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Giratina falls, and so does he.
If asked, Volo would not be able to say whether the final step back was involuntary. Giratina’s roar echoes in his ears, his limbs numb, chest hollowed out and empty. He remembers going out- feeling and thought and desire snuffed like a candle in the slightest wind, sputtering into nothingness as he’d watched the legendary fall at the hands of a child. He remembers the pain that set in, filling all the spaces left behind- the agony of defeat, of loss, of hopelessness as he’d realized his plans were all for naught. He remembers Giratina vanishing from sight, and being left alone, always alone, standing on the edge of the temple grounds and...
He’d stepped back. He’d stepped back, and his heel had met empty air. He remembers with vivid clarity the look of horror on the child’s face- a hand outstretched, reaching for him, but he made no move to grab it. He let gravity take hold of his empty shell, and he fell.
He doesn’t want to die, but what else is left? He’d failed. He’d lost. Years and years of obsessive research and planning and hard work, and he has little to show for it but scars and a chest emptied of anything but bitter malice, heart hardened to the cruelties of the world and vision tainted by bleak disgust. He’d failed, and he doesn’t want to die but whether it is now, falling from the heights of Mt Coronet, or at the hands of Galaxy Corps in a rushed execution, death is his only future.
All he’d wanted was to make the world better. All he’d wanted was to remake it, to take what Arceus had started and refine it, reimagine it, make it whole. He had seen suffering in all corners of the globe- wrought by nature, pokemon, and humans alike. He had seen hate and pain and despair and hardship, had felt it all himself to degrees that had left him forever scarred, and he’d wanted to fix it, he’d wanted to help...
But at some point, he’d grown jaded; he’d grown resentful, aggrieved by Arceus’s continual ignorance and the abuses heaped so heavily upon his already burdened shoulders. His mission had twisted and gnarled itself into something worse, something selfish and bitter and hurt- a desire for power, for subjugation, for control- and then He had sent a child to show Volo how pathetic he truly was.
And now he falls, his fate entirely his own doing. Prayer seems pointless; Arceus has never listened to him before, why now? But Volo is a creature of habit, and so pray he does- an apology, a derogatory tirade, a bitter entreaty for one final speck of Arceus’s precious attention...
And then there’s a flash of gold, and
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He hits the ground and shatters, mind, body, and spirit; his voice lifts in shrill agony as he breaks apart, but the fall doesn’t even have the decency to kill him. He’s left limp and useless on the hard ground, staring up at nothing but black; had the collision left him blinded? Or is this simply the approaching shroud of death, lingering to let him suffer before finally swooping in to end his pitiful existence?
“‘Tis neither, mine child.”
Soft steps. Gentle and graceful, barely audible above the rushing in Volo’s ears. He chokes on something that tastes like it might be his own blood; his eyes flutter, and when he opens them again, he sees nothing but a wash of gold and white.
“Be still,” He murmurs, nowhere and everywhere at once, inside Volo’s head and out of it- voice rumbling deep enough to be felt, “Be still, and be not afraid.”
His massive head ducks low, a mockery of a bow as He deigns to look at Volo’s broken and bloodied body; He shifts, and the god’s pure white forehead is pressed to Volo’s own.
Volo twitches back- tries to pull away from the touch, but he is shushed with all the gentleness of a mother with their child, a soft susurrus of sound that echoes through existence like the ghost of the ocean in a sea shell; gold light flares, blinding and sudden, and with it comes a wash of warmth that seems to chase away the pain, soothing it from what’s left of his damaged remains.
He’s still exhausted and empty and hurting, but the ache doesn’t come from broken bones and ruptured organs- he is healed, at least physically. He is healed, and in the presence of the one who had ignored him for so long.
“Oh, mine dearest creation,” Arceus says, voice pounding inside Volo’s head, so intense he feels like he can taste it, “Thou has't endured so much, but no longer. I has't failed thee, through no fault of thy own; I was blinded by mine own self, and did not realize the extent of thy suffering.”
He must be dead, or dying- the omnipresent voice and loving words nothing more than a fever dream conjured up to spare him the pain of his last breaths. Belief and hope are weak little things that barely have purchase in the desolate remains of Volo’s psyche; he shakes his head, choking on words, on feelings, on thoughts and prayers and begging, tongue twisted in knots as he stares up at the divine being looming over him. If this were real, Arceus would not be comforting him; He would be dashing Volo’s traitorous form under His immaculate hooves, or casting him into a pit worse than the Distortion World itself in retribution for his crimes.
...Wouldn’t He?
“I would not,” Arceus says, and it hurts to hear His voice, but it’s ecstasy all the same- each syllable patching holes he’d carved out of his own self, the empty, gaping place where his heart used to be, “And thou art not. I has't healed thy physical pain, though I Know that it pales in comparison to the agony thee feeleth inside. Agony I had’st a hand in creating...”
The god shifts. Volo’s eyes close, body still splayed out like a bug splattered against a rock, or a creature spread for dissection- but pain does not follow the movement. Instead, Arceus steps around him, then bends at the knee- laying down with impossible grace next to Volo. A gust of wind, or the featherlight touch of a thousand hands, or the power of a deity’s mind- no matter what form it takes, he feels it on him, moving him when he doesn’t move himself. He ends up tucked against the god’s side, His warmth radiating through Volo’s shivering frame with all the force of a sun; Arceus bends His neck and presses His forehead to Volo’s once more, the touch filling voids inside him he didn’t even know existed and aching like the pinpricks of a thousand needles all at once.
“Why?”
It’s the only word he can force out of his suddenly-dry throat; the only word he can coherently think like this, curled in Arceus’s embrace. It’s too much; he wonders if this is a punishment, if the contact, the affection will burn him up from the inside out, if he’ll flare and die out like a distant star, if the only time he’ll ever get what he wants will be followed by the agony that comes from daring to touch a holy deity-
“Which ‘why’ doth thee want answered?” Arceus asks back, tilting His head in a slow, gentle nuzzle that Volo can feel inside himself, like the god had simply reached into his chest cavity to caress everything that makes him, him, “Thou art angry. Thou art bitter. I Know this, and I See this. I will answer with honesty, but there art many ‘whys’ in this world, and it would take the rest of thine lifespan to make it through a quarter of them.”
There are so many- so many questions rattling around in his head, clambering over each other and filling his skull with a cacophony of noise, all of them getting caught in his throat, on his tongue. He doesn’t know what to say, what to ask first, if he should ask anything at all, terrified of overstepping when he’d already erred so grievously, but-
“Why weren’t you there?” his voice, broken, spills from cracked and chapped lips without his consent; he chokes it out, trying to keep his tone even and respectful, but the more he speaks the less controlled it gets, the wilder he sounds, the more hysterical, “Why now? You ignored me for years- I prayed to you every day, I gave thanks to you for every success, I acknowledged your divine will in every failure, I devoted myself to you, gave you everything I had, and in return you couldn’t give me a single sign that you knew I was even there at all-”
To his horror, his voice cracks on a sob. He wrenches his head away from Arceus’s, gasping for breath as hot tears streak down his dirty face; a hand lifts to cover himself and his shame from sight, limbs shaky and weak.
“I begged you for years, I was faithful for years, and all I wanted in return was something- anything- to prove my loyalty wasn’t in vain. That I was known, that I had value- and instead, when I’d finally given up, when I’d finally turned away from scrounging for scraps of your acknowledgement, you appear to her!”
It comes out a snarl, and he’s still sobbing but he’s so angry- all the emotion that’d felt carved out of him mere moments ago resurges with a vengeance, and he’s so, so painfully full of it that he can hardly breathe- lungs removed to make room for the spite and hate that festers inside him. He doesn’t want to be this way- he can just barely remember how it felt to be happy, but all that’s left is malice and rage and hurt.
“You show yourself to her! You speak to her, you praise her, you give her direction and order and you love her- what did she do that I didn’t? What makes her worthy? Why wasn’t I good enough?”
The last words raise in pitch and volume- a shriek that hurts his own ears, hands fisted in his hair and pulling hard. The sobs that wrench their way out of him are painful, so forceful it shakes him head to toe, but he can’t seem to choke them back, he can’t seem to breathe, he can’t-
Gentle, gentle. So gentle for such a large creature, Arceus tips His head and presses against him once more, even as Volo tries to squirm away. His bloodshot eyes meet Arceus’s- red pupils in eyes more green than anything he’s ever seen before, and the spots on His grey face have never looked more like tears.
“ Mine child,” Arceus speaks, and it’s so terribly, awfully gentle, gentle in a way that claws into him, makes him ache- he almost wishes Arceus would yell instead, wants that voice to turn to wrath and the rumbling of an earthquake, wants Arceus to be angry because anything would be better than the softness that threatens to unravel him at the seams, “Mine child. Mine beloved creation. I am All, but even All can maketh mistakes- and those mistakes hath caused thee far too much hardship for far too long.”
Pressed against him like this, curled around him, Volo feels more than ever the soft, humming vibration of Arceus’s voice- inside and out, mental and physical, on all planes. It echoes in his ears and in his mind, the words curling through his head like the softest caress, and no amount of turning away can help him escape it.
“I always intended to showeth myself to thee,” Arceus murmurs, “Slowly, but inevitably. I hath left thee many signs of mine own favor, many signs of mine existence- but I forget how fickle time can be, and how oft humans needeth more physical reassurance.”
Another nuzzle. Volo keeps his head turned to the side, body straining in a cringe to try and writhe out of Arceus’s grip, but he can’t seem to move his limbs beyond weak twitches. Those intense eyes bore into him, the weight of His gaze almost physical; he gasps, over and over, panting for breath as he continues to drip tears and snot, messy and undignified.
“I hath left thee hints. I hath left thee clues in the form of writings of civilizations long past, ruins of temples devoted to myself. I introduced mine presence to thee slowly, to giveth thee a chance to adjust- hath tried to maketh thee see that I am and always will be in All- in the existence of a sunrise, a mountain range, a blade of grass. But what feeleth like mere moments to myself doth stretch to such great lengths to thee, a second’s passage extending to years gone past in the blink of an eye. I am no skilled judge of the passage of time, and mine presence is not always perceptible to the human eye, even if I think it be.”
His head is aching, eyes sore and stinging, limbs too weak to keep up his attempts to wriggle away from the deity cradling him with utmost tenderness; he chokes on another sob, pitiful and heartbroken, only to feel the soft, soothing brush of Arceus’s head once more.
“The sight of mine own self hath driven humans mad before. I did not wish it to be so, with thee. Mine beloved child, mine loyal creation... I would feeleth the deepest despair at shattering thy mind- and so instead, I erred by being too slow, and too cautious. I was’t ignorant to the hurt thee was’t feeling, so strong in mine conviction that mine method was’t the right one. Bitterness poisoned thy heart and began to fester within thee, and I did’st not notice. But, dearest disciple... ”
Godly power touches him, forcing- gently, so painfully gently- his head back towards Arceus’s. He can’t open his own eyes- the sight of the deity looming above him would be too much for him to handle, he knows it, and he’s already breaking down, already reduced to nothing more than a shrieking, feral little thing, weak and pathetic and clutched in Arceus’s mighty grasp-
“I hath heard thee. I heareth all who pray to me, and while the words might be difficult for me to distinguish at times, I always heard thy voice. I could not always be with thee, but thou was’t nev'r ignored, and nev'r forgotten. I am All, and yet I failed thee. I will not do so again. I am deeply, truly sorry, and I beg forgiveness from thee, mine most devoted. Mine Volo.”
Hearing his own name echo in the space between planes of existence, uttered from the mouth and mind of a holy being- it cracks him open. His voice wavers, hoarse and pained, a heartfelt, broken wail of anguish, high pitched and childish in its intensity; Arceus nuzzles against him and he throws his arms around His neck, clinging to as much of the god as he can with trembling, uncoordinated hands. The heat of Him, the affection in His voice, the tenderness, his name, Arceus knows him, knows his name-
“I’m sorry,” he bawls, and it’s the first time he’s cried in years, but he can’t seem to stop, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I have transgressed against you, I went against everything you stand for-”
“And the fault for thine actions lies with me,” Arceus interrupts, tone soft and His touch even softer, the gentlest caress, “Thy transgressions art the result of mine own. There is nothing to forgive, mine Volo, but if it eases thy burdened soul, then mine forgiveness is freely given. Thou has't it, and thou has't mine love, as thou always has't. As thou always will.”
Love.
Arceus’s favor, yes- His affection, His interest, His consideration and His care, but His love... Volo had never once presumed to think he was worthy of such. But now he lays in the cradle of Arceus’s body, the god’s forehead pressed to his own and His voice proclaiming to love him, to love the wreck that is Volo... He’s inconsolable, chest heaving with every keening, cathartic cry; he howls out his pain and suffering, begging wails that taper to broken sobs, that fade to pathetic whimpers and whines, until finally he’s limp in the deity’s grasp, wrung out and hollow once more. Each breath is a hitched gasp, a hiccup, a shuddering sigh; his head lolls, too heavy to hold up under his own power, and it falls to rest against Arceus’s side.
“How can you love me?” he whispers- a ghost of his former self, pale and washed out, covered in the dirt and blood of battle and looking so terribly dingy next to the shining white and gold of Arceus’s holy form, “After all I’ve done?”
He receives another nuzzle at his words, and this time, he leans into it- desperate for the contact, begging without words for more.
“The same way thy devotion rings true, even now,” Arceus replies, and he closes his eyes, too tired to voice his rebuttals.
How could Arceus consider him devoted? He’d done his best to spurn the deity at every turn, joining forces with his unruliest child in an attempt to overthrow him, spouting such sacrilege and heresy, letting his goals be twisted so brutally into something so selfish, so cruel... How? How, when even though the ritual prayer and sacrifice is ingrained so thoroughly into his mind and muscle memory, he cannot recall the feelings it once brought? How, when he’d done everything he could to rebel? The doubt is insidious, slithering its way through the gold-bright webbing of Arceus’s soft spoken words; belief flees before him, hope a concept so far out of reach he almost can’t remember the word for it.
“Rest,” Arceus says; it is a Command, one he feels deep in his bones, in every muscle and every cell that makes up his being, “Rest, child. Mine power is great, and thy body is free of injury- but even I struggle to touch the wounds of the mind, and thou still has't much to recover from. I will be with thee through the night, mine Volo, and thou shalt not waketh alone.”
The reassurance is the last thing he needs before he slips into sleep.