“Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea comes the end of our fellowship in" Bionicle. "Go in peace! I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.”
This is going to be my goodbye to G2, though admittedly the short story takes place in G1, as to quote the words of Kahi “I still can’t write fan-fiction”
That, and I have something already written to tie into called the Turaga Memoirs.
Honestly though, I think the biggest reason we are so fearful of the loss of G2 is the loss of G1 all over again. We fear that G1 will die because it’s successor failed. Because, as amazing as the sets were, we probably wouldn’t care much for G2 if not for G1. But I want to say, we have nothing to fear, as long as we stoke the fires of legends, and continue to chronicle the Legend of the Bionicle.
And for you listening pleasure while reading:
Memoirs of a Turaga
The sun had begun to set on that Ta-Wahian beach. For the first time in a thousand years, the air was warm. It did not have the shuddering chill of fear and regret. It smelt of fire and salt, the smell that Ta-Koran’s knew and held dearly, for the Matoran had a home, one that was warm, here by the sea.
And upon the waters that he had sailed so long ago, the ancient Turaga saw the shimmering colors of red, orange, and gold reflected upon them. Perhaps he was being nostalgic, with recent events reminding him of his days as a Toa. He was so foolish then, always doubting or being too self-assured. It had cost him and his friends too much.
But, there was hope in those times. Hope that the Turaga could rebuild, hope that Makuta would never find them.
He had been wrong.
A gull cried out in the distance, and the waves crawled up the shore near his feet. He took another breath. It was warm and kind. He hadn’t felt this since the founding of Ta-Koro.
Again, he looked out to the sea that boar them. Funny, he thought, how destiny seems to work in cycles. The Turaga and Matoran washed ashore here, with only the newest Toa to do the same. He dwelled on this, but his mind kept dragging him toward the uncomfortable and harsh truth that he knew he must address.
The Turaga stared at the beautiful ocean, the sea bearing the colors of that wandering Matoran. It was as if the Elements had come together to convince the stubborn Turaga that he had been a fool. Vakama tightened his grip on the firestaff, feeling the fiery heat emanating from within it, soothing his weary soul.
He had been cruel to Takua.
He had let his people belittle the courageous Matoran who dared to have adventures.
He had even taken part in some of it…
The Turaga let out a breath of regret, sorry, and bitterness. He was at the tipping point of peace, for he knew how to make it right. It was why he was here, the beach where footsteps always led away from the water.
And, as the sun hung low over the distant horizon, with the shadow of the telescope looming over the beach, the wayward Matoran, returning to the very beach that started all his adventures, arrived, full of fear and doubt.
Vakam knew in his heart of hearts what he would say, and would mean every single word. He wished to drive away the cold and bitter darkness that would be residing in the
Chronicler with a spark of Hope. Perhaps one day, it would grow into a flame.
The battered Matoran walked up to him, and the Turaga gave him that spark, though those words were for the Matoran alone to know.
Finally, the Turaga, looking across the golden red sea, and the fading sun, told his adventurous companion, “Come! Let us leave this windy beach, and return to the light and heat of Ta-Koro. Many friends await you there.”
As they reached the rocky edge of Ta-Wahi, Takua seemed to have one thing on his mind, and he too looked the beach one last time. “Turaga,” he asked, “What will become of the Matoran now that the Makuta is gone? Shall we truly know peace?” The former Toa looked the Chronicler in the eyes. He could see the spark, it glowed hotter than the red fires of the Mangai.
He smiled at him, imparting this last bit of wisdom, “I do not know. We may have peace, or something new may loom before us, more dangerous than before. We may fade and return to dust and flame, but what has transpired today will never be forgotten. People come and go, but Legends, they will always burn bright,” he paused, looking at the Chronicler, “As long as there is someone to stoke the flames.”