I own as much of pokemon as I do of Mercury.
On Wings of Golden Sunbeams
By Farla
I am Ho-oh. I am the Golden Bird, I am Phoenix, and I am the Rainbow Bird. I have many names, and thus none.
I am the Many-Colored Phoenix of the Sun, the Golden Rainbow. Most importantly, I am the Bird of Ashes and Beginnings.
I have many titles, many names. I am immortal, and everyone has their own name for me.
Many titles, yet no true purpose.
Moltres is the Elemental Bird of Fire, serving as one of the Three. Lugia is the Guardian, of the waters and the birds. I am…
The Phoenix. The Sunbird. I have no place in the balance, in the ancient prophesies. Should I die, the world would not be destroyed.
It is ironic, that I, the Bird of Sun, the Phoenix that Rises from the Ashes, the living embodiment of the Hope that Springs Eternal and how even in the worst of times, all is not lost, realize this and despair. Then again, which came first, the bird or the egg? Am I the embodiment of the idea, or is the idea the embodiment of me? No matter, though.
Golden sunlight is a cheerful thing. But not for me.
Moltres is a true legendary pokemon, a powerful creature like all the others, even if he does not fight now. But I cannot fight. I am life, healing and revival. My place is the healing of those injured in battles. One of my titles, actually, by a race that saw war as a last resort. Healer of Injured and Dead. They're dead now, of course. Ironic, that it is those who reject battle and death who die. But to battle, to inflict wounds, goes against that.
And, truly, that really is my only purpose. That and to give hope and meaning to the lives of others.
Yet to revive those who die would mean an ultimate death for all, because all who live must die at some point or another. A child killed young? An elder dying late? It doesn't matter, for it serves the same purpose. To reduce the (vast over-) population. There is a limit to how many the world can support, and creatures usually have more children then are needed to replace themselves. It sounds callous, but if everyone survived to have children, the world would end up a baron wasteland.
So my purpose of healing is wasted, and isn't it a bit hypocritical for one to offer hope when one has lost it?
Yes, to the normal creatures, my gift of revival is not so petty. To bring back their mother, father, lover, daughter, son, it means the world to them. But I am immortal, and I watch thousands die in what seems like the blink of an eye to me. Surely, one cannot matter much, they think. But everyone wants someone brought back. If I revived the dead, the world would not be able to support them. And who am I to decide which special ones shall be given that second chance? I can't toy with life and death, and so I do not use my power to begin with. The choice is too hard. Who can choose who shall live again and who shall stay dead? I cannot use by power as I did once, unheeding of the greater world and satisfied by the happiness of a few.
And hope, hope too is valued by the normal ones. Over the years, though, I've found Hope to be the worst of all those released from Pandora's box. If she had not opened the lid a second time, the world would be better off. It is all the crueler because it calls itself a blessing.
Cynical? No doubt. But what does hope ever do? If you don't hope for anything, then you are unfazed by the worst and happy with anything better. Hope leads to despair. For the normal, short-lived creatures, perhaps not always. But often.
How I wish I was anything but myself. A legendary without the curse of blessing that cannot be given. To be Zapdos or Articuno, to lose myself in the fierce joys of battle. But I cannot.
I am the Phoenix who Rises from the Ashes, I am Life from Death. I am Hope, even if I've lost my own.
I am Ho-oh, with wings of golden sunbeams.
On Wings of Golden Sunbeams
By Farla
I am Ho-oh. I am the Golden Bird, I am Phoenix, and I am the Rainbow Bird. I have many names, and thus none.
I am the Many-Colored Phoenix of the Sun, the Golden Rainbow. Most importantly, I am the Bird of Ashes and Beginnings.
I have many titles, many names. I am immortal, and everyone has their own name for me.
Many titles, yet no true purpose.
Moltres is the Elemental Bird of Fire, serving as one of the Three. Lugia is the Guardian, of the waters and the birds. I am…
The Phoenix. The Sunbird. I have no place in the balance, in the ancient prophesies. Should I die, the world would not be destroyed.
It is ironic, that I, the Bird of Sun, the Phoenix that Rises from the Ashes, the living embodiment of the Hope that Springs Eternal and how even in the worst of times, all is not lost, realize this and despair. Then again, which came first, the bird or the egg? Am I the embodiment of the idea, or is the idea the embodiment of me? No matter, though.
Golden sunlight is a cheerful thing. But not for me.
Moltres is a true legendary pokemon, a powerful creature like all the others, even if he does not fight now. But I cannot fight. I am life, healing and revival. My place is the healing of those injured in battles. One of my titles, actually, by a race that saw war as a last resort. Healer of Injured and Dead. They're dead now, of course. Ironic, that it is those who reject battle and death who die. But to battle, to inflict wounds, goes against that.
And, truly, that really is my only purpose. That and to give hope and meaning to the lives of others.
Yet to revive those who die would mean an ultimate death for all, because all who live must die at some point or another. A child killed young? An elder dying late? It doesn't matter, for it serves the same purpose. To reduce the (vast over-) population. There is a limit to how many the world can support, and creatures usually have more children then are needed to replace themselves. It sounds callous, but if everyone survived to have children, the world would end up a baron wasteland.
So my purpose of healing is wasted, and isn't it a bit hypocritical for one to offer hope when one has lost it?
Yes, to the normal creatures, my gift of revival is not so petty. To bring back their mother, father, lover, daughter, son, it means the world to them. But I am immortal, and I watch thousands die in what seems like the blink of an eye to me. Surely, one cannot matter much, they think. But everyone wants someone brought back. If I revived the dead, the world would not be able to support them. And who am I to decide which special ones shall be given that second chance? I can't toy with life and death, and so I do not use my power to begin with. The choice is too hard. Who can choose who shall live again and who shall stay dead? I cannot use by power as I did once, unheeding of the greater world and satisfied by the happiness of a few.
And hope, hope too is valued by the normal ones. Over the years, though, I've found Hope to be the worst of all those released from Pandora's box. If she had not opened the lid a second time, the world would be better off. It is all the crueler because it calls itself a blessing.
Cynical? No doubt. But what does hope ever do? If you don't hope for anything, then you are unfazed by the worst and happy with anything better. Hope leads to despair. For the normal, short-lived creatures, perhaps not always. But often.
How I wish I was anything but myself. A legendary without the curse of blessing that cannot be given. To be Zapdos or Articuno, to lose myself in the fierce joys of battle. But I cannot.
I am the Phoenix who Rises from the Ashes, I am Life from Death. I am Hope, even if I've lost my own.
I am Ho-oh, with wings of golden sunbeams.
