Much as Emmet told himself not to press his luck, that even holding hands again was a massive step in the right direction, that morning still found the both of them clinging to one another once their mutual sobbing fit had run its course. He might have been frustrated with himself if Ingo hadn’t been the one to lean into his space, first.
Drayden always said retaliation was childish, but what did he know?
An indeterminate amount of time after the fact, Emmet was roused from a light doze by a dull-- if growing-- pain in his arm and muted clicking; the former, he realized as his head cleared, was Ingo, grip so tight his hand was trembling, the latter Gliscor, maneuvering its pincers to try to release Emmet from his hold.
The motion was a practiced one, and it managed its self-appointed task without waking its trainer. Distantly noting the leathery wings mantling over their heads, Emmet murmured another round of thanks to the bat, wondering how difficult it would be to get it registered, officially, as a service Pokemon. It was a designation usually reserved for a certain… sort of Pokemon-- Chansey, Audino and the like-- but with the right training, any species could fill the role, couldn’t it? If it already had a routine like this in place, there was little doubt in Emmet’s mind that Gliscor could handle the task.
It would make one hell of a service Pokemon, for sure. If people hadn’t already made goth jokes about Chandelure, the introduction of a giant vampire bat would certainly do the trick.
Corners of his mouth twitching downward, he put the thought on hold; he was getting ahead of himself again. There would be plenty of time for that kind of planning later, when they knew what they were dealing with and had a more reliable itinerary in place.
When Emmet moved to get up-- or at least shift upright-- Gliscor blinked at him and beat its wings twice. The world’s most aerodynamic alarm clock, it flipped in midair to hang from the unmade bed and, in the vacuum it left, the Sneasel swarmed.
Without looking, Ingo raised a hand to fend off the one that got in his face, only for one of its siblings to stick a nose behind his ear while he was otherwise occupied. He sighed heavily and propped himself up on an elbow, turning to judge the offender, but got distracted before he could get that far.
Though he didn’t say as much, the surprise on his face was easy to read as, ‘You’re still here.’
Emmet hummed, gathering up the Sneasel that was hanging from his twin’s shoulder; it wriggled in protest and tried to free itself. “I have no intention of decoupling from you again.” He said plainly.
There was a silence as Ingo sat up properly, visibly scrambling for the right words. The last two Sneasel promptly deposited themselves in his lap and began squabbling for space, which gave him the opportunity to buy for some small amount of time, scolding them with an odd uptick of a whistle. They pinned their ears back and, reluctantly, settled.
“I’m… very sorry.” He eventually said, attention fixed somewhere to the left of Emmet’s elbow, “What you told me before. I-- I can’t actually remember--”
“I am Emmet. I am aware of this.” There wasn’t so much as a blink at the interruption or repetition, which boded well, “It’s a troubling situation. Please do not worry about it for my sake, however.”
He was well aware that Ingo would, in fact, continue to worry about it; unfortunately, even after three decade’s worth of experience dealing with one another, Emmet didn’t know any way to stop that. The best he could hope for was to avoid drawing attention to the matter, but, considering he was a walking reminder, that strategy wasn’t viable. A distraction was in order, then.
He had something in mind.
“I believe it’s time the Pokemon were seen to. If you’re not opposed, I’d like you-- ouch-- to meet someone.”
The Sneasel, finally free of its confines, dropped to the floor. As soon as he heard the mild exclamation, Ingo did the opposite, hurriedly dislodging the perturbed pair on his lap to get to his satchel.
After a short spell, a pecha berry was shoved into Emmet’s grasp.
“Eat that.” Ingo said shortly, already turning back to assess what he had on hand. With a bit of digging-- and pushing back curious noses-- he set aside another berry, what looked like a lump of charcoal, a wilted purple flower and a short length of bandaging.
Though he’d never been particularly keen on the flavor of a pecha, Emmet did as he’d been told and, by the time he’d finished the berry, found something else pressed against his hand-- this time at the puncture site.
“Keep this on the wound. If you start feeling sick, inform me posthaste.” His voice grew rough by the midpoint, unaccustomed to any substantial back and forth, and though it had been a short conversation, Emmet wasn’t particularly surprised. He’d been paying attention, after all; he was well aware that most of the communication between Ingo and his Pokemon fell under the nonverbal umbrella.
“I’ve been informed of their typing. I hadn’t realized their poison was so virulent, however.” Eager to keep the topic somewhere safe-- always safe, Pokemon were always a good line of discussion-- Emmet didn’t address the rasp, though he wasn’t entirely sure how to keep the issue from worsening. They’d always been a dialogue, a conversation, and Ingo had been happy to take initiative; even with years of having to socialize by himself, Emmet wasn’t entirely sure how to guide the both of them in this instance. “One of our partners is a poison type. She also produces unique toxins. Unfortunately, she is not currently with me. It would be interesting to see what she might synthesize from this.”
“...it’s quite versatile.” Ingo said after a long moment, kneeling to re-pack the miscellaneous items that had fallen out of the satchel in his haste. Instead of replacing it where it had lain, he’d set it to the side and reached for the over shirt. He didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic to start the day. Almost hesitant, really. It didn’t stop him from adding, “After evolution, it can induce paralysis and drowsiness.”
He paused in the process of smoothing the tunic down. “Was Sneasler…?”
“She would be verrrry happy to see you again when you are ready.”
The frown deepened. Emmet only had to wonder what it was about for a moment, before his twin looked to wrestling lump of Sneasel, sighing.
Yes. Well.
With no way to respond to that, he turned to deposit the wayward blanket onto the bed and get dressed, himself.
The Sneasel were going to be difficult no matter what. As much as Emmet could sympathize with the Lady of the Cliffs' plight, there was a key difference between their situations; for all that Ingo didn’t know him, there was still a lingering sense of familiarity. It was clear in every action he initiated between them, in the way he’d accepted the rhythm of their back and forth, interruptions and all. The Sneasel didn’t have that benefit. They’d never met their mother-- had hatched and lived under a human’s care. It would make them fantastic candidates for competitive battling, but that wasn’t exactly a concern in Hisui.
The rule of thumb, when introducing a Pokemon to a household with a member of the same species, was to keep them isolated in one room for several days, letting the original Pokemon grow accustomed to the new scent, sounds and aura. Somehow, Emmet doubted that would work in this case. As someone who’d worked with young Pokemon, he thought the best chance lay in letting them observe their caretaker’s interactions with Sneasler, to demonstrate that he didn’t see her as a threat-- but that was something that would wait until Ingo was able to handle it.
Short of reaching for his gloves, Emmet paused. There were a number of reasons to leave them behind for the day, first and foremost being that he didn’t want the shallow cut to leave a stain. He’d also been instructed to keep the berry-charcoal-herb mixture on it, but that was a somewhat more distant concern and, in complete honesty, almost convinced him to put the gloves on so he wouldn’t have to come into direct contact with it. He hadn’t touched it-- not without the bandaging acting as a buffer-- but he could imagine the exact type of sticky-yet-gritty texture it would yield. If at all possible, he’d prefer not to risk getting it on his person.
When it came down to it, he didn’t have much say in the matter. Ingo caught him idling and grabbed the poultice, taking the affected hand and pressing the bundle to the injury site.
Though it wasn’t aimed directly at him, the exasperated look in his brother’s eyes screamed, ‘What did I just tell you?’
There was no move to saddle him with the medicine a second time. Ingo seemed to have decided that it was staying there, even if he had to hold it in place, personally.
And Emmet… could live with that.
---
The first-- the only-- words Ingo had to offer upon seeing Chandelure for the second-first time were:
“You’re beautiful.”
Emmet had seen a person fall so quickly in love with a Pokemon only once before.
Coincidentally, it had been the same pair.
---
Ingo was nervous to meet with Sneasler again, that much was clear-- but every time Emmet tried to give him an out, to remind him that the only expectations being impressed upon him were his own, he doubled down on the decision. It seemed too soon, but, just as he’d taken it upon himself to look after the Lady of the Cliffs’ children, he felt duty-bound to report to her, and it was all but impossible to argue with him when he invoked the responsibility.
It was a moot point now, anyway. He’d already called with a trembling hand and thready flute melody, so there wouldn’t be any stopping the Noble. The best Emmet could do for the time being was stay close and follow his brother’s lead, and so they waited side by side on the settlement’s outskirts, their sleeves a stark, unbroken line where they pressed against one another.
They heard her long before she became a visible part of the landscape, a distant yowl promising that she was inbound. The Sneasel playing in the snow perked at the sound, the two who’d hidden, before, turning their furtive eyes to gauge Ingo’s reaction while their siblings bristled.
It was the latter two that warranted a response; there was a sharp, wordless vocalization as Ingo jerked his head to the side, signaling for the both of them to come closer. Made nervous by the command, the others were first to respond, abandoning their frozen dugout to hide behind him while the first two necessitated further prompting. Grudgingly, after a chiding click and pointed eye contact, one made its way over. The other required vines-on interference, and visibly vibrated as Tangrowth bundled it up and deposited it into Ingo’s arms. Even as he smoothed its fur down, it looked like it was weighing the pros and cons of wresting its way free to go fight its mother.
Oh. So it was that one.
Emmet had, in fact, become incredibly ill the evening after their last encounter, and she was entirely to thank for the experience. Never mind the fact that, perhaps, he’d been rather lenient with the poultice when Ingo wasn’t literally forcing his hand.
He wasn’t sure whether to be glad he wasn’t the one wrangling her this time, or worry for his twin’s well being-- but abruptly dropped the line of thought when she opened her mouth, primed to nip, and the hand went from petting to gripping the scruff of her neck. Something between a mewl and a displeased puff escaped the Sneasel, only to be replaced by a building growl as she caught sight of a figure rapidly growing nearer.
With both hands full, Ingo was unable to snag the other as it darted forward, confronting what it surely saw as an unwelcome interloper. It didn’t get far. In one fluid motion, Sneasler stooped to pick it up, dangling from her jaws, but otherwise didn’t slow.
She stopped entirely too close. Emmet could feel the tension in the form at his side, but, with the pair still using him as strategic cover so immediately behind, Ingo forced himself to stay stationary.
Showing a hesitance he’d never observed from the Noble, Sneasler bent down, offering the squirming Sneasel to its caretaker. Ingo took it awkwardly, trying to support the first kit as her protests grew louder, whilst also helping this new passenger find purchase. It promptly scrabbled up to a shoulder and peered out from behind the well-worn hat.
After a too-long moment of staring at one another, Ingo finally rasped, “Have you been well?”
Sneasler’s eyes narrowed and she let out an abrupt huff. Emmet wasn’t sure whether to take it as incredulity or offense, but it was certainly a negative. Briefly, her attention flickered his direction, trying to determine whether or not he’d pull her away this time, and when she’d decided he wasn’t going to stop her, she leaned in. Ignoring the kit rumbling a pitiful warning and the one that spat at her before dismounting to land amongst its siblings, she gently bumped her head against Ingo’s. She trilled once, mournful, before pulling back.
“...I see. I’m sorry.”
Sneasler’s ears pinned and, irritated, she bopped the bill of his hat, knocking it into his face.
When she drew back, it was with a Sneasel attached to the wrist, wailing affront on her human’s behalf.
Ingo made to intervene, but Sneasler seemed unbothered by the irate kit, mushing the opposite paw over her face. After a moment, the Sneasel let go. Nose twitching as she landed in the slush, she scampered to join her nestmates. She chattered something and then peered around her sister, looking Sneasler up and down.
There was a brief stillness, then the other two loped behind Emmet to look for themselves, mirroring the pair peeking past Ingo.
The standoff was uneasy, but, as Emmet had expected, smoothed over by the human presence. Sneasler’s eyes lingered on either set, and, while her ears had yet to perk back up, she favored her Warden with a shallow smile.
They stayed out longer than was reasonable, trying to coax the Sneasel into investigating, but were ultimately forced in by nighttime’s biting chill.
Sneasler followed them back to the visitors’ tent, and Emmet couldn’t bring it in himself to be surprised.
Like litter, like mother, he supposed.
---
There was only so much a tent could take.
To be entirely fair to the Pearl Clan, their housing was a far cry from the camping gear Emmet remembered fighting as an adventuring preteen, but they were still tents-- and, as such, weren’t meant to house two grown men, four Sneasel, Gliscor and an oversize Sneasler.
Fortunately, most of those entities weren’t only willing to share overlapping space, but actively sought it out.
But, while the Sneasel were happy to fill in any gaps that the twins were careless enough to leave, Gliscor and Sneasler were somewhat less inclined to get along. There was a strained moment as the two of them locked eyes, soundlessly challenging one another. Conspiratorially, Emmet whispered that his money was on Gliscor, and Ingo outright refused to humor his hypothetical. In fact, his only commentary, prior to settling the conflict, was a tired, “Absence has done nothing for the two of you, I see.”
He eventually got them situated, Gliscor possessively stretching his wings as far as he could get away with while Sneasler curled up, head resting upon the dip in her Warden’s side. One arm stretched well past him, her claws scraping the floor behind Emmet, making her point.
It would work for now, but they only had so long until certain Pokemon’s patience ran thin.
And just as a tent had its limits, so too did an urban apartment.
Silently, Emmet adjusted his plans once more.
---
The Pearl Clan had an… interesting approach to physical contact between two people. Namely, that it wasn’t supposed to happen outside of emergencies, or closed doors. Their collective time spent in the modern day, surrounded by people clustered together to make room on sidewalks or the admittedly painful rush hour commute had done little to sway this mindset, it seemed.
This made it all the more curious when, even days after the poultice’s departure, Emmet frequently found his hand held hostage. It wasn’t that he was complaining-- far from it!-- he was just surprised. Between the cultural taboo and the dissociative episodes, it was expecting a lot.
But even so, he understood the power touch still held. He knew what it was to go from living side by side with someone to surviving their sudden absence. To have done the same in this frigid landscape, with no sense of self, no way of knowing where the still-bleeding wound lay, was unimaginable-- never mind what came after.
When his brother reached for him, he was happy to reach back, happy to find a solid hold that might, someday, erase the memory of that very same hand slipping away. Every hesitant reach was a reminder of how much farther they had to go, but it didn’t stand to be pessimistic about it, because it just proved that recovery wasn’t just some distant terminal. They would get there someday, stop by stop, even if the tracks occasionally switched and they had to make up for the detour.
An immature part of Emmet wanted to remind his twin that he’d told him calling Sneasler so soon was too ambitious, but he bit the urge back; it might have been the first observable setback, but, undoubtedly, it would be far from the last. There was no reason to make things any worse-- to offer shame instead of a calm head and shoulder to lean on.
That was another learning experience: that, as quiet as Ingo had learned to be, he could always go one step further, into utter silence. It made Emmet miss the absentminded chatter all that much more.
As if he could sense the unrest, even with his face buried in his brother’s shoulder, Ingo blindly reached for Emmet’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
Emmet exhaled a breathy laugh, “I am not your concern right now.”
There was an answering noise from his left-- all air, no vocal component-- and, while it sounded neutral, he recognized it as dissent. To hell with it, he decided, and tugged his twin that much closer. He rested his cheek against the top of Ingo’s head; the first breath against his neck was one of surprise, but the second quickly settled into something more at home.
It took time, but, eventually, Ingo’s voice returned, and they found themselves back on track.
---
“Gliscor’s taken to you.” Ingo said one day, apropos nothing. That he was initiating a conversation was notable in and of itself.
Still, Emmet waved it off on principle, “Gliscor would ally himself with a wild Froslass if he believed it would aid you.”
“...he’s a very loyal friend.” Had been the response, and the topic was allowed to rest for several hours.
When it did resurface, they were at the settlement’s edge, keeping an eye on what was getting to be an absurd number of Pokemon. Eyes on the bat in question, Ingo said, “I suppose... my real question is how long he’s been aware of your presence.”
Ah. Fair enough. It had to be difficult to track time when one kept dipping into a dissociative state.
“Seventeen days.”
There was a brief silence as he worked backwards through that timeline.
“I see.” He hesitated again, throat working against shame as he tried to find the words, “My apologies. I hope I didn’t cause you--”
“Stop. You did not cause me any trouble. Even if you had, no amount would be too much.”
His response was a soft sigh, resigned, but accepting that this was the only answer he’d get-- the only truth that Emmet believed.
---
For some time, now, Emmet had been keenly aware of one particular fact:
They wouldn’t be returning to Nimbasa City. Someday, perhaps, but not immediately.
The Pearl Clan was made up of fewer than fifty individuals, and Ingo struggled to move among them, even as he slowly reacclimated to being around other humans; bringing him back to the world’s third most populous city was absolutely unthinkable.
Emmet had been brainstorming possible solutions ever since, but none was without its flaws. His first thought had been of Anville, of course, quiet and out of the way-- but its greatest strength would also be its greatest detriment. They were from Anville Town. Even out of uniform, people would recognize and ask after them, which would only make Ingo more likely to shut down. If amnesia had been the only hurdle to pass, Anville would have been ideal. As things stood, it ranked, at best ‘maybe in the future’.
Lacunosa had also been on the radar-- less remote than Anville, but still sedate. It was also very insular, and its citizens prone to superstition. Emmet knew combinations. That was a bad one. Village Bridge almost boasted the opposite problem; there was an element of wilderness that wasn’t so different from what little he’d observed of Hisui, but it attracted people. It only made sense-- it was a public thoroughfare, just one that happened to be inhabited.
And then there were the Pokemon to consider. He didn’t even have their full roster with him, and the numbers involved presented a problem. Not that he begrudged any of the Pokemon who’d gotten attached to his brother-- if anything, he owed them for the care they’d afforded in his absence-- but he was at a loss for how, exactly, to resolve the issue of sheer numbers.
He didn’t expect an unsolicited suggestion from Akari, of all people, as she made her final rounds of Hisui.
“Well, compared to Unova, it’s pretty peaceful in,” She hesitated, looked back and forth, and then dropped her voice to say, “Sinnoh.”
“You do not have to whisper that.” Emmet said, while Ingo was busy looking politely confused.
She grimaced and shook her head, dismissing that sentiment before returning to her own line of thought, “It’s just… if you guys wanted to visit, Twinleaf’s nice and quiet. Or Celestic Town.”
“We’ll take it under advisement.” He returned, and she didn’t push any further.
While she’d had a great deal to cover before her early exit, Akari spent a large portion of her time with them sitting close and watching the Pearl Clan go about their daily lives, content to simply be present.
Not for the first time, Emmet had to concede that she was shockingly astute for a child of her age-- and that regard only grew when, prior to leaving, she made a point of asking Ingo if it was alright to hug him goodbye-for-now.
So he’d thanked her the only way he knew how.
“We will battle the next time we meet.”
She’d laughed, reminded them-- again-- what station to depart from, and then gone.
---
The day prior to their own departure was a difficult one.
This was exactly what Arceus had meant to happen all that time ago, so it only stood to reason that facing it now would renew anxieties-- but even if Emmet was somewhat accustomed to it, it still hurt to see Ingo nonverbal and withdrawn, Gliscor clinging to his back.
For a time, it was possible to keep him busy with the last few material preparations they had to make, but, inevitably, those ran out, leaving nervous hands idle. That wouldn’t do. Sneasler was actually the first to respond, and Emmet dearly wished he’d thought to keep an eye on her, because he had no idea how she’d managed to fold herself small enough to fit-- albeit precariously-- on Ingo’s lap.
Her presence had the intended effect, though. The hands raking gingerly through her fur trembled, but the fact that they occasionally moved up to compensate Gliscor, preempting any inter-Pokemon conflict, proved that their owner was still mentally present.
Late into the morning, there was a sharp whistle, guiding Emmet’s attention first to his twin-- who was only just returning to the task of stroking the Noble-- and then to the Sneasel trotting toward him, a piece of paper impaled on its claws.
He took a steady breath and, on the exhale, let go of his mental image of an empty cave, littered with unanswered pleas for help. Keeping the Sneasel distracted by scratching behind its ear, he reached with his free hand to remove the paper from its paw, mindful of the poisonous tips.
I still do not know what offense I committed against Sinnoh. What if it--
Emmet stopped as soon as he realized what was being asked, unable to stomach the hypothetical. They’d never actually touched upon the Hisuians’ exodus-- neither the cause behind it, nor the reason for the populace’s sudden reappearance. It was important, yes, but also incredibly sensitive. Emmet had had no intention of broaching the subject until Ingo signaled that he was ready.
In a sense, this was that signal-- just nothing like he’d ever imagined.
Part of him wondered how his brother could possibly think he’d done something to deserve what had happened; the rest of him realized there was no way he could have thought differently. It seemed like a calculated exclusion because it was, after a fashion, and Emmet legitimately didn’t know whether the truth of the matter would help in the slightest.
He folded the note over twice and pocketed it, ruffling the Sneasel’s head for a job well done, and crossed the tent to join his twin on the floor. When Ingo shifted-- his intention to draw closer clear, in spite of the sheer bulk of Pokemon draped across him-- Emmet held a hand up, halting him in the process.
It wasn't because he wanted to withhold reassurance-- never that-- but because, absent words, he needed to be able to see what his brother was feeling. He needed to be sure he was understood.
He did, however, accept the hand that reached out to him. That would do them both some good.
“You did nothing wrong.” Emmet said plainly, seeing no reason to drag it out, “It was not a punishment. It was a mistake on the part of a careless god.”
Ingo’s expression twisted in confusion, fading into denial. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he shook his head.
Emmet mirrored the gesture-- faster, more emphatic. “Listen to me. What happened was entirely out of your hands. Knowing that does not help. I realize that. But I need you to understand that you were not at fault.”
His twin’s attention dropped to the top of Sneasler’s head, expression closed off, even for him. When he looked back up, the confused helplessness was too much to ignore, and Emmet finally reoriented himself so they sat side by side.
As Gliscor stretched a wing to accommodate, he tilted his head, knocking lightly against Ingo’s. “It will not happen again. It cannot. Even if Arceus was negligent enough to repeat its mistakes, you would not be left alone. I am Emmet. I am here. That is why.”
The pressure against his temple moved to rest against his shoulder and, after a long moment, buried itself into the crook of his neck. When Ingo’s breathing turned shallow and rapid, Emmet hummed, pulling his attention back, and began to set a safer pattern. Without prompting, he turned his hand palm-up and guided the loose grip down to his wrist.
They didn’t end up accomplishing any of the things they were set to do that day, but, arguably, managed something far more important.
---
In order to compensate for the day prior, they didn’t find themselves in the Coronet Highlands until early evening. The commute ran smoothly, guided by the territory’s Warden; it was leaving the Pearl Settlement that had been the complicated part. Throat too tight to speak properly, Ingo had done his utmost to set concerned minds at ease, but was clearly uncomfortable being seen in such a state-- never mind the fact that it would be the final impression he left on the clan.
Unfortunate, but the ones who cared about him would understand.
When they made it to the Temple of Sinnoh, the sky was awash in orange and pinks; it was so far removed from the Hisui Emmet knew in the Icelands that he had to stop and process that this was, in fact, the same region. There was a soft sigh beside him, and Ingo turned away from the view of the Highlands, hand tracing along one of the ruined statues as he looked to its dais.
Emmet got the distinct impression this was not the first time he’d ventured up here.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know why, exactly, that might have been.
To settle himself, he ran through his safety checks one more time, ensuring his passengers were accounted for and recounting the directions Akari had relayed to them. When Ingo noticed, he copied the motion, one hand straying to his belt and the other to his satchel-- familiar enough with the former that he only saw fit to peek into the bag for confirmation.
As he was the only one with a functioning voice, Emmet took up the lead. “Are you prepared for departure?”
Patting the satchel down, ensuring it was closed properly, Ingo made the effort to straighten to his full height and gave a decisive nod.
“Everything’s ready!” Emmet said automatically, and stopped long enough to laugh at the look his twin gave him-- puzzled, but not entirely lost, like he’d remembered a punchline without the setup. Without hesitation, he scooped his brother’s hand up and maneuvered his own to aim at the temple’s focal point, delighted to find Ingo not only following suit, but completing the pose on his far side. “Aim for victory! All aboard!”
And so, hands clasped tightly together, they followed the tracks before them, destination a higher and higher state. The path culminated in a platform, dark save for its single occupant.
Subconsciously, Emmet clung tighter-- to keep from being separated again, to sooth the ratcheting tension in his limbs, or to prevent himself from confronting the God of Pokemon, he didn’t know. He just knew that he had to hold on, just in case.
With a slow majesty unbefitting of a creature that had caused so much fear and suffering, it rose to its hooves and met them at the landing.
THOU ART READY TO RETURN TO THINE POINT OF ORIGIN?
It was at this exact moment that Emmet also found himself at a loss for words-- but, beside him, the form that had locked up at the deity’s approach lurched back into motion, back straight and head high.
JUST ONE MOMENT THEN, IF THOU WOULDST. It said, and drew far, far too close. Bowing forward on its front legs, it delicately bumped the gold crest on its head to the top of Ingo’s hat.
AN APOLOGY, OF SORTS. COMPENSATION FOR ANY UNDUE PAIN ONE MIGHT HAVE PRECIPITATED.
In a direct contrast to its claim, Ingo immediately reeled away, dropping his twin’s hand and falling to his knees, held upright only by the shaking arm braced against the ground. Arceus was lucky it stepped back, as Emmet was running on instinct and now had two free hands with which to act; fortunately for everyone involved, he defaulted to assisting his brother. Following him to the ground, Emmet put himself between the two, trying to understand the nature of the problem.
There was a pitiful, dry retch that gave way to a low keening noise.
For lack of anything else he could do, he gathered Ingo up and hid him against his chest. Venomous, Emmet looked over his shoulder and located his voice again.
“Return us now.” He said, a register lower than he’d known he could produce, as if spite alone could cow Almighty Sinnoh, “And pray we never meet again.”