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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.
The wind was blowing gently in Lysandre's hair, caressing the planes of his face and making its way softly through the grass around him. That feeling of peacefulness seemed to be exactly what his body needed, to get rid of all the lassitude he'd been carrying for so long. Basking in it, he shifted his head slightly from where it was resting on someone's lap. Long loving fingers were tracing the lines of his face with steady reverence. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He opened them back up, wide, when a loud roar broke through the quiet of the plain. The hand stilled, a finger still grazing his cheek.
Of course this was a dream. He'd had a long day: supervising the reconstruction of collapsed buildings, double-checking inventories of various supplies gathered throughout several cities, encouraging recruits who still believed in him and all of this, somehow. He couldn't help but feel a bitter sort of envy toward them when it came to that, but the way their faces illuminated whenever he smiled reassuringly or uttered words of gratitude and assurance helped alleviate the tight grip guilt kept around his worn-out heart.
Bryony had looked happy, radiant – but he'd heard her cry the day before when she thought she was alone. Deep inside himself, he thought that if one person deserved to be able to undo all of this, it was her.
Still, she did not deserve the torment. In that regard, he was glad to carry it for her.
Lysandre shifted his head up slightly. Sycamore – because who else could it be – let his hand fall to his neck.
"You said it was almost time," Lysandre mumbled, before struggling to get up to a sitting position.
"I maintain what I said," Sycamore said with a smile on his face. "Our anniversary is getting close, aren't you excited?"
Had it really been that long? Lysandre sighed, leaning against the professor's form despite himself. He needed the comfort. It was fake, and it was painful – but everything was, these days, or so it seemed.
"I'm so tired of all of this," Lysandre groaned, and he could feel Sycamore's fingers carefully caressing his hair.
"You need to rest," Sycamore said, his voice almost a whisper.
Lysandre let him maneuver his body back to his previous position, his head comfortably set on his lap. He closed his eyes, admitting defeat.
"That's it," Sycamore purred, petting his hair some more. "I'll tell you a bedtime story. It's the story of a man who wanted everyone in the world to know who he was. You can sympathize, can you?"
In response, Lysandre made a sound at the back of his throat, between a moan and a sob. Sycamore's smile grew wider.
"He was a good man. He had power and influence within his arm's reach. He was loved and admired, but it wasn't enough for him. He wanted people to remember him for as long as they lived. He wanted people to remember him forever."
The dream was taking on an unreal tone as if Lysandre was half-awake. Was his head laying on a lap or on a pillow? Above everything else, he still heard Sycamore's voice, as if he was talking directly into his ear.
"The man thought and thought, and came to this conclusion: if he wanted to become a legend, he had to do something important, something that would change the world! Changing the world sounded easy enough with his power and influence, and so the man started working toward making the world a better place."
Lysandre felt himself grow restless, but already Sycamore was running his hands down his neck, massaging the skin there, making him sigh and stir.
"He worked and worked and put his faith in others but no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he gave of himself, the world refused to change. His efforts were in vain. How could slight technological progress ensure his name be written down in history? How could other people refuse to bend to his vision? Was humanity so selfish? he thought. He knew what had to be done," Sycamore whispered, and Lysandre could feel his breath against his eyelids. "He knew what he had to do to save the world. He charmed others into doing his bidding, into believing he was right. He was right, wasn't he?"
When he was met with silence, Sycamore repeated, louder, "Wasn't he?"
His body suddenly aching and cold, Lysandre groaned and rolled aside. The warm weather and quiet atmosphere he'd been enjoying seemed to be quickly fading away. Sycamore did not stop him, even as he moved away from him, holding his face in his hands.
"Don't you want to hear how the story ends?" he asked, his voice too sweet. "I thought you'd like it."
Lysandre wished he'd taken his chance to wake up when he could. The sight of Sycamore smiling at him now made him feel sick to his stomach. Seemingly getting closer, the cry roared out again. He tried to see where the guest was, but the plain was slowly being covered in a thick grey fog. He coughed, once, twice – then his breath caught in his throat when he felt arms curling around him, hugging him from behind. Sycamore nuzzled his neck, gentle.
"Relax," he said, but the fog seemed to only get thicker, and darker, until suddenly a four-legged shadow flashed against the smoke, the cry once again vibrating inside Lysandre's skull.
He was unfazed to find himself awake the next moment. His room was dark: it was still night. He didn't feel like sleeping anymore. Sycamore was standing in a corner, leaning against the wall. Lysandre ignored him in favor of walking up to the window. He pushed the curtain aside slightly to peer outside and saw nothing but dark buildings and empty streets. He stared out the window for as long as he could withstand it, unwilling to acknowledge Sycamore's presence. This whole situation, this whole masquerade, it had to stop. He had to put an end to it.
When he finally turned away and saw that Sycamore was now standing next to him, his conviction was already wavering. The professor merely looked back, his face blank.
"I'm sorry." Lysandre found himself unable to stop the words from coming out, his mouth dry, his head suddenly pounding. "This is my fault. You've died because of me. Everything is my fault. Everyone is–"
"Who are you talking to?" Sycamore cut him off, his head tilted slightly, something close to pity bleeding through his expression. "You know I'm not real. You're only talking to yourself."
He opened his mouth to protest, but only managed to stutter, mumble something barely comprehensible. Sycamore's mouth curled into a sad smile as he held up his hand and softly brushed it against his cheek. His hand was warm.
"Go back to sleep," Sycamore said – but of course it wasn't him. It was just a construct he'd let himself believe in so he'd never forget what he had done.
Lysandre closed his eyes.
*
The plain was on fire.
It was reassuring, somehow. Familiar: reminiscent of the first nightmares he'd had, so long ago. Sycamore was standing behind him, he knew, more than he felt, more than he saw. Something – someone, the guest – was walking toward them, walking through the walls of fire before him.
When they emerged, gigantic and magnificent, Lysandre felt his knees go weak, and he had to focus hard not to let himself collapse. Sycamore squeezed his shoulders, his presence oddly comforting.
The guest was dark blue, a powerful creature perched on four legs. Their head was topped by a long crest, seemingly unaffected by its weight. Their body was protected by what looked like armor, a protective layer of sheen, a shield – and on their back, following several spines, a fin-like appendage was raised against the breeze. In the middle of their chest, Lysandre could see a miniature reflection of himself in a diamond. He took a step back, overwhelmed. Sycamore's hands squeezed harder.
"You're," Lysandre stammered out, appalled that he had not been able to guess this outcome, "you're Dialga."
Dialga's eyes remained indifferent. There was something about their presence that was suffocating; Lysandre clutched at his chest. Suddenly, he couldn't be sure whether or not he was dreaming anymore. The sounds of the roaring fire surrounded him.
Then, a voice spoke, covering everything else, ethereal and terrifying.
"Human."
Lysandre looked up. Dialga's mouth remained unmoving. They stared back before speaking again.
"You have made your choice."
Letting out a noise that could only be described as a whimper, Lysandre brought his hands to his ears and pressed hard, in vain.
"What do you want from me?" he yelled, loud and painful. "I apologize for what I've done, I... I understand if you've come to enact your punishment."
There was a sound inside his head, almost like a laugh.
"I have come to deliver you and erase your mistakes. Is that not what you yearn for? There are no positives to what you have done."
Lysandre let go of his ears when his legs finally gave out, grasping at the grass under him in an attempt to steady himself. He felt a wave of nausea washing over him but managed to overcome it.
"I know," he said because he didn't know what else to do.
Was that what AZ had told him about? How could he have refused to bow down to such a crushing presence?
"Love," Dialga's voice resonated throughout his body, from the inside of his skull to the tip of his toes. "It is what dooms humans, and what saves them. I cannot stay for long. We do not usually interfere."
"I thought I'd killed Xerneas, and Yveltal," Lysandre croaked, feeling weak and helpless, on his knees before what amounted to a god. "I thought you, of all the creatures in this world, would not forgive my actions."
"Humans have such arrogance," Dialga said, and there was almost a sort of fondness to their words. "You have no power over us. We merely indulge you. Sometimes, it leads to great catastrophes."
"So it seems," Lysandre mumbled. He didn't feel like rising back up. He stared down at the ground.
The silence stretched around him, tight and stressful. The walls of fire had closed in, capturing the scene in a bright circle that reminded Lysandre of the situation he'd put himself in. He smirked, but there was no joy in it. What would he have done, years back, as his ideas were starting to form, had he known this would be the end result? He'd told Bryony he would have changed, would have done the right thing, of course – but the truth was, the reality was: he couldn't be sure. He couldn't be sure of himself, of his ability to resist the call of his ego. It was only when confronted with concrete proof – with the smell of burning corpses and the grief in Bryony's eyes and the cold body of a man he was letting himself be haunted by – that he'd finally seen the cracks in his grandiose plans.
If he could go back – and he could, couldn't he? Why was Dialga here otherwise? Unless this was a dream, then none of this mattered – how could he know he wouldn't dismiss everything he'd seen, convince himself he'd imagined it, dreamed it, made it up out of some cowardly urge to run away from his true mission in this world, how could he know he wouldn't do the exact same thing because it was easier to believe he was right?
He was breathing too fast. The dream was starting to lose its essence, his body and mind too caught up in his anxiety. A hand that was not his own ran through his hair, once, twice.
When Dialga spoke again, the voice was softer in his head, almost sympathetic.
"Human, I understand this situation is most unusual."
"Am I dreaming?" Lysandre asked, his eyes still firmly stuck to the ground. "Is this just a dream and tomorrow I'll wake up and everything will be the same?"
He could feel something against his back: Sycamore's warm body, holding him. Keeping him there.
"This is not a dream," Dialga said, a wave in his mind. "I have been observing you. I have seen you with the king, old and ragged and unable to be freed. I have seen you with your other humans, attempting to bring back order. This order is, of course, reachable, as it always is."
"You mean we could rebuild society, similar to how the world fixed itself after what the king did," Lysandre said, finally lifting his head to meet the legendary's dark eyes once more. "But, we're not in that same state... so many more people are dead, and pokémons extinct."
This time, the sound in Lysandre's brain was definitely a laugh.
"You are foolish. Pokémons have survived worse than this. They are hidden away, waiting to be able to roam this world again. They do not need you."
Lysandre frowned. "I don't understand. You tell me you know I've made my choice, but you still talk as if it's unnecessary to fix things."
"Everything is unnecessary in the eyes of eternity," Dialga said calmly as if speaking to a small child. "Your fear of your uselessness in the grand scheme of things is what's brought all of this upon you, is it not?"
"I'm sorry," Lysandre mumbled.
"Apologies are meaningless. To answer your question, I am merely stating what is. The world can be rebuilt, but it would never be the better place you once aimed to achieve. We do not need a repeat of the mistakes of the past."
Dialga's head rose, observing the horizon far above the fire.
"I know what you have chosen in your heart, but it does not have to be. You can refuse, as your ancestor did."
Lysandre struggled to stand back up, Sycamore's embrace fading away as he did.
"No, I–I accept," he said, with less conviction than he'd have liked. He stood as tall as he could, his back straightened, his head held up to peer into Dialga's unreadable eyes. "Please, just tell me what to do."
"The key," Dialga said, their voice a booming roar. Lysandre's hand slipped inside his jacket to find it burning his skin. "When you touch it, I will know to send you back. You have one day, from when you awake after this exchange, to when the sun comes down again in your defaced world."
Lysandre went to nod, but then hesitated, suddenly struck by a thought.
"The ones I'm leaving behind," he said carefully, his eyes still peering up at Dialga's face, "what will happen to them? Will they continue without me or will they... disappear?"
The flames' reflection danced swiftly in Dialga's pupils.
"The human you were back then would not have bothered with these inquiries," they said, and their tone was oddly soothing to Lysandre. "They will be gone. None of what you've reaped will affect them. Their future will be a blank page upon which you will hopefully write a better outcome."
Lysandre let his head fall, breathing out deeply as he did.
"Thank you."
*
He awoke to the soft light of the early morning sun. The curtains had not been drawn. He did not remember getting himself into bed and falling back asleep; perhaps his exchange with Sycamore after his first awakening had been a dream as well.
The professor's copy was nowhere to be found. Lysandre felt oddly empty – had he begun to depend on his presence, somehow? Even in the most unpleasant dreams, that dreadful parody of Sycamore was something he could take comfort in. Bryony was his friend, he supposed that was the word for it as strange as it made him feel, and she understood his grief and his struggle, but she couldn't read his mind. He could still hide things from her. He could hide nothing from his imaginary friend, whether he was there to dole out punishment or– well.
Cutting his thought process short, he rose from the bed with some difficulty and walked up to the window to peek at the street outside. Two recruits were walking, holding up boxes. From where he was, he couldn't see their faces. He wondered whether they were happy, even for just a moment. Are there any positives to what you have done? Dialga had asked. Perhaps unity was a positive – surely if it was, it was the only one.
His breath hitched – Dialga, the plain on fire, the dream, the key. He almost reached for it, before remembering Dialga's words. Had it truly been real? Wasn't it just a sick dream born out of a sick mind? Still, he could not bring himself to touch the key. If it had been real, if touching the key meant finally being able to fix this, then there was something he wanted to do first.
He thought bitterly that there was another positive this world had brought him, a diamond amidst lumps of coal. He was going to save her, but in doing so he was going to lose the relationship that had formed between them out of grief and mutual understanding. Somehow, he felt a need – the need to say goodbye to the Bryony who would never be.
He wanted to say goodbye to the others, as well. Xerosic and his poorly hidden anguish, Malva and her sadness slipping through the cracks, Mable, who'd thought they were meant to be together. All of them, who thought he was leading them forward on a path that ended with perfection.
But Bryony – Bryony had been special. A friendship threaded through the fabric of death. He'd never really paid more attention than necessary to her before – she was a young and brilliant woman, but they all were. Soldiers marching to war against all of humanity. Yet, inside her, there had been a potential, a spark that helped him become the man he was now.
To think that once everything would be back to normal, she wouldn't even know about it, wouldn't even guess that she had unwittingly worked to save the world – to save it for real, not in the way he'd made her believe it needed to be saved.
Lysandre felt himself tremble. He held on to the window frame to steady himself.
The echoing sound of his shoes hitting the stairs on the way out of the building reverberated through his body and managed to ground him. He didn't know what he was going to tell Bryony, but he needed her to know – to know that she'd made a difference, to know that he was going to do everything in his power to make sure she lived the perfect life she deserved.
He hurried through the street, attracting the perplexed glances of a few grunts that were being led around by an admin. He only slowed himself down once he'd reached the front of his café. He entered without even bothering to take a moment to steady his breathing.
Bryony was sitting with Mable and Aliana, laughing in a cup she was holding close to his face. Lysandre felt a warm wave of emotions wash over him and staggered. Who had he become, really? Could the cold, private man he had been a year ago evolve into the person he was now? What would become of him once everything had settled?
Not much, he gathered, deep inside his mind, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Augustine Sycamore. He suspected that he might not survive it. He buried the thought as quickly as it came, and held on to a nearby chair, breathing hard.
"Boss!" Mable's voice shrieked, and he heard them move their chairs aside so they could come and help him.
"Lysandre," Bryony said gently, holding his arm, "are you alright? Did you pass out again?"
He shook his head, coughing a little. Bryony held on to him a bit more firmly.
"I wanted to talk to you," Lysandre said when he was finally able to speak again. He looked at her: at her face, open and bare. Her eyes had a glimmer to them that made him almost believe that she knew everything he was about to tell her.
He straightened his back, with some help from his scientists: Bryony holding his arm and Mable resting a shaky hand on his waist. Aliana stared at him like you'd stare at something you'd expect to collapse at any moment.
"You're pale," she said quietly, before her face flushed and she added too fast, "Boss."
"Please," he started, as he let them lead him to the table they'd been sitting at, "call me Lysandre. We've buried our hierarchy with our dead, I believe."
It was a morbid statement, he realized too late. He felt at odds with both himself and everything around him. This world he was standing in wouldn't last for much longer. He held its demise in his pocket, literally. They sat in silence while Mable rushed to bring him a cup of hot coffee.
"Bryony," he said after staring at his reflection in the dark beverage for too long, deeply aware of the questioning gazes firmly planted on him. "I wanted to thank you."
She laughed, a sound filled with disbelief. "What for?"
"You were," he stammered, realized what he was saying, how alarming it probably sounded, and glanced at Bryony's face to see her brow creased in worry. "You are. A precious friend, to me."
It was unbefitting of him to speak so clumsily, but he felt self-conscious about confessing. He still had, somehow, buried deep, some pride left. It was both scary and reassuring.
A smile illuminated Bryony's face but did not completely push away the worry in her eyes.
"Well then, I should thank you, too."
"No," Lysandre said, probably too harshly. He'd always been so harsh with her. "Please don't."
Bryony's smile faltered slightly, taking on a sadder quality. Lysandre could feel the embarrassed stares of the other two scientists: Mable, pretending that she wasn't listening, Aliana, hiding behind the hands holding the cup up to her face.
"Mable, I wanted to reiterate my apology," Lysandre went on. Each word needed to be weighted so carefully, breaking through the tension he'd created between the four of them.
She blushed and looked away.
"It's alright," he added. "You deserve better than me, trust me."
That didn't seem to convince her, but she made no attempt to respond; she at least managed to smile. Bryony took Lysandre's hand in hers, and he let her. Of course.
"Aliana," he said, and she startled violently. Her reaction was so disproportionate that Bryony couldn't help but laugh. Lysandre only smiled. "You've been discreet, but I know your value. You've all been... perfect."
Except me, he thought, but oddly he felt himself at peace with the idea, almost content. He was going to fix this. He turned toward Bryony once more, held up her hand to his lips, and kissed her there.
In retrospect, the gesture was too dramatic – still, he liked the pink hue that spread on Bryony's face as a result. He saw himself reflected in the green hues of her eyes, not as a savior or a hero or any kind of mythical figure, solely a friend. He wondered if Sycamore had looked at him like that without him noticing. A day seemed too short to plan out how to repair a non-existent relationship. He let go of her hand and took a sip of his coffee.
Mable stood up, the sound of her chair sliding against the floor causing Aliana to start a second time.
"I have something I need to check on with Xerosic, I'm sorry," she said. They nodded at her, and Aliana stood as well.
"I, um," Aliana hesitated, looking at Bryony, then Lysandre, then Bryony again. "There's a meeting with the admins Malva asked me to help with, so I need to get going as well."
"Very well," Lysandre smiled. They looked away. "Goodbye, then."
Mable frowned. "We'll see you later."
Lysandre's smile didn't tremble, even as he searched for her gaze. She still refused to look at him, blinking away when their eyes met.
"Of course."
For a second, Lysandre thought maybe she was about to say something, watched her lick her lips quickly and then give up, taking hold of Aliana's shoulder to lead her toward the exit. As soon as the door closed behind them, Bryony turned to stare at Lysandre with narrowed eyes.
"What are you up to?"
He drank what was left in his cup before answering. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
She rolled her eyes. He found himself marveling at her insolence.
"I believed in you when you told us we'd create a beautiful world with a legendary machine that could harvest godly powers," she said, "and look where we are now."
"Amidst rubble and desolation?" Lysandre lifted one eyebrow in mock skepticism. "Perhaps you shouldn't have believed in me after all."
She pressed her lips into a thin, white line.
"You don't get to say that."
He blinked and looked away. "I know. That was... insensitive. I apologize."
Bryony sighed. He felt like an idiot, unable to resist the urge to be smug in his self-sabotage. That was not how he wanted this to go. He wanted to tell her the truth, somehow – even though he was certain she'd think him delusional, perhaps having finally succumbed to the grim fantasy he'd made up to keep himself company.
The fantasy in question had disappeared ever since he'd agreed to let Dialga fix things. Whether that meant he was at peace with himself, he did not know.
He licked his lips and took a deep breath.
"You said I was acting strangely since I passed out and we met the giant," he started.
She looked up to meet his gaze. "Does he have anything to do with this conversation?"
"He..." Lysandre cleared his throat. He found himself thinking that perhaps he was still dreaming. He dismissed it. "He's the one who built the machine. He gave me the key, if you recall."
He watched as Bryony took on a skeptical expression, frowned eyebrows and pursed lips.
"He's the three-thousand-year-old king from the legend?"
"I did say that you wouldn't believe me," Lysandre remarked with a sorry smile. "It only gets worse from there."
"I'm listening."
Listen she did – she said nothing as he recounted the conversation he'd had with AZ among the flowers, merely frowned when he talked about the dream. It was only when he mentioned Dialga that she threw her hands up to stop him in his recollection.
"Okay, I admit," she said, almost apologetically, "that is hard to believe. If it's true, I'm not even sure why you're telling me about it instead of going back right now–"
"I'm going to lose you," Lysandre mumbled. He played with his empty cup so he could have a reason to look away. "I came to say goodbye."
"I'm still... I mean, there'll still be a Bryony, back then."
"She won't remember our relationship."
"No, she won't." She paused, but then as if suddenly struck by the realization, added in a whisper, "She'll have Celosia back, though."
He gathered the strength to look at her, at her eyes wide and the way her body seemed suddenly very stiff.
"I'll make sure things stay that way," he said quietly.
"If it's true... I think I could die happy, knowing that I'll see her again, somewhere."
She smiled. She was beautiful, as if suddenly that hope, born from dreams and legends, had given her her youth back. Lysandre couldn't help but smile back at her. He was struck by the thought that maybe this was what he was meant to do, that maybe all of this had been some sort of trial to designate him as a person worthy to save the world. He thought about AZ's miserable existence, wandering forever in search of redemption that could never come. Maybe he was here now to give him that peace he was looking for.
Nobody would know what he had done except himself. Oddly, he was at ease with that knowledge: the thought that he was embarking on a thankless task, finally letting himself fully embrace his ideals of giving without asking for anything back. It felt right. It felt like the perfect ending to his story.
"Do you want to say goodbye to the others?" Bryony asked, taking him out of his reflections.
Without hesitation, Lysandre nodded. "I presume nobody else would believe me, not to mention, if I turn out to be wrong, I'd rather they never find out about it... but I do want to see them one last time."
Bryony stood up. On impulse, Lysandre stood as well and took a tentative step in her direction before walking up to her. They looked at each other for a second before embracing.
"I'm certain this opportunity has been given to us thanks to your prayers," Lysandre said, speaking against strands of green hair.
"You're going to make me cry," Bryony protested against the fur of his jacket. "You're a good man, you know."
He doubted it – but hearing her say it made a tension melt away from his body, an apprehension he didn't even know was there. He was making the right choice, now. Finally.
They let go of each other and he watched her run off to gather the others. He felt relieved, an unbelievably heavy burden finally leaving his shoulders. Things were going to get better. He was going to save the world.
It was hard not to tell Malva or Xerosic what he was about to do. He smiled at them as they talked positively about the current state of the world they'd managed to salvage and the progress they would certainly keep working toward. At some point he found himself moving toward Malva as if to embrace her as he had Bryony, but he backed off before she could even notice it. He didn't want to attract suspicion.
They all ate lunch together, in the café: Lysandre, his scientists, Malva, and a few admins who'd retreated there after their daily tasks. It was refreshing. It reminded Lysandre of the very beginning of it all, back when he was a wealthy patron who helped people in hope of making the world a better place. Thinking back to that time felt bittersweet. They all left afterward, one by one, talking about all the things they still needed to do. Only Bryony remained.
"Will you go now?" she said, her voice unsure.
He shook his head.
"There's somewhere I'd like to go first. I'll be back tonight."
She understood, as he knew she would. His grim fantasy was gone, but the memory of the man he'd been based on remained.
There was one last person he needed to say goodbye to.
*
Driving the car too fast through the deserted roads, Lysandre wondered idly where AZ had gone.
Could he die? He hadn't considered the possibility before. He presumed AZ's predicament was similar to his: Xerosic had talked about immortality, but not invincibility. Could he, himself, die? More importantly, he realized as he narrowly avoided driving right into a deprecated sign, would he still be immortal once Dialga had sent him back?
Perhaps then he would get an occasion to test whether or not he was invincible. The thought made him smirk despite himself.
The late afternoon sky was darkening at the edges when he stopped the car next to a tree at the border between the northern route and Couriway Town. He sat back for several minutes, still holding the wheel, expecting the ghost of his would-be lover to show up one last time, but nobody came. Finally, he extracted himself from the car and took a few steps toward Augustine Sycamore's grave.
Centuries might as well have elapsed since he'd dug that hole up. The ground had settled, dark and flat, strands of grass growing here and there, almost as if there was no grave at all. It made the whole thing seem even less real; he could see where the hole had been, remember its contours, where they started and ended, but only through the approximation of his memory, the phantom sensation in his arms and his legs of all the effort it had taken to dig down until there was enough room to bury a body in.
The body – he'd almost forgotten about it, after all this time spent with Sycamore's shadow. If he closed his eyes he could see it again, feel the cold skin against his fingers, the weight of it as he carried it out of the building tucked against his chest. How would it feel, to see him again, alive and well? What was he going to say? There was so much, so many things he'd realized since he'd carved his perfect, homemade nightmare. He was a fool of the worst kind. If he told him, if Sycamore knew – he would never be forgiven.
He thought about that as he knelt in front of the grave, his knees sinking into the dirt. There was something oddly nostalgic about the humid air, the sound of the waterfalls. It reminded him of his gyarados, of Sycamore's garden and its inhabitants frolicking in the ponds – of all the death he'd left in his wake. Further back in his memory, it reminded him of sitting next to the fishermen in the family property, visiting from the nearby villages to ask his father if they could fish there. He'd watch them catch and release the magikarps, and learn about what it meant to take and give back.
Forgiveness wasn't something he could strive for, nor did he want to – kindness, perhaps, he thought he could achieve. He could be kind: for Sycamore, for Bryony, for Xerosic, for his recruits he'd barely considered before. For Malva, even, who would never accept it.
Night had long since fallen when he lifted his head again, shaking himself out of his torpor. When he stood his pants were ruined, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He drove faster on the way back somehow, dodging debris swiftly even as he barely paid attention to the road.
*
Bryony was waiting for him next to the entrance when he arrived back at the café. She didn't smile; she looked very solemn. He followed her inside, neither of them saying a word until they reached the table they'd been sitting at hours before. He sat on the chair next to her and pressed his shoulder against hers.
"If this doesn't work, and I really was dreaming," Lysandre murmured, "please convince Xerosic to give me some sort of medication for the nervous breakdown I'm obviously experiencing."
That succeeded at making her smile, laugh even, a little.
"You know he'll just tell me he's not a doctor," she retorted, fond.
"He's fun to mess with." Lysandre felt very calm. He fumbled with his jacket, ready to press the tip of his fingers against the warm key of the ancient king.
Bryony sighed, but there was no sadness in it. Instead, she seemed relieved, as if she was already anticipating being finally freed from all of this.
"Goodbye, then," she said, glancing at him.
Lysandre smiled.
"Adieu."
His fingers brushed the key, and everything went black.
*
There was nothing around him except blackness. Instead of being alarming, it was comforting, like standing still in a very familiar place.
"Good luck, human," Dialga's voice said, coming from everywhere at once.
Lysandre closed his eyes, trading one darkness for another.
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
The wind was blowing gently in Lysandre's hair, caressing the planes of his face and making its way softly through the grass around him. That feeling of peacefulness seemed to be exactly what his body needed, to get rid of all the lassitude he'd been carrying for so long. Basking in it, he shifted his head slightly from where it was resting on someone's lap. Long loving fingers were tracing the lines of his face with steady reverence. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He opened them back up, wide, when a loud roar broke through the quiet of the plain. The hand stilled, a finger still grazing his cheek.
Of course this was a dream. He'd had a long day: supervising the reconstruction of collapsed buildings, double-checking inventories of various supplies gathered throughout several cities, encouraging recruits who still believed in him and all of this, somehow. He couldn't help but feel a bitter sort of envy toward them when it came to that, but the way their faces illuminated whenever he smiled reassuringly or uttered words of gratitude and assurance helped alleviate the tight grip guilt kept around his worn-out heart.
Bryony had looked happy, radiant – but he'd heard her cry the day before when she thought she was alone. Deep inside himself, he thought that if one person deserved to be able to undo all of this, it was her.
Still, she did not deserve the torment. In that regard, he was glad to carry it for her.
Lysandre shifted his head up slightly. Sycamore – because who else could it be – let his hand fall to his neck.
"You said it was almost time," Lysandre mumbled, before struggling to get up to a sitting position.
"I maintain what I said," Sycamore said with a smile on his face. "Our anniversary is getting close, aren't you excited?"
Had it really been that long? Lysandre sighed, leaning against the professor's form despite himself. He needed the comfort. It was fake, and it was painful – but everything was, these days, or so it seemed.
"I'm so tired of all of this," Lysandre groaned, and he could feel Sycamore's fingers carefully caressing his hair.
"You need to rest," Sycamore said, his voice almost a whisper.
Lysandre let him maneuver his body back to his previous position, his head comfortably set on his lap. He closed his eyes, admitting defeat.
"That's it," Sycamore purred, petting his hair some more. "I'll tell you a bedtime story. It's the story of a man who wanted everyone in the world to know who he was. You can sympathize, can you?"
In response, Lysandre made a sound at the back of his throat, between a moan and a sob. Sycamore's smile grew wider.
"He was a good man. He had power and influence within his arm's reach. He was loved and admired, but it wasn't enough for him. He wanted people to remember him for as long as they lived. He wanted people to remember him forever."
The dream was taking on an unreal tone as if Lysandre was half-awake. Was his head laying on a lap or on a pillow? Above everything else, he still heard Sycamore's voice, as if he was talking directly into his ear.
"The man thought and thought, and came to this conclusion: if he wanted to become a legend, he had to do something important, something that would change the world! Changing the world sounded easy enough with his power and influence, and so the man started working toward making the world a better place."
Lysandre felt himself grow restless, but already Sycamore was running his hands down his neck, massaging the skin there, making him sigh and stir.
"He worked and worked and put his faith in others but no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he gave of himself, the world refused to change. His efforts were in vain. How could slight technological progress ensure his name be written down in history? How could other people refuse to bend to his vision? Was humanity so selfish? he thought. He knew what had to be done," Sycamore whispered, and Lysandre could feel his breath against his eyelids. "He knew what he had to do to save the world. He charmed others into doing his bidding, into believing he was right. He was right, wasn't he?"
When he was met with silence, Sycamore repeated, louder, "Wasn't he?"
His body suddenly aching and cold, Lysandre groaned and rolled aside. The warm weather and quiet atmosphere he'd been enjoying seemed to be quickly fading away. Sycamore did not stop him, even as he moved away from him, holding his face in his hands.
"Don't you want to hear how the story ends?" he asked, his voice too sweet. "I thought you'd like it."
Lysandre wished he'd taken his chance to wake up when he could. The sight of Sycamore smiling at him now made him feel sick to his stomach. Seemingly getting closer, the cry roared out again. He tried to see where the guest was, but the plain was slowly being covered in a thick grey fog. He coughed, once, twice – then his breath caught in his throat when he felt arms curling around him, hugging him from behind. Sycamore nuzzled his neck, gentle.
"Relax," he said, but the fog seemed to only get thicker, and darker, until suddenly a four-legged shadow flashed against the smoke, the cry once again vibrating inside Lysandre's skull.
He was unfazed to find himself awake the next moment. His room was dark: it was still night. He didn't feel like sleeping anymore. Sycamore was standing in a corner, leaning against the wall. Lysandre ignored him in favor of walking up to the window. He pushed the curtain aside slightly to peer outside and saw nothing but dark buildings and empty streets. He stared out the window for as long as he could withstand it, unwilling to acknowledge Sycamore's presence. This whole situation, this whole masquerade, it had to stop. He had to put an end to it.
When he finally turned away and saw that Sycamore was now standing next to him, his conviction was already wavering. The professor merely looked back, his face blank.
"I'm sorry." Lysandre found himself unable to stop the words from coming out, his mouth dry, his head suddenly pounding. "This is my fault. You've died because of me. Everything is my fault. Everyone is–"
"Who are you talking to?" Sycamore cut him off, his head tilted slightly, something close to pity bleeding through his expression. "You know I'm not real. You're only talking to yourself."
He opened his mouth to protest, but only managed to stutter, mumble something barely comprehensible. Sycamore's mouth curled into a sad smile as he held up his hand and softly brushed it against his cheek. His hand was warm.
"Go back to sleep," Sycamore said – but of course it wasn't him. It was just a construct he'd let himself believe in so he'd never forget what he had done.
Lysandre closed his eyes.
*
The plain was on fire.
It was reassuring, somehow. Familiar: reminiscent of the first nightmares he'd had, so long ago. Sycamore was standing behind him, he knew, more than he felt, more than he saw. Something – someone, the guest – was walking toward them, walking through the walls of fire before him.
When they emerged, gigantic and magnificent, Lysandre felt his knees go weak, and he had to focus hard not to let himself collapse. Sycamore squeezed his shoulders, his presence oddly comforting.
The guest was dark blue, a powerful creature perched on four legs. Their head was topped by a long crest, seemingly unaffected by its weight. Their body was protected by what looked like armor, a protective layer of sheen, a shield – and on their back, following several spines, a fin-like appendage was raised against the breeze. In the middle of their chest, Lysandre could see a miniature reflection of himself in a diamond. He took a step back, overwhelmed. Sycamore's hands squeezed harder.
"You're," Lysandre stammered out, appalled that he had not been able to guess this outcome, "you're Dialga."
Dialga's eyes remained indifferent. There was something about their presence that was suffocating; Lysandre clutched at his chest. Suddenly, he couldn't be sure whether or not he was dreaming anymore. The sounds of the roaring fire surrounded him.
Then, a voice spoke, covering everything else, ethereal and terrifying.
"Human."
Lysandre looked up. Dialga's mouth remained unmoving. They stared back before speaking again.
"You have made your choice."
Letting out a noise that could only be described as a whimper, Lysandre brought his hands to his ears and pressed hard, in vain.
"What do you want from me?" he yelled, loud and painful. "I apologize for what I've done, I... I understand if you've come to enact your punishment."
There was a sound inside his head, almost like a laugh.
"I have come to deliver you and erase your mistakes. Is that not what you yearn for? There are no positives to what you have done."
Lysandre let go of his ears when his legs finally gave out, grasping at the grass under him in an attempt to steady himself. He felt a wave of nausea washing over him but managed to overcome it.
"I know," he said because he didn't know what else to do.
Was that what AZ had told him about? How could he have refused to bow down to such a crushing presence?
"Love," Dialga's voice resonated throughout his body, from the inside of his skull to the tip of his toes. "It is what dooms humans, and what saves them. I cannot stay for long. We do not usually interfere."
"I thought I'd killed Xerneas, and Yveltal," Lysandre croaked, feeling weak and helpless, on his knees before what amounted to a god. "I thought you, of all the creatures in this world, would not forgive my actions."
"Humans have such arrogance," Dialga said, and there was almost a sort of fondness to their words. "You have no power over us. We merely indulge you. Sometimes, it leads to great catastrophes."
"So it seems," Lysandre mumbled. He didn't feel like rising back up. He stared down at the ground.
The silence stretched around him, tight and stressful. The walls of fire had closed in, capturing the scene in a bright circle that reminded Lysandre of the situation he'd put himself in. He smirked, but there was no joy in it. What would he have done, years back, as his ideas were starting to form, had he known this would be the end result? He'd told Bryony he would have changed, would have done the right thing, of course – but the truth was, the reality was: he couldn't be sure. He couldn't be sure of himself, of his ability to resist the call of his ego. It was only when confronted with concrete proof – with the smell of burning corpses and the grief in Bryony's eyes and the cold body of a man he was letting himself be haunted by – that he'd finally seen the cracks in his grandiose plans.
If he could go back – and he could, couldn't he? Why was Dialga here otherwise? Unless this was a dream, then none of this mattered – how could he know he wouldn't dismiss everything he'd seen, convince himself he'd imagined it, dreamed it, made it up out of some cowardly urge to run away from his true mission in this world, how could he know he wouldn't do the exact same thing because it was easier to believe he was right?
He was breathing too fast. The dream was starting to lose its essence, his body and mind too caught up in his anxiety. A hand that was not his own ran through his hair, once, twice.
When Dialga spoke again, the voice was softer in his head, almost sympathetic.
"Human, I understand this situation is most unusual."
"Am I dreaming?" Lysandre asked, his eyes still firmly stuck to the ground. "Is this just a dream and tomorrow I'll wake up and everything will be the same?"
He could feel something against his back: Sycamore's warm body, holding him. Keeping him there.
"This is not a dream," Dialga said, a wave in his mind. "I have been observing you. I have seen you with the king, old and ragged and unable to be freed. I have seen you with your other humans, attempting to bring back order. This order is, of course, reachable, as it always is."
"You mean we could rebuild society, similar to how the world fixed itself after what the king did," Lysandre said, finally lifting his head to meet the legendary's dark eyes once more. "But, we're not in that same state... so many more people are dead, and pokémons extinct."
This time, the sound in Lysandre's brain was definitely a laugh.
"You are foolish. Pokémons have survived worse than this. They are hidden away, waiting to be able to roam this world again. They do not need you."
Lysandre frowned. "I don't understand. You tell me you know I've made my choice, but you still talk as if it's unnecessary to fix things."
"Everything is unnecessary in the eyes of eternity," Dialga said calmly as if speaking to a small child. "Your fear of your uselessness in the grand scheme of things is what's brought all of this upon you, is it not?"
"I'm sorry," Lysandre mumbled.
"Apologies are meaningless. To answer your question, I am merely stating what is. The world can be rebuilt, but it would never be the better place you once aimed to achieve. We do not need a repeat of the mistakes of the past."
Dialga's head rose, observing the horizon far above the fire.
"I know what you have chosen in your heart, but it does not have to be. You can refuse, as your ancestor did."
Lysandre struggled to stand back up, Sycamore's embrace fading away as he did.
"No, I–I accept," he said, with less conviction than he'd have liked. He stood as tall as he could, his back straightened, his head held up to peer into Dialga's unreadable eyes. "Please, just tell me what to do."
"The key," Dialga said, their voice a booming roar. Lysandre's hand slipped inside his jacket to find it burning his skin. "When you touch it, I will know to send you back. You have one day, from when you awake after this exchange, to when the sun comes down again in your defaced world."
Lysandre went to nod, but then hesitated, suddenly struck by a thought.
"The ones I'm leaving behind," he said carefully, his eyes still peering up at Dialga's face, "what will happen to them? Will they continue without me or will they... disappear?"
The flames' reflection danced swiftly in Dialga's pupils.
"The human you were back then would not have bothered with these inquiries," they said, and their tone was oddly soothing to Lysandre. "They will be gone. None of what you've reaped will affect them. Their future will be a blank page upon which you will hopefully write a better outcome."
Lysandre let his head fall, breathing out deeply as he did.
"Thank you."
*
He awoke to the soft light of the early morning sun. The curtains had not been drawn. He did not remember getting himself into bed and falling back asleep; perhaps his exchange with Sycamore after his first awakening had been a dream as well.
The professor's copy was nowhere to be found. Lysandre felt oddly empty – had he begun to depend on his presence, somehow? Even in the most unpleasant dreams, that dreadful parody of Sycamore was something he could take comfort in. Bryony was his friend, he supposed that was the word for it as strange as it made him feel, and she understood his grief and his struggle, but she couldn't read his mind. He could still hide things from her. He could hide nothing from his imaginary friend, whether he was there to dole out punishment or– well.
Cutting his thought process short, he rose from the bed with some difficulty and walked up to the window to peek at the street outside. Two recruits were walking, holding up boxes. From where he was, he couldn't see their faces. He wondered whether they were happy, even for just a moment. Are there any positives to what you have done? Dialga had asked. Perhaps unity was a positive – surely if it was, it was the only one.
His breath hitched – Dialga, the plain on fire, the dream, the key. He almost reached for it, before remembering Dialga's words. Had it truly been real? Wasn't it just a sick dream born out of a sick mind? Still, he could not bring himself to touch the key. If it had been real, if touching the key meant finally being able to fix this, then there was something he wanted to do first.
He thought bitterly that there was another positive this world had brought him, a diamond amidst lumps of coal. He was going to save her, but in doing so he was going to lose the relationship that had formed between them out of grief and mutual understanding. Somehow, he felt a need – the need to say goodbye to the Bryony who would never be.
He wanted to say goodbye to the others, as well. Xerosic and his poorly hidden anguish, Malva and her sadness slipping through the cracks, Mable, who'd thought they were meant to be together. All of them, who thought he was leading them forward on a path that ended with perfection.
But Bryony – Bryony had been special. A friendship threaded through the fabric of death. He'd never really paid more attention than necessary to her before – she was a young and brilliant woman, but they all were. Soldiers marching to war against all of humanity. Yet, inside her, there had been a potential, a spark that helped him become the man he was now.
To think that once everything would be back to normal, she wouldn't even know about it, wouldn't even guess that she had unwittingly worked to save the world – to save it for real, not in the way he'd made her believe it needed to be saved.
Lysandre felt himself tremble. He held on to the window frame to steady himself.
The echoing sound of his shoes hitting the stairs on the way out of the building reverberated through his body and managed to ground him. He didn't know what he was going to tell Bryony, but he needed her to know – to know that she'd made a difference, to know that he was going to do everything in his power to make sure she lived the perfect life she deserved.
He hurried through the street, attracting the perplexed glances of a few grunts that were being led around by an admin. He only slowed himself down once he'd reached the front of his café. He entered without even bothering to take a moment to steady his breathing.
Bryony was sitting with Mable and Aliana, laughing in a cup she was holding close to his face. Lysandre felt a warm wave of emotions wash over him and staggered. Who had he become, really? Could the cold, private man he had been a year ago evolve into the person he was now? What would become of him once everything had settled?
Not much, he gathered, deep inside his mind, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Augustine Sycamore. He suspected that he might not survive it. He buried the thought as quickly as it came, and held on to a nearby chair, breathing hard.
"Boss!" Mable's voice shrieked, and he heard them move their chairs aside so they could come and help him.
"Lysandre," Bryony said gently, holding his arm, "are you alright? Did you pass out again?"
He shook his head, coughing a little. Bryony held on to him a bit more firmly.
"I wanted to talk to you," Lysandre said when he was finally able to speak again. He looked at her: at her face, open and bare. Her eyes had a glimmer to them that made him almost believe that she knew everything he was about to tell her.
He straightened his back, with some help from his scientists: Bryony holding his arm and Mable resting a shaky hand on his waist. Aliana stared at him like you'd stare at something you'd expect to collapse at any moment.
"You're pale," she said quietly, before her face flushed and she added too fast, "Boss."
"Please," he started, as he let them lead him to the table they'd been sitting at, "call me Lysandre. We've buried our hierarchy with our dead, I believe."
It was a morbid statement, he realized too late. He felt at odds with both himself and everything around him. This world he was standing in wouldn't last for much longer. He held its demise in his pocket, literally. They sat in silence while Mable rushed to bring him a cup of hot coffee.
"Bryony," he said after staring at his reflection in the dark beverage for too long, deeply aware of the questioning gazes firmly planted on him. "I wanted to thank you."
She laughed, a sound filled with disbelief. "What for?"
"You were," he stammered, realized what he was saying, how alarming it probably sounded, and glanced at Bryony's face to see her brow creased in worry. "You are. A precious friend, to me."
It was unbefitting of him to speak so clumsily, but he felt self-conscious about confessing. He still had, somehow, buried deep, some pride left. It was both scary and reassuring.
A smile illuminated Bryony's face but did not completely push away the worry in her eyes.
"Well then, I should thank you, too."
"No," Lysandre said, probably too harshly. He'd always been so harsh with her. "Please don't."
Bryony's smile faltered slightly, taking on a sadder quality. Lysandre could feel the embarrassed stares of the other two scientists: Mable, pretending that she wasn't listening, Aliana, hiding behind the hands holding the cup up to her face.
"Mable, I wanted to reiterate my apology," Lysandre went on. Each word needed to be weighted so carefully, breaking through the tension he'd created between the four of them.
She blushed and looked away.
"It's alright," he added. "You deserve better than me, trust me."
That didn't seem to convince her, but she made no attempt to respond; she at least managed to smile. Bryony took Lysandre's hand in hers, and he let her. Of course.
"Aliana," he said, and she startled violently. Her reaction was so disproportionate that Bryony couldn't help but laugh. Lysandre only smiled. "You've been discreet, but I know your value. You've all been... perfect."
Except me, he thought, but oddly he felt himself at peace with the idea, almost content. He was going to fix this. He turned toward Bryony once more, held up her hand to his lips, and kissed her there.
In retrospect, the gesture was too dramatic – still, he liked the pink hue that spread on Bryony's face as a result. He saw himself reflected in the green hues of her eyes, not as a savior or a hero or any kind of mythical figure, solely a friend. He wondered if Sycamore had looked at him like that without him noticing. A day seemed too short to plan out how to repair a non-existent relationship. He let go of her hand and took a sip of his coffee.
Mable stood up, the sound of her chair sliding against the floor causing Aliana to start a second time.
"I have something I need to check on with Xerosic, I'm sorry," she said. They nodded at her, and Aliana stood as well.
"I, um," Aliana hesitated, looking at Bryony, then Lysandre, then Bryony again. "There's a meeting with the admins Malva asked me to help with, so I need to get going as well."
"Very well," Lysandre smiled. They looked away. "Goodbye, then."
Mable frowned. "We'll see you later."
Lysandre's smile didn't tremble, even as he searched for her gaze. She still refused to look at him, blinking away when their eyes met.
"Of course."
For a second, Lysandre thought maybe she was about to say something, watched her lick her lips quickly and then give up, taking hold of Aliana's shoulder to lead her toward the exit. As soon as the door closed behind them, Bryony turned to stare at Lysandre with narrowed eyes.
"What are you up to?"
He drank what was left in his cup before answering. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
She rolled her eyes. He found himself marveling at her insolence.
"I believed in you when you told us we'd create a beautiful world with a legendary machine that could harvest godly powers," she said, "and look where we are now."
"Amidst rubble and desolation?" Lysandre lifted one eyebrow in mock skepticism. "Perhaps you shouldn't have believed in me after all."
She pressed her lips into a thin, white line.
"You don't get to say that."
He blinked and looked away. "I know. That was... insensitive. I apologize."
Bryony sighed. He felt like an idiot, unable to resist the urge to be smug in his self-sabotage. That was not how he wanted this to go. He wanted to tell her the truth, somehow – even though he was certain she'd think him delusional, perhaps having finally succumbed to the grim fantasy he'd made up to keep himself company.
The fantasy in question had disappeared ever since he'd agreed to let Dialga fix things. Whether that meant he was at peace with himself, he did not know.
He licked his lips and took a deep breath.
"You said I was acting strangely since I passed out and we met the giant," he started.
She looked up to meet his gaze. "Does he have anything to do with this conversation?"
"He..." Lysandre cleared his throat. He found himself thinking that perhaps he was still dreaming. He dismissed it. "He's the one who built the machine. He gave me the key, if you recall."
He watched as Bryony took on a skeptical expression, frowned eyebrows and pursed lips.
"He's the three-thousand-year-old king from the legend?"
"I did say that you wouldn't believe me," Lysandre remarked with a sorry smile. "It only gets worse from there."
"I'm listening."
Listen she did – she said nothing as he recounted the conversation he'd had with AZ among the flowers, merely frowned when he talked about the dream. It was only when he mentioned Dialga that she threw her hands up to stop him in his recollection.
"Okay, I admit," she said, almost apologetically, "that is hard to believe. If it's true, I'm not even sure why you're telling me about it instead of going back right now–"
"I'm going to lose you," Lysandre mumbled. He played with his empty cup so he could have a reason to look away. "I came to say goodbye."
"I'm still... I mean, there'll still be a Bryony, back then."
"She won't remember our relationship."
"No, she won't." She paused, but then as if suddenly struck by the realization, added in a whisper, "She'll have Celosia back, though."
He gathered the strength to look at her, at her eyes wide and the way her body seemed suddenly very stiff.
"I'll make sure things stay that way," he said quietly.
"If it's true... I think I could die happy, knowing that I'll see her again, somewhere."
She smiled. She was beautiful, as if suddenly that hope, born from dreams and legends, had given her her youth back. Lysandre couldn't help but smile back at her. He was struck by the thought that maybe this was what he was meant to do, that maybe all of this had been some sort of trial to designate him as a person worthy to save the world. He thought about AZ's miserable existence, wandering forever in search of redemption that could never come. Maybe he was here now to give him that peace he was looking for.
Nobody would know what he had done except himself. Oddly, he was at ease with that knowledge: the thought that he was embarking on a thankless task, finally letting himself fully embrace his ideals of giving without asking for anything back. It felt right. It felt like the perfect ending to his story.
"Do you want to say goodbye to the others?" Bryony asked, taking him out of his reflections.
Without hesitation, Lysandre nodded. "I presume nobody else would believe me, not to mention, if I turn out to be wrong, I'd rather they never find out about it... but I do want to see them one last time."
Bryony stood up. On impulse, Lysandre stood as well and took a tentative step in her direction before walking up to her. They looked at each other for a second before embracing.
"I'm certain this opportunity has been given to us thanks to your prayers," Lysandre said, speaking against strands of green hair.
"You're going to make me cry," Bryony protested against the fur of his jacket. "You're a good man, you know."
He doubted it – but hearing her say it made a tension melt away from his body, an apprehension he didn't even know was there. He was making the right choice, now. Finally.
They let go of each other and he watched her run off to gather the others. He felt relieved, an unbelievably heavy burden finally leaving his shoulders. Things were going to get better. He was going to save the world.
It was hard not to tell Malva or Xerosic what he was about to do. He smiled at them as they talked positively about the current state of the world they'd managed to salvage and the progress they would certainly keep working toward. At some point he found himself moving toward Malva as if to embrace her as he had Bryony, but he backed off before she could even notice it. He didn't want to attract suspicion.
They all ate lunch together, in the café: Lysandre, his scientists, Malva, and a few admins who'd retreated there after their daily tasks. It was refreshing. It reminded Lysandre of the very beginning of it all, back when he was a wealthy patron who helped people in hope of making the world a better place. Thinking back to that time felt bittersweet. They all left afterward, one by one, talking about all the things they still needed to do. Only Bryony remained.
"Will you go now?" she said, her voice unsure.
He shook his head.
"There's somewhere I'd like to go first. I'll be back tonight."
She understood, as he knew she would. His grim fantasy was gone, but the memory of the man he'd been based on remained.
There was one last person he needed to say goodbye to.
*
Driving the car too fast through the deserted roads, Lysandre wondered idly where AZ had gone.
Could he die? He hadn't considered the possibility before. He presumed AZ's predicament was similar to his: Xerosic had talked about immortality, but not invincibility. Could he, himself, die? More importantly, he realized as he narrowly avoided driving right into a deprecated sign, would he still be immortal once Dialga had sent him back?
Perhaps then he would get an occasion to test whether or not he was invincible. The thought made him smirk despite himself.
The late afternoon sky was darkening at the edges when he stopped the car next to a tree at the border between the northern route and Couriway Town. He sat back for several minutes, still holding the wheel, expecting the ghost of his would-be lover to show up one last time, but nobody came. Finally, he extracted himself from the car and took a few steps toward Augustine Sycamore's grave.
Centuries might as well have elapsed since he'd dug that hole up. The ground had settled, dark and flat, strands of grass growing here and there, almost as if there was no grave at all. It made the whole thing seem even less real; he could see where the hole had been, remember its contours, where they started and ended, but only through the approximation of his memory, the phantom sensation in his arms and his legs of all the effort it had taken to dig down until there was enough room to bury a body in.
The body – he'd almost forgotten about it, after all this time spent with Sycamore's shadow. If he closed his eyes he could see it again, feel the cold skin against his fingers, the weight of it as he carried it out of the building tucked against his chest. How would it feel, to see him again, alive and well? What was he going to say? There was so much, so many things he'd realized since he'd carved his perfect, homemade nightmare. He was a fool of the worst kind. If he told him, if Sycamore knew – he would never be forgiven.
He thought about that as he knelt in front of the grave, his knees sinking into the dirt. There was something oddly nostalgic about the humid air, the sound of the waterfalls. It reminded him of his gyarados, of Sycamore's garden and its inhabitants frolicking in the ponds – of all the death he'd left in his wake. Further back in his memory, it reminded him of sitting next to the fishermen in the family property, visiting from the nearby villages to ask his father if they could fish there. He'd watch them catch and release the magikarps, and learn about what it meant to take and give back.
Forgiveness wasn't something he could strive for, nor did he want to – kindness, perhaps, he thought he could achieve. He could be kind: for Sycamore, for Bryony, for Xerosic, for his recruits he'd barely considered before. For Malva, even, who would never accept it.
Night had long since fallen when he lifted his head again, shaking himself out of his torpor. When he stood his pants were ruined, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He drove faster on the way back somehow, dodging debris swiftly even as he barely paid attention to the road.
*
Bryony was waiting for him next to the entrance when he arrived back at the café. She didn't smile; she looked very solemn. He followed her inside, neither of them saying a word until they reached the table they'd been sitting at hours before. He sat on the chair next to her and pressed his shoulder against hers.
"If this doesn't work, and I really was dreaming," Lysandre murmured, "please convince Xerosic to give me some sort of medication for the nervous breakdown I'm obviously experiencing."
That succeeded at making her smile, laugh even, a little.
"You know he'll just tell me he's not a doctor," she retorted, fond.
"He's fun to mess with." Lysandre felt very calm. He fumbled with his jacket, ready to press the tip of his fingers against the warm key of the ancient king.
Bryony sighed, but there was no sadness in it. Instead, she seemed relieved, as if she was already anticipating being finally freed from all of this.
"Goodbye, then," she said, glancing at him.
Lysandre smiled.
"Adieu."
His fingers brushed the key, and everything went black.
*
There was nothing around him except blackness. Instead of being alarming, it was comforting, like standing still in a very familiar place.
"Good luck, human," Dialga's voice said, coming from everywhere at once.
Lysandre closed his eyes, trading one darkness for another.