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Six
She slowly hopped from one edge of the world to the other. One, two, three, four, five, six small leaps took her from the nearest wall to the farthest. She paused at the edge of the world, tapping it absently with her beak; it remained unyielding, unchanging, exactly as it had been for as long as she could remember.
The world was dark and hard. Dark, hard, and lonely. She didn’t precisely understand the concept of loneliness; she had nothing to compare her singular existence against. Still, she understood on some deep, subconscious level that there really ought to be more than just her in the world. What more, she couldn’t say, but she was certain that if it existed, it would be an improvement.
She slowly hopped back to the other side of the world. One, two, three, four, five, six.
She knew she had lived a long time. The world may have been empty, but it had its cycles of warm and cold. There were also dim noises on occasion, though these seemed to come and go almost at random. Once she had been convinced that these sounds came from outside the world, but in time she realized that that was foolish. She didn’t know why the walls whistled and growled—just another of the mysteries of the universe—but they did.
One, two, three, four, five, six.
But the most reliable way to track the passage of time was the accumulation of feathers on the ground. She had had many feathers once, but now only a bare few clung in tufts to her head and wings. The rest she had gathered in the center of the world. It made a more comfortable bed than the substance of which everything else was made, and keeping the feathers piled together felt unaccountably natural.
One, two, three, fo—
She stopped suddenly, coming to an ungainly halt atop her pile of feathers. Something was wrong. She was warm, even though it wasn’t warm-time yet. No, not warm; she was hot. The last few feathers drifted from her body to the pile below her, unnoticed. She was burning up.
The heat started in her breast, and spread from there. She watched, body no longer under her own control, as her chest began to heave, and her wings began to tremble. Her feet started to twitch, then spasm, as she fruitlessly hopped in place. Then the heat reached her head.
Her featherless wings began to beat the air as she leapt, again and again. Her head beat against the roof of the world. Her body struggled to rise, her instincts screamed at her to lift up, to lift up higher than the world itself, but she did not notice. The fire was in her mind now, and with it came memories from a time before memories.
With perfect clarity, she remembered that there was a time when the world was larger than this. She remembered her own hatching, her parents, her nest. She remembered the dog-creatures who had come, with their cart and their dull grey box. She remembered being taken from her nest, put in the box, its lid sealed over. She remembered bumps and jolts, then tumbling end over end, then stillness. She remembered it all.
Again and again her body beat against the roof of the world—no, the lid, the lid! The heat in her body increased, and wisps of smoke trailed from her as she hopped and fluttered. She needed to rise, she needed to rise, she needed to—
As suddenly as it had begun, everything stopped. Her body seized, and she collapsed onto the pile of feathers. She felt a flickering heat, different from the one which had filled her body moments ago. She saw flames. She watched as they spread, engulfing her. As her vision failed, she heard a memory echo through her head...
“Asbestos and steel may do to trap a phoenix, Sparky, but only for a bit. There’s nothing burns hotter than rebirth, and we haven’t made a cage yet that can hold that heat...”
Then, nothing.
She opened her eyes. There was light; light she remembered from long, long ago.
Slowly, uncertainly, she rose to her feet. She blinked against the brightness, flexed her rejuvenated wings. The melted ruins of the world lay about her, and a new world—a bigger world—a better world—stretched before her. She let out a weak, warbling croak, and hopped to meet it.
One, two, three, four, five, six
seven
The world was dark and hard. Dark, hard, and lonely. She didn’t precisely understand the concept of loneliness; she had nothing to compare her singular existence against. Still, she understood on some deep, subconscious level that there really ought to be more than just her in the world. What more, she couldn’t say, but she was certain that if it existed, it would be an improvement.
She slowly hopped back to the other side of the world. One, two, three, four, five, six.
She knew she had lived a long time. The world may have been empty, but it had its cycles of warm and cold. There were also dim noises on occasion, though these seemed to come and go almost at random. Once she had been convinced that these sounds came from outside the world, but in time she realized that that was foolish. She didn’t know why the walls whistled and growled—just another of the mysteries of the universe—but they did.
One, two, three, four, five, six.
But the most reliable way to track the passage of time was the accumulation of feathers on the ground. She had had many feathers once, but now only a bare few clung in tufts to her head and wings. The rest she had gathered in the center of the world. It made a more comfortable bed than the substance of which everything else was made, and keeping the feathers piled together felt unaccountably natural.
One, two, three, fo—
She stopped suddenly, coming to an ungainly halt atop her pile of feathers. Something was wrong. She was warm, even though it wasn’t warm-time yet. No, not warm; she was hot. The last few feathers drifted from her body to the pile below her, unnoticed. She was burning up.
The heat started in her breast, and spread from there. She watched, body no longer under her own control, as her chest began to heave, and her wings began to tremble. Her feet started to twitch, then spasm, as she fruitlessly hopped in place. Then the heat reached her head.
Her featherless wings began to beat the air as she leapt, again and again. Her head beat against the roof of the world. Her body struggled to rise, her instincts screamed at her to lift up, to lift up higher than the world itself, but she did not notice. The fire was in her mind now, and with it came memories from a time before memories.
With perfect clarity, she remembered that there was a time when the world was larger than this. She remembered her own hatching, her parents, her nest. She remembered the dog-creatures who had come, with their cart and their dull grey box. She remembered being taken from her nest, put in the box, its lid sealed over. She remembered bumps and jolts, then tumbling end over end, then stillness. She remembered it all.
Again and again her body beat against the roof of the world—no, the lid, the lid! The heat in her body increased, and wisps of smoke trailed from her as she hopped and fluttered. She needed to rise, she needed to rise, she needed to—
As suddenly as it had begun, everything stopped. Her body seized, and she collapsed onto the pile of feathers. She felt a flickering heat, different from the one which had filled her body moments ago. She saw flames. She watched as they spread, engulfing her. As her vision failed, she heard a memory echo through her head...
“Asbestos and steel may do to trap a phoenix, Sparky, but only for a bit. There’s nothing burns hotter than rebirth, and we haven’t made a cage yet that can hold that heat...”
Then, nothing.
She opened her eyes. There was light; light she remembered from long, long ago.
Slowly, uncertainly, she rose to her feet. She blinked against the brightness, flexed her rejuvenated wings. The melted ruins of the world lay about her, and a new world—a bigger world—a better world—stretched before her. She let out a weak, warbling croak, and hopped to meet it.
One, two, three, four, five, six
seven