In the end, I got fed up with the antics of the pointless flirting with the “intelligent” mortality, enough ponies for me. In saying, it would go like ‘nothing like the company of oneself’ would certainly be better than ‘out of the fire, into the frying pan.’ We had no choice but to be solitary by nature, else all of us would be as mad as Luna! I jest, but you take my point I’m sure. I decided to head east south east to the foliage close to city of Baltimare.
Though our kind is rare, we manage to find each other by periodically leaving feathers behind in the trees. Different types of feather being used to indicate a more precise whereabouts, or lack thereof: tail for no longer here, or, leaving, (generally speaking, a forest), a wing feather for ‘just passing through’ meaning departure within the approximate week and a plume feather, for a semi-permanent settler nearby. Phoenix's who’d lived there for many years abandoned no feathers and would be quite offended by the thought of it while within “their” own territory. However, over time (as with everything, only at alternative rates) the abandoned feathers' meaning had loosened, now, it could mean anything. The time frame to a stranger, an intimate message to a mate; a desire or, possessing the intention of ending one’s life, achievable solely through suicide. This was done by ensuring that (or having someone else ensure) one’s ashes to fall into the ocean upon rejuvenation. Or, boldly convincing the sisters to carry the deed out themselves. Only once, had the latter succeeded in the persuasion. This desire was typically displayed by a singular of each, the plume, wing and tail, commonly linked to (as a secondary meaning) ‘Don’t follow me.’ As for the less romantic, ‘Stay the hell out of my way’. Anyhow, the signal related here, is how the original wings feather meaning could also replace the original plume’s meaning. Plucking a plume feather off oneself is an extreme feat, not worth attempting, no matter how long one plans to stay in one place. Our ancestors must have had either unbreakable necks or more mate’s to count on. It was the former, obviously.
Upon arrival on Baltimare’s forest, I was to be greeted by an unusually shrewd wind as though my friends anguished cries were carried. Allowing myself to briefly enter the realm of superstition, I cursed once more at my failure to protect the unknowing from the unknown, as those who are knowing should do, relatively speaking. And well, it was a forest. The trees rustled like any other, emanating a subliminal solidarity. If they could speak, I doubt they’d say anything anyway. The wildlife was largely uncaring of my presence, although I had to turn away many amusing questions of ‘did you see where the rabbit went?’ from the fox and hungry looks from the manticores. We do try to remain impartial, save for each other, else we’d be altering, well, everything. Lore showed us the traps mythical birds had fallen into when interfering, destroying what was never meant to be destroyed; creating cultures that were to not be created. So much so, we’ve played a part in any Equestria’s history you’ve ever heard of.
Theoretically, Celestia runs directly against our morality, by upkeeping a repeating cycle until unforeseeable circumstances forced her otherwise. Once, we’d been convinced of our merit--and attempted to be those circumstances ourselves. Gods should never conflict. But they are the only ones whose conflicts are of any importance, else no tales to sing of. Phoenix's are just colourless pieces that wish to hold no influence, but contradict their beliefs with their very existence, for our manipulation is inevitable; humility’s great. As I said, this is all, theoretically, speaking.
I left a wing feather beside a spindly birch tree and settled on a grand oak nearby, silently complementing its age. Tree’s are just about the kindest organics around. They’d never start any wars. I held no high hopes for like company but, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, it came. What you didn’t guess, is how it came: as my mother. Now, you see, we didn’t exactly have a platonic relationship after all this time. It was a meager number of years after my birth that my will was entirely my own. My family treated each other fairly similarly to how one would treat strangers. But not to say loneliness is any better, quite the opposite; immortality is never a stranger amongst itself. We’re all bearers of the same pain, (mostly). Mystifyingly, the exchange was a bit cold. She was pleased to see I was alright, and wished me well. No asking as to what happened. No affirmation of the injustice. No playing of the heartstrings. It brought me close enough to be bitterly pondering whether if everybody else really was the same, lifespan irrelevant. As a result of me being utterly flabbergasted at the lack of questions, I let her leave before she’d arrived. Amazing.
She didn’t even tell me where father was. Not that he’d care where I was. I don’t think anyone cared where I was. Had they ever? Did the Equines care when they “claimed” the land by erecting their colorful banners? Two in the earth, one with a slightly higher proportion of crystals below it; one in the clouds. A large group of us were watching, bemused at how anypony could “claim” the land. Undeniably, we are all claimed by the land as long as we reside on it. That was how it was, what all philosophy was founded on. Now, they were doing something so silly; incredible enough to defy the most primal of rules. With their ridiculous ideals, they brought the staggering cold. Windigos are remnants of Discord’s rein. A cruel joke that he didn’t think would have any effect prior to his return. Let alone to have them spread their ice across continents with a constant source to feed on! We were forced to abandon our home for the pastel coloured four legged creatures who’d “claimed’ the land whose fertility they’d decimated themselves. Supposedly pacted under three banners stemming from physical differences, until we found out they’d decided to ‘make up’. How lovely. No Phoenix dared return for many years, if not for the plagued land, then for the insufferable, surely hypocritical, ponies, if they were there at all. Our sudden poof into existence was ironically seen as blessing from the heavenly sisters. And, as it unsurprisingly turned out, the Alicorns were too pompous to deny it. Oh, if they only knew! 'Twas painful to watch the last of them who had retained an inkling of the goings on of their history noisily gurgle out their knowledge before plainly dying. Incoherent enough to be hardly understandable to a degree of accurate interpretation by listeners of the naked ear: but they wore earmuffs anyway. It’s the sole fashion trend that never dies. Similar amongst us but to a lesser extent, or... Ha-ha, perhaps not! Perhaps none. As for the few whose conviction was absolute, their destiny was to unfortunately contract terminal diseases beyond all odds of their otherwise healthy states; their written epiphanies to be hastily burned. Magic is the perfect propaganda.