This is based off of something that actually happened to me, advice is greatly appreciated, I know this could use some work. This is only a one-shot, rated PG-13 for mild violence/disturbingness.
It was snowing.
The cursed white slush was everywhere, frosting the trees, drowning the paths, freezing the baby Pidgey onto the branches. It was the bastard child of the chill that had plagued the forest and the Gods in the skies, who wanted the pokemon to suffer. And yet, this was the best day they had in a week. Normally the blizzards had surged down like a rain of knives, tearing into the precious forest and slashing it apart into many frozen pieces with its malevolent winds and numbing ice. But it simply snowed now, millions of tiny flakes sprinkling onto the ground.
It was a refreshing respite from the rapture that had been bestowed upon Petalburg Woods. The pokemon did not know what had happened; it was rumored that the beast Regice had awakened and was wreaking his vengeance upon Hoenn. Others claimed human technology had caused a winter to blaze throughout the entire lands. Amadeus cared not of the genesis of the suffering, but rather how he and his son Oliver were going to escape it. His wife Penelope was already claimed by one of the storms; he couldn’t lose his son too.
“Move along now, Oliver. We’re a Geodude’s throw from the city; we shall find refuge there, I know it!” The Breloom trudged along the slippery, snow-laden path, his hooves frostbitten and ready to snap like twigs.
“I’m coming as fast as I can, it’s not easy!” his Shroomish son cried, attempting to keep up with his father.
Indeed it wasn’t easy. They had been walking miles for the past three days, in a desperate attempt to flee from the blizzards. The fact that they were grass types did not alleviate matters, as tiny icicles hung from their heads and clung to their bodies. Amadeus’s tail had collapsed and had become deadweight as he had to drag it along too. Their lips and their skin had faded into blue; a paralyzing numbness also burdened them in their desperate journey. They were beginning to wither.
Amadeus had looked apologetically down upon his son; he wanted to hold him and carry him on this journey, but his arms were mere fists, incapable of carrying a child. Oliver was smaller than the other Shroomish; it was difficult enough for him in life to do most things, let alone to make such a dangerous trek across the forest. His little round body trembled, and it was getting harder and harder to stay upright.
“We’ll take a small nap, and then we’ll walk again. We’ll be in the city soon, Oliver. Very soon, ” Amadeus whispered as he turned to face his son, and nodded toward a small space in between two trees where there was no snow. Oliver smiled and began to trudge towards there instead.
“When we’re in the city, is Mother going to be there?”
“Yes, Son. ” He didn’t look at him, instead continued to walk to their resting spot.
“And will the Sun be shining?”
“Shining hotter than you’ve ever seen it!” They sat on the crunchy soil.
“And will there be no more snow? ”
“This will be the last day you will ever see snow, my son.” They lay down, Oliver cuddled up in Amadeus’s chest.
Oliver closed his eyes instantly; though it wasn’t as easy for Amadeus. Too many thoughts swarmed around his head, from the hunger in his belly to the death of Penelope. Oh, how he loved his wife. She was a Roselia; they had known each other since childhood. They lived happily together and soon began to mate as well; they had fallen in love. He remembered the blazing summer days when they would lie together in the shade, napping blissfully. Or how they would bathe in the rain, or fend off Beedrill together, both skilled fighters. Then, Oliver had hatched from his egg. They were an honestly happy family. Bad things did happen such as Orpheus the Angry Vigoroth’s rampages or the rainy seasons without sun; but they were always together. Sure, like any couple, they bickered from time to time, but the love in the family was genuine.
Penelope was dead.
When the blizzard first began, she was returning from a visit to her sister’s. Normally, the trip took less than few hours. When after a full day, she hadn’t returned, Oliver and Amadeus had searched for her. They figured she simply decided to stay with her sister, not wanting to be caught up in the storm. They ventured into the blizzard, desperate to find her in the time of trouble. She had slipped on ice and struck her head against a rock. It was Oliver who found her.
Amadeus looked down on his son, who was now gently snoring. It was foolish to try and escape the forest after finding Penelope; they should have taken refuge like most of the other forest creatures did. But who would have expected the storm to only get worse? It was a miracle they managed to survive for this long.
Amadeus wished he could scoop his son into his arms and fly away, like a Murkrow. Before the storm had even started, the devious little birds had taken flight and flew as far from the woods as they could. The nesting Murkrow had simply clutched the nests in their talons with their mate, and flew too. They had fled the rapture; they were the saints ascending into the Heavens.
The Breloom smiled at the thought, him and Penelope flying through the heavens with great black wings, with great flowing arms, holding Oliver. He slept.
The sun was out. As soon as one of its rays struck Amadeus’s blue skin, his eyes snapped open. Leaving from the warm confines of dreams, he found that the chilly air had become pleasantly still, albeit cold. The snowfall had stopped; it was over. Amadeus laughed, it was all over! Soon the sun would fully shred through the hazy sky and revive the forest once more. They need not flee into the city after all! He looked up at the sky, and saw nothing, but no matter, he felt the pleasant touch of the sun.
He turned to face Oliver and eagerly shook him, wanting him to see the sight.
But Oliver did not wake.
Amadeus frowned; Oliver must have been in heavy dreaming. He continued to nudge and yell at his son, who all the time remained perfectly still. The Breloom began to panic. “What was going on?” “What was happening?” “Why won’t Oliver wake?”
He began to smile stupidly, his lips cracking as he did so. “I must have released spores while sleeping! Yes, it was all an accident! He’ll awaken soon enough!” he assured himself. He lied down once more, cuddling up to his son, waiting for him to wake up soon enough. Thirty minutes passed. Oliver remained motionless, his blue lips parted open, icicles now plastering his entire body. Amadeus leaped up once more. He began to calculate in his head once more. He had to do something, something to wake his son up. As much guilt as he felt, he knew there was only one way. Gulping and quietly begging his son for forgiveness, he held his right fist out as it glowed white hot with sheer power. It began to quiver, waiting for something to break the attack, but soon the full power was unleashed. His fist drove into Oliver’s side, shattering the icicles and sent him hurtling through the air until he landed with a skid into the snowy path.
Amadeus ran towards his son’s body. Oliver was going to bolt upright and groan with pain, asking what happened. The Breloom would apologize a million times, and tell his son it had to be done so that they could go home. Yes, home. The sun was going to surmount this awful storm, and they would continue living happily in the forest. As soon as the sun’s rays hit Penelope’s grave, she would awaken. She would be waiting for them. It would be like the storm never happened.
But Oliver did not wake.
Amadeus struck and roared with all his might, desperate to pull his son from this sleep. He was no longer panicking, he was enraged. His stupid son was playing games with him, not waking up. He needs to learn to wake up when he is told to; he would be severely punished when he woke up. But with each further bruise and each angry tear flowing with the Breloom’s outburst, nothing followed. Oliver would not wake. He was not going to wake.
He sobbed. Amadeus collapsed into the snow and sobbed. Oliver was gone. No more would he hear his youthful voice. No more would he embrace Penelope. There was no one there to hold in the dreary nights, in the vicious storms. They were all gone. Devoured in the monstrous jaws of the winter. He was the only one left. He was the only one to return home.
Amadeus’s hooves were a bloody brown. He had dug a small grave in their resting spot with them. They were already frostbitten, now sliced as he violently kicked open a crude grave. His son deserved better, but this was the best he could give him. Penelope deserved better. He was a lousy father, and a lousy pokemon. They had seen other dead pokemon on their journey, entire families. He had gazed at the fathers with pity, failure caretakers. But now Amadeus was one of them. He turned to Oliver once again, incapable of the task that lay ahead. He laid by his son once more, tears silently freezing on his face.
After an hour or so, he swallowed carefully and began to drag his son’s body through the snow and gently placed him inside the grave. Oliver bulged out ever so slightly. He must have grown when they weren’t looking. Amadeus continued to stare at his son’s body, powerless to bury it.
Then, he heard a cawing.
He looked up ahead. There weren’t too many trees; he saw several Murkrow flying through the sky. They were coming from the city. They were mere black shapes to him, and they were crowding around a large tree scrambling madly through the branches. He gazed at them perplexed. Out of nowhere, several more Murkrow had appeared; soon there were ten of them scuttling through the branches.
Then, they came.
Hundreds of Murkrow streaked through the sky, hundreds of black dots cawing maniacally as they fought madly in that same tree or indulged in apparent orgies; crying madly as the gushing stream of birds continued to flood, more and more Murkow violently tearing through the tree. There were no nests in any talons. Every minute or so there would be a calm, and only five Murkrow remained, but before Amadeus could even blink, another swarm of the birds would bolt through the sky from another direction cackling insanely as they tried to flee some foreboding, deadly force. Quite a few crashed straight into the trunk of the tree and slid down in a bloody heap of cracked bones. Amadeus was stunned at the terrible beauty of the flight; for a moment, he had forgotten his son.
Finally, they stopped.
Prying his gaze from the tree, Amadeus turned to bury his son, but he was already buried. A good layer of snow had blanketed his son; it was snowing again. Violently. The harsh winds whipped through the once warm air, and the inches of icy horror began to creep up by the second. Amadeus tried to run, thinking he could escape the blizzard. At first, he ran towards the city, but he remembered the Murkrow coming in hundreds. They were coming from the city. It was everywhere. The wrath of Regice had claimed the city too. There was no refuge.
Amadeus chuckled and stepped back to his son’s grave, his hooves bleeding profusely and his skin beginning to crack. He lay down and caressed Oliver’s grave. His eyes closed once more as a delightful tingling sensation ran through his spine. He smiled.
It was warm.
It was snowing.
The cursed white slush was everywhere, frosting the trees, drowning the paths, freezing the baby Pidgey onto the branches. It was the bastard child of the chill that had plagued the forest and the Gods in the skies, who wanted the pokemon to suffer. And yet, this was the best day they had in a week. Normally the blizzards had surged down like a rain of knives, tearing into the precious forest and slashing it apart into many frozen pieces with its malevolent winds and numbing ice. But it simply snowed now, millions of tiny flakes sprinkling onto the ground.
It was a refreshing respite from the rapture that had been bestowed upon Petalburg Woods. The pokemon did not know what had happened; it was rumored that the beast Regice had awakened and was wreaking his vengeance upon Hoenn. Others claimed human technology had caused a winter to blaze throughout the entire lands. Amadeus cared not of the genesis of the suffering, but rather how he and his son Oliver were going to escape it. His wife Penelope was already claimed by one of the storms; he couldn’t lose his son too.
“Move along now, Oliver. We’re a Geodude’s throw from the city; we shall find refuge there, I know it!” The Breloom trudged along the slippery, snow-laden path, his hooves frostbitten and ready to snap like twigs.
“I’m coming as fast as I can, it’s not easy!” his Shroomish son cried, attempting to keep up with his father.
Indeed it wasn’t easy. They had been walking miles for the past three days, in a desperate attempt to flee from the blizzards. The fact that they were grass types did not alleviate matters, as tiny icicles hung from their heads and clung to their bodies. Amadeus’s tail had collapsed and had become deadweight as he had to drag it along too. Their lips and their skin had faded into blue; a paralyzing numbness also burdened them in their desperate journey. They were beginning to wither.
Amadeus had looked apologetically down upon his son; he wanted to hold him and carry him on this journey, but his arms were mere fists, incapable of carrying a child. Oliver was smaller than the other Shroomish; it was difficult enough for him in life to do most things, let alone to make such a dangerous trek across the forest. His little round body trembled, and it was getting harder and harder to stay upright.
“We’ll take a small nap, and then we’ll walk again. We’ll be in the city soon, Oliver. Very soon, ” Amadeus whispered as he turned to face his son, and nodded toward a small space in between two trees where there was no snow. Oliver smiled and began to trudge towards there instead.
“When we’re in the city, is Mother going to be there?”
“Yes, Son. ” He didn’t look at him, instead continued to walk to their resting spot.
“And will the Sun be shining?”
“Shining hotter than you’ve ever seen it!” They sat on the crunchy soil.
“And will there be no more snow? ”
“This will be the last day you will ever see snow, my son.” They lay down, Oliver cuddled up in Amadeus’s chest.
Oliver closed his eyes instantly; though it wasn’t as easy for Amadeus. Too many thoughts swarmed around his head, from the hunger in his belly to the death of Penelope. Oh, how he loved his wife. She was a Roselia; they had known each other since childhood. They lived happily together and soon began to mate as well; they had fallen in love. He remembered the blazing summer days when they would lie together in the shade, napping blissfully. Or how they would bathe in the rain, or fend off Beedrill together, both skilled fighters. Then, Oliver had hatched from his egg. They were an honestly happy family. Bad things did happen such as Orpheus the Angry Vigoroth’s rampages or the rainy seasons without sun; but they were always together. Sure, like any couple, they bickered from time to time, but the love in the family was genuine.
Penelope was dead.
When the blizzard first began, she was returning from a visit to her sister’s. Normally, the trip took less than few hours. When after a full day, she hadn’t returned, Oliver and Amadeus had searched for her. They figured she simply decided to stay with her sister, not wanting to be caught up in the storm. They ventured into the blizzard, desperate to find her in the time of trouble. She had slipped on ice and struck her head against a rock. It was Oliver who found her.
Amadeus looked down on his son, who was now gently snoring. It was foolish to try and escape the forest after finding Penelope; they should have taken refuge like most of the other forest creatures did. But who would have expected the storm to only get worse? It was a miracle they managed to survive for this long.
Amadeus wished he could scoop his son into his arms and fly away, like a Murkrow. Before the storm had even started, the devious little birds had taken flight and flew as far from the woods as they could. The nesting Murkrow had simply clutched the nests in their talons with their mate, and flew too. They had fled the rapture; they were the saints ascending into the Heavens.
The Breloom smiled at the thought, him and Penelope flying through the heavens with great black wings, with great flowing arms, holding Oliver. He slept.
*****
The sun was out. As soon as one of its rays struck Amadeus’s blue skin, his eyes snapped open. Leaving from the warm confines of dreams, he found that the chilly air had become pleasantly still, albeit cold. The snowfall had stopped; it was over. Amadeus laughed, it was all over! Soon the sun would fully shred through the hazy sky and revive the forest once more. They need not flee into the city after all! He looked up at the sky, and saw nothing, but no matter, he felt the pleasant touch of the sun.
He turned to face Oliver and eagerly shook him, wanting him to see the sight.
But Oliver did not wake.
Amadeus frowned; Oliver must have been in heavy dreaming. He continued to nudge and yell at his son, who all the time remained perfectly still. The Breloom began to panic. “What was going on?” “What was happening?” “Why won’t Oliver wake?”
He began to smile stupidly, his lips cracking as he did so. “I must have released spores while sleeping! Yes, it was all an accident! He’ll awaken soon enough!” he assured himself. He lied down once more, cuddling up to his son, waiting for him to wake up soon enough. Thirty minutes passed. Oliver remained motionless, his blue lips parted open, icicles now plastering his entire body. Amadeus leaped up once more. He began to calculate in his head once more. He had to do something, something to wake his son up. As much guilt as he felt, he knew there was only one way. Gulping and quietly begging his son for forgiveness, he held his right fist out as it glowed white hot with sheer power. It began to quiver, waiting for something to break the attack, but soon the full power was unleashed. His fist drove into Oliver’s side, shattering the icicles and sent him hurtling through the air until he landed with a skid into the snowy path.
Amadeus ran towards his son’s body. Oliver was going to bolt upright and groan with pain, asking what happened. The Breloom would apologize a million times, and tell his son it had to be done so that they could go home. Yes, home. The sun was going to surmount this awful storm, and they would continue living happily in the forest. As soon as the sun’s rays hit Penelope’s grave, she would awaken. She would be waiting for them. It would be like the storm never happened.
But Oliver did not wake.
Amadeus struck and roared with all his might, desperate to pull his son from this sleep. He was no longer panicking, he was enraged. His stupid son was playing games with him, not waking up. He needs to learn to wake up when he is told to; he would be severely punished when he woke up. But with each further bruise and each angry tear flowing with the Breloom’s outburst, nothing followed. Oliver would not wake. He was not going to wake.
He sobbed. Amadeus collapsed into the snow and sobbed. Oliver was gone. No more would he hear his youthful voice. No more would he embrace Penelope. There was no one there to hold in the dreary nights, in the vicious storms. They were all gone. Devoured in the monstrous jaws of the winter. He was the only one left. He was the only one to return home.
*****
Amadeus’s hooves were a bloody brown. He had dug a small grave in their resting spot with them. They were already frostbitten, now sliced as he violently kicked open a crude grave. His son deserved better, but this was the best he could give him. Penelope deserved better. He was a lousy father, and a lousy pokemon. They had seen other dead pokemon on their journey, entire families. He had gazed at the fathers with pity, failure caretakers. But now Amadeus was one of them. He turned to Oliver once again, incapable of the task that lay ahead. He laid by his son once more, tears silently freezing on his face.
After an hour or so, he swallowed carefully and began to drag his son’s body through the snow and gently placed him inside the grave. Oliver bulged out ever so slightly. He must have grown when they weren’t looking. Amadeus continued to stare at his son’s body, powerless to bury it.
Then, he heard a cawing.
He looked up ahead. There weren’t too many trees; he saw several Murkrow flying through the sky. They were coming from the city. They were mere black shapes to him, and they were crowding around a large tree scrambling madly through the branches. He gazed at them perplexed. Out of nowhere, several more Murkrow had appeared; soon there were ten of them scuttling through the branches.
Then, they came.
Hundreds of Murkrow streaked through the sky, hundreds of black dots cawing maniacally as they fought madly in that same tree or indulged in apparent orgies; crying madly as the gushing stream of birds continued to flood, more and more Murkow violently tearing through the tree. There were no nests in any talons. Every minute or so there would be a calm, and only five Murkrow remained, but before Amadeus could even blink, another swarm of the birds would bolt through the sky from another direction cackling insanely as they tried to flee some foreboding, deadly force. Quite a few crashed straight into the trunk of the tree and slid down in a bloody heap of cracked bones. Amadeus was stunned at the terrible beauty of the flight; for a moment, he had forgotten his son.
Finally, they stopped.
Prying his gaze from the tree, Amadeus turned to bury his son, but he was already buried. A good layer of snow had blanketed his son; it was snowing again. Violently. The harsh winds whipped through the once warm air, and the inches of icy horror began to creep up by the second. Amadeus tried to run, thinking he could escape the blizzard. At first, he ran towards the city, but he remembered the Murkrow coming in hundreds. They were coming from the city. It was everywhere. The wrath of Regice had claimed the city too. There was no refuge.
Amadeus chuckled and stepped back to his son’s grave, his hooves bleeding profusely and his skin beginning to crack. He lay down and caressed Oliver’s grave. His eyes closed once more as a delightful tingling sensation ran through his spine. He smiled.
It was warm.
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