On Burning Wings
The soul is a precious thing.
The Black Lake shimmers beneath the setting sun, its dark waters glowing molten gold and burning, always burning. It is beautiful, the lake, he knows, and in these quiet moments when the world holds still, every eye upon the glorious sunset, every breath hitched within awed throats, that he feels alive. Truly, alive, as a mortal should feel, and not a creature such as he, with wings of burning fire and a soul of shattered glass.
The burning day, they call it, the humans, the mortals. They see him as eternal, a flame which crackles in the darkest hearth, a being of fire made flesh. It amused him, once, long ago, and indeed, it should amuse him still. This is not the case, though, for he has fractured, each blaze taking from him a little more, and he waits with ill-disguised eagerness for the final inferno.
He is not immortal. No creature of flesh truly is. Death will stand for such an act. The soul can endure many things; it can be tortured for centuries, immersed in agony, ripped apart at the seams, and dissolved in acid, but it cannot be broken. Death guards his most precious gems, the souls, and keeps them intact no matter the hardships and anguish of Life, capricious Goddess that she is.
The first flight of his kind, in the days when the sky was dark, a rippling expanse of black canvas, with no stars, no moon, no sun…he remembers, the legions of brothers and sisters as they took to the winds, blazing beacons flying to war. Life, their creator, gave to them eternity, and in the same breath, Death cursed them for it.
The lake's writhing flames seem to dim, the sky above slipping into an array of violet and indigo, tinged with the touch of darkness. Stars will soon wink down at him, the last of his kind, and they will whisper to him, begging to be reunited. As always, he will weep, letting his tears water the Earth Mother, giving her the strength to birth new life, and he will sing his song.
There is a reason his melody fills the mortals with hope, just as there is a reason he is doomed to burn forever upon this prison world, but it is forgotten, even to him. His memory fades, and he can only assume this means that, at last, Death has lifted his curse.
The First War had been over before it could begin. Fly against Death, Life had said, a callous smirk across her face, and show him that I have created that which he cannot destroy. They listened, foolish birds that they were, and their wings had burst with fire as they lit the sky.
Death's ire had been great, but he had done little but shrug in annoyance as they whirled around him. Then, he had laughed, that bitter, rattling laugh that haunts him and his kind to this very day, and he took from them their souls. Those without souls cannot die, and so he doomed them to their eternity, cursed to burn at the end of their lives and then be reborn from the ashes.
His song fills the air. It is a tragic melody to his ears, a song which brings even the greatest of his kind to despair. To the mortals, it gives them hope, for some strange reason, but he can no longer fathom why. Before him, the Lake is still and black, as dark as the sky, all those millennia ago. There are no stars tonight, and the moon is hidden beneath the clouds. There is no light, save for the flickering candles in the castle windows, and he remembers, and he weeps.
Death took from them their souls and flung the glowing orbs of light into the skies. They had wailed, for it had been agony, their souls being ripped away from within, and they as one, he remembers the way they had burst into flame. The inferno had raged for centuries, blanketing the entire earth in an age of fire, and Life had turned from them in her fury. She was a goddess, and to her, the fault lay with them, the once proud beacons of light.
He remembers…and he hates. It is why their song has such power. It is the reason why their song spreads hope, and why the mortals cling to them for guidance and call them friend. They are the last remnants of the first age, and they remember, barely, why the world is as it is. Life is a beautiful lie, a punishment, and Death is a sanctuary, a torturous truth.
Tonight, he cannot see the stars, the souls of the phoenixes, but he can feel them still, watching and waiting for their reunion. Death is kind, in the end, an escape from the harsh reality, and he comes for them all in the end. He bids them repent for their crimes, the sins of challenging a god, and he when they have redeemed themselves by aiding his most favoured mortals, the humans, he gives them the gift of the final burning.
He rises from his perch upon the ancient willow, and takes flight, the tips of his wings smoking, sparks dancing from his tail. He flies, beating his wings as he feels his bones creak, and if he could sigh, he would. The burning day has come, and now, all he can do is await his inevitable resurrection.
Fawkes, they call him, the Guardian of Hogwarts, and as he flies he ignites. The fire is within him and upon him all at once, and after all these thousands of years, it is as familiar as turning his head. He burns, a comet-like burst of twisting flames across the dark night, and the ashes scatter across the still waters of the lake.
The ashes sink into the waters, coalescing into a clump, as they always do before a resurrection. This time, however, no chick forms and the night is as silent as the grave, with not a squawk to be heard.
(Above, in the sky, a star dims and goes supernova, a soul finally allowed on its way)
Written as a Reserve Beater for Puddlemere United of the QLFC. My prompt was to write from the point of view of a phoenix.
Optional Prompts: Soul, Lake.
~Athena~