Chapter 39 – Day 14, Part 7: Buried

Chapter 39: Day 14, Part 7 – Buried

There was once a time in Fenn’s life where he would give a flower to his mother every day, without fail.

The exact memory was a bit hazy. The basic gist was that the house had just burned down again after Fenn’s father lost his temper and everything inside burned to a crisp. Following their first house fire, his parents got savvy and stored their more important belongings in the shed out back. Problem solved. Fenn’s mother thought it was safe to start decorating again.

She was wrong. A flower arrangement she spent considerable effort on was destroyed in another house fire. The whole neighborhood saw his mother cry over the ashes. Seeing his mother so distraught about it, Fenn did the only thing he could think of: bring her a bouquet of flowers he picked himself.

His father, not seeing the point in any of this, declared that flowers would no longer be allowed inside or outside of the house. Flowers were not befitting of a warrior’s abode, after all. But that didn’t stop Fenn’s mother. If the house would be off-limits, she’d start her flowerbeds elsewhere.

Fittingly, their neighbor just so happened to be a botanist, and they agreed to turn their own yard into a group garden. Starting with the flowers Fenn brought to his mother. Fenn wanted to help in any way he could, so he brought her more flowers following this. Over and over again, every single day, until he got too busy with his training. Hearing her gratitude and seeing her smile was always a highlight of Fenn’s day. The flower he bestowed upon her the most was lavender, her favorite. And by extension, Fenn’s favorite, too.

He’d go out of his way for lavender. Even if it meant being chided by his father, a warrior is there for his mother.

And now, several years later, a small sea of purple laid before him. Swaying in the cool, autumn breeze, each flower waving at Fenn like old friends.

Tiny embers blew past the lavender and their companions—the roses and zinnias and the purple coneflowers. Harmlessly, yet eagerly, the flowers and the rapidly diminishing flames kissed greetings and goodbyes; with winter just down the line, any sort of heat must have been blissful for their petals.

The stronger embers fluttered towards the house neighboring this one: a humble cabin constructed of new wood. Fresh wood. Hardly the same as it was even two weeks prior, but simultaneously built more loosely. The cabin itself creaked and swayed with that same breeze, waving at Fenn as though they had never met. Those embers of Fenn’s did not linger long enough to greet the barren yard accompanying the cabin.

The strongest embers of all reached their destination—nestling and embracing a pelt of dark blue fur. Some flew higher, and went so far as to intermingle with another’s latent flames, sparking to life in their own way.

For these two pokemon, it was their fire that connected first. Their eyes followed shortly, though the Typhlosion wearing the worn, tattered sunhat likely did not need to turn around to confirm it.

She did, though. Not a second was wasted.

Shadows coveting her radiance aside, the Typhlosion’s features under the sunhat were aged in a kindly sort of way. Wrinkles befitting a loving smile persisted—far from eclipsing the many years that remained. And as evidenced by the immediate flashing of a smile onto her face, shining through to her eyes, she would continue to love for decades to come.

The first words she uttered upon seeing her son were not laced with the confusion brought about by a surprise visit, but instead contained the compassion of a warm welcome home.

“Fenn? I wasn’t expecting you today.”

To some extent, Fenn was the same. He stood there on two paws unsure of where to start or what to say but comforted by her presence nonetheless. He still stuttered, though. As he often did.

“H-hi…hi, mom,” he muttered, sheepishly holding up a paw to wave.

Knee-deep in flowers and still grasping a pawheld shovel, Fenn’s mother adjusted her hat before stepping onto the path the two now shared. “Did you stop by to help?” she asked. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yes…” While not much of a gardener himself, Fenn settled for following his mother’s instructions quite often. Fetching tools and shoveling dirt was simple but-

“Oh, so you did come to help,” his mother said with a smirk.

…And Fenn just realized that he forgot to clarify what he was saying “yes” to. He shook his head and replied with “N-not exactly,” his voice breaking.

Tilting her head towards the flowers, Fenn’s mother pointed at the garden with her shovel. “Come on now,” she instructed in a playful tone, “just for a short while. Don’t go running off without spending some time with your mother.”

Fenn opened his mouth to argue, but quickly shut it without uttering a word. This was exactly what he had been dreading—falling into busy work. The further he fell, the harder it would be to get away. Yet he found himself dragging his feet to his mother’s side anyway.

“That’s a good boy.” The Typhlosion leaned down and patted her son on the shoulder when he drew close. “Maggy wanted some new roses for her grandson’s hatchday coming up. Enough to fill about five vases-“

Fenn sighed. He got the idea. A Quilava like him would be closer to the ground, more than capable of digging up dirt even without a shovel. The whole act would take, at most, a few minutes. If he weren’t standing on his tiptoes and constantly glancing past his mother at the house next door, he would have had no qualms with it.

Either way, his mother held her back as she stood. “Agh…yes, that should be enough,” she said. “One of those bushes is well past its prime and…”

But before she could finish what she was saying she peered at Fenn, and from there stared for a few moments. Any semblance of a smile faded away to concern. “…Fenn? What’s the matter?”

It was supposed to be simple. Say hi, ask a question, then leave. His mother would understand; she always did. If it were any other day, sure—Fenn would have helped out. But not today.

He was expecting his mother to notice that something was wrong. Faking a smile would have been pointless; after all, she always told him that her nose could sniff out lies. That being said, it would have been easy to fake a smile. In comparison, faking discontent was somehow even harder.

Fenn wasn’t faking anything. Ignoring his mother’s question really did wrack him with guilt and it showed in his expression.

“W-where’s…dad?” Fenn wondered in a quiet voice.

The Typhlosion leaned her head back as though she knew what Fenn was really asking. Not a different question, no; the meaning between the lines.

“Oh.” She pointed over her shoulder. “Your father is at the pub with a few of his friends. You know how he is…”

Her eyes narrowed. “…The festival…it’s not fun for him.”

The pub…? Of course…it had to be the pub…

It wasn’t just that Fenn’s father spent most of his evenings at that place, there just also happened to be a chance that he was at home instead. In fact, his father stayed home most of the time when there was a festival. He tended to drink on those days, too.

Earlier today Fenn had been the tiniest bit hopeful, maybe even excited. But after the roller coaster that had been this day he wondered if he should have thrown up his paws and gone back to the castle after all. Nothing could be reasonably accomplished at a pub considering what Fenn had to say.

With a nod done to deviate his gaze elsewhere, Fenn muttered, “Right…” Getting to the pub from here would only take a short walk. If only it were longer…

“I’m surprised you’re not at the festival, Fenn,” his mother stated. “Your little friend seemed like the type.”

Fenn looked down, fiddling with the purple scarf around his neck. “U-um…he…he was busy. S-so…I came here instead.”

“Really?” Fenn’s mother scoffed. “Sounds like an excuse on his part.”

“Y-you don’t even know him, mom!” Fenn blurted out, his gaze shooting back up.

That elicited a lighthearted chuckle from the Typhlosion. “Alright, alright. I’m just teasing you, pumpkin.”

“Egh…”

Flames threatened to breach Fenn’s forehead. He glared down at the ground once more and frowned. Being annoyed wouldn’t help his case—he should just leave.

“I-I’m gonna go,” he mumbled. “Thanks…mom.” Head still down, Fenn trudged down the path, past his mother. He had to be careful not to look up or else-

“Do you remember that first book I got you when you were a teenager, Fenn?” his mother suddenly asked.

-…Fenn would stop in his tracks. “Uh…w-which one?”

The smile on the Typhlosion’s face could be heard through her voice. “Corviknight of Peace.”

Corviknight of Peace…how could Fenn forget? That was the book that lit a spark so bright in his mind that he read the whole thing three times over the course of just a few days. Ears perked, Fenn glanced over his shoulder to see his mother with her paws on her hips.

“Y-yeah…I do,” Fenn said.

Fenn’s mother approached, a complacent bounce to her step. “I picked it up from the library the other day. I never actually got to read it.” She chuckled. “It was always checked out when I went to go look.”

Red fuzziness spread to Fenn’s cheeks. He might have…read it several more times after those first few days. Coincidentally, that was also why he shot his mother a perplexed look. “You…n-never read it?” he wondered.

The Typhlosion shook her head.

Fenn blinked. Now turned back around fully, he sputtered, “W-what? But you gave it to me!”

Her response was a shrug. “It looked like something you would enjoy.”

“Wha!?” Fenn couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Corviknight of Peace was the book that got him into reading in the first place! After all of this time…the fact that his mother hadn’t read it until recently was a crime! “I did! I-I loved it! Did you?”

“Oh, it was wonderful,” his mother hummed. “Very exciting. I can see why you read it so much.”

There was no way of telling exactly how many times Fenn had read that book. But just to give an idea, he could distinctly recall the gross berry stain someone left on page 52 of the library’s copy and the crease on page 201 that Fenn always came back to.

Page 201…where Corviknight and his Talonflame companion mused about life before dawn. Quiet and tender, all of the action in that story couldn’t compare. Fenn consistently found himself reading that page in particular over and over again.

He could remember it word-for-word…

‘I want to live in a world where I can fly free once again…’

‘Even if it means death, I will remain by your side until the end of my days…’

A hole had been carved out of Fenn’s heart at the time. No matter how much he tried to ignore it, every action and every movement he took felt hollow. And while reading about Corviknight overcoming great odds never filled that hole completely, it certainly stopped the bleeding.

Stories consistently filled that gap, if only temporarily. Adventure, action, romance…a chance to live somewhere else for a time. Real life could never begin to replace the beauty behind those pages.

Fenn’s eyes lit up. “I’m…I’m glad you…liked it.” What was her favorite scene or character, he wondered…

No, don’t get distracted.

Everyone has to close the book eventually. “…A-anyway,” he uttered, fiddling with his paws, “I should really go s-see dad-“

“Fenn.”

Shame on Fenn for believing that he could leave after that. He didn’t even get to turn around. No matter how much he wanted to run off, the stern yet soft nature of his mother’s tone compelled him to glance away from the path—back to her eyes.

It was like she had just found baby Fenn after he got into the flour and covered everything from the floor to the cabinets.

Again.

A distinct hint of worry behind her expression served to imply some kind of guilt. She expected this, but regretted being unable to prevent it.

“Come here,” she said.

Wordlessly, Fenn did just that, rubbing his arm the whole time.

As he approached, however, his mother leaned down and tenderly pulled his arms apart. She took his paws into hers and attempted to meet his gaze with a dormant affability. She observed, “Something is bothering you.”

Was it really that obvious? Fenn looked down at the paws holding his own. Something was bothering him; the words were caught in his throat. How would he even explain it?

“What is it, Fenn?” his mother pried further. “Won’t you tell me?”

Even if he could explain it, what good would there be in saying it out loud?

The subtle shaking in Fenn’s arms only grew in intensity as his mother caressed his paws. When did that start…

“…Does it have something to do with your father?”

Fenn wanted to stay quiet. He really should have. The thread keeping him together was barely holding firm. If he opened his mouth now…? Everything would fall apart.

So, he persisted, his reasoning for being here remaining locked in a box within his mind. For Fenn and Fenn only.

“Mom…” he started.

But the Typhlosion sighed in indignation, shaking her head. “You are so much more like your father than you think, Fenn.”

That caught his attention. Anything he would have said went right out the window after his mother’s remark. Fenn glanced up at her, silent but now expectantly so.

“Just the other day your father was moaning and groaning like a Purugly with a broken claw,” she explained. “I asked him what was wrong and he wouldn’t tell me. You know what I do when he gets like that? I don’t feed him. He’s a big strong mon. No one in the town can deny that. But no. Big strong mons like him aren’t supposed to cook. He usually changes his mind after I pull that card.”

She rolled her eyes. “Turns out he had a splinter in his paw that he couldn’t get out. And instead of asking his loving mate, who had helped him many times before, he would rather live with it.”

Fenn balked. “A-and it took you…?” Was he really against cooking of all things? Was that something a warrior doesn’t do? Hearing it in this context sounded a bit odd—especially considering it was his dad who said it. Choosing not to cook was just too silly, and unfitting behavior for him.

A burning smell entered the air. Like the kind of scent that wafted from Fenn’s vents—something he had long since gotten used to. Except this was different. More smoky and stale.

Scowling, the wrinkles on the Typhlosion’s face momentarily became more prominent. She ranted, “Oh it gets worse than that. Your father, I swear.” A mix of regret and incredulity flashed across her face, causing her to appear older as she glared at something in the distance. Almost as though she couldn’t believe that she had to say it. “Don’t be like that, Fenn. When you find someone, treat them like an equal, not a crutch.”

An equal…not a crutch…

It was at that moment that his mother’s words roused a recurring thought within the young Quilava. He would be lying if he said that he was ignorant to several of his father’s faults, but it was always those closest to him that expressed these kinds of sentiments.

The other kids at school? Envious. The librarian and his teachers? Afraid. But his mother? Scathing. The other adults that claimed to have known Fenn’s father? The ones that Fenn had only met at select times in his life when they were under certain obligations? Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Was this what Fenn had to look forward to…? The contempt of those closest to him?

Fenn wasn’t his father. He knew that. He understood why. He had his own path to follow.

And yet, here he was, being told that he still held several similarities to his father regardless.

Fenn furrowed his brows. His paws gripped his mother’s tighter, and the burning smell became more pungent; it was difficult to ignore now. As expected, his mother noticed, too.

They met eye-to-eye—immediately sharing a look of understanding. Heat radiated from Fenn’s vents like a volcano aching to erupt. With a sudden burst of determination, Fenn uttered, “I-I need to tell dad something.”

A slight smile popped onto his mother’s face. For the first time since they started talking, a sliver of sunlight breached past the shadow of her sunhat, illuminating one of her red eyes. Relief seeped through the cracks. “So this is about your father.”

Perhaps his reasoning for being here was still trapped in a locked box within his mind. But unbeknownst to Fenn, his mother had had the key the whole time.

Fenn nodded.

“I…I n-need him to understand something…to know s-something.”

Not even the sunlight tickling the Typhlosion’s face could contest with the brightness of her smile. Her paws shifted upwards, inwards, so that she could hold both of Fenn’s paws close to her chest.

In a gentle voice, Fenn’s mother whispered quietly, “Okay. I wish you only the best of luck.”

The burning smell dissipated once Fenn’s mother pulled him into a comforting, warm hug. The flame from before better fit the raging heat of a forest fire. After the Quilava and Typhlosion embraced, though, what remained was a pleasant coziness only a campfire could provide.

Memories of falling asleep while cradled in his mother’s arms floated to the forefront of his mind. For a brief moment, nothing outside of their hug seemed to exist. Nothing else mattered. What he would’ve given to fall asleep right then and there, safe and secure…

“I want you to know this, Fenn,” his mother added. “No matter what happens, I will always love you from the bottom of my heart. Even if your father doesn’t understand…even if it hurts…just know that I will be here for you, whenever you need me. I will never judge you for being you.”

Fenn wasn’t sure what he would do if his father didn’t understand, but knowing that his mother would be there no matter what gave him the peace of mind to relax his muscles and go limp. Cradled in a big Typhlosion’s arms like a Cyndaquil all over again, his eyes grew half-lidded.

“Thanks…mom,” he muttered.

---

The closer Fenn got to the center of Nanab, the denser it became. Gone were the aging shacks rotting in the midday sun near the forest and fields. In their place were neat and orderly houses, built to appeal to modern sensibilities. Businesses were more plentiful here, and trees were sparse.

A clear path was laid out in front of Fenn. Hardened, dry dirt. Made even clearer by the motes of autumn leaves swept aside. Someone maintained this. His paws didn’t agree with the path’s firmness; it was as though he were walking on stone. Not a bad thing, or even unexpected, but certainly not preferable.

Fenn was not expecting to be so calm. He reasoned internally that enough time had passed for him to cycle back around to an acknowledgement of the absurdity of it all. Dreams were rarely this vivid, sure, and mystery dungeons were often more absurd on the face of it.

Was it possibly a sign that he wasn’t supposed to be here? His own fur hung over his back like an itchy coat throughout this whole trip. There was no doubt in his mind that simply leaving would scratch that itch.

But just as well, was it better to scratch or to replace the coat entirely?

Past the local slaughterhouse, across from the public bathing area, situated between the food storage and old bulletin board…

Yes, Fenn remembered it correctly. Not like it was hard to miss.

Nanab Town’s pub shared quite a few similarities with the town hall. With its polished wood exteriors and glass windows, Fenn wouldn’t be surprised if it was the second most expensive structure in the whole town. Fenn would even go as far as to say that it was on-par with the quality of Kebia’s average building. The door even supported varying pokemon heights and sizes through several door handles, unlike most of the other buildings in Nanab.

The pub belonged to every pokemon in the town. So by that logic, talking to his father here wouldn’t make a difference. He had to wonder, though, if stopping his journey at his home would have been more preferable. What was ten more minutes to think when none of those thoughts were productive?

The fogginess of the imposing glass windows certainly didn’t help. How was it that Fenn could withstand being surrounded by such opulent architecture in Kebia when just one here set him on edge? Was visiting home for a few hours really enough to reignite that spark of anxiety dormant within him?

It had to be the raucous laughter erupting from the otherside of the pub’s entrance, slightly ajar. Or the flashes of raging fire through the cracks. Moving bodies, shifting fast alongside the booming of laughter so suddenly that it made Fenn flinch.

This was a bad idea.

He could still turn back. This was his last chance. He could even lie to his team about it and say that everything was fine.

It would be so easy to scratch that itch…

Fenn wasn’t sure what compelled him to put one paw in front of the other, but before he knew it one of the handles to the door was right in front of his face.

It could have been bravery. Or stupidity. All of which sounded very dramatic in comparison to what he had gone through plenty of times before.

This was just going to be a talk between a father and his son. Nothing more, nothing less. He was strong, he could do this.

Fenn breathed in…and breathed out.

…One more time. Just to calm the nerves.

I am a warrior.

Fenn reached for the door handle-

(…)

(…)(…)

(…)(…)(…)

Creeping up the walls.

Spreading from the floor to the ceiling.

The foundation crumbled in slow bursts.

Sickening black, blinding red.

It was everywhere. All around.

Breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

Aching. Stinging. Coughing. Weeping.

“I…I-I d-did what you wanted…”

The words were swallowed by the inferno, just like his tears.

Too hot. Too hot…

There was a bubble. Within that bubble, scorn was spat, back and forth. Two sets of eyes furiously exchanging blame.

“Do you know what they’ll say, Buttercup!?” one set of eyes shouted. “Do you realize how this makes me look!?”

“Look around you, Gaura!” the other set of eyes fumed in return. “How can you even say that right now!?”

The bubble was so far away. So, so far.

“I’ll rebuild it!”

“You’re missing the point!”

Why did he think going into that dungeon was a good idea?

A finger was pointed.

“This wouldn’t have happened if-“

Teeth were barred.

“How can you blame anyone but yourself!? You’re the one that put the idea in his head!”

It was his fault. All of it. His fault.

“I didn’t tell him to do it!”

“Gaura. Look.”

Eyes. Four eyes. Looking at him.

“…”

“Tell him that yourself. Take responsibility for the fire you started.”

The eyes stared. Watching. Judging.

“Fine.”

One left the bubble. Two eyes in a sea of flame.

Closer.

He cowered.

Closer.

“I-I’m…I’m sorry…”

Closer.

No words. Just eyes.

First enraged eyes. Then displeased eyes. Then regretful eyes.

And finally…hurt eyes. Lost eyes.

He was lifted into the air.

Red faded to black, black faded to white.

“Warriors don’t cause problems like this.”

(…)(…)(…)

(…)(…)

(…)

-and froze.

More phrases flashed through Fenn’s mind.

Warriors don’t interrupt a mon during his leisure time.

Warriors only talk when spoken to.

Warriors. Don’t. Cause. Problems.

A tundra froze Fenn to his spot. Warmth could not be further away.

A frozen wall of words prevented passage, keeping him from moving his paw any further.

Fenn was intending to cause problems, wasn’t he? He was going to upset his father and ruin their relationship.

Fenn clenched his paw, gritted his teeth.

He trembled. Every one of his vents ignited like they had been doused in oil, numb as though ice coated every inch.

His paw wouldn’t move.

No. No, no, no! NO!

Eyes clenched shut.

Not now! Not anymore!

Ice began to melt.

Get a grip! Open the darn door!

No longer was Fenn the whimpering Cyndaquil cowering in the ashes of his home. No longer would something so simple deter him. A wall of words could still fall.

Fenn was a warrior. And he could open a door with his own Arceus-forsaken paw.

Do it!

Click!

The door handle turned. Looking down, Fenn saw his paw wrapped around it. The words were gone.

He did it. He actually did it!

Ice turned to water, then to gas in a mere instant. In one swift motion, the door swung open.

Immediately, the sound of boisterous and rowdy laughter hit his ears.

The first sight directly ahead of the Quilava was the bar of the pub, and the disgruntled looking Poliwrath behind the counter. Glasses and mugs lined the wall behind them. Booths and other tables resided to the side, but that was of no importance to Fenn.

Fancy, polished wood formed the bar where four jolly fellows shared beaming smiles, snide quips, and clinked their mugs filled with foul-colored liquid, together. The rest of the pub was notably empty.

Fellows of which included an elderly maverick of a Manetric—a mon Fenn had outright avoided on multiple occasions. His bark sounded like the hoarse howl of something dying. A Rhyperior that looked to have had his body blown to smithereens, after which he survived the ordeal long enough to glue his body back together. Hundreds of cracks littered his surface. There was also a Hitmonchan with only one arm, stubbornly poking the air with his stump as though he had something to prove. The sheer, concentrated amount of egotism on the fighting type’s face made Fenn cringe. And…a Typhlosion.

Fenn’s father.

The four of them hadn’t noticed Fenn yet. Each seated on wooden high-chairs of varying sizes, an air of unapproachable rowdiness surrounded them like a cloud. His father in particular ran his mouth and raised his voice above all of the others. With his wide frame and blazing collar of fire, the conversation seemed to continuously circle back to him.

“Ya hear about who won the last fight o’er in Lansat?” the Rhyperior drawled.

The Hitmonchan cackled, “‘Course ‘ah did! Woulda bet a whole leg on this one if ‘ah could. Easiest win of my life!”

“Back in my day,” the Manetric said, his voice scratchy, “the winner took home the head of the loser.” He shook his head. “Not nearly as fun as it used to be.”

Finally, the Typhlosion smirked and added, “With a loss like that ol’ spindly legs may as well have lost his head! Ha!”

They all had a good laugh at that.

Meanwhile, Fenn awkwardly stood in the doorway with his paw still wrapped around the door handle. All of that momentum died. A cool draft buffeted the fur on his back, wiping away any trace of flame emanating from him, like a candle in the wind. All except for a few stray embers, riding the current…and eventually poking the Typhlosion at the bar.

Fenn’s father was mid-joke when he turned his head towards the door. There, for the first time in a while, he caught sight of his kin. Their eyes met, and for a short moment, two strangers had met for the first time. Two weeks wasn’t long in the grand scheme of things, but if the shared incredulity between them was any indication a lifetime had since passed for the two fire types. Both did a double take.

A lifetime that only lasted a second.

“FENRIR!” Fenn’s father bellowed, his face contorting into infectious joy.

The Typhlosion that Fenn had known several months prior and the Typhlosion he saw now may as well have been decades apart in age. Way past his prime, he had long since lost a considerable amount of his muscle definition, and what was still there failed to overshadow the weight gained over the years. That dark blue fur of his was graying—lacking that sheen it was known for when Fenn was a kid. A fatter face and a slouch in his posture, too.

But the middle-aged mon’s fire still burned bright. Obnoxiously so; looking for too long compelled Fenn to squint. With that dreadfully loud bellowing of his father’s as well, Fenn’s ears pressed against his head impulsively.

Dropping off of his chair, the Typhlosion held out his arms on both of his sides. “My boy! Come to see your old dad today of all days!”

Despite all of that preparation time, Fenn hadn’t even considered where to begin. He knew that acting sheepish and beginning with a weak “hi” was downright pathetic for him, but…

That was exactly what he did.

Fenn put on a fake grin so large that his cheeks hurt. “H-hi…hi dad,” he said. The paw he had used to hold open the door was held up in a wave. The door then shut itself on its own as Fenn dragged his feet into the pub proper.

Fenn’s father abruptly swung around and lightly punched the Rhyperior next to him in the arm. He pointed at the Quilava while he spoke, pride shining through his teeth. “See, Bud, this kid is a real working mon making his way up the ladder to greatness. He’s got his own team and everything. That’s how you do it!”

Red hot embarrassment poked at Fenn’s cheeks. He had barely said anything and expectations were already rising.

The Rhyperior lingered on Fenn, scowling as though Fenn had eaten his dinner, before scoffing at the Typhlosion next to him. “Ma boy don’t need a castle job to be successful,” the rock type grumbled.

A loud thunk resounded with the dropping of the Hitmonchan’s gloved hand onto the counter. “Hey!” he badgered. “That castle ain’t so special! Not with where it’s been going…”

At the same time, the Manetric nodded. “My grandkids have been telling me that work’s getting scarce over there lately. They better get their act together…” He scanned Fenn up and down out of the corner of his eye—possibly searching for an answer as to why that was the case through Fenn alone.

Regardless of whether or not he was being suspicious or accusatory with his looks, Fenn remembered exactly why this old mon was better left avoiding: none of what he said was based in reality. Work wasn’t scarce at all; Fenn could prove that himself. That was just a lie to rile up those around him.

Clearly, the trio of negative responses left the Typhlosion flat-footed, if only briefly. His collar lost a bit of its luster, and his prideful grin faltered. It was a bad comment to make, what with how each of the older mon responded. So why did he say it?

Considering that Fenn’s father bounced back with something else immediately after, it didn’t seem to matter.

“Well…he’s got it better than those flower boys up north, I’ll tell you that!” his father laughed loudly from his belly.

The other three mons, despite previously holding skeptical stances, found that “joke” quite funny. Even the bartender let out a small chuckle.

Everyone laughed. Everyone but Fenn. Fenn had to hold back a dejected frown. Already, a pit was starting to form in his stomach. Especially after that last comment by his father…

The chances of leaving this pub without getting laughed at or chased out the door was beginning to look very grim.

Still laughing, glass cup in his paw, the Typhlosion left his spot by the bar to stand next to his son. Heavy footsteps shook the ground under Fenn—heavier than the Rhyperior, most likely. Now he knew for sure, his father hadn’t gotten that much heavier. Even their home wouldn’t shake this much.

No, his father stomped around intentionally. The other, older mons probably didn’t notice the difference, but Fenn did. It was like…his father was making himself seem bigger than he really was. Louder, too.

Beer sloshed in his cup, half empty. “It’s good to see you, Fenrir!” announced the living volcano, his hot, stinking breath reaching all the way down to Fenn’s nose. “What brings you here? Tired of the festival? Ha! I would be too!” The smell of his breath became fouler, smokier upon uttering that last word.

Fenn scrunched up his snout as though he had just tasted something sour. The smell was one thing, but hearing his real- old name threw him off balance. It didn’t matter how many other pokemon called Fenn “Fenn,” or how often they would use it, his father never so much as entertained its existence. Not once. And Fenn knew that trying to convince his father would be like pushing a Bastiodon up a hill.

Looking up at his father now, Fenn found it hard not to think about it. After all, Fenn never even tried.

It was a part of him- no, it was him. He could still recall the faint hints of a scowl on his father’s face whenever Fenn’s name would be said aloud in his presence. How even a simple deviation was too much to ask for.

Too much was going on and Fenn had just walked in. He needed a way to organize his thoughts, take hold of the conversation. In the process of searching for a response to his father, Fenn glanced at the bar, and flinched. The three older mons watched on from afar, each set of eyes on the two fire types. Waiting, analyzing—a hair’s width from pouncing on their prey. One wrong move and Fenn would be served judgment.

Was this really deserving of an audience…? Could they not take this outside, or something?

They had to. Otherwise Fenn would remain tongue tied, like he was at that moment. All three of those elderly pokemon set him on edge; it was perplexing how his father chose to associate with them when they clearly didn’t care for him. It was so obvious.

Fenn glanced back up at his father, swallowing hard. “D-dad, I-“

“BLEH! Ptoo!” Seemingly out of nowhere the Hitmonchan spat his drink onto the floor. “What in Distortion did you put in this one, Acris?”

The Poliwrath put down a glass he had been cleaning and grumbled, “Blame the sludges in Slushland—I didn’t brew it.”

“Slushland!?” The fighting type looked to be in disbelief. “What are ya doin’ getting your booze from there for?”

Acris, the Poliwrath, just crossed his arms. “I’ll tell you when you pick up after yourself. If that booze sticks to the floorboards it’s coming out of your tab.”

While he gave the water type the stink eye, the Hitmonchan aggressively snatched up some napkins and got down to wiping the floor with them, grumbling obscenities under his breath all the way.

Neither of the other two old mons helped; in fact, they laughed at the Hitmonchan’s misfortune. “Shoulda just brewed yer own beer if it tastes so bad,” the Rhyperior commented.

Fenn’s dad had been watching this unfold from a distance, and scoffed. “Brewing your own beer. Pfft!” He shot Fenn a wink out of the corner of his eye. “Warriors don’t brew their own beer. Isn’t that right, Fenrir?”

…What?

Fenn blinked. Did he hear that right?

Warriors don’t brew their own beer…? That wasn’t what his father said when he tried to learn several years ago. Tried and failed. In fact, he said the opposite at the time. Brewing beer meant that a warrior could provide for himself. Yet it was a miracle that the house didn’t burn down yet again because of his father’s attempt.

Despite how he was being expected to joke about with his father, Fenn wasn’t laughing. Quite the opposite, really. Not once did he anticipate that he would be left feeling bewildered and flabbergasted during a conversation like this.

There was…no way that it was always like this? No way. The rules of the warrior don’t change.

Fenn’s brows furrowed, his vents igniting from the gears turning in his head. Warriors don’t brew their own beer? Yeah, apparently they don’t. They don’t keep flowers in the house, either. Nor do they cook.

And that wasn’t because his father realized that flowers burn from the fire he starts. Or because it was easier for Fenn’s mom to cook instead, since Fenn’s father was always tired when he’d get home.

Was one of the rules of the warrior that the rules can change on a whim? If only Fenn had known that sooner!

His father waited expectantly for an answer that never came. He looked Fenn up and down, turned his head to the bar before swiftly turning back around, all within the span of a few tense seconds. It was possible that a hint of anger flashed in the Typhlosion’s gaze, but neither he nor Fenn acknowledged it.

“So, what were you saying?” Fenn’s father asked.

Oh, Fenn had plenty to say.

That was a good question, though. Fenn’s ear flicked, and once again he was face-to-face with the Typhlosion that raised him. First, he was going to ask if they could take it outside. After all of that freezing dread was burned away by the seething flames of realization, Fenn had no issues with opening his mouth to unleash a torrent of searing words.

“I-I just-” But before Fenn could add more, he noticed something.

His father’s eyes.

There wasn’t any anger there; that was a mistake on Fenn’s part. When his father was enraged, his eyes contracted and focused on a singular point. Usually on Fenn himself. But not here. They were large, wobbly, shifting every other second, constantly changing focus. Looking for something.

Like when his father first took him to Kebia, the Typhlosion’s eyes were always shifting, searching. Like he was unsure of his next step. Even baby Fenn picked up on it.

Or at…Grandpa Aconite’s funeral. That was what made it so confusing at the time—the look he gave Fenn. Yes, his father’s voice was filled with rage, but his eyes certainly weren’t. How was Fenn supposed to react to that with anything but fear?

And another time was when his father first showed him Figy Forest. There was determination there—pride, even. Perhaps if his eyes displayed any sort of confidence in his own words, Fenn wouldn’t have been so terrified.

It was no different here. Quick glances past his father proved this even further. Those three old mons were watching like Mandibuzz circling around their next meal, waiting for sustenance. And the worst part was that his father obviously knew this. There was no way that he didn’t.

Fenn could tell through his eyes.

Lost eyes. Begging eyes. Pleading eyes.

Always pleading.

Warriors don’t keep flowers in their homes.

Warriors don’t brew their own beer.

Warriors don’t cry.

Warriors don’t cause problems.

For dad. Warriors don’t cause problems…for dad.

It’s not worth it.

Vents cooling until dormant, that fake smile Fenn insisted on maintaining had long since disappeared from his face. He met his father’s eyes with a simple, blank gaze and said, “N-nothing, actually. I…just came by to say hi.”

Initially, Fenn’s father appeared quite shocked. This was the second time that his son came home just to say hi since Fenn started his work at the castle, after all. But warriors don’t show weakness, right? They never do.

But that wasn’t true. It never was. Fenn’s dad couldn’t brew his own beer, Fenn couldn’t go through with what he had planned today.

Both insisted on lying to themselves, even as tears threatened to breach Fenn’s tear ducts.

His father recovered quickly. The dwindling collar of flames peeking out of his shoulders erupted to twice its size alongside a massive roar of laughter.

“HaHA! Well, it’s good to see you, Fenrir!” The Typhlosion gestured to the bar behind him. “Since you’re here, why don’t we share a drink and catch up? You’re old enough now, right?”

Fenn tentatively held up a paw. “N-no…no thanks,” he uttered. “I-I need to get back to the castle- I still have things to do t-today.” And before his father could react, Fenn looked elsewhere. He didn’t need to see his father’s eyes to know what they were like now.

“Ah…I see. Work is work. Maybe next time you’re here we can find your favorite drink! Our flames burn twice as bright with alcohol—like true warriors!” That was followed up by a large, toothy grin.

Even after all of that, realizing that he was better off walking away, Fenn couldn’t fight the dread. His vents were icy cold. A part of him desperately wanted to cling onto his original intentions to spill his thoughts out right there in the pub. A warrior has no fear—Fenn should have thrown caution to the wind and done it.

In the end, he did not.

Instead, Fenn shrugged his shoulders and said, “Maybe.” A non-committal answer for a non-committal warrior.

And warriors always keep to their commitments.

---

Why did he do that?

Why did Fenn just walk away?

It made sense in the pub, but the further he walked away from said pub the more confused he became.

This couldn’t be real…could it? Surely, it was all a fluke. All in his head. He didn’t actually spend the past few months doubting his abilities as a pokemon, come home so he could get to the bottom of this, then leave without accomplishing anything…right?

No, of course not! Fenn was a warrior! All of this was just silly nonsense he made up. He was NOT worse off now.

He wasn’t…

As the disgruntled Quilava retraced his steps, head hung all the way, back to the forest path he came in on, the most prominent lingering thought in his mind continuously shocked him after every step. He had to make several stops just to rectify with what he had just done.

What even is a warrior? Someday, Fenn would ask his father what that really meant. Not in actuality, but to him. What a warrior aside from Fenn’s father legitimately looked like. For now, Fenn understood why he needed to be one.

And it was because, supposedly, Gaura wanted Fenn to be a warrior, just like him. That was what Fenn once assumed. But now he knew that it was the other way around.

In reality, Gaura actually wanted Fenn to be just like him, a warrior. Another Gaura. Another mon that clings to past glory—wearing a meaningless word like a mask of rotten skin. Both interpretations were true.

Only to Fenn, though.

The sun was still high in the sky. Peering down through the cracks of the falling leaves, painting the shadowed ground with pockmarks of thirsty, writhing weeds. He had walked past the entrance to Nanab, past the flower fields, and was half way back to Kebia already.

He was done.

The tears wouldn’t stop.

What an idiot he was for thinking that he could so much as look his father in the eyes and tell him that he saw past all of the nonsense. How foolish of him to think that years and years of violence and rage prepared him for this one conversation.

All because he didn’t want to upset his father, to let him down. If Fenn had the gall to speak his mind, he would have flourished.

But no. He was a coward. A liability. Anemone was right.

His body shook with sobs. Fire burst and sputtered from his back like the gasps of a dying geyser. His footwork suffered, his vision cloudy. One paw fell onto the dirt awkwardly, catching the other paw that came next like a tripwire.

He stumbled off the path, collapsing into a pile of fallen leaves, and from there laid on his side. Only wind accompanied this pitiful Quilava, brushing past his fur with impassive strides. His paws worthlessly paddled forward—doing nothing more than pushing more leaves around.

What a pointless failure of a pokemon. Couldn’t even get his own logic right…

A warrior would have told his father the truth. A warrior has no fear. That was what his own father would have done. But Fenn wasn’t his father. It made more sense to defy him…and also tell him—if he wasn’t his father.

So he needed to do what a warrior would do…and what his father wouldn’t do. Did that mean staying quiet, since that was the right thing to do, so his father wouldn’t be embarrassed? Would his father have done the same for Fenn? But…Fenn never would have been in that situation in the first place! He wasn’t his father!

“GAAAAH!”

In a fit of rage, Fenn batted at the pile of leaves, sending several into the air. A mere second later, they came floating back down, congealing into the pile once more. Nothing had been accomplished.

Fenn sniffed. “I-I…I’m not…not…”

…a warrior. Fenn wasn’t a warrior. Not anymore. He never was. That was what he came to realize.

His father was a warrior. A warrior was his father.

Fenn wasn’t his father.

Fenn wasn’t a warrior.

None of it applied to him.

He was so cold that it hurt.

“N-no…no…”

He shook his head, distraught.

“No…”

It made sense, didn’t it?

Both interpretations were true, that his father wanted him to be a warrior and him. But that was only because one existed solely in Fenn’s mind. The code…the rules…

…And what were warriors not? What did they not do?

Warriors don’t care for flowers. Warriors don’t burn down forests. Warriors don’t cause problems.

Warriors don’t fall in love with other boys. Warriors don’t cry.

Warriors were never afraid. Warriors weren’t cowards.

It was staring him in the face the whole time. In the end, Fenn really was no different than his father-

A liar, skirting about the rules, and making up his own just so he wouldn’t lose sight of the shimmering beauty ahead.

Fame, prestige, glory…

Maybe if he held onto that goal for just a little while longer…he could accomplish so much. Even his father grasped the magnificence of glory once before in his life…

But it would all be a lie.

Warriors don’t lie, either. Even if he wasn’t one anymore, a life formed from a lie was no life at all.

So, that was it. It was all over. All Fenn could do was sob, gripping crunched up leaves in his paws as though they’d grip him back. It was all for nothing. Nothing at all-

(…)

(…)(…)

(…)(…)(…)

Kebia castle was in view. Barely eclipsed by the overgrown branches pointing to the sky, the meticulously crafted ramparts and spires that no one mon could hope to envision in their wildest dreams pierced the heavens. From this distance the giant structure seemed horrendously impossible to scale. Unfathomable, even. Nineteen years was not nearly enough time to comprehend what it represented. The history and craftsmanship behind it was hardly written in Fenn’s repertoire of inner knowledge.

Two months prior Fenn had become so overwhelmed that he slept in his little cot every night with a blanket over his head. The way hallways coiled around, endlessly stacking on top of each other, housing thousands of pokemon…

To think that he was expected to learn it inside and out. He had no mind for such a thing. And for that matter, no mind was capable of that. Especially not Fenn—the dull-minded, hotheaded rookie from the tourist trap town past the trees.

Two months later, he still lacked the mind. Mistakes were so often made that he expected Aster, his Banette boss, to pop up at every given opportunity to scold him. Fenn did the work without complaints, and eventually the floors were cleaned. That was all that was expected of him, sure. It wasn’t what he wanted, but there were no alternatives.

Until he came along.

There was satisfaction in the Dewott’s stride. Confidence? Maybe not. A confident mon would walk in a straight path, crushing leaves under their paws, uncaring for their feelings. Leaves can’t feel, but judging by his reluctance to interrupt their puny little lives Oswald thought the opposite.

It was his posture, really. Straight and upright, yet loose. The way his arms were slung akimbo at his waist as though they weren’t even there, bobbing up and down with every step. His tail…

Fenn was almost grateful that he’d never grow one of his own. If it was anything like Oswald’s flailing flag of gleefullness, then a cape would make for a proper investment.

Something was just so odd about him. His name, his eye color, the way he laughed, the apparent lack of any memories. Even now, after the two agreed to form a team together, Fenn just kept observing him. Scrutinizing him with an affixed gaze. Waiting for the Dewott to crack, in some way.

That lavender Fenn picked earlier rested in his paw heavier than a box of bricks. Looking at it made him feel dirty. Perverted.

He didn’t earn this. Some half-dead water type walked right out of the grave and handed it to Fenn with a weirdly thoughtful smile. They didn’t know each other; this was the first time in a long time anyone had bothered to care for Fenn in this way.

None of it made any sense. Why now? As he tried to wrack his brain for solutions, though, his brainstorming didn’t go unnoticed.

Oswald looked over his shoulder with that same satisfaction on his face that had permeated throughout the whole walk.

“Something the matter, Fenn?”

It didn’t surprise Fenn that Oswald noticed the shift in demeanor. If anything, he was hoping for it.

“U-um…sort of,” Fenn muttered.

A leaf finally crunched under Oswald’s foot once he came to a full stop. His first reaction was to glance around in an attempt to find the context. “Ooookay,” Oswald said questioningly. “What’s up?”

The dungeon from earlier had ripped most of Fenn’s burning questions straight out of his throat. What remained was a dangling thread that only Oswald could really answer.

Fenn stood on two paws and rubbed the arm holding the lavender. “I-I was just wondering…why me?”

Oswald tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Heat rose to Fenn’s ears, inciting a flick or two. Having to explain this shot a dart straight at his pride. He mumbled, “Why did you…choose me? A-and not some other mon? I don’t…I don’t get it.”

With his paw on his chin, Oswald thought for a moment. And another moment. However, after all of that thinking all he was able to produce was a benign shrug. “Why not?” he wondered.

Why not!? That didn’t answer anything! Fenn sputtered, “W-w-wha- no, that makes no sense!”

“I don’t really see why it has to.” Oswald crossed his arms and gave Fenn a smile befitting so much satisfaction. “It doesn’t have to make sense. It’s just you, Fenn. And I’m fine with that.”

That still made no sense! But…for some reason those words Oswald uttered leaped past Fenn’s fur and landed straight on his heart. At first, he was confused, maybe even angry. But after a certain point he had to ask himself the very same question.

How much did it really matter? Things were as they were and…yeah. Fenn was fine with that, as well. This was what he wanted. If Oswald could provide that for him…why would he complain?

Although the annoyed sigh made Fenn out to be more upset than he really was, he stopped rubbing his arm. “W-well…okay,” he said. “I’m glad you picked me.”

Oswald’s smile grew. “So am I.”

(…)(…)(…)

(…)(…)

(…)

It’s just me…

There was something left. Fenn was no warrior, that was not up for discussion anymore. But after all of the layers of strict ruling and agonizing pain melted away, all that was left was…Fenn.

Not Fenrir, the Cyndaquil that lost his innocence much too early. Nor the Fenrir that could burn anything he touched with fire brighter than the sun. Heck, not even the Fenn that grandpa Aconite loved was alive anymore.

All that remained was a sobbing Quilava in a pile of leaves—with a heart full of so many holes that it never stopped bleeding.

But it kept beating, didn’t it? Because this Fenn had a team now. Three friends that were likely waiting for him to return. Fenn raised his head, and sure enough, the castle loomed in the distance. It was still there, nineteen years later.

So was Fenn, nineteen years later. There was still something there.

What now?

He could return to the castle, of course. Back to Oswald and the inevitable conversation that would follow. Back to Cosmo and his goofy antics. Back to Finch and his wisdom beyond his years. But then what? What would Fenn do next?

Admittedly…he didn’t know. The word “warrior” lost its meaning today. As triumphant as that might have been, the word “Fenn” was still undefined.

He needed time to think.

Fenn laid his head back down, wasting no time in allowing the tears to fall like rain. He would cry quite a bit. But that was okay.

There was nothing saying he couldn’t do that anymore.

Fenn could cry all he wanted.