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teamflareTitle: So Long as We Can Say
Fandom: Pokémon X&Y
Pairing: Professor Augustine Sycamore/Lysandre
Rating: T
Summary: In the aftermath of victory, Lysandre discovers that triumph without peril indeed brings no glory. In more ways than one.
Notes: This is the fic, the one I started early on in the fandom, abandoned a year later, and then finished EIGHT YEARS after posting the first chapter. It's also the starting point for a whole series. Warning for Major Character Death (although it doesn't last) and heavy angst, especially in the early chapters. This is a story about Lysandre succeeding in his plans and then having a really bad time about it. Title is from Shakespeare's King Lear.
AO3 Link: Here.
Had it been a month, or three, or a week, or a second, Lysandre often thought. The world suddenly seemed so slow and small now that they were the only ones left populating it. Perhaps it truly was.
So it had been a month, or two maybe, when the "snow" first fell on Lumiose City. By most accounts, it had the appearance of snow, though it lacked its coolness. Of course, actual snow was rare in Lumiose, even in winter, usually reserved for the more mountainous parts of the region. What began falling from the sky instead were ashes, carried by the wind: ashes of burnt corpses and burnt buildings and burnt trees. The desecrated remains of the old world coming to cover the new one. In other circumstances, Lysandre might have found it poetic.
It was after the first "snowfall" that the lower recruits started whispering about a strange figure who roamed around the capital whom they'd dubbed "the giant" due to their imposing height. As far as Lysandre was concerned, those were just rumors; he had never seen the so-called "giant" and, although he was the sole bearer of this knowledge, those who claimed to have seen them wouldn't be the first to have borne witness to made-up things.
Not that this thought brought him any kind of comfort. Sycamore was heavy on his back whenever it crossed his mind. Perhaps they were all doomed to see things that weren't there, slowly filling the now empty world with imaginary ghosts.
Sometime after the incident with Mable, likely not much more than a week, Lysandre received a call from Bryony informing him that the blue-haired scientist wanted to talk. He had been – consciously or not – avoiding her. She had been as well, maybe; he couldn't be sure.
He'd spent most of his time discussing their future plans with Xerosic and Malva, sitting together in dark offices, watching from the corner of their eyes the way the ashes outside the window danced in the wind. They weren't Team Flare anymore, really. They were the start of a new world.
It hadn't been easy at first, ignoring Sycamore's constant badgering during these meetings, his desperate pleas for attention; yet soon enough he'd once again mastered the art of indifference. He shivered still when he felt cold fingers on the back of his neck or cold breath on his cheek, but he could maintain his composure well enough. Still, the effort left him exhausted, so much so that he'd had to compromise and sleep little by little to avoid the recurring nightmares.
The fire in his mind seemed never-ending.
With all of these preoccupations, casually avoiding Mable hadn't proven much of a challenge – although whenever he so much as spotted her, Sycamore would suddenly grab at his throat, choking him almost.
He swiftly recorded a reply to Bryony, agreeing to see her later in the day in front of the café. He needed fresh air, even if said air carried the ashes of burnt corpses. He scanned his empty office and thought about what he was going to do in the meantime. He had slept for around two hours; that was probably enough. He felt a weight against him suddenly, like someone hugging him from behind, clutching at his chest. He grabbed his chair to prevent himself from falling.
"Lys..." Sycamore breathed against his back, using the nickname he had never uttered when he was alive.
When the real Sycamore was alive.
"Aren't you tired, Lys? Let's rest together, okay?"
His gentle tone was more painful than any of his coldest accusations. Lysandre felt like his heart was about to implode. Instead, a wave of nausea washed over him.
"Not now," he groaned, tightening his grip around the chair until his fingers began to hurt. "I don't have time for you."
Sycamore let go of him, slowly.
"You always say that. You never have time for me. You never had."
Suddenly he was in Lysandre's face, grasping at it, pinching a cheek, pressing on his eye sockets, trying to force fingers inside his mouth. Lysandre struggled and gagged, desperately trying to push him away – but a few seconds later it was finished, as quickly as it'd started. His shoulders heaved as he bent over in front of his desk in pain or anguish, or perhaps a mix of both.
"You're no fun," Sycamore spat, and then he was gone, leaving Lysandre finally alone and out of breath.
Maybe he did need more sleep.
*
When he got out at noon and saw Mable waiting for him, the first thing he noticed was that her face was very red. Faces seemed like open books once they were no longer protected by a visor; perhaps hiding her face for so long had made her forget how to hide her emotions.
He walked up to her with no intention to take her by surprise, yet as soon as she noticed him she let out a gasp as if he'd appeared fully formed from the shadows. She forced a smile, looking everywhere except at his face.
"Thank you for coming," she said, almost solemn, as if this was some sort of official meeting about a professional matter.
She pressed her lips together, surely waiting for Lysandre to speak, but he had no idea what she expected him to say. He simply waited for her to explain what she wanted to talk about. The incident, of course; but what was there left to discuss?
"I wanted to apologize for punching you," she continued, mumbling half the words, her put-on smile sliding into a grimace. "It was inappropriate..."
"I don't need an apology," Lysandre said gently – or at least as gently as he could. "I understand your frustration with our current situation. I fear I may have aggravated your anger," he admitted. She finally looked up to look him in the eyes. "I'm the one who owes you an apology."
"I punched you!" She'd raised her voice. A grunt who was crossing the nearby street stopped to stare at them until he realized Lysandre was involved and hastily went on his way.
"It's alright. I'm fine, as you can see."
Mable frowned, and Lysandre remembered the expression on her face when she'd hit him.
"I don't understand you," she let out finally, her eyes once again glued to the ground between them.
"What do you mean?"
"You've changed. The Lysandre from before... before the machine went off... would have scolded me. He would have never let this go unpunished!"
Lysandre's eyebrows rose. "Do you want to be punished?"
The effect was immediate: her face flushed, her cheeks taking on a warm pink color. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Slowly, she shook her head.
"The Mable from before wouldn't have punched me, either," he went on, "so this is irrelevant. We've all changed."
Avoiding his gaze still, she took a step toward him.
"But you changed especially. I thought... once you'd get what you wanted... what we wanted! I thought you'd be happy."
"Well, this has proven more complicated than I'd bargained for," Lysandre said, trying to read her expression. "Perhaps this world isn't shaping up exactly as I wanted."
Her traits contorted into something that was between disbelief and anger – or was it disgust?
"The Lysandre from before would have never admitted he was wrong."
She tilted her head slightly, seemingly deep in thoughts.
"That's what changed, isn't it?"
Despite himself, Lysandre scoffed. "Is that an issue? If I couldn't recognize my own limitations now, I'd be a poor excuse for a leader."
That did nothing to temper the storm brewing in her eyes. She still wasn't looking at him, but now she appeared to steel herself, balling her fists as if she was going to punch him again.
"I don't understand you," she repeated, her voice laced with bitterness. "I don't know how I can find the words to..."
She let her voice trail off. Her expression softened until all that was left there was a sour sort of sadness that Lysandre thought he'd been seeing a lot lately. He took a step toward her because no matter what had come between them or what Bryony had told him, he couldn't afford to upset her. She didn't deserve to feel this way, to bear such a resigned air of defeat.
As if his movement had awakened something in her, she took a step toward him as well, until they were so close that all she had to do was hold him by the shoulders – and push herself up until she could press her lips against his.
Lysandre blinked. As he slowly registered the warm feeling, he felt hands around his neck and a body against his back, grinding against him, and the gravelly sound of Sycamore's voice right against his ear.
"Are you cheating on me?"
He pushed her away – too brusquely. He was shaking. He didn't want to look at her face.
"I thought..." He heard her say through the ringing in his ears.
"You're making a mistake," Lysandre cut her off, his voice low and harsh, his breathing uneven. Sycamore wouldn't let go of his throat.
"Why?" He looked at her even though he had no desire to. Her face bore more confusion than anger. "What's wrong with me? I thought... w–we could... you and me... there aren't many people left..."
Had Sycamore not been crushing his windpipe, Lysandre might have laughed at that. So Bryony had told the truth: Mable was envisioning herself as his bride, his chosen one among chosen ones. He imagined them together, king and queen of Team Flare, and felt light-headed. Her expression tinted with some alarm.
"What are you suggesting, exactly?" he choked out. His difficulty breathing made expressing his own anger near impossible.
In a desperate and meaningless gesture, he raised his hands to his neck to try and make Sycamore let go.
"All that's left of the old world is ashes," Mable said. Her eyes shone like she was about to cry but she stood very straight, enunciating each word firmly. "I thought we could– grow closer. You are a fine man. Pining for the dead serves no purpose!"
Her words resonated inside his skull, piercing through the veil of his own madness. He felt Sycamore's presence dispersing before vanishing completely. He touched his throat lightly, grazing his neck with his fingertips.
Mable paled. She could see something in his demeanor suddenly that seemed to terrify her, placating her demands. Lysandre wondered what he looked like, how obvious it was that he'd been carrying the burden of a particular death on his back. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then walked up to him again as if she was afraid he might topple over.
"I'm sorry," she said and he could hear the strain in her voice like she was fighting back tears. "I shouldn't have–"
"Forget it," he cut her off before she could bring it up again. He blinked until the ground began feeling steadier under his feet. "Punching me, and everything else."
"Boss..."
Her voice had lost the confidence she'd gained from the kiss. He felt bad for having to be so harsh. She wasn't a child, but she had more life and hope in her than he did. None of what was happening was her fault. She was just trying to cope with it.
"As you are," Sycamore muttered in the wind, suddenly there again, his hand heavy on Lysandre's shoulder, like the icy claws of a murkrow bearing bad news.
He thought about his honchkrow. Mable was still looking at him, unsure of what to do.
The ashes were falling from the sky, carried in their direction by a gust of wind. Lysandre found himself craving the icy weather of Snowbelle City, longing to get away from the capital and all that had transpired there. If only he could be alone, he thought. If he could be free of his ghost and free of all the expectations he'd willingly let others put upon himself, maybe he'd be able to fix all of this. If he could lie down in the cold snow and sleep...
He felt delirious, and judging by the way Mable was frowning she could feel it too.
"I need to be alone," he said, the words escaping him before he could stop them.
"Are you sure?" Mable asked. She was still close enough to steady him if need be.
"Yes." He attempted a smile with not much hope of success. "Please," he added before she could speak again, "don't worry about me."
"All I'm good for is making things worse, aren't I?" she mumbled. Lysandre shook his head but she wasn't looking at him.
She touched her face as if she expected her visor to be there. Her lips curled downward when her fingers only met uncovered flesh.
"I'm sorry again. Please don't overdo it." She tried her best to smile, looking at nothing in particular. "I... care about you. Boss."
With that she was gone, her boots hitting the pavement hard in her haste to leave. Lysandre wondered whether she'd go vent to Aliana about his behavior, or if she'd tell Bryony she'd tried to confess but instead messed everything up. He sighed, sending flecks of ashes flying away from his face.
Love, Lysandre thought. All that's left of it is ashes.
*
After Mable's attempt at a confession, Sycamore became unbearable.
He'd spill an endless flow of insults and reproaches and blames, and he'd hit him hard when he was discussing their progress with Xerosic, and he'd scratch at his face or chest when he was praying with Bryony, and he'd yell and cry and yell and laugh whenever Lysandre so much as opened his mouth to speak in public.
It left Lysandre feeling trapped, constantly struggling to keep himself together even as he could see himself teetering closer and closer to the edge. To top it all off, his mind had devised a twist to his usual nightmares: now, in-between dreams of roaring fire and destruction, Lysandre would dream he was in a forest, chasing what he first thought to be Xerneas, but always turned out to be Sycamore. Even as he realized who his prey really was, the Lysandre in his dreams would not hesitate. When he raised his left hand he would have claws, and with them, he would cut off his head.
Unlike the nightmares involving fire, Sycamore was never there when he woke up. He was always alone, forced to think back to what he had done in his sleep.
One night, when he'd had to give up on avoiding rest and slept in a proper bed, he woke up with a start before he could deal the final blow. He stared at the ceiling until the incomprehensible cacophony inside his head became unbearable. He stood up too fast, stumbling, and looked for clothes warm enough to protect him from the winter air. The clock on the wall, or what he could discern of it through the darkness, read one hour after midnight.
As soon as he stepped outside, the fresh air – still polluted by the lingering ashes – helped him let go of the dread left by the dream. In the sky above Lumiose, he could see more stars than he would have expected.
That was when he first saw him, standing in front of the remains of the Prism Tower.
The giant.
Could he be real – or could they all be dreaming up the same man? But he'd dreamed up a man already, and he didn't need another.
The stranger's nickname was well deserved. Even from afar, Lysandre could tell that he was almost twice his size. He could not see his face, but he could see a mass of light hair emerging from a plain hat. There was something oddly soothing about this man. Lysandre felt drawn to his presence, despite his circumspection. Before he could focus further on the strangeness of the situation, he took a step forward. Then another. Then another.
The sound of his shoes against the pavement echoed until they reached the giant.
He turned around.
His face carried a harshness that made it so that he seemed both very tough and very soft. He was old, but there could be doubt whether his wrinkles had been caused by age, or worry. When he spotted the red-haired silhouette in the glow of the stars, he smiled.
Lysandre stopped walking.
Who was this man? He felt familiar, perhaps in the way that your brain could make you believe in your friendship with a stranger within a dream; he was sure he would remember ever meeting such a character in this reality. One rarely met four-meters-tall men in their lives. Perhaps he truly was another hallucination, or maybe Lysandre was still dreaming in his bed.
Noticing he had stopped, the giant's smile grew larger.
"Bonsoir," he said, his voice deep, tinted with an accent that Lysandre couldn't quite place.
Sycamore was constantly talking to him, so speech was no proof. The stranger took a step toward him.
"I am not a product of your mind if that is what worries you."
Of course, Sycamore had never denied that he was made up, but was that truly enough–
"You don't have to believe me, I suppose. I wanted to talk to you."
Lysandre opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. In the icy air of the lumiosian night, he could feel sweat running down his back.
"Who are you?" he asked, taking half a step backward.
"My name is AZ."
Lysandre frowned. "AZ? The king from that old legend?"
"Is it a legend?" the giant retorted, still smiling softly. His long hair was swinging in the wind.
Belatedly realizing that he was letting the man's strange words and appearance disturb him, Lysandre shook his head.
"Why are you here? You shouldn't be alive."
The simple statement made the giant's smile disappear. He lowered his gaze. His somber face, all of its parts seemingly having drooped down at once, showed an emotion that Lysandre could only describe as great despair.
"Indeed, I shouldn't be, but I am. Don't you share these thoughts?"
Unsure of what the giant meant, Lysandre said nothing.
"You who worked toward activating the machine after we had worked so hard to bury it far away from the eyes of corrupt men... should you be alive?"
Lysandre started walking toward him again in an attempt to study him more closely, squinting. "Why shouldn't I be? I need to fix what I've done."
"What a proud answer," the giant said, his smile back on his face. "I am glad to hear it."
They'd steadily gotten a lot closer to each other. Lysandre didn't know it was possible to be this tall. There was something inhuman about it, yet he felt no threat. If anything, the giant was the most peaceful being he had run into in the last few months. Still, there was an air about him that made Lysandre feel like he was missing something. Now that he was so near, he could perfectly see the clothes he was wearing. They were dirty and in bad shape. They looked like they could barely cover his body. Finally managing to look away, Lysandre shook his head slowly.
"That still doesn't tell me how you've survived," he insisted, lifting his head to search for his eyes. The giant held his gaze calmly. Having to look up at someone was surprisingly embarrassing. It made Lysandre feel small and helpless, similar to when Sycamore was haunting him.
The ghost of his former friend, for once, was thankfully absent.
"I've lived through it before. My own creation can't destroy me any more than it already has."
The giant's voice was deep, and Lysandre had the odd thought that it reminded him of his father's father. He was still smiling, but there was no trace of happiness in his eyes.
Lysandre looked away, puzzled. Was he confronting a madman? A four-meters-tall madman? Could such a coincidence exist? He smirked – or tried to, but instead achieved an expression closer to someone having eaten something particularly bitter.
"Are you really trying to make me believe that you're AZ, the old king? I'm sorry to say this, you look very impressive, but you'll need better arguments to–"
There came a rustling sound, and Lysandre looked up to see the giant taking out a key he had hidden under his clothes. A key he had only seen before in illustrations, accompanying legends about the weapon.
"–convince me?" He stumbled over his words, staring at the key in disbelief. "Are you serious? What is this?"
"Something you were looking for, I believe," AZ said, his tone pointedly neutral. "An artifact needed to activate a machine. A machine that it seems you managed to break into even without the artifact."
Lysandre couldn't help but balk at that. "That's preposterous! You don't exist!"
Unexpectedly, AZ started laughing, a booming sound that resonated in the streets and seemed to make the whole plaza vibrate.
"A lot of things you believe do not exist do, boy. Here, take it."
He dropped the key, and Lysandre caught it, almost toppling over, still staring, unable to believe what he was seeing.
"There's no need for it anymore in this world," AZ went on, bitterness tinting every word. "My brother should have made sure the whole apparatus had been destroyed... made sure no one could be foolish enough to make it work once more."
"Foolish," Lysandre repeated, his eyes fixated on the key.
The ashes from the sky were slowly falling on it and in his open palms. They were cold, like everything else.
"I'm sorry." Lysandre was surprised to hear himself say these words.
The giant sighed. "A long time ago... A very long time ago... I was sorry, as well. But being sorry is not enough."
"I know," Lysandre whispered.
They said nothing for what felt like hours to him, standing still under the falling ashes, the key now warm in his open hands. He surprised himself by thinking about Sycamore – his Sycamore, the ghost one. Where was he? This should have been the perfect occasion to remind him of all he had ruined... but in the presence of the giant, Lysandre felt at peace. There was something comforting about knowing they had both been wrong to such a terrifying point.
"Why did you do it?" AZ asked suddenly, and the peace in Lysandre's mind seemed to break away. He thought he felt a hand on his shoulder but when he looked, no one was there. Nothing was there.
He dropped the key on the ground. It made a noise as it hit the cold pavement that Lysandre found terrifying without being able to pinpoint why – until a memory flickered in his mind's eye, that of the machine falling apart, of the fear and exhaustion on Xerosic's face as the pipes collapsed around them.
"I thought it was what I was meant to do," he said slowly, before kneeling to pick up the key.
"I acted out of anger, but you acted out of pride. How fitting," AZ remarked. His tone was nowhere near judgmental, but Lysandre felt uneasy. He had never thought of what he had done as a result of pride, but the ancient king was right.
It was his misplaced faith in the idea that he had been chosen to lead the elite toward a new, better world that caused him to build his plans. That, and the conviction that a new war would soon break out if the population kept rising.
Sycamore – the real one, although he was worried conjuring his memory might cause the ghost to appear – thought that humans would always find a way to share resources. That if a catastrophe was to happen, they would rise against it as one, with the help of pokémons. He'd never discussed Lysandre's ideas – though Lysandre had rarely if ever shared them fully in his presence – instead offering his own more optimistic suggestions, perhaps in an attempt to appease him.
He felt something jabbing at his side suddenly, a warm breath against his neck, and sighed almost in relief.
Sycamore laughed in his ear in reply.
"You're late," Lysandre said to him, barely noticing he was addressing the ghost while around another person. He thought AZ wouldn't hear, but the giant leaned forward a little as if to see whether someone else was there.
"Who are you talking to?" he asked.
"It said in the legends that you were angry because your companion, Floette, had died," Lysandre replied, louder. "Do you still care for her?"
AZ made a sound from the back of his throat like a laugh – or a sob.
"She's always on my mind. I wish she would come back to me..."
It occurred to Lysandre then that had this been a possibility, he'd further tainted it with his actions. Why would Floette, who'd turned her back on the friend who'd gathered the energy of the dead to resurrect her, who'd killed in vengeance with that same energy, come back to this twice-broken world? What was left for her, for them?
Even though he owed this strange man nothing, Lysandre felt compelled to lie, to ease the pressure of Sycamore's presence with hopeful words he didn't even believe in.
"I'm sure she will once she's ready," he said, watching the giant tilt his head slightly.
"I'm humbled by your certainty." There was definitely a hint of something akin to sarcasm in AZ's tone. Lysandre figured he deserved it.
Sycamore's fingers were running through his hair, his breathing ragged against Lysandre's ear as if he was a dying pokémon struggling to stay alive. It often felt unbearable to go through this torment in front of someone else, but it felt especially overpowering in front of this man in particular and his razor-sharp eyes who seemed able to see what was going on. He looked as if he wanted to say something about it when Lysandre spoke, much louder than necessary.
"I'm afraid we have to part for now. Perhaps we can meet again."
"I know we will," AZ said with confidence, mirroring perhaps on purpose the certainty he'd noted in Lysandre earlier – and without any further ado, even as Lysandre was the one who was moving to leave, he turned around and disappeared in a nearby street, his tall silhouette still detaching itself from the shadows of the night.
Lysandre ignored Sycamore's prodding on the way back to his room, too caught up in his thoughts. The key he still held on to felt both too warm and too cold in his hands. When he passed the threshold of the doorway, Sycamore disappeared, leaving him alone once more. In the back of his mind, where the ghost surely lurked, Lysandre thought his absence left him somehow feeling lonely.
When he fell back asleep in his bedroom until morning, keeping the key tucked against him with both hands, Lysandre dreamed of a red plain where a tall man and a small pokémon reunited happily after being apart for thousands of years.
*
"I'm worried about you."
He didn't want to face her, not really, but he had to – it was two days after his meeting with AZ, two days he had gone through in a daze, barely registering what he was doing, barely acknowledging Sycamore's touch and snide remarks. It felt like a long time had passed since he'd last prayed with Bryony.
Her eyes betrayed her mood. She did seem worried – he wished she would just cover her face again, let him ignore how she felt so he didn't have to feel guilty about it.
"Talk to me," she pleaded.
Lysandre pressed his lips together before answering.
"I'm fine, really. We've been steadily making progress toward the reconstruction and everything is going as smoothly as possible, there's no need to..."
She grabbed his arm. The physical contact from another being that wasn't a construct made up in his head startled him.
"Lysandre. I'm worried about you, not how smoothly things are going. I've been trying to talk to you in private since I met up with Mable..."
"Oh." Lysandre blinked. "What did she tell you?"
Bryony pursed her lips, her expression carrying a mix of embarrassment and concern. "She told me she tried to make her feelings more obvious and you reacted poorly."
"She kissed me," Lysandre started to protest. Bryony squeezed his arm, shaking her head slowly.
"I know. I never thought she'd do that... I don't think she did, either."
Lysandre scoffed, but then Bryony was staring right at him again with that air of worry.
"That's not what I wanted to talk to you about, though."
"I know," he said softly. It felt like Sycamore could appear at any moment, looming over them like the phantom he wanted to be.
Bryony bit her lower lip and sighed.
"You've been acting strange since... he died. I know how hard it's been, and we've helped each other through it, but... you're hiding something, aren't you?"
There he was.
Standing behind her, his hair swinging slowly in the non-existent wind – they were in his office, for Arceus' sake.
Sycamore smiled.
Looking back at Bryony, who had noticed his glance, he thought about the day he buried Sycamore. He thought about the useless, weightless objects that used to be pokéballs holding his team. He thought about the giant. He thought about the key he kept hidden in the inner pocket of his jacket at all times.
There was a hand on his shoulder and another on his chest and another smoothing his back and another squeezing his arm and that was the one he needed to focus on. The real one.
"It's subtle, but I noticed, and Malva noticed, and I think Xerosic did also. I didn't want to talk to you about it... I thought maybe it was part of your grieving process, but it's become alarming." She had spoken slowly at first, then faster and faster as if she thought she might not find the strength to say it otherwise.
"I'm fine," Lysandre managed to spit out, his voice as firm as it had ever been – at least back before everything had fallen apart. "It's fine."
Bryony frowned, letting go of his arm to grab his jacket with both hands, her face held up high and her eyes getting wet.
"No, you're not! Don't lie!" she cried out, making him gasp. "I've seen how you act: you pretend everything is fine so you can keep on leading us and giving orders but I've seen, and Malva has seen, and Xerosic, and others I'm sure, the way you shudder sometimes for no good reason, the way you stare at walls, the way you sometimes mumble to yourself as if talking to someone. You're so tense, you always seem like you're on the verge of breaking apart, drinking coffee after coffee to hide the fact you don't want to sleep. Wake up!" she yelled, her voice a little hoarse. "We've talked about this before, we need you to stay together and you need us to not... fall apart..."
Lysandre breathed in slowly. Short bursts of air like short bursts of life. If he could calm down... get Sycamore away... but instead he felt the weight of his non-existent body shift closer against his back.
"I'm sorry," he said, empty words for empty ghosts built on empty promises.
"You know that's not what I want to hear." She was still looking at his face. He wanted to claw at it, make it disappear. Surely a faceless leader was better for serving such a great cause – but it wasn't the cause that mattered in the end. He felt her squeeze his arm again. "I want to help you. This can't go on."
"You're right," Lysandre sighed, and admitting it felt like surrendering himself to death, or to a despair similar to the one he'd seen on the old king's face. "This can't go on, but how do you expect me to fix it? None of what we worked so hard to build matters now. Malva is going to die... most of us are. I've doomed us all."
Sycamore was gently caressing his neck, light fingers brushing against his pulse. In other circumstances, in another time, with a Sycamore who was alive and real, he might have found the gesture erotic. It just made the way it felt now even worse.
With a soft sigh, Bryony leaned against him, her face once again pressed against the fabric of his overpriced jacket.
"Don't say that. That doesn't help. We'll figure things out. Malva is obviously stronger than you are, anyway."
Prior to everything that had occurred, he might have been upset or even angered by the insinuation, but in that moment he chuckled, feeling the sensation of fingers against his skin fading away.
"Tell me about him," she said, once the silence had settled. Lysandre closed his eyes.
"I see him all the time. I know he's not real."
"If you know he's not real then why don't you let go?" Her face rose again; she had cried a little. He couldn't see it, but he could smell it, damp and salty. "It's not healthy. It won't bring him back."
"It's better than not having him at all, I suppose."
"That's what I thought as well, but that's not true. You have us instead. We're real."
He felt fingers somewhere against his temple and opened his eyes – but it was Bryony, her hand resting against the side of his face.
"We don't need to carry all these ashes by ourselves. You know that."
"Of course." A whisper, a sigh.
She tried to smile, a bit too sadly perhaps.
"Come eat with us. You've stayed hidden in that dusty office for so long... One of the teams charged with cleaning up the buildings found all kinds of food rations a few days ago. We can share."
Sharing... the word made him think of Sycamore's optimistic smile.
"Alright." He cleared his throat. "Let's see how those taste."
She smiled, and this time her whole face beamed with it. Optimism, Lysandre thought. Perhaps the one thing fire couldn't take from us.
*
The food they'd prepared tasted stale against his tongue, like leftovers from the back of a cupboard, perhaps because that was in essence what it was. Were he still living in a world that hadn't been turned inside out and hastily reconstructed piece by piece, he could picture himself laughing in disdain at the very prospect of eating it – but sitting between Malva and Bryony, watching everyone else enjoy a quiet moment sharing a meal, it felt like the best thing he'd eaten in a long, long time.
He shuffled on his seat, finding it difficult to settle in a comfortable position, and felt the coldness of the giant's key in his inner pocket, pressing against the fabric of his shirt. He thought about touching it, to soothe his nerves. Instead, he held on to his fork a little more firmly. He wanted to take solace in this moment without letting himself be distracted by idle gestures.
Bryony turned toward him.
"Sorry this is sub-par compared to what we used to serve," she said after swallowing a forkful of rice. "I think our recruits did their best, all things considered."
"It's alright," Lysandre replied, resisting the urge to fumble in his jacket for the key. He needed to see the giant again as soon as possible.
"They wanted to impress you. You should congratulate them after the meal."
"I'll be sure to do that, then." He smiled. He felt more like himself – the self that he needed to be to go through this unscathed – surrounded by people. Here, he was strong. He could lead, as long as people would follow. Alone with Bryony, he found himself too easily drawn toward his own weaknesses.
It was still better than being on his own with only his made-up ghost as company.
He felt a hand on his arm and turned his head to see what Malva wanted. She had that confident glimmer in her eyes again. That was a relief. He needed this Malva to be in charge.
"You look good," she said with a smile. "I'm glad you decided to join us. They need to see you, you know. We all do."
Wasn't that strange, thinking back – that as much as he had rejected the idea that humans could unite to try and make the world a better place, instead deciding that there was nothing else they could do but start over, unity was what was making them strive in the end? Of course, perhaps it was easier to unite when you were already under the same banner...
"I'm glad to be here. We're making good progress, I think."
"They're still fighting a lot, and it's still ugly, but it could be a lot worse. We'll move past this and make Kalos into the beautiful world it was always meant to be!"
Lysandre tried to keep his smile as sincere as he could even as he felt a sense of unease overtake him. He did not want Sycamore to come back here and now. He did not want to leave abruptly, either.
Instead, he turned back toward Bryony. This time, she didn't notice his turmoil right away, and instead of attempting to get her attention, Lysandre watched her laugh and chat with Aliana sitting next to her. Mable wasn't very far, caught up in a hushed discussion with one of the admins. Seeing her reminded Lysandre of what had happened between them prior. The look on her face as she pleaded for him to move on from whatever kept him tied to the dead. The foreign feeling of lips pressed against his own. He felt his stomach clench.
Lysandre had eaten quite a few meals in the company of Augustine Sycamore, most of which he had prepared himself. The professor often forgot to eat, too caught up in this or that, leaving Lysandre to take care of him. He was always so thankful for anything others would do for him, a nice change from people whom Lysandre had tried to help and who had barely cared about it. Thinking about the soft expression on Sycamore's face as he would thank him only served to worsen his nausea.
He wasn't very hungry anymore. A pity. He cleared his throat and Bryony gave a small start.
"Sorry," she said, turning toward him once more.
"No need to apologize. I was observing you." He kept his eyes on her face, the sight of food suddenly unpleasant. "What were you talking about?"
Bryony smiled. Her cheeks had taken on a rosy tint. "Oh, nothing much. Aliana has her eyes on one of our recruits, it seems. She wanted advice, but I'm mostly used to wooing women."
She played with her food, spreading some of the rice around, hesitant. Lysandre did his best to look away. He breathed in sharply when she dropped her fork against her plate, the shrilling noise upsetting his senses. He willed himself to relax a little.
"What about you?" she asked, her smile too wide. Smug, maybe.
"What about me?" Lysandre repeated, frowning.
"Do you have experience wooing women... or men?"
He made a face like he'd just swallowed something very sour. It made her giggle, a happy sound she covered with her hand.
"Well," Lysandre said.
"Well?" She leaned forward. There was no way other people at their table hadn't heard what they were discussing.
Lysandre picked up his fork again before remembering he wasn't hungry anymore.
"I suppose you could say that, though perhaps not as you mean it," he said, picking each word carefully.
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"I'm experienced in 'wooing' people to get them to trust me. My mother said I was born charismatic."
Bryony let out a giggle, surely entertained by the idea of a baby Lysandre with great charisma.
"Not in the romantic sense, then, is what you meant," she said once she'd calmed down a little.
"No, not in the romantic sense, I'm afraid, although I'm sure it's had that effect once or twice."
He sounded sadder about it than he'd meant to be, and he could see that she'd heard it, and he could tell what she was going to say before she opened her mouth.
"What about the professor? Did you woo him?"
Lysandre tried to smile.
"It did not take much to woo Professor Sycamore. He is... was... an easily impressed man." He felt nauseous again, trapped in the anticipation of a surprise appearance from his ghost.
"You're not giving yourself enough credit," Bryony retorted softly, putting her hand on his arm, searching for his eyes. "You're the most impressive person I've had the pleasure to know."
"The pleasure," Lysandre repeated slowly. "Bryony, there's something I need to tell you."
Her smile faded upon hearing the serious tone of his voice. She nodded.
"Let me finish my plate." She picked up her fork, but then she tilted her head in his direction again to add, "We should pray tonight."
Lysandre said nothing, but she knew his silence was an agreement.
He waited for her outside of the building they had picked to hold their meal breaks because he couldn't bear being around the others anymore. It felt like a cold chill – or maybe it was the wind.
He had a thought, quick and ridiculous: he wanted Sycamore to come back, even as a tormenting presence. The ghost, demon, apparition, was an anchor of sorts, grounding him, reminding him of what he had ruined, of what he had to work hard to build again–
–or maybe he missed feeling soft, cold fingers against the skin of his neck, waiting there as if to strangle him should the occasion present itself.
Definitely the wind.
He watched the leaves of the trees lining up the dark streets of Lumiose flutter slowly against the night sky and did not move when he heard the door open behind him.
"I'm sorry," Bryony said softly. She really did seem sorry, but there was nothing to be sorry for.
"Why?" Lysandre asked, unmoving still.
She took a few steps toward him, mindful not to get too close in case it wasn't what he wanted from her. "For mentioning him even though you told me how it pained you earlier today. It was a mistake. I was trying to cheer you up and..."
"It's fine," Lysandre cut her off. He turned around to look at her.
"Is he... here?"
Her voice had a strange ring to it as if she was afraid of his made-up phantom.
"No." There was no need for further details. Bryony smiled, relieved.
She breached the distance that was left between them to put her hand on his arm and looked up at him.
"What did you want to talk to me about?"
Lysandre found himself avoiding her eyes, but she pressed on until their gazes met. Unable to find the words for what he wanted to confess, he thought back to when they had first met: she had seemed so young then, yet surprisingly brilliant and oh so full of life. He could tell right away she found him intimidating because she'd spent the whole interview carefully avoiding looking at him directly. It seemed like centuries had passed since then.
"I met the giant."
Bryony frowned. "Oh, so he is real, then? I figured he was born out of mass hysteria or something." Her frown deepened further as she pondered the matter more closely. "If he's real and alive, does that mean some pokémons could have survived? I know we don't want them to be used by humans, but the ecosystems..."
"Bryony," Lysandre interrupted her. He searched through his jacket and took out the key.
She stopped talking once she spotted the artifact. He remembered his own reaction to it: a legendary item they had all only admired through drawings and schematics.
"That's..."
She held out her arm, and he gave her the key. Her hand was warm.
"Bryony, the reason why the machine collapsed is that we forced it to work."
She looked down at the key. There was more Lysandre felt he had to tell, but he closed his mouth.
They said nothing for a long time.
"I thought..." Bryony spoke finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "When Xerosic said you found a way, I thought he meant we found the key or a substitute."
"We found a way to kick-start the machine that overrode the need of a key, but it seems more than that was overridden."
"So," she replied but said nothing more.
He moved to get closer to her. "I'm–"
"Don't." She shook her head, her bangs hitting the sides of her face. "I know. We're all sorry."
She lifted the key and pressed it against her lips. Her hands were shaking slightly.
"I don't... I don't want to blame you. It's pointless. It won't bring her back. It won't bring anyone back. It won't... make things go back to the way they were."
She was not crying, and her voice, although trembling, lacked any strong emotion. With her face turned down and her hair in the way, he couldn't see her expression.
"We have to move forward, and up. We can do great things. As we were meant to do. Right?"
She slowly lowered the key, away from her. Her eyes were closed but somehow, Lysandre felt her looking straight at him.
"Yes."
Bryony smiled.
She let him take the key back. Her hand was cold.
"Did you ever look at someone and think, I want to stay with this person until we're both old enough to not care about anything else anymore?"
Lysandre clenched his fist around the key. "I don't know. Maybe."
He thought about cold arms and dark hair and pale eyes, and promises he'd never let himself make.
"Sometimes I can't sleep and I wonder how I can still be there when she's not. I should have grabbed her quicker to run out of the room. I should have pushed her away when it got too bad. I should have been crushed by that ceiling instead of her."
"Bryony..."
She shook her head again. She was still smiling.
"I know. It's pointless."
Lysandre carefully placed the key back inside his pocket. He felt a hand against his shoulder, but she was too far away from him.
"Missed me?" The whisper made him shiver – or maybe it was the wind.
"If you could go back and change things, would you do it?" Bryony asked suddenly. He noticed she was still shaking and realized that in her hurry to meet up with him she hadn't even put her coat on. She had to be freezing.
"Yes," he said right as Sycamore exclaimed "No!" way too close to his ear. He couldn't stop himself from wincing.
"I think that's why I pray," Bryony said pensively, oblivious to his predicament. "If the giant is real, then maybe someone is listening... maybe someone can help us fix this."
Sycamore laughed, but Lysandre did not react. Bryony was right. Born from the ashes, perhaps a hope could exist... as long as they chose to believe in it.
He followed her back inside in silence. The sounds of people finishing their meals lowered upon their arrival. Taking advantage of the fact that all eyes were on him, Lysandre opened his arms wide and smiled at his teammates.
"Everyone, thank you for your attention! I am endlessly grateful for your dedication to the monumental task of making this world better, aiming further and further toward perfection."
Bryony chuckled behind him. Sycamore was lying against his back lazily, saying nothing.
"Let us all keep our chins up and work harder every day to strive all together. Kalos, as it is now, is but a flower waiting for the perfect occasion to finally bloom to its full potential. I am happy to see you doing your best to honor this fresh start we have given ourselves. Thank you so very much."
The green-haired scientist walked up to his left and started clapping happily. Lysandre followed after a second, waking up Sycamore who started clapping furiously himself, too close. Soon the other scientists were clapping also, and then everyone in the room was applauding, some even laughing or yelling congratulations.
Lysandre lifted his arms to request silence and then turned toward Bryony. She nodded solemnly before facing the crowd, her smile confident and her eyes sparkling.
"We would like to take this opportunity to enjoy meditation all together, united. The world as it stands now has survived a lot and we should be thankful that the universe, somehow, has given us its blessing."
There were a few whispers, recruits in requisitioned clothes exchanging unsure glances – but then, Malva stood up, attracting all their gazes.
"I think that's a fantastic idea after all this turmoil. We know it's been hard, so let's all take a moment to be grateful for our success, hm?"
She found Lysandre's eyes and smiled. Sycamore was slowly pressing his knuckles against his shoulder blades, one by one, making him shiver. A warm feeling, tainted with an inescapable sadness.
He startled slightly when Bryony clasped her hands together, a loud, reverberating noise in such a large room. He shook his head and followed her lead, closing his eyes, trying to focus on hope and optimism, and not on cold hands giving warm gestures, or old forgotten keys made obsolete by selfish decisions. In the silence that followed, he sighed, and opened one eye when he felt two more hands wrapping around his own.
"It's going to be alright," he read on Bryony's silent lips.
In this moment of quiet unity, bolstered by her confidence, he allowed himself to believe it. Against his back, Sycamore chuckled.
Fandom: Pokémon X&Y
Pairing: Professor Augustine Sycamore/Lysandre
Rating: T
Summary: In the aftermath of victory, Lysandre discovers that triumph without peril indeed brings no glory. In more ways than one.
Notes: This is the fic, the one I started early on in the fandom, abandoned a year later, and then finished EIGHT YEARS after posting the first chapter. It's also the starting point for a whole series. Warning for Major Character Death (although it doesn't last) and heavy angst, especially in the early chapters. This is a story about Lysandre succeeding in his plans and then having a really bad time about it. Title is from Shakespeare's King Lear.
AO3 Link: Here.
SERIES NAVIGATION
So Long as We Can Say (starting point)
The Pangs of Disprized Love / And With Your Hands Your Hearts / Wisely and Slow (main story)
That Give Delight and Hurt (Not) / Daggers in Men's Smiles (explicit spin-offs)
CHAPTERS NAVIGATION
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Epilogue
Had it been a month, or three, or a week, or a second, Lysandre often thought. The world suddenly seemed so slow and small now that they were the only ones left populating it. Perhaps it truly was.
So it had been a month, or two maybe, when the "snow" first fell on Lumiose City. By most accounts, it had the appearance of snow, though it lacked its coolness. Of course, actual snow was rare in Lumiose, even in winter, usually reserved for the more mountainous parts of the region. What began falling from the sky instead were ashes, carried by the wind: ashes of burnt corpses and burnt buildings and burnt trees. The desecrated remains of the old world coming to cover the new one. In other circumstances, Lysandre might have found it poetic.
It was after the first "snowfall" that the lower recruits started whispering about a strange figure who roamed around the capital whom they'd dubbed "the giant" due to their imposing height. As far as Lysandre was concerned, those were just rumors; he had never seen the so-called "giant" and, although he was the sole bearer of this knowledge, those who claimed to have seen them wouldn't be the first to have borne witness to made-up things.
Not that this thought brought him any kind of comfort. Sycamore was heavy on his back whenever it crossed his mind. Perhaps they were all doomed to see things that weren't there, slowly filling the now empty world with imaginary ghosts.
Sometime after the incident with Mable, likely not much more than a week, Lysandre received a call from Bryony informing him that the blue-haired scientist wanted to talk. He had been – consciously or not – avoiding her. She had been as well, maybe; he couldn't be sure.
He'd spent most of his time discussing their future plans with Xerosic and Malva, sitting together in dark offices, watching from the corner of their eyes the way the ashes outside the window danced in the wind. They weren't Team Flare anymore, really. They were the start of a new world.
It hadn't been easy at first, ignoring Sycamore's constant badgering during these meetings, his desperate pleas for attention; yet soon enough he'd once again mastered the art of indifference. He shivered still when he felt cold fingers on the back of his neck or cold breath on his cheek, but he could maintain his composure well enough. Still, the effort left him exhausted, so much so that he'd had to compromise and sleep little by little to avoid the recurring nightmares.
The fire in his mind seemed never-ending.
With all of these preoccupations, casually avoiding Mable hadn't proven much of a challenge – although whenever he so much as spotted her, Sycamore would suddenly grab at his throat, choking him almost.
He swiftly recorded a reply to Bryony, agreeing to see her later in the day in front of the café. He needed fresh air, even if said air carried the ashes of burnt corpses. He scanned his empty office and thought about what he was going to do in the meantime. He had slept for around two hours; that was probably enough. He felt a weight against him suddenly, like someone hugging him from behind, clutching at his chest. He grabbed his chair to prevent himself from falling.
"Lys..." Sycamore breathed against his back, using the nickname he had never uttered when he was alive.
When the real Sycamore was alive.
"Aren't you tired, Lys? Let's rest together, okay?"
His gentle tone was more painful than any of his coldest accusations. Lysandre felt like his heart was about to implode. Instead, a wave of nausea washed over him.
"Not now," he groaned, tightening his grip around the chair until his fingers began to hurt. "I don't have time for you."
Sycamore let go of him, slowly.
"You always say that. You never have time for me. You never had."
Suddenly he was in Lysandre's face, grasping at it, pinching a cheek, pressing on his eye sockets, trying to force fingers inside his mouth. Lysandre struggled and gagged, desperately trying to push him away – but a few seconds later it was finished, as quickly as it'd started. His shoulders heaved as he bent over in front of his desk in pain or anguish, or perhaps a mix of both.
"You're no fun," Sycamore spat, and then he was gone, leaving Lysandre finally alone and out of breath.
Maybe he did need more sleep.
*
When he got out at noon and saw Mable waiting for him, the first thing he noticed was that her face was very red. Faces seemed like open books once they were no longer protected by a visor; perhaps hiding her face for so long had made her forget how to hide her emotions.
He walked up to her with no intention to take her by surprise, yet as soon as she noticed him she let out a gasp as if he'd appeared fully formed from the shadows. She forced a smile, looking everywhere except at his face.
"Thank you for coming," she said, almost solemn, as if this was some sort of official meeting about a professional matter.
She pressed her lips together, surely waiting for Lysandre to speak, but he had no idea what she expected him to say. He simply waited for her to explain what she wanted to talk about. The incident, of course; but what was there left to discuss?
"I wanted to apologize for punching you," she continued, mumbling half the words, her put-on smile sliding into a grimace. "It was inappropriate..."
"I don't need an apology," Lysandre said gently – or at least as gently as he could. "I understand your frustration with our current situation. I fear I may have aggravated your anger," he admitted. She finally looked up to look him in the eyes. "I'm the one who owes you an apology."
"I punched you!" She'd raised her voice. A grunt who was crossing the nearby street stopped to stare at them until he realized Lysandre was involved and hastily went on his way.
"It's alright. I'm fine, as you can see."
Mable frowned, and Lysandre remembered the expression on her face when she'd hit him.
"I don't understand you," she let out finally, her eyes once again glued to the ground between them.
"What do you mean?"
"You've changed. The Lysandre from before... before the machine went off... would have scolded me. He would have never let this go unpunished!"
Lysandre's eyebrows rose. "Do you want to be punished?"
The effect was immediate: her face flushed, her cheeks taking on a warm pink color. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Slowly, she shook her head.
"The Mable from before wouldn't have punched me, either," he went on, "so this is irrelevant. We've all changed."
Avoiding his gaze still, she took a step toward him.
"But you changed especially. I thought... once you'd get what you wanted... what we wanted! I thought you'd be happy."
"Well, this has proven more complicated than I'd bargained for," Lysandre said, trying to read her expression. "Perhaps this world isn't shaping up exactly as I wanted."
Her traits contorted into something that was between disbelief and anger – or was it disgust?
"The Lysandre from before would have never admitted he was wrong."
She tilted her head slightly, seemingly deep in thoughts.
"That's what changed, isn't it?"
Despite himself, Lysandre scoffed. "Is that an issue? If I couldn't recognize my own limitations now, I'd be a poor excuse for a leader."
That did nothing to temper the storm brewing in her eyes. She still wasn't looking at him, but now she appeared to steel herself, balling her fists as if she was going to punch him again.
"I don't understand you," she repeated, her voice laced with bitterness. "I don't know how I can find the words to..."
She let her voice trail off. Her expression softened until all that was left there was a sour sort of sadness that Lysandre thought he'd been seeing a lot lately. He took a step toward her because no matter what had come between them or what Bryony had told him, he couldn't afford to upset her. She didn't deserve to feel this way, to bear such a resigned air of defeat.
As if his movement had awakened something in her, she took a step toward him as well, until they were so close that all she had to do was hold him by the shoulders – and push herself up until she could press her lips against his.
Lysandre blinked. As he slowly registered the warm feeling, he felt hands around his neck and a body against his back, grinding against him, and the gravelly sound of Sycamore's voice right against his ear.
"Are you cheating on me?"
He pushed her away – too brusquely. He was shaking. He didn't want to look at her face.
"I thought..." He heard her say through the ringing in his ears.
"You're making a mistake," Lysandre cut her off, his voice low and harsh, his breathing uneven. Sycamore wouldn't let go of his throat.
"Why?" He looked at her even though he had no desire to. Her face bore more confusion than anger. "What's wrong with me? I thought... w–we could... you and me... there aren't many people left..."
Had Sycamore not been crushing his windpipe, Lysandre might have laughed at that. So Bryony had told the truth: Mable was envisioning herself as his bride, his chosen one among chosen ones. He imagined them together, king and queen of Team Flare, and felt light-headed. Her expression tinted with some alarm.
"What are you suggesting, exactly?" he choked out. His difficulty breathing made expressing his own anger near impossible.
In a desperate and meaningless gesture, he raised his hands to his neck to try and make Sycamore let go.
"All that's left of the old world is ashes," Mable said. Her eyes shone like she was about to cry but she stood very straight, enunciating each word firmly. "I thought we could– grow closer. You are a fine man. Pining for the dead serves no purpose!"
Her words resonated inside his skull, piercing through the veil of his own madness. He felt Sycamore's presence dispersing before vanishing completely. He touched his throat lightly, grazing his neck with his fingertips.
Mable paled. She could see something in his demeanor suddenly that seemed to terrify her, placating her demands. Lysandre wondered what he looked like, how obvious it was that he'd been carrying the burden of a particular death on his back. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then walked up to him again as if she was afraid he might topple over.
"I'm sorry," she said and he could hear the strain in her voice like she was fighting back tears. "I shouldn't have–"
"Forget it," he cut her off before she could bring it up again. He blinked until the ground began feeling steadier under his feet. "Punching me, and everything else."
"Boss..."
Her voice had lost the confidence she'd gained from the kiss. He felt bad for having to be so harsh. She wasn't a child, but she had more life and hope in her than he did. None of what was happening was her fault. She was just trying to cope with it.
"As you are," Sycamore muttered in the wind, suddenly there again, his hand heavy on Lysandre's shoulder, like the icy claws of a murkrow bearing bad news.
He thought about his honchkrow. Mable was still looking at him, unsure of what to do.
The ashes were falling from the sky, carried in their direction by a gust of wind. Lysandre found himself craving the icy weather of Snowbelle City, longing to get away from the capital and all that had transpired there. If only he could be alone, he thought. If he could be free of his ghost and free of all the expectations he'd willingly let others put upon himself, maybe he'd be able to fix all of this. If he could lie down in the cold snow and sleep...
He felt delirious, and judging by the way Mable was frowning she could feel it too.
"I need to be alone," he said, the words escaping him before he could stop them.
"Are you sure?" Mable asked. She was still close enough to steady him if need be.
"Yes." He attempted a smile with not much hope of success. "Please," he added before she could speak again, "don't worry about me."
"All I'm good for is making things worse, aren't I?" she mumbled. Lysandre shook his head but she wasn't looking at him.
She touched her face as if she expected her visor to be there. Her lips curled downward when her fingers only met uncovered flesh.
"I'm sorry again. Please don't overdo it." She tried her best to smile, looking at nothing in particular. "I... care about you. Boss."
With that she was gone, her boots hitting the pavement hard in her haste to leave. Lysandre wondered whether she'd go vent to Aliana about his behavior, or if she'd tell Bryony she'd tried to confess but instead messed everything up. He sighed, sending flecks of ashes flying away from his face.
Love, Lysandre thought. All that's left of it is ashes.
*
After Mable's attempt at a confession, Sycamore became unbearable.
He'd spill an endless flow of insults and reproaches and blames, and he'd hit him hard when he was discussing their progress with Xerosic, and he'd scratch at his face or chest when he was praying with Bryony, and he'd yell and cry and yell and laugh whenever Lysandre so much as opened his mouth to speak in public.
It left Lysandre feeling trapped, constantly struggling to keep himself together even as he could see himself teetering closer and closer to the edge. To top it all off, his mind had devised a twist to his usual nightmares: now, in-between dreams of roaring fire and destruction, Lysandre would dream he was in a forest, chasing what he first thought to be Xerneas, but always turned out to be Sycamore. Even as he realized who his prey really was, the Lysandre in his dreams would not hesitate. When he raised his left hand he would have claws, and with them, he would cut off his head.
Unlike the nightmares involving fire, Sycamore was never there when he woke up. He was always alone, forced to think back to what he had done in his sleep.
One night, when he'd had to give up on avoiding rest and slept in a proper bed, he woke up with a start before he could deal the final blow. He stared at the ceiling until the incomprehensible cacophony inside his head became unbearable. He stood up too fast, stumbling, and looked for clothes warm enough to protect him from the winter air. The clock on the wall, or what he could discern of it through the darkness, read one hour after midnight.
As soon as he stepped outside, the fresh air – still polluted by the lingering ashes – helped him let go of the dread left by the dream. In the sky above Lumiose, he could see more stars than he would have expected.
That was when he first saw him, standing in front of the remains of the Prism Tower.
The giant.
Could he be real – or could they all be dreaming up the same man? But he'd dreamed up a man already, and he didn't need another.
The stranger's nickname was well deserved. Even from afar, Lysandre could tell that he was almost twice his size. He could not see his face, but he could see a mass of light hair emerging from a plain hat. There was something oddly soothing about this man. Lysandre felt drawn to his presence, despite his circumspection. Before he could focus further on the strangeness of the situation, he took a step forward. Then another. Then another.
The sound of his shoes against the pavement echoed until they reached the giant.
He turned around.
His face carried a harshness that made it so that he seemed both very tough and very soft. He was old, but there could be doubt whether his wrinkles had been caused by age, or worry. When he spotted the red-haired silhouette in the glow of the stars, he smiled.
Lysandre stopped walking.
Who was this man? He felt familiar, perhaps in the way that your brain could make you believe in your friendship with a stranger within a dream; he was sure he would remember ever meeting such a character in this reality. One rarely met four-meters-tall men in their lives. Perhaps he truly was another hallucination, or maybe Lysandre was still dreaming in his bed.
Noticing he had stopped, the giant's smile grew larger.
"Bonsoir," he said, his voice deep, tinted with an accent that Lysandre couldn't quite place.
Sycamore was constantly talking to him, so speech was no proof. The stranger took a step toward him.
"I am not a product of your mind if that is what worries you."
Of course, Sycamore had never denied that he was made up, but was that truly enough–
"You don't have to believe me, I suppose. I wanted to talk to you."
Lysandre opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. In the icy air of the lumiosian night, he could feel sweat running down his back.
"Who are you?" he asked, taking half a step backward.
"My name is AZ."
Lysandre frowned. "AZ? The king from that old legend?"
"Is it a legend?" the giant retorted, still smiling softly. His long hair was swinging in the wind.
Belatedly realizing that he was letting the man's strange words and appearance disturb him, Lysandre shook his head.
"Why are you here? You shouldn't be alive."
The simple statement made the giant's smile disappear. He lowered his gaze. His somber face, all of its parts seemingly having drooped down at once, showed an emotion that Lysandre could only describe as great despair.
"Indeed, I shouldn't be, but I am. Don't you share these thoughts?"
Unsure of what the giant meant, Lysandre said nothing.
"You who worked toward activating the machine after we had worked so hard to bury it far away from the eyes of corrupt men... should you be alive?"
Lysandre started walking toward him again in an attempt to study him more closely, squinting. "Why shouldn't I be? I need to fix what I've done."
"What a proud answer," the giant said, his smile back on his face. "I am glad to hear it."
They'd steadily gotten a lot closer to each other. Lysandre didn't know it was possible to be this tall. There was something inhuman about it, yet he felt no threat. If anything, the giant was the most peaceful being he had run into in the last few months. Still, there was an air about him that made Lysandre feel like he was missing something. Now that he was so near, he could perfectly see the clothes he was wearing. They were dirty and in bad shape. They looked like they could barely cover his body. Finally managing to look away, Lysandre shook his head slowly.
"That still doesn't tell me how you've survived," he insisted, lifting his head to search for his eyes. The giant held his gaze calmly. Having to look up at someone was surprisingly embarrassing. It made Lysandre feel small and helpless, similar to when Sycamore was haunting him.
The ghost of his former friend, for once, was thankfully absent.
"I've lived through it before. My own creation can't destroy me any more than it already has."
The giant's voice was deep, and Lysandre had the odd thought that it reminded him of his father's father. He was still smiling, but there was no trace of happiness in his eyes.
Lysandre looked away, puzzled. Was he confronting a madman? A four-meters-tall madman? Could such a coincidence exist? He smirked – or tried to, but instead achieved an expression closer to someone having eaten something particularly bitter.
"Are you really trying to make me believe that you're AZ, the old king? I'm sorry to say this, you look very impressive, but you'll need better arguments to–"
There came a rustling sound, and Lysandre looked up to see the giant taking out a key he had hidden under his clothes. A key he had only seen before in illustrations, accompanying legends about the weapon.
"–convince me?" He stumbled over his words, staring at the key in disbelief. "Are you serious? What is this?"
"Something you were looking for, I believe," AZ said, his tone pointedly neutral. "An artifact needed to activate a machine. A machine that it seems you managed to break into even without the artifact."
Lysandre couldn't help but balk at that. "That's preposterous! You don't exist!"
Unexpectedly, AZ started laughing, a booming sound that resonated in the streets and seemed to make the whole plaza vibrate.
"A lot of things you believe do not exist do, boy. Here, take it."
He dropped the key, and Lysandre caught it, almost toppling over, still staring, unable to believe what he was seeing.
"There's no need for it anymore in this world," AZ went on, bitterness tinting every word. "My brother should have made sure the whole apparatus had been destroyed... made sure no one could be foolish enough to make it work once more."
"Foolish," Lysandre repeated, his eyes fixated on the key.
The ashes from the sky were slowly falling on it and in his open palms. They were cold, like everything else.
"I'm sorry." Lysandre was surprised to hear himself say these words.
The giant sighed. "A long time ago... A very long time ago... I was sorry, as well. But being sorry is not enough."
"I know," Lysandre whispered.
They said nothing for what felt like hours to him, standing still under the falling ashes, the key now warm in his open hands. He surprised himself by thinking about Sycamore – his Sycamore, the ghost one. Where was he? This should have been the perfect occasion to remind him of all he had ruined... but in the presence of the giant, Lysandre felt at peace. There was something comforting about knowing they had both been wrong to such a terrifying point.
"Why did you do it?" AZ asked suddenly, and the peace in Lysandre's mind seemed to break away. He thought he felt a hand on his shoulder but when he looked, no one was there. Nothing was there.
He dropped the key on the ground. It made a noise as it hit the cold pavement that Lysandre found terrifying without being able to pinpoint why – until a memory flickered in his mind's eye, that of the machine falling apart, of the fear and exhaustion on Xerosic's face as the pipes collapsed around them.
"I thought it was what I was meant to do," he said slowly, before kneeling to pick up the key.
"I acted out of anger, but you acted out of pride. How fitting," AZ remarked. His tone was nowhere near judgmental, but Lysandre felt uneasy. He had never thought of what he had done as a result of pride, but the ancient king was right.
It was his misplaced faith in the idea that he had been chosen to lead the elite toward a new, better world that caused him to build his plans. That, and the conviction that a new war would soon break out if the population kept rising.
Sycamore – the real one, although he was worried conjuring his memory might cause the ghost to appear – thought that humans would always find a way to share resources. That if a catastrophe was to happen, they would rise against it as one, with the help of pokémons. He'd never discussed Lysandre's ideas – though Lysandre had rarely if ever shared them fully in his presence – instead offering his own more optimistic suggestions, perhaps in an attempt to appease him.
He felt something jabbing at his side suddenly, a warm breath against his neck, and sighed almost in relief.
Sycamore laughed in his ear in reply.
"You're late," Lysandre said to him, barely noticing he was addressing the ghost while around another person. He thought AZ wouldn't hear, but the giant leaned forward a little as if to see whether someone else was there.
"Who are you talking to?" he asked.
"It said in the legends that you were angry because your companion, Floette, had died," Lysandre replied, louder. "Do you still care for her?"
AZ made a sound from the back of his throat like a laugh – or a sob.
"She's always on my mind. I wish she would come back to me..."
It occurred to Lysandre then that had this been a possibility, he'd further tainted it with his actions. Why would Floette, who'd turned her back on the friend who'd gathered the energy of the dead to resurrect her, who'd killed in vengeance with that same energy, come back to this twice-broken world? What was left for her, for them?
Even though he owed this strange man nothing, Lysandre felt compelled to lie, to ease the pressure of Sycamore's presence with hopeful words he didn't even believe in.
"I'm sure she will once she's ready," he said, watching the giant tilt his head slightly.
"I'm humbled by your certainty." There was definitely a hint of something akin to sarcasm in AZ's tone. Lysandre figured he deserved it.
Sycamore's fingers were running through his hair, his breathing ragged against Lysandre's ear as if he was a dying pokémon struggling to stay alive. It often felt unbearable to go through this torment in front of someone else, but it felt especially overpowering in front of this man in particular and his razor-sharp eyes who seemed able to see what was going on. He looked as if he wanted to say something about it when Lysandre spoke, much louder than necessary.
"I'm afraid we have to part for now. Perhaps we can meet again."
"I know we will," AZ said with confidence, mirroring perhaps on purpose the certainty he'd noted in Lysandre earlier – and without any further ado, even as Lysandre was the one who was moving to leave, he turned around and disappeared in a nearby street, his tall silhouette still detaching itself from the shadows of the night.
Lysandre ignored Sycamore's prodding on the way back to his room, too caught up in his thoughts. The key he still held on to felt both too warm and too cold in his hands. When he passed the threshold of the doorway, Sycamore disappeared, leaving him alone once more. In the back of his mind, where the ghost surely lurked, Lysandre thought his absence left him somehow feeling lonely.
When he fell back asleep in his bedroom until morning, keeping the key tucked against him with both hands, Lysandre dreamed of a red plain where a tall man and a small pokémon reunited happily after being apart for thousands of years.
*
"I'm worried about you."
He didn't want to face her, not really, but he had to – it was two days after his meeting with AZ, two days he had gone through in a daze, barely registering what he was doing, barely acknowledging Sycamore's touch and snide remarks. It felt like a long time had passed since he'd last prayed with Bryony.
Her eyes betrayed her mood. She did seem worried – he wished she would just cover her face again, let him ignore how she felt so he didn't have to feel guilty about it.
"Talk to me," she pleaded.
Lysandre pressed his lips together before answering.
"I'm fine, really. We've been steadily making progress toward the reconstruction and everything is going as smoothly as possible, there's no need to..."
She grabbed his arm. The physical contact from another being that wasn't a construct made up in his head startled him.
"Lysandre. I'm worried about you, not how smoothly things are going. I've been trying to talk to you in private since I met up with Mable..."
"Oh." Lysandre blinked. "What did she tell you?"
Bryony pursed her lips, her expression carrying a mix of embarrassment and concern. "She told me she tried to make her feelings more obvious and you reacted poorly."
"She kissed me," Lysandre started to protest. Bryony squeezed his arm, shaking her head slowly.
"I know. I never thought she'd do that... I don't think she did, either."
Lysandre scoffed, but then Bryony was staring right at him again with that air of worry.
"That's not what I wanted to talk to you about, though."
"I know," he said softly. It felt like Sycamore could appear at any moment, looming over them like the phantom he wanted to be.
Bryony bit her lower lip and sighed.
"You've been acting strange since... he died. I know how hard it's been, and we've helped each other through it, but... you're hiding something, aren't you?"
There he was.
Standing behind her, his hair swinging slowly in the non-existent wind – they were in his office, for Arceus' sake.
Sycamore smiled.
Looking back at Bryony, who had noticed his glance, he thought about the day he buried Sycamore. He thought about the useless, weightless objects that used to be pokéballs holding his team. He thought about the giant. He thought about the key he kept hidden in the inner pocket of his jacket at all times.
There was a hand on his shoulder and another on his chest and another smoothing his back and another squeezing his arm and that was the one he needed to focus on. The real one.
"It's subtle, but I noticed, and Malva noticed, and I think Xerosic did also. I didn't want to talk to you about it... I thought maybe it was part of your grieving process, but it's become alarming." She had spoken slowly at first, then faster and faster as if she thought she might not find the strength to say it otherwise.
"I'm fine," Lysandre managed to spit out, his voice as firm as it had ever been – at least back before everything had fallen apart. "It's fine."
Bryony frowned, letting go of his arm to grab his jacket with both hands, her face held up high and her eyes getting wet.
"No, you're not! Don't lie!" she cried out, making him gasp. "I've seen how you act: you pretend everything is fine so you can keep on leading us and giving orders but I've seen, and Malva has seen, and Xerosic, and others I'm sure, the way you shudder sometimes for no good reason, the way you stare at walls, the way you sometimes mumble to yourself as if talking to someone. You're so tense, you always seem like you're on the verge of breaking apart, drinking coffee after coffee to hide the fact you don't want to sleep. Wake up!" she yelled, her voice a little hoarse. "We've talked about this before, we need you to stay together and you need us to not... fall apart..."
Lysandre breathed in slowly. Short bursts of air like short bursts of life. If he could calm down... get Sycamore away... but instead he felt the weight of his non-existent body shift closer against his back.
"I'm sorry," he said, empty words for empty ghosts built on empty promises.
"You know that's not what I want to hear." She was still looking at his face. He wanted to claw at it, make it disappear. Surely a faceless leader was better for serving such a great cause – but it wasn't the cause that mattered in the end. He felt her squeeze his arm again. "I want to help you. This can't go on."
"You're right," Lysandre sighed, and admitting it felt like surrendering himself to death, or to a despair similar to the one he'd seen on the old king's face. "This can't go on, but how do you expect me to fix it? None of what we worked so hard to build matters now. Malva is going to die... most of us are. I've doomed us all."
Sycamore was gently caressing his neck, light fingers brushing against his pulse. In other circumstances, in another time, with a Sycamore who was alive and real, he might have found the gesture erotic. It just made the way it felt now even worse.
With a soft sigh, Bryony leaned against him, her face once again pressed against the fabric of his overpriced jacket.
"Don't say that. That doesn't help. We'll figure things out. Malva is obviously stronger than you are, anyway."
Prior to everything that had occurred, he might have been upset or even angered by the insinuation, but in that moment he chuckled, feeling the sensation of fingers against his skin fading away.
"Tell me about him," she said, once the silence had settled. Lysandre closed his eyes.
"I see him all the time. I know he's not real."
"If you know he's not real then why don't you let go?" Her face rose again; she had cried a little. He couldn't see it, but he could smell it, damp and salty. "It's not healthy. It won't bring him back."
"It's better than not having him at all, I suppose."
"That's what I thought as well, but that's not true. You have us instead. We're real."
He felt fingers somewhere against his temple and opened his eyes – but it was Bryony, her hand resting against the side of his face.
"We don't need to carry all these ashes by ourselves. You know that."
"Of course." A whisper, a sigh.
She tried to smile, a bit too sadly perhaps.
"Come eat with us. You've stayed hidden in that dusty office for so long... One of the teams charged with cleaning up the buildings found all kinds of food rations a few days ago. We can share."
Sharing... the word made him think of Sycamore's optimistic smile.
"Alright." He cleared his throat. "Let's see how those taste."
She smiled, and this time her whole face beamed with it. Optimism, Lysandre thought. Perhaps the one thing fire couldn't take from us.
*
The food they'd prepared tasted stale against his tongue, like leftovers from the back of a cupboard, perhaps because that was in essence what it was. Were he still living in a world that hadn't been turned inside out and hastily reconstructed piece by piece, he could picture himself laughing in disdain at the very prospect of eating it – but sitting between Malva and Bryony, watching everyone else enjoy a quiet moment sharing a meal, it felt like the best thing he'd eaten in a long, long time.
He shuffled on his seat, finding it difficult to settle in a comfortable position, and felt the coldness of the giant's key in his inner pocket, pressing against the fabric of his shirt. He thought about touching it, to soothe his nerves. Instead, he held on to his fork a little more firmly. He wanted to take solace in this moment without letting himself be distracted by idle gestures.
Bryony turned toward him.
"Sorry this is sub-par compared to what we used to serve," she said after swallowing a forkful of rice. "I think our recruits did their best, all things considered."
"It's alright," Lysandre replied, resisting the urge to fumble in his jacket for the key. He needed to see the giant again as soon as possible.
"They wanted to impress you. You should congratulate them after the meal."
"I'll be sure to do that, then." He smiled. He felt more like himself – the self that he needed to be to go through this unscathed – surrounded by people. Here, he was strong. He could lead, as long as people would follow. Alone with Bryony, he found himself too easily drawn toward his own weaknesses.
It was still better than being on his own with only his made-up ghost as company.
He felt a hand on his arm and turned his head to see what Malva wanted. She had that confident glimmer in her eyes again. That was a relief. He needed this Malva to be in charge.
"You look good," she said with a smile. "I'm glad you decided to join us. They need to see you, you know. We all do."
Wasn't that strange, thinking back – that as much as he had rejected the idea that humans could unite to try and make the world a better place, instead deciding that there was nothing else they could do but start over, unity was what was making them strive in the end? Of course, perhaps it was easier to unite when you were already under the same banner...
"I'm glad to be here. We're making good progress, I think."
"They're still fighting a lot, and it's still ugly, but it could be a lot worse. We'll move past this and make Kalos into the beautiful world it was always meant to be!"
Lysandre tried to keep his smile as sincere as he could even as he felt a sense of unease overtake him. He did not want Sycamore to come back here and now. He did not want to leave abruptly, either.
Instead, he turned back toward Bryony. This time, she didn't notice his turmoil right away, and instead of attempting to get her attention, Lysandre watched her laugh and chat with Aliana sitting next to her. Mable wasn't very far, caught up in a hushed discussion with one of the admins. Seeing her reminded Lysandre of what had happened between them prior. The look on her face as she pleaded for him to move on from whatever kept him tied to the dead. The foreign feeling of lips pressed against his own. He felt his stomach clench.
Lysandre had eaten quite a few meals in the company of Augustine Sycamore, most of which he had prepared himself. The professor often forgot to eat, too caught up in this or that, leaving Lysandre to take care of him. He was always so thankful for anything others would do for him, a nice change from people whom Lysandre had tried to help and who had barely cared about it. Thinking about the soft expression on Sycamore's face as he would thank him only served to worsen his nausea.
He wasn't very hungry anymore. A pity. He cleared his throat and Bryony gave a small start.
"Sorry," she said, turning toward him once more.
"No need to apologize. I was observing you." He kept his eyes on her face, the sight of food suddenly unpleasant. "What were you talking about?"
Bryony smiled. Her cheeks had taken on a rosy tint. "Oh, nothing much. Aliana has her eyes on one of our recruits, it seems. She wanted advice, but I'm mostly used to wooing women."
She played with her food, spreading some of the rice around, hesitant. Lysandre did his best to look away. He breathed in sharply when she dropped her fork against her plate, the shrilling noise upsetting his senses. He willed himself to relax a little.
"What about you?" she asked, her smile too wide. Smug, maybe.
"What about me?" Lysandre repeated, frowning.
"Do you have experience wooing women... or men?"
He made a face like he'd just swallowed something very sour. It made her giggle, a happy sound she covered with her hand.
"Well," Lysandre said.
"Well?" She leaned forward. There was no way other people at their table hadn't heard what they were discussing.
Lysandre picked up his fork again before remembering he wasn't hungry anymore.
"I suppose you could say that, though perhaps not as you mean it," he said, picking each word carefully.
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"I'm experienced in 'wooing' people to get them to trust me. My mother said I was born charismatic."
Bryony let out a giggle, surely entertained by the idea of a baby Lysandre with great charisma.
"Not in the romantic sense, then, is what you meant," she said once she'd calmed down a little.
"No, not in the romantic sense, I'm afraid, although I'm sure it's had that effect once or twice."
He sounded sadder about it than he'd meant to be, and he could see that she'd heard it, and he could tell what she was going to say before she opened her mouth.
"What about the professor? Did you woo him?"
Lysandre tried to smile.
"It did not take much to woo Professor Sycamore. He is... was... an easily impressed man." He felt nauseous again, trapped in the anticipation of a surprise appearance from his ghost.
"You're not giving yourself enough credit," Bryony retorted softly, putting her hand on his arm, searching for his eyes. "You're the most impressive person I've had the pleasure to know."
"The pleasure," Lysandre repeated slowly. "Bryony, there's something I need to tell you."
Her smile faded upon hearing the serious tone of his voice. She nodded.
"Let me finish my plate." She picked up her fork, but then she tilted her head in his direction again to add, "We should pray tonight."
Lysandre said nothing, but she knew his silence was an agreement.
He waited for her outside of the building they had picked to hold their meal breaks because he couldn't bear being around the others anymore. It felt like a cold chill – or maybe it was the wind.
He had a thought, quick and ridiculous: he wanted Sycamore to come back, even as a tormenting presence. The ghost, demon, apparition, was an anchor of sorts, grounding him, reminding him of what he had ruined, of what he had to work hard to build again–
–or maybe he missed feeling soft, cold fingers against the skin of his neck, waiting there as if to strangle him should the occasion present itself.
Definitely the wind.
He watched the leaves of the trees lining up the dark streets of Lumiose flutter slowly against the night sky and did not move when he heard the door open behind him.
"I'm sorry," Bryony said softly. She really did seem sorry, but there was nothing to be sorry for.
"Why?" Lysandre asked, unmoving still.
She took a few steps toward him, mindful not to get too close in case it wasn't what he wanted from her. "For mentioning him even though you told me how it pained you earlier today. It was a mistake. I was trying to cheer you up and..."
"It's fine," Lysandre cut her off. He turned around to look at her.
"Is he... here?"
Her voice had a strange ring to it as if she was afraid of his made-up phantom.
"No." There was no need for further details. Bryony smiled, relieved.
She breached the distance that was left between them to put her hand on his arm and looked up at him.
"What did you want to talk to me about?"
Lysandre found himself avoiding her eyes, but she pressed on until their gazes met. Unable to find the words for what he wanted to confess, he thought back to when they had first met: she had seemed so young then, yet surprisingly brilliant and oh so full of life. He could tell right away she found him intimidating because she'd spent the whole interview carefully avoiding looking at him directly. It seemed like centuries had passed since then.
"I met the giant."
Bryony frowned. "Oh, so he is real, then? I figured he was born out of mass hysteria or something." Her frown deepened further as she pondered the matter more closely. "If he's real and alive, does that mean some pokémons could have survived? I know we don't want them to be used by humans, but the ecosystems..."
"Bryony," Lysandre interrupted her. He searched through his jacket and took out the key.
She stopped talking once she spotted the artifact. He remembered his own reaction to it: a legendary item they had all only admired through drawings and schematics.
"That's..."
She held out her arm, and he gave her the key. Her hand was warm.
"Bryony, the reason why the machine collapsed is that we forced it to work."
She looked down at the key. There was more Lysandre felt he had to tell, but he closed his mouth.
They said nothing for a long time.
"I thought..." Bryony spoke finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "When Xerosic said you found a way, I thought he meant we found the key or a substitute."
"We found a way to kick-start the machine that overrode the need of a key, but it seems more than that was overridden."
"So," she replied but said nothing more.
He moved to get closer to her. "I'm–"
"Don't." She shook her head, her bangs hitting the sides of her face. "I know. We're all sorry."
She lifted the key and pressed it against her lips. Her hands were shaking slightly.
"I don't... I don't want to blame you. It's pointless. It won't bring her back. It won't bring anyone back. It won't... make things go back to the way they were."
She was not crying, and her voice, although trembling, lacked any strong emotion. With her face turned down and her hair in the way, he couldn't see her expression.
"We have to move forward, and up. We can do great things. As we were meant to do. Right?"
She slowly lowered the key, away from her. Her eyes were closed but somehow, Lysandre felt her looking straight at him.
"Yes."
Bryony smiled.
She let him take the key back. Her hand was cold.
"Did you ever look at someone and think, I want to stay with this person until we're both old enough to not care about anything else anymore?"
Lysandre clenched his fist around the key. "I don't know. Maybe."
He thought about cold arms and dark hair and pale eyes, and promises he'd never let himself make.
"Sometimes I can't sleep and I wonder how I can still be there when she's not. I should have grabbed her quicker to run out of the room. I should have pushed her away when it got too bad. I should have been crushed by that ceiling instead of her."
"Bryony..."
She shook her head again. She was still smiling.
"I know. It's pointless."
Lysandre carefully placed the key back inside his pocket. He felt a hand against his shoulder, but she was too far away from him.
"Missed me?" The whisper made him shiver – or maybe it was the wind.
"If you could go back and change things, would you do it?" Bryony asked suddenly. He noticed she was still shaking and realized that in her hurry to meet up with him she hadn't even put her coat on. She had to be freezing.
"Yes," he said right as Sycamore exclaimed "No!" way too close to his ear. He couldn't stop himself from wincing.
"I think that's why I pray," Bryony said pensively, oblivious to his predicament. "If the giant is real, then maybe someone is listening... maybe someone can help us fix this."
Sycamore laughed, but Lysandre did not react. Bryony was right. Born from the ashes, perhaps a hope could exist... as long as they chose to believe in it.
He followed her back inside in silence. The sounds of people finishing their meals lowered upon their arrival. Taking advantage of the fact that all eyes were on him, Lysandre opened his arms wide and smiled at his teammates.
"Everyone, thank you for your attention! I am endlessly grateful for your dedication to the monumental task of making this world better, aiming further and further toward perfection."
Bryony chuckled behind him. Sycamore was lying against his back lazily, saying nothing.
"Let us all keep our chins up and work harder every day to strive all together. Kalos, as it is now, is but a flower waiting for the perfect occasion to finally bloom to its full potential. I am happy to see you doing your best to honor this fresh start we have given ourselves. Thank you so very much."
The green-haired scientist walked up to his left and started clapping happily. Lysandre followed after a second, waking up Sycamore who started clapping furiously himself, too close. Soon the other scientists were clapping also, and then everyone in the room was applauding, some even laughing or yelling congratulations.
Lysandre lifted his arms to request silence and then turned toward Bryony. She nodded solemnly before facing the crowd, her smile confident and her eyes sparkling.
"We would like to take this opportunity to enjoy meditation all together, united. The world as it stands now has survived a lot and we should be thankful that the universe, somehow, has given us its blessing."
There were a few whispers, recruits in requisitioned clothes exchanging unsure glances – but then, Malva stood up, attracting all their gazes.
"I think that's a fantastic idea after all this turmoil. We know it's been hard, so let's all take a moment to be grateful for our success, hm?"
She found Lysandre's eyes and smiled. Sycamore was slowly pressing his knuckles against his shoulder blades, one by one, making him shiver. A warm feeling, tainted with an inescapable sadness.
He startled slightly when Bryony clasped her hands together, a loud, reverberating noise in such a large room. He shook his head and followed her lead, closing his eyes, trying to focus on hope and optimism, and not on cold hands giving warm gestures, or old forgotten keys made obsolete by selfish decisions. In the silence that followed, he sighed, and opened one eye when he felt two more hands wrapping around his own.
"It's going to be alright," he read on Bryony's silent lips.
In this moment of quiet unity, bolstered by her confidence, he allowed himself to believe it. Against his back, Sycamore chuckled.