Example: A Far Cry From Freedom

Author: Fever
Length: 73k
Pokémon: 2x Arcanine (Complex)
Grader: Dog of Hellsing

ANOTHER GOOD STORY. Whaddaya know. Same goes for this one as all the others--read it, see what the graders really, really like, see what you like. Or go eat ice cream and spam your friends' Facebook Newsfeeds by joining copious amounts of groups. UP TO YOU. And um, this won a contest at some point.

 

α ƒαя ¢яу ƒяσм ƒяєє∂σм​

ρяσℓσgυє


The two Growlithe cubs, frolicking in the jungle undergrowth near their den, prick up their ears.

Noises in the jungle are not uncommon. The singing of Bellossom, the grunting of Primeape, the sibilant whispering of Ekans - all these and more make up the music of the rainforest.

Yet something else - something more sinister - can be heard. Heavy footfalls and unfamiliar cries echo through the jungle, and the cubs shiver uncertainly as the smell of smoke and sweat reaches their small black noses.

As the flood of foreign sound draws closer, there is a sudden whirring of wings. The cubs’ dark eyes, huge and glittering with fear, take in a blur of feathery colour as a flock of brightly coloured bird Pokémon take flight.

Next, posses of Aipom and Mankey go fleeing through the fronded trees, swinging from vine to vine and chattering with fear - fear of the great, unknown shadow that marches towards them.

It is a sign. Everywhere, beasts that have been hiding spring up. Herds of Girafirig and Stantler canter amongst the trees. Treecko swarm up tree trunks. Further away, a Donphan can be heard, trumpeting a warning to the forest. Smaller Pokémon scurry away through the long, waving grasses of the rainforest floor.

The cubs quiver with indecision. Every sound, every sight, every scent seems to command that they run - but they do not. Almost since their eyes first opened and their training began, they have been taught by their mother to stay near the den, where she can find them.

Yet where is she now? That great, almost renowned beast of legend, with her rippling muscles and magnificent striped coat, with her eyes of blazing coal that burn as fiercely as the fire she commands - where is Arcanine?

For a moment there is a stillness, a silence, a breath held by the forest.

Then, the moment shatters.

A swarm of pale-skinned, two-legged male creatures breaks through the trees, brandishing ropes and knives. Around them, there is a mob of Pokémon, some of them never seen in the forest. These Pokémon are the two-legged creatures’ servants, and there is an instinct in the cubs that tells them this.

The Growlithe cubs try to run, but it is too late. There is a whir of vividly coloured wings, and a blanket of silvery powder descends on them. The smaller cub slumps to the ground in a deep sleep.

The bigger cub, his brother, is not so easily overcome. He fights the overwhelming, sluggish drowsiness that threatens to engulf him, and bares his tiny fangs in defiance.

There is laughter from the two-legs, and more of the silvery powder descends. It coats him, sinking through the pores in his skin and entering the bloodstream instantly. He wavers, legs braced against the ground, but he is too young and inexperienced to know how to fight it, and soon succumbs to the darkness.

The cubs are still sleeping when they are cast into a dark, evil-smelling cage in the belly of the ship, and they do not hear the anguished howl of their mother as she slumps to the ground on the riverbank, a spear sunk into her heart.

The darkness is total.

In the jungle, there is always some form of light, no matter what the hour may be. For an hour after sunset, the skies are burnt vermilion, and even when this red glow fades, there are always the stars and the moonlight. It filters through the verdant, fertile canopy, dappling itself here and there. It reflects off still, silent pools, off the glossy leaves of plants with petals like shavings of ice, and off the milky eyes of the night Pokémon. The darkness of the jungle is a comfort - a safe, familiar darkness that blankets the rainforest. It is maternal. It is right.

This darkness is all wrong. It is not a blanket; it is a shroud.

The smell is terrible. The spicy, musky, ripe jungle aroma of ginger and cinnamon, damp, mossy earth and fresh, tropical fruits…they are gone. In their place, there are only the rank, stale odours of sweat, vomit, urine and faeces.

The cargo of the ship consists not only of the two cages Growlithe cubs. There are Mightyena, muzzled and bound. Vulpix, their green eyes shiny with tears. A trio of hysterical Aipom, huddled together for comfort. Plusle. Minun. Chikorita. Persian, spitting and yowling their protests. A female Stantler, her soft doe-brown eyes shining with uncertainty. Venonat. Mankey. A Scyther, slashing at the bars of his prison again and again with no success.

And humans. Humans, thirty of them, bruised and bleeding and trembling as they cling to each other in the darkness.

Yes - the inhabitants of the Orange Islands are not all Pokémon. Tribes of people have made their homes in the Orange Archipelago, living off the natural food sources afforded by the jungle. The tribes, each with their own particular Pokémon totem or god, were each roughly a hundred in number.

No longer.

When the pale-faced foreigners made land, they were civilly greeted, by the Sumac-Ra tribe, as guests. In the night, however, almost every man, woman and child was butchered or taken prisoner by the foreigners. Only a handful of survivors had made it to the next village, Tikki-Chan.

A handful, however, was sufficient to explain the bloodshed, and from then it was a matter of speed. The swiftest messengers were sent to each of the tribes on the island, and within hours every tribe was at arms. In the tribes, children - whether male or female - began their training at five years old, and was expected to take part in battle from the age of nine.

Not every rainforest tribe had been attacked, but those that were unfortunate enough to fall victim to the men of Hoenn fell beneath the pale-faced people’s weapons. The Hoennese possessed an arsenal far more deadly than the pointed spears and poison-tipped arrows of the tribespeople. They had the power of the elements on their side; the power to command fire and water, lightning and wind. They came with beasts never before seen in the Orange Archipelago, and these beasts did their bidding.

It mattered not how the tribe warriors could melt into the shadows, or swing amongst the forest branches, or throw poisoned spears with deadly accuracy. The beasts were always faster.

Always.


Of the twelve hundred or so people attacked by the Hoennese, only thirty remain, clinging to each other in the darkness.

​

 

¢нαρтєя ι



The blurred shapes of Wingull and Pelipper speckled the blanket of dense grey cloud that hung in the sky over the citadel of Slateport, their wings beating furiously against the violent wind that blew in from the sea. Bare-branched trees, stripped by the frequent gales, groaned like arthritic grandfathers. Their dropped mantles of emerald leaves crackled and danced along the narrow cobbled streets, tickling the bruised feet of the slaves. The wind was loud, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of whip-crack and chain-clink as the line of slaves stumbled along.

All about them, the atmosphere was frenetic; a frenzied hullabaloo of screeched insults and dark, muttered curses; of prodding elbows, poking fingers and unreserved short-tempered cracking of whips as the slave traders bullied the tired, frightened captives ever onwards.

“Is there no mercy amongst these people?” wailed a small, elderly woman. Her clothes were torn and ragged to the point of being almost indecent. “Is there no morality?”

“You can’t buy or sell morals, Elder,” a voice replied. “And amongst these people, money is the only thing that matters.”

The voice was sarcastic and bitter, but there was an undercurrent of compassion beneath it. The golden-skinned girl who had spoken was dressed in a dirty red tunic; a loose-fitting, sleeveless piece of clothing that reached to the knee and was belted at the waist. Though the garment was baggy, it did not disguise her bronzed, supple muscles, or the swelling of her small breasts beneath the fabric. The red of the garment somehow brought out the darkness in her eyes. These eyes, at once burning brightly and infinitely dark, were black and fierce and - if you looked closely enough - frightened, as they regarded this strange new environment. Her hair was as black as her eyes, and - unlike the long braids of the other slaves - was a mass of short, dark curls on top of her head. The head itself was carried like a queen’s - proud, defiant and erect even as the cobbles bruised her feet.

“Less talking back there,” commanded a tall, muscled man of about thirty. His bare-shaved head glinted in the weak morning sunlight, and two cold blue eyes glared out from beneath shaggy black brows.

“Yes, sir,” muttered the sixteen year - old sardonically.

Sarcasm, happily, was wasted on the trader. He merely grunted and cracked his whip, spurring them on.

It was better than the ship’s belly, but it was still a far cry from freedom.

******​

The Growlithe cubs huddled together, their front paws entwined, their fluff-topped heads and black-striped orange flanks pressed together for warmth and comfort. Their big black eyes took in the strange, alien sights as the cart rattled along the narrow street, driven by a hunchbacked, sallow-faced man with mismatched eyes.

Throngs of people gathered around them and heads leaned dangerously far out of windows as the cart rattled along the road. They pointed and made excited, almost fearful mouth-noises. The cubs whined and licked each other, distressed by the strange sounds.

This, at least, was better than the fetid, ever-moving black hole that was the belly of the slave-ship. There, the only respite had been when a chink of light pronounced the opening of the trapdoor, and the subsequent arrival of food and water. The water was usually spilt across the flooring of the cages, but the distressed Pokémon were desperate enough to lick the drops of moisture from the floor.

Here, at least, there was clean, fresh air and daylight. The smells were strange; frightening and exciting and tempting all at once.

It was better than the ship's belly, but it was still a far cry from freedom.



*************



The High Prince was lounging on a wine-coloured couch on the balcony of his bedchamber, dressed in a navy shirt and white breeches and utterly absorbed in the pages of a heavy red book. He was only a few months off twenty, but unlike most of those whom were his age, he was not interested in wild, drunken parties, or dallying with maidens. Much of the time he read, or fenced, or rode his horse across the palace grounds. He looked, it might have been said, a little older than his nineteen years, but was reasonably handsome in a rough sort of way. He was tall, and fairly broad across the shoulders and strong in the arm. His curly hair was the colour of coffee; his eyes, the colour of the sky. A ghost of stubble darkened his strong jaw, and his nails were well looked-after.

This was not to say that Tristan was perfect. He was too serious; he rarely laughed, and when he did, he often stopped himself, as if ashamed. One of his greatest faults was that he never liked to be helped; he valued his independence perhaps too much, and hated being told what to do or being given advice. He was not like his father in treatment of people - judging them because of the colour of their skin, or by the wealth they did or did not possess. However, he was distant and detached in conversation, his mind usually far from the topic at hand, and he often unintentionally gave offence by appearing bored.

All the same, no one ever said anything. Perhaps, if they had, Tristan might have learnt the common courtesy of at least appearing interested, but when one is a prince, one cannot learn from one’s mistakes, because no one ever dares to point them out. They had good reason, in Tristan’s case. He himself was not a danger, but if word got round to his father, then tongues were liable to be cut out, or scars acquired on the complainer’s back.

The palace servants in particular were guilty of much unease around the prince. Once, when the Prince was twelve, he had unwisely complained to his father about some trifling blunder by one of the serving girls. The following day, he had arrived back from his fencing lesson to see the girl being whipped furiously. He had never forgotten the expression in her wide green eyes at she stared at him, hurt, angry, confused, and reproachful, nor the screams as the whip cracked on her back. That was the closest Tristan had come to a real scolding by anyone but his father. When a child sees such a thing, he cannot help but learn some lessons. The easiest would be to turn the memory away with a cold heart, but the prince had learnt something better. From then on, he dealt with his personal servants himself, and though he never let a misdemeanour go unpunished, he was reasonable. The whip crack sounded less often in the palace these days, and the servants were grateful for it.

One such servant came into the room now, her face flushed from running. “My lord!” she exclaimed, “My lord, you must come quickly!” She was half-giggling, though she looked a little frightened.

The prince laid aside his book and sat up. “Smith - it is Smith, isn’t it? - Calm yourself,” he snapped. “What do you mean - I ‘must’? Can a man not read a book without ‘must’-ing somewhere?”

“Beggin’ pardon for impudence, sir, beggin’ pardon, but really - please! There is a gift for you - from your father, the High King.”

“I know who my father is,” retorted Tristan. “Bring it up, woman; I can unwrap tissue in here just as well as anywhere else.” The prince rolled his eyes and lay down again, one hand resting on his chest.



“Please, sir,” gasped the maid, “please, it can’t be brought up. You must - it must be seen in the courtyard!” She let out a giggle of excitement.

Tristan’s curiosity was piqued, although it did not show on his face. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me at once what it is.”

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed the girl. “It’s - why, it’s a…”

“Go on, girl; what’s the matter with you? Tell me what it is!”

“It’s - it’s a beast, sir, from another kingdom! It’s called a -” She paused, because she wanted very badly to get this right. “A G- Gr - a Growlithe.”

Tristan was silent for a moment. “You mean a Growlithe statue. A rug. A -”

“No, my lord!”

The prince, for once, disregarded the interruption. “A stuffed Growlithe.”

“No, my lord! A real live one, from the islands where they get the dark slaves. Oh, please come and see it! The newest shipment of slaves is there already. The High - your father wants to pick which will be the gladiators and which will be sold in the market. Oh, sir! A Growlithe!”

Tristan stood up, frowning. He disliked this talk of people being sold like cattle because of the colour of their skin, but the thought of this exotic present from his father drove it out of his mind.

A Growlithe! The prince had pets already. There were Finneon and Seaking in the fountain. Delcatty and Glameow roamed the gardens. There was a fat Purugly that spent most of its time in the kitchens. He had a pair of Chatot in a cage. There was his Rapidash, imported from that volcanic island off the south coast of Kanto - Cinnabar, that was it. But a Growlithe?!

He had only ever seen pictures of the creature, but he knew it to be a highly prized Pokémon, especially considering the power of its evolution, Arcanine. There were no Growlithe in the kingdom of Hoenn, and they were rare even in other countries. He couldn’t imagine to what lengths men must have gone to obtain such a creature - and yet, his father had given him it.

“The courtyard?” he queried, trying not to betray his excitement.

*

There it was. Safely in a cage on wheels. Very young, by the size of it. And oh - it was stunning.

The puppy-like Pokémon’s fur had been sponged clean, and the evening sunlight seemed to set every bead of water on fire. His thick, downy coat was vermilion - the colour of the sunset. The black stripes across his back shone like midnight, and the silky fur on his belly, tail and crown of his head was a pale cream colour.

Tristan barely noticed the group of new slaves, standing some distance away, on the other side of the wide, high-walled courtyard. He crouched down a metre from the cage and stared into the Growlithe’s deep, dark eyes.

“Hello,” he breathed.

The cub stared back for a few seconds, then turned away. He was not interested in this two-legs; he wanted only his brother, torn away from him but hours ago. He had no idea where the two-legs had taken him, only that afterwards he had been subjected to an intense grooming, and that now he was in another cage, and this time he was alone.

Tristan stood and took a few steps closer, his boots sounding on the cobbles. He bent down again and stretched his hand out. There was a collective gasp of horror and slight admiration from the spectators as he daringly reached through the bars and touched the orange fur of one paw before snatching his hand away.

The cub pulled his paw away, then swiped at the hand as it retreated. The claws glinted in the light of the sunset, and Tristan was reminded that, for all its outward charm and appeal, the cub was very much a wild animal - a wild animal that demanded careful handling.

“Fool,” muttered a voice.

The prince whirled around. “Who said that?”

The courtyard held its breath. Then -

“I did,” snapped the girl who had earlier cheeked the slave-masters.

The prince approached her as a lioness approaches its prey, eyes narrowed and body tense. He stopped in front of her, taking in her appearance. She was beautiful, he allowed, and her defiant expression only made her all the more attractive, but she was a rebel, and must be dealt with - or at least, he must seem to deal with her. He was intrigued; he wished to know more before he condemned her.

“Name?” he barked.

The girl glared at him defiantly. “Varis,” she snapped. “Varis Caritchou, daughter of Chief Bull Caritchou of the Lithenine camp.”

The daughter of a chief? Her rank in her tribe was equivalent to his in the kingdom, then. No wonder she was so proud and impudent. All the same -

“Fool, did you call me?” he whispered, his face deliberately unreadable.

The girl was silent for a second. The prince thought he detected a slight fear behind her bravado.

“I did,” she retorted, “and you are; sticking your hand in with a wild beast like that.”

There was an intake of breath from the spectators. All eyes swivelled to the prince.

“Do you have any idea what would happen to you if my father heard you?”

“No.”

The prince leaned in, his blue-grey eyes boring into her dark ones. “If my father were here, he would show you his idea of sticking your hand in with a wild beast,” he hissed. “He’d stick the rest of you in too. You’d be damn good meat for the creature.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Growlithe don’t eat humans, Your Highness. They’ll mangle them if threatened; they’ll tear them to shreds, but they won’t eat them. Too much water in the body. It’s - “

“It’s all the same when you’re dead,” Tristan said calmly.

“Not to your lot, it isn’t,” rejoined Varis. “I’m worth more dead than alive. A corpse is no use to you, is it?”

“Doesn’t make any difference to my father,” muttered Tristan. Then, realising he was supposed to be appearing to discipline the girl, he straightened his back and said clearly, “What do you know of Growlithe?”

Varis snorted. “Arcanine is my tribe’s totem. We are familiar with the beast and her cubs. We understand them better than any other animal in the jungle. It is our custom to value the rainforest animals.”

“Your totem?” queried the prince. He had forgotten that - for the first time in years - he had been insulted and belittled. He was only interested. “What is a totem?”

The girl glared at him. “I will not speak to barbarians of tribe secrets.”

The prince shrugged. “It does not matter. You will die soon anyway.”

It was a lie, and he knew it. He was curious about this girl. Barbarian, she had called him, but she was the barbarian.

Or was she?

Tristan considered. He disliked the slave trade immensely, but he had never done anything to stop it, nor defied it as she did. He had always had the belief that cruelty was the deliberate act of causing pain and distress. On the other hand, was he just as cruel? By refusing to do anything to ease suffering, was he as bad as his father was? What made her a barbarian? He had no idea. No one had ever told him why those who were not Hoennese were barbaric; it was simply a given in the city.

This was the effect of a few criticisms on the prince. Up to now he had never questioned his behaviour - but when someone else did, he was left confused - a feeling he didn’t like.

“Right,” he snapped suddenly. “Vaise Caritchou, since you know so much about the damn creature, you can come to me in the morning and help me teach it some manners. You might learn a few of your own while you’re at it. As for the rest of you -” he wheeled and glared at the slaves and traders alike, “- you can think what you like.” He wasn’t quite sure why he felt this should be said, but he said it anyway. “I’m not going to have you all cheeking me. This girl will be suitably punished.”



​

 

¢нαρтєя ιι



Varis lay on her back amidst the pile of rags that served for a mattress, staring unseeingly at the ceiling of her small, grey, cell-like room.

She had slept well, but with one ear open, as every child of the tribe was taught to do. Many would have stayed awake, or had fitful nightmares, but that would have been a waste of energy, and she knew it. Sleep was important - dreams, even more so.

She had dreamed, of course. She had dreamed that she was a great Pokémon, gliding over the rainforests, surveying the charred black remnants of the trees. From there she turned north and swept over a massive, churning expanse of blue ocean. Across the ocean, she had dreamt, was a towering palace of black stone, rising above the rest of the city. In one of the many windows, a young man with dark hair and grey-blue eyes stood surveying the city. She hovered before him, but he did not see her; he simply gazed at the city, expression unreadable. Her dream self opened her beak and let out a short, rebellious cry. He saw her then; his eyes locked with hers, and his lips parted slightly in shock. She did not know if he knew who she was, but he was saying something, and she could not hear but for the glass. His lips had still been moving when the dream faded.

“Caritchou?” The voice came from the other side of the studded wooden door, and sounded impatient. “You in there?”

Varis sprang to her feet. “I haven’t exactly gone anywhere,” she snapped.

There was a screeching of heavy metal bolts, and the door swung open enough for her to see a small, overweight woman wearing a dress and apron. Her hair, pulled back into a tight, neat bun, was blonde with a few wisps of grey in it.

“My name’s Alma. You’m to put these on,” she said abruptly. She held out a clean white tunic and a plaited brown belt. “The Prince ordered it. The gods know why. The rest of the slaves have to make do with brown, for it don’t show the dirt nor the dust so badly, but you get a nice white thing.” She eyed the girl suspiciously. “Don’t s’pose you’ll know why?”

Varis shrugged. “Aren’t you a slave?” she asked instead, eyeing the woman’s navy dress and grey apron.

Alma looked at her pityingly. “I’m a servant.”

“What’s the difference?” She did not mean for it to come out; she hated asking questions and seeming unintelligent, but she asked before she thought.

Alma threw back her head and laughed raucously. “Good question, missy. There isn’t none, really, ‘cept that I get paid a few silver pieces a month, and I’ve got my own home with my mother that I can go back to sometimes. You just live here. No wages. You never need no money, ‘cause you’re never gonna need to buy nothin'. But ‘sides from that, you 'n' me are just the same.”

Varis looked at her silently, weighing her up. She seemed friendly enough - the first friendly pale-skinned person she had met here.

Alma shifted uncomfortably under the girl’s gaze. “What might you be thinking, then, missy?”

Varis hesitated, then decided to chance it. She had cheeked enough people here for it not to matter what she said any more.

“I was thinking,” she said, slowly, “that not many of your people would have said that - about us being just the same, I mean.”

Alma glanced left and right to check there was no one there. Satisfied, she leant forwards and whispered in Varis’s ear, “Don’t say nothin‘, but I don’t hold with people being taken out of their ’omes and made to work ‘ere as slaves. ‘Tisn’t right, lass; just cause your skin may be brown, it don’t mean it’s covered in dirt.”

Varis looked at her for a long moment. “Thank you,” she said eventually. “I thought you’d all be the same - all the whites, I mean. I was wrong - I mean, I was mistaken.”

Alma sighed. “Listen, lass. Some of the people from your tribes are immoral. Dishonest. But it don’t mean you all are, does it? It’s the same with what you call ‘our lot.’ Some of us are just downright wicked and greedy. But not all of us. I know of a few people who don’t judge you by your skin. Don’t judge us by, ours, neither.”

Varis smiled. “Thank you,” she said again. “I won’t. And - and - I’m glad you told me.”

Alma opened her mouth to say something else, and then shut it quickly as footsteps sounded not far off. “Put these on,” she said instead. “And quickly, mind; you’re to meet with the prince in fifteen minutes. You can wash yourself first.” She held out a jug of water and a strip of cloth. “Quickly, mind!”




Prince Tristan ran a hand through his curls as he surveyed his reflection in the mirror. Today he had dressed in a heavy leather doublet and tough breeches, mindful of the sharp claws that had swiped at him yesterday. He wore gloves, too, and was grateful to the gods that today was quite cool, or he would have sweated every drop of moisture out of his skin.

A rap of knuckles at the door sent him striding over to the door of his bedchamber. He swung open the heavy double doors and folded his arms.

“Your Highness, the slave you asked for.” Alma curtsied deferentially and hurried away. She had work to do in the kitchen.

The freshly scrubbed Varis, now attired in the woollen tunic she had been given, neither bowed nor curtsied. She did, however slightly incline her head as a mark of respect. Alma had told her not to be completely unmanageable. “You can’t act like that,” she had said. “Only gives ‘em an excuse to call you an animal.”

“Ah,” said Tristan neutrally. “You. I did wonder if you would come.”

“Did I have a choice?”

Tristan was slightly taken aback. The words were not defiant, as they had been yesterday, but rather bitter. “I doubt anyone would have been able to make you come, if you did not want to,” he said.

Varis almost smiled, but it was gone instantly. This was an enemy, no matter how polite he might seem. “I thought we were to train the Growlithe.” It was not a question.

“Very good. I am glad you were paying attention.”

“We are always to pay attention, in the jungle. The beast that kills you is the one you do not listen for.”

“Very wise. But I haven’t got time to stand here philosophising.”


***********


“Has he a name?”

Tristan was startled by the question. “No. Why would I name him?”

“Names have power.” Varis squatted down a short distance from the creature. The cub was tied up by a thick, knotted rope, but that was no guarantee he wouldn’t break free. “In my tribe, a baby must be named within a week, or it is unlucky. Without a name, things of the jungle are wild.”

“He is wild anyway!”

“And you want to tame him.”

Tristan could not argue with that. “Alright, then. What about Fang?”

Varis looked at him pityingly. “A tame animal called Fang?”

Tristan scowled. He disliked being put right. “Alright, then, call him Meek and be done with it,” he said sarcastically.

Varis stayed irritatingly calm. “He’ll never be a meek creature,” she informed him. “He’s a child of the jungle. You can beat him and bruise him, and call him anything you like, but he’ll always have his spirit.”

“Like you.” It slipped out before he could stop it.

Varis turned and looked into his eyes for a long minute. “Yes,” she said eventually. “Like me.”

They stared at each other, master and slave, for a long moment. Both their expressions were unreadable, but behind his mask of indifference, Tristan was mystified and slightly intrigued by this mysterious girl of the jungle. No one could have said what Varis was thinking - least of all herself.

The Growlithe broke the silence with a low, angry growl. Both adolescents turned to look at the cub.

“Sancho,” said Tristan suddenly.

Varis stared at him. “Sancho?”

“For a name,” Tristan said gruffly. “Its an old name. It means sacred.”

“Sancho,” tested Varis. “Sancho. It suits him.”

Tristan somehow found himself inexplicably pleased that she agreed, and he half-smiled. Varis caught the expression, and she furrowed her brow. What did it mean?

The smile, however, was gone as quickly as it came, and the prince was businesslike once more. “Right,” he said. “Let’s let him loose.” The prince drew a knife and approached the creature warily.

The newly named Sancho watched the knife as a tiger watches the whip of its trainer, eyes following its every movement.

“See how he watches your knife,” remarked Varis, forgetting that the prince was an enemy and speaking to him as she would a member of her tribe. “He’ll not attack while you’ve got that. He’s wild, but he’s not stupid.”

“Like you again, then,” observed Tristan.

Varis glanced at him sharply, but said nothing.

As the prince’s free hand approached his neck, Sancho bristled and flinched. However, while he wanted to watch this hand, he felt it more important to concentrate on the knife, and while he eyed it, the prince had a quick fiddle with the knot, and the beast was free.

Sancho did not at first realise this. He continued to growl and grimace. However, when he realised hat the horrible thing around his neck was gone, the look on his face was so comical that the two teenagers could not help but laugh.

“See if you can get him to let you touch him,” ordered the prince, but it was as if spoken to a friend more than a slave.

“Get back, then,” said Varis, and Tristan complied without thinking.

Varis sat on the ground, not far from the cub.

Sancho could see nothing threatening in the two-legs sitting on the ground, although he continued to snarl softly. The two-legs bowed her head, though her eyes were raised that she could still see the cub, and she remained silent and motionless. Sancho’s snarl dwindled to a low growl that eventually ceased altogether, and for a while, each of them watched each other without making a noise.

After a while, the two-legged female spoke. At the first sound of her voice, the snarl instantly leapt up the cub’s throat and the fur on his neck stood erect. But the female made no unfriendly movements, and went on talking calmly, occasionally repeating on word; a word that seemed to be addressed to him more and more often, as much as his mother had called him Cub or Growlithe. It was like a name, he thought dimly, and like a name, he soon became accustomed to hearing it, although he still did not understand the rest of the girl’s mouth-noises.

For a while, the cub continued to growl in harmony with the female’s quiet voice, a rhythm being established between them. The voice went on ceaselessly. The girl talked to the cub as none of the two-legs had talked to him. She talked gently and peacefully, with a mildness that somehow, somewhere, spoke to Sancho on another level. It was not the words, but rather the tone in which she used them, and the way she sat, neither threatening nor submitting but simply accepting. In spite of every instinct he possessed, the Growlithe began to have confidence that the girl would not attack him. He had a feeling of safety that he had had with none of the other two-legged creatures - a feeling he had only had with the mother he had lost, and the brother that had been taken from him.

In the voice was kindness - something Sancho had experienced nothing of lately. He was conscious of a sort of pleasure; as though some need that he did not realise he had, was being fulfilled. He began to creep forwards towards the girl, almost wanting to snuggle against her as he had snuggled against his mother. Then his instincts pushed at him, and the warning of unfamiliarity, and he stopped a foot from her.

Very, very slowly, the two-legs reached out something like a golden-skinned, hairless paw. Sancho sniffed at it suspiciously. The female carried on talking quietly. The voice encouraged him, but the hand, though intended to give confidence, only made him afraid and distrustful.

Nearer and nearer the hand came. There was no weapon in it, or any form of defence. He could easily have ripped it open, even with his small puppy-teeth. Nonetheless, he did not. He only watched it. His fur bristled, and a rumble swelled in his throat, but he did not spring away, though a significant part of him wished to.

Still nearer it came. It touched the ends of his hair. He shrank beneath it. It followed him, becoming more pressured. Sancho was torn by contradictory impulses. The jungle instinct taught him to be fiercely jealous of his body, and never to let another touch it. Yet there was another part of him - the part that was a child, no matter the species, that made him desire further caresses. He wanted to be touched - to be stroked and held. He wanted to nuzzle against this girl as he had nuzzled against his mother. Almost unwittingly, he was beginning to replace the memory of Arcanine with the image of this girl; his mother had not come to save him from the hurt, but this girl had shown him a maternal kindness.

The hand lifted and came down again a series of repetitive pats. Sancho was still wary, but he was beginning to trust her, as a child will trust a kind stranger, and there was a stirring in his heart.

His was not the only heart to be touched. Tristan, who had sat down a short distance away from the pair, had watched the scene with narrowed eyes. He, too, was reminded of a mother in watching the girl, although he did not see her as his own. Rather, he imagined the beautiful wild girl sitting on the floor of that same courtyard, with not a cub in her lap but a pair of very young children, and rocking them gently as they nestled against her. He pictured himself, too, also holding a child, and he knew without a doubt that in the image, all three children were their own.

He shook his head sharply. What was he thinking? She was a slave. A foreign one, too. Why was he having such thoughts? He would never be permitted any kind of liaison with her, least of all that kind.

But you would, a voice in his head niggled. If it were allowed - if you would not both be severely punished for it - you would.

He pushed the thought away. It was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

“That’s enough for today,” he said shortly. “Can’t expect him to learn everything in one go.”

Varis felt Sancho stiffen it the prince’s voice, but she simply continued to stroke the cub soothingly, and he soon calmed.

“That’s fair,” she said, hiding her surprise at the prince’s understanding. “Giving him time - that’s fair.”​

 

¢нαρтєя ιιι​

After the first time, it was easier. Sancho learnt to accept being touched and patted, and he even learnt to accept being held. After a few weeks, he learned to like it. The sensation of being held, of being cuddled, made him feel safe. It reminded him of the nights when he would nestle against his mother, rubbing his head against her flank, feeling her protective warmth.

After a while, he no longer thought of his mother, although the brother he had lost still came into his thoughts occasionally. His mind was occupied by thoughts of the two-legs - the male and female, who sometimes seemed to argue and sometimes to be friends. One or both of them came to see him every day, and they fed him meat.

At first, he would wait until they tossed it down before him, then lie down and take it between his paws and tear chunks out of it. Later, he learnt to take it from the stick, and a week on from then he was eating out of their hands.

He liked the female best, because she had been the first to be kind to him, but the male - was he cub or adult? Sancho could never decide - found his way into the Growlithe’s heart, too. He often stroked him and petted him, and sometimes he lay down next to him and let the cub lick his face as he had licked his brother cub’s face.

As the cub learnt to accept the humans, so the humans learnt to accept one another. Varis came to realise that the prince was not as terrible as his father was rumoured to be, and although she was often insulted for the colour of her skin by others, he never did so. Both of them seemed to forget that one was master and one was slave, and with that went the division by colour.

Occasionally Varis caught the prince looking at her with an odd expression on his face, as though he was thinking of something. Sometimes she repeated one of Alma’s favourite sayings - “Penny for your thoughts?” - but he only ever flushed and turned away.

It was noted by all the servants and slaves that the prince smiled more these days, and laughter came more easily to his lips. He spent less time reading, and more time in the open sun with Varis and Sancho. The sunlight tanned his skin, and he looked healthier for it. Most people remarked that the cub was doing him good, but others privately thought that the presence of the girl was a key factor.

It was true that the prince was developing feelings for the beautiful slave-girl that he was constantly denying to himself. She was attractive, but it was more than that. She was unlike any of the other girls he knew; they were shallow, and they paraded and preened like peacocks, trying to catch his eye. They constantly flattered him, and agreed with everything he said, clearly hoping to gain favour with the prince. Varis, on the other hand…

It was pointless, he told himself. Pointless.

Yet still her image seemed burned onto the back of his eyelids.

*****



The High King Mavramorn - an overweight mass of quivering flab and fierce moustache - rarely visited his son, despite the fact that they inhabited the same palace. The High King was an exceptionally busy man and had too little time for his only child. However, he contented himself with sending presents to the boy. Books, swords, foreign delicacies - and now, a Growlithe.

His advisors - a mere formality, since he never listened to a word they said - had been appalled at the idea.

“With all due respect, sir!” they said. “A wild animal - one that will spit fire, and later become an Arcanine! Suppose it hurts him. You have no other heirs!”

“It won’t hurt him,” said Mavramorn calmly. “And if it does, it’ll be sent to the Coliseum like its brother.”

“Sir, the risk!”

The High King whirled on them. “He is the child of Mavramorn. He is the heir to an Empire. He is my son. He must be bold. Daring. He will not play meekly with those fish in the fountain all his life! He must show the world what he is made of! He’ll teach the beast to be gentle, and the beast will teach him to be strong.”

They stared at him. They knew what he was visualizing. He would be thinking of Tristan, riding about the Empire on the back of an Arcanine, and the people staring and whispering, “See! Mavramorn’s son rides an Arcanine, and he is without fear!”

There they were - his son and the beast. Tristan was squatting down on his heels on the floor of the courtyard, face to face with the Growlithe. Good gods - the boy was actually petting him - rubbing at the base of his ears, making prolonged, caressing movements down the neck to the shoulders, massaging the tip of the spine gently with the balls of his fingers.

Mavramorn walked out of the shadows and into the sunlit courtyard, smiling broadly at the sight of his son handling the beast.

Tristan looked up at the sound of booted feet. His father! He quickly stood to attention and bowed smartly, keeping one hand on the Growlithe’s head.

“My son,” said Mavramorn proudly. “How is the cub?”

“Scarcely a cub any more, Father. Look how fine he is!” exclaimed Tristan. “He has learnt so much!”

“Oh? What does he know?” asked the High King curiously.

“He can use Bite, Leer, Take Down, Reversal and Crunch,” reeled off the prince, “and then there’s things like Howl and Agility. And he’s brilliant with Odour Sleuth. His Swift’s amazing. You can tell he’ll make a brilliant Arcanine. He learns so well!”

“No Fire moves?”

“Not yet,” said Tristan hesitantly, “but he did almost manage an Ember a couple of days ago.”

“Hmm. And you’re not afraid of him?”

“What! Afraid of Sancho? Not a bit.”

“Sancho?” Mavramorn raised an eyebrow. “Am I to understand you have actually - named - the beast?”

“Oh, yes, Father. It was Varis’ idea. She says that a thing of the Wild is never really tame until you give it a name.”

“And who might this Varis be?”

Tristan hesitated. “She is not here at the moment,” he said, suddenly thankful of the fact. She might have shown her defiance to his father! He shuddered at the thought. Mavramorn might appear jovial before his son, but in dealing with others, Tristan knew him to be ruthless. Mavramorn’s name was almost that of a bogeyman to little children.

“But who is she?” The High King’s curiosity was piqued.

Tristan chose his words carefully. “No one of importance. She is one of the slaves brought from the Orange Archipelago. She translates Sancho’s language for me.”

“She speaks its language?” snorted the High King. “I don’t believe it.”

“It’s not a language of words, Father. It’s the language of the Wild,” explained Tristan animatedly. “It’s based on body language. How you stand. How you hold your head. The look in your eye. The note of the growl in your throat.”

“Go on,” said the High King, listening intently.

“It’s more than a language, Father. It’s a way of life. It is life. The way you walk determines whether a foe will attack you or nay. The twitch of a whisker can mean the difference between life and death in the Wild.”

The King gazed at him proudly. “Spoken like a true King,” he said with admiration. “You’re like a new man. It’s as if this beast has actually taught you something.”

Or Varis has, thought Tristan, but he only smiled.

“It’s much better off than its brother, anyway,” remarked the King.

Tristan’s head jerked up. “Sancho has a brother?”

“Oh yes,” the High King said indifferently. Did no one tell you? Worth it’s weight in gold. I had it sold to the Coliseum.”

Tristan’s throat was dry. “I didn’t know! Has he fought yet? Is he still alive?”

“Of course he is,” said Mavramorn irritably. “You think the Coliseum pays money like that for an animal they will let die? They even paid a fortune for a Fire Stone so they could evolve it immediately. An Arcanine draws a much better crowd than a Growlithe.”

“Arcanine?” The prince stared at him.

“Yes, I said so,” said Mavramorn. “The thing is a killing machine! The crowds love it. On its very first entrance, the brute actually killed a Camerupt and two Donphan. One of the keepers came out to drive it back underground - you do know they keep them beneath the arena? - and the thing ripped his arm clean off.”

Tristan felt all the blood rush to his face. “Are - are all Arcanine like that?” he said, striving to keep his voice calm.

“Of course not,” exclaimed the King. “They’ll have been baiting him since he got there. They don’t feed them much you know; just enough to keep them alive. They let them work up a hunger--frenzy, and when they get into the arena, - watch out!”


******

It was true. Sancho’s brother had not spent the past four months playing with a pair of considerate two-legs, being fed huge chunks of meat and being trained carefully and well. He was in a dark, dank place, full of bad smells and empty of meat.

He had wanted even more meat since he had become Arcanine. The evolution had been forced on him. Seven or eight slaves had held him down while the keeper lay the stone on his belly, and the rumbling of his stomach was interspersed with his howls as the pain and light engulfed him.

Evolution is always painful, whatever the rumours. It is like dying and being reborn; like being water as it freezes to ice. Every cell in the body undergoes a sudden and instantaneous mutation. Muscles expand. Bones lengthen and thicken. New fur ripples along freshly-grown flesh, and fangs lengthen and change shape. How can it not hurt? The pain is like nothing on earth.

After this forced evolution, Sagr - as the keepers dubbed him - could hardly do anything but hate his tormentors. They were the ones who had made him undergo the pain. They were the ones who had tormented him, teasing him, baiting him, insulting him - until he had lost his mind and billowed fire at them.

He had been surprised at the achievement. Up until then, he had not known of his power. Now, however, he used it with wild abandon. He was fed more on the days when he blew fire, and he began to understand the concept of work and reward. He was always taken into the arena for his training.

The arena was a vast circle of sand, surrounded by tiers of seats, like the football stadiums of the future. When he entered, the sand was raked smooth - but when he was finished, it would be stained with the blood and entrails of whatever unfortunate wretch had been pitted against him that day.

He had only one weakness - his speed. He was not slow - far from it - but for an Arcanine, he was below the average. It was the fault of his diet and his exercise. Overnight, when he went to sleep hungry and curled up in a cage that was too small, his cramped muscles could not develop as they needed to, and the consequence was the detriment of his swiftness.

*****

“So then he gave me this,” finished Tristan, holding out the object.

Varis took it. It was like a pebble-sized shard of ice, but it was not cold; rather, the heat radiated from it, and inside there was a glowing red ember.

“What is it?” she asked.

Tristan threw up his hands. “You don’t know? It’s a Fire Stone! When a Pokémon touches it, they evolve!”

“Any Pokémon?” asked Varis suspiciously, turning the stone over and over. It was beginning to rain, but they hardly noticed.

“Don’t be stupid!” exclaimed the prince. “Just Vulpix, Eevee and Growlithe.”

“You’re not going to do it now?” Varis' head jerked up as the thought occurred to her.

The prince shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I?” He was not greedy, but the temptation was irresistible. An Arcanine! He had dreamed of evolving Sancho, but he had never really realised it as a true possibility.

“Sancho can’t even use fire yet! He’ll be out of control!”

The girl’s protestations only spurred him on. “I bet I can control him,” he snapped. He wanted to impress her, but he could tell by her face that she was shocked.

“Do you really think so?” snapped Varis. She closed her fingers on the stone and held it tightly behind her back. “D’you think he has lost his nature so completely? You’re mad! He’s not mature enough to evolve! You said your father told you they evolve them straight away in the Coliseum - do you think you’re behaving any better? I thought you loved Sancho!”

“I do love him!” And I love you, too, he thought privately, but did not say so. “He wants to be an Arcanine, don’t you, Sancho?”

The Growlithe cocked his head. He was conscious of the angry gestures and mouth-noises between the two-legs, but he did not know the meaning of the prince’s words. Besides, it was not his quarrel. He was fiercely loyal - it was his nature - but he considered himself to belong to both of them, and therefore could bite neither.

“How’s he supposed to understand you?” snarled Varis. “Or answer you, come to that!”

The prince had no answer to that. “Just give me the stone,” he said angrily. “It’s none of your business whether I choose to evolve him or not!” A niggling voice in his head told him that it was very much her business, and that furthermore she was right, but in his anger, he ignored it.

“No!”

“Yes!”

Tristan lunged for her, forgetting in his rage that she could fight as well as him. Over and over they rolled, he as determined to get the stone as she was to keep it. The Growlithe barked anxiously, but did not attack as the couple fought, tearing at each other’s hair and kicking violently on the stone floor of the courtyard.

“You - think,” snarled Varis between punches, “that just b - because you’re the prince, that - that you own me, or something! That you can command me!”

“You’re a slave!”

“And I thought I was your friend! You’re just like all the rest of them, you son of a - the gods! No!”

The cold rain was falling faster now, and she couldn’t hold the stone in her clammy palm. The stone slipped from her wet hand and clattered on the drenched cobbles, rolling several feet away. Both of them lunged for it, but the Growlithe, curious and drawn to it by instinct, reached it first.

“Sancho!” the couple roared in unison - Tristan apparently forgetting that he wanted the beast to evolve - but they were too late.​

 

¢нαρтєя ιν​

Sancho’s body positively exploded in a white-hot light that seemed to burn as fiercely as the sun, forcing Varis and Tristan to look away. Even had they been able to withstand the intensity of the radiance, however, they would not have been able to see the changes taking place.

Sancho, however, could feel them. His muscles were increasing along with his bones, taking his soft puppy-form and moulding it into something new. The patch of fluff on the dome of his head flowed backwards and joined with the ruff of creamy fur that was growing around his neck. His paws and nose were bigger, his muzzle longer and his tail far larger. He raised his hackles, but there was a tickle there too, and he knew that the creamy fur on his chest and belly could be found there too.

The light faded, and he merely stood there in the rain, momentarily stunned at the transformation. The next moment the pain came flooding back, and he instinctively bared his fangs.

“Sancho!” the prince exclaimed, raindrops dripping down his face. “Look at you!”

“You see?” snapped Varis. “Look how much it hurt him! He’s still growling! I told you he was too young!”

“Sancho, love,” whispered the prince, unaware that he used a highly effeminate word in his surprise. “Did it really hurt?” He dropped to his knees before the newly formed Arcanine.

Sancho growled angrily. There was so much hurt - so much pain! His head hurt, and something was writhing in his belly - not hunger, but something he did not understand, and it scared him. He snarled menacingly at the male two-legs. In his heart, he knew he should not hurt the prince, but the pain overruled him and his head dominated.

His lips wrinkled and curled away from his teeth, revealing a set of formidable sharp ivory teeth and two larger, curved fangs. The fur on his shoulders stood up, his hackles rose and his tail began to twitch and spasm like a separate part of him.

Varis understood the danger and dived forwards. “Tristan, move!” she shouted, clinging to him and rolling both of them away just in time.

The writhing in the Arcanine’s belly had been growing stronger, and when such powerful emotions filled him, Sancho could hold it in no longer. Flames billowed from his mouth like wind from the clouds, scorching the cobbles and turning them black. It died almost instantly, but fire can jump, and Varis was not swift enough to completely save the prince.

The smell of burnt leather filled the air as the right shoulder of Tristan’s brown jacket became ashes on the wind. Thankfully, not too much damage was done to the skin of the prince’s shoulder - although it would have served him right if it had - but there was still a nasty burn.

“Tristan! Are you all right?”

“Do I look it?” The prince sat up and looked round. Seeing the Arcanine still standing uncertainly, he scrambled to his feet and was at the Pokémon’s side.

One firm hand, one angry word, and it was over. Sancho crouched on the tiles, quivering and subdued, his great head hanging in shame. He knew what had happened. He had harmed the sacred flesh of one of the two-legs, and now he would be punished.

Varis’ eyes were on Julius as he strode over to one of the benches in the courtyard and sat down, breathing heavily. He inspected his arm and let out a shaky breath of relief when he realised the wound was not deep.

“I’m fine,” he said, looking at the grey sky. The rain splashed on his upturned face, and he was glad that Varis could not see the tears for the raindrops.

“No, you’re not!” Varis knelt beside him and inspected the arm. It was not too bad, but even a mild burn from an Arcanine is not nothing. The shiny skin was red and blistered.

She touched it gingerly. It was moist to the touch, and little tendrils of blood sprang up where her fingers had applied pressure.

“Ow!” yelped the prince.

“Oh, gods, I’m sorry,” exclaimed Varis. The animosity of the past few minutes seemed forgotten. “Look, I can help.” She bent her head over the wound and inspected it. She could smell his skin - not just the sweat, but also the undercurrent of sandalwood soap. She tingled oddly.

Tristan was no longer thinking of the wound. He looked down at the top of her curly head and smiled. Almost lazily, he pressed his lips to it.

He knew she felt it, for she stiffened. Both of them sat silently for a moment, very still and very aware. Then -

“Oh, bugger it,” said Tristan clearly, and kissed her.

At first she did not move, paralysed by surprise. Then, as various emotions rolled over her, she relaxed and returned the kiss, feeling very much in danger of losing herself in the moment.

Tristan was virtually drunk by the touch of her, the taste of her, and most of all by her response as his lips massaged hers. He slipped his uninjured arm behind her and placed it between her shoulder blades to support her. He felt her wind her arms around his neck, taking care not to touch his injury, and smiled against her mouth.

Varis felt both hot and cold at the same time. She was inevitably drawn to him by the intimacy of the act and the warmth that she felt for him. “Tristan,” she murmured between kisses, “I - ”

But she never finished the sentence.

“What in Rayquaza’s name do the pair of you mean by this?” roared a voice.

Tristan and Varis sprang apart.

“Father!” exclaimed Tristan. He was flooded with fear. “I - we - I can explain…”

“I don’t want you to explain,” snapped Mavramorn, apparently unaware that he was contradicting himself. “I don’t want to hear it. Have you taken leave of your senses! She’s a slave - and a foreign one at that!”

So? Tristan wanted to shout. She’s just as much our equal! Nonetheless, he did not dare. He only hung his head.

“And - what in all that’s holy have you done to your shoulder?” Mavramorn recoiled at the sight.

Tristan looked down at the wound and mumbled something awkwardly.

“Sancho?” roared the king. “That little beast dared to do this to you? You said he couldn’t even command fire yet! If that’s not a burn, I’m a Pidgey!”

Tristan shuffled his feet. “The - the stone,” he muttered. “Sancho evolved.”

“What?” Mavramorn wheeled and stared at Sancho. “But I told you to wait for my say-so!”

While his father’s back was turned, Tristan took the opportunity to mouth the words stay quiet to Varis. She nodded, eyes wide with fear. It was a look he had not seen on her before, and his heart clenched.

The Arcanine lay on his back, bizarrely asleep. He lay on his side, flank rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing. His pink tongue lolled out. It would have been comical had the situation not been so serious.

“Right,” said Mavramorn at last. “That’s it, then. Your little pets - the girl and the dog - are going. Both of them. They clearly can‘t be trusted.”

“Father!” exclaimed Tristan. “No! Where?”

Mavramorn stared at him. “Where do slaves I don’t want always go? To the Coliseum, of course!”

“Father - my lord!” Tristan fell to his knees. “Please!”

Mavramorn looked at him contemptuously. To think that this was his son! “Don’t worry,” he smirked. “You’ll see them again. I’ll have a special show ordered. Your girl and this - Sancho - can fight together against a certain adversary.”

“Who?” Tristan’s mouth was dry.

“Who do you think?” Mavramorn smiled smugly. “Little Sancho’s brother. Sagr, they call him; the killing-machine, remember? They will die. And -” he leaned forward, so that Tristan could see every drop of sweat clinging to his forehead, “and you will watch.”



​

 

¢нαρтєя ν​

The day had come.

The Coliseum was seething with spectators. Not one of the red velvet seats was empty. The din was immeasurable; a clamouring cacophony of sound that reached below the ground.

Below, in the cells, corridors and cages of what was basically the circus prison, the atmosphere was a frenetic rush of slaves and keepers, all hurrying back and forth. Scores of half-naked, muscled men hurried around the torch-lit darkness, their torsos gleaming with sweat. The beasts in their cages sniffed the air. Today was a great and terrible day - the most terrible day the circus had ever seen.

Sancho was alone and confused in his cage. The rank place reminded him of that other darkness - the boat he had come on. He whimpered with fear. Where were the two-legged creatures he had come to know as friends? There were only strangers and beasts he did not know. Some of them he could smell, but others he actually saw through the half-light as they were carried past his cage. Mightyena and Ninetales were carted past, along with several strange creatures he did not recognise. Then came something he did recognise - something he recognised above all else. Suddenly he stiffened and rose to his feet.

In the cage that the men were now bearing, there was another like him.

A smell he remembered from the old days - the days when he had been with his mother - reached his nose. He remembered a brother. He remembered rubbing his face against this brother’s face, blending whiskers and sending signs of comfort. He had never had these interactions with any other creature.

Even when the beast that looked like his mother and smelt like his brother had long gone, Sancho kept staring after it, as if Sagr would reappear from the darkness.


***********************

Sagr had not recognised his brother. He was not interested in the things that passed him; he was only interested in the end, the destination - the arena.

By now, he loved to fight. It kept alive instincts that had been a part of his kind for generations past. He was never afraid. He was always the victor. All he had to do was snarl, pounce, kill and eat.

“Sagr.”

The voice surprised him. He was alone now, in his cage, and lost in his thoughts he had not heard or smelt the keeper’s approach.

“Look what I’ve got for you,” the keeper murmured. “Hmm?” He poked a stick through the bars of the cage. On the end was a piece of meat. Sagr seized it and devoured it, the juice trickling down his chin.

“Today’s a big day for you,” the keeper murmured, folding his arms. “But you won’t do what they expect, will you? Sagr, the killing-machine. Pah. You’re robbed of your meat today, with a bit of luck, but no one knows it yet.”

“Have you done it?”

The keeper wheeled around and saw the prince stood there, face pinched with worry. There were dark circles around his eyes.

“Yes, my lord,” the keeper bowed. “Now -”

The prince held out a bag of coins. The keeper seized it greedily, eyes glinting.

“Was it a big piece?” Tristan asked.

“No, my lord. I did not want him to completely fall asleep out there. They would guess he had been drugged. It was a small piece - enough to dull his mind a little.”

The prince bit his lip. It was still an enormous risk, but having Sagr drugged with mild sleeping powder was the best he could do for Varis.

He hardly dared imagine the best possible scenario - that both Sancho and Varis would live. If Sancho fought well enough, he would overcome Sagr, and Varis would earn her freedom. Furthermore, the Arcanine would be hers - both of them, whether dead or alive. It was the same with all Coliseum battles. However, the chances were slim - even with his scheme.

“I must go,” he said. “My father will have realised I am gone by now. Thank you.”

The keeper bowed. “Anything for the prince.”

“The prince’s money, you mean,” snorted Tristan, but it was not hostile. He slipped away.

**

“Where have you been?” snapped Mavramorn. “It’s about to start. Don’t think was going to let you miss this.”

They were sitting in the private royal box - the one with the best view - or the worst, depending on your perception of things.

“I - I slipped out to relieve myself,” lied Tristan. It was not a very original lie, but it seemed to satisfy his father.

“Well, prepare to watch that brat and your pet die, Tristan,” sneered Mavramorn. “Look - the doors are opening.”

Tristan looked out at the arena, his heart pounding. The arena was like a circular desert, the white sand reflecting the sun’s merciless rays. So far, there was not one mark on the smoothly raked surface - but that would soon change, for the double doors were indeed swinging open. The sand waited for its blood.

***


Varis clung tightly to the Arcanine’s back, her hands buried in the mane of creamy fur. Her legs were wrapped around the beast’s sides like a man would ride a horse. Her heart was hammering behind her ribs.

What did death feel like? Was it like freedom or prison? She had seen graves in this country. The most common had a stone anchor and chain. Now she found herself wondering if that meant the anchor kept the dead safely at rest, or if the chains bound them in their agony. Either way, she felt she would know soon enough.

The doors swung open, and she squeezed with her legs, sending Sancho onwards. The Arcanine walked forwards, head high, and suddenly Varis felt a desire to do the same. If Sancho could be brave, so could she. She raised her head defiantly and roared a greeting to the screaming crowd.

Then, the crowd fell silent. Varis knew what they must have seen, entering through a different set of double doors, and steeled her heart.

She did not need to guide Sancho now. The Arcanine had smelt the newcomer, and he turned eagerly.

His brother! Sancho took a few quick steps towards Sagr, and then accelerated, hurtling towards the mirror image of himself with startling speed. It was a wonder that his rider stayed on.

However, all was not as Sancho thought. Sagr did not welcome his brother - instead, he bared his fangs and spat. He had been in the dark for too long, and he did not recognise the strange creature that seemed to want to befriend him.

Sancho saw the glinting teeth just in time, and leapt aside, landing with catlike agility on his paws.

For once Sagr did not make an immediate attack. The drugged meat in his belly was the main factor, but he was also curious. This animal was not like those he usually fought. It stirred up memories of something else - something from a time before the ceaseless fighting. Yet he could not remember what.

The crowd, however, began to boo. They had come for a blood-show - a fight to the death. They did not want to be cheated. The prince alone of all the crowd was hopeful of a bloodless outcome, and the screaming, roaring noise of the crowd drowned out his whispers to the gods.

Sagr heard the crowd, and a corresponding growl rose in his throat. No matter what had come before, this was what he had now. The hair on his neck and shoulders - and without warning, he leapt at his brother, teeth bared in preparation for a Crunch.

Sancho dodged, his quickness outmatching Sagr’s. The crowd roared. Sancho heard them, and like his brother, began to growl softly. This might be his brother, but the law of the Wild is kill or be killed, and Sancho had no wish to die.

Sagr was stunned. He had missed! He never missed. He blinked stupidly, not immediately understanding - and then screamed as a pair of fangs sank into his shoulder.

“Brilliant, Sancho!” whispered Varis. Her mount had gone in more like a cat than a dog, slashing with his teeth and then leaping clear when the Bite had done its damage.

The hunt was up. Sancho was remembering his heritage, and the Wild inside him stirred, rearing its head like a dragon. Sagr was angry and confused. He had met his match, and he was almost afraid.

The two Arcanine, one muscled and well fed, the other skeletal but more experienced, circled one another apprehensively. Their noses were wrinkled, lips drawn back to show dagger-like fangs. Each rumbled a growl in his throat.

The crowd roared again, delighted at this first blood, and the game was on.

Sagr was bleeding on his shoulder, and he wanted revenge. He opened his mouth and roared, but this had more purpose than to frighten his foe. A great flame welled in his throat, and he reared like a horse, sending the Fire Blast shooting at Sancho.

Sancho couldn’t dodge. The blast caught him squarely on the chest, singeing the fleecy fur and causing him to howl with pain.

“Sancho! Sancho, hang on!” cried Varis. She still tasted fear, but now adrenaline and excitement were taking over. “Skull Bash!” She didn’t dare to use a Fire move, unsure if Sancho would be able to control it.

Sancho was in great pain, but he ignored it and lowered his head. He charged at Sagr, too quick for his opponent to dodge, and rammed into him, winding the Arcanine.

Sagr slammed onto the ground, but he was on his feet again almost immediately. The hairs on his tail hardened and glinted like metal.

Varis recognised it and tried to warn her Pokémon, but the Iron Tail was already crashing into Sancho’s hindquarters. Varis clung on grimly. “Scratch!” she called out. It was a basic move, but as Sancho’s claws laid open Sagr’s leg, she felt justified. A Scratch from a Rattata or similar Pokémon might be nothing, but from an Arcanine it was lethal. “Quick! Swift!” she called, while Sagr was still recovering.

Golden, star-shaped rays of something that was not quite fire issued from Sancho’s throat and sped towards Sagr. Varis did not even need to check if they hit - Swift always had perfect accuracy.

Sagr roared angrily as the stars scalded his skin. Without even thinking, he dashed towards his brother and the strange two-legs on his back, tackling them with a ferocious Body Slam that almost had Varis unseated. However, she clung on, her fear lending her a determination known to few.

“Sancho!” she hissed, leaning forwards to hiss in Sancho’s furry ear. “Can you - will you use Hyper Beam? Please?” She knew she was asking an enormous service - and endangering both of them. Hyper Beam, besides being inaccurate, would result in Arcanine being unable to produce another attack for a full thirty seconds. It might not seem long, but it would be agony if Sagr attacked them.

There was an answering rumble from Sancho’s throat, and even as their enemy launched himself towards them, slowed only by the drugged meat, an great yellow-orange globe of light burst from Sancho’s mouth and hurtled towards the fiery tiger Pokémon.

Sagr bellowed in agony as the attack connected with his shoulder. His claws flashed in the sunlight, and Sancho felt a pain like no other as the Slash laid open his muzzle.

For a moment, both stood there, gasping, winded and too exhausted to move, yet unable to give in and collapse on the sand. A poet might have said they looked into each others’ eyes and recognised their kin, but it was not true. Sagr recognised something, it is true, but the shadows and the blood of the Coliseum had stripped him of his inbred loyalty and taught him no mercy, Sancho might have been less willing to fight than his brother, but the Wild in him was superior to blurred memories of a distant infancy.

The crowd was beginning to grow restless. “What are you?” called some. “Tame cats? Mice?”

Varis scowled, her heart clenching with anger. Did they understand nothing? Did they know naught of the terror and rage of the arena? This sandpit was not a child’s game; a playground fight. It was the battleground of cultures; of different ethnic societies. It was a disgusting, prejudiced war, where opponents were decided according to the difference between them - dark skin, pale skin, Hoennese and foreign blood. It was a disgrace.

She was tempted to roar back at the crowd, but even as she opened her mouth she felt Sancho move beneath her, and she was thrown forward, lying on his neck as he leapt aside. He had seen what she had not; the rapid, unforeseen approach of Sagr. However, as she fell onto his neck, she loosened her grip, and found herself unceremoniously flung into the sand in front of Sancho.

The crowd bellowed as Sagr darted forwards, about to sink his teeth into her, but Sancho intercepted the blow and took it on his left flank. She scrambled back onto the tiger’s back, strategising all the while.

Varis thought rapidly. Exchanging attacks forever was risky. What could they - she had it! “Bite!” she exclaimed. “And hold on to it’s neck!”

Sancho’s teeth closed on his brother’s throat. It was not a mortal Bite, being too low down towards the chest to be fatal, but he held on grimly. Sagr leapt into the air and crashed down again, trying to rid himself of this sudden weight. It made Sagr frantic. Already made slower than usual by the drugs in his system, this weight slowed him down even more. The jeers of the crowd drove him into a frenzy. It was like a trap, this grip on his flesh. He resented it, and snapped downwards, but at this angle, he could not reach his foe. He whirled, turned, and tried to dispose of this horrible hold, but he could not.

Sancho was beginning to find it difficult to breathe, and it was hard to keep his grip on the sandy floor. However, the grip was thing, and he held on unwaveringly. The grip was thing, and the grip he kept.

Sagr whirled in circles, desperate to be rid of the enemy. He had forgotten the half-memory that rose inside him. The present, not the past, was important now.

Sancho felt his grip loosening and panted with the effort to hold on. He still could not breathe, however, and with the added weight of Varis on his back, it was impossible to make this last any longer and he knew it.

He let go with a snarl, panting heavily and tired from the exertion. He flopped on the ground, too exhausted to keep himself standing. Varis slumped forward on his neck, bruised and sweating but alive.

Had Sagr been able to move, Sancho would have been an easy target. However, he too was exhausted, and he slumped on the ground, temporarily unable to battle.


*


The crowd murmured indistinctly around him, but Prince Tristan did not hear a word. Instead, he spoke quietly and urgently to his father, though he knew there was little hope.

“Father! I am sorry! I should not have kissed her. It was insane,” he pleaded. This much was true. “Please, listen. If Sagr can’t kill Sancho and Varis, that means Varis has earned her freedom, doesn’t it?”

Mavramorn smirked. “Those are the rules - but I do not know if they apply to girls. A girl has never fought a battle like this before.”

Tristan winced. His father knew perfectly well that the rules applied regardless of gender. He only wanted an excuse to kill them both. “Father, if Sagr collapses, then Varis is a free woman - and she keeps both Sagr and Sancho! You know she does!”

“We’ll see,” said Mavramorn impassively. “It’s not over yet.”

*

Mavramorn was right. In the arena, both Arcanine were struggling to their feet. Sagr’s throat was lacerated and pouring blood, but he was not yet overcome. Sancho was wounded, though not as badly, and he refused to submit.

The battle raged on. Scratches, Swifts, Body Slams and Crunches were exchanged. Occasionally Sagr used Dragonbreath and Flamethrower, though it hurt his injured throat to do so. Sancho used none of his fire at first, but gradually, nature began to overcome fear. He was a Fire Pokémon. Further, he was Arcanine, a beast renowned for its skill with the element. It was in him to use this power, and use it he did.

Varis felt the great beast beneath her tense, and she cried out, warning Sancho to stop. But Sancho refused to heed her. He gathered himself and sprang into the air, a titanic Flamethrower issuing from his throat.

The flame burned a bright, blazing red and orange colour, with flecks of yellow interspersed between the layers. It engulfed Sagr, licking him, tormenting him, searing his skin and charring his fur. The beast bellowed a great roar, screaming with agony. It wrestled the fire and slumped to the ground in a dead faint. A cloud of sand sprang up and doused the flames, but it was too late for Sagr.

There was a silence. Then, the crowd erupted in a mighty roar. Never had they seen anything like it. The mighty killing-machine had been brought low. They hollered their approval.

Yet Mavramorn stood silently. It was now his decision what should become of Varis. He held out his fist, and the crowd fell silent again.

Thumbs up was the signal for freedom and the gift of the two Pokémon to Varis.

Thumbs down meant death.​

 

Heh, I've been getting my Grades done earlier than I expect:

Introduction: The prologue was very nice, setting up the story and drawing in the reader right away. There are times when it’s appropriate to not give descriptions right away, though it’s hard for authors to know when this is acceptable. You’ve pulled it off well here: the lack of any real detail lends an air of mystery and intensity. The readers aren’t distracted by knowing more than the absolute essentials.

Very nice job, this is the sort of thing I like to see in an introduction. You get a shiny Pass!

Plot: Wow, this plot is awesome. Two Growlithe pups and several humans are stolen from their forest home, where they are thrust into a new, and for some of them horribly difficult, life. However, things slowly start to change for Sancho, the older Growlithe pup, and Varis, one of the tribespeople who was taken. All of it leads up to Varis and the prince Tristan growing quite close, Sancho evolving, and an epic showdown between he and his brother, Sagr, who has also evolved and led a much darker life than his sibling.

Nice, very nice. I like how it was set up, with the medieval theme sort of mingling with a modern one. It’s also quite original, as I haven’t seen many stories that follow something similar to the flow of this story. It’s certainly more than enough for two Arcanine, for sure!

Great job on this; originality like this is hard to come by in URPG stories. Pass for you!

Length: Perfect length for two Arcanine. Pass. =P

Detail: This is a solid area, something you seem to grasp quite well. Your reader gets a relatively strong view of what the scenery and characters look like, including the Pokemon. Most people make the mistake of giving a bland description of Pokemon when first introducing them, or not describing them at all.

While I like what you did with the visual details, I’d like to see you incorporate more sensory details in the future. How do things feel, sound, taste, smell? What did Sancho smell like after he was bathed? How did the heat of Sagr’s fire attacks feel against Varis’ skin? The more sensory details you can give us, the more we become drawn into the story: the more we experience it. When we get a wider array of sensory descriptions, we get a better picture of what’s going on around us. Sure, you can get across how badly gone a corpse is by saying it was showing bone through blackened flesh, but telling us the smell of it helps cement the picture better, gives a stronger impression.

Depending on what situation you’re describing, sometimes things like hearing or scent will be more important that visual details.

Still, you give brief and nice details on senses other than sight. I’d just like to see you expand on what you’ve done here. All in all, Pass.

Grammar/Spelling: I didn’t see very many mistakes, which is quite good when you consider how long this story is. However, I realize you seem to be using Australian spelling, so some of these might be acceptable if you are. If so, just ignore me ^^. Here are the (simple) errors I spotted:

“Swivelled” has an extra “l” in it; it should be “swiveled.”

"Woollen" also has an extra "l;" it should be "woolen."

“Alright” is an incorrect conjunction; it should be spelled “all right.” However, it’s accepted by many, including my Word’s spellchecker. Whichever sounds better to you is the one you should stick with.

“Hat” should be “that.”

That was really all I noticed. Again, very nice on this, it’s always good to see a story of this size with so few mistakes. Pass!

Battle: Ooh, I liked this. My only real gripe is it could have been a little longer. How would Sagr have managed, in his drugged state, if he’d attempted an Extremespeed? How would it have riled the crowd if Sancho had Howled? In a battled, the attacks don’t always have to be damaging ones. How would a Growl have worked, Roar maybe? Working in non-damaging moves can lengthen your story without making it seem to drag on, and it also makes it more interesting. A suddenly one-sided battle might swing a different way at the use of a Scary Face or Glare.

Still, this battle was a good one, with a decent array of moves. I’m glad you didn’t rely on the same two over and over, as reading a battle like that quickly becomes more of a chore for the reader than anything else. One more thing I want to comment on: it’s a unique twist to incorporate a Pokemon’s Ability in battle. Neither Pokemon had their Fire moves powered up when hit by one another’s fire moves; did that mean they had Intimidate over Flash Fire? If they had Intimidate, they could have both been slightly cowed by the other, more wary and less prone to attacking without thought. If one or both had had Flash Fire, then of course they wouldn’t have been injured and would have become stronger as the fire hit them. A battle isn’t all about attacks: Abilities can have a major impact on how things turn out.

Let me quite rambling and tell you what you already know: Pass for this section.

Outcome: Yay, the most important (to the author XD) part of the Grade! I could sit here and ramble on about how good the plot was, how nice the details were, and all that good stuff. I could drag it all out by ranting about how exciting the battle was. Or I could screw with you and say Neither Arcanine Captured! But I won’t. I’ll just give it to ya straight: Both Arcanine Captured! Have fun with them ^^.