Surt comes from the south with a bright light in his hand. Yes, the Sun shines upon the sword in his grasp. The mountains collapse, the trolls fall, men walk the roads to Hel, and the skies divide above.
Fenrir howls terribly before the doors to Hel; the wolf will break its bonds and run. I know much wisdom, I see deep in the future, all the way to Ragnarök, a dark day for the gods.
How was Plasma’s ideology born?
Where does the legend come from, where does the myth begin?
This is the story of Sage Giallo, and of how he was swept away into a Dream greater than himself:
Team Plasma, caught between constructed Ideals and false Truths.
I inserted an "ancient text" in this chapter.
The whole thing is a rework of the beginning of the Voluspa, the norse cosmogony, part of the Poetic Edda.
It's how Vikings described the birth of the whole universe.
Norse legends are cool man 🩵
📰Missed the other chapters?
🔗 SONGS OF GHETSIS - INDEX
✴️ Prefer AO3?
🔗 TEMPUS TRANSIT
🇮🇹 Sei un lettore italiano?
🔗 TEMPUS TRANSIT
Otherwise, read the chapter below ⬇️
ET ITERUM PER PUERUM
SUM VENERI PROSTRATUS
TEMPUS TRANSIT
The title is inspired by the song Tempus Transit by Faun
Hearing I ask from all
the holy races,
both high and low,
children of Kyurem.
Thou wilt that I, Harmonia Gropius
may fully recount
the ancient deeds of men and dragons,
those which I first remember.
Harmonia Gropius.
That was how the sender of the letter had signed himself. Not, according to him, to claim a bloodline, but as a choice: to safeguard the memory of the ancient and the sacred. Ghetsis “Harmonia Gropius”, head of the Association for Myth-Cosmic Studies of Nacrene City, based in the museum of that same renowned town, had addressed a lengthy letter to Professor Mimir Ashwood, a retired scholar still active in specialist circles of the University of Driftveil.
The professor had taken early retirement when his course on Mythology Applied to the History and Prehistory of the Unova Region (or, more informally, Unovan Mythological Studies) was canceled due to “resource rationalization.” Since then, he had tried to remain within the margins of the academic scene, not for the admiration of his colleagues, whom he described as “corrupted and flattened by a modern society that has lost the roots of a culture as deep as ours”, but out of pure passion for his field. He refused to give up, in a stubborn and perhaps desperate attempt to find kindred spirits who could truly understand the value of myth, of legend, of sacred memory.
I recall the Pokémon
born in the beginning,
those who once
gave rise to me.
Many worlds I remember,
many foundations,
and the measuring Dragon, the exalted,
who pierces the earth.
Ashwood read in his study, small but well-furnished, filled with trinkets, of inestimable value only to those who understood what they were looking at. The text claimed to be ancient, a discovery of great significance if authentic. However, the professor was naturally skeptical. Realistically, few would have the interest to forge such a document: it was more likely to get a piece of lowbrow fiction passed off as a “fantasy book inspired by ancient legends,” when in fact it tasted more of trash than tradition.
The language could be imitated, albeit with great skill. The content, vague and overly ceremonial in tone, could have been cleverly fabricated, grounded in solid knowledge of foundational mythology and the flavor of oral tradition that had always accompanied Unovan legends: an ancient, sung culture, scarcely written.
And yet it was precisely the musicality and intonation, so rhythmic and vertical, masterful in their invocation of the ancients and their dragons, that captivated the professor.
He found himself facing something that perhaps wasn’t the work of a clumsy imitator. Perhaps not an imitator at all, which both unsettled and thrilled him at the same time.
In the beginning there was Time,
and Kyurem dwelled there.
There was no sand nor sea,
nor freezing waves.
There was no earth,
nor sky above:
a void lay open,
and nowhere was there grass.
This was a myth of Unova’s origin, where Unova was a word signifying the world entirely.
Just as in ancient tradition, where “Unova” invoked all the Earth, meant as the union of humans and Pokémon “united” beneath a single sky. The fact that Kyurem was named as the one that existed in the beginning, and not merely as what remained after the Twin Dragons were divided, echoed slightly controversial studies published by Ashwood himself in the past. They had gone mostly ignored by the academic community, but he still believed in them, with the stubborn pride of a wounded father.
It could have been adulation, certainly. But it would have required such precision in sourcing that it was enviable regardless, at least professionally.
And somewhat flattering, if he were honest.
The letter, besides the presumed ancient text, contained a direct invitation: the professor was to travel in person to examine the original copy of the relic, kept at the Nacrene City Museum. It promised change, a rekindling in people’s hearts. A collaboration with the Association for Myth-Cosmic Studies, now housed inside the city museum, could restore light to his life’s work: long misunderstood, but never betrayed.
He could have ignored it. Perhaps he should have.
And yet something in those words made his heart beat like a boy’s at first love. Like when, long ago, he first encountered the Great Stories of Men and Dragons. They had called his name, with the sweetness and seduction of a Primarina’s song.
Until the children of the Void
raised the lands,
they who gave shape
to vast Unova.
From the south the sun shone
on stony cliffs;
then the soil was covered
with green sprouts.
Yet it was precisely for this reason that the professor replied to the letter with a firm refusal.
It was perhaps too good to be true, and he knew all too well that this was exactly the trap used by the most flattering deceivers, skilled masters of fraud and forgery.
He wrote a long, detailed response, in which he politely but firmly explained why he would not further examine the text in question.
But it was the very length of the reply that betrayed his true sentiment: a deep interest, which the sender quickly recognized, and skillfully exploited.
Eight days passed, and Mimir Ashwood returned to his routine, to his studies. His mind still wandered to that new ancient chant, sent to his home like a bolt of Zekrom from a clear sky.
On the ninth day, more mail arrived. No long letter this time: just a postcard from the Nacrene City Museum, and a renewed invitation. The handwriting was elegant yet restrained. The message asked, once again, to give a chance to a text that, according to the sender, could reignite academic interest in ancient legends. Perhaps not just academic, perhaps even the people would finally see, if only someone like the professor were willing to bring it to light.
The two brothers convened,
mirrors of the Dragon,
they who raised
altars and temples high;
they lit hearths,
forged wealth,
crafted tongs,
engineered tools.
The next morning, a Friday, Professor Ashwood was on the 9:30 A.M. train bound for Nacrene City.
Tympole and Palpitoad croaked peacefully in the grass near the tracks. Once off the electric train, the professor took his bag, brimming with papers, books, and instruments to examine the self-proclaimed jewel. He walked away from the station, headed for the famed museum. It would be a thirty-minute walk. He had decided to go on foot, despite the weight of his bag: he enjoyed walking, listening to the sounds of Pokémon and people. He told himself he was sharing in the breath of the World, refusing to surrender to the speed of modern society. He strove to move beyond utility, the only metric, these days, by which most measured every inch of the universe.
The museum’s façade towered over the town, solemn as ever. A few Pidoves, grey sentinels, cooed innocently on the ledges of the building. Some would say those flying Rattatas were good for nothing but droppings. Others, Pokémon lovers, appreciated the presence of such unmonumental figures on such an important structure.
The professor paused before approaching the entrance. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his right shoulder, observing the little Flying-types with neither annoyance nor admiration. They ignored him, save perhaps for one, who rose into the air and drew a circle above his head.
Ashwood approached with more reverence than usual. His eyes caught the city’s heraldic symbol, waving on a flag beside that of Unova. Below it, a crack spread along the building, reaching the great door. He didn’t remember that detail, and yet it seemed to have plagued the building for centuries.
In the courtyard they played chess;
they were rich:
they felt no lack
of gold nor peace.
Until they arrived,
discord and dissension,
from their soul
hungry for creation.
Mimir stepped across the threshold.
In the grand hall before him, a few rare visitors looked at the exhibits. Perhaps understanding them, perhaps not. A small reception desk blocked his path. The attendant looked at him, waiting either for him to pay admission or to state his eligibility for free entry, be that for his age or a different reason.
Everything was so damned ordinary.
When he introduced himself, ready to ask for the Association’s office, the girl welcomed him with immediate recognition and the enthusiastic voice of someone new to the job.
“Oh, Professor Ashwood! Yes, I was told to let you through: they’re waiting for you in the Memory Room. You need to go upstairs, or you can take the elevator if you prefer. It’s to the right, after the temporary exhibit. Once you’re on the first floor, you can’t miss it, the name is written large. Have a great day, professor!”
As promised, the Memory Room was easily recognizable. The wooden door was open; beside it, a plaque bore the name of the association and a ceremonial quote that smelled of citation. Through the doorway, one could glimpse a room not too large but well-kept. Dark wood paneling lent it an academic air and a reverence for the old. On the sides, sacred original writings and reconstructed translations were on careful display. The center was broken by a table, partly covered with papers and books on subjects dear to the professor. On the walls, works of famous and obscure colleagues. Among them, treated with a solemnity he hadn’t known in years, a paper signed: Mimir Ashwood.
The professor stepped inside.
The room was empty, but he heard movement behind the far wall. He waited a few seconds, glancing around. To his left, an engraved object bore no label or explanation. Only itself. And its mysterious runes. He wondered what it was.
Then, suddenly, one of the wooden panels opposite the table opened. Mimir jumped. Now that was a dramatic entrance.
A tall man in his thirties, with long green hair and a strange red lens over his right eye, stepped into the room. He introduced himself with elegance. Said his name was Ghetsis, and added the titles Harmonia Gropius, as promised in the letter. Something in his voice promised glory and war. He was undeniably charismatic, but Mimir remained unconvinced.
Reshiram was awakened,
white with great Truth.
Zekrom rose,
black with immense Ideals.
Kyurem was thus shattered,
and empty remained,
in the desolate lands
of eternal Ice.
Ghetsis spoke like a man in love with the sound of his own voice. He spoke of his association, created, so he said, for love of ancient memory. Legends that he feared would vanish or be disfigured by ignorant eyes. Like those of many museum visitors, who laughed at the skulls of ancient dragons. He spoke of the professor’s work: it did not deserve to be forgotten just because it had been published yesterday and not today. The modern world, at times, seemed too focused on looking ahead, pruning the branches of a tree while its roots rotted from neglect.
Then, with a gesture, he invited Ashwood to follow him behind the hidden panel into the inner study. Mimir cast a final glance at the unlabeled runic tablet and followed the man who styled himself as the keeper of Unova’s memories. He dared not ask what the object was, not yet.
They walked a short, dim hallway. The hidden room they reached was larger than its public twin. And yet the dim lighting, rough stone floor, and dark wooden walls created an intimate atmosphere that made it seem smaller. It was a strange illusion.
The walls were lined with bookshelves, brimming with old and new volumes. Not at the center but well visible on the right, a lectern held like a treasure what the professor quickly recognized as the very text he had been sent in copy: The Canticle of the Dragon’s Breath. That’s what it had been called.
The spear raised the first brother,
the second rose,
terrible in his wrath.
The tongue of flame
swallowed all the lands,
thunderous lightning
destroyed the sprouts.
And destroyed the world was:
no more Unova.
Without further words, as if by implicit promise, the professor approached the bound scrolls and began to examine them. The first thing he noticed was that the binding was clearly modern. When he asked, Ghetsis claimed the text had to be gathered into a single book for conservation. He also hinted, with well-placed phrases, that beyond the restorations made by his collaborators, the text might contain more recent voices, perhaps inserted over time for clarity or preservation. He asked Ashwood’s help for this as well: to identify discrepancies in style and language. He, after all, had once translated myths of great cultural value.
Mimir, cynical and detached until then, suddenly found himself overtaken by emotion.
Before him was a truly ancient support, written in a language so refined that, even if not original, was at least of extraordinary quality. He let the emotion carry him. He continued his meticulous examination, finding small inconsistencies, as promised.
He hadn’t even noticed how far he had leaned over the text until he straightened his back, sore from travel and from the weight of feeling. He declared himself willing to continue the analysis, either there, if given the proper tools, or in his own lab. He preferred the latter, but the former was safer for the evidently fragile scrolls. He did not wish to risk contamination or damage from unnecessary travel.
Ghetsis, a good Pokér player, did not show that his already sizeable ego was swelling. He felt as satisfied as a fat Cheshire Purrloin. Instead, in a calm and calculated tone, he gave the professor full access to all the instruments required to examine, with the highest degree of scholarly accuracy, the text he himself had commissioned and assembled. With the assistance of a well-paid expert forger, naturally, who had been carefully made to disappear.
His new association, a cover for new dealings, this time more “clean,” if by that word we mean less traceable, needed legitimacy. Only thus could it achieve the next level required to create something grand. Something the former convict, now reborn as a myth expert, had been planning since the days of prison.
—
As the months passed, the forgery was completed. A patina that resembled Truth, that echoed ancient Ideals, began to settle over many hearts.
The time of ice had passed; now the world was renewing.
Professor Mimir Ashwood was now an official collaborator of the Association for Myth-Cosmic Studies, convinced of the New Text’s authenticity, or perhaps merely blinded by hope. That boy, that man with great vision, would restore the ancient legends and lead society toward a glorious new Spring.
Thanks to the professor’s work and genuine admiration, the Sage Harmonia Gropius could now give his new creation an ancient, sacred, respected face: Plasma.
So he chose to name the new Team, after the fourth state of matter. The one less visible from our low vantage point, yet omnipresent, composing most of the universe. The state in which existence itself separates. Just as, according to him, humans and Pokémon must be separated again, as they were in the beginning. For the good of both. The one that can be created with fire and lightning. The one the world must have entered after the passing of the great legendary Dragons, when the two brothers, children of the Void, returned to preach peace and rebuild the Unova they themselves had broken.
He thus recruited new and old faces, experts and novices. New believers, new tools. He chose not to take the title of Leader, of King. That would belong to another. An innocent face, a chosen one, who would have the honor of knowing the True World from the tender age of a stolen childhood.
Meanwhile, Ghetsis would be a Sage, flanked by six others, masks of consensus, mirrors of his mind, who would govern equally until the true king was ready to take the reins of the movement. And one day, perhaps, the whole world. As was only right.
Mimir Ashwood had the honor of being one of the Seven Regents, with a new name.
He was called Giallo: yellow, like the color of thresholds. Not Gold yet, not White. He was he who stood between myth and reality, between Truth and Ideals.
And so, thanks to what to him was but a boy, Giallo believed again.
Before the Beauty of that construction so Real, he fell to his knees.
