𝒹𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑜𝓃'𝓈 𝒹𝑒𝓃

First for the Fanart Friday polls on my Patreon, here’s Clair from Pokemon Gold/Silver~ 

It was a relief to get away from the busy streets, even if his reprieve only came in the form of a dirty alley.  

The sound of pounding footsteps made him freeze up, mind instantly jumping to the worst possible conclusion. Someone had seen him. How annoying. He’d been hoping not to have to use his powers, but he was used to preparing for the worst. He pressed himself against the wall, and breathed deeply as he gathered his energy. Just as the person pursuing him appeared in the mouth of the mouth of the passageway, Moros vanished into the shadows.

It was the blue-haired woman. The one he’d stolen from. He’d assumed she would be staying on the train for more than just one stop, but apparently he’d been wrong. His ‘worst case’ scenario was becoming more and more real. Well, now the next worst thing that could happen would be if she—or one of her Pokémon—could sense auras. Given her strange appearance and assortment of Poké Balls, Moros couldn’t exactly rule that out. He needed to get out of here, now.

As she screamed and shouted, Moros continued down the alley until he emerged at the other side, then kept going. He’d need to put as much distance in the least obvious direction between himself and the woman as possible before he reappeared. Doubling back might be the smartest move; if he could get down into the subway again he could easily take a train elsewhere. But—then his destination would be set. That could be risky.

As furious as the woman was, Moros wouldn’t be frightened into giving himself up. In fact, he was feeling a little exhilarated by the thought of a chase. It’d been a while since he’d really gotten a chance to push himself, and while he wasn’t rusty by any means, it was always good to have a practical test rather than just running drills.

He’d make his way around Central Plaza, then head down the alleys behind Castelia Street. He’d probably have to stop using his powers at that point, but from there it was only a short way to Thumb Pier—the risk would be minimal. There was an entrance to the city’s sewers there, and Moros knew his way around it better than most. There was no way she’d catch him once he got down there.

With a plan in mind, Moros ducked down another alley in the direction of the Plaza. He moved swiftly, keeping close to the walls and shadows. He couldn’t hear the woman anymore, which was promising. He could feel the Poké Ball weighing heavily in his pocket, and its presence was a reminder of his initial curiosity. All this commotion, and he still didn’t even know what he’d taken. Would it hurt to take a quick look? He certainly had some distance on her, and the obvious advantage of moving without a trace.

He bit his lip. It would be ridiculous to risk his planning by stopping now, but… what if it wasn’t anything special? It could easily be something common in the Poké Ball—something weak with only sentimental value, or something Moros had absolutely no interest in. In that case, he’d be better off ditching it rather than risking a manhunt.

Heart beating fast, he reappeared in the alley and withdrew the Poké Ball. Just a quick look, then he’d be off again. Pushing the button, Moros released the Pokémon. A flash of red, and then a small shape formed on the pavement before him.

Oh. Oh.

His heart nearly stopped at the sight. A black-and-blue Deino was standing with its head angled up at him. It moved around, mouth open and snapping. Moros froze in place, staring in shock. Despite the Pokémon’s small stature, Moros was overcome with thoughts of its much-larger evolution. Dark eyes, bared fangs… it was the stuff of nightmares, and it took Moros precious seconds to remind himself where he was and what he was doing.

He quickly called the dragon back and held the ball in his hand. There was no way he was giving this back. Deino were relatively harmless, but Moros didn’t care how experienced its trainer was: no one—no one—could train a Hydreigon to be anything but a vicious, unthinking murderer. A woman as angry and volatile as the one he’d taken the Deino from could never be trusted with such a dangerous creature.

     Clair’s chest heaved.  The man was gone.  She’d been stupid—she’d let her guard down—and allowed Cain to be stolen.  The little dragon she’d gone extreme lengths to save, the notorious biter who was both sour and sweet.  He was everything and more, and—Clair ran agitated hands through her bangs, a stream of curses coming from her lips.  She was a sorry excuse for a dragon tamer.  Her grandfather’s stern voice chastised her, his thin lips a scar on his face.  Clair breathed heavily.  Covered her face with her hand.

    Joy wouldn’t be able to navigate between these cramped buildings.  Strong as she was, the Salamence just wasn’t agile enough.  Clair’s thumb brushed Rodin’s scratched capsule.  Joy couldn’t, but Rodin could.  She had to get a grip and stop feeling sorry for herself.  She was a dragon-type master, for the gods’ sake.  That silver-haired man stole part of her life.  She’d take it back from his cold, dead hands.

    Self-righteous fury blazed in her heart as Clair tossed Rodin’s Poké Ball into the air.  Charizard materialized in a flash of light, his broad wings spread in all their glory.  He landed beside Clair with a thump, growling contently.  His aquamarine eyes bored into her.  As she stroked his chin, she told him the situation.  Rodin snarled.  Smoke wafted from his throat.  “Let’s get him,” Clair said, hopping on Rodin’s back.  Rodin took to the skies with a mighty roar.

    Soaring around the office towers was effortless. Charizard was an expert in narrow spaces.  Clair kept her eyes on the alleyways—that bastard couldn’t have gone far.  He’d done a dirty, rotten trick.  He wasn’t going anywhere.  She grit her teeth and urged Rodin forward, sailing through the streets at breakneck pace. Rules were thrown out the window—Cain was the only thing that mattered.

    Rodin let out a furious roar and ascended back into the sky. He made a slow loop around Central Plaza, allowing Clair a dragon’s eye view of the ground below.  They’d been flying too long, they should have located the man by now.  Worries gnawed at her heart.  Not yet!  Rodin made one long loop, and then… “THERE!  RIGHT THERE!”

    The silver-haired man had his back to her. Why wasn’t he running?  She urged Rodin faster, faster, she needed to get to him, she needed Cain—and there he was.  Right in front of the silver-haired man: he’d taken his chance and opened Cain’s capsule. Couldn’t resist taking a peek at his prize, found himself rewarded with a dragon.  He probably thought he’d hit the jackpot.

    They reached the man just as he recalled Cain back into the capsule.  “WHAT WERE YOU JUST DOING?!” Clair bellowed, launching herself from Rodin’s back.  She fell several feet, landing hard but kicking off into an expert lunge.  “GIVE HIM BACK!”  Clair raged towards him, arms outstretched, and was just about to get him—

    —when she stumbled and fell, arms empty.  Clair rolled and landed back on her feet.  The silver-haired man stood several feet away from her, face shrouded.  Rodin landed behind him, his eyes piercing.  A snarl ruptured from his throat.

@blessedtamer

Life within the walls of the royal city was, as ever, bustling without halt. Merchants from all over the kingdom and beyond came to peddle wares – ugh, that was a thought from his father. A derogatory statement to those who worked their hardest to share their livelihood, no matter how simple or mundane others may think it is. Lysandre did love it too – there were things here he would never see if he remained on his own in the castle. Exotic pottery and carvings, homemade sculptures and foods which were quaint but delicious.

At least he was not the only one who enjoyed this. He knew well, very well, that it was not very becoming of a Prince to walk in plainer (but not entirely plain) clothing, without guards and in the daylight. That, though, was something he often disregarded. Lysandre enjoyed freedom, even in the tiny tastes he could get beneath his father’s watchful glare. But, when it was his fiance who asked to do this, then he could get away without much – or any – griping. Diantha, dressed down in a simple white dress cut just high enough to draw attention to her, but not high enough to be scandalous, wandered along each booth, hovering over each unique item and speaking to each owner. She made friends quickly, spoke warmly as though she had known them for a long time. It was a skill that came with ease to nobility – Lysandre had it as well, but he hung back more. In this city, his father knew basically each breath he took. If he acted even a bit less than reserved and princely, then he would get an earful.

Still, it was rather adorable the way her eyes glowed and glimmered, the rise of her voice when she found something particularly interesting, the gentle way that she handled objects, with just her fingertips.

Despite how truly terrible it was for him to think it, the thought could not escape his mind; ‘though I do not love her, when she behaves so, I cannot help but adore her.’

Certainly, the thought filled Lysandre with a sense of guilt and self-disgust. Heavens, Diantha was his betrothed, by the gods! Even if he felt nothing for her at this moment, he should continue to try, to find every piece of her which is good and hold onto it as though it would save his life. Perhaps it would; as a man of deep passions and romance, he had to be true to himself or else something within him would wither. So he had to find love, somewhere within this all. Something beyond just the friendship he felt.

“Oh!” Her voice reached its peak high pitch, practically a squeal or sharp intake of breath. Her hands, balled tightly into fists, shot up to her chest and remained there, as though she could not process at all what she was seeing. Lysandre turned his head from a particularly lovely looking glazed pot to her, and then beyond to what she was gaping at.

He, too, froze.

It was a magnificent creature there, tall as he was at its shoulders, with scales shiny, smooth and the color of a deep ocean; blue-green and catching the light in amazing ways, reflecting it into the air as a kaleidoscope of colors. Beside it, a woman, who stood firm and tall and confident, beautiful blue hair waving slowly with each of her motions. One hand rested against the dragon’s side, and the other on her hip, in a fist. She had a commanding presence, confidence that rolled off of her in waves practically visible to the bare eye.

And before her and the dragon – a pair of guards. They seemed to be locked in an argument, something which drew the woman’s hands away from her to gesture furiously. Diantha seemed, however, to not notice the air around at all. She was entirely captivated by the dragon, letting her hands finally fall down. “Its so beautiful. I must get closer -”

Without consulting him at all, she wandered nearer the dragon, who turned its head towards her rapidly. Its eyes were intelligent, understanding and soft. Lysandre felt dread immediately – it looked as though the dragon could understand everything about humans, their words, their feelings. It almost made him melancholy – why was it here, with a chain about its neck, with a woman handler, before people as though it was a spectacle? Probably because somebody demanded it come here to be treated as a spectacle. Something for the city folk to marvel at.

Diantha came around the side of the conflict, wedging herself between the guards and the woman and dragon. Ah, so that appeared to be her plan. Defuse the situation. Of course.

“Pardon me, but I couldn’t help but notice your beautiful friend. Whoa re they?” Diantha’s tone was so pleasant, but she glanced to the side, catching Lysandre’s eyes, urging him to come help. He crossed to her as well, offering a pleasant smile to both the guards and the woman. “Yes. They look quite well tended to. I amm sure with great care and attentiveness.”

Hopefully this would help. Hopefully.

Perhaps he would learn something new too.

      It doesn’t take long before they see her.  One guard nudges the other, and soon they’re staring, their hands dropping to the swords at their hips.  Clair stands straighter.  These bastards were going to give her hell again.  Her hand tightens on Flamefang’s chain.  The dragon hurrs contentedly, gazing at her with his stormy grey eyes.  He doesn’t know where he’s going.  Doesn’t know he’s already been bought and paid for.  As they draw near, the guards begin to shout.

      Clair steels herself for what comes next: the robbery, the groping, the beating.  It was always the same pair of guards: white, snobby, middle-aged men who lived solely for the crown.  Though around the same height, Clair knew the taller one as Potato Nose (for his fat, squishy, warty nose), and the shorter as Pigface (for his fat, pink, rounded face). Potato Nose did the groping. Pigface did the stealing.  Clair grit her teeth and led Flamefang towards the checkpoint.

      “Halt!  State your business.”  Pigface stepped in front of the path, eying the chain linking Clair to the dragon. Potato Nose smirked beside him.

      As much as she wanted to, Clair bit back a retort.  They knew why she was here.  “His humble servant, Clair Takane, wishes to make patronage to His Excellency,” she recited, the words coming out robotic. She motioned to Flamefang.  “I’ve come bearing a gift for the noble lord.”

      The two guards exchanged a glance, broad smiles forming on their faces.  “Yeah? And why should we believe that?” Potato Nose said.

      Potato Nose elbowed his partner.  “Sir Laurence, I think this bitch is trying to pull a fast one on us.”

      Clair shot them a black look.  Took a step back.  These people—!  They had no right.  Not her, not her people, not their dragons, not anything! She tried again, forcing herself to speak as she was forced to by the king himself.  She loathed everything that came out of her mouth.  “Good sirs, you must be mistaken.  His Royal Highness has summoned me to his court.  By rights I should be allowed to pass—”

      “What the king don’t know won’t hurt ‘im,” Pigface laughed.

      He stepped forward, and Clair took a step back.  She forced Flamefang to stand behind her.  “Don’t you fucking think about it!” she cried, all pretense lost.  “Take another step, I dare you!  I’ll claw your eyes out!”

      The guards laughed together.  “As if you would, girl!” Pigface said.  He glanced at his partner, who nodded enthusiastically.  “The king’d have your head!”

      “Try me,” she seethed.

      “Yeah?”

      Clair opened her mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by a petite, brown-haired woman.  She wore an elegant white dress and seemed all too at ease with herself.  She stared at Flamefang as if he were a newborn.  “Pardon me, but I couldn’t help but notice your beautiful friend,” the woman said, meeting Clair’s eyes.  “Who are they?”  The woman nodded to both of the guards, who immediately looked shamefaced.

      She then beckoned to her male companion, and the guard’s whole demeanor changed.  Potato Nose and Pigface jumped to attention, saluted him, and went back to their post. Clair stood deathly still, her jaw set. There was no need to introduce who he was, for his presence gave him away.

      Tall, well-groomed, and reeking of money, the crown prince Lysandre came up next to the woman.  “Yes.  They look quite well tended to,” he said, smiling at the woman.  “I am sure with great care and attentiveness.” As he said this, Lysandre looked Clair’s way.

      Her attention was elsewhere, on the woman’s hands as she stroked Flamefang’s neck.  Clair hated how the dragon—her dragon!—allowed her to touch him like he was somebody’s pet.  Disgusting!  And she could do nothing but stand there!  Her hands balled into fists at her sides.  Flamefang’s chain cut into her palm.

      There was no question now that she’d be late for her meeting with the king.  The fact that she was with his son made no difference.  Clair shut her eyes tight.  Sighed through her nose.  What kind of punishment would she suffer now?  She opened her eyes and glared at the woman.  She was still touching Flamefang—and he was enjoying it!  Fine, whatever, he could make his own decisions—but it wasn’t right.

      Then Clair glared at Lysandre.  That pompous fool didn’t care about anything but luxury.  She’d heard rumors about him, sure, but it was all lies.  She knew how the royal family lived, how they treated their subjects.  How they treated her family.  Clair glowered at the red-haired man with everything she could muster.

      When she answered the woman, she did so without hiding the malice in her voice.  “His name is Flamefang.”  Her gaze slowly drifted to the woman, who now stood and glanced at her.  The brunette smiled a lovely smile, her slender hands stroking just under Flamefang’s jaw.  His favorite spot.  Clair frowned.  She knew who this woman was—Princess Diantha, of the neighboring kingdom.  Betrothed to their very own Prince Lysandre.

      Great.  More royals. “…Your Highness,” she added. Clair’s gaze found itself at Lysandre again.  He glanced quizzically at her.  Bastard.  Knowing this dragon was for his wedding, a special present for his betrothed.  I bet he brought her here to show off.  And she was here as an added bonus.

      Clair had a sickening thought: the Prince Lysandre, taking his fiancée out on a walk, when all of a sudden he has a surprise for Diantha. Careful, he says, to which she giddily giggles at.  He smiles and shows her her dragon, Flamefang, and the peasant dragon keeper who trained him.  What a sight they must be!  Has your kingdom ever possessed a finer creature such as this?  Go on, touch him, for he will be yours soon as we’re married. My father will be happy so long as you’re happy.  I am, too.

      She hated herself for what next came out of her mouth: “My prince, it would be my honor if you were pleased with him.”  Clair bit her cheek, loathing having to submit herself to these people.  While Flamefang enjoyed the attention, Clair didn’t.  She was late, and even later by the minute, but now she was stuck between the kingdom’s son and freedom.  The prince’s opinion of her would trickle back to the king.