Chapter Text
The jagged rock cut into the bleak grey mist, a thin red and white striped tower emerging above the waves. A beam of light passed overhead in its watchful vigil as a wailord’s mournful siren echoed from below off the hull of Larry’s dingy. His oars scythed through the choppy water with a consistent, endless rhythm. Larry breathed in deeply of the cold, salty air and outstretched his hand as Staraptor swooped down from the overcast skies to land on his forearm.
Water beaded on Larry’s midnight blue overcoat as he approached the isolated lighthouse. While he would walk along the peninsula to reach town later, he always approached by sea for the first trip out. His traveling luggage was light enough that he could carry it along the narrow footpath, yes, but it was tradition. Every time he’d visited the Faro de los Huesos he’d put oar to water to view the light from the sea.
He puffed air out to push a stray lock of wet hair out of his face and turned back to his task. His coat was buttoned all the way, turning the lapels and collar into protection for his neck and lower face. He had temporarily traded his Elite Four gloved for waterproof leather at the start of his journey to the coast two days ago: they would simply not survive the realities of winter maritime life. And besides, he was on vacation.
Larry rowed on, watching the coastal town he’d left an hour ago grow smaller in his vision. Staraptor ate a fish on the prow of the dingy and let out a screech as they neared the lighthouse’s small dock.
Larry moored the craft and stepped ashore. The lighthouse hadn’t changed a bit in the last year, its small cottage weather-beaten but sturdy. A fresh coat of paint adorned the exterior of the tower, just as it did every time he came to stay. Larry observed his surroundings and silently set his waxed canvas bag down on a tarp-covered crate next to the dock. He undid the high button on his coat, pulling the collar down to turn it into lapels once more, revealing a deep red turtleneck sweater, its color identical to the lighthouse’s stripe.
Larry released both of his teams and they stood together, looking upwards at the lighthouse. He bowed deeply, fully inhaling the salty air into his lungs. The Pokémon bowed as well, except Komala, who snored softly from the back of his Altaria. A wailord’s call echoed off of the rocks as it sprayed water in greeting to the returning keeper and his crew.
Larry closed his eyes. It had been too long. He’d done this for years, taking over the lighthouse from an old family friend to give them a vacation. The lighthouse was old but solid, sturdy in its tradition and foundations. It had weathered more storms than any other in the area, predating the Paldean government by a few centuries. It was not a big lighthouse, all things considered, with not enough large scale shipping nearby to justify its renovations.
But for the people of the small coastal town, it was the keeper of their souls. Larry knew many of the fishing crews in the area, and they knew him. All the local boats depended on the beckoning light the Faro de los Heusos cast out to the choppy, foggy sea. The bay could not sustain a fishery without it, so intense and unpredictable were the storms. This was a land that felt every bit as removed from the hustle and bustle of inland Paldea as the three plane rides, two train trips, and long work truck ride he’d taken to get here suggested.
Larry smiled and turned immediately to work. This would be no picturesque fortnight at the seaside like Hassel had imagined. Larry would not have the time or energy to spend all day painting, reading, or writing as the other Elite Four member had waxed on about. True, Larry had brought a ledger of finances from the League to comb over in the evening hours on clear nights, but even that relaxing would be inconsistent. Rika had questioned him bringing it, eyeing him suspiciously as she handed over the full records she’d managed to get her hands on for him.
“You’re not going to spend your whole vacation looking at this, are you?” She had asked him.
“Of course not.” Larry had somewhat fibbed as he set it next to his open itinerary, written in what he privately considered a casual, fun, and relaxed deep grey ink.
Rika had whistled softly when she saw his tickets. “That’s a long journey. Staying at a scenic bed and breakfast?”
Larry avoided a direct answer. “An old lighthouse. Very quiet: no children, students, streamers, trainers, or gym challengers.”
He was correct on most of those accounts. Even now the wind echoed loudly off of the craggy shore, whipping the small checkered flag hanging from the cottage back and forth. It had to be replaced every few months, retired from the wind. There was a trunk in the basement with hundreds, all of them weatherbeaten and time worn.
The journey to the lighthouse had given Larry too much thinking time. A flight delay meant he had sat on the tarmac for over an hour, waiting to take off. He had, blissfully, turned his phone off and planned to keep it off for the remainder of the trip. If anyone needed to contact him, he’d given the phone number of the local tavern keeper to Hassel, under strict order to only call in an emergency.
Larry met his family friend at the base of the tower, where she stood atop the landing in front of the door. Marta was as solid and unmoving as the lighthouse itself. She’d been a strict disciplinarian when Larry visited as a child, but Marta was protective and calm. Today, she traded her yellow overcoat for a bright pink wind cape, embroidered with a design Larry was certain his grandmother had made.
Marta bowed formally and turned to pick up her luggage: an oiled leather duffel bag and a set of snow skis. Neither of them spoke at first. As Larry bowed back, Marta ruffled his hair the way she had years ago, when he’d arrived, teary eyed and shivering, for the first trip to the lighthouse after his parents died. She now said the same words she’d said that day:
“You look tired, little one. The stew is ready inside. There is work for tomorrow, tonight you should rest.”
Larry, a full foot taller than her, felt his mind drift back through the years. He nodded.
“Enjoy your vacation. The slopes are in good condition. I have a friend who checked them before I left.” He hadn’t meant to say friend, but Grusha wasn’t there to hear him, so it was okay.
Marta nodded back, waved to Staraptor overhead, and started down the path that led to town along the narrow peninsula. She was not used to small talk, which suited Larry just fine.
He ate two helpings of soup, unpacked his bag, and got to work. The oil had to be hauled up the steps; he prepared the light and checked the windows for leaks. It was in perfect shape, if old and time worn. He did his rounds anyway, knowing nothing would be amiss. Marta wouldn’t have left problems. He continued working, his mind too focused to wander.
The first day always wore him out beyond description. He awoke early the following morning. After his rounds, he stood atop the lighthouse with a pair of binoculars, sweeping the horizon.
He fell into his old routines, working day and night, resting briefly when necessary. He ate warm stew and crusty bread, staring at ledgers via candlelight. Three blissful days passed in this manner, with only two storms to keep watch during.
He guided a dozen fishing boats, and one very confused Avalugg, to safety during that second storm. The winds had been fierce, but no more so than was to be expected. The sea provided life to the small town in the bay, but it gave no discounts or easy hauls to the people on the water. It was dangerous, treacherous work, only possible because of the serious, tired looking man who stood atop the tower even through the worst of the storms.
On the fourth day he stood atop the lighthouse again. It was an uncharacteristically clear and calm day. Larry could even hear the sounds of the sailors working the docks several miles away. He gazed out to sea, making note of distant clouds. He closed his eyes, feeling the wind gently blow his hair around. No children, students, streamers, trainers, or gym challengers. He began to smile, leaning against the railing and beginning to relax.
A child’s laughter rippled across the air. Larry squeezed his eyes shut harder, telling himself he was imagining it. A giggle assaulted his eardrums. He opened his eyes slowly, turning to face the peninsula.
Three figures stood halfway up the coast. One was small, but their forms were obscured by distance. Larry raised binoculars to his eyes. He groaned, pressing them so hard into his face they left rings, desperately hoping he was dreaming.
Poppy stood along the shore, trying to skip rocks into the water. Rika wore a sleek black raincoat like a cape, her hands resting on her suspenders. Hassel spun around in circles, gazing in awe at the landscape. Larry could hear his voice now, too.
He sank slowly to the floor of the observation deck.
“Ughhhhh.” He let out another groan pitifully, still looking through the binoculars.
His three coworkers turned at the sound, carried by the wind. Poppy waved towards the lighthouse. Hassel pulled a small telescope from his puffy orange coat and grinned at Larry as he focused it.
Larry wished he couldn’t read lips. “Larry! We’re here! We’ve come to the seaside to paint and commune with the water with you! What a marvelous idea!”
Larry sank further onto the floor and stared at the sky.