he burns

He burns, the fire in their hearts, without him they do not live, have reason to live. He burns, cold or hot, night or day. Time does not matter. He does not care. The fire knows the flames, knows what he can do. He watches all the people staring at him, gawking, wondering, awed by the story that the colors burn in their eyes for them. They watch, transfixed by his power, all knowing and deadly if they come too close. He knows that they look at him for light, for warmth, to feel alive. He sees it in their eyes when they stare, pupils moving along with the flames. They dance tonight, in the pale moon's rays, moving their bodies, swaying to the music of his flames, waves of color flowing in and out of them. He grows as the night moves on, feeding off rhythm and tension, delight and sorrow. He strives to make them come to him, he loves it, they live for him, they die because of him.

But then, he sees her. She is in the back, hidden from his flames, they do not alight her face. She is, instead, illuminated by the shadows he is creating. Her eyes, he cannot see. Softly pale skin, radiating light, a slight coolness he can feel from the distance, perhaps everyone else can, too, for they move unwittingly away from her as she moves. She won’t move towards him, though, she does not follow his heat like the others, his lure to bring them in close and capture their hearts. She stays back, she watches everyone else. His flames flicker, agitated, when she starts to walk, not towards him, to his disappointment. The fire burns a darker shade of red, wondering why he was disappointed. She will come to him, they always do.

The fire burns a little brighter, trying to get his light out past the couple layers of people, trying to entice her in with temptation and desire, a chance to feel warmth. His flames dance in the moonlight, writhing in between the shadows of man and nature alike, trying to touch her face. But she moves in and out of the shadows, like nothing he has ever seen. His flames burn orange, angry that he cannot touch her, get her to come his way. He watches as her hands grace the backs of the people she is walking behind, and he turns, as she moves slowly around his base, picking up good pieces of wood, here and there. Blue flickers within his flames at the sight of her hand on something else.

But, then, she’s gone. His flames flare wildly as he tries to peek around, rising as high as he can go, above the heads of the crowd. He sees nothing, his temperature flaring, wondering how she could’ve gone right by him without his noticing. There hadn’t been any awkward movement in the crowd. She just disappeared. His flames burn, the heat intense, causing bystanders to back away. They pounce onto some nearby grass, startling a man, who quickly kicks cool dirt over it. The fire turns, snapping out a tendril of red, burning the bystander. The heat leaves a singe on his shirt, causing him to point at the fire. Others start to gather, but he wishes they didn’t. They began blocking his view, he couldn’t see past them. He feels a cool edge on his side, alarmed at the lack of a flame in the area. He feels another, this time behind him. They were trying to put him out. Before he had a chance to gaze at her, to have her feel him. His flames spread out, but every time they touched a new patch of soil, they were put out.

He turns orange, gathering heat from the bystanders without them realizing it, some feeling faint with the fatigue he was exerting out of them. He grew, and he grew, expansive, red, white, orange, some blue escaping his grasp, he was uncontrollable now, how dare they try to interfere with his game, his plan to get her to him, to have her feel his warmth, embrace him for what he was. He towers over everyone, a tight spiral of glowing embers, higher and wider he got, everyone moving away, frightened he would scald them. He shields all of them from his view, trying but failing at keeping his flares close, growing hotter, more dangerous, ever deadly. Out of control and white, flames licking everything within reach, that reach growing further out, scared he wouldn’t see her again.

And then he feels her. She’s looking at him, she was still holding onto the pieces of wood, gazing at his magnificent flames. He watches her as a bystander comes to her side, pulling, tugging on her arm, to get her away from his heat. He lashes out, red and orange, nicking the bystander’s skin, making him angry. The bystander tugs on her arm more forcefully, she stumbled into that direction. But she moves her arm out of the byst­ander’s grasp, shaking her head, gazing directly his face. The bystander stutters a few words, backing away as his lips continue to move. She turns away and looks up.

And he sees her eyes for the first time. They are the same color as his flames, they were changing as he was changing, flickering as he did. She continues to gaze at him, intense and unwavering, and he knows she will not be the first one to look away. White trickles into him, blue on the edges, he’s uncomfortable with this affect she has. He gets smaller, letting go of the red and the orange, condensing into only a bit of fury and fatigue. She looks at him, again, blinking only once in the infernal heat. Her face is highlighted with pink, rose tints of the bitter cold that lay just beyond his reach, dark circles under her eyes, watery tears threatening to escape. 

He burns.

She reaches out a slightly glowing hand, sparkling fingers moving gracefully against his flames, caressing his tips, flicking on the insides of his bloom. Momentarily orange, for no one dares to challenge him, to touch him, she keeps her hand inside, palm open, letting him brush her skin. Scorch marks start appearing, and he growls as she starts to wince, but not at the burn, but that she is letting him burn her. She closes her eyes, grimacing deeply yet embracing his pain, knowing he is hurting her, willingly, on purpose, for a reason. Whiter and bluer he becomes, not understanding why his defense, his reasoning isn’t working, why she’s not flustered and scared. That was not how it’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to take her life.

She looks around, barely a moment’s hesitation. She does the unthinkable, no one has ever done this, she moves closer, he cannot stop her, he cannot stop himself, she is surrounded. He feels her swirl around him, move within him, releasing herself within him. He feels her colors let go, feels some darker reds, almost blacks, but whites brighter than he thought possible, yellows and pinks, flames he wasn’t even aware existed, they fill him up, he devours them. He wants more, he takes all of her, wants all that she is willing to give.

 He suddenly turns blue, weary, shaky, lost, unsure. This is out of his control, he understands, this is painful, he is not supposed to hurt, this is not supposed to hurt him. He cannot do this. He tries to force her out, searing her flesh, pulling it from her body. Still she remains in his blazing tendrils, contorting her face, eyes tightly shut, muscles trembling, a howl escaping her lips. But it is not flesh he takes, he realizes, only light and heat. And when he feels the iridescent flame, so hot he remembers how to feel alive, he knows only that he wants to burn, continue to burn, always burn.

For her.
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