Chapter Summary: Whitebeard's POV for A Phoenix Never Dies
He didn't mean to stumble across him, didn't mean to look for him. But he found him, wandering alone without a purpose other than finding his own end. Maybe it was destined by Fate, but he never liked talking about that particular women, so maybe it was by chance. Then again…maybe it wasn't.
Chapter One: Curiosity
There is a myth, older than his own father, about a phoenix that soars the blue skies with freedom that no other has. It describes that the phoenix has a mark of yellow around its eyes, his body size undetermined but always the same – blue and gold, and sometimes if they mesh just right a brilliant green that seems unearthly. People are told that the bird of fire's singing is probably the most beautiful sound they have ever heard, making them weep at just a note coming from its beak.
The story that surrounds the phoenix is just like any other, and yet totally different. There is no solid fact, simply rumors by the forgotten age of man that have managed to slip through without much difficulty. But it all starts the same way with the phoenix being betrayed, forever on the hunt to end its own life.
It is a sad story, one that humanity might never know the real story behind, or even if it's true. It is a tragic story, but at the end of the day, it's simply that. A story.
Or so he thought.
He had separated from the crew he had started out with, with him as the cabin boy and working his way up. As soon as he was sure enough that he could take care of himself, he sent himself off and went to gather a crew, a family he could call his own. He was orphaned at a young age, his father who was a brunette with hazel eyes was killed by bandits and the same bandits ravished his mother, a women with fiery red hair and bright green eyes that were like Lily-pads, making her take her own life if only to keep what little sanity she had left. The village doctor, a women with grey hair and bright sky blue eyes, had found him tucked under some rags, a little bit a ways from his parent's bodies. The doctor took him in and raised him as her own. And when he turned fourteen he went out to find a crew to become a part of, so he could someday start his own. Where he was now.
He had made it to an out-of-the-way island, where no one really went but still had enough people to have other bring supplies in from different islands. He did not mean to hit it off with the strange blonde man in the corner of the tavern by the end of the bar. He had not meant to start a conversation with the man that seemed to be in his mid-twenties but acted much older. He had not meant to grow attached to this man; not at all. He sometimes wondered if it was Fate playing games – before he remembered never to think about that particular goddess anywhere near the stranger.
He pursued the younger man of about five years for three months, softening him up and wearing him down, wanting more than anything for the man to just give in and become a part of his crew. The look in the blonde's man eyes showed him he wanted to accept, wanted to come along with him, wanted to be a part of his crew – but had something that was holding him back. The mistrust in his eyes were clear as day, his guard always up even when he was alone. He didn't seem to carry anything around with him besides a small pouch at his waist, and he never went to a room or a boat. He guess that should have been his first clue.
It was three months after constant badgering, constant silent reassurances that he wasn't going to up and leave him behind, being a support even when the stranger did not need it, that the blonde finally accepted.
And it was the first time he had seen his eyes.
He doesn't think it was on purpose, probably didn't even realize that he had his bangs covered for the three months he was around him, if not longer. He had always been interested in other people's eyes, his own being a weird silvery-blue. His mother had been a green like grass, his father hazel, and the doctor a sparkling spring water blue. And when the stranger lifted his head to meet his own eyes, he felt his breath catch at the sheer intensity of color leaking from his new crewmate's orbs.
They were blue, akin to his own and the doctor's but at the same time so very different. His screamed of the sky and the sea, meshing together at the horizontal line to come together in a perfect blending of colors. It was like looking into the eyes of freedom itself, seeing all that it had to offer and what was just beyond the horizon. And just for a moment, one he's not even sure existed, did those blue eyes turn a solid green, so much like an acid or an emerald that he wasn't sure if he should continue to look into them, before they turned back to the color of freedom.
Edward Newgate, as that was his name, had asked the person who he had been pursing for the past three months what his own name was, finding out that he did not have one, and if he did, he no longer remembered nor wanted to.
Newgate looked over the newcomer closely, taking in all his features. He wasn't ordinary, not by a long shot with his messy blonde hair and his sea-eyes, his tan skin that showed muscles that he worked on for years. He was eye-catching, someone who stood out into the crowd and drew attention to themselves. It was only fitting that a person like this would have a unique name as well. (1)
The name came within an instant.
The God of war.
It was three weeks later, still on their own with only themselves when Newgate found out who the person he badgered for really was. He can only see it as Fate turning the wheel of life.
The man he named Marco, the man who had become a brother to him as though he was there all his life, was none other than the very being wishing to end his life. It was no longer just a meaningless story told to children at bed times to put them to sleep. The story was no longer a legend or a myth that was told so many times the reason behind it was no longer there.
The legend was real, right in front of him.
And agonizing in pain to this day.
Searching for a way to end his immortal life.
No, the story would never be told – not to anyone (or so he thought). The story would die with the passage of time and never come back to be told again and again like so many others. When the phoenix finally dies, when it has burned its brightest and the sun can no longer keep up, the story shall never rise again to tell them the true tale of the Phoenix – never know the pain he went through, his story that will forever remain silence.
The day the Phoenix dies it the day it wish finally comes true.
(1) When Harry was alive Marco was a very common name - not popular, but common. Like how Bill and Bob are now a days. In the time where Whitebeard lives, not many people are called Marco, therefore is a special name. Sorry if that confused you guys... if it didn't... I just put this there for nothing.
Not as good…but I can't really bring myself to care. I just got done doing a contest – I had to make the words under 1500 and I went over it, and I had to get help from my mom to try to get it at 1500 and not over it. Sorry if I'm not cheerful. Sorry I haven't updated either… I'm just…loosing my drive a little. I'll be back, I swear…I probably won't be updating on Thursdays and Fridays though…Thursdays are packed with Anime Club, Singing/Guitar Lessons, and an art class I'm seeing if this person will do for teenagers. On Fridays my singing group is meeting and our concert is in a little over a month and we've only and one practice….and we're a group of 9… or a little more – depending on the day… Yeah…where did the days go where I didn't have a life? I want those days back…