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In her later years, Cogita will say that her left eye was willingly sacrificed to Arceus. She’ll give Rei a secretive smile and explain that it was common amongst the Celestica to offer one of their eyes up to the Creator so that they may learn to ‘see without seeing.’ She’ll laugh when Rei wrinkles his nose and frowns, charmed by his curiosity and worry as he asks if it had hurt. “Not at all,” she’ll assure him gently. “We had numbing medicines even when I was a child. It was a little bit scary, yes, but all things are scary when you’re that young. I didn’t feel a single thing.” The concerned furrow of his brow will ease at her calm promise, settling once he knows she was okay.
Cogita will be lying.
There had been medicines, yes, but they had been paralytics, not anesthetics. And Cogita, five years old, had been dragged to the ritual house in bondage and tears, begging her parents to let her go, unable to understand why her eye was ‘cursed.’ Why did it matter if her left eye was blue instead of silver? Why did it mean she had to be ‘cleansed?’ And so she screamed and fought and pleaded until the herbs took effect, trapping her voice below her skin, weighing her limbs down so that she couldn’t fight any more. Her parents looked so sad when they handed her over to the priests. Why had they done it at all?
And the priests were not gentle as they positioned her in the chair, binding her slack form to the rough wood so that she wouldn’t fall to the ground. There had been chants, prayers, dark shadows cast by flickering firelight. Incense hung heavy in the nighttime air. Tears cut tracks through her dirt-smeared cheeks as the head priest — her grandfather — placed a hand on her head and asked for the ritual blade.
In her nightmares, she is five and watching the knife descend, a thousand trapped screams rattling in her broken heart as her parents turn away in shame.
Volo’s story changes with his audience, a thousand lies spun for the sake of entertainment. The members of the Ginkgo Guild have heard every variation, rolling their eyes with good humour as he spins a tale for each new customer. No matter how many times he spins his fabrications, his coworkers take great enjoyment in watching the reactions of his audience.
He tells the curious children that he didn’t eat his vegetables when he was little and then, one day, his eye fell right out of his head! They shriek and laugh as he insists it’s the truth, and they should make sure to eat all of their food or else they’ll end up like him. The parents all take great joy in this variation, silently thanking him by making extra purchases. It’s the silliest story he weaves and all the more precious for it.
In comparison, inquisitive members of the Galaxy Team hear of his tussle with an Alpha Shinx, or Teddiursa, or whatever random Pokémon comes to mind first. He speaks of how he was lucky to get away with his life, half-blind, terribly scarred, but miraculously alive. It’s a grim reminder of the reality of their world, but it keeps their wits sharp as they venture past the village gates. Cyllene and Kamado never thank him outright, but they nod at him in acknowledgement whenever they pass the Ginkgo Guild’s cart.
A thousand lies, a thousand stories, and yet the truth is far simpler and sadder than any of his wonderous tales.
How could Volo, the man who privately claimed to have shed all worldly attachments in pursuit of godhood, ever admit he had plucked the eye from his skull as a child in a desperate attempt to make his grandmother feel less alone?
When she’s growing up, Cynthia obsesses over the few surviving photographs of her ancestors. She likes to look for familiar features in the faces that smile at her from the sun-faded film. There’s a woman who has her eyeshape; there’s a man who has her mother’s scowl; there, and there, and there, and there are the hallmarks of her family.
But there are two photos she treasures above all else.
One of them is clearly professional, taken against a backdrop of rich yellow fabric. It features a man and a Togepi, both of them gesturing energetically towards the camera. She wonders if they had intentionally posed like that or if the photographer had simply chosen to capture their genuine cheer. The man is tall, blond, dressed a uniform associated with a Hisuian merchant company. Good cheer seems to seep from the still image, making Cynthia return her ancestor’s smile whenever she sees the photo. She thinks their hair might be the same sunshine yellow.
The other is blurry, as though the photographer had snapped the photo in a hurry. There’s an older woman dressed in black seated at a small, outdoor table. A young boy wearing the Hisuian Survey Corps uniform is pouring her a cup of tea. The woman’s mouth is covered by a slender, gloved hand, but Cynthia can see her grandfather’s humour in the crease of this woman’s brow. She wonders what the relationship was between the woman and the boy. Was he her grandson? Though, he doesn’t look like he’s related to her…
What makes these photos her favourites, though, are the hairstyles of her ancestors. Both of them style their bangs over their left eyes — the very same eye Cynthia was born blind in. It makes her wonder if blindness is hereditary. The thought makes her feel even closer to these distant, nameless family members.
She grows in leaps and bounds, growing into herself and her disability. She wonders if her ancestors had anyone who supported them the way her parents support her. After all, Hisui was cruel to the disabled, viewing them as wastes of resources and liabilities. She wishes she could go back in time and tell her ancestors how much they’ve inspired her all these centuries later. She wishes she could give them a hug.
Cynthia becomes a trainer, then a researcher, and finally becomes the Champion. Pokémon battles become her job — a job she excels in. Some trainers think they can take advantage of her blind spot, launching their attacks in the space her peripheral should be, but they always fail to account for one thing: she’s not the only one watching the field. Her team sees what she cannot, attacking and countering without needing her input. Spiritomb, a Pokémon that has been passed down through her family, is particularly vicious in its retaliation. Cynthia wonders if it ever passed through the hands of those two people in her photographs.
She wears her hair swept over her left eye and wonders if her ancestors would be proud.