The Pheonix

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The Phoenix. Some say he’s a vigilante who fights for the underdog. Others say he’s a runaway of the Pack, heir to Coyote I. Many rumors say he’s the reincarnation of Queen Battlewinner, or a SkyWing animus, or even Darkstalker himself.
I always found his reincarnation stories just a little too far fetched. He’s nothing more then a small, inconsequential NightWing who stumbled on an old toy.
I told him not to touch it. Not to take it. Not to put it on. But he found that blasted gem too beautiful to leave to the rot of that cave. We took it home, hid it in a box under the back deck of our little hut. And there it stayed for years.
My brother was always a wanderer, a free spirit. He loved flying from town to town every night, just him and the stars. He always disliked when the moons were full, something I always teased him about. He’d travel all over Pyrrhia and bring back stories of faraway sights and sounds. He loved telling me about the infinite ocean of the Sea Kingdom, or some strange RainWing he’d met, or a great hidden sight of the mountains he found. He come running in the front door, nearly ripping it off it’s hinges as he speaks faster then understandable. Friends would visit those evenings, and we’d all listen to the stories, enraptured in his words. He was quite a good storyteller back then.
Until he stopped telling the stories. Stopped inviting friends. Stopped running through the front door. It’d be days until I even knew he was home. He’d sneak around the back of the hut and under the deck, and dig up the little wooden box to check that the jewel was still there. I confronted him once I discovered the odd scuff marks in the dirt.
“What is going on!?”
“I was just making sure it hadn’t been stolen!”
“Really? Stolen? it sat there for years, untouched. I actually forgot it existed!”
“Exactly! We should use it, it can’t stay under there any longer, or, or... I don’t know what will happen!”
“It’s just a ruby! What could possible happen?”
“I think it’s animus-touched.”
We compromised. We took it back to the cavern we found it in to test it out. He tried touching it and speaking commands (which I will say was quite comical), throwing in the air, even dropping it in a puddle. I had picked it up out of a dark corner where it had banged the side against a stalagmite when he tried throwing it. I discovered a little latch on the back, and I guess I took too long because my brother had pulled it from my claws before I even heard him move.
He pulled the latch and a long, golden chain fell out. I had barely a moment to think, to open my mouth to tell him to stop, but he had dropped it over his head before I could stop him.
In a anticlimactic moment, two small, golden, feathered wings sprouted from the sides of the ruby, fluttering before settling, open against his chest. He started to laugh, no doubt about to make a joke about my face.
Then it exploded.
Fire engulfed him, lighting the cavern in brilliant light. Flames erupted from the gem, burning nothing and spreading skyward. I had closed my eyes in surprise, but his terrified scream is burned in my ears forever.
Then he laughed. He laughed. I opened my eyes, stupefied. My brother spun a slow circle, looking at a cloak of fire dancing out behind him. Fire reflected off his scales, and the gem sparked in the firelight. He stopped to look at me, his face painted in pride and happiness and surprise and awe. He said something wittily joyful, but I didn’t hear it. All I could think was: “My brother does not have orange eyes.”
His eyes were always his best trait, although plenty of our friends would point to his starscales instead. My brother had big, soft, expressive eyes with pinkish-purple irises, lighter toward the pupil. They reflected light and joy from his travels, and were windows to a free spirit. The eyes of this beast of fire were not the eyes of my brother.
These eyes were harsh, glowing orange like flames. Not the homey warmth of a bonfire and friends and stories, but the harsh light of arson and destruction, a light that’s hard to look at.
He never took the necklace off again. After a few moments of toggling with the wings, he found that if pushed lightly, they fold back in and the fire would be extinguished. The orange in his eyes stayed, to my disappointment.
I lost my brother that night.
He wore the necklace every day after that. A few of our friends congratulated him on such an interesting gemstone, and asked about the jeweler who made it. While a few noticed his eyes, none seemed as shaken by shifted colors. When he left on his next trip, he didn’t come back. I didn’t think much of it. It was just a matter of time. He prided himself on his freedom, it was the thing he held dearest. I always expected him to leave soon, to live the rest of his life wandering from place to place, but I guess the necklace must have been the thing tying him here.
Then there were stories. Years after he left, and I guess I shouldn’t have cared. They were just whispers, and really, they could have described anyone. They described a voiceless vigilante wandering on moonless nights. Any other details weren’t ever steady, some said a SkyWing animus, some a reincarnation of Darkstalker.
Then there was the name. It snuck up on me, I should’ve see it coming it fits so well. Attached to the rumors, the vigilante was given a name. The Phoenix.
Not gonna lie, I laughed in that SandWing’s face with no explanation when he said that. My brother may be a storyteller, but he’s not the most original when it comes to names.
And it stayed like that. Years and years and years of just hearing stories. It was nice to know that he was alive, but it got hard to tell the truth from the lies. I moved on, became a glassblower in Possibility. I stayed in touch with home, traveling back and forth. It was an easy life, and I loved it. Spend a few nights at home, chatting with old friends and blowing glass in the hut I grew up in, then travel desert dunes to Possibility a small hut with a booth to sell wares. Then back again.
I put my brother from my mind. I never mentioned I had siblings when meeting a new dragon, always kept a straight face when I heard a story of the cursed Phoenix. I’d make small talk about if a patron brought it up, but behind closed doors or traveling the drab desert, I was an only dragonet. I never had a brother.
It was a moonless night when it happened. I had barely gotten in the door of the hut and set my satchel down when there was a heavy thunk at the door. It was a small, lithe figure at my open doorway, probably a young female. She knocked on the doorframe, and two large shapes appeared behind her.
“The great Phoenix... is a glassblower? I’d’ve thought you did something a little more... labor intensive in your free time.”
“Excuse me? You must have the wrong booth.”
“No, I know exactly where I am. Alpha wants to speak with you.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Alpha Fang is not a patient dragon. He insists you come, or will I have to have these two brutes drag your dead corpse to him?”
Before I could answer she was distracted by a tap of racing claws on uneven cobblestones. There was a woosh of flame, and the still, quiet night was suddenly all too bright. The Phoenix sunk his claws into the flank of one of the brutes, before the other leapt at him. I dodged the dragoness’s fire bolt, around her and out the door as I heard my wares shatter on the ground. She followed close behind me, her talons bloody with broken glass.
I don’t remember much of the battle, it was a dark night, and adrenaline doesn’t help memory. I do remember the dragoness’s talons, bloody and sharp, and the burns on the flanks of the brutes, and the three running scared like dogs with their tails between their legs.
“Brother...”
He did not answer me. He did not speak. He didn’t even look like he recognized me. But I saw it. A flash of fear in those unnatural eyes. That his idea of freedom and pride might be snaked out from under him by a ghost of his past.
He turned and left, extinguishing the fiery cape. I called after him, but he didn’t answer, and I didn’t dare chase after him.
“Brother! Brother, don’t leave!”
I know now he loved the power more then he did me. I know I hate the lies. The ones of the vigilante, the ones I told myself, the ones he told our friends. My brother was a good dragon. He was a wanderer, a free spirit who wished to see the world. My brother was prideful, yes, but not destructively so. My brother was a storyteller, a joker.
“Brother! Starsoul! Starsoul, listen to me!”
“Don’t leave me.”
My brother does not have orange eyes.
Category:Fanfictions
Category:Fanfictions (Completed)
Category:Fanfictions (Fanon)
Category:Genre (Short Story)
Category:Genre (Tragedy)