I Decided To Live Forever Just In Case She Ever Woke Up [PKMN X THE LOCKED TOMB]

There is no me without you. - Part 1

And now for something completely different. You would not believe how well team plasma fits in the tlt setting. anachronistic renaissance aesthetic... backstabbing... fusion... wizards... vaguely implied misogyny that may or may not have been intentional but either way n has two older sisters and i want to know what the fuck their deal was. anyway. The opportunity to actually write this came up during whumptober for the prompts "obsession" and "painful hug". N and Hilda are NOT actually dead (well, N is, but given it's a TLT au, that doesn't mean much).

Originally published as there is no me without you on Archive of Our Own, 8/10/2024.

Takes place long after the other parts in a completely different setting. 

Content warnings for canon-typical child abuse, presumed character death, brief allusions to alcoholism and TLT-typical eugenics. 
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The Hero of Truth stood kneeling in the centre of the courtyard. Across her body rested a marble replica of her sword, Reshiram, held loosely in her hands. She gazed towards the sky, her stone face captured in a gentle yearning. One could imagine, if they waited long enough, that the statue would eventually begin to breathe.

The real sword, as white as its marble clone, had rested below the statue on a pillow made of stone while it waited for a hero worthy of its power. As a child Concordia imagined herself as the old Hero's successor, ghosting her small hands across Reshiram's flamelike hilt to feel its warmth, picturing how it would feel in her hand - would it be heavy, like the steel greatswords that matched it in size, or weightless in the hands of its chosen? Would still it be warm when she wielded it, or would it shield its Hero from harm?

She had known from the moment Natural was put in her care that she would be his cavalier some day. Ghetsis had teased it to her when she was little, the idea that she would graduate from lady-in-waiting to cavalier when N was old enough to rule on his own. But that was a pretty lie, set up to string her along and keep her under her father's thumb. It was never a part of the plan to let N rule by himself, or to let Concordia be his cavalier.

But the sword and N were both gone, now, taken away by that unworthy squire. Reshiram's final resting place was with that girl, at the bottom of a chasm on a long-dead planet, and now the stone pillow at the foot of the Hero's statue was empty and cold. If it had been Concordia there instead of Hilda, would N still be alive?

The murder of the Crown Prince and Cavalier Secondary had sent the court into devastation. Ghetsis was unable to rule without a proxy, and N had no heirs; Anthea and Concordia were too old and knew their father too well to be groomed the way he had N. Knowing their father, he had some poor lamb lined up to be his next puppet. Concordia did not envy them.

Footsteps on the courtyard's tiles snapped Concordia to attention. She knew it wasn't Ghetsis; his cane would have betrayed him. But still, her stomach twisted in anticipation. It was some relief to see neither the man who had adopted her, nor any of the castle's awful advisors or retainers, but the one denizen of Plasma Castle that Concordia could trust.

Anthea seemed a portrait of misery. Her skin was sallow, and her eyes were dull. Her rose hair hung stringily down her back. With one hand, a black shawl was pulled around her shoulders.

She approached Concordia. Wordlessly, she knelt next to her and set a hand on her back. "Have you been to see him?" she asked, her soft voice barely above a whisper.

Somewhat. Concordia had stood in the door of the mausoleum and looked at the still body of her little brother and bolted, unable to bear it. It wasn't N. Not in any way that mattered.

She bit her tongue. It was an answer enough for Anthea, who wrapped her free arm around her waist and rested her head on her back. For a while they sat together, a stilted parody of intimacy.

How many times had they, as children, gotten hurt, and Anthea had come to the rescue? Ghetsis had not wanted strange adults around N, not those who might raise an alarm to the way he was treated. Small injuries were passed on to Anthea; scraped knees, skin pinched in the joints of a toy, a bone popped out of its socket from a bad fall. At a point she began to care for the injuries Concordia would acquire from sword training, to slow the flow of information back to Ghetsis, when they realised he would find a way to use it against them. Concordia often wondered if Anthea's skill with the body extended to necromantic aptitude, but she never pressed her on it. They did not admit their secrets openly, not where the walls had eyes and ears.

Anthea could sew flesh back together or relocate a shoulder with ease, but she couldn't hope to soothe this dull emptiness. She couldn't bring their brother back to life.

"Concordia," she mumbled, but did not continue. Instead she ran gentle fingers over her braid.

"Father is looking to replace Alder," Anthea slowly continued. "Since he and the intended replacement for his role are still missing. The current favourite is Cheren, that boy from the seaside town."

The third runner-up of the tournament, a boy of around six- or seventeen, he had come in from the same town as Hilda. She defeated him in the quarter-final round. Hilda had been appointed N's cavalier, and likewise Cavalier Secondary until he succeeded the throne, and Iris set to take over from Alder when he inevitably died from alcohol poisoning, but there was no immediate vacancy for the third to fill and Concordia had hardly seen him around the castle since. Since their last Cavalier Primary and his protegee had 'gone missing' - fled , more likely - and Hilda wasn't there to be re-sworn as the cavalier of whichever secret lovechild their father planned on debuting, there was finally a use for him.

It dawned on her then that this was her chance to take the role she had long coveted. Cheren wasn't the first choice. He wasn't even the second choice, and for God's sake she was literally born for this. She returned her gaze to the Hero, her eyes ever skyward.

"Connie," Anthea breathed sharply, and angled Concordia's face so they were facing each other, so they could both see each other's exhausted, tear-stricken faces. "I'm asking you not to do something you'll regret."

"Regret?" Her voice cracked, her long-dry tears threatening to resurface. "Don't speak to me of regret, Anthea. I stood aside for fourteen years in the hopes I would become N's cavalier, and now he is dead. What more could I regret?"

Anthea looked at her the way she would a battered Lilipup. She reached out a hand for Concordia's face. She pushed it away. "Don't-" she began, but Concordia would not hear it, would not bear to let her sister coddle her like some fragile thing.

"If you want something to baby, go to the pokémon nursery," she snapped, pushing Anthea off her and standing, brushing out her skirts. She spared a glance to the Hero of Truth - beautiful, serene, saviour of her king - then turned on her heel and left her sister in a crumpled heap on the marble tiles.