Disclaimer: I'm too young to be Rowling so there is sadly no way Harry Potter is mine…

Placing: After Basilisk-born; accompanying fic to Basilisk-born, can stand alone.

Basic idea from Claude Amelia Song, who wrote a fic about it as well: "Spring ends"

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sSsSsSsSs

A PHOENIX'S LAMENT

sSs

It was over.

It was finally over.

In the end, it had taken years; years of blood, tears and heartbreak; years of denial, understanding and grief. It had taken years, and finally, finally it was over.

It was a relieving thought – and yet, it was heartbreaking as well.

"Until the last burning," he whispered, but his eyes were dry when he knelt down and took in the one body he had forced himself to ignore until it was over.

"Your death should have been honoured," he told the dead and caressed scales that were as big as his hand. "Your death should have been grieved."

And it had been.

It always would.

But at the same time, he had forced himself to ignore it, had forced himself to forget about it, not think about it until it was over and he actually could.

She would have never forgiven him if he had done anything else.

"Until the last burning," he whispered and swallowed harshly. "Until the last flame."

She had been everything for him.

For centuries, she had been his flame.

For millennia, she had been his eternity.

And yet, the only thing left of her were skin, and bones, and flesh.

She wasn't there anymore, hadn't been there anymore for so long – and it hurt to think about it, hurt to acknowledge it, yet, he knew that she wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

"Death isn't the end," he whispered and his hand, adorned with red and golden feathers, travelled along her side, scale after scale. "Death is just the next step."

As if to agree with him, a shallow breeze ruffled the red-golden strands of his hair – strands that looked more like feathers than the actual hair it was.

'Death is a part of life', her voice seemed to whisper all around him.

She had always known that, not matter how much he had wanted to deny it.

Death was a part of life – and yet, love was eternal.

She had left him, he had lost her – and yet, they were still connected. If he wanted to, he knew it would last forever.

"You've always been wiser than me," he said, his fingers, decorated with black nails, travelling the scales of her body. "I might have been millennia older than you, yet, you were the one who knew more about life than I had ever learned."

He closed his black eyes at that thought.

Lost.

Alone.

Without her.

It hurt to think.

It hurt to touch her, to feel her and yet know that she was gone.

He had lost her for the final time – lost the body to the mind he had lost way before that.

"You were always the better part of me," he told her bitterly.

Egoistical.

Selfish.

Dangerous.

Whimsical.

That's what he was, that's what he had been and what he would be now, when the last thing that bound her to him was gone.

"One day, the phoenix will be lost to the flames," she had told their grandson once. "One day the elf will be lost to his dreams – and the elder dragon, the dementor and the basilisk will succumb to the beast inside them. This is how it should be. My time has come. My mind is slipping away from me and I can't and won't stop it. Another month or two, and I won't recognise you anymore."

And she had been right.

The basilisk was lost to the beast slumbering in its mind.

Slumbering in her mind.

He had lost her back then.

"It's been a hundred years since you were lost to the beast inside of you," he whispered and his hands clenched into fists, yet his inhuman eyes, glinting in the dark cave with supernatural light, were dry.

He was an egoistical creature, not willing to cry, not even for her.

He knew he should cry, should spend his tears like those fragile little creatures that called themselves human – but he couldn't.

He was too selfish for that.

Had always been too self-serving for that.

It was a bitter thought, a true thought.

"This is the lot of the immortal," he said to himself, repeating her words, spoken so long ago, before adding his own. "This our destiny."

And what a cruel fate it was.

He leaned closer to the body, his forehead, adorned with small specs of red and gold, not yet feathers, but not skin either, was touching cold scales and for a moment he was grateful that even though she was dead and had been dead for years, the magic in her veins had stopped her from decaying.

He wasn't sure he would have been able to bear it if the only thing left would have been her skeleton, yet, he wasn't naïve enough to believe that the magic would have held her in stasis a lot longer. In a year or two, there wouldn't have been an intact body to bury anymore – just bones.

It hurt to think about it.

He pressed his lips together and forcefully rejected the thought.

His claw-like hand had found her scales again, petting it as if she was still alive and could feel it.

"I miss you," he told her bitterly. "I miss you so much."

It hurt to tell the truth.

It might have been easier if he'd lied.

Just like he'd lied when he'd promised her eternity, knowing, that for her, eternity was a way more limited concept than for himself.

He was such a self-serving creature.

A liar.

A deceiver.

A betrayer.

A hundred years, he had lived without her.

A hundred years he had born her loss, born the fact that the only thing left of her was a mindless husk, there to hunt, to kill, to destroy.

A shell he had promised to guard and annihilate before it started out its path as a mindless killer.

He had lied to her when he pledged himself to her as her murderer.

He had deceived her, unwilling to do what should have been done.

Unwilling to show a mercy she had wanted and that he couldn't give.

Self-centred, he had been.

Merciless, harmful and egoistic – so egoistic.

In the end, he had betrayed her for his own desire.

"One day, a basilisk is lost to the beast inside," he whispered to her. "You told me that the moment I found out what you are. I still wanted to keep you. I still couldn't let you go. Selfish. I've always been selfish."

Maybe, if she'd still been alive, she'd have denied it.

Maybe, she'd have forgiven him.

But she wasn't and while he couldn't regret his actions, he couldn't forgive them as well.

He had been remorseless in his desires, had preferred to watch the world burn than to watch her body do the same.

He hadn't cared.

Never cared.

"Self-serving," he whispered. "I've always known I could be ruthless when it came to others standing in my way to what I desire."

He had proved it, already.

A child had died, others had been attacked and he had stood by and watched.

Mercilessly.

Ruthlessly.

Pitilessly.

He could have watched the world burn as long as it wasn't her – no matter if she knew him or not, no matter if her mind was still there, if she still existed in the mindless shell of her natural form, or if she was gone, long since dead and nearly forgotten.

He had been forced to burn their child already.

He remembered the flames.

He remembered red hair in the sun, golden eyes, laughter and the stillness of death.

He couldn't remember his child's smiles any longer.

Couldn't remember his voice.

Couldn't remember his antics when he had been young and his wisdom when he had been grown.

He couldn't remember what it meant to be a father any longer.

"He's not lost to us, Fawarx" his beloved had believed. "He's still there, he can still listen – and if you listen, you can hear him as well."

He had tried, more then once, but the only thing he got was the image of his child enveloped in flames.

Burned by his, the father's, flames, the child dead before he could say goodbye.

Burned by his flames long before he had been ready to lose their child.

It was no difference to the day he had lost her, in the end.

Yellow eyes, deadly and beautiful.

Hair, dark and later greying, breasts and muscles and bones – temporary and tempting.

Scales and fangs and venom – eternal and not less mesmerizing.

Human form versus serpent shape.

He had loved her, no matter.

"Human forms are temporary," he whispered and his hands clenched as if remembering the wings they had emerged from. "They will be lost to all of us immortals one day."

Just like she had been lost to the beast.

Just like his child had been lost to his flames.

He had burned his child after his fledgling's final day.

And now, after all this time, he had returned, to do the same for her...

"Our egg would have never forgiven me for my selfishness," he told her scales, his head still resting against her side. "Moridunon… Myrddin, he would have hated me for what I'm about to do."

Myrddin would have hated him for his thoughts, for the ruthless decision he was making today.

Myrddin would have hated him… or maybe, he would have understood.

The fledgling had always been oddly sensitive when it came to his father's feelings, after all.

And his feelings were the ones he was listening to for this decision, today.

It hurt to think that his child might have understood and approved.

It hurt to think that his beloved most likely wouldn't have.

Unlike him, she had always been more pragmatic, more settled in reality than in the longing of her heart.

"One day, a basilisk is lost to the beast inside," she had warned him once. "One day we will lose our mind and become the mindless beasts that reside within us since birth."

And her day had come.

Bright and early, far too early.

On one day she had still been with him, the next she had been gone, the only thing left the mindless flesh, the shell, her body but not her soul, not the person that she had been...

"I've lived my life, Fawarx" she had told him softly, words there to sooth what couldn't be soothed. "I am ready to go on. Don't grieve for me when I go. Don't grieve for me when my body is killed."

He had promised her.

He had promised her not to grieve.

He had promised her to stand at their grandson's side, to aid him, to love him, to be there for him…

But he was a self-seeking creature.

He was egoistic and far more self-centred than any other creature he knew.

"One day, the phoenix will be lost to the flames," he whispered. "Just like the basilisk is lost to the beast."

Selfish – because he wanted to keep her even though she had been gone already.

Egoistical – because he planned to think only about himself, now that it was over.

Heartless – because his heart had been lost longer than he could remember, lost to her.

Whimsical – because he was immortal, yet ready to die.

Dangerous – because he was flames and fire and he burned, burned, burned...

That's what he was.

That's what he always has been.

"Death isn't the end," he whispered. "Death is just the next step in life. Death is a part of life."

He looked up, upwards to the top of her massive body.

He was so small compared to her – no matter what form he took, the human-like one he had now, or the one that was his true form.

For a moment, he wondered if she would slap him when they'd end up seeing each other again at the end of time.

Maybe this time around, she wouldn't forgive him for his deeds.

But, he was an egoistical creature, a peculiar creature – and she had always known.

It was all over now.

He had kept his promise, as far as he had been able to keep it.

It was over.

He was done.

So done.

"Your death should be honoured," he told her sadly. "Your death should be grieved."

There were no tears in his eyes.

His voice was soft, a bit trembling, but not saturated in a phoenix's grief.

He had lost her already.

A hundred years ago and more.

She had been gone.

From one day to the other, simply gone – just her body, a mindless beast, had been left.

"It was mercy," he whispered. "A mercy that I couldn't give you."

He had always been merciless, after all.

His eyes travelled to her eyes.

The only thing left of them were a bloody husk.

His deed.

He had been ruthless, destructive, remorseless.

He had picked them out when he blinded her.

Pitiless, unscrupulous, inexorable.

He had taken her eyes, had taken her senses and in the end, had watched while her life had been taken as well.

Had watched her die in this dark and damp cave, hidden beneath a school full of children whom he cared nothing about.

Hidden in this lost world – like she was lost to the world forever, now.

His hands clenched, opening and closing, caressing and rejecting her cold flesh at the same time.

She was dead now.

Gone.

Forever lost.

And it had been his decision that sealed her fate.

"It was mercy for you," he said, his hand trembling against the cold scales. "Mercy you begged for, mercy you wanted."

Mercy he had been too egoistic to give her.

"I've lost you," he whispered. "I've lost you because I decided against you."

It had been his decision that day.

He could have decided for her.

Unscrupulously, self-interestedly and remorselessly.

He could have saved her – but he knew, she would have never forgiven him if he had. On the contrary, she would have hated him for it.

A child's life against her life.

He wouldn't have cared.

He had decided against another child once before, after all.

A child's… their grandchild's life… for her own.

And maybe… just maybe he still wouldn't have cared, still would have decided for her life instead of his grandson's…

He was selfish, after all.

Whimsical, self-serving and harmful to others if it meant to reach his goal.

So, maybe, he would have gone and saved her, sacrificing his future grandson in the process.

"You love him, Fawarx" she had told him once. "You loved our egg – and even though he is our egg's egg, you love him as if he was our own as well."

He was a proven liar.

A proven deceiver.

A proven betrayer.

He could have betrayed his grandson – a child he saw as his own – for her.

He could have.

But...

She would have hated him, if he had tried to ignore the boy who would be their grandchild one day, a few years in the future and over two millennia in the past. Their future past grandchild, born in this time, but grown to adulthood in a time long before the counting started at anno domini.

A child, yet not even thirteen years of age – and still alone in this world.

He knew it would have made her just more protective.

She would have hated him, if he'd taken her side.

He had known that.

And it had hurt because he wanted to.

He had wanted to so much.

He had wished to, begged to, pleaded to be able to take her side.

Just this once.

Just for one last time...

He was a selfish creature.

Self-serving and idiosyncratic.

And not matter what, she was his flame.

His eternal heart.

She was his everything.

And yet…

And YET…

"Fawarx, you love him," she had told him with sureness in her eyes. "Like your own son."

His hands shook, but his eyes were dry.

He was too egoistic to cry.

Nevertheless, he leaned closer towards the scales of her corps, seeking refuge in their former connection.

Only coldness answered him.

He had lost her.

He had blinded her, distracted her, and watched her die...

In the end, the only reason he had gone and saved the child – their child… no, their grandchild –at the cost of his beloved's life was that this child would be his own son's fledgling, some time in the future.

The child that had confronted his beloved had been the younger version of the grandchild he had gotten to know millennia ago.

And no matter how self-serving he was, he couldn't just sit by and watch his fledgling's fledgling die.

Not when his beloved would hate him for it.

Not when his son would hate him for it.

Not when it meant losing the grandson who wasn't yet reborn as his grandson from the child's point of view.

Not when he might not ever be able to forgive himself for it.

His hands clenched at the thought, more claws than human fists now.

His eyes, golden and burning with red flames one moment, yet black and bottomless the other, closed in defeat.

It had been a decision that had already been decided by the wishes of all the other people involved.

The child or his beloved.

His child or his beloved.

He couldn't pick his beloved, not matter how much he wanted.

So he had done what he had to do.

He had picked her eyes out.

He had blinded her.

Then he had gone after her, confused her senses as much as he was able.

And in the end, he had sat by and watched how the sword had pierced her mouth and killed her instantly.

He had watched how she had died at the hands of a twelve-year-old child, not yet his grandson for another two to three years.

And he had done nothing.

He had stifled the flames of retribution for her death.

He had stifled the flames that burned inside him as a representative of his love for her.

He had turned away his head from her and given her over to their grandson's mercy.

Ruthlessly.

Mercilessly.

Destructively.

"Don't grieve for me," she had begged, and back then, back at the day she had died, he had forced himself to follow her order.

"Don't grieve for me, Fawarx," she had ordered and while he spilled some tears in the end, he hadn't spilled them for her.

Instead, he spilled them for the child that would be his grandson one day.

He had spilled them so that the child would survive.

One drop.

A second.

A third.

Not more, never more.

He was too selfish to give more tears, no matter how much he hurt inside.

Magic was burning inside his veins, stronger than any other magic on earth when it came to renewal.

His tears were the way to set it free.

He wondered how something so pure could come from a tainted creature like him.

A creature so wrapped up in itself that it was willing to let children die when it meant to keep its self-seeking desires.

A creature who was willing to break its promise if it just meant to have another minute at her side – no matter what state she was in: whole, lost to the beast, lost to the cold of death – or lost to the flames burning inside him.

"I promised that I won't grieve for you," he whispered. "I promised, but I'm selfish."

His fingers, adorned with sharp nails, caressed her scales.

"Forgive me, Aleahkys, but I am egoistic," he whispered. "I'm such a self-serving creature – and so unlike you."

It was then that he was pulled out of his bitter lament.

'Fawkes!'

For a moment, he was sure that he had heard the old Headmaster's voice calling for him, demanding for him. It wouldn't have been the first time. The old man had often demanded for him, and he had come, abiding the older-looking but younger man's wishes.

For a moment, he listened to the breeze, not sure if he had really heard the call or if he had just dreamed it.

'Fawkes!'

Again.

Maybe it was real.

Maybe it wasn't, he couldn't say – and he didn't care anymore.

It was over now.

He was done.

So done.

'Fawkes!'

He listened for a moment to the breeze, then he turned away and dismissed it, his hands finding the scales again, stroking them.

He had done his duty.

It was over now.

"Your death will be honoured," he told her bitterly. "Your death will be grieved."

He was such a selfish creature.

"You're too hard on yourself, Fawarx," her voice in the breeze told him. "You've always been way too hard on yourself."

It was a lie he had never believed her.

It was a lie he had nevertheless loved to hear.

A lie she had believed until the end and he hadn't since the first time it had been uttered by her.

She was gone now.

Had been gone for about a century already.

"Until the last burning," he whispered and beneath his hands, the corps ignited. "Until the last burning, that's what I promised you, and that's what I'll keep."

One day, the phoenix is lost to the flames.

Fawarx didn't move away, when the flames engulfed the corps and in the end, engulfed him, too.

Cold scales turned hot and red in the flames.

Red hair burned with bluish, hot fire.

The flames licked his fingers, caressed his hands, surrounded his frame.

It felt warm, warmer than it had ever felt before.

His eyes were dry.

The flames burned higher.

Hot on his skin.

Hot in his bones.

His voice was hoarse when he chanted her name.

"Aleahkys!"

Burns, fire and ashes flaking from his bones when his body was lost to the flames – just like hers...

"It's over now," he whispered, but there was a song in his words, a song more beautiful than anything else on this world.

A phoenix's song.

There were wet tracks on his cheek.

There was fire in his hair, on his skin, in his bones.

There was fire instead of feathers – death instead of life.

"It's finally over now."

Until the last burning.

Until the last flame.

The breeze picked up the ashes.

And a phoenix cried.

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I told Claude Amelia Song that she inspired me to my own version of her story, well, that was it.

Hope you and everybody else liked it.

Ebenbild