Song in media: Iron by Woodkid

The last vestiges of light flicker as a sudden ululation traverses the snowy plains.

A tapering tail swishes, the three sets of loose scales that increase in size near the grey tip reflecting the dawn. Each set of four separate scales encircle the tail; the two lower scales brandishes a solid yellow screaming danger, and the one nearest the tip has a grey centre. A long line of slightly raised, pale grey scales run down the centre of the back to about halfway up the tail that spins anti-clockwise, replacing the shorter scales from before.

The dragon raises his four scaly chains consisting of four scales each extending from just behind his shoulders. He roars again. His scaly armour shines light on nearby frost flowers. Scratching the yellow and red markings on his body with honed claws, he presses his round, beakish snout on his scales, strumming to create a soft, arresting melody as his small eyes, nearly hidden, slant under his head armour. Again, he lets out an ecphonesis.

The impasse is no more.

"Skala!" Yuxia gasps and runs to his side. "You're a Kommo-o now!"

"Fah, Lithomancy works wonders. The future sure is more volatile than oil prices." Tor glances at the duo before returning his gaze at the Spiritist and his enchanted Abomasnow.

Wicht sweeps his dusty hair and furrows his brows. "Let's wreck them with Frost Blade!"

Tor growls and the trio back away as the earth rumbles and slants. Snow rises and congregates in between the blizzard and sandstorm, thawing and freezing, coalescing into an ice rapier. The weapon glints as it falls into the bellowing Dynamax Abomasnow's green hands.

"Skaggi Gildru!" Wicht's glowing amethyst gaze hurls intense beams onto the earth, moving in a circular motion, building a shadow net around his foes. Spikes emerge from where holes were, sealing any chance of escape. He sneers. "Charge!"

"Skala, the Danse Macabre, now! Clanging Scales!" Yuxia shrieks. Wild may be her flying hair, like warplanes in a hurricane, but the determination in her eyes never ceases. Twisting her wrist, she shifts a foot and Skala follows along.

"Klofna Steina!" With a flick of his hand, Tor unleashes boulders that split into jagged fragments. Yelling, he commands his Spirit Pokémon to grab the hilt of his diamond sword and yank it at the Dynamax Pokémon. Earning a hushed growl from the distracted Abomasnow, he faces the ginormous Frost Blade, summoning another boulder.

But the blade pierces through. It crumbles.

"Oh, Diamocles, I am slain!" Tor cries as his body flies to the net, stabbed by nine shadow spikes before collapsing onto the snow, leaving blood dripping from the spikes.

His Spirit Lycanroc elicits a sonorous yip before dropping on all fours, paws parting the mage's greying hair as Tor falls. The crimson-stained robe stays a little while more in his gaze before the blue Midday Lycanroc grits his canines.

"Oh, seems like the Spirit Pokémon lives on." Wicht narrows his gaze before gawking at an ebony and ivory skull. "I will kill you all!"

No, not Tor! Yuxia bites her lips. He could have easily dodged it, but why? She moves on, separating from the skull, a quivering finger pointed at the boy. The sandstorm is no longer, and all that's left is the bitter cold. Skala's bulletproof armour swings as he sidesteps.

"All-Out Pummelling," Yuxia breathes. "Do it."

Another Frost Blade, like a lightning-fast javelin, plummets onto the Spirit Pokémon.

The crystallisation of the spirit must survive! Yuxia dashes and embraces the metaphysical Lycanroc before doubling over. Skala begins his dance with a Sky Uppercut before his fists rain on the ice rapier, smashing it into smithereens.

"How can I forget? Your Kommo-o's a Fighting-type." A devious grin graces Wicht's expression. "My Queen, crush them with Wood Hammer."

A green hammer surging with brown energy emerges and the Abomasnow swings it, as if a bob after removing the sword. Then, she lets it go above her foes.

"Skala, Sky Uppercut," Yuxia deadpans as she puts the Lycanroc at one side and glides across the snow, causing the white blur to leap like Grumpig. Proceeding to a series of locking and popping, her muscles expand and contract in the slightly more vigorous steps. She watches, in her peripheral vision, as the Kommo-o twists an arm and thrusts it at the weapon, chopping it into half. "Steady there, Work Up a little. Have some Agility and close in."

Skala huffs and propels himself forward as Wicht points at him and mumbles, "Frost Breath."

A wisp of cool air slams into resonant scales, but Skala endures, flexing the muscles in his arms, legs and torso whilst the force pushes him back, closer to the shadow trap. Yuxia shakes her head, producing an outcry. With the blizzard's music, he pauses, grinds his shoulders and locks his body in stillness for three seconds.

"Ha, we will have a scaly popsicle for snack!" Wicht chuckles and commands another Frost Breath out of the panting giant.

Eyeing the woman engaged in krumping, her free, rapid and exaggerated arm movements shifting upward as her head tilts up, legs twisting in a highly energetic fashion, Skala nods, bends forward and cartwheels toward the Abomasnow. As he inches closer, the snow thaws and the earth burns, his passion fuelled into a flaming wheel of Clanging Scales.

"Wha—"

The Spiritist is cut short. A thud rises. A roar falls.

Ashes like snow, and snow like ashes, rain from the heavens as gentle smoke slithers toward the Abomasnow. Fire coating his arms and legs, Skala gyrates, generating hot wind behind him. His blazing fists lock in on the Abomasnow's face, awaiting a Fire Punch. Sizzles fill the air.

"Don't," Wicht cries, too numb to get up.

"Skala, formation." Yuxia points her fingers to the skies as her companion snatches the Sword of Diamocles off the earth, tumbles to her side and strikes a pose. "What did I say about compassion? It's one of our virtues, right?"

The Kommo-o bites his lower lip and presses his tail onto the earth. Yuxia tears her gaze away and hurries to Tor's body, seeing the Spirit Lycanroc licking the Lithomancer's face.

"A-Aren't you going to kill me? Spare me from this ill fate?" Wicht whispers as he watches the woman shake the body and carry it in her arms as if she's about to take a marriage photo.

"Pick him up," Yuxia utters and trudges forward with the Rock-type by her feet. Her legs move forward as the body shifts its weight in the cradle, threatening to fall before she tilts it a little. She blinks salty waters from her eyes and, with a hand, splits his hair into two grey fringes. "Tor, you're such a rock."

A yelp from the Lycanroc hurls her head up and a gasp leaves her lips.

Oh no, oh no! The canyon in her head collapses as an arid gust of thoughts shove stationary rocks off the cliff. Zāo lè!

A hand chops the air and scales shake whilst Skala grabs it and pushes it back up. It's a cycle of resistance from either mage or dragon, of failed offence coming back and forth. The shadow trap fades along with the exhausting process.

"Koom!" He growls as he holds onto the boy's arm and swivels it twice before Wicht's hand swats the air.

"This is way worse than death," Wicht mumbles as he faces the Abomasnow whose size returns to normal. "Why are you laughing? Do something!"

Yuxia squats and pets the Spirit Lycanroc, turning away from the ruckus. "Have a name?" It shakes its head. "What do you identify as?" It shrugs. "Okay, you're bigender." Zie nods. "What about... Varúlfur? It means werewolf." Zie nods again.

"Why not Terra?" Wicht grumbles before whining, his arms swinging as Skala guides them across the air swiftly.

"Bù," Yuxia says as she lets Varúlfur get on her back, zir arms latching on her shoulder blades. "No. Just no."

"But help me, pretty lady!"

"Why should I? Skala's more professional in his Sky Uppercut dance regime." Yuxia sighs. "Okay, what about we stop when you get a few broken bones?"

"But—"

"No." Yuxia steels her gaze. "Promise me not to kill anyone again or I'll make sure Valrúlfur will chew on your Spiritist spirit while Skala and I stew your bones in wine. I'll be sure to make good use of those arms—maybe I could install it in a grandfather's clock. Or..." She glances at Wicht's chest, takes a few steps forward and jabs his heart with a finger. "You go get a heart to fill your damn void."

She pirouettes and yawns. "Well, we should get going."

"We? Am I—"

"Bèndàn, I'm not going to leave you here just so you can indulge in sin. I'll keep watch over you and when you can't resist those urges... Things will get hard."

"Country matters?" Wicht blushes as Skala releases him. "I mean, no-thing."

"Tame your tongue before I tame it like a dragon. You'll be so tongue-twisted you can't ever speak again." Yuxia glares at him. "Skala, be good and show him to our home. Make sure he sees the snow globes—some say they contain ashes from the ancient war. If you want, Skala can whip up a couple dishes—his stews and broths use the best bones of the day."

"What?" Goosebumps prick Wicht's skin as he squirms and pats his body.

"Oh, don't worry! They come from Mandibuzz-hunting, but..." Yuxia turns his head around to wink at the Spiritist, looking him from head to toe. "I wonder about the sources."

Yuxia picks up pace and pauses, narrowing her gaze at the boy. "Follow Skala. Or, are you saying I look like a dragon?"

"H-Haxorus." Wicht shakes his head and squeezes sweat out of his brows. "I mean, we're taking the same path downhill. Yes, yes. That's what I said!"

Yuxia bats an eyelid as she huffs, turning back to face the road ahead. "Skala, wushu is one of our traditions, no?" She pauses. "Show that twit your skills using the weapon I just got from the smith. Ah, the Haxo-Scythe will definitely hack you like a true Haxorus, fiend-warrior."

Yuxia ensures she hears that gulp before sprinting downhill with Tor's corpse and Varúlfur.

I guess I'll have to learn to take care of a Lycanroc and one eidolon-boy now. Responsibilities, responsibilities...

*|*|*

The warm ground splits apart to reveal a burrow. Valrúlfur digs further and stops when Yuxia whistles. It's a cool, shady spot, for a shady mage, by a slanted willow tree. Rosemaries and pansies—remembrance and thoughts fitted—intertwine as they outline the hole. Some rues dapple the area, with a garland of them hanging around Yuxia's neck. Waters lick the earth in a nearby river forming a semicircle before entering a gulf.

Quivering lips part. "Valrúlfur, Sandstorm."

The Dragon Dancer kneels and places, gingerly, Tor's body into the hole. Then, she clutches the hilt of the Sword of Diamocles that's strapped to her dress and presses the blade against her forehead. When the heap of sand falls onto the body, she flattens it with a swing of the sword.

"You will forever be remembered." Yuxia heaves a long sigh. "Oh, I'll keep you away from those Ancient Savage mages. Please forgive me so."

Varúlfur swipes zir paws on the sand, the grey moustache disappearing under.

"Varúlfur, we have so much to do, but so little time left." Yuxia places a hand on her breasts as she places the blade against her forehead once more. "Rock Tomb, shall we?"

Zie bays as rocks drop to the area above Tor's head with skilled precision. Yuxia mumbles something under her breath before wielding the steel, swift cuts tangoing elegantly to form cursive words. A sword, no more than a brush, unveils calligraphy, another famed tradition the people in Ryst City treasure.

A melancholic smile surfaces.

"In the end, the means should justify the ends. Having the ends justify the means 'for the greater good' often leads to tragedy," Yuxia mumbles as she faces the sky to see a cloud passing by, shaped much like a dome.

The Spirit Lycanroc glances at her and she returns an understanding gaze.

Why are you blue though? How rare, that your fur shines in the sun. The woman muses as she rubs zir head.

"The Danse Macabre. How terrible it is to shuffle off the mortal coil, that the audience shall be influenced like so." Yuxia's head rings and she shakes the morbid sensation off.

She watches and waits as Valrúlfur waits and watches. The body does not stir, does not crack. Sighing, she puts the sword down and the Lycanroc bites the hilt.

Reminds me of Zacian, that Galarian legendary.

Two unwavering shadows still, amidst a shower of green leaves, in silence as they stare ahead at the horizon reflected in the crystal waters. The willow rustles as a gentle wind rises. The flowers stir and Varúlfur puts them in place, sniffing the aroma as he does so. The wind crawls around them like a curious spectator.

An hour passes.

Valrúlfur's yellow eyes still water. Zir grip on the now-glowing sword tightens as a faint white light enwreathes zir gradually, quietly, not a Rattata stirring. He morphs in silence.

Another hour passes.

A rue falls off the garland. Varúlfur is no longer a Spirit Lycanroc; zie becomes Zacian. The Dragon Dancer glances at zir, lowers her body and cuddles zir. Varúlfur nuzzles her in the tranquility.

Neither soul speaks or shifts till sundown.