Heat spread across her skin, induced by every ruffle of his majestic feathers. His song was one much more tender than she was used to; softer, sweeter, safer.
And yet, she could not touch him. She was the fire, and he was the scarlet bird that brought her kindling, the fuel for her flame. Every bundle made her crackle, each another warning for the bird to stay away. She never let him close, for she feared of burning his beautiful, delicate wings.
She could not bear the possibility of losing him, so she moved away. She reduced herself to a pile of ashes, the last of the twigs burned up.
The flame did not know of the bird's true nature. She saw him as just another bird…
The bird of brilliant reds was a phoenix. The blazing fire was home to him.