diamondpearl876's Nominations

"But none of this would have happened if I wasn't so stupid!" he cried. "If I had stopped and thought about what we were all getting into-!"

"Crom! Please! don't blame yourself!" the Swellow suddenly interrupted, beating out his wings. "Everything happens for a reason, and-"

"What reason could there be for this?!" the Druddigon growled. "Pleo's gone! And so's the rest of the team! And-! A-And-!"

The young dragon's voice broke and began to trail off as tears started to well up in his eyes again. As he began to sniffle and wipe at his nose with a claw, he was suddenly interrupted by a soft feeling enveloping his chest. He looked down, and saw that his team leader had wrapped him in his wings, or as much as a Swellow could for a creature that was a full foot taller than himself.

"I don't know, Crom," the bird responded, his head drooping. "All I know is that since I was young, I've been told that was how things were. That no matter how bad things might get, the gods that were and are yet to come work in spite of it, to make the things that need to happen, happen."

"H-How do you know that, though?" Crom asked. The dragon's tears stopped coming and his eyes gave way to a piercing, pleading gaze as he waited for some, for any reassurance from his team leader.

"I don't, Crom… It's all a hope," the Swellow sighed as he rummaged through his bag. "And it's all that we've got right now."

The Swellow poked his beak in, and grasped something with it. When he pulled it out, the article was revealed to be a silvery-white feather, its tip split at the end.

"That's one of Pleo's feathers," Crom mumbled. "Why did you bring that here?"

"Well, it's said that Lugia's feathers allow for the pleas of Pokémon to reach him. And that the spirits of the old gods still have power over our world, especially over things related to them, and…" Kiran began, as he held the feather out to Crom. "It's not much, I'll admit… But I knew that you would have wanted to help out with what's going on right now."

The Druddigon paused, and after hesitating a bit, pinched the feather in between his claws and brought it up to his eyes.

"I… I suppose it was easier than dragging the shrine all the way down here…"

The Druddigon stared at the feather and was unsure how to start. Was there some sort of rite for calling to Pleo? Did they have to do some sort of weird dance? Did they have to also ask for help from the old gods' spirits in the Travellers above?

"If you can somehow hear this, Pleo- I mean, Travellers Above-" the Druddigon fumbled for words one after the other, until Kiran interrupted with the pat of a wing on his shoulder.

"Crom. Don't overdo it," the Swellow reassured. "Just say what's on your mind."

The Dragon-Type looked down at the feather in between his claws again, and after a pause, he shook his head before beginning again, this time his words coming out as a desperate plea.

"Please! Whoever I'm talking to! Let our friends come back to us!" he cried. The Druddigon and Swellow stared and stared at the feather, but nothing happened. It was still the same old night outside, the same simple room inside, with the same aching wounds on his body, leaving Crom to hang his head as his heart began to sink.

"We- We just want to know that they're okay…" he murmured weakly.

The glowing latios extended his arms. Solonn felt Jal’tai’s embrace despite having nothing of himself with which to actually, physically feel anything, just as he’d seen and heard Jal’tai without eyes and ears.

<Your suffering ends here,> Jal’tai tried to assure him. <I will now ensure that you will struggle no more.>

What are you going to do to me? Solonn asked fearfully. He had no voice in this place, but he also had no doubt at this point that Jal’tai could hear his thoughts.

<I could tell you,> Jal’tai replied, <but you wouldn’t remember.>

With that, the black holes that were the latios’s eyes gave a single, massive flash of light that was even brighter than the rest of him, and Solonn knew no more.

"We can't just leave him here like this," Raticate says, but he sounds distraught, not defiant.

"Yes, you can. There is nothing you can do here. If you want to see your friend Steelix again we need to prepare for the tournament."

"I…" Raticate glances at his teammate. "Mightyena?"

She doesn't answer. She doesn't look over when you take the pokéballs off your belt, either. She stands with her chin resting on the bedspread, her eyes distant.

"But what if he wakes up?" Raticate asks, turning a pleading look between you and Mightyena. "If we leave and he wakes up, he'll be all alone."

Really? Oh, poor baby. You bite back a cutting remark, clamping down on the surge of anger that rises in your chest. Something of it must show on your face, though, because Raticate flinches, cowering away from you. "Return," you say, and a couple seconds later you're alone again.

You take a last look at the great Nathaniel Morgan. His pokémon act like this is some kind of tragedy, like it isn't the human's own fault he's in this condition. He'd better not ruin this for you, not after all the work you've done.

You glance around to make sure no one's watching, then lean forward and whisper in his ear, "You had better not die. If you do, then I guess I will just have to keep your pokémon forever. You would not like that very much, would you?"

It's completely irrational. Of course the human can't hear you, passed out like he is. Still, it helps. You force yourself to walk out of the room, walk out of the hospital completely. You don't hurry. You're completely calm. You don't even start to run until the hospital's well out of sight.