him cutting up wood for the fireplace. Serena had assumed they were up in the mountains, since it grew colder at night, and the trees were all made to hold snow on their thick pines. She watched him go out, an axe resting across the back of his shoulder blades, and he wore nothing but black cargo pants tucked in to black boots. She examined this new body—foreign to her; more defined and hard than the boy she used to know. She didn't know him now.

What could he have meant? I did this for you. The words were lies and he believed them. Serena wondered what he had heard. She wanted to know how Ash lied to himself, or how he was being lied to. She remembered the scene at the castle, in Glorio, seeing Ash's dark form for the first time in five years. She remembered him saying something to Drifter—something about needing to be free—and she knew now that he spoke of Lunala. Conversations with the old prophet came back to her. Moments were he said:

He is the chosen servant of light…that is why he must be redeemed or else all is lost…

How did he fall? she had asked, but looking back, Serena knew she had not fully understood Drifters response.

He grew afraid.

What was he afraid of now? Was his father still alive? How could Ash be redeemed?

Serena wished she had asked these questions, but at the time she had still been in a state of shock. Speech had become a gift she had lost.

xxxxx

Later that afternoon, Ash came in to her room with more food. He was sweating from working outside, his black hair sticking to his temples, and his hands were red from the pressure of holding the axe. He met her eyes, surprised to find Serena looking at him, and then put the tray down next on to her nightstand.

"Ash," she whispered, reaching out weakly, grabbing on to his forearm with a light touch.

Ash trembled. Her fingers were cold, but soft. He tried not to break on the shores of her eyes, blue and searching and bathed in ocean light. He was so confused. From the moment he held her and brought her back to this cabin, all of his attention had been fixed solely on to her. He could barely hear voices during the day. All he could hear were his thoughts—thoughts consumed by her. He had resolved to heal her, and during the process he was healing bits of himself. Redeeming the blackest parts of his soul, the ones which had refused to acknowledge any shred of his remaining humanity. What broke him now was the eventual parting—the imminent separation that was caused by the light and dark—the two elements couldn't exist together. He couldn't ever have her. Serena was too good for him. She was all daylight and spring and he was the dregs of winter.

"Stop," he whispered, but not with conviction, "I did this to you, Serena. I hurt you—I almost took your life. The very thing I was always afraid of doing."

Serena looked at him, her expression set. He didn't even feel her hand slip off his arms and in to his hand.

"Ash, you took my life long before any of this."

xxxxx

That night, Serena grew restless. She was angry and hurt and frustrated, lying so useless in her bed. She wondered if she could leave…if she had the strength, would she? She didn't know. Her heart kept breaking, over and over upon Ash's eyes, but she didn't know if she wanted to leave him the way he was. He was like a child, imprisoned behind a self-placed barrier upon a faithlessness in himself. It was like he didn't know any better—as if he truly believed he was doing the right thing. How could she hate him for that? How could she get angry? How could she do anything but try and love him out of it? Serena had chosen him. He would always be in her life and her heart and her soul. She would always choose him. Her love was her choice, and her choice was Ash Ketchum.

Carefully, aware of the small throbs of pain and the weakness in her bones, Serena moved her legs from underneath the covers. Her bare toes touched the ground and she covered herself up in a blanket, cold and exposed to the crisp, night air. She walked slowly to the door, opening it, and was bathed in the gentle, orange light moving within the living room fireplace.

On the floor she saw Ash. He was asleep on the rug, his head turned towards the fire, his chest rising and falling unevenly. There was no rest upon his face, creased by the tension on his forehead. He kept shivering and sweating—muttering for the voices to stop, groaning in pain.

Serena had seen him like this before. She hadn't known what the nightmares had been back then, but now she knew what tried calling out to him in the dark. She bent down and placed her hands on his forehead, wiping the sweat from his skin. She pushed back his hair and then went to get some water from the small kitchen sink. She went back and placed the cup under his lips, and watched him drink. She continued to stroke his hair. It appeared to soothe him. She began to pray on his behalf, wondering if Solgaleo could hear her, and wondering if the pokemon would help Ash break free.

Clemont was growing impatient. He did his best not to speak out of term while the generals of the Light Army discussed their next strategy. Drifter and Akoni sat at the head of a long rectangular table, where the leaders had papers, pens, and maps of the regions dressing the glossed mahogany. Flynn was going over casualties and what numbers they still possessed in the western ranks; regarding both pokemon and men.

Clemont and Brock listened, leaning against the wall where Drifter and Akoni sat, watching the generals grow unsettled by the news.

"How could you lose half of the quarter sector?!"

"How many were you up against?"

"What sort of pokemon did the Dark Army use?"

The questions seemed endless, and to Clemont, unnecessary. He wanted Drifter to start making plans to save Serena. He wanted them to start taking back Kalos for crying out loud. His family and friends could be dead. Why didn't anyone seem to understand?

Just when Clemont felt as though he was about to explode, Akoni cleared his throat and commanded the room's attention.

"We were ambushed. The men were panicked and we lost sight of our courage," the Alolan looked out above the men, pushing down of them with an intensity that held firm in the bass of his voice, "And we've lost the girl,"

"I'm sorry," one of the generals complained, "but what does she had anything to do with this?"

Clemont was about to move across the room and punch the soldier silly, but Brock grabbed his arm with a rock-like grip, pulling him back to the wall.

"Actually, everything," Drifter sighed, finally speaking up, moving his chair back to stand, "I don't know if you all have noticed, but ever since the ambush, all enemy advancements have paused momentarily. The entire Dark Army, across the regions, has come to an affirmative halt."

"That's very curious," the same general replied, leaning forward to hear more, "they were moving towards Kanto last time my scouts came back with a report."

"Well, that is their next target, but as of Serena's abduction, all progressions have ceased. Any guesses as to why?" Drifter left the question hang in the dead air of silence.

"Because Ash is missing too," Brock answered, knowing full well where Drifter was going with this. "You said he took her with him, correct?"

Drifter nodded. "The Dark Army is missing their leader…not sure why, exactly, but I have my assumptions." The old prophet turned back to the generals. "Either way, Solgaleo has fashioned an opportune moment for us."

Clemont looked at Brock, who gave him a reassuring nod.

"We're going to beat them to Kanto," Drifter announced, and the generals all shifted with excitement and unease. They were all pleased to go back in to action, but felt the loss of their casualties upon the shoulders of their armor.

"And there's more," Akoni added, also standing, "while Flynn and Solomon lead the army in to Kanto, I'll be taking an elite group with me to Kalos. Our mission will be to find any clue pertaining to Lunala's dwelling, and assess the damages of the region. We will also be looking for the scouts we've lost contact with after the region's fall."

Clemont and Brock exchanged glances. The blonde knew he'd be going with Akoni to find his parents, but he felt cheated somehow—almost guilty. An opportunity to find his parents opened up at Serena's expense. He felt as though he should say something—insist that they find Serena first, but he needed to know if his parents were alive. He somehow got the feeling that Serena's disappearance had occurred for some providential reason, an explanation far beyond his understanding. He began to calm down. The dissolution of his rage gave him a burst of sudden clarity.

If anyone was going to break through to Ash, it was Serena.

"She's not dead," Clemont whispered, turning to Brock with wide eyes, "Serena's not dead!"

The triangle over his heart began to glow with warmth.

"I know," Brock couldn't help but give the young man a small smile. He had felt the reassurance too.

"You're going to Kanto, aren't you?" Clemont asked, pushing up his glasses farther up on to the bridge of his nose.

To the young blonde's immense surprise, Brock shook his head. Brock's gaze turned grave, as though he were bracing himself for an objection that would come upon his explanation.

"I'm going with Drifter," said the rock trainer, "we're going to find Gary."

xxxxx

It was strange. It was strange how they all got here, Brock wondered later on that evening as he began preparing for his journey with Drifter. Back at the beginning, when he first began searching for Ash, when he arrived at Glorio, Brock never imagined how complex Ash's disappearance turned out to be; how complicated the puzzle was. And it all catalyzed upon the discovery of a note. A note, which Brock still kept, tucked away in the pocket of his old, brown vest. He pulled it out now, examining the cryptic Kalon, wondering what it had to do with anything now.

He folded the note back up, and put it back in it place. He wondered how much love was worth in the grand scene of things; he wondered about how dangerous it was to fall in to it—to lose yourself in another, without the promise of ever being gifted a heart or covenant in return. This came from a man, who used to fall in love all the time. He never thought about what it could seriously cost…when it made people afraid.

And it always made people afraid. If there was no love, there would be no fear, Brock concluded, for all of humanities terrors come from the prospect of losing what they love. Be it life, money, a person—all fear stems out of love, and yet no one can stop loving. Perhaps it is a design flaw in nature; one in which humans must always be worshipping something in order to find identity and affirmation. Everyone worships. Everyone loves. Were the two separable? What did it look like to love something without selling your soul? What that even possible?

Maybe, Brock contemplated…maybe true love was different. Instead of being prompted by desperation to worship for satisfaction's sake, maybe some humans learn to choose devotion out of fidelity to a cause—not out of feelings. When a person still has the ability to choose, to act above their desires, that person has kept their soul. When a person can't, and feels as though he or she needs something or someone to continue living, then that person is a slave. Love without choice is an empty feeling, riding in and out of moods; absent of promise or commitment. Such love it not true, Brock finally decided, such love is based on a lie.

So what did Brock choose now? He was going after Gary. He loved the man like a brother, and just as he pursued Ash, Brock would pursue young Gary Oak as well. However, this time he would not be driven out of need—out of necessity to make things right, or fix a situation. No, this time Brock was impassioned by choice.

Upon this epiphany, Drifter entered the room with the grace of legendary bird. In his red and white uniform, the prophet looked authoritative and confident in his ability to lead, though even Brock knew the prophetic ambassador struggled to make sense of recent events himself. Drifter had not been the same since Serena was taken; he had lost his calm calculation, and his conviction to instruct and reassure. His pale eyes looked to impress a detached countenance up his aging face, and though at times the prophet could hide well behind his commanding position, Brock knew that the man was still full of secrets.

"Are you in love with her?" Brock suddenly asked, his bold development beginning to grow outward out into his words.

Drifter stared back at Brock, his eyes weary, as though he understood why the trainer had asked. "You're wondering why I'm so distressed about her."

Brock didn't answer.

The prophet sighed. "Serena was stabbed by a black blade. Though Ash can contain the poison for a time, it will eventually spread through her body and kill her."

Drifter watched Brock turn gray, his muscles tensing under death's spoken presence, retaking the tranquility he had felt before.

"Ash doesn't even know. He doesn't know the wound is poisonous for us marked by the symbol of Light on our chest. He's going to lose her. And with her, he's going to lose himself,"

Brock began shaking his head. "No. No, there must be a way you can save her! You said so yourself. Light always trumps the dark. You must have some sort of spell—some, some—a trick!"

"Before Ash gave himself over to Lunala, he and Serena had already become one flesh. It as this very bond that kept Ash from being given fully to the dark. Part of him still resides in the light—in Serena," Drifter explained, rubbing his pale eyes, "so you see, once Serena dies—,"

"Ash will belong to Lunala. Completely."

Drifter nodded.

The two men sat in silence. The weight of the moment suffocating the hope from the room, and the windows grew dark under tropic storm clouds crashing over the shore. The wind rattled the bamboo hut, and the palm trees hissed between their leaves.

"I wasn't in love with her," Drifter clarified, though there was no need, but his voice was breaking, "I was only in love with what she could do for Ash. I was in love with her love for him."

Brock looked out over the dark beach. The sand turned gray in the storm-light, and the ocean grew angry; waving rough walls of dark water, echoing the turbulence Brock felt in his soul. He could do nothing but stare out the window as the rain began to tap against the sill, leaving tracks of water, streaming down the glass like tears.

Pewter City, Kanto

Tracy had forgotten how large the museum of science stood above the city; brown bricked walls, large windows expanding up to the high ceilings. The building's architecture drew heavily from Victorian influences, with ornate white accents and stonework—detailed carvings of many different pokemon impressed upon the trimming. The east and west roofs vaulted upward, connected by a flat midsection that tied the mansion together in what, Tracy imagined, looked like a red bowtie.

Inside, granite tile sealed the floor, and all around one could find meticulous sculptures of pokemon made of marble or grey slabs of stone—embedded against each wall within an alcove. There seemed to be at least two on each side, resting between exhibits; staring at the visitors as they walked by.

Tracy stopped to stare at a giant Aerodactyl statue place right in the middle of the foyer. He swore he could see it breathing. The teeth and the veins and the muscles were refined by careful detail, and Tracy expected it all to move at any moment. He imagined the statue beating its wings against the granite, shooting through the glass dome above, creating a flurry of crystal shards to rain down on the patrons. Tracy snapped out of his trance. He looked and saw Misty and the professor already at the front counter—Oak showing the employees his ID badge.

One of the ladies working the ticket counter, glanced at the professor and handed him a white pass key, no numbers or symbols on either side. Professor Oak tucked the pass in his back pocket, and thanked the lady with a nod and a tip of the hat. He looked over to see if Misty and Tracy were still following his lead, and moved along once reassured.

The museum seemed relatively empty today. Tracy could hear their footsteps echo within each room, ricocheting off the cool tiles and onto the walls that projected their sound with resounding clarity. They walked through the exhibits, getting lost in them as though the whole building were a maze. At one point, with the pass key, the professor led the two in to a door that read:

Authorized Personnel Only

And the door opened in to a staircase that led down in to the depths of the museum, below the ground floor. It was dark. Tracy could feel the cool, damp air meeting their faces while his eyes began adjusting to the dim kerosene lights lined down and along the walls of the basement.

At the bottom, they walked down a long corridor, electric wires and pipelines running along the top. In the distance, growing closer, Tracy could make out a red lamp illuminating the front of a steel vault.

"This is creepier than it needs to be," Misty muttered, "you would think they keep gold down here."

"What makes you think that these archives aren't worth more than diamonds?" Professor Oak proceeded to again take out his ID badge.

Next to the vault on the wall was a key pad and a round scanner. Oak stood in front of both, laying his badge on the scanner until he heard a high beep, and then lowered his face down to the green screen. A bright, horizontal beam of light fell over his face and again there was a positive beep, which allowed the professor to proceed typing in a long, complicated passcode on the key pad.

The vault began to unlock itself, the gears inside clicking open until the door was released like a gasp from the wall. Professor Oak led the two inside and then shut the large, steel barrier, closing them in darkness for a few seconds before dim, green lights flickered on.

Tracy and Misty both gasped at the vastness of the room being illuminated by the lights racing down the high ceilings. Shelves full and full of ancient books, scrolls, manuscripts, piled high up to the ceiling; like a maze wove themselves through the vault.

"Welcome to the archives," Professor Oak announced, studying the high shelves like an old man appreciating the sky, "you will never find a more diversified and complex collection of scientific and historical research, reaching back since the beginning of the Middle Ages. Scientists all across the regions, from all different kinds of fields, eventually wind up here to better understand the history of pokemon and our world."

Tracy could hardly contain himself. He wasn't much of scientist, but he was a huge history buff. Along with being an amateur researcher and a mythology obsessed bookworm, Misty considered him a total nerd—but right now he didn't care. He was in heaven.

"Professor, where do we even start?" Tracy asked, restraining himself from running up and down the aisle, collecting all sorts of material to read.

Professor Oak, sensing this, said, "Okay, number one rule: don't touch anything. Most of these manuscripts are already fading or falling apart. Unless I give you the "okay," I don't need you ruining thousands of years of research."

"Don't worry about me professor," Misty sighed, preforming a half-hearted salute, "I couldn't be more bored."

"Don't worry, we'll have plenty of work to do once we find the creation section," Professor Oak lit an oil lamp hanging against the exit, and picked it up to provide more light for the way, "we avoid bright, electric lights down here. They fade the text. We are going to have to play hide and seek the old fashioned way,"

"Why the creation section?" Tracy asked, "Doesn't that seem a bit random?"

"Well, no," Professor Oak began to lead them down a long, straight corridor through the vaults, "I think it's safe to assume a few things: one, that if this is a pokemon, it's going to be a legendary seeing as it has the power to control masses; two, if that pokemon is a legendary, it has to have existed since, or close to, the beginning of time; three, I am not an expert on creation mythology or history, neither am I a specialist in mythic and legendary creatures, and so we are going to have to do a bit of research in that field."

"Don't you know people, who study these things?" Misty asked, "How many legendary pokemon can there possibly be?"

The professor gave her a wry smile, "You'll be surprised to know that there are, hypothesized, to be over one hundred legendary pokemon—most have been classified as extinct or myth—but they are representative of the entire world, all the regions we know or don't know. There are very few scientists who dedicate their work to researching such a field, as it is vast and exceedingly complex, with little to no modern evidence to go by. I used to have colleagues that were experts in legendary history, and taught at universities, but they gave up the field a long time ago after such classes became less and less popular. It is difficult to study something many people believe no longer exists."

Misty contemplated this. She gave the shelves a thoughtful study and wondered how many eyes these scrolls had seen; how many hands they had touched. The world grew more and more complicated with age, and these primal manuscripts—these shelves full of dust and memories—were only small pieces of evidence to support such a claim. Misty didn't like to feel small, but under the weight of such history, it was hard not to feel like a speck sitting on the thin line of time, reaching back all the way from the open ends of an infinite spectrum.

The three continued walking through the vaults, allowing the echoes of recollections to guide them through the past; ominous voices ringing out across the dark.

Serena woke up to find herself back in her bed, her bandages changed and clean. She wondered what the wound underneath looked like. The young woman didn't find herself so much in pain, but rather she felt weak—weaker than yesterday. Her bones grew heavy underneath her skin, and to lift her hand took tremendous effort—effort she was willing to use to run her fingers through Ash's hair, white flesh against a dark ocean. He had fallen asleep beside her bed, his head resting on the mattress, his face towards her.

He looked peaceful now, perhaps because of the light blossoming in through the glass; perhaps because the night was over.

Serena wanted to memorize this face too. She lightly traced his jaw, the outline of his parted lips, the zig zags still faint on his cheeks; she moved to brush with his cheek, and Ash woke all of a sudden, snatching her wrist out of reflex, moving it away from his face.

Ash looked at her, dazed. His eyes looked bright under the streams of sunlight, like golden orbs of tree sap. "I was dreaming about my dad," he said, his voice still full of sleep, "we were walking through pallet town. It was summer. The summer before he left, I think."

"How old were you?"

"Seven," Ash answered, smiling slightly towards the window, as if caught up in a memory of his childhood self. "He was a trainer. He had an Arcanine, we called her Bell, and I would ride her all around the field behind Professor Oak's lab."

"Why did he leave?"

Ash looked down at the bed, tracing the creases in the sheets. "It's hard to raise a family, when you feel like you're left with incomplete dreams. Whenever we'd watch the leagues together, Dad would start to brood. He would get angry, watching trainers less qualified than himself, win the whole thing. I think he felt jaded."

Serena listened. These were the conversations they never had at the beginning. They were the ones she had desperately craved from him—the ones that allowed her in to his heart, that allowed her to know him deeply.

"He left in December. It was just after Christmas. He left Mom his ring with a note I never got to read, and he left me a hat," Ash reached up to touch his hair, as though he were recalling the way the cap felt on his head.

"Where is he now?" Serena asked, her hand seeking his above the sheets.

But Ash drew back, as he always did. "He's dead. Drifter killed him."

Serena held still. She didn't want to break the moment with a breath, shattering the thin ice they walked while he spoke. She kept her eyes on him, and did not blink. She would not be swayed by even the darkest detail.

"Your dad heard lies too," she said, filling in the missing parts of the story, "did Lunala promise your dad the things it promised you?"

Ash smirked, a bit cynically. "Not quite. My dad wanted power for power's sake. I never wanted that."

"What did you want, Ash?" Serena watched him begin to tense under weight of the question, deciding whether or not to answer.

Eventually, he met her steadfast gaze.

"I just wanted to make people proud."

Bonnie looked at Clemont as though he had lost his mind. She kept shaking her head and pushing him away from her, needing room to breath, room to think. Her blonde bob shook as her body trembled with actual anger, rage she didn't even know she could have.

"You're going to Kalos? Without me?" she muttered again, trying to make sense of the logic before her. Clemont would be going back to look for their parents, and she would stay here. She wouldn't even be going to Kanto. She and Kaleb would stay here.

"It's too dangerous," he tried to reason, "you'll be safe here. I can't lose you too, do you know how many people we've lost already?"

"Like Serena? Because I assume you're not going to let Kaleb and I go after her," Bonnie snapped, "why do you think I'm so weak?"

"Because you are!" Clemont yelled and the room went silent.

Bonnie breathed, stilling herself in the turbulence of the moment. She felt like thrashing and punching Clemont in the chest; like screaming until the weakness in her was gone. She felt like taking off and flying to find Serena herself.

And then there was a thought.

While Clemont kept talking, trying to explain why this was for her own good, Bonnie began to think about a rescue plan, about how she and Kaleb would take off after Serena; she wondered where she would begin. She wondered if Drifter would help her.

xxxxx

"I'm sorry, Bonnie, but Drifter and Brock have already left," Akoni Akela told Bonnie after she found him in the war room, a giant structure made of wood and thatched roof, filled with practice targets, weapons, and a large table full of maps and metal pieces symbolizing one side or another.

Bonnie deflated. She sank in to a chair near the table, and stared blankly at the map.

"Did you need something?"

"Well, yes," Bonnie muttered, but didn't think to continue. She began playing with a silver thimble that had been left off the map, examining the tiny piece of metal in her fingers.

Akoni Akela watched her, confused. He walked over to see what Bonnie held in her hands and said, "I was looking for that."

"For?"

"Monopoly. I misplaced the pieces."

"Right,"

Bonnie put the thimble down and she began to study the map. She followed the arrows marking the currents and the wind, and she saw Kalos covered in black metal symbols. She assumed they represented the Dark Army, consuming her home, on their way further. Part of her couldn't believe that the Ash she knew, was the Ash leading this army. The Ash back then would be enraged by the injustice taking place. He would be the first reckless idiot to fly down in to the flurry of danger, risking his life for his friends, and for what he thought was right. She had never believed people changed until now.

"Where is Solgaleo?" Bonnie asked, the question finding its way to her lips after being buried beneath her thoughts for so long.

Akoni Akela took a seat next to her, giving her a warm, tan smile.

Before he could answer, Bonnie continued, "Why hasn't he been around—helping? Isn't this his army? When is he coming? Will he ever come?"

"You're very observant for your age," Akoni remarked, leaning back in his chair, his strong arms folding themselves behind his head.

"I'm very traumatized for my age," was Bonnie's response, and without warning, Akoni began to laugh, loudly.

Bonnie stared at him, surprised. And then she fell in to laughter too. The two of them laughed, harder than they expected—harder than what was really necessary—but it was the kind of laughter that healed. The kind that was so desperately needed to bring light into dark situations. They laughed and laughed and laughed, until they were in tears and their faces were red.

After the sound began to die down in their throats, the room settled and began quiet once again. Bonnie wiped the tears from her eyes, and then, broke in to sobs.

Akoni anticipated this. He sighed and laid a fatherly hand on her back.

"Solgaleo will return, but no one knows how or when," Akoni began, softly, searching the map as if it held all the answers to Bonnie's questions. "What I know is that he is so powerful, that if he were to break in to the dimension of our time, it would create a cosmic rift. There must be a bridge for him to cross, lest the whole world be ripped apart by his power. See, Lunala is fallen. He is of this world, no longer of the one beyond. My belief is that Solgaleo wants to restore the moon, and bring it back to its original place—outside of this realm. Such things are beyond my understanding…but I know that there is a plan. And he will come at, exactly, the right time."