Wounds

The Bagon pulled himself up to the windowsill and steadied himself as he raised his head and looked off into the distance. The sweep of the village further down the hill like it’d been ever since he’d come here: tall trees, windmills, and then the river to the west which hemmed everything in. If his mother or father were still around, it’d would be the sort of sight he’d excitedly point out to them. They’d fly him on his back, with the wind gusting along as he whooped and hollered in delight the whole time.

Except, it just made him wish that he was back home. Back in his parents’ big manor on the hill overlooking the gardens and the seaside town along the coast in the distance where the big ships docked. The place where his dad kept his paintings during those short times when he was able to come back from campaigning. The place where his mother would sing songs to help him fall asleep… like the one about the big tree spreading its branches towards the sky.

To a time and place when everything seemed so calm and free.

The Bagon tiptoed up to the ledge and dug his feet in. He breathed in and out, blinking back moisture from the corners of his eyes. Those happy days they’d spent together had all been an illusion from war churning in other places: first across the sea, and then in other towns in the land. One the Bagon had seen come crashing down in front his own eyes when that war finally came to his hometown. 

He knew better than to assume that anything was left of that time and place for him. But if he could just fly… maybe he could leave this village. Maybe there was another place he could find that would be like it.

And if he came crashing down to earth trying, what did it matter?

The Bagon jumped and brought his head down into a dive, flapping his arms much like his parents would their wings. Except, before he could get halfway past the downstairs floor, a force abruptly stopped him in midair. The Bagon saw a faint blue glow wreathing his scales and stopped flapping his arms.

The first time this had happened, he’d had been ecstatic and thought he’d actually managed to fly. He knew better now, enough to know that the glow and force pulling him upwards right now was really an Alakazam’s Psychic.

And that he was in trouble right now.

The Bagon flailed as the force started pulling him tugged him back through the window and past its sill. It cut out just before it brought him to the floor, leaving him to flop to the ground onto his belly. He saw a yellow foot tapping impatiently and looked up to see an Alakazam wearing a white scarf with a red design made of shards that vaguely resembled an eight-pointed star.

The Alakazam was sharply frowning at him at the moment, much like the Psychic-type had in the past after catching him trying to jump like this. The Bagon got up and avoided his caretaker’s gaze, as the Psychic-type leveled a spoon at him accusingly.

“Little one, what did I tell you about jumping from the window?”

They both knew the answer to this question. And just as he did in the past, the Bagon grudgingly murmured back in reply.

“That I’m not supposed to jump unless there’s someone watching over me while I fall.”

“And why did I tell you that?”

“Because if I fell on someone, I could hurt them,” the Dragon-type muttered. 

“Including yourself,” the Alakazam harrumphed. “Why from a height like this, if you fell and didn’t land on your head, you’d probably break a bone!”

The Bagon kept his head stubbornly turned away, when he heard the floorboards creak by his ears. He felt fingers cup under his chin and turn his gaze up, where the Alakazam was frowning down at him. 

It was Freiherr Leigh, the noble who ruled over this village much like his parents did that seaside town back at home. Leigh apparently had been a friend of his parents at some point, but they hadn’t met much lately. With how much of a stern grump the Alakazam often was, the Bagon wasn’t particularly surprised mother and father didn’t want to spend time with him.

“I realize that it’s in your nature as a Bagon to be drawn to high places, but what on earth were you even trying to accomplish there?”

The Bagon remained silent in reply. What was the point of telling Leigh? It wasn’t as if the Alakazam could do anything to help it.

“Little one, I’m waiting on you for an answer.”

The Bagon didn’t look up at the Alakazam. He was surely still mad at him for disobeying him, but Leigh would just punish him more if he ignored him. The Bagon hung his head, and tried to muster fire in his voice. To huff back in defiance.

Except, he could barely manage more than a wavering murmur.

“I… I just wanted to fly, like how I would with mom and dad.”

The Bagon fell silent and kept staring at the floor, when he suddenly felt furred arms pat him and hold him tight. He looked up, and saw the features on Leigh’s face had softened. The Psychic-type took a finger and brushed at the corner of the little drake’s eyes, before standing back up with a low sigh.

“I understand that things have been hard on you, but your mother and father did a lot to help you make it to my village,” the Alakazam said. “The best way to make the most of their sacrifices is to cherish the time you enjoyed together and keep moving forward.”

The Bagon looked away. How on earth was he supposed to move forward from anything when he was too weak and afraid to do anything but run away? He hadn’t even managed to do that back home at its worst moment. It had been his parents who’d sent him off…

He glanced at Leigh from the corner of his eye as the Alakazam studied him. The Psychic-type idly twitched his whiskers and seemed to be drifting in his thoughts, a bit longer than Leigh normally would.

“Why don’t you accompany me on my rounds this evening?” the Alakazam said. Just being cooped up indoors all the time isn’t healthy for you.”

That was certainly unusual. Leigh had mentioned wanting to spend more time together in the past few days, but it felt like every time when the occasion finally arrived, there would be something that would come up and make Leigh back out at the last moment.

Knowing his luck, it would probably happen again. But even so, the Bagon couldn’t help but wonder…

“… Where are we going?” he asked.

“Around the castle,” the Alakazam said. “To meet with some of the Pokémon who help keep this village safe.”

The Bagon wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to Freiherr Leigh’s manor. It wasn’t the way it was built in a castle that bothered him: the manors of many nobles along the coasts were often built around disused fortifications, including the old star fort his parents’ had been built in. But his parents’ manor had moats and gardens, and windows with airy-feeling rooms where his parents could take to the skies as easily as when they were outside…

“Attention!”

The castle Freiherr Leigh’s manor had been built into didn’t have any of that, and it was still very much in use, with its courtyard constantly busy with soldiers milling about or drilling. They wore the same green armor plates made of banded linens and scarves as the soldiers back home did, but the ones here would often have additional patches or armbands with the same red cross-like design as on Leigh’s scarf. Leigh had explained that it was a sigil showing that they were special soldiers of some sort called ‘Ritter’. Ones who the Alakazam and a very long list of ancestors that the Bagon lost track of had led through the years.

It didn’t really make the Bagon feel any better, as the shouts or worse still, the sparring exercises that the Ritter got up would remind him of the time just before awful night of the evacuation. Of the last time the Bagon saw his father: clad in his armor as he hugged him and flew off towards the fires coming from by the sea.

He tried to ignore them and continued with the Alakazam as they went down the hallway accompanied by a pair of honor guards. A Centiskorch, and a Granbull armored with plates that rattled as they walked. Nothing about the two really stood out about the two beyond that for whatever reason, the Granbull would occasionally hesitate and paw at the armor plate over his stomach.

All of a sudden, wingbeats and a squawking rang out from just ahead of them.

“Freiherr Leigh!”

It was a Cramorant clad in more of those green cloth armor plates, who came to a hopping stop in front of them in the hallway. The Cramorant hurriedly darted up, before disgorging a small parcel wrapped in white-and-gray paper and string out of his beak in front of them. Leigh was briefly taken aback, before the Alakazam narrowed his eyes at the messenger.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Alakazam asked. “I normally don’t receive messengers in person unless it’s for urgent matters.”

“It is, though!” the Cramorant insisted. “This parcel came in with a note signed and stamped by His Majesty himself!”

Leigh held out an arm as a bluish glow came over his eyes and the parcel. The Bagon watched as the Alakazam floated the package before his whiskers as the Psychic-type examined it and took a note from it. There were small runes all along the paper that the Bagon couldn’t make out, along with a line at the bottom that was accompanied by an inked pawprint—-a Mienshao’s based on the shape.

And then much to his surprise, Leigh floated the package down to him.

“It’s for you, actually.”

The young drake wasn’t really sure what was going on or why the King would give him a package when it was his father who’d been the King’s friend. He took one end of the string and tugged at it as the parcel came undone. There was a small wooden box inside, which he pulled open as his eyes abruptly widened…

“H-Huh?!”

A palette, tubes, and brushes. Along with a pad for Pokémon that had trouble grasping things with their claws. It was a paint set, almost like the ones that his father had back home, just meant for a Pokémon much smaller than his father. 

But… why? His father was the one who made paintings other Pokémon liked. Did the King not know what had happened to him?

“I-I don’t understand, why is-?”

“It was apparently meant for your hatch day before the invasion happened,” Leigh explained. “The King’s note was an apology for being unable to give it to you himself. He left earlier this week to go campaigning on the front lines.”

The Bagon stared down at the paint set and felt damp heat at the corner of his eyes as he fought back a sniffle. Even if they didn’t look anywhere near as good as the ones his father would make, the Bagon always loved showing off the paintings he made to his parents and they were always happy to see them…

The Dragon-type rubbed at his eyes as the Cramorant messenger lingered and went over to Leigh. The bird looked visibly tense, and turned his beak up with a low murmur.

“There was also a message from the army for you, Freiherr,” the Cramorant said. “It’s apparently urgent.”

The Bagon turned his head up after hearing shuffling footsteps and saw that Leigh had stepped between him and the Cramorant. The Alakazam’s posture was stiff and he shot a tense glance down at him, before turning his attention back to the Cramorant.

“Es lauschen junge Ohren, Urgl. Kann das nicht warten, bis sie weg sind?”

… Leigh was hiding something from him. Even if he’d been learning more of it through tutors in recent years, the Bagon remembered his own parents would speak in that same language when they wanted to keep things from him. The Cramorant turned and briefly eyed him, before turning back to the Alakazam with a shake of his head.

“Ich fürchte, das geht nicht. Es geht um die Abgabe, die Sie erhoben haben. Die Armee braucht Sie, um eine zweite zu erheben.”

The Alakazam’s whiskers suddenly stood on end. He spoke up again to the Cramorant, this time in a more agitated-sounding tone.

“Was meinst du mit eine zweite? Die meisten der örtlichen Ritterorden und die mehr erfahrenen Kämpfer des Dorfes waren bereits im Letzten dabei!”

“Ich gebe nur weiter, was verlangt wurde, Freiherr Herbergau. Wie auch immer die Situation an der Front in den Provinzen westlich von Kleinnebel sein mag, es ist offensichtlich ziemlich ernst.”

The Bagon clutched his paint set tight against his chest and looked up. Leigh’s voice sounded uncomfortably like the ones his parents had for those talks they had when he thought he hadn’t heard before the night he had to flee his hometown. What was going on around the Lesser Mist? Was this village going to be invaded, too?

The Alakazam sucked in a sharp breath, before stooping down in front of the Bagon and laying a paw on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, little one. But some important matters came up that I need to tend to,” Leigh sighed.

“Is… the village in trouble?” the Bagon asked.

“No. Nothing that serious,” the Alakazam insisted. “But I’m afraid that I won’t be able to spend time with you right now. Do you think that you can play with your paints for a while until I’m finished?”

The Bagon hung his head glumly in response. He knew something like this would happen. Something always came up whenever Leigh was about to spend time with him, why would this time be any different?

“But I don’t have any paper.”

“There should be some in the library,” the Alakazam said. “You remember where that is, right?”

The Bagon nodded back but didn’t raise his head. From the corner of his eyes, the dragon saw his caretaker visibly hesitate, before rising onto his feet with a small shake of his head.

“Liam will help prepare things for you when you get there,” the Alakazam said. “I don’t know how long things will take, but… please don’t get yourself into trouble while I’m busy, okay?”

Leigh motioned off at Granbull from the pair of guards who’d accompanied them. The Bagon looked between the pair, before nodding his head back.

The Alakazam turned and left afterwards, as the Granbull tugged at his shoulder and brought the Bagon along. He supposed that it was just going to be another lonely day again.

The walk over to Leigh’s library didn’t take particularly long. It was in a tall chamber with narrow windows that looked like a number of others in the castle, with the main thing setting the room apart being bookshelves set along the wall, some carpeting, and a wooden table with cushioned seats at the center. The Bagon stayed there under the Granbull guard’s watchful gaze as he played with the paint set much as how his father showed him to back home: opening the bottles of the paints, squeezing little portions onto a palette, preparing the bowl of water to clean the brushes between changes of paint…

After slipping on the pad over his claws meant for Pokémon who couldn’t grip things as easily with their claws and mounting the brushes he wanted onto it, it was just a matter of actually painting the picture he wanted. The Bagon moved his brush idly, making simple shapes that would become more complex ones like how his father would do. Putting little dabs here and there to try and even them out and going through the different colors he wanted: blue, red, orange, yellow, green… until all of the gaps between the shapes were filled in.

It was a picture of him and his mother, with his father in his armor beside him. Except it didn’t look anything like how his father would’ve painted them. Whenever his father stopped to really work on a painting, he would color in parts here and there to make things look almost like it was real.

This didn’t look anything like that. The shapes of the limbs were all wrong, and he didn’t even get the smiles right…

… Maybe it wasn’t worth trying to add their scarves to finish things. Even if his parents were still around to insist that he’d done a good job, seeing his painting look so far away from what he wanted it to be would just bother him.

The Bagon looked over and noticed that he was alone in the room, barring a small note left behind explaining that the guard assigned to him needed a moment to tend to an upset stomach. So it wasn’t just Leigh who didn’t have time for him… but shouldn’t there have been someone here to fill in for the guard? 

The Bagon shook his head and stuffed his painting into his bag when his eyes drifted over to the window. It’d been left ajar, with its sill low enough for him to clamber onto. The young dragon went over to it and looked out, and saw that he was on a third level above a grassy slope.

It wasn’t as high up as the window he’d been at earlier, but if he flapped his arms hard enough… maybe it’d be enough to finally fly. To finally be able to think about leaving and finding a place like home.

The Dragon-type grabbed his bag and looked down at his paints lying on the table. He reminded himself that the guard’s note had said that he was only going to be gone for a moment. It wasn’t worth trying to pack them up right here and now if that was so. He could just come back for them after sneaking back to the library.

The Bagon went up to the window and looked out, turning his eyes up at the sky and clouds stained with orange hues from sunset. He breathed in and thought back to the times when his mother or father took him flying and spread his arms.

He jumped and angled his head down, flapping his arms much like he’d remembered seeing his parents beating their wings as the air rushed past his scales.

Except the ground just kept getting closer-

CLUNK!

The Bagon hit the ground forehead first and somersaulted forward, yelping as his body tumbled head over heels until he came to a stop on the ground laying on his belly, panting and whining as he felt parts of his scales that felt tender.

He got up and brushed the grass and dirt off of him as he looked up at the clouds. So close, and yet so far away.

The Bagon sighed and turned back to try and find an entrance to get back into the castle, only to catch himself and freeze.

The entire bottom of the wall was a solid mass of stones laid atop each other, without any sign of an entrance around. Judging from how steep the ledge was, there probably weren’t any at all on this side of the castle and its walls.

“Oh no…”

The Bagon grimaced before trudging off with his head held low. He could already tell he’d be in trouble by the time he made it back.

The Bagon remembered there was an entrance on the east side of the castle which was sometimes left open. He hurried along as fast as his legs would carry him, except about halfway over, his eyes started to wander off at the sight of white colors to his left and he began to slow down.

“Huh?”

There, headed away from the castle, was a hillside field full of white flowers. From the way that it lay in clear view of the walls, it was probably meant to be easy for the Pokémon on the castle walls to see if anyone was going through it, but it still felt strange to the Bagon that he’d never noticed it all this time.

The little dragon strayed off and pushed along through the flowerbeds as their scent hung in the breeze. A part of him thought that it was a bad idea, but if he was going to get in trouble for sneaking out, what was the point in rushing?

The flowers reminded him of the white scarves that the soldiers and guards around the castle and village wore. Of the scarf that his father used to wear with his armor. Mother had told him that they were white in honor of the land’s patron goddess, and that many places in it used the color as a sign of respect.

Was that why all these flowers had been planted, too? But why here of all places?

The little Dragon-type stumbled and tripped after his foot caught against a stony ledge. He whined in his throat and pulled himself up, when he saw it:

He was in a paved circle with large gray stones set up in a ring. There were flowers and candles set on their bases, along with row after row of runes on them: Pokémon’s names.

The Bagon felt a chill run down his back and saw there was a path at the other end of the paved area that went further down the hill. Even if they didn’t have flowers, he remembered places with stones or other surfaces with lists of names just like these in his hometown:

They were places to remember Pokémon who had died fighting without being properly laid to rest.

The Bagon lowered his head and ran along the path down the hill. He didn’t want to think about Pokémon fighting and dying. The memories were still too raw, too painful. Before he knew it, the flowers started to thin out, as cries came out from up ahead.

“Yah!”

It was a cleared patch of dirt with lines drawn onto it and wooden obstacles set up along it: a sparring ground, except he thought they were usually open spaces without any obstructions. On this one, he saw figures not much bigger than him ducking and hiding behind different obstacles, with a Rookidee flying over one in a hurry clutching a red ribbon in her beak.

“What’s-?”

A green blur suddenly zipped up and knocked the Rookidee out of the air. As the blur returned to the ground, it revealed itself to be a young Scyther about the size of a Marowak. The Bug-type ran up, pinning the bird as she furiously shrilled and struggled. The Scyther slashed her and drew a sharp cry, and then he did it again. And again.

The Bagon’s eyes widened, as he ran ahead and charged at the Scyther with his head lowered by reflex. He missed and hit empty air as the Bug-type suddenly jumped aside, but it was still enough to force him off of the Rookidee.

“Hey, what the-?!”

“Stop it!” the Bagon cried. “You’re hurting her!”

The Rookidee suddenly struck the Scyther with a sharp peck. The Bug-type flinched, while the bird hurriedly grabbed the ribbon with her beak and flew off. The Bagon wasn’t really sure what was happening as she beelined for the other end of the field. As a Hoothoot briefly tried to give chase, when the Rookidee suddenly stalled in the air and dropped the ribbon in a crate lying at the far right end of the field.

And then all of a sudden, everybody just stopped. A Tepig and Shieldon popped out from behind cover, wearing white scarves with the same pattern as that design that Leigh wore and some of the soldiers had on their patches. A glance back at the other side of the field revealed a Sobble doing much the same as the Hoothoot returned, who were also similarly garbed and giving sour looks over at where the Scyther had been.

“You.”

The Bagon up and flinched after seeing the Scyther was nearing him, blades drawn. He stumbled back with a yelp, when he tripped and fell onto his bum. The next thing he knew, he was staring up at a chitinous blade leveled at his throat, as the Scyther’s voice came out in an angry hiss.

“Du kleines Miststück! You cost us the match!” the Scyther spat. “If you hadn’t distracted me-!”

“It shouldn’t have made a difference, Gohto,” a harsh, cawing voice cut in. “Since it was your responsibility to stay focused while battling in the face of any distractions.”

The Scyther froze and looked up, as his face screwed into a frightened grimace. The Bagon did much the same and had to fight back a stammering squeak from his throat:

It was a Corviknight in green armor plates with a bandaged right wing, his red eyes narrowed into an overpowering glare.

“A-Ah! Ritter Erik!” the Scyther cried. “I was just-!”

“Going to prepare for the next round of sparring,” the Corviknight harrumphed. “I’d encourage you to rethink your strategies if a minor distraction was all that my daughter needed to throw you off-balance. You wouldn’t have the luxury of being able to do things over on an actual battlefield.”

There was a moment of silence as ‘Gohto’ lowered his head with a reluctant “Yes, Teach”, and looked away as the Corviknight began to head off. The Bagon breathed in and out shakily as the Scyther lingered briefly, before looming over and giving a sharp scowl that made the little dragon cringe under the Bug-type’s shadow.

“You’re just lucky you can hide behind Teach right now-”

A flash of black came in along with a sharp thwack at the Scyther’s backside. The mantis jumped up and hurriedly ran off with his head held low, as the Bagon looked up to see the Corviknight was back pulling his beak back into the air. The young drake flinched out of fright and screwed his eyes shut, when he felt something soft brush against his scales.

“Do you need help getting up?”

He looked up and saw the Corviknight’s good wing extended out to him. The young Dragon-type blinked in surprise before grabbing the armored stranger’s wingtip as the bird firmly hoisted him up. The Bagon took a moment to brush the dirt off his scales, as the Corviknight turned his head and studied him closely.

“You’re not in any trouble if that’s what you’re worried about, Kindwurm,” the crow said. “I and the rest of the Ritterorden aren’t exactly opposed to letting outsiders join us for training, but it’s more polite to ask first.”

“B-But I didn’t come to do that,” the Bagon replied. “I don’t like fighting.”

The Corviknight paused, before giving a puzzled tilt of his head in reply. The Bagon inched back and avoided the crow’s gaze, worried that he’d said something he wasn’t supposed to.

“That’s not something that I hear many Pokémon say,” the Corviknight said. “What makes you feel that way, little one?”

“Because when Pokémon fight, they get hurt. Sometimes they even die.”

The Bagon trailed off, and let his gaze drift down into the dirt as his voice came out in a wavering murmur.

“I don’t want to hurt Pokémon. I don’t want anyone to die.”

There was a noticeable pause, before the Corviknight sighed and shook his head.

“Sometimes, you don’t get to choose one way or the other, Bagon. I… can’t speak for the sorts of soldiers you’ve met before,” the Corviknight said. “But surely you’ve met someone else who fought to protect someone else.”

“… My mom and dad. They sent me away and stayed behind in my hometown when it was being invaded.”

The Corviknight fell silent, before extending his uninjured wing out and brushing it up against him. The soldier’s face looked worn down and tired, before the crow lowered his head to better meet the young drake’s eyes.

“Do you understand why they did that, Bagon?”

He didn’t actually. Did they not know how bad things were going to get? If they did… why? Why didn’t they just fly away with him?

“I… don’t know,” he replied, shaking his head.

“Because they stayed behind to fight to try to protect others who wouldn’t have been able to defend themselves to allow them to get away,” he said. “Pokémon like you.”

The Bagon looked up blankly. He remembered his father encouraging him one time after he started to badly lose a sparring match and wound up giving up. His father encouraged him afterwards to stand firm in the future, even if he couldn’t see a way to win…

“When all is lost, let them hear you roar.”

Was- Was that why mother and father stayed behind? The rustling of feathers turned his eyes up, as the young drake saw the Corviknight turn his head aside with a low murmur.

“Your parents sound like they would’ve made good Ritter themselves, really,” he said. “Our purpose is to grow strong and fight for Pokémon who would otherwise be outmatched, and to inspire others to deal with the burden of battle more nobly.”

The Corviknight raised his good wing and motioned off towards a stone with a flattened top near the battlefield’s edge. The Bagon looked over as the Pokémon on the field gathered at the center, with the Rookidee briefly glancing at them. He looked up, as the Corviknight lowered his beak and nudged him forward.

“Why don’t you sit and watch our training today? There’s types of fighting have greater purposes than merely hurting others,” he insisted. “I won’t be able to do much of it myself until my wing heals, but maybe you’ll see some of it from my pupils.”

The Bagon hesitated, before shyly making his way forward and settling in. He wasn’t sure what this ‘training’ the Corviknight mentioned was, but he supposed that if he was going to wind up in trouble anyways, that it wouldn’t hurt to stay a while.

The Bagon wound up spending more time beside the battlefield than expected. Eventually, Freiherr Leigh wound up coming over and found him, but the Alakazam was less upset than the little Dragon-type feared. The Corviknight, Ritter Erik as others called him, was apparently a subordinate of Leigh’s that he was quite close to, and talked the Alakazam into letting him spectate the rest of his pupils’ sparring matches.

They went on well into the evening, which the Bagon couldn’t help but feel uneasy about as he watched. He kept expecting to see something different about the way the other young Pokémon fought each other. While he supposed that ‘rushing a pennant to a goal’ was different from most fighting he’d heard about, the actual skirmishes seemed much the same as any other. Even if Erik’s pupils would tease each other between matches, the battles seemed much more serious than fun. Much like a drill for soldiers, which apparently the sparring more or less was, just for younger Pokémon.

Ritter Erik told him that such training for younger Pokémon wasn’t uncommon in the land, and that his parents likely went through the same when they were younger. Was that where they had gotten the determination to fight for others from?

Before the Bagon knew it, night came, along with the moon and stars, and a greenish-blue aurora that hung in the sky over that Mystery Dungeon just southwest from the village. The aurora was strong that night, strong enough that the Bagon probably could’ve painted a picture under its light. It at least made going back to the castle easy, and along the way, he opted to take a moment to walk along the hillside flowerbed to watch the lights in the sky light up their white petals.

They looked so pretty just swaying peacefully in the breeze. Maybe that was why they’d been planted… to make Pokémon happy even in a sad place like the standing stones in the middle of them all.

“You.”

The Bagon jolted up when something suddenly shoved him from the side. He yelped and fell over, as his bag slipped off his shoulder. When he looked up, he saw the Scyther from back on the field, glaring daggers down at him.

“Did you really think that I was just going to forget how you wrecked that match earlier?” he hissed. “If you didn’t want me doing something about it, you should’ve kept hiding behind…”

The Scyther’s attention drifted down towards the drake’s bag, where a rolled-up paper was poking out of its mouth. The Bug-type stooped down and undid the flap, before pulling it out of the bag. He speared it with the tip of a scythe, before bringing it up to his face.

“What’s this garbage?”

The Bagon  saw shapes on the paper as his eyes widened in realization.

“A-Ah! That’s my painting! Give it back!”

He jumped ahead and tried to grab it, only for the Scyther to lift it out of his reach.

“Or what?” the Scyther scoffed. “You’ll cry on me since you won’t fight?”

The Bagon froze as the Scyther stared at him, before the Bug-type’s mouthparts curled up into a vicious sneer.

“That’s right, I heard you whining to Ritter Erik earlier,” the Bug-type said. “A dragon that doesn’t like fighting? Gods, your parents must be embarrassed by you.”

The Bagon’s breath grew tight as his blood began to run hot. Who did this horrid bug think he was speaking for his father and mother?! Why, if they were here right now, they’d-!

He felt fire smoldering in his throat and tried to choke it back. No, this was fighting. He didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to hurt other-

“Really, what would they say about having some brat who’s not good for anything other than making some ugly scrawls?”

The Scyther suddenly jammed his other scythe into the picture and pulled it apart with an audible rip. The Bagon stood there and looked on blankly as the two halves blew to the ground.

The Bagon’s eyes began to well up as his limbs began to tremble. He had worked so hard on that painting. Trying to get everything he could right about the way mother and father looked.

The fire returned to the back of his throat. He hated that bug.

And just then, he wanted nothing more than to hurt him any way he could.

“Hah! I knew you’d be a little wuss and just stand there-!”

The Bagon spewed up a gout of dragonfire that caught the Scyther with a startled buzz. The Dragon-type ran forward, lowering his head for a charge as his little voice came out in an angry shout.

“You tore up my painting! You tore up my painting!”

He lunged ahead with a sharp Headbutt. His helmeted head struck chitin and knocked the Scyther back, when a sharp tackle suddenly clocked the dragon in his face. The Bagon went flying back, the world spinning as the back of his head struck something hard. He flopped facedown and lay there wheezing as it slowly dawned on him that he was at the stones at the base of the castle, and that his snout felt numb.

The Bagon felt a sharp kick at his side which rolled him onto his back. He didn’t know how he was going to win this fight, when his father’s words came back to his mind.

No matter what happened, he would make sure the Scyther heard him roar-

A slash suddenly ran across the Bagon’s underbelly. He squealed in pain as his vision wavered. He curled up and tried to shield himself as a second blow came down on his side, and then another.

He whimpered and tried to fight back tears. He wanted to be brave and fight to the end like his parents, but he just couldn’t.

Because he was weak. Because he was a coward.

“Jämmerlich!”

The little Dragon-type tried to get up and flee, only for the Scyther to stomp on his leg and pin him to the ground. He cried out in pain and looked up, where the tip of the Scyther’s blade was there right in front of his eyes

“Since things don’t seem to get through that thick head of yours, I’m going to give you a valuable life lesson,” the Scyther sneered. “Don’t go picking fights you can’t win. And every time you look at your ugly face in a mirror, you’ll remember it!”

The Bug-type raised the scythe into the air as everything seemed to slow down. The aurora’s light against the white of his blade, the Scyther’s predatory smirk…

“You brought this on yourself!”

The Bagon flinched and looked away, expecting to feel slicing pain over his face when a sharp chirp rang out followed by wingbeats. A pained buzz rang out as the young drake felt the weight on his leg let go.

“Gah! What are you-?!”

He hurriedly scurried off and stumbled into the flowers, trying to hide among them as his breaths came out ragged and uneven. The Rookidee from the battlefield was there, up close in the Scyther’s face and furiously pecking and beating her wings. The Bug-type suddenly lunged with a spread-wing tackle which sent the Rookidee crashing to earth. The Bug-type ran in, blades raised, when the Rookidee hastily rolled aside and shot forward with lunge that trailed air around her body. Itt hit the Scyther, much harder than the Bagon expected, as it sent the Scyther’s body sailing towards the rocks at the castle’s base.

The Bagon briefly noticed a sharp edge along a rocky cleft among the rocks, when the Scyther landed on it with the weight of his body on his left shoulder..

Crunch!

The Scyther’s eyes abruptly widened. He hopped away and screeched in pain, cradling his left shoulder above his scythe.. The Bagon peered up blankly from his hiding place and saw the Scyther’s left arm was now hanging limp and dripping yellowish fluid from an ugly-looking crack. Scyther began to let out whimpers of his own as the Bagon glanced over to the Rookidee. She seemed visibly shaken herself, before she shook her head and motioned down the path with her wing.

“G-Go to the Clinic and then go home, Gohto,” the Rookidee panted. “Leave now and dad doesn’t need to find out what you were doing before you fell against those rocks.”

The Scyther turned and fled, whining in pain as he vanished off into the night. The Bagon panted, when the Rookidee’s attention turned to him. He yelped and tried to back away, only for her to fly up in front of him.

“Are you okay?” the Rookidee asked. “I knew that Gohto had been hanging around bad crowds in the village, but I didn’t think that he’d go as far as trying to hurt you like that.”

The Rookidee held a wing out and the Bagon hesitated. She was clearly stronger than she looked, and ready to hurt others when fighting. 

But… she’d been fighting to help him.

He warily took the Flying-type’s wingtip and shambled up. The Rookidee studied him briefly before shaking her head.

“Come on, we should take you back home to your parents,” she replied. “I have an Oran Berry I can give you to treat those cuts Gohto gave you.”

“I don’t have any parents.”

The Rookidee tilted her head at the Bagon. He looked away and pawed uncomfortably at his shoulder.

“Mother and father never made it here to the village with me.”

The Rookidee remained silent as the Bagon’s attention drifted over to the two halves of his painting lying in the flowers. He went over and picked them up. He tried to push them back up against each other, but there was no keeping them together anymore.

“… You must be lonely here by yourself.”

He looked back at the Flying-type as they stared silently at each other. He… supposed he had been lonely since coming here, but he wasn’t really alone…

“I mean, I’m staying with Freiherr Leigh,” he said. “It’s just that he hasn’t had time for me lately.”

He noticed his bag lying off on the side of the path and went over to collect it. He winced from the cuts on his body as he stooped to grab it, only for it to abruptly rise from the ground.

It was the Rookidee, raising it up to his claws with her beak.

He blinked and took it when the Rookidee suddenly spoke:

“Von jetzt an werde ich dich beschützen.”

He blinked and noticed the Rookidee was perched beside him. It was that language his parents would sometimes speak to each other in, except he wasn’t sure if he understood what she told him.

“H-Huh? What are you saying?”

“It means ‘from now on, I’ll protect you’,” the Rookidee explained. “My dad says he tells that to other Pokémon as a Ritter when they don’t have anyone else to defend them. To let them know that he wants to be by their side and help them.”

The Bagon wasn’t sure what to say back to that. Before the little dragon could gather his thoughts, the Rookidee extended a wing towards him as tried to stand up.

“My name is Sophia, what’s yours?”

He took her wingtip and stumbled up with his bag. There was a moment’s silence, before he answered shyly:

“Lacan.”