TRIAL OF CLAY: VERAI

There was, at once, nothing. He was at a river, endlessly long and frighteningly wide. It rushed, edging near-white, foaming and frothing in its drive. But there was nothing else. The sky was nondescript, neither blue nor grey nor haunting twilight. The silt in which he stood was simply despair, neither true brown or clay nor ashen. The only sound was the cry of the river, and the dull heartbeat that thrummed up from his legs, from the earth itself.

And a single, panicked, choked cry.

Verai's gaze snapped up, the flicker of color- of anything- against the water's surface for just an instant. And there was nothing. The flicker vanished, the shore vanished, Seta vanished.

Verai lunged.

He threw himself at the water, dipping low to try and avoid the worst of the rushing current, kicking free of the viscous mud. Plants grabbed at his clothes, clinging to him, and he fought to keep pushing forward. He could see it, closer and closer, a flicker of light in the water, maybe golden, then next violet, then emerald.

He reached for it, and his hand closed around

Nothing. He was at a river, endlessly long and frighteningly wide. It rushed, edging near-white, foaming and frothing in its drive. He iwas on his hands and knees at the bank, to his mid forearms in grey mud, dripping riverwater into the muck. He was cold. He was alone.

And there was a single, panicked, choked cry.

Verai bit back a snarl, and threw himself into the water again. His movements were slower, by bare instants. The mud on him was heavier, the underwater life clinging just a moment longer. Again, he reached the flicker of color, of life, and made to grab

Nothing. He was at a river, endlessly long and frighteningly wide. It rushed, edging near-white, foaming and frothing in its drive. He was cold.

He was alone.

TW: implied child abuse

Verai had resigned himself to laying on the bank, eyes closed. He was recovering his strength, yes, but he was also thinking. Going over all the details of the bank, of the furious river. Over everything he had done, and how each act had failed. The initial anger had bled out of him like the water seeping back into the bank, and now he was able to think somewhat clearer.

There was still that ripcord of anger, virulent heat that demanded rescue and protection, but-

Sometimes going in wasn't the right approach.

He knows the answers, rote. Methodical. These he got playing, these from falling. He picked fights with other neighborhood kids, his parents often said. They would ground him for it, ensure he knew what he was doing was wrong. The officers always left.

Verai sat up with a gasp, panic fluttering in his chest at the unbidden memory. "Fuck," He whispered, curling towards himself, arms raising up to his head. But it was quiet, with only the river beside. None of this was happening- not there, not this river. It was just the game.

The game. He pushed himself up to sit, looking up a bit. This… was a game. The game had the screen with directions, and maps. He moved to pull up the screen- And there was no HUD. There wasn't a little thing on the side with his bytes, or the map that spun too quickly when he did. No little arrow that picked out where he should be going. There was only a single line of text.

Make a vessel from the living clay to house your Pokemon's spirit.

Verai frowned at it, reading over the words over and over, even as the text faded from view. What did that mean? A vessel? Like… A jug? That felt… bad, for some reason. But, sure. Whatever. He could make a… little pot.

He scooped up a handful of the mud, and worked it into a long rope, and… started coiling it to make a flat disc. And then… more coils for the sides, which were messily smoothed together. It was… sure something.

No. Verai closed his eyes, and took a breath. He had made it, himself, and that made it important. He couldn't quite call it a jug, but… maybe a cup. He had created. He had to repeat that.

He had created something.

He had… made the vessel. He waited, a moment, holding the wet clay in his hands, watching it and the water. Waiting for something to happen. And… nothing did. The water rushed forth, furious as ever, and there was still that intermittent cry from the creature.

Verai looked at the cup. It… It really wasn't any good, was it? It was lopsided, the sides bowing in and out randomly. The bottom wasn't even flat. Maybe he couldn't create after all.

Another deep breath, in and out. He had created. That was important. He had created, even if it was bad. Which… Verai looked at it, struggling. It… wasn't bad, because… Had he enjoyed making it? Not really. Was there an importance to making it?

Another cry from the river.

There was. It was important, which meant it wasn't bad.

Still, nothing happened. He sat there another moment, and crushed the clay in his hands, throwing it back onto the bank with a broken curse.

Verai wasn't so good at hand building. He'd spent more time on the wheel, getting some primal vindication when it stopped turning out, and he was able to just center it back down into a disc, and start over. It was different with hand building- slower, more obvious where the seams and folds were, still showing bits of mangled clay that hadn't yet been pressed away.

He pulled clay free from the bank, again, working not so feverishly now- but slower, more focused. He packed the clay thickly for the torso, a long, crude shape, smoothed and made angular both by his hands.

They still had the vase, even if it was lopsided, because he had tried to make something for Bria, and she had liked it enough to want to keep.

The legs were cylinders, scored and stuck together. It was habit, not done in years but hard to forget.

He had bought things for Bria's room. Bedsheets and comforters and stuffed animals. Offered to take her clothes shopping, and bought whatever she picked out. Half the things he'd bought she hated, but they worked through it. One thing he'd gotten right was a stuffed fox creature, brown with big doe eyes and a cream mane and tail tip. Bria carried it around everywhere.

The tail was too soft, flagging as soon as it was put on. The legs, he only noticed then, were too far forward. He carried on anyway.

When he left his parents' house, he didn't want a lot. He hadn't wanted someone to sit and tell him that he was right, or brave, or whatever. Words like that wouldn't help him. He didn't want anything lavish. He just wanted… somewhere to go. Somewhere that was his- not just something generic thrown together, a room. He wanted his home.

It wasn't perfect, by any stretch. The muzzle was lopsided, the neck weirdly long, the eyes just sunked spaces. Fingerprints were all over the soft clay, and the tail had bent nearly in half. But he had taken his time, and made it with true intention. Not- not to check a box.



Verai smoothed out some of the bank, and gently set the clay at there, sitting back. Nervse rose in him, strangely.

"I hope this is something you like," He said, to the pokemon spirit, to Bria. She had looked around the room, scared and uncertain. "If… if you don't like it, I can… I can fix it. I… I want you to be comfortable here." He could remember Bria, still quiet and not saying anything- until she ran towards the bed, picking up the little thing that had been there, that stuffed animal. She'd clutched it to her chest, and cried.

They went to Bikkuri Donkey, that night. She got a strawberry milk, and a strawberry parfait. And a second strawberry milk, for her stuffed animal.

The clay cat began to wobble, and Verai moved to get to his feet. But it shook not like it was falling, but like an unstable piece of pottery had been jostled on a table. It had gone from workable to bone dry in the span of a memory, and now shook.

And, from one of the legs, a paw punched free, siamese brown and covered in clay dust. Then, did Verai lunge, taking up the statue and pulling bits of the hard clay off, trying to be gentle and not catch fur.

Soon enough, what was in his arms was not an offering, but a promise. A prayer. I love you.