Time, Ingo vaguely remembered hearing somewhere, was a circle.
Ingo didn’t know what had woken him, but he rose with an urgent drive toward the peak of Mount Coronet.
Whether half asleep or half manic, he dressed and followed it all the way to the ruined Temple of Sinnoh without a second thought for what he was doing, and when he reached the landing atop a staircase into thin air, he realized exactly what had possessed him to do so.
Tragically-- an insult to his clan-- Ingo didn’t have attention to spare for the Almighty Sinnoh. Only for the limp shape at its feet.
He made swift tracks for the smaller spot of white in the starry expanse, ignoring the towering being that stood opposite them, waiting and watching-- his only concern the light patch that was so terribly still. A mostly-forgotten instinct led him to his knees and his hand to the fallen man’s wrist, but that was as far as his lost training got him; the inclination to pull the man closer, to let his head rest on Ingo’s lap, came from somewhere else entirely.
The man’s pulse remained absent, and he failed to draw breath; he was warm, however, with no chill seeping into his pale flesh. There was something else going on here, as the two of them met under the eyes of Sinnoh.
That this man shared Ingo’s face was a footnote. It was an important footnote, yes, but it didn’t come as some grand revelation; he’d known what he’d find beneath the starched collar as soon as the sight registered.
He drew his mirror image that much closer, laid a hand on his chest to keep him safe and steady, and looked to the God of Pokemon in silent question.
Arceus seemed wholly unbothered by being his second priority.
THIS ONE HAS BEEN SEARCHING FOR YOU FOR SOME TIME. HOW TO PUT THIS… IT SEEMS HE’S RUN OUT OF STEAM JUST BEFORE HE COULD REACH YOUR STATION.
“Which is precisely why you shouldn’t move in haste.” Ingo said, though he was uncertain who it was aimed at. Probably not the Almighty Sinnoh, all things considered.
For its part, Arceus acted as if he hadn’t spoken.
I CAN ENSURE THAT HE WILL WAKE, BUT IT WILL NOT COME WITHOUT ITS COST.
Within the span of a heartbeat, Ingo chided himself for, and then came to terms with the fact that he’d torn up the mountain empty-handed. There was nothing of human-make that the being in front of him would have asked for, and he couldn’t do that to his Pokemon.
No, he’d been drawn here with the clothes on his back and a scattered handful of memories.
Time, he vaguely remembered hearing somewhere, was a circle.
“The only cargo I have is personal knowledge.” He gave a rueful laugh, the corners of his mouth staying firmly in place, “And sometimes not even that. Is that acceptable?”
Slowly, thoughtfully, Arceus inclined its head.
He took a deep breath, steeling and hating himself in equal measure. How ungrateful, to cast aside the community that had taken him in, that had saved him from a bitter death in the Icelands. How irresponsible to forsake the divine duty of a Warden.
Ingo thought-- hoped-- Lady Sneasler might understand, might find it in herself to forgive him; noble in every sense, she knew what it was to sacrifice for the ones she loved.
He still didn’t know who it was resting against his lap, but Ingo knew he was important. He was loved.
He let his faded coat pool at his waist and entrusted the hat to the man, then doffed the tunic he’d been given in slow, deliberate motions. As best he could manage without dislodging his lighter reflection, he folded and nudged it forward in offering. With a greater reluctance, he parted with the bracer styled in a Sneasler’s image.
“I’ve spent two years living as part of the Pearl Clan, nearly as much with your blessed Lady Sneasler. The space I’ve crossed with them is precious, and I’m unsure how I could have made it this far without them. However, if there’s a chance it can save him, you can have it.”
When he moved to look up at the being, it was staring back at him, unreadable.
Not enough. As great as it seemed to him, as much as it represented his entire existence, he’d suspected as much.
“Have we made this deal before?” He asked with a wry twist of the lips, biding his time-- not in an effort to find another way, but to make peace with everything.
There was no answer.
He sighed and dipped his head, laying a brief claim to his cap before adding it, too, to the meager pile of offerings. “The brilliant flame and our guest, here-- I haven’t recovered much, but I know they’re important to me. I’d hoped to have some recollection of him, yet, but it was an indulgence. It’s yours.”
Arceus gave its head a minute tilt, acknowledging and questioning all in one. Ingo knew, even without direct affirmation, that it was asking if he thought that wise.
“I’ve learned this much in the past years: the heart remembers what the mind can’t. If memory of him stowed away once, then I can hope that it makes a return trip.”
It made a breathy, huffing noise. If it was laughter, Ingo decided not to speculate what it found so funny.
YOU WERE GRANTED ONE THING WHEN YOU AWOKE. DO YOU REMEMBER?
On its face, it was a trick question. How could he remember, when all he’d known upon waking was a void? Every scrap of knowledge from his previous life had been hard won. He could offer the God of Pokemon the volume that had echoed out, desperate and confused, across a snowy plateau, or the slew of metaphors and gestures he himself failed to grasp.
He didn’t understand what was being asked of him. Stranded and alone in the Icelands peaks, he’d had nothing to his--
Ah.
‘Granted’. Yes, he had taken that for granted-- the same way he’d instinctively shrugged his coat back on, even as he bargained with a god. Helpful, grounding, his, but he would learn to do without.
“I remember.” He said, and removed his coat in full.
It was difficult to give it a proper sendoff, not only as he tried to avoid disturbing his mirror image, but because so much of it had fallen away over the years. He’d known it was ripped and thin, but it had hardly mattered at the time. Now, however, he wondered what a god could want with such a damaged piece of cloth-- why it would need a name that would soon mean nothing.
He tucked it beneath the clan tunic and raised his eyes to Arceus.
“All I have left is faith, I’m afraid. You’re welcome to it.”
Arceus, impassive as ever, stomped one hoof, and existence went white.
Emmet woke with an uncommonly clear head and a list of facts. He knew he had been seeking Arceus’s aid. He knew this was not his plane of origin. He knew that something had gone wrong, and then something had gone right. He knew, without looking, who he was resting against, and when he did look, he knew one last thing:
His brother would not open his eyes if he didn’t do something.
He didn’t know how, he didn’t know what or why, but he was sure of that.
In spite of himself, Emmet took just a second to rest a palm over the hand on his chest-- the one that had been holding him steady as he slept-- and when that moment passed, raised it, briefly, to press the bruised knuckles to his lips before sitting upright.
There was only one object of immediate note: a small pile of clothes laying before them, folded neatly within arm’s reach. It went without saying that he recognized Ingo’s hat and coat, but it took a minute to connect the pale pink tunic to the light grey garb he’d seen in historical photographs. The bracer he was unsure of, but it was likely related.
And, quite suddenly, he became aware that he and his twin were not alone here. The feeling of eyes on his back burned, an industrial-grade headlight in a pitch dark tunnel, and he twisted around to face them.
Oh.
Well.
That made things easier.
“You did this.” He accused, without preamble.
I DID NOT FORCE HIS HAND. Arceus demurred, HE MADE THE PILGRIMAGE OF HIS OWN VOLITION. WHAT HE OFFERED, I ACCEPTED, AND YOU ARE IN NO POSITION TO COMPLAIN.
Something had gone wrong. He was aware of that fact. He had just not been aware of how wrong, and it seemed Ingo had taken it upon himself to reroute in the face of Emmet’s miscalculation. Emmet couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised.
AN ADOPTED PEOPLE, A PURPOSE, A FRAGMENT OF THE LOST PAST, AND A NAME. THOSE WERE THE TERMS OF OUR AGREEMENT.
“He had nothing, and you are the God of Pokemon.” He said stiffly, remembering the four articles of clothing behind him, and deftly matching each to one of the offerings, “I fail to see how that is fair.”
THE DIVINE HAS ITS REASONS.
Emmet scoffed and rose to his feet, making a point to stare Arceus dead in the eye the entire time. Disgusted, he threw his coat at its feet, followed by his hat and tie. The gloves were last, folded together not out of respect, but force of habit.
“We will make a deal of our own. I agree to match what you’ve stolen from him. You may play your space-time tricks and I will not be any the wiser. But you will not separate us again. That is my price. I may not remember this, but I will know.”
The intention was clear. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was threatening to do, or how he’d accomplish it without any memory of the moment, but he spoke it as a vow.
“I will not be the tool you use to destroy my brother again.”
Arceus-- the bastard-- chuffed in laughter.
It was only due to his precarious position that Emmet refrained from sharing some of the holy scriptures that rush hour passengers liked to preach to their subway cars. He settled for showing his back to the God of Pokemon, silently returning to where he belonged.
Generally, he preferred to take up stance next to his twin, a visibly united front, but not now. Arceus was still behind Ingo, primed to catch him unaware again, and Emmet wouldn’t allow it. He sunk to his knees, leaving the two them on the same level, but kept himself high enough to hook his chin over his brother’s head, and gathered him into his arms. His attention strayed from the deity just the once, for this short spell.
Arceus regarded them: hands that gave so freely and limbs that refused to let go, eyes that had closed in the service of another and those that locked onto its own, gambling, challenging. A protective layer of black cloth and a thin, stark white fabric tangled together.
ALWAYS THE SAME, YOU TWO. It rumbled, amused, TRULY. BRAVO.
Emmet dipped his head, still glaring up. He spoke into his twin’s hair as if his words were a secret for the two of them alone.
“You are a cruel god.”
It paused.
AM I, NOW.
“I am certain of it.”
Arceus huffed again, and existence blacked out.
Reshiram and Zekrom, it was said, had once been one being, torn asunder by a rift between brothers. Truth and ideals, mind and heart, certainty and faith-- in all things, equal and opposite, neither able to best the other. Legends held that the growing conflict destroyed not only Unova, but the dragons’ bodies themselves, and the pair were lost to time.
Recent history stated that these beings were awakened by a hero with unwavering purpose and another with lofty vision, who then vanished alongside the Pokemon.
The fact was that, bodiless, the dragons couldn’t maintain their worldly forms. The hope was that they wouldn’t have to. If a rift between brothers had started it, a rift between brothers would end it.
Ironically, Zekrom had found the truth. Time was a circle.
Reshiram’s opinions had been somewhat more subjective; they did, however, come from a place of love, of ideals, and would be tolerated.
In a grand hall deep underground, where the dragons last stood face to face, two men began to wake. Eyes still firmly shut, Emmet’s hand found Ingo’s.
WELCOME HOME. Said the voice of their world, I’VE MISSED YOU.