The Day the Phoenix Died
(part two)
He couldn't stop shaking.
The old man clenched his hands, refusing to give in to the anguish he could feel eating away inside him, at his soul.
It is in the past. It is over. It is done
But the words didn't help. The words never helped, and the only one who could help was far beyond the cares of this world… by his own hand…
The memory gnawed at him, giving no peace. Each time the calming distance of time tried to assert its buffer between his heart and the guilt another crystal-clear picture would wash over him, and he would bury his face in his hands, the torture un relenting, unanswerable… and deserved…
He was sick with the thought of the dawn. It came slowly, gray tendrils of sunlight reaching out to embrace and warm—but not him. Never him.
Somewhere outside his darkened room the world was awakening, and the cruel, mocking sunlight would look upon him and reveal his guilt—condemn him, again—but those blue eyes would never again look into his, never be able to—
Once again he was staring into fervent blue eyes, and a hint of song and warmth and crimson, beating wings filled his mind, a powerful taste of something not quite in reach of true memory—
That brief memory of a thought, passed along so quickly, so swiftly, one moment of brightness in the madness on top that tower, so firmly stifled under the needs and black urgencies of that moment, surfaced quickly as a vision. The world seemed to stop, and the old man nearly forgot to breathe as, all at once, for this first time in years, something resembling a shadow of hope blossomed in a forbidden corner of his mind.
—a song of joy, of power and beauty—aching beauty—he was not worthy, yet those blue eyes watched and beckoned and smiled, and he reached out with a tender strand of fragile trust—oh, it was hard…
The old man jerked from his reverie, and, in the sudden stillness of the predawn light knew that unearthly sound had not been all memory, all dream.
He denied himself the vanity of hope—but all the same he rose, and walked toward the window. He reached out—slowly—hardly daring to breathe, he pulled back the curtain—
The song filled the air again, and the old man saw in a swirl of red and gold
—a flash of crimson, beating wings—
the most magnificent bird he had ever seen peel away from him, up, out towards the sky, reaching up as high as that first pink golden ray of sun which suddenly streamed out above the horizon, heralding the promise of day.
And suddenly the old man was running, stumbling out the door into the cool dawn air, robes billowing out about him as he clumsily followed the bird's majestic flight on the ground. He blinked, squinted, unused to the light after being so long in darkness, but he saw the bird as it wheeled away—up, up, into the cloudless sky—and his heart ached. He could not follow it, for somehow the dream-memory had come to life again, was here in the present, hounding him, but he knew if he could only follow the noble creature everything would, somehow, be all right…
A single golden, scarlet tipped feather drifted down out of the blue. The old man, as though in a dream, reached out for it—brushed it gently with his fingertips—and suddenly firm claws settled on his shoulder, and he was tearing through space and time with the dark knowing eyes of the phoenix seeing the way, guiding him, leading him on—
And they stopped, abruptly, and the old man staggered, landing in a heap on the ground, too exhausted from nightmares and this long, long battle to begin to understand where, or why or how.
It seemed a long, long time later when a gentle, ethereal song called him back to the here-and-now. He shivered, feeling the shadow that was cast over him. With a sudden sense of dread, the old man's eyes snapped open.
He was lying on the ground, with the phoenix circling above him, and to his left, like a sheltering wall in a storm, was a cold white tomb.
Horror erupted in the old man's mind.
No! Not now, it cannot catch up now, not when I can no longer run—
But something was different.
This time, for every note of damnation and guilt that his past played out on the stage of his mind, a chorus of song burst from the phoenix, who was coming lower—closer—each note a drop of healing balm, a reassurance—a soft acceptance—a gentle comfort and stern rebuke to his guilt and his pain and his blame.
At that moment the sun broke above the horizon for real, and the warm light played down blindingly on the tomb, and the phoenix call was intensified, beautifully inexpressibly vibrant and real and comforting, intermingled with the wind as the old man, through squinted eyes and a hand upheld to shield his face, read the fine-lined inscription, so cleverly hidden, on the side of the tomb.
And the memory of the last farewell those blue eyes had held returned again, and for the first time, he heard the lyrics of the song, and the soft, gentle voice in the beating of gold and crimson wings.
…You were always forgiven, my friend... Did you not know? All that remains… is to forgive yourself…
The wind died; the sun's glare softened and the old man dropped his hand. The phoenix song slowly died away into echoes, and all was still—even within his soul.
And then after a moment, after a lifetime, for the first time and the last, the tears flowed, and dark eyes cast out the demons that had haunted them for so long, and it was good; it was right; it was time… and blessed, sweet relief swept him away on the wings of forgiving, lasting, loving peace, and finally to a gentle nothingness.
The old man awoke slowly, in stages, curled up in a warm wall in his own bed. All was quiet—all was still. His heart gave a great leap of fright—something must be wrong, something had happened—but a sound, or perhaps the echo of a sound, called him fully to his senses, and the brief panic subsided, and he was calmed. Slowly, a jumble of memories—of a moment, of a dream, he could not tell—came back, confused and uncertain, but there and real and good. The old man sat up slowly, running a hand over his face and his hair as though he had never felt them before, eyes wide and looking around the dreary chamber as though it was all new and unexplored, as though no painful memories had ever been housed and sheltered by the walls. Then slowly, he looked down, to see, curled softly, gently cupped in his right hand, a single gold and crimson feather.
And he smiled—and a single tear rolled down his cheek, both happy and sad, filled with a sudden peace and a sudden joy that rested on the calm waters of forgiveness—but above all, a knowledge: that the day the a phoenix dies…
…it always finds a way to rise again.