Chapter 37 – Day 14, Part 5: Beneath the Soil

Chapter 37: Day 14, Part 5 – Beneath the Soil

Earlier in the day…

A stray gracidea flower crunched under the Quilava’s foot as he walked.

More flowers and leaves blew in from behind—from the festival in town. He had just breached the forest’s edge, and even all the way out here the excited screams and chatter of the townsfolk just barely licked at his twitching ears. He shot an irritated glance over his shoulder before bringing his head forward again, sighing.

Today was bright, sunny. And yet the path home was shrouded in shadows, darkness; faint rays of sunlight shone through the thick canopy overhead. The wind seemed to howl as if warning him to turn back.

After a few more steps he huffed and came to a stop. While it was always easier to walk on all fours when it came to traveling long distances, being so close to the ground partially obscured his vision. So, he stood to get his bearings and to catch his breath. What he saw reminded him of a distant memory…

(…)

(…)(…)

(…)(…)(…)

The world always looked so much smaller from his father’s shoulders. So much less threatening. In a way, it helped Fenrir to conceptualize everything around him. Trees weren’t really that tall, the Cyndaquil was just short! If his father’s massive size was anything to go by, age ten Fenrir would be a towering Typhlosion. No tree could stand in his way then.

He would be a warrior, as his father put it. An exciting prospect!

It was a special day for the young quil. He couldn’t stop smiling even if he tried; his flames spurted out of his back haphazardly without control. Luckily, with his mother and father in tow, Fenrir would not cause a forest fire just by shaking on his own two feet.

In less than an hour’s time, Fenrir would finally get to see the spectacular Kebia Castle up close. Ever since he could open his eyes and comprehend speech, Kebia Castle acted as a beacon for him to follow. Just barely past the cover of leaves and branches near his home, his tiny eyes could envision something so unfathomably gigantic and awe inspiring that he begged his parents to tell him more.

For now though, they were taking a pleasant stroll through the woods. Calming, if a bit dull. The energetic young firecracker hadn’t come to appreciate the simplicity of it yet. He yearned for exhilaration and fun, and detested waiting.

“Just you wait, Fenrir my boy!” his father bellowed, each word rumbling through the Cyndaquil’s tiny body. “When you’re older you’re going to be walking this path every day! Or if you’re lucky, you get to live in the castle! That’s where all my pallies live!”

Fenrir didn’t think to ask why his father lived out here and not in the castle at the time. He was simply too excited to see what his father meant, since he didn’t really understand that either.

The lad hopped up and down in overflowing anticipation. Question after question shot out of his mouth like Bullet Seeds. “Ooh! Ooh! Am I gonna get to meet The Mountain? What about Silvermound? How many rooms does it have? Do they really have a pool of lava? Andandandandand-“

But his mother shushed him, the flames on her back igniting as she brought a finger to her lips, frightening Fenrir a tad. “Be patient!” she said lightly. “If you are a good little quil we can get smoothies afterwards.”

The word “smoothie” held no meaning to Fenrir back then. But after trying one himself later in the day it kicked off his lifelong craving for Pecha berries, and also smoothies. Something he and his mother had in common.

Not his father, though. It perplexed Fenrir how the Typhlosion could pass up on tasty snacks like smoothies and candy. Those were the true joys of life, weren’t they?

Either way, more to be excited about. Today just couldn’t get any better!

Both of his parents had an exchange right then. However, Fenrir did not maintain the memory of what was said at the time very well. It all blended together after a certain point. The ensuing exchange was melded together to the best of his mental abilities.

The motherly Typhlosion leaned over to her significant other and whispered something to the extent of, “Don’t get his hopes up, Gaura. We are not going to be there for long.”

The fatherly Typhlosion simply continued to look ahead, a faint smile on his lips but his eyes half-lidded. Unlike his spouse, he saw no need to keep his voice down. He might have even been talking louder than before.

“My boy deserves the best, Buttercup,” Fenrir’s father stated. “I’m showing him around—I don’t care what they say!”

“But, last time-”

This time Fenrir’s father looked over, if only just to hold up a large finger so he could interrupt the other Typhlosion. “And I’m going through with it! If they think they can drive off The Volcano-” he laughed, “-they’re wrong. Isn’t that right, my boy!”

“Yeah!” Fenrir agreed, listening only in a way that a giddy kindergartner could. “Up! Up!”

“Ah, you wanna go up?” his father asked. “Aren’t you a bit too old for that?”

Five years old was past the time for Fenrir to ask for volcano jumpies, as his father had expressed half-heartedly over the course of the past year or so. Fenrir, however, was insistent. Even now, he wanted to go higher, see more of the forest. Perhaps…even catch a glimpse of the castle through the trees.

“Up! Up!” Fenrir expressed again, his little arms flailing with eagerness.

A black puff of smoke escaped his father’s lips, but it was all in good fun. Jumpies never hurt anybody, even if Fenrir’s mother always had a worried look about her face when he did it. Fenrir hardly ever noticed until he was older, though. It was not a concern to him.

“Alright!” his father roared. “Here goes!”

FWOOSH!

A strong billowing of flames puffed out of Fenrir’s father’s back like a Fire Punch. The flames themselves were harmless to a fire pokemon even as young as Fenrir, but the impact behind them was enough to send the Cyndaquil flying upwards.

“WHEEEE!” Fenrir cheered. Up, up, up he went. The wind rushing past his ears, the ground gradually getting further and further away, the weird sinking in his stomach…

He loved it. Every single time. And this was no different. For several short moments, Fenrir lingered in the air.

The faint glimpse of a rampart in the distance stuck with him for years to come.

A couple seconds passed and he was falling down until he landed safely in his father’s arms. The thrill was still clear in his mind when he started hollering, “Again again!”

“Oh no,” his father said sternly, shaking his head, “if you want to be a warrior like your dad, no more volcano jumpies.”

Of course Fenrir wanted to be like his father! His father was the best!

But for now…no more volcano jumpies?

“B-but…” Fenrir blabbered with his lips quivering.

Like fathers often do, the sight of a whimpering child was enough to shatter his ego for a short while. Humbled enough for his eyes to grow big and hesitant. The Typhlosion sighed. “…Alright. But when we get home…no more.”

“Yay!”

Fenrir would still ask his father for volcano jumpies for the next two years of his life. His father begrudgingly agreed every time.

And while Fenrir and his father had their fun…the other Typhlosion was awfully quiet for the rest of the walk.

(…)(…)(…)

(…)(…)

(…)

The grass was so much greener back then. Granted, it was autumn now, but Fenn took note of the fact that he stopped seeing that shade of green in his teenage years. Almost as though it all died out when he reached a certain age.

Fenn had only ever traversed this forest a handful of times in his life. Each time it looked slightly different; each trip was for a different reason.

This was his first time going through it alone.

After exhaling softly, Fenn dropped to all fours and started down the path again. One foot fell in front of the other with determined grace, accomplished without much thought. The dirt path was as narrow and distinguishable as the castle’s spires, though only a Spinda could get lost here.

Sounds of laughing, cheering, and joyous screaming in the distance were swallowed by the gentle hum of the forest as Fenn walked: the sway of branches and their leaves, the faint chittering of bug pokemon far away, the light thumping of his own footsteps-

That might have also been his heart in his ears. Both had the potential to be incredibly intrusive—only escapable through the dry comfort of his daydreams.

These daydreams exhibited patterns that made Fenn’s ears flick and his vents grow warm. Long since he had gotten used to imagining what would happen next—his father’s fury compounded with the ground cracking open like an active volcano. But lately Fenn had been relishing in the radiance of nostalgia. He couldn’t pinpoint why.

It was certainly more alluring than turning around, that was for sure. And not for the reason Fenn initially thought.

No, Fenn’s nose pointed in the direction of home not because he wanted to get away. If anything the imposing shadows of the forest ahead reminded him of the faces embedded in the walls of Mago Canyon. Judging, hateful, knowing. What kept him going was the idea that, potentially…he could walk right back to the castle without ever needing to go through this forest with this much anxiety ever again.

That was just wishful thinking, though. Family was still family at the end of the day, and even the best of families had their disagreements. Or so Fenn told himself.

Fenn was both incredibly thankful and horribly disappointed that the gap between Kebia and Nanab was somewhat small. The walk allowed him time to think, to plan. Any longer, though, and the Quilava might have gotten impatient. That said, the distance provided him with an excuse to go home in the first place.

If anything, Fenn would have been perfectly content to stay at the castle and sleep in today. But the last thing he wanted was to be alone. Not now.

And yet there he was. An ember puffed out of his forehead at the reminder.

Being alone was so easy, he once thought. So comfortable. Perhaps it was not always the most exciting, but the silence of his mind granted him solace. Sweeping the floors of Kebia was, at its absolute worst, tedious. For a while Fenn was content to do his job and not worry about much else. It was certainly less frightening than dungeon exploration, but it hardly ever got his blood pumping in comparison.

And when Fenn’s blood was pumping, none of those thoughts reached the forefront of his mind. Everything made sense. Even now, his face scrunched up and his feet padded across the ground hesitantly: Fenn was still conflicted.

Maybe if he kept going none of this would have been put into question. His status as a warrior never would have been challenged. But instead, that Dewott he met by accident two weeks ago insisted that they not go back into any more dungeons. And Fenn…agreed to that stipulation.

The switch back to more menial work was perfectly fine with Fenn, as long as it was just temporary. They could act as explorers in different ways in the meantime. Over time, though, Fenn found that the less effort he spent exerting himself meant that more of his headspace would be occupied by doubt.

He had to know if all of this was just in his head or not. Self-doubt being the norm was not something he wanted. And that was why he chose to travel down Memory Lane.

The straight forward path eventually ended, much to Fenn’s chagrin. Had it really been over an hour at that point? Regardless, an opening in the trees became clear, and sunlight flowed in. At the end of the path were flowers.

Dandelions.

(…)

(…)(…)

(…)(…)(…)

“Grandpa Aconite, what’s a ‘Mystery Dungeon?'”

The boney, rugged orange ground below the Cyndaquil shifted abruptly and stiffened—while the ground itself let out a sputtering snort.

“Bah! Mystery Dungeons?” the Camerupt whinnied. “Don’t worry ’bout none of those, Fenn. Yer too young fer ’em.”

There was that name again. Fenn.

Grandpa Aconite’s large head slowly shook from left to right. “Was it yer dad? He tell ya? Don’t listen to ’em. He don’t know what he’s talkin’ ’bout.”

The little Cyndaquil made an about-face and shifted the conversation by asking something else. “Why do you keep calling me that, grandpa Aconite?” he queried.

Grandpa Aconite gave Fenrir a warm, wrinkly smile over his shoulder. “‘Cause that’s what ya look like!”

Fenrir gasped. “What?”

“Ya do!” the elderly Camerupt laughed. “And lucky, too! It’s a favorite a’mine. I used to approach youngsters yer age on the street and ask ’em ‘is yer name Fenn?’ But yer the only one that looked like ‘im to me. Kehahaha!”

Despite his disbelief, Fenrir smiled like a giddy Blissey. All of those other kids…and he was the only one that could’ve had grandpa’s favorite name? That is lucky!

“Whoooooa!” Fenrir gaped. “You think I look like a Fenn!? Does that mean something cool- oop!”

Staying still on his grandpa’s back was harder than it looked. Just right there, along with the heavy stomping of the Camerupt’s feet, Fenrir bounced in place. He let out a tiny little giggle as he flopped onto his back. Riding on his father’s shoulders was only this fun when volcano jumpies were involved.

And of course, Fenrir’s grandpa laughed along with his grandson. Having not realized it at the time, Grandpa Aconite was perfectly capable of walking slow and steady. But he always seemed to stomp around just that little bit faster when they were having fun. Like now.

“Kehahaha! Ya can bet your keister that it means somethin’ cool! Ya see, I used ta explore with this one feller, and his name was Fenn. He was my best friend. Just like you.”

Fenrir rushed to roll onto all fours and crawl to the front of his grandpa’s head, before peering down right between the Camerupt’s eyes. “You mean that, grandpa!?” He gasped. “I thought you said I was just your friend?”

Aconite shook his head, not seeming to mind Fenrir’s invasion of his personal space. “Nope,” he said. “Yer not just ma friend, yer ma BEST friend.”

Best friend? Fenrir’s jaw went slack with awe. He had never had a best friend before. But the fact that he was his grandpa’s best friend and took that title from the other Fenn…that must have made him really special!

It made him curious, though. “Wow! And you explored, too? What was exploring like, grandpa?” Fenrir asked.

Ears flicking—nearly whacking Fenrir upside the head—Grandpa Aconite’s smile was so big that it could be seen on every corner of the little Cyndaquil’s vision. “Oohoo! Let me tell ya,” the elder started, “I used ta travel far and wide! Me and ma friend used to see all sorts of stuff! I saw volcanoes taller than the mountains past the valleys! Big, big lakes called oceans that stretched on fer miles! And I got ta have fun at festivals every day!”

Volcanoes taller than the mountains? How was that even possible? Lakes so big that they went past the horizon? Fenrir couldn’t possibly imagine that! And oh mon, the festivals! Fun every day AND he got to see all of that crazy stuff!?

Fenrir was floored. Exploring sounded like so much fun! His vents went wild with flame at just the thought of everything that he could experience! And with a best friend like his grandpa, he would get to experience it all for sure!

“That sounds awesome!” Fenrir beamed. “I wanna explore just like you, Grandpa!”

The Camerupt belly laughed. “I bet ya do, Fenn! The world better look out, Fenn’s about to be the greatest explorer in history!”

The greatest explorer in history…Fenn loved the sound of that! He put his paws on his hips, stood tall on his grandpa’s head, and puffed out his chest in pride. “That’s right!” he declared. “I’ll be the greatest explorer the world has ever seen! Just you wait- whoa!”

Thud!

The greatest explorer the world has ever seen might need to find more solid ground first, as evidenced by the sudden fall and tumble he was subjected to. It didn’t hurt, but he wasn’t riding on his grandpa’s head anymore. Why did he stop…?

Well, either way, Fenrir dug his noggin out of the dirt and took a look around. The flowers he was sitting in tickled at his nose. It didn’t take long for him to sneeze, and the flowers blew back slightly from the tiny gust of air. “Achoo!” Even more swayed with the light breeze.

“What the…” This whole time Fenrir hadn’t noticed that he and his grandpa were waltzing around in a field of flowers; the kid might have been too distracted to notice.

“Oops, sorry about that,” his grandpa snorted. “I saw somethin’…”

His grandpa’s breath on his neck made him flinch, and Fenir spun around. He stopped to sit right in front of the older pokemon’s snout and look up. “What is it, Grandpa?”

Curiously, Grandpa Aconite’s voice became quiet. Even the hyperactive little Fenrir took notice and let him talk.

“I saw some dandelion,” Aconite said softly. “Right there at yer toes…”

Fenrir looked down, and sure enough. A cluster of bright, yellow flowers sat planted in the dirt right in front of his nose. “Dandelion?” He tilted his head at his grandpa.

Grandpa Aconite nodded slightly, but even a movement as tiny as that was huge to the little Cyndaquil. “Real pretty, aren’t they?” he asked.

They sure were. Bright, fuzzy, smelly. But in a good way. Fenrir gave the flower a big sniff…before sneezing once again. “Achoo!”

His grandpa chuckled. “Ya know, ma wife loved dandelions. Heck, she loved flowers in general.”

“Wife?” Fenrir had to careen his neck almost completely vertically just to look his grandpa in the eyes. It was to ask another question, though, so he didn’t mind. “You had a wife, grandpa?”

“You wouldn’t have been born if I didn’t,” the Camerupt smiled. “Sweetest Typhlosion I ever did meet, let me tell ya. I used to make ‘er a bouquet every week. Went out and picked the flowers m’self. Heh…she loved it until the whole house was full of ’em. Woulda had more if I hadn’t burned half of ’em along the way.”

Fenrir giggled. “You’re silly, grandpa.”

With a snort, Grandpa Aconite said, “She used to say the same thing. I loved that woman. I used to always tell ‘er—three brightest things in the world: the yellow of dandelions, the sun, and ‘er smile.”

Coincidentally, a bright smile appeared on Fenrir’s face. “She sounds really nice, grandpa,” the child said.

It took grandpa a moment to respond. Fenrir noted the slight sparkle in his eyes as he stared intently. Eventually, when the elder spoke, it was even quieter than before. “She was…”

Something about grandpa’s smile seemed sad to Fenrir. If he was big enough, Fenrir would have given his grandpa a big hug. But he settled for hugging his snout instead.

“Daww.” And the Camerupt’s jollyness returned, just like that. “Promise me this, Fenn. When ya find yer sweetheart, get ’em the biggest bouquet ya can find.”

“I will, grandpa.”

(…)(…)(…)

(…)(…)

(…)

That was the one and only time Fenn’s grandpa mentioned that friend of his, or his wife. In retrospect, Fenn wasn’t even sure if that Camerupt was telling the truth. His mother always told him that he liked to exaggerate some of the details, so who knows.

That being said, Fenn liked to think that it was all true. That his grandpa really did have a friend with his name and a wife that loved flowers. The ocean was real, after all. Fenn got to see it for himself.

A few moments prior Fenn picked a dandelion out of the dirt and held it in his paw. The bright yellow almost seemed to shimmer against the clear, blue sky and white-tipped mountains. The other flowers peeking out of the grass swayed with the light breeze like ocean tides on the shore. It was pleasant, really—evocative of a simpler time.

Wisps of white fuzz stuck to Fenn’s fur and scattered with the wind; seeds persisting and perpetuating the thriving cycle of life in these fields. And like the seeds they originated from, the flower in Fenn’s paw rode the wind off to somewhere new.

Despite his nose itching and twitching, Fenn did nothing more than stand there and watch the flowers sway. The rolling hills and grassy fields were like family to him now: a familiar face. But to say that it inspired only happy recollections would be a lie. The view was melancholic, too. Perhaps even enough to goad out a tear, all out here alone.

He didn’t stand still for long. He was on all-fours and on his way to Nanab before long, tiny embers flowing with the wind like the flowers. He didn’t even stop to spare more than a glance at the lavender…

Nanab’s outskirts lacked a natural path or a proper entrance, but it was so out in the open that it didn’t really need either of those things. What functioned best as an “entrance” was a subtle line in the dirt and single oak tree to the side. On that tree, stapled there so long ago that it was essentially a part of it now—the tree’s bark growing around it—was a wooden plank. On that plank, it read:

“Nanab Town: a place to rest, a place to shine”

“Retirees Welcome”

He used to read here all the time, right under the tree. The best thing about reading near the entrance of town was that no one ever bothered Fenn when he did it. At first he thought that way of thinking was contradictory; a new arrival would no doubt strike up a conversation with him and interrupt his reading time. But as he found—especially at certain times in the day—Nanab rarely saw any new arrivals.

Or any pokemon coming and going at all. He once overheard one of the adults in town say that Nanab was slowly losing its residents to the big city. That wasn’t exactly surprising to hear; the only pokemon that lived there were older folks and poor families that could not afford to move.

Was it any surprise that Fenn was stuck there for so long, though? Especially in his teenage years when he found more joy in absorbing stories than pursuing a career of excitement. At the time he was more than happy to sit around and read all day.

He still remembered a few of them. Memories of glancing off at the mountains in the distance coalesced with scenes from action adventures like Outlook Divers and political thrillers like The Nightingale Federation.

Oh…The Nightingale Federation. That was a good one.

Great descriptions and political intrigue met with tense action that made Fenn’s teenage heart beat like crazy. Though he distinctly remembered dropping that series after the second book. Things just kept getting stupider and it was generous to even call the characters one-note. The main character was a self insert, too. Every time Fenn read about them he just wanted to skip ahead.

How could everything else be so good but the main character sucked that bad? Why would they sabotage their story like that? Heck, why was that series so popular anyways? It wasn’t a masterpiece.

Fenn huffed. Okay, it probably wasn’t best to get fed up about a book he hadn’t read in several years for no reason.

Now was a good time to take a small break. Fenn practically collapsed against the sign-post tree, letting himself slide down the bark into a sitting position. He hadn’t noticed until now, but his paws hurt from all of that walking. Almost immediately, even more memories came flooding back.

More books he read, like Dratini and Seel, Outlook Divers, and Rusty Greenhorn swam around in his mind like Popplio in a public pool. And they weren’t the only ones.

Fenn closed his eyes and sighed. There were even more memories that bubbled up. In particular, the gawking, dissecting gazes of his classmates resurfaced to the top of his mind with their eyes set on Fenn. Some of them read books, too, but Fenn always found listening to them talk to be an exercise in frustration.

They just didn’t get it, was what he thought at the time. Nowadays that mindset just seemed a bit silly.

More often than not, though, Fenn lacked the energy to do anything some days. So much time was wasted leaning against this very tree and staring blankly at the sky. He lacked the drive to do much else.

Being lazy and alone was more comfortable, anyway. Studying didn’t matter. Training didn’t matter. Exploring didn’t matter. None of it mattered to him.

Everything was alright.

His eyes finally reopened. Right in front of his gaze was a patch of grass discolored by flames that burnt it years and years ago. One careless exhale was all it took, back before he was properly in control.

Fenn cringed at the memory. If he could erase his days as a teenager from his mind, he would. Unfortunately, several of the spots under the tree where Fenn had set the grass aflame at certain points were still charred, the roots thoroughly sapped and dried. So even if he wanted to forget, his mark was still there.

Thankfully, he knew how to properly prevent constant forest fires these days. But that was the least of his issues. Someday, if it had not already happened, a pokemon would approach the tree and think to themselves “oh, this spot used to be so beautiful. Then that delinquent Quilava came around and ruined it.”

They never would have said these sorts of things when he was a Cyndaquil. What happened? Fenn still asked himself that question fairly often. Because something clearly changed to turn that joyful little bundle of flames into a stuttering, hot mess that spent all of his time reading alone.

The Quilava stood up, turned from the tree, and continued onward. Asking questions he already knew the answer to would only demotivate him more.

Deliberately, Fenn avoided the main streets of Nanab and kept to the outskirts as he walked—behind houses and out of sight. Pokemon tended to walk the streets at this time of day, and while he assumed most would be at the festival, he wanted to avoid any interaction if possible.

It wasn’t long before the pensive fire type approached what used to be his favorite spot in the town: the playground.

Years and years of neglect and constant use had left the slide half caved-in, the teeter-totter rusted over, and the scratching-post torn. The merry-go-round had been deconstructed and set aside as though it were one day of work away from being functional again. And even that was covered in a layer of rust. Ironically, only the swing remained in somewhat working order. Well, one of the three swings, at least.

He wondered…could it still support his weight?

(…)

(…)(…)

(…)(…)(…)

“Yippee!

Wahoo!

Yeah!”

Fenrir hooted and hollered as the wind rushed past his ears—forward and back. Forward and back. The momentum carried with it a fun little sway in his stomach that made him smile reflexively. While riding the swing had nothing on his father’s volcano jumpies, it was still plenty fun. His father was out at the moment nevertheless, so fun had to be found elsewhere.

Luckily, Yarrow’s father just happened to be out, too. Fenrir had met his friend on his way to the playground and the two raced each other there. Fenrir lost, of course. As much as he hated to admit it, Torchic were just flatly faster creatures.

Yarrow got first dibs on the swing, as a result. His turn had already passed and now the little chick was headbutting Fenrir in the back to make him go, much to the Torchic’s chagrin.

“C…come on, Fenrir!” Yarrow pleaded between pushes. “Let’s go do something else!”

A tinge of annoyance pricked at Fenrir’s noggin as he continued to swing. Yarrow got to go for twice as long as Fenrir had! Unfair!

“I wanna keep going!” Fenrir cried. Though as evidenced by the pout growing on his face, having to fight for more swing time made it less fun. He wanted twice the amount of time now. If only out of spite.

Yarrow whined, “I’m boooooored! This is boooooring!”

Fenrir groaned in frustration. “I pushed you and it wasn’t boring!”

“It’s boring to meeeee!”

“Ugh!” There went Fenrir’s momentum. He carefully lowered his toes to slow himself, kicking up a small amount of wood chips in the process. After the swing came to a halt, the Cyndaquil hopped down and spun on the Torchic. “No fair! You got to swing, now I get to swing!”

Plopping down onto the wood chips with a groan, Yarrow threw back his head in an exaggerated motion. “I don’t wanna,” he complained.

It was obviously just a thinly veiled excuse; Fenrir could tell. Why did Yarrow do this so much? Just when they would start to have fun—or Fenrir would, at least—the Torchic would start complaining.

Fenrir put his paws on his hips and huffed. “What do you wanna do, then?”

“I don’t know,” Yarrow said, now laying on his back. “Something else.”

It was always “something else,” wasn’t it? Every single time. Even after flopping down onto his back and laying next to Yarrow, Fenrir still frowned.

“We gotta find something more fun to do,” Fenrir stated. “I don’t think the swings are gonna cut it.”

“No crap” was Yarrow’s response. And Fenrir made an ‘o’ shape with his mouth. He sure was glad his father didn’t know how much of a dirty mouth his friend had.

The Torchic fluffed his feathers angrily. “Being bored is so stupid. I bet Kebia pokemon never get bored.”

With a castle that big how could they? If only Fenrir was old enough to up and leave—go out adventuring and see the world his grandpa told him about….

Fenrir gasped, before sitting up suddenly. “That’s it!” the Cyndaquil exclaimed. “We should go exploring!”

A groan escaped Yarrow as he sat up, too. “Explore where? There’s nothing worth exploring in dumb Nanab.”

Well…that was definitely true. However…

It was hard for Fenrir not to get all sheepish when the idea came to him. If they got caught, the two kids would be in big trouble.

But his own father’s voice rang in his head: “ the only way to become a true warrior is to take risks! A warrior always tackles danger without fear! Never fear, Fenrir!”

He smirked confidently, the vents on his back igniting. “We should go into Figy Forest.”

Yarrow sputtered, “Are you nuts!? We’re not supposed to go in there!”

That was true. Even Fenrir’s mother and grandfather said so. Everyone told Fenrir to steer clear of that place. It was too dangerous for a little guy like him…

And that meant it was a surefire way to get rid of boredom entirely!

“That’s how you know it won’t be boring,” Fenrir countered. “Who knows what we’ll find!”

Yarrow seemed to consider it for a moment. The Torchic tapped a wood chip under his talon a few times. “I don’t wanna get in trouble, though…”

But Fenrir was insistent. “Come on!” he said. “I just wanna look! Our dads will never know!”

“…Just a look?” A hint of intrigue entered Yarrow’s voice.

“Mhm!”

That did the trick! Fenrir’s Torchic friend was on his feet in less than a second, his feathered crest held high.

“Well, what are we waiting for then?” Without any more delay, Yarrow dashed off towards the imposing collection of trees in the distance. “Last one there is a flower boy!”

Fenrir, happy to have figured out the solution to their dilemma, ran after his friend, determined not to lose a second time. “Wait for me!” he called. “I’m not a flower boy!”

(…)(…)(…)

(…)(…)

(…)

Even now, that phrase still ate at him. Flower boy…just thinking about it shot icy dread into his flame vents. To think that he used to say that without even thinking about it. Irony was not enough to describe it; he downright mocked himself by using that word at all.

Fenn’s toes dragged against the wood chips as he swung idly. In the end, it supported his weight. But he had a feeling that it was one big push away from falling apart, judging by how the metal chains creaked and groaned.

Just enough to live, not enough to thrive.

He didn’t feel like swinging much, anyway. Being reminded of that day always caused Fenn to freeze in place and shiver. Fenn remembered it clearly. The excitement quickly running its course as soon as they both entered the forest and vomited, the panic once they realized that they couldn’t leave, the fear when the sounds of ferals were all around them…

It took three hours for help to arrive, but it was more comparable to being lost for days. To an extent, Fenn would have preferred staying in that place compared to the alternative.

Always on the cusp of danger, his tears flowed so freely back then that his tear ducts were dry within the first hour. Even still, he managed to shed more tears after his father gave him a proper verbal punishment afterwards.

A warrior takes risks, yes. A warrior is also not meant to be stupid. That was one reminder he received several times following his blunder.

What’s more, Fenn recalled the horrified look on his mother’s face when he emerged from that dungeon covered in dirt and dried blood. And the guilt that haunted him.

Fenn’s head hung low. His paws gripped the chains tightly but without passion. If there was one thing that the Quilava was thankful for, it was that he and Yarrow remained friends after that. Not once did they blame each other for that day.

Fenn sighed wistfully. They shared a lot of really fun memories.

There was…one place Fenn definitely needed to visit before going home: the old house up the stream. Yarrow’s house. The mere thought of it helped to relax Fenn’s shoulders and warm his vents. Happy memories were made there, not here.

Fenn dropped onto the ground and exhaled a puff of smoke. Within another few seconds, he was padding off towards the stream on the other side of town. There was more of a chance that he would be seen going that way, but this was something he needed to do.

Unfortunately, it also meant passing right by the school.

With every step he slipped further and further into the pelt of a much younger Quilava. One that stuck to the shadows, blending into the background. He unintentionally found himself sinking his paws into the dirt in hopes that it would swallow him up. Perhaps even encase him in a crusty shell with a couple of slots for eyes. That was all he really needed here; not much else could be accomplished, after all.

If his bank of memories were like a pot full of fertile soil, seeds, dead roots, and other hidden things—his old school lectures would fall into the category of the scum clinging to the sides of the pot. He’d have to scrape them off and scowl at the residue they left.

The very same scowl that emerged once he rounded the corner.

No surprise, school was out today. The Shaymin Festival acted as a sort of holiday during its opening. As a result, Fenn was able to walk right up to the window and look in at his old classroom.

His seat was still there. Mrs. Daisy’s name was also still on the chalkboard. Really, the entire place was just as he remembered it. Had it not been for the chill wind nipping at his fur Fenn might have assumed that nothing had changed, and he would need to prepare for school tomorrow. It had only been a little over half a year since his last day, so Fenn wasn’t sure what he was expecting.

The one thing that caught Fenn by surprise, though, was a sudden influx of nostalgia. It was like a bucket of sticky honey being dumped on his head. Not all of it was bad; some of it was just particularly embarrassing.

All of his time in class was spent daydreaming instead of paying attention. His Kricketune teacher often made examples of him by asking him questions about Corvid Calhoun’s political party on The Shard or the export laws of Perfect Apples. Not once did he answer any of those questions correctly.

Why? Well, Fenn’s cheeks flushed a bright red at the kinds of daydreams he’d waste his time on. Alongside the exciting action novels he read, Fenn shamefully perused the romance aisle at the library when no one was looking. Although he never checked any of them out, he read enough of them to get a few ideas.

Flying around some fields with his arms wrapped around the neck of a Charizard was always an appealing image. Or he would be cradled in his arms, perhaps? The Charizard could…lean down…tell Fenn in a deep, rumbly voice to hold on and to not be afraid…

How about Arcanine? A big, fluffy puppy that would keep Fenn warm overnight. Always open for cuddles, always open for hugs…

Incineroar, too. Especially Incineroar…

..Oh dear, the tips of his ears were getting warm. Fenn shook his head, biting away at the sensation to rub his arm. Those were some…awkward times. He probably shouldn’t relive them right now.

Regardless, what bothered him the most were his classmates. Their writing utensils glided across their note sheets like ice down a slide, while Fenn just sat in the back looking disinterested. He didn’t even try to hide it at the time.

Occasionally Fenn would glance up at Mrs. Daisy, try to focus on the dull, monotone string of words coming out of her mouth, only for his eyes to glaze over so hard that his eyelids would start falling unconsciously. He would stop himself from drifting off to sleep each time, but it was never enough. The lesson just went in one ear and out the other, not helped in the slightest by a lack of sleep and general inattentiveness.

Fenn, flatly, did not want to be there. Why would anyone, really? Every single one of the other students had to be there because it was expected of them. It was required. What really confused Fenn was how none of them seemed to have felt the same as him.

Not the Golett two seats down from Fenn that he couldn’t remember the name of. Not that Drakloak near the front that very obviously had no interest in those subjects being taught whatsoever. And not Cardinal the Pikachu, who by all accounts had even less of a reason than Fenn to be here. They never had a conversation, but Fenn knew from overhearing them before that they worked on a farm back then. When they got older they inherited that farm from their parents. Going to class made no difference.

Why did Fenn have such a hard time caring when the others just…got it? Was he stupid?

Those same students laughed at him when he failed to answer questions properly, so he couldn’t blame himself for believing that there was something he was missing. Even now, when none of it mattered, a part of him still felt as though he had been cheated out of a proper, enjoyable education.

Later on, though, he found himself getting along with a few students for group projects. It was nice. Sweet, even. And just the same, too late.

None of those acquaintances stuck around. Before he graduated from school and left for Kebia, most of the time Fenn kept to himself. It was the daydreaming that brought him back. When nothing mattered and he didn’t have to worry. He could just block it all out.

Everyone has to grow up eventually. For Fenn, that meant leaving home and understanding that blocking it all out wasn’t possible anymore.

What did it mean that he ended up coming back so soon, though? Well, only one way to find out. Fenn continued on. Past the school…and finally on to the main road.

(…)

(…)(…)

(…)(…)(…)

If the trees of the forest were massive towers of wood and splinters to puny little Fenrir, houses were gigantic structures of stone strong enough to withstand one million strikes! It was impossible for the Cyndaquil to comprehend how they were built, let alone stand on their own. Supposedly his father could build whole houses in just a few days! But like with most things, it became easier to conceptualize on the shoulders of a pokemon much larger than himself.

While his grandfather was not nearly as tall as his father, the space between Fenrir and the ground was much the same. Besides, judging by the envious looks of the other children his age condemned to the street’s dirt road, Fenrir had a reason to be smug.

“C-coming through!” Fenrir announced, his paws on his hips and his chest puffed out in pride. He remained that way for most of the walk, only occasionally wobbling with his grandfather’s steps.

“Kehehe…” his grandfather laughed heartily. Less heartily than usual, but Fenrir hardly noticed. “Here comes big mon Fenn! Watch yerselves! Kehehe-”

The Camerupt stopped in his path to hack and wheeze. “W-whoa!” Fenrir blurted out. Nearly losing his balance, Fenrir only remained apart from the ground below him thanks to his mother. Her gentle grip blocked his fall, just so he could stand back up again.

“Careful now,” she said assuredly. Heat radiated from her paws and arms so readily that it calmed the Cyndaquil down immediately. It was only after she made sure that Fenrir was safe and secure did she turn her gaze on the Camerupt carrying him.

Fenrir’s mother sighed. “I told you not to push yourself, dad. You should be home resting.”

More violent coughing slipped out of the elder’s throat, but this time he remained steady enough for Fenrir to maintain his bearings. “I said I’m fine, Buttercup,” Grandpa Aconite muttered hoarsely. “And I thought I told ya that I ain’t missin’ out on givin’ my grandson a ride through town.”

And what a ride it was. Fenrir had no idea what his mom and grandfather were talking about—seeing as how he was too busy enjoying the trip. There was nothing to worry about, either way. Grandpa Aconite said that he was fine, so what was the issue?

Look at how small every pokemon was! Fenrir was on top of the world!

The Typhlosion scoffed, frowning. “You can’t fault me for being worried, you know. The doctor said…” She trailed off.

The Camerupt’s ears fell and a small amount of stinky smoke puffed out of his nostrils. “…That feller don’t know what he’s talkin’ about,” Grandpa Aconite grumbled.

All the while, Fenrir continued his spiel. “Y-you better look out, world!” he declared. “Pretty soon…I-I’ll be taller than every house in this town!”

A chuckle from below followed, then Granpda Aconite said, “Ya got the right idea, Fenn-buddy.” Right after, he turned his head to Fenrir’s mother and whispered, “Why does he sound so different? He was fine a week ago.”

“I already told you, dad,” Fenrir’s mother replied. She sounded exasperated. “He was like that after we got him out of that forest.”

“Forest?”

“The dungeon. Figy Forest.”

Oh. They were talking about that. Neither of them seemed to notice, but Fenrir shrunk down into his grandfather’s fur a little. He didn’t want to think about that right now…

The Camerupt grumbled to himself, quite clearly agitated about something. Warmth—unpleasant heat—radiated from the elder’s raised fur. “It was that blasted husband of yer’s idea, waden it?” Grandpa Aconite accused. “What was he thinkin’?”

Fenrir’s mother let out another sigh. Her paws were raised defensively. “Dad, can we not do this now? I have it under control, okay?”

“Like Moltres’ tailfeathers ya do-” Another violent coughing fit broke the elder’s rebuttal.

Once again, Fenrir had to be saved by his mother. This time, however, the two of them met each other’s eyes. And when they did his mother lingered for an uncomfortable amount of time. It was as though she were considering something, analyzing Fenrir to find the right words. Concerned, the Cyndaquil said nothing; if only he knew how to help in this situation. If only he hadn’t made that stupid mistake…

To Fenrir’s surprise, the ground below him fell from his feet as he was lifted into the air, into his mother’s arms. Protests came from his grandfather, but he seemed too preoccupied with his coughing fit to stop her.

“You said it yourself, dad,” she reminded the Camerupt in a near whisper, “I chose this. It should be up to me how I run my life.”

As much as he would have preferred to stay on top of his grandfather’s head, Fenrir didn’t fight with his mother on it. Not too much, anyway. “M-mom…” he whined. That was the extent of it, though. The comforting coziness of his mother’s arms and the soft beating of her heart calmed him down quickly.

“Just for a bit, Fenn. Be patient.”

As if he could argue with that.

Grandpa Aconite hadn’t quite finished coughing by the time Fenrir was in his mother’s arms. But even still, he attempted to contend her logic with his own.

“Hah…keh…hack– that kid’s real special, Buttercup,” he told her. “Ya know how I feel about this.” More coughing. “…Don’t let that idiot screw it up.”

The Typhlosion nodded, holding Fenrir close. “I won’t, dad. I know how lucky I am-” with a smile, she looked down at her son, “-how lucky he is.”

Fenrir, admittedly, had no idea. But the way his mother smiled down on him made him feel safe. Happy, even. She deserved a smile in return.

Fenrir giggled when his mother shifted him around a bit and lightly booped him on the nose.

“Love you, Fenn,” she whispered.

“Love you, too, m-mom.”

The elderly Camerupt cleared his throat loudly. “Now…where were we headed?” he wondered.

“Just the market,” Fenrir’s mother answered. “Did you already forget?”

“…No. Just…just makin’ sure.”

(…)(…)(…)

(…)(…)

(…)

The streets were mostly empty. Fenn stood in the center of the path, between the town hall and the thrift shop. The former—Fenn had never so much as looked at for more than ten seconds, and the latter of which had functioned as the backdrop of many slow and sleepy afternoons. Supposedly these two buildings were so close to each other because even the most affluent of residents in town shopped there.

When the most exciting aspects of the town were the prospect of a kid almost getting himself killed in the local dungeon and the newest junk at the thrift shop, it was no wonder everyone seemed keen to leave. Of the few faces Fenn caught sight of during his walk, none were recognizable. Tourists, most likely. Lost and need of direction. The dingy homesteads here were simply the precursors for what most came this neck of the woods for: the castle.

“Head towards the trees in that direction, past the flowers, follow the path. You’ll be there in an hour’s time.”

Those were the directions that Fenn not only gave today, but most other days in the year. Just with about 50% more stuttering and awkward arm rubbing.

Nothing had changed. The only difference was, with the festival going on, even the oldest of pokemon were out of town. Fenn was surprised he didn’t encounter any of them on the way here.

Maybe they were avoiding him just like how he was avoiding them. Perfect balance, he reasoned internally. There was no one he wanted to run into in Nanab anyway.

Down the path he went, plodding absentmindedly. His head was in the clouds, still envisioning how this would end. Each time he imagined a bad outcome—which was almost every time—Fenn changed the trajectory of his thoughts.

Past the market, past the mill, past the eatery, past the old, dilapidated homes of the many retirees in this town, further and further away from his destination.

It didn’t take long. Even considering that it had been years, Fenn remembered it quite well…that it was past the sign for Kebia that had never been replaced and through a gap in between Mr. Dove’s house and Mrs. Goose’s barbershop. There, a bridge connected two sides of the same creek. A board was missing two boards from the dirt on the other side, still lodged in the creek bed, poking upward. Just as he remembered it.

The wooden boards creaked under Fenn’s paws as he padded to the center of the bridge and approached the edge, looking down into the shallow water. A couple of wild Surskit glided across the surface further down the river, where it was deeper.

Even further than that, a single brick home was erected from the dirt, flanked by trees tall enough to shroud the building in checkerboard-like shadows. Fenn leaned on the railing of the bridge, looking down the stream thoughtfully.

He took a deep breath…

(…)

(…)(…)

(…)(…)(…)

The feral Surskit scurried away at the first sight of fire. A cascade of flame billowed into the air, all the way from the ground up past the trees, petering out before they could reach the peaks. Singed leaves fluttered down to the ground like birds shot out of the sky, landing mere inches from Fenrir’s paws. Touching them was out of the question.

“We don’t want any interruptions, now do we?” his father asked with a chuckle. Had his shoulders not been ignited and a Flamethrower not blasted into the air just seconds prior, Fenrir might have nodded in agreement.

Instead, Fenrir nodded hesitantly, the residual heat still lingering on his fur even from all the way down to his father’s feat. The sheer power on display was always so awe inspiring to the Cyndaquil, but mon was it scary.

“Of course not…dad,” Fenrir muttered meekly.

With a laugh that shook the whole bridge, the burly Typhlosion pointed his snout towards the sky. To Fenrir, he was larger than life. “When you’re older, you’ll be firing off flames so hot that they’ll melt a Steelix!” he announced.

A Steelix? Fenrir wasn’t even sure what that was yet, but it sounded imposing. “Will I?” the child wondered. “Will I get to be as strong as you, dad?”

“Surely!” His muscles bulged as he flexed, showing off both of his tree-trunk sized arms. “Any son of mine will make the legends themselves crumble to their knees!”

But…how? It seemed so impossible; his father was completely out of reach. How could Fenrir possibly live up to that?

Fenrir twiddled with his paws. Looking down at his toes, he muttered, “I don’t know if I can, dad…”

It was then that his father kneeled down. Nowhere near Fenrir’s level, but close enough to the ground to put his paw on the Cyndaquil’s back. “Listen, Fenrir,” he started, “the second I laid my eyes on you I knew…warriors are born. And you…you are a warrior.”

A sparkle entered Fenrir’s eyes. Abruptly, and without the tiny fire type’s say, his vents ignited much like his father’s. He looked up with glee on his face. “You…you really mean that? I’m…I’m a warrior?”

His father nodded. “I do. And let me tell you this, Fenrir: it takes many, many years for a warrior to reach his full potential. And remember, the only way to become a true warrior is to take risks! A warrior always tackles danger without fear! Never fear, Fenrir!” He outright shouted that last bit.

Those words invigorated the small Cyndaquil. Inspired him. More than anything, he wanted to be what his father claimed he could be. He wanted to be a warrior!

He wanted to spew flames hot enough to burn down anything in his path! He wanted to have muscles big enough to withstand any blow! He wanted to know what it would take!

“I won’t dad!” Fenrir declared. “I’ll never fear! I’ll be the strongest warrior in the whole wide world!”

A grin popped onto the Typhlosion’s face. His eyes radiated a confidence that comforted Fenrir. “Atta boy! Tomorrow, we’ll start your training as soon as possible. You’ll be a warrior in no time!”

Fenrir could hardly wait. He was practically bouncing up and down, radiating enough heat to be a campfire all on his own.

“I’m ready, dad! I’m ready to be a warrior!”

“Good! Now…show me your fire!”

(…)(…)(…)

(…)(…)

(…)

…And exhaled. A torrent of fire blew from the Quilava’s mouth, flying into the air past the trees, not quite reaching the peaks. The Surskit down the stream scurried away at the first sight of the flames, leaving Fenn alone. A few singed leaves fell to his toes like birds shot out of the sky.

It was remarkable, really, how close Fenn got to reaching his father’s strength before leaving town. Once, and only once, they sparred. It became increasingly obvious that Fenn was more than ready to tackle the trials laid before him, and his father ended the spar within only a few moments.

If that were all it took…maybe Fenn wouldn’t even be here. If pure strength was what made for a competent guild member…Anemone likely would not have turned him away. As it turned out, life was not as simple as his younger self believed it to be. Even if that was what his father claimed.

If it was so simple, maybe taking his father’s advice wouldn’t have nearly gotten Fenn killed in that dungeon later on.

Fenn let his vents go wild and dance to their heart’s content. A release was what he needed, and that piddly pillar of flame was hardly enough. The sun was high in the sky; Fenn still had plenty of time for today. Plenty of time to breathe, prepare…and understand.

Because there was one thing the Quilava wanted to understand here, where he grew up: if simply being strong—and by extension a warrior—was not enough…what was? This town held the answer. After all, his father never was one for festivities.

It was time to follow the river upstream. Fenn’s flames died out within seconds of dropping back onto all fours. He walked, fast yet contemplative. The grass was comparable to a red carpet, leading right to his destination, comforting with its soft touch. For a short bit, Fenn was an energetic Cyndaquil skipping down the street towards his friend’s house again.

He actually did skip, too. No one was around to see him…so he went wild.

Even more so than expected, Fenn’s excitement surpassed his presumed current capacities—his flame vents once again sparking to life more and more the closer he got. The excessive foliage blocked out the sun a considerable amount compared to back then, and the bricks had been painted a new color—but it was there.

Fenn smiled to himself. Yarrow’s house was still standing, almost as he remembered it.

(…)

(…)(…)

(…)(…)(…)

Words could not describe the elation displayed on Fenrir’s face when he was told that he could see Yarrow again. He had thought that his mistake had lost him a friend, but his parents relented after it became clear that it would heighten his spirits.

Fenrir had learned his lesson regardless. As had Yarrow, from what he had heard. No more running off on their own and getting into trouble. Warriors don’t do that.

His mother dropped him off this time. Normally, Fenrir could find his way on his own; the place wasn’t hard to find or particularly dangerous to get to. But his parents forbid him from traveling too far without a watchful guardian for a while. It was part of his punishment.

That was hardly an issue. Once he was set free to go see his friend, Fenrir skipped and bounced his way to the garden outside. There, Yarrow laid amongst the weeds, staring up at the sky.

“Y-Yarrow! Yarrow!” Fenn cried, skittering over in a giddy rush. “I’m free! I’m free! Ya-” When Fenrir caught sight of the Torchic lying on the ground, he skidded to a halt and gasped. “Yarrow! A-are…are you dead?”

The Torchic didn’t react much. He just scoffed, still staring upward. “Dead? Nah, I’m not dead.”

“Oh, phew,” the Cyndaquil said. “I-I just…wanted to make sure…”

“What for?” Yarrow asked, looking over. “We’re not in Figy Forest anymore.”

Fenrir looked down at his toes. His voice was quiet now. Hardly anything like it usually was. “I-I know…I’ve just…been having bad dreams since then. I got really worried…”

Nightmares about things going wrong in there. Nightmares about Fenrir being alone and at the mercy of the dungeon. He was afraid to tell his parents; there was no telling how they would react.

Internally, Fenrir was hoping Yarrow knew what was going on. Or at least could relate. Yarrow was always on top of things like that.

Thankfully, what Yarrow said next calmed Fenrir somewhat. The Torchic turned his head back to the sky with distant eyes and said, “Yeah, me too. I keep thinking about that Scyther we saw.”

Oh Arceus, not that. Fenrir shivered. “I-I’m glad nothing bad happened.”

Yarrow nodded. “Me too,” he said. “Whaddya here for anyways?”

To see Yarrow, his friend? Fenrir tilted his head at the question, and promptly shot back with his own. “What are you doing…laying in the garden?”

A shrug of his feathered shoulders was Yarrow’s first response. His second was, “Thinking.”

“Th-thinking?”

Another silent nod from Yarrow.

“…Can I think, too?”

Yarrow scooched over a little, to which Fenrir padded over and laid down on his back next to the Torchic. For a few moments, the two of them just stared up at the bright blue and cloudy sky.

“…”

“…”

Fenrir swore he saw a Rapidash up in the clouds. And a Wartortle drinking a smoothie. Maybe a Manectric, too?

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…I’m bored,” Yarrow said.

Oh thank Arceus, Fenrir wasn’t the only one. All of this thinking was starting to get to him. “Y-yeah, I am, too,” Fenrir yawned. “We should do something.”

“Something…”

“Hm?”

Yarrow sat up right then, fluffing his feathers as he readjusted himself. “Wanna know something, Fenrir?” he asked.

Fenrir sat up, too. Though with a curious look on his face. “Know what?”

With his chest puffed out, Yarrow declared, “I’ve decided that I’m never going into another mystery dungeon ever again!”

“Never again?” Fenrir balked. “B-but…”

“Promise me you’ll do the same, Fenrir!” Yarrow locked eyes with the Cyndaquil. There was a serious edge to them that prevented Fenrir from looking away.

And at the same time, the fur on Fenrir’s back stood on end. His eyes darted all over the place, trying to comprehend what was just asked of him.

Every explorer goes into mystery dungeons! Swearing off from them would be like…missing out on so much! Fenrir was certain that a warrior wouldn’t do that either…

But…he saw what those places were like firsthand. The thought of going back left a horrible pit in his stomach. No doubt it was the same for his friend.

Was Fenrir going to throw away everything for this? Everything his father and grandfather expected out of him?

It was like an Aggron was sitting on his shoulders, weighing him down no matter what he chose. But, when he met Yarrow’s eyes again, he saw something he hadn’t before.

Behind all of that bravado and that uncaring act he put on, Fenrir detected a hint of pleading in Yarrow’s eyes. A yearning for Fenrir to follow his lead and make this promise.

That was what it took for Fenrir to crack.

“…O-okay,” Fenrir mumbled, “I promise.”

Yarrow’s eyes went wide. “You do?” A joyous smile popped onto his beak. “You mean that?”

Fenrir smiled, too. If it was for his friend…he would do anything. “Y-yeah. I mean it.”

With that, Yarrow jumped onto his feet with a spin to boot. “Yahoo!” he cheered. “Thank Arceus! I was worried for a second!”

Still smiling, but less so than before, Fenrir twiddled his paws as he stood. “W-we can have fun in other ways,” he said.

“Yeah! Like- hey, my dad got these ‘paddle ball’ thingies from the thrift store! It’s super fun!”

“R-really? What are they like?”

Yarrow scurried towards his house, explaining as he went. “Well, it’s a paddle and it has this ball on a string…”

(…)(…)(…)

(…)(…)

(…)

Fenn couldn’t stifle the chuckle if he tried. Had he kept it in any longer, remembering how the two kids spent half an hour whacking themselves in the head with the ball might have broken him.

Those were some fun times. Silly, dumb amusement so they wouldn’t be bored out of their minds. Every kid had to deal with it in some way. For Fenn and Yarrow, it meant getting tangled in the string of a paddle ball for an afternoon, then spending the next sword fighting with those same paddles.

He failed to keep his promise, though. Fenn’s giggles turned to silence as his gaze became pensive. Breaking that agreement was downright the end of the world for Fenn back then. He couldn’t bring himself to look his friend in the eye. Yarrow understood why, but Fenn always sort of knew that it still bothered him.

Nowadays, Fenn realized how silly making a promise like that really was. They weren’t even teenagers—how could they make any complex decision or form educated opinions?

No, Fenn was more bothered by the fact that he had made the same promise…again, less than a week ago. When he was a mature adult capable of making complex decisions and forming educated opinions. He almost forgot about that.

Putting two and two together left Fenn with quite the conundrum. He furrowed his brow and crossed his arms as a reaction. Was that a coincidence, or did it mean something? Did Fenn even want to go back into mystery dungeons, or did he feel that he had to?

What was it that compelled Fenn to keep going back, while others realized the dangers on their own and chose to never return?

Well, Fenn was more than happy to push those thoughts away for now and reflect on some more happy memories instead. Like how there was one year where Fenn and Yarrow dressed up in the same costume as Rayquaza. He started giggling again when he remembered how goofy they must have looked trying to get around.

Yarrow didn’t live in Nanab anymore. But Fenn didn’t come to the likely-not-a-Torchic-anymore’s house to see him again. It was just…a detour.

And while the bricks were a different color and the weeds weren’t as comfy to lay in anymore, Fenn plopped down and took a few minutes to watch the sky through the cracks in the branches. Remembering, reminiscing, laughing.

Everything would be alright.