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Constant company is not something she is accustomed to.
Her existence has been a lonely one ever since she first came to this place – aside from the guards stationed outside her doors and the occasional reverent visitor, the Oracle has not had much contact with the outside world. Her duties keep her attention whenever she is needed, but between those instances have always lain long stretches of empty time. Habitually, she loses herself in prayer and meditation to pass those endless frozen hours, content to drift in the silence of her illusionary realm.
Now though, she can’t seem to quite detach herself from reality. Treecko’s quiet presence feels like an itch she cannot ignore, rooting her in the present.
The Oracle shifts, fixing her posture and trying to ignore the stubborn twinge in her lower back. Her eyes are closed, but instead of sinking into the familiar darkness of thoughtlessness, she keeps finding herself distracted. Something about the way her heavy veil of hair is sitting against the right side of her face feels uncomfortable today, and she has to suppress the urge to reach up and adjust it.
She sighs, briefly pausing in her murmured mantra to pick the current prayer back up from the beginning. How vexing, this inability to ignore the tiny aches and discomforts that normally fade into the background so easily.
She has half a mind to banish her new guard from her chambers after all, but until she can determine the role Master Dialga intends for him to play, not having him near seems unwise.
Still, she is not used to feeling so observed. His watchful gaze feels oddly intrusive, and though he is only fulfilling the task she herself has given to him, his very presence here sets her on edge.
She can tell, too, that she isn’t the only one getting restless.
The Treecko, after having his injuries tended, had found himself a shadowed alcove on the ceiling to hide in. He seems well-suited as a look-out, thanks to his small stature and his ability to walk upside-down with ease, but she is less certain about his personal disposition.
She already suspected as much when he first sought her out, looking to make himself useful. This Treecko is most certainly a creature of action. Sitting in tense, alert silence for long periods of time is not the type of work that kind of spirit will thrive in. And while he seems dutiful to a fault, and has remained at his assigned post without complaint so far, she can sense his growing unease like it’s a tangible thing.
Her illusions, too, clearly put him on edge. It is only natural, she supposes – after all, they are designed to unsettle and disorient. The only times she has heard her little soldier make any noise since he climbed up to his post have been those times she altered the projected scenery drastically and without warning, idly pulling colours and shapes through the room to paint her latest whim into the space. It is then that she can make out the occasional gasp or startled half-step as he tries to dodge the visions rushing past him, realising a moment too late that none of it is even real.
Come to think of though, she hasn’t heard any particularly strong reactions coming from his direction for a while now. Perhaps that means that he is finally getting settled in.
Not that it changes her own unease, regrettably. She shifts again, finally giving in to the need to adjust the fall of her mane. Delicately carding her claws through the thick braids, she grumbles in frustration. She doesn’t often miss the mortal need for sleep, but right now, it certainly sounds like it would be a less irritating way to pass the time.
She is pulled from her musings by a sharp inhale from somewhere above, the sound of something sliding loose, and a dull impact a moment later, just a few metres away. She whips around, decorum briefly forgotten at the unexpected noise.
A few frozen seconds pass, the silence only broken by a low, pained groan, and she relaxes her guarded posture somewhat, tilting her head in bemused curiosity.
Reaching her hand up once more to part her veil, she blinks into the dim light of her chamber, currently taking the shape of an elegant concert hall. There, on the polished wooden stage, right next to several illusionary instruments, lies the crumpled shape of her little guard. He’s curled up around one of his legs, the limb looking uncomfortably bent even from afar. He barely seems to register the pain though, looking more dazed than anything else.
No explanation for the fall seems forthcoming, so the Oracle hesitantly rises to her feet and closes the distance. Settling back down next to him, she examines his small form with narrowed eyes. The leg is most certainly broken, but as far as she can tell, he is only bruised otherwise. It’s strange though, how hazy his eyes look. They’d stood out to her, when she had first seen him, with how clear and alert they were then. Now, they are barely open, and seem unfocused. His confused blinking makes it look like he hasn’t even processed his accident yet. A head injury, perhaps? She can’t spot any obvious wounds though.
“What happened,” she demands, her tone somewhere between a question and a command. She’s not entirely sure how to act – the protocols she was trained on so long ago certainly didn’t include any scripted responses to her guards falling down from the ceiling.
The Treecko groans, blinking repeatedly to focus his hazy eyes on her. He still looks confused, and it evidently takes several seconds for the situation to properly register. She can tell when it finally dawns on him, because she sees the mortification set in, instantly darkening his features with shame. “Lady Oracle,” he murmurs, attempting a low bow that ends in a full-body wince when he jostles his leg in the process.
“You didn’t have to move from- It’s my own fault for failing to-“ He stumbles over his words in his haste to explain himself, his glazed eyes wide with embarrassment.
“Calm yourself,” she interjects, holding up a hand. He falls silent, averting his eyes.
“Now. Why did you fall?”
He shifts uneasily, not meeting her gaze. “I apologise for my failure,” he mumbles after a few shallow breaths, sounding humiliated. “I attempted to stay alert and watchful, but evidently, I could not maintain my focus. Exhaustion must have crept up on me despite my best efforts, rendering me incapable of maintaining my grip. The fault is my own. I accept whatever punishment you see fit for disturbing your meditation.”
She blinks, bewildered. “You have not left your post to rest?” Her sense of time is poor, in this lightless, lonely place, but it must have been several days since he came into her service. Perhaps she should have made a greater effort to track the frozen hours, or at least his whereabouts. “Have you, at the very least, gone to the mess hall to eat and drink?”
He shakes his head, looking bemused. “I thought my duty was to remain here,” he states. “Did I misunderstand?” There’s a suspicious glint in his eyes now, as if he is expecting some sort of trap. “You haven’t left either, after all. Nor have the guards at the door.”
She stares at him, taken aback. Perhaps she had misjudged him after all, back when she assumed he had a modicum of self-awareness, because she has never heard another Pokémon say something so exceptionally foolish and stubborn.
Dutiful to a fault, this one.
“And how do you presume to guard me if you cannot even stay awake at your own post?” she chastises, hesitating briefly before bending down to gather his small form up into her arms, mindful of his leg.
He stiffens, perhaps at her words or her touch, or perhaps at both.
“Most of us here are ghosts. We are not alive in the same way you are – we do not require rest and sustenance.” She rises to her feet, her veil falling closed around them. It feels strangely intimate, bringing someone else into her little closed-off bubble like this. Treecko’s body is utterly rigid in her arms, so she assumes he feels awkward about it as well.
“But you have managed to survive out there on your own. You should know better than to take such pointless risks.” She strides over to the doors, each step steady and deliberate as to not jostle him too much.
“From now on, I expect you to rest when you need to. This is non-negotiable. If you cannot perform your duties, you are not endangering only yourself.” She halts, one hand resting against the cold, damp rock of her doors. “Besides, it would be… regrettable,” she adds, pausing to find the right words, “to lose such a strong spirit. Not many would be this dedicated to their purpose.”
It doesn’t sound adequate to her own ears, but it seems to mean something to Treecko all the same. She feels him nod against her shoulder from where she is still holding him to her chest with her other arm, some of the rigid tension in his body falling away. Glancing down at him briefly, she finds him still averting his gaze; something about his frown looks more bashful than mortified now, though.
She cannot blame him, she supposes. This is a very strange situation for her as well – she can barely even remember the last time she touched another Pokémon outside of her ceremonial gestures. Holding him like this makes her feel a little wrong-footed and disquieted, certainly, but it’s not altogether unpleasant.
Unperturbed, she pushes at the massive doors. Despite their weight and size, they swing open almost effortlessly, rumbling softly as they go.
The Sableye stationed outside turn to regard her in silent unison. Through the dense weave of her mane, she can just barely perceive the way their unblinking gemstone eyes gleam starkly in the dim light as they bow low, and the familiar sight makes her feel more firmly settled in her role again.
“Treecko was injured. Take him to the healer, and then escort him to his quarters to make sure he rests,” she commands. A sudden, radiant burst of light fills the hallway, an illusion projected by herself in order to obscure the way she lifts her veil, moving Treecko out from underneath it. She sees him blinking owlishly at the visual spectacle, clearly unadjusted to such brightness.
She carefully sets him down in front of the other guards, and even though he cannot possibly see her through the dancing lights and colours masking her form, his gaze snaps towards her when he feels her releasing her grasp.
His eyes almost manage to meet her own as she takes one final look at her dutiful little fool, and then she turns away.
By the time the dazzling lights fade, leaving the disoriented group in total darkness once more, the mighty doors of her chamber have already closed behind her.
She only makes it a few more steps, however, before a wave of dizziness crashes into her without warning.
Unprepared, she stumbles, falling to her knees and clutching at her head with numb claws as she feels her mind get torn asunder – both forwards and backwards in time all at once again, an impossibility that tears the air from her lungs. The world tilts on its axis, and she feels the floor drop out from underneath her.
All around her is a soul-rending howling. It pierces her ears and muffles them with static. It rips at her fur with icy fangs, and it blinds her with flashes of all-encompassing, searing light.
She has never experienced a storm before, in this frozen, unmoving world, but some part of her still recognises that this is not a normal one by any measure.
Even in freefall, the rain feels like it will drown her, the freezing water above, below, all around her, pelting her body with its brutal weight. But she is holding something precious, she knows, and she cannot let go.
There are other claws in her own, familiar and dear, holding on fiercely even with these impossible forces trying to drag them apart.
She refuses to let go, and so does he. It is as simple as that. There is nothing in this world that can break them apart. If there is anything she knows with certainty, it is that.
The wind screams past them even louder than before, and she thinks she can hear something else in its howling. There is a voice, a presence, a disjointed murmur that grows louder the longer she listens for it. Her heart seizes. Someone else is here with them-
Her eyes shoot open, frantically searching the dark ceiling for the intruder, before the damp rock underneath her body registers, and she remembers herself. She is back in her chamber. She never left it in the first place.
She closes dizzied eyes and lets her heavy head fall back against the cold surface, panting for air she doesn’t actually need. There are deep gouges in the floor where she must have clawed at it with frenzied desperation. Mutely, she traces her hands across them again, all the madness drained out of her now. The material feels rough and scarred beneath her talons.
Never before has she been this affected by a vision. It unsettles her in ways she cannot quite articulate; it’s not so much the remembered violence of the storm that fazes her, but rather, the deep conviction and trust that had sung in her heart despite such harsh conditions. And it was herself, she understands that intimately – not some alien perspective she was watching from afar, as she is accustomed to, but instead her own thoughts and feelings.
They feel all the more alien for it, though. She has never cared for anyone with such intensity. She hadn’t known she could.
She remembers the endless sea of devotion that had filled her chest, and shudders with numb helplessness. The memory tastes of blasphemy.
There is a new and desperate hunger in her though – some part of her that immediately wishes to feel that confusing emotion again, yearns for it with such force that she suddenly feels faint with its absence.
She scares herself, in that moment.
In the echoing silence of her chamber, the revered Oracle curls up on the frigid stone floor and closes her eyes tight, trying to shut out a world that no longer makes sense to her.