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His earliest memory is fire red.
When the firemen find him, he’s a kid unconscious in a blazing forest fire. Nobody is sure how he got there, more are astonished by his lack of burns. He does not tell them that he is the source of the fire, his magic leaking out of him like gasoline because he was too weak to control it. He also does not tell them that he isn’t actually a kid, this is just the form he can afford with whatever power he has left.
When asked who he is, he simply says “Phoenix”. After all, it is unbecoming for a god to lie.
He does not offer more information, human language feels like rust in his new tongue. He also doubts that they would believe him if he answers their questions honestly, so he opts for silence. Eventually, they decide that he a) lost his memories and b) is seven years old.
The following months are a blur of foster systems and settling in the Wright’s household. He thinks they are nice people, the bed is warm and the hugs warmer. Fire flickers slowly inside him, glowing brighter as he grows older, magic reviving from ashes.
He thinks there are probably worse fates than this.
Humans created him. Then humans forgot about him. And now he is human.
Well, kind of.
He is created from faith. Built by trust, and maybe hope.
It turns out, for a thing made out of beliefs, having a dozen eyes full of suspicions on him is a terribly oppressive feeling. It doesn’t help that he is in a ten year old body, his young mortal brain recoils in the face of such harsh rejection. Phoenix can feel water spilling out of his eyes and his chest tightens, forcing a sob out of him.
“I… I didn’t do it!”
His tearful statement is met with cries of guilty, thief, and liars. It’s getting harder for Phoenix to breathe now. Flame simmers under his ribcage, small and tired.
The teacher tells him to ask for forgiveness and his divinity itches to burn her. To let her know of her place. Maybe then she will ask for his forgiveness. But he will not waste his precious magic on her, so Phoenix walks over to the boy, pride extinguished, to apologize.
Then Miles Edgeworth shouted, “Objection!”
The fire crackles. Phoenix is an ember, searing hot with newly ignited power as Miles Edgeworth defends him in front of everyone.
Then Larry Butz tells the class, “He said he didn’t do it so he didn’t do it.” and Phoenix’s fingertip blisters from the red-hot magic. He truly is a creature of faith.
Gods are not usually loyal, but Phoenix swears he will favor them until their ends.
Phoenix has fire under his fingertips. The crackle of a familiar flame, sizzling underneath his palm.
He is burning, burning, burning.
Lust is an adequate substitute to worship, Phoenix finds.
Bodies underneath him, given freely and wholly, taste like sacrifices on the altars. The ways his name is shouted, whispered, and moaned is an intimation of prayers. It’s fervent, red-hot, and sweaty.
It burns and Phoenix consumes, feeling magic pours into his lungs.
Then Dahlia Hawthorne comes and Phoenix thinks love is a piety.
Each ugly pink sweater knitted is a hymn to his name. Every look and touch reserved only for him like devotion. Gods are greedy and Phoenix is hungry for more. He keeps the glass necklace selfishly even though Dahlia keeps asking for it back. It’s the first proof of faith, a crystal idol in his image.
He is a greedy god but not neglectful, he returns every litany with an equal zeal. And when Dollie calls his name, Phoenix imagines this must be what mortals feel like when gods answer their prayers.
Then Dollie is on the witness stand and Phoenix thinks he might be in love, so he eats poison glass for her.
The shrapnels cut without any pain and poison does not work on divinity, yet his chest hurts. Fire licking inside him, burning his eyes with salty water. And when the judge convicts Dollie, Phoenix suspects this must be what mortals feel like when gods turn their back on them.
Phoenix’s tears are said to have healing properties.
This is a half truth. His tears can grant humans a taste of rebirth. Skin and bones sewing themselves back up, fire boiling their blood, brewing life anew.
The drawback is this: it doesn’t work on your psyche. Traumas of spilled organs and the subsequent pain of reattachment will leave most mortals haunted for years. For that, he was told, only time can heal. Crying for mortals, however, is extremely cathartic. Phoenix never fails to be impressed by how mortals calibrate themselves in the absence of divine powers.
So when his tears leak, he doesn’t heal, not really. But it feels so fucking good he cries louder.
He sees ‘Miles Edgeworth, Demon Prosecutor’ in the newspaper and remembers an oath.
Gods aren’t usually loyal, but they also aren’t liars.
Mia Fey believes in him with no amour nor ardor attached to it.
It’s a different kind of thrill, a different kind of magic. It makes fire glows steady in his chest. Phoenix thinks he shouldn’t trust mortals again, but he is first and foremost, a creature of faith.
He can’t afford not to, so he does.
Mia does not disappoint.
He’s going to tell her. She earns it, and Phoenix wants to be known again. But then he sees her on the floor, dead, with a crying girl next to her.
Phoenix feels cold for the first time in decades.
Maya takes one look at Phoenix Wright and knows.
Even in grief, her eyes are ever sharp. Mia might be stronger, but Maya’s true talent lies in her perception. No things get past her no matter how discreet they try to be.
She doesn’t say anything, what can she even say? Hey, Mr. Lawyer I did not kill my sister and I know you’re an ancient firebird doesn’t sound very polite and she doesn’t want to accidentally offend a god, no matter how forgotten they are.
She’s also so so tired.
So when he tells her, with a conviction and hint of arrogance only a god could have, that he will defend her, Maya meets his eyes and believes.
After all, if a god says he will save you, it’s only common courtesy to offer him your faith in return.
Miles Edgeworth stops believing. In justice, in magic, in hope, in him.
Phoenix’s been quite mortal for a while to understand the despair Miles feels. But he’s also a god and what is a god’s worth if he can’t offer salvation?
So he does.
“Maya, I’m not human.”
Maya laughs.
“I know.”
Nick looks taken aback for a moment, milkshake suspended midair. He puts it down and rubs his fingers under his chin, thoughtful, then asks, “did Mia also know?”
Maya shakes her head, taking a bite out of her fries. “She would have told me.”
“And she didn’t?”
“Nope.” She confirms.
“But you know.”
“Yup.”
Nick taps his fingers on the table, then he looks at her with those eyes that never quite settle on one color. It’s quite unnerving to be on the receiving end of divine judgement. In hindsight, maybe forcing a god to buy her burgers then letting him know she’s been onto his identity the whole time isn’t the wisest idea. If Nick is a lesser god she would have been dead long ago for insolence.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For believing in me.”
Phoenix smiles at her, completely sincere and open. Like this, she can almost believe he is human. She grins back at him and steals his chips, ignoring his protest.
“You believed in me first.”
When the days are slow Phoenix dreams.
He dreams of dying. Flames engulfing him, feathers turning to ashes and bones crackling like timber. Then suddenly he is covered in soot and alive once more.
‘Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.’
Phoenix supposes not even gods can save everyone.
He cries himself to sleep that night, heart broken like a mere mortal.
Phoenix looks at Pearl Fey and sees himself. Born out of hope, or selfishness if he’s feeling particularly cynical. Born for a purpose, a weapon to win, a ladder to climb.
A once upon a time powerful being and a lonely child.
A powerful child and a not so lonely god.
He tries really hard to be gentle with Pearl. Carefully cradles her with warmth until she’s ready to crack out of her shell. When she first smiles at him, Phoenix feels like being reborn again.
Another time he dreams of flying.
He dreams of winds beneath his wings. The breeze stoking his feather-flames alight. There can be no fire without air. After all, he is made of wind as much as he is fire. The higher he goes the more alive he feels.
“Nickyyy, why do your eyes keep changing colors?”
Larry Butz is sad and very drunk after his latest girlfriend, Maria(?), left him again. Phoenix thinks Larry could be an extremely good priest back in the day, full of unbidden devotion even after so many forsaking. In the modern age, though, Larry is left in a cheap bar with equally cheap beers and a forgotten god as his only companion.
“Cos’ you’re drunk?” Phoenix answers. It’s always fascinating to watch mortals get inebriated. Larry, for example, gets very insightful when he’s four bottles deep. The alcohol rids him of branching thoughts, making him able to focus only on one thing. Today, he decides he’s going to focus on Phoenix.
“No, I swear they also change when I’m sober!”
Phoenix only chuckles. Larry, undeterred by the non-answer, continues. “A-also your hair, they like— ” he gestures wildly at him, “—they stay upright without gel and— an—“ Larry stumbles on his words.
“Maya can bring the dead back to us, well, kinda. And you,” he points at Phoenix, “you can’t seem to die.”
Phoenix cracks up at that. Larry Butz never has good grades in his life, but that is not because he lacks intelligence. He just gets distracted too easily. But right now, his other thoughts are muted and Phoenix is a burning target.
“I do get hurt! In fact I did have amnesia a while back, dude, remember?”
Larry shakes his head, “no, no. I said, you can’t die, not that you can’t get hurt. Dude, you—” he pauses, thinking, “Are you magic like Maya?”
Phoenix thinks Larry would definitely be an extremely good priest. The fire in his blood sings with the acknowledgement. Phoenix regards his oldest friend with fondness and pride.
“Something like it, yes.”
Larry looks thoughtful, then raises his glass, “cheers to that, dude.”
He clinks his bottle to Phoenix’s and downs the content in one go.
Phoenix’s laugh rings clear and his heart soars.
Mr. Nick is afraid of heights.
Pearl finds out after an unfortunate ride of Merry-go-round. When asked why a bird would be afraid of rising, he just shrugs.
“I don’t have my wings anymore, Pearly.”
Pearl thinks she understands. But she’s immediately struck with a terribly terrifying thought. She voices her fear with an urgency,
“Do you miss it?” The ‘will you leave us for it’ is left unspoken.
Mr. Nick, however, is once the sun god, and you cannot lie in the presence of a phoenix. He carefully puts her in his lap and brings her to his chest. Mr. Nick’s voice is soothing, like wind chimes on summer days, when he answers her.
“Sometimes. But, I’ve found different ways to fly while still on the ground. Don’t worry.”
She hugs him back, basking in his warmth.
Miles Edgeworth is back, reborn anew.
Phoenix is really angry, but also kind of proud.
Mostly angry though. No one, not even Miles Edgeworth, can do that to a god. Phoenix will make sure he knows.
Phoenix will forgive him later. Maya will tell him that he’s a softie. He will concede. He is, above all, a benevolent god.
The first time Pearl hears a phoenix’s song is during a heatwave.
The three of them are sprawled on top of each other in front of the only fan in the office. The old thing doesn’t really do anything, only managing to move hot air around. Mystic Maya lays her head on Mr. Nick’s torso, hair bunched up in a messy bun instead of the usual top knot. She has discarded her outer robe, the weather too hot for the double layer. Pearl is on the other side of Mr. Nick, her cheeks smooshing against Mr. Nick’s leg, similarly sweaty and too lethargic to move.
Mr. Nick is the only one unaffected by the heat, Pearl notices. He is still dressed in the full suit, not a single bead of sweat on his exposed skin. He just slumps on the floor with his back on the couch legs. He has his hands behind his head and eyes closed, basking in the sunlight.
Mystic Maya also notices this and starts poking his cheek, “Niiick it’s so hot! Do something!”
Mr. Nick cracks open an eye, peering down at Mystic Maya. “You know I don’t control the weather, right?”
“What a useless god!”
“I can smite you, Maya, I will.”
“You love me too much to do that.”
Mr. Nick sighs, he never wins an argument against Mystic Maya. “Do you guys think stacking on top of a literal firebird would help you with the heat?” He says, exasperated but fond.
“You’re actually pretty cool to touch,” Pearl responds. This is true. For a supposed being made of fire, Mr. Nick doesn’t run very hot. His warmth comes mostly from his voice and gestures, also the fiery passion when he’s in court defending someone.
As soon as she says that, Mr. Nick puts one hand on top of Mystic Maya’s face and another gently touching Pearl’s cheek. Heat blooms from the spot he touches, not enough to burn but hot enough to be uncomfortable. Mystic Maya squeaks indignantly and pinches his hands. Mr. Nick just laughs at her, immediately cooling down his hands back to normal temperature.
“You were saying, Pearly?”
“It’s not a very nice thing to do, Mr. Nick,” she huffs and Mystic Maya agrees vehemently. Mr. Nick concedes at the admonishment. There is silence for a few beats before she hears a song.
It’s unlike anything she’s ever heard before. She’s not even sure it’s in human language, she doubts humans can make those sounds. Like winds blowing on half full bottles and ice clinking in cold glass all at once. Then she feels a breeze, actual wind , sweeping her hair gently. The curtain ripples, Charlie sways, and the temperature in the room drops to a bearable degree as Mr. Nick continues to sing.
Mystic Maya hums along, pleased. She settles closer to Mr. Nick while his fingers fiddle with her buns. His other hand on top of Pearl’s shoulder is warm but she doesn’t mind this time.
He runs across the burning bridge, unafraid, what is fire to a phoenix?
Then he steps on wind and suddenly he is airborne. By habit he tenses his back muscle but there is nothing. He forgets he doesn’t have wings anymore.
Falling is nothing like flying.
Flying fills his lungs with winds and stokes his feather-flames. Falling, on the other hand, carves a hollow in his stomach. He’s almost glad when he hits the freezing river after the twelve metres descent.
Well, almost. He’s not as glad when the cavity in his chest is replaced with cold water and bits of ice. He gasps for air but more water rushes instead. His nose and lungs burn. The last thing he thinks of before he loses consciousness is English speakers should stop equating drowning to being engulfed in flame because they can not be more different.
Phoenix Wright is laying on the hospital bed, completely unscarred and only running a fever despite just falling from a burning bridge twelve metres into a freezing river. When he opens his eyes to look at Miles, they flicker through the whole damn color wheels before settling on brown.
Miles thinks it might be the jetlag. He is tired from the twelve hours flight and is about to strangle Larry for making him worry for nothing. Larry isn’t here though, so he directs his pent up emotions at Wright instead.
“I thought you died,” Miles says.
Wright looks surprised to see Miles here. Understandable, he is supposed to be in Germany. But Larry had cried, and Miles did not realize he had chartered a private jet to LA until he was six hours into the flight.
“Why did you do that?” Miles asks, anger rising in his throat like ocean tides. Wright looks guilty for once, but Miles does not stop there. “How are you even still alive?”
Wright sighs, he sits up and gestures at the chair next to the bed. Miles complies, he takes a seat and folds his arms, glaring at Wright the whole time.
“Maya is—“
“I know that.” Miles cut him short. He has been briefed by Detective Gumshoe on the events prior to today. Not for the first time, he wonders how it is that Maya Fey seems to have an almost magnetic attraction with death. “What I’m asking is why did you do that.”
Wright eyebrows knits, seemingly perplexed, like it’s natural for someone’s first instinct when faced with a bridge on fire to run into it. Miles supposes it is not very surprising considering Wright’s history. He does the damndest thing like he is invulnerable.
Judging from his lack of injuries, Miles considers this might be true, however implausible it may be.
He sighs when Wright does not answer. Hand massaging his temple in frustration. There is no talking Wright out of his savior complex.
“Don’t do that again,” Miles settles. His voice coming out softer and more afraid than he intends to. He really is sleep deprived.
He feels a hand gently taking his, fever-hot and smooth to touch. He shivers involuntarily and meets Wright’s gaze, blue eyes sparkling with emotions he does not quite recognize in his addled state.
“Thanks for coming,” Wright says. He does not answer to Miles' demand, he notices. Miles doesn’t say anything. Instead, he clasps Wright’s hand with both of his, bringing it to his temple, kind of like praying.
“I thought you died.” he repeats quietly.
Wright’s other arm circles his shoulder, bringing Miles closer in an awkward one armed hug. But Wright is burning and alive and he feels more grounded than he’s been in the past fourteen hours.
Then Wright shoves his badge with a glowing green rock at Miles and asks for the impossible. Miles has the sudden urge to kill him himself.
He does it anyway. Miles has long since given up on saying no to Phoenix Wright.
Phoenix closes the door to his room softly and glides to the living room. He is greeted by the sight of Larry and Edgeworth sleeping on the sofa bed that should be too small for two adult men. Edgeworth is curled up on the side, eyebrows furrowed in deep dissatisfaction. Larry on the other side takes most of the space, one arm and leg sprawled atop Edgeworth, basically spooning him. This scene is only possible because they are both incredibly drunk.
After the whole Hawthorne v State fiasco, they all collectively decided that they deserve some sort of outlet. That meant booze for the adults and an ungodly amount of junk food for the Feys. He swipes his fingers and the blanket on both men’s feet unrolls until they are both tucked securely inside.
“I didn’t know you could do that.” Maya’s voice comes from behind him, quiet in the night. He looks back to see her in pyjamas, backlit by the light from the bathroom. Like this, she looks terribly young and incredibly tired. He shrugs.
“I can do many things,” he says. “Pearl is already asleep in my room. You should go too,” he adds softly.
“Where will you sleep? I don’t think that sofa bed can fit another adult man,” Maya asks. “Unless you perch?”
“Do you see any trees?” He deadpans. Maya just snickers and turns off the bathroom lamp. He huffs out a small laughter and answers. “I don’t actually need to sleep.”
“I’ve seen you nap.” Maya accuses although there is no heat behind it. She tiptoes to the table where bottles of varying alcohol are scattered and picks one that’s still a quarter full. She takes a sip and makes a face. “Yuck.”
“I don’t need to, doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it,” he says, as he watches Maya chugs the rest of the content. He belatedly realizes that she is still underage and he probably should have stopped her, seeing that he is currently a lawyer and everything.
Phoenix decides he doesn’t care that much and instead faces Maya. “You really should sleep. It’s been a long day,” he takes the empty bottle from Maya and puts it down, “unless you want to talk?”
“I can’t hide anything from a phoenix, can I?”
“Not usually,” Phoenix agrees easily. “But I don’t need to be an ancient firebird to know how stressful the last few days must have been for you, Maya.”
Maya exhales, shoulders loosening from the tension he didn’t realize she held. “Have you noticed that everyone around me can’t seem to stay alive?” She says. Her tone is light but her glittering eyes betrays her. “Am i cursed?”
“Unfortunately not. I’d be able to tell if you are,” he answers. A curse suggests something fixable, or at the very least, someone to blame. No, the Fey clan just happens to be breeding ground for tragedies. Phoenix supposes it’s inevitable when you isolate generations of powerful women who are raised to be pitted against each other.
Maya does not need to be a god to hear what Phoenix thought but didn’t say. She’s always perceptive like that. She rubs her eyes and makes a promise. “I will change the Fey clan.”
Phoenix does not doubt it. He’s lived millennia to know that mortals are capable of fulfilling such promises. They create, continue, and break cycles on their whims, it’s fascinating what they can do despite lacking divinity. He also has lived as one for two decades to know that crying can be extremely cathartic. So he wraps Maya in a hug and sings a soft lament.
Maya cries in his shoulder as magic engulfs them, hiding them from the world. He continues to sing until Maya falls asleep, tired from crying. Phoenix tucks her next to Pearl and closes the bedroom door.
In the balcony he sings.
He sings to the death of a dynasty, sings of new era ushering in. The moon listens, delighted, she always has a soft spot for his songs.
The dawn breaks in the distance, fire-red and warm. It’s only fitting, he’s a Phoenix after all.