In the heart of the Mystic Mountains, where the sun cast golden rays and shadows danced among the trees, a young phoenix named Flame found himself in dire straits. The day had nearly passed, and with it, his precious feather was nowhere to be found.
The elders of the Phoenix clan had always warned him: “Keep your feather close; it is the core of your power, the essence of your rebirth.” With each careless flutter of his wings, Flame had allowed them to escape from his sight, but now, he had lost it in its entirety. He gazed down from his perch, the remaining embers of daylight nibbling at the edge of the horizon, and realized he had no time to waste.
He set off down the valley, flames licking at his feet with every step, hoping to find the elusive feather before night engulfed the land.
As he plunged deeper into the woods, darkness with its hidden terrors swallowed him whole. Muted sounds echoed from all sides, shadows that seemed alive gripped and clawed at him as he carved a path through the underbrush. His fiery visage stood out in stark contrast to the darkened terrain, but it was a beacon in the fog, and he could smell the dampness that lay upon everything, weighing it down. Days of rain had rendered the ground quaggy, each footfall sinking into the muck.
Suddenly, a creature of nightmares appeared, a lion with three heads, eyes bulging and teeth growing grotesquely, as if nature itself had birthed a tainted offspring. The beast cast its wicked gaze upon him. Flame knew he must fight, though he had no desire to fight these dark forces any longer. They haunted him night after night in his dreams, his voice hoarse from crying out as he tried to escape their grip.
As the lion charged him, flame erupted around him, a furious column rising from his body. The lion screeched to a halt, its eyes rolling back in fear. Flame’s flames fell over the creature’s body, scorching its moorish hair and boiling the flesh underneath. The lion writhed in agony before collapsing—dead. It was the end of his suffering; no doubt Flame was glad to see it go. But another creature loomed behind him, lurking in the shadows.
Overhead, a flock of birds took flight with a deafening crescendo, flapping their massive wings in a desperate attempt to flee. Just then, a huge scaly serpent dashed out of the trees, its serrated mouth dripping with venom, hissing as its forked tongue sensed the presence of prey. It lunged for Flame, but too late. Flame flew higher into the air, adrenaline surging through his body. He had to make it through—the loss of his feather robbed him of his past and present; but more importantly, of the future he was to claim.
He soared higher still, white-hot flames silhouetting his body as he pierced the sky, the winds howling in palpable terror. The serpent rushed below, a lightning bolt in pursuit. Flames raged from Flame’s every pore, lapping at the serpent’s scaly hide. The weight of darkness clawed and pulled at his very essence, threatening to steal away altogether with one of these evil forces. He outstretched his wings, diluting the flames that dripped from them. He had to leave ample power to burn the serpent and escape its venomous fangs. Half-extinguished fire dripped from him, sizzling away to ash as it struck the serpent’s back. Flame hung suspended in the air, moving his body gracefully, inspiring the wind to lift him, while tempestuously pouring out fire upon the writhing body beneath him.
The serpent did not relent. It let loose an ear-splitting hiss, its tongue almost freeing itself of the mouth altogether, revealing rows and rows of razor-edged teeth, all dripping with coagulated bloody venom. Just as Flame feared his flames would run dry, the smaller serpent’s coils fell limply to the forest floor, steam rising from its charred body.
Panting heavily, and with what little strength remained, he folded his wings and dove straight into the mouth of the raging storm that brewed below. He felt neither the ferocity of the wind that pushed against him nor the claws of the evil talons that flew through the air. And yet that was still not safe enough, so he sought the depths of the roiling clouds, and even then he felt the tugging of foul creatures leaving bloody bits behind.
Suddenly, a feeble light pierced through the layers of darkness—was it dawn? He burst from the swollen belly of the tempestuous clouds, lest a creature vulnerable like himself tumble in after him.
But there was no rising sun—only the Moon, deep in her slumber, washing the ground below in silvery gray.
He had passed through a full world but arrived no closer to the final destination. Why, oh! Why was the feather so hard to find? The day had crept away beneath his very feet, and now; now the powers of the night sought to devour him! With one mighty beat of the wings, he soared high into the air, and the dozing Moon blinked—a gentle eye peering down through the darkness.
Far below, in stark contrast to the Moon’s cool demeanor, the black forests and shadowy mountains glowed with an unearthly light, as if on the edge of some new day. All over the underbrush, flaming suns seemed sprinkled like dust, each waning ember growling out its last notes of defiance.
Flame had never seen such music before, and it thrilled him to the very marrow. Had he known that this day would be nothing but said celebration, Flame would have scoured the Earth for his missing feather in glee so pure!
Higher still he rose, over mountains, valleys, the rushing waters of the night, and ultimately the weeping woods. Down through the surrounding hillsides, dark figures came—a small army that mirrored but filled in the missing parts of his very own soul. Surprisingly, out of the valiant hearts cascading down the mountainside, they formed the symphony that played the music he had heard before in the trees. Harmony greater than any golden voice poured from those lifeless instrument makers beneath him.
But even more so, hanging high above, two winged figures stood in protection of Moon herself. A tall Earth-toned figure composed of the very elements of the world bent down and cradled her head against stone wings, whose thick plumage shimmered like an arrow in flight. If Flame had had his feather, they could have bantered for days about previous adventures and one another’s rapture—if Moon had been capable of waking.
“Go!” cried Earth.
“I shall not,” Flight shouted, his snow-white feathers flaring into the night.
“Then suffer her the way you chose to love her. Be brave my child!” The last words echoed long after they were spoken, and Flight shook beneath his stony wing.
In that very heartbeat, Flame knew now. The flying figure still slept, but before him lay the remains of a world that was a component of him—the forests, the mountains, the rushing waters—all full of joy. But more so, upon scented breezes, up and down the rivers, he heard the rusted members of loved ones long lost and long forgotten.
He knew now where his feather lay.
Descending slow and thin as smoke towards the Moon, he came down, not impertinently like a pennant flag, but rather as air coming still to rest.
As Flame found peace, mind and body and spirit aligned as one. He closed his eyes and felt them—feathers, many, each unique and separate, snuggling together just down beneath the willowy hair he had yet to tame on his chest. He held all of creation within him: the beauty of the woods, the elegance of the violent mountain; more importantly, he housed his lost feather, safely protected up close to his heart.
The Moon embraced him, and he burned brighter still at her silent touch. Beside her, golden rays surrounded their union like halos—brightening through the clouds, flushing his face high into the heavens, so his radiant presence could warm the darkened Earth below.
He felt power surge through him, every joyful symphony that coursed through the bounds of his corpus. But more importantly, it was a thrill he had not grown accustomed to Z.
Flame opened his eyes, and the very first ember of dawn ignited in those mysterious waters below.