(A tale from a less-known Pokemon-inhabited world with few if any humans and no Trainers, where fight-minded Pokemon find their own battles and the stakes can get high indeed...)

******

I took the Grand Challenge of the Living Archipelago, and lost and must pay the Forfeit.

I made my way through the tests and trials of the outer islands. They are a filter, letting through only those ready and committed. I was ready; I had prepared for a decade. And so I came to the heart island, and the battle stage where I would fight the Archipelago's Champion, the shapeshifting entity that is its truest avatar. I would descend in triumph back down the wide seaward stair, or in defeat down the narrow steps to the dark interior forest.

I was defeated. One misjudgment cost all.

In the silence of the descent I remember the noise of the first island, the hubbub and life of the port. Pokefolk of  most every species I know talking a hundred languages, Lucario among them though I met none from my small country. Some friendly sparring but little true rivalry; we were there to face the Archipelago, not each other.  And ninety-nine out of every hundred were sensible tourists, seeking only to test themselves against the lesser trials; I was one of the very few obsessed enough to risk myself, my everything against the true Challenge.

The first trials were on the minor battle-stages just above the port: simple automata of wood and stone, imitating the bodies and moves of low and mid-level fighters. Basic tests of competence, quickly passed. The gates opened and I continued into the hills.

I remember the utter silence of the hill path, and the paths of all subsequent islands. Utterly alone; nobody and nothing else in sight or sound or scent, no aura of any being except the background presence of the Archipelago itself. Tests came with little warning, almost randomly: rock slides, invisible blows, sudden hail, labyrinths, things to dodge or catch or endure. At the far end of the path, a bay and a small hut with food and bed and only the scent of past travelers for company. In the morning a small unmanned ferry that set out the moment I stepped on it, pulled by unseen power to another bay on another island, and another lonely path with deeper trials that tested both skill and soul. The day after that a third island and path; and today, the heart island and the rising stair to the battle-stage, high above the sea, where the Champion waited. I have not seen a living soul since the port, and I know now that I will never see another.

The battle with the Champion was the culmination of all my duels and matches. Every lesson learned, every insight gained in the struggle, was needed. The Champion shifted form so quickly and constantly it seemed nearer a flame or whirlwind than a solid creature. I wings, claws, eyes, teeth, each form present for a mere instant, but I cannot remember any single shape the entire being took. Such closely-matched battles are as much collaboration as conflict, two dancers desperately keeping up, constantly anticipating the other's next move. I failed because in a fatal moment I reached too far ahead, guessed wrong and fell out of step, and from then on I was on defense and losing. Minutes later the fight was done and I was on the empty stage with the single grim gate open.

At the bottom of the steps there is another path, as lonely as all before it but with no more trials. I walk with head high; despite the final defeat I have dared and achieved much, and it is no small thing to have even reached the heart of the Archipelago. I go with sadness for what might have been but few true regrets.

If I were to try and leave this path, head for the shore, could the Archipelago stop me? Could I steal a boat, or swim and ride the currents? It is an idle thought: I accepted the terms of the Challenge and will not go back on them now. I keep promises; I pay what I owe.

Beyond the forest is a grim landscape of bare rock. The Shrine of the Mouth is never drawn or described - only the Defeated see it - but there is no doubt when I come to it. The path ends at a wide pit of slate-gray sand, wetly gleaming in the light that breaks through the heavy clouds. Around it stand rough rock pillars like somber witnesses. I know what this is, and what will happen.

So I am here then, at the end of all my battles and journeys.

There is a fresh crack on one pillar, and the rock around it is darkened as if by flame. I remember a Cinderace at port, one of the few other fighters I knew to be taking the full Challenge. I imagine her standing here after the same failure, facing the same destiny, kicking a final defiant fireball to leave a last mark on the world.

I am standing at the pit's edge. I inhale, exhale. I take the first of my last steps, out on to the sand.

The Archipelago's terms were simple: *Fight me. Win, and carry my seal to mark your triumph over me. Lose and give yourself to my depths.* Some consider the Archipelago a predator creature, snaring prey by their egos. If so then I am its natural prey, fairly caught.

The wet sand quivers and gives a little underfoot, but does not immediately begin to swallow. The aura rising from it is impatient and eager, a diner holding back hunger out of etiquette. In my own aura is the calm I have taught myself to feel through all reverses and crises; and beneath that the tension, the fear and, yes, anticipation. To be engulfed and absorbed into an entity greater than the mightiest fighter: such a fate always fascinated a part of me, and I know this swayed me towards taking the Challenge. The Archipelago maybe hunts with other snares besides ego.

I take a second step, and another, moving away from the edge. The sand quakes beneath me. My instincts yell that I am on an unstable surface over a void, an untrustworthy bridge. I tell them the bridge will hold until I am where I need to be.

I know the spot just before I reach it. The sand is no different from that around it, but the aura tells me *Yes, Here, Now.* I lift my head; I straighten my back; I take the last of all my steps, on to my destination. I plant my feet together and I stand.

Above me the dark and light of the shifting clouds; around, silence and stillness. I wait like a convict on a gallows trapdoor.  A breeze comes bearing faint smells of the forest. 

The moment stretches. Nothing changes under me. Perhaps the Archipelago is granting me time for a last view and scenting of the world... but no, the impatience in the pit's aura has only sharpened. It too is waiting. Stepping in was not enough, then; some further action is needed of me, and I do not know what it is. No instructions to be seen, no message carved on the rock. I have met puzzles in my quests, faced riddles and ciphers; this does not have the feel  of any of those, and surely there can be no more tests...

I find it only as I turn inward to search my memory. A new Move, granted me without my awareness. Placed in my brain no doubt as I stepped onto the sand, too focused on my fate to notice. I have known none like it, but I understand its purpose: it is the needed action, the deed I must perform to complete the Forfeit.

And with this revelation all is clear: the Forfeit is a voluntary act.

The Archipelago cannot claim an unwilling victim; it can take us only if we give ourselves. I could choose to walk away from the pit; any of the Defeated could. And this knowledge is never passed on because none of us ever do choose to leave.

The Archipelago knows us, calls us with its Challenge and sets its paths and trials to let only us through: those combatants with the ego and obsession to wager ourselves for glory and the integrity to surrender ourselves on losing the wager. We are its true prey.

This last thought should maybe appall me. But I cannot regret the person I am, and if it has led me to become some being's meal then so be it. I keep my promises and I pay my debts.

And so I work my new Move: *Wind-Smiter uses SurrenderSink!*

And in the pit's aura I read the reply: *Archipelago uses QuickenSand!*

Move and response, but in cooperation and not in battle.

And the pit yields under me and I am sinking. My feet are engulfed, my shanks slip down. The quicksand takes my knees, pushes up against my broad thighs, closes round my thin waist. My head descends and the pit around me seems to expand as if I were truly shrinking, returning to Riolu-hood. The depths reach up in greedy joy; the sky gazes coldly down as I slip from its view. In between those immensities is me, tiny and transient and alive, my aura rising in the face of my extinction like the flame on a candle stub flaring against the coming dark.

And since I am a Lucario of ego, I prepare one last Move, a closing act of pure vanity. There is none but the sky to watch as my head goes under, as the sand rolls in over my bright shutting eyes, the tip of my up-reached muzzle, as I become a fading dimple in the center of the pit, as the surface quivers once, twice, and is still.

But many on these islands will see when a minute later the sand erupts and a tongue of blue aural flame reaches up to absurd heights, licking at the affronted clouds. The raging life energy of a drowning Lucario, given shape and focus by a disciplined soul and set free at last as the body succumbs:
*Wind-Smiter uses Artax' Revenge!*

The death beacon that rises over the mires of my home country, victims of the mud sending their last messages to the world. The meaning of the Move's name is forgotten. For all its spectacle it has no attacking force; the most delicate bug could fly through untouched. But any Lucario seeing it will read in it my name and nature, my story and my fate. And in doing so will learn all I now know of the Forfeit and the Shrine. I do not think this will trouble the Archipelago; there are no secrets here, just knowledge not previously communicated. But scholars will be pleased to record it, and storytellers spin the tale of my fall to Lucario and Riolu and any other pokefolk they can get to listen. Best, maybe, if they tell it  as a cautionary tale: I am not ashamed of my life and self, but I do not greatly wish for others to follow me into the pit.

I will not see it, but what remains of me after drowning will be satisfied as I melt and diffuse into the Archipelago's great soul.