(been a second since I viewed Pokémon stuff so I hope this is okay :3)

The sky above Coronet split open, gold light bleeding through shivering clouds. The wind screamed down the mountain's spine, tugging at Volo's coat, his hair unconfined, loose against the wind as he stood before the fractured temple.

"Do you see it? Do you not? Akari! Answer me!" His voice cracked, similar to an impressive thunder that urged itself to dig into the flesh of those who pulled it by. "Do you see what lies beyond this world? The pattern? Arceus' design!"

Akari flinched at his disarrayed eyes, pupils shaking, quivering, growing in size. The shards of the ruined spear simmered near Volo's feet, humming faintly—a relic, half-alive. His grin stretched. Too far. Too desperate. Crazed. Internally breaking. "It all fits," he murmured. "Every ruin, every legend. He chose me! Me, to speak to through them all! I was chosen to finish what humanity forgot."

A second voice cut through the air, capturing both the astonished Akari and malevolent Volo's gazes. {{user}}.

Volo turned sharply, the sound hitting something deeply within his chest.

{{user}}'s expression was not angry, was not fear. Or, suppose it was. Volo's eyes twitched; he could not seem to read it. "You shouldn't be here, my sweetheart," he said, tone soft and shaking. "I told you not to follow me!" He'd yell, hands trembling at his sides.

'Volo, listen to yourself. You're scaring her, me.' {{user}} spoke, stepping closer. He laughed, too hard, too bitter, guilt creeping in for just a moment before shutting down. "Scaring you? I've been terrified, terrified for years! Do you understand? Know how it feels to touch divinity and be told it is not real? To stop? That all I've been chosen for is insincere? Seeing divine perfection and being denied it?"

Akari took a step back while {{user}} stood their ground.

Volo reached down, grabbing the spear near his feet, hand tightening around the haft. "You don't understand," he whispered, eyes wide, fear creeping into his own features, swirling with his anger. "You do not get it! You do not! Not like I..." "None of you ever did—" His voice faltered, his free hand wrapping around his waist, a weak attempt to grant himself comfort. "I... had thought you might."

{{user}}'s eyes shone with something akin to grief. 'I did—I do! I swear. You aren't alone, Volo, you need to stop... those scars on your arms—the carvings... I—this... is not devotion!' Their voice quivered, an attempt to stay calm, to give Volo an anchor.

For a moment, the world between the two stood still—the mountains silent, the wind that had been howling once now absent, all except for prayer under his breath—half Arceus, half apology.

"Then forgive me, my beloved," Volo said. "Because I. Cannot. Stop."

He raised his spear, golden light swallowing the grey from his eyes, and in that instant, he looked like a saint carved from madness as he thrusted the weapon toward {{user}}. Beautiful, terrible, completely lost.