On Wings

On Wings of Winter's Ice

Cold.

I am the ice of a glacier, the snow on a mountain peak, the frozen wind of a blizzard. I am winter.

Fire burns me. I am cold, I think, though I don't know for sure. I can't, because I have always been like this. To notice something, one needs to experience something different, after all.

I feel the heat of battle, though, when I fight my – sister? friend? – once more. Zapdos and I have chosen to fight. The two others do not. I attack them when I see them, usually the gold one, sometimes the red one. The gold one doesn't fight, the red one scarcely can. The other stops me from killing them.

The red one is better. Its flames race over my body, searing me. The gold one won't. Or can't. Doesn't matter.

The other is slow, white a bit like me, but it always stops me or Zapdos, whoever is fighting the gold or red bird. It comes from the water, and returns. It takes longer and longer to appear. Soon I will be able to fight the red or gold one without interference.

I didn't always fight, I think. We used to fly together, just fly, and play. Then we –

We did something, for a time, and I realized something bad, something I didn't want to know, so I forgot. I fight Zapdos now. It's easier then whatever the something was.

The something is still known to the red one and the gold one, and probably to the white one. I know, because they're weakening. The white one takes a long time to appear when I fight the red one or gold one, or nearly beat Zapdos. I don't know why they don't just forget their –

Forget. They aren't happy. They seem miserable. The gold one flies like its wings are broken, and the red one flies like it's dazed. I can fly on wings made of winter's ice, race through clouds of crystal to dive back down through Zapdos' thunderstorms. Feel electricity course through my body, and summon my power to respond in kind. The joy of flight, the joy of battle, why do the others refuse to give up their ties to the –

Why not just fight like us?