A Ballad for Icarus - A Historical Pokemon Quest

I have most of the next update done already, just waiting for the vote results for the stuff that requires it. Thank you for reading Icarus.

Winning Vote:

[X] Awareness. The world that surrounds you is always moving. Whether they're fields of battle or people you don't understand well, you come to grasp them easier.

[X] Dream of bloodied fists.

###

His name is Zachariah— and he is brave. Braver than anyone you know. A towering dog sits at his side, sharp teeth devouring a bowl of feed as Zack— which is a name he vastly prefers— leans against the Arcanine he christened 'Kael'.

Your mother took you both to a tea party. You do not like them, though your grandmother asked you to take care of your brother, who likes them even less.

He's older than the kids you have to sit with, so he sits by himself in the garden of Count Schwan, watching the party from a distance.

"My mother bought me a carriage," one of the young nobles says, smiling into her tea. She looks eight years old, and you don't know if you're less or more mature than her considering your similar builds. You feel a pit in your stomach. Why are they all pretending to talk like adults?

"I get to pick a new partner," another says. "The previous one was not behaving properly."

'You're not lesser, Aria,' Zack had said. 'Do not let anyone treat you as if you are.'

"If they weren't behaving properly, you didn't raise them right," you say. The table grows silent, and you can see the consideration they're putting into whether they should respond to you or not. Whether you're worth it or not.

"You'd know," one of the more daring noble girls decided to rise up to the challenge. It's amazing what kind of childhood must create such expressions on faces way too young for them. She looks at you as if she stepped into something rotten. You return the glare without hesitation. "There's no need to pretend, Flamberg. Everyone knows you're not actually nobility."

"Yeah, a mistake," a boy speaks up. "A maid's child, at best. Maybe not even that."

"A peasant who gets to share our table," another girl speaks up, raising her face. "And insults us? Isn't that strange?"

"Mother says you're clearly not the child of Marquess Flamberg." Their faces blur together, you can't even tell anymore who's saying what. They're all the same, they're all the same. "She calls you a mongrel, because that's what you are."

You know for a fact that the boy who said this didn't know what a mongrel was.

But you do. It's not a word you've heard for the first time.

"You don't look like them at all," one says, reaching out and grabbing your hair. "Look at it, your hair is all wrong, and no noble family has skin like yours in Gildera."

You hiss, not in pain but in frustration. Your fists clench into the skirt of the stupid dress they've made you wear, ripping off those stupid flowers they stuck on it, losing those stupid gemstones they put in those flowers.


You run a quick calculation in your mind. The cost might not be worth the joy that punching someone's nose bloody can bring you.

Fortunately, and unfortunately, you don't need to carry that cost today.

He descended on them like an angry god. Zack appeared next to you so fast he must have sensed something was about to happen. His fist smacks the boy that was pulling on your hair, and you almost feel bad for him. The situation explodes immediately, with more and more of the kids joining in the fist fight.

It takes only a minute for the adults to notice the noise and break it up. It takes only ten minutes for your mother to force you and Zack to stand in front of the hosts and apologize. While she's buttering them up, you stand at the side and try to calm him down.

"I'm not sorry," Zack says. You shake your head.

"You don't have to be," you whisper. "They just need to hear the words to save face."

You hate politics. You hate etiquette. You hate formality.

But somehow despite being younger, the disposition for those things lies with you, and not your brother who is glaring up at the Countess who is waiting for him to apologize.

"Then I'm sorry," he says, clearly frustrated. Your mother can sense it, as can you, but it's too late to stop him. "I'm sorry our gracious hosts are so incapable at picking their guests that I had to intervene."

"Zachariah," your mother says. You can see the anger in her eyes. You already know the trouble that will spill from that fury when you're back home. "Behave, or you will be punished."

"If there's any honor left in the family, you shouldn't make me apologize either," he says, committing the worst sin of the day. One does not talk back to the Marchioness Flamberg. That is a lesson you've had to learn yourself. "Your daughter was called a mongrel by this woman's guests."

The Countess turned bright red. You know for certain that she's used the same word to refer to you before, two of her own children were getting their asses kicked by Zack as well after all.

"Go to the carriage," your mother says, her voice low. He does, with a skip in his step as if what is to come is so minor compared to the apology that she wanted to force out of him. "Aria."

"Yes," you say, grabbing your skirt and bowing with the practiced perfection of a true blue blood. Out of the corner of your eye you can see your mother's scrutinizing gaze— whether your bow is up to her standards or not. "I apologize for the scene, sir. I understand that no harm was meant by the other children."

Madam, after all, and not my lady. Though the woman is a Countess and you hold no title, the Marquess' daughter may offer an apology but not the respect that the Countess so desperately wants.

Politics. Etiquette. Formality.

May the Skywrath Sovereign cast aside the clouds and burn the kingdom to cinders. Perhaps in those ashes people will live as people, and not as slaves to blood.

Your mother bids the Countess farewell.

The way home is spent in uncomfortable silence. Rather than wait in the carriage, Zack went ahead on Kael.

ARIA. WAKE UP.

You sit in that room. The one you usually hide in when you don't feel like facing your family. The maids know you're here, but don't tell on you. They're the only people you can trust now that she's gone.

You know that someone's outside the door. Someone tall and proud and strong, moving with purpose.

Zack walks in, trying and failing to hide his hands. Some nobles punish others by hitting their legs, or backs, where nobody can see. The Marchioness Flamberg, however, always prefers the hands.

A scarred hand is proof of hard work. Her words still ring in your ears whenever you look at the calluses. You miss your grandmother. You never had to deal with punishment until she passed.

He's taller than most boys his age, his hair is dark red, clashing with his pale skin that looks so different from yours. His eyes are sharp and dark, reminding you of an early night in autumn. This is Zack, and he will always be by your side.

"Zack," you call out. He sits down next to you, once again trying and failing to hide his hands between his legs as he pulls his knees up to his face.

"I'm sorry," he says. Your fists clench at your sides. "I should have just apologized, I know."

"No," you say, shaking your head. "Though you spoke out of turn, you were right. And even if you weren't, you did it to defend me."

"I don't understand you sometimes," he says. "You're not so weak you can't fight back."

Back when your grandmother was still around, you could join Zack in his training. Though you were still too young to really hold a sword, there were other weapons you found interesting and useful. Then—

—then she was gone, and your mother decided to fix you. To make sure you can be a proper noble lady.

"Sometimes fighting back makes things worse," you say, wrapping your arms around yourself. You can't look him in the eyes. "But not every punishment is just."

You reach out, grabbing his arm. He doesn't resist when you reveal his injured hands. You reach behind you, grabbing a box of medical supplies.

"And even if I want to get upset, it's still true, isn't it?" you say, frowning. "That I'm not your sister, that your parents are not my parents."

"You can't let their words bother you," he says. "Whether truth or lie, Aria. Whether we share blood or not. You're my sister, and that's all that matters."

You hold up the bandages, and he reaches out to let you start treating his hands. They're bruised, broken skin leaking bits of bright red blood. It looks just like anyone else's blood, it does not run blue or green or any other of the colors you can see in the world.

He doesn't cry. So you do it for the both of you.

Kael nuzzles your cheek, trying to dry the tears off them. You try to smile, and fail miserably. Your brother's partner is always around, never in his Pokeball. Your own Growlithe is very cowardly in comparison, avoiding other people and only coming out when you're alone. You named her— something. Your lips move, but your voice does not call it.

Mother does not let you take her with you when you leave the estate.

In a lot of ways, you wish you could be like him and his Kael. You wish you could be as strong as him, as brave as him, as knowledgeable as him. If you were, the etiquette teacher would stop beating your hands with her whip. You would no longer be afraid of other people's words. You could defend yourself when the worst came to worse.

Growlithe is your partner that your family chose for you. The Flambergs are premier experts of the Arcanine line, carrying one on their emblem and using those who have died of old age for furs that show their status as Flambergs.

To you, that fur represents something else. It is much more important to you: It represents…

[ ] …your rebellion.
Your mother's cruelty has only grown with your father's apathy. Your grandmother was the last bastion that held this family together, and now you have only Zack to rely on.

[ ] …your love.
You're not indifferent to the world, you simply can't put your emotions to words. You're full of love, and you will carry it forward.

[ ] … your hope.
It is with your head held high that you accept the lot you've been dealt with in life. Your grandmother's wisdom will follow you and you will never be truly alone.

WAKE UP.

###

Though you've succeeded in rescuing one Tediursa, the poachers had been active for a while before the knights were called. The situation is not so easily resolved, however. The knights will continue to patrol, hoping to find what poachers haven't left the forests yet and rescuing any Tediursa that haven't been shipped.

Unfortunately for you, you're out of commission. Your group is sent back and the juniors will clean up the rest of the situation by themselves. While Lissy seems slightly frustrated at not getting to have her own fight, the state of you makes her hesitant to voice it.

You try not to pull away from her hand when she wraps it around yours. The carriage back home is a bumpy ride; she is just helping you stay steady. You barely hear the conversation between her and Ruby, who has definitely cried when they heard you fell off the cliff, and then cried even harder when you returned bloodied.

Skiddle is refusing to stay in her Pokeball, instead occupying almost the entire space in the middle of the carriage in an attempt to keep anything that's not Lissy or Ruby away from you.

"Who's Zack?"

The question hits you much harder than the poacher's fist. It hits you even worse when the voice isn't Lissy's, but Ruby's.

You open your mouth to lie, and somehow it feels much easier not to. "My brother."

"You have a brother?" Lissy asks, tilting her head. You frown.

"Had," you say. Lissy matches your expression before her eyes move away from yours, mumbling an apology. "It's fine, it… it doesn't hurt as much as I thought to hear that name anymore."

"You were muttering it in your sleep," Ruby says, their own hand on your arm. The carriage shakes, and you wince for a moment. Raymond shouts an apology. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

You want to agree. That you have to talk about this with Capella first, to clear up the lie and admit something you never wanted to admit. Something that you can now do in that warmth that surrounds you, from beautiful fur and leaves, from hands that grip you so gently that you feel everything has been worth it.

You don't know how honest you can be, but you want to give it a try.

"Back before Drake found me, my brother and I were escaping from our family," you say. Escaping. It feels inappropriate and small considering how young you were when you took that endeavor. Ten years old, and he was barely older. "My grandmother kept watch over me, but the second she passed away, things took a turn for the worse."

"That can't have been easy," Ruby says. In the darkness of the carriage under a star-lit sky, their eyes have stopped reflecting the light. "Family is important, but… not all families treat each other well."

"I never knew my folks," Lissy says. You know what she's trying to do and you appreciate the effort. To find some common ground and empathy, shared experiences are the most important thing, but there is also sadness in not having anyone to rely on. "The orphanage I grew up in was run by some decent clergy, but few people got adopted and most just grew up enough to leave."

That does sound like something you'd love to hear more about, and yet somehow you don't have the energy to listen. Most orphanages are run by nobles, it is part of their noblesse oblige; lately there have been some pushes to make higher education more accessible to those with fewer funds to further improve the lives of people.

The Gilderan church is not a monolith in the country. Faith overlaps here and there, though you know little about what gods are the subjects of their worship. You know the names of many, but only inasmuch as they appear in historical accounts in Ancient Elysium.

"Drake found me in the woods," you say, trying to form into words what thoughts sit in your heart. "My family probably assumes I've died, so I decided to let them think that. Now, I'm just Aria."

"Yeah, well," Lissy says, her hand moving from your fingers to your shoulder. "Nobles are a bunch of stuck up assholes anyway. No need to mourn them."

"I didn't say I was a noble," you say. She shrugs.

"You didn't need to," she says. Lissy's voice is as soft as the morning breeze. You didn't think she'd be capable of speaking so gently. "But we all got our own circumstances, so who the fuck cares where you came from, right?"

Capella cares. Because Capella has even stronger opinions on nobility than you do, though you were the one who had to suffer them as family.

"You're right," you say. You're by far not the first noble that joined the Order. Besides Adrian, there are dozens of those from big families that seek glory in the sword, instead of trying to fight for positions in their estates. "If you're going to continue being this insightful, we'll have to tell Silvia."

"You wouldn't dare," she says, hissing through grit teeth. There's no fire in her eyes, but you can tell she welcomes the distraction. "It's enough she's gonna have me take etiquette lessons—"

You flinch. Your knuckles sting. She stops speaking so abruptly that even Skiddle startles at the sudden silence.

"Are you alright?" Ruby asks. You nod, then shake your head, then nod again.

"I don't know," you say. Hazy dreams, strange memories that resurface at the slightest word. You feel… vulnerable. In a way you have not felt vulnerable in a long time, that the injuries and adrenaline that shot through you woke something up that you've been trying to keep asleep. You're too tired to fall asleep again. You're too aware of everything to really pay attention. "Next time we meet a poacher, you get to kick his ass. Deal?"

Lissy smiles, her hand squeezing your shoulder. "Deal."

You have forged a great bond with new friends and comrades-in-arms. Lissy and Ruby trust you, and you trust them in return. You would ask questions about human nature, why is it so easy to talk to people you barely know about such heavy topics, when your tongue is always tied as you speak to those you trust the most— but why does everything have to mean something?

You are Aria.

And you are surrounded by warmth and friendship.

###

Capella says nothing at first when she sees you on the bed in the medical wing. She just sits down, keeping watch with her back so rigid against the chair she could be a statue. Most of your injuries look brutal, but are nothing that a few weeks of rest won't fix. You don't know if you have weeks. Your trial is soon. Drake will be disappointed if you're not ready by then.

Lissy and Ruby have spent most of the day with you here though they left the moment Capella arrived. You promised that you'd go find them the second you get the permission to leave, but you don't know when that will be.

The way Capella's eyes grew distant as she and Lissy glared at each other made you feel sick. As if there was some blame to be assigned here. As if you don't have the agency to pick a fight by yourself.

At least if nothing else—Silvia's commendation for your actions have almost surpassed the amount of scolding she gave you.

A Chansey is walking up and down the room and checking all the beds for some reason. You don't know why, somehow you're the only person in the—admittedly less-than-usually populated—Caer that has any serious injuries right now.

Your thoughts trail off when Capella's arms wrap around you.

"You could have died," she says. She sounds so full of warmth that it's easy to forget just how cold and distant she usually is.

"But I didn't," you counter. Her grip tightens. You do not have the energy to tell her that she is hurting you. "Capella, I'm fine."

"You could have died," she says again, "and I wasn't there to keep you safe. The last time we spoke I—"

"It's alright." The words cut your tongue on the way out. Skiddle's Pokeball wiggles on the table, though she stays in. You think back to your brother's words. To one of this many lessons. It feels like a haze over your eyes has been lifted. You push her away, giving you some space on the bed again. The medicines are very good at making you sleepy but very bad at keeping the pain out.

▃▄▄▅— never let anyone treat you as a lesser being.

You know it isn't alright. Not to her, and it's not fair to you either. Lately, your relationship has been very one-sided and you don't think so little of yourself that you can't see how inappropriate Capella's reaction was. But that's kind of the problem here, isn't it?

Despite knowing this, somehow you still don't want to disappoint her. Somehow you still want to give the right response to see her light up.

A person can only bear the lash so long in silence.

You expect her to say something again, but somehow your insistence gets to her. She accepts it wordlessly, and you want to accept that this is the end of it. It gnaws at you, numerous teeth digging into your cranium and finding that one thought to dig up, that Capella is happy as long as you rely on her and tell her that she can continue to treat you as you she's always done.

"I don't need you to keep me safe," you say, sitting up from the bed. Some movement has been recommended, most of your injuries aren't so serious that you have to stay lying down the entire day. It's just your foot, but the wooden crutch next to you will take care of that. "And I don't need you fussing over me because of something like this."

Now you know you're saying the wrong thing. You know you're provoking the fight. And that's the kind of thing that meeting other people shows you.

She opens her mouth, poison on the tip of her tongue, and you brace yourself.

"You're right," she says. For a moment, you breathe in relief. In the next—"You clearly don't need me to fuss."

You sigh, wincing in pain as your body moves with the motion.

"You just hear what you want to hear," you say, pressing your finger into her collarbone. "All you're doing, at all times, is police how I speak. With whom I speak. I'm your friend, Capella, your best friend. I'm not your doll."

She whispers something so low you can't hear it despite how close you are. She reaches up and grabs your finger, at least careful enough not to put pressure on the bandaged knuckles as she pushes it away softly.

"I'm all you have, you ungrateful—"

"You're not," you say. And there is the line that you never wanted to draw. Capella is cold, her fingers feel like life is drawn from whatever she touches. Her eyes are wide open, and you can see for the first time in a long time that she truly understands what you're saying. "You're not all I have, Capella. And I am not all you have. We are not joined at the hip, we do not share a heartbeat, and before we ever met you and I were completely different people that ran into each other through circumstances beyond our control."

You try to take a breath, try to break up what you're saying in pieces she can digest, but you can't. There's no way to stop your mouth from moving when you finally have her ear for the first time in so long.

"Every moment with you used to be joyful. Every day you were what I needed, and I thought you needed me too. And you do, but not in the way I need you. You don't own me, that is not what friendship means, what our friendship means."

That is the truth.

You know because it hurts.

"One day you lie to me to spare my feelings," she says, "and today you can't help but tell the truth."

She tries to stand, but her legs give out as if the world under her feet has just disappeared. She falls back into the chair next to your bed, wooden legs scraping against a stone floor and creaking so loud that Chansey turns to look at you for a moment before continuing with her work.

"This is the part where you apologize," she says. You don't know if she's serious. For once, with a full view of her face, you cannot say if her words are truthful or not. For what? You want to ask and without even hearing your question she answers: "For lying. And for telling the truth."

"I'm sorry," you say, and you mean it. The words come from so deep in your gut it feels like you've never been more honest in your life. "For lying, and for telling the truth. But I can't apologize for not being the person you want me to be, Capella."

"You can," she says, tears in her eyes as she lets go of your finger. You haven't even noticed she was still holding it, her cold skin numbing it to the point that it feels uncomfortable to move. "You'd just have to lie again."

"I can't lie for you, either." You can only lie for yourself. You can only draw lines in the sand for yourself. You speak up again, trying to clarify. "Because I don't want you to keep away from other people, because I don't want to be enough for you."

Capella's isolation is a choice. A grave she has been digging for herself, and you can't say if it's Skiddle's presence by itself or simply the fact that you were forced to interact with other aspirants for your training outside of the occasional spar for once that has taught you this. You find yourself wanting more.

"Why can't you be content?" Capella asks, her hands are folded together in front of her chest. "I don't want anyone but you, Aria. You're the one I—-I—l—"

Whatever words are about to spill from her mouth, what unreadable emotions are hiding behind those eyes, they all fall apart when the door to the infirmary blows open.

"Aria," Drake calls out, walking into the room with quick steps. He looks unhappy, and maybe even older though it has only been a few weeks since you've last seen him. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," you say, turning to him. Capella is frozen in the chair, pale and wide-eyed still. She looks like a doll, more so than usual. "Just a few injuries in the line of duty."


"You look like a Tauros ran you over, girl," Drake says. He raises his hands, one touching down on your hair and the other on Capella's. You try not to lean into the familiar feeling, that moment where he once again treats you like a child instead of the young woman you've become.

Though maybe for a minute, it's not too bad to indulge. It's simply… part of the recovery, if nothing else.

He smells like a campfire.

"I have to go," Capella says, finally finding the strength to move out of the chair. Her movement is too quick, and she stumbles for a moment on the way out, then nearly runs Chansey over. Drake follows her quick escape with slight confusion.

"Is everything alright with her?" he asks. You shrug. It's not a topic you want to discuss with him, though he might be the only person who truly understands. This is not something you want a mediation on, or some sort of advice.

You are Aria.

And Capella is your friend.

Or maybe she was. You don't know anymore; today you pushed every button you could. Sure, it was for a purpose, but does that really make it right? Is it truly your job to fix whatever is wrong with this friendship?

Is it your job to fix Capella? Is she even in need of fixing?

You want to say it is you who is wrong here, but even the friendship in its infancy that you've built with Lissy and Ruby is much more healthy and rather than wanting to replace her, you want that kind of friendship with Capella instead.

One where you can take a few days of distance and not feel like you've been thrown into a pit.

You take a deep breath. Count, one, two, three, four—

"Aria," Drake speaks up. His voice is like gravel, and his shoulders sag a little as if the weight of his world is settling on his shoulders. "You are… alive, I see."

"Yes," you say, your voice dry. You can't help but crack a smile. It's so easy to forget your troubles when you can talk with Drake for longer than two sentences during a day. "Though the poacher was quite willing to fight me, we both didn't want to kill each other."
"Could have fooled me," he mutters. He shakes his head. "Nevermind that, I'm not asking for a mission report. I'm asking about you, Aria."

You open your mouth to say you're fine again, but you can't.

You try, once more, then twice more, then your teeth clench and you sigh out of your nose.

"Drake," you say, your voice small enough to hide behind a Smoliv. "If I said I wasn't… fine, you know, would you be disappointed?"

"No matter what, there is nothing you could ever do that disappoints me, Aria."

You wipe your arm over your eyes, ignoring the way the bruises stung.

"It really hurt," you say, looking up at him. Your vision blurs slightly. He sits down in the chair, allowing you to stop straining your neck. "Fighting someone, taking hits like that, hitting him in return. It really hurt."

"Yes," he says, his hand once again coming up to your hair and patting it down. He doesn't give any advice or wisdom. He doesn't try to console you with empty words or platitudes. All he does is lend you his ear, and somehow it feels like you can paint a picture of the divide between you and Capella. If you ever admitted to pain in front of her, what kind of expression would she make?

What kind of excuse to keep you in her sight?

"I don't want to hurt people," you admit, holding your hands up. The bandages are stained in a dark brown liquid, something to aid the healing. It smells like rotten berries and volcanic ash. "But I had to, so I could help that Tediursa. So I could help the villagers."

"In sixty-three years," Drake says, his hands coming up to meet yours. They are cold, but not in the way that Capella's are. "I have learned much about human nature. Nobody likes to hurt people, Aria. That you don't like to do it doesn't make you a bad knight, it makes you a good person."

You wish you could take that at face value.

You know for a fact that there are a good amount of people who do enjoy hurting others. If everyone was a good person, knights would be keepers of nature, and not of peace.

"Do you want to stop here?" he asks.

"No," you say so fast that he can't even follow up. You squeeze his hands. "I don't know if I can give the same answer in a year or two, if I will still be the same person I am now when I have another ten or twenty or a hundred fights. But right now, I want to make you proud. I want to become a knight of the Order."

"You've already made me proud, Aria." Drake smiles, and you find yourself smiling back. "Whether you're a knight or a merchant, whether you decide to live as a farmer or make your money by raising Pokemon instead. There's no shame in being who you are."

He's always been encouraging. That's why you get along with him so easily. Why everyone gets along with him so easily.

"Sir," you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. "What about my trial?"

"It won't be delayed," he says. Your heart drops into your stomach. "But I'll still give it to you. It's not a task that will require you to fight, after all. You can ride it out on your dear Skiddle, or perhaps you can find yourself a carriage."

Suddenly, it stops sounding so urgent. So secretive. And you can't help but ask him the question that's been burning on your mind since that lesson.

"Why do I know what my trial is?" you ask. He blinks. "I thought we weren't supposed to know anything about it until that day. You already told me I have to deliver an important letter.

"Ah," he says, letting go of your hands and crossing his arms. "Is that so? I admit, I've never been the sponsor for an aspirant before, so I didn't know."

You blink. He tilts his head to the side. He can't be serious, surely. There's no way he'd make such a simple mistake, right?

This is Drake, after all. The man who once commanded ten-thousand and fought back an Imperial prince deep in Empire territory. They say the wounds of that battle still mark the hills that used to be called Kael's Stand.

While it's not a victory so impressive it would change the name of that place for the Solians, 'Dragon Scar' is a very famous landmark for Gilderans traveling east.

"Well," he says, laughing it off. "It doesn't matter either way. Next week, you'll meet me at the cabin, right?"

"I will," you say, your hands clenching into fists in your lap. "There's nothing right now that I want more."

"Then keep something in mind, Aria," he says. His finger comes up to your sleeve, tracing a line over it. "What makes you a knight is not some stripe on your uniform, or some strange ritual and tradition. Duke van Kesteren can have his demands, he can have his expectations, but in the end, what matters most is faith in your heart. Faith in yourself and in your cause."

"I want to be a knight, Drake," you say, your voice low. "I deal with chivalry, not faith."

"If you have hope, and love, and faith," Drake says, a smile dancing on his lips that refuses to reach his eyes, making you feel a chill over your back. "As long as you have courage, power, and wisdom, no one can deny your purpose. Even if you're not at the Order, even if there is a path that you follow leading away from the Caer and the hoof on your clothes. You are a knight in my heart, one of the best we've ever raised."

You wipe your arm over your eyes again.

###

You're recovering faster than the doctor expected you to. You can't participate in training yet, but you can walk around with your crutch and don't have to stay at the infirmary the entire time.

So right now, you're going to be stuck entertaining yourself. Skiddle is at your side, constantly walking at a slow pace near your bad leg in case you trip and fall. You've done so only once or twice, but it seems like she'll always be there to catch you.

So who's going to be your anodyne for boredom?

[ ] Capella.
Of course, considering your argument with Capella escalating whenever you meet there's no shame in choosing to avoid that confrontation until you pass your trial. You can talk to her after everything, right?

[ ] Lissy and Silvia. Lissy's trial is a few days before yours, due to the overlap it's likely you won't meet again until you both are officially junior knights of the Order. This might be the last chance to see her before she becomes even more arrogant.

[ ] Ruby and Redwood. You try not to think about how ironic the combination is, but the Mountain Villager and the Red Bear make for quite a pair. Ruby's trial is set before yours, so this might be the last chance to see them for a while.