//------------------------------//
// A Love that Burns 
// Story: His Pyre, Her Passion 
// by QueenMoriarty 
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I take my position at the summit of the pillar. The last of my now-dulled feathers flutters weakly against my pale flesh. I smile, and look down.

This time, it is a spectacle. No unattended fountains in tiny hamlets, no meddlesome idiots trying to hold back the course of nature, and certainly no elaborate chase sequences. No, today I am granted a proper death. The Royal Guard stands assembled in all of their glory, their perfectly polished regalia sparkling like the diamond blossoms of Zatara. At the base of the pillar, on the edge of the pool of water, the Sun and the Moon stand. The Sun has her tricky smile to her, viewing all of this as nothing more than a vanity play.

I mean, it is, but would it kill her to treat it seriously? It's no fun if everyone treats it like it's nothing.

The Moon, at least, is playing her part. Were this our first time playing this game, I might almost believe she felt genuine sorrow. But I can see that it is only a mask of sadness, that inwardly she is enjoying this just as much as I am. She is carrying a full bouquet of sunburst roses in her midnight aura, though for the moment they are naught but a bushel of shriveled buds. I let my eyes flick between the Moon's bouquet and the Sun, and the latter smiles and lights her own aura. The shadows grow, and my body chills as dusk approaches. My final feathers fall and flutter away, and I can hear the beating wings of Death Herself.

The pain that wracks my body is nothing new. The instinctive, crushing fear of death is like an old friend at this point. The whooping cough that threatens to implode my lungs is little more than reflex after all this time. I have roosted at death's door many times, and I know I shall make my nest there countless times yet. While it is never an easy thing to die, it does get easier to weather after the fiftieth fiery explosion.

Death is a patient raven. Sometimes, if only to prove a point, I have spent anywhere from weeks to months with her hovering behind me. The sickness of a fading phoenix is a heavy weight to bear, but it settles in fairly quickly when I want it to. Of course, this time there is no need for that. This time, I listen with half an ear to Death's scrabbling talons as she alights beside me. I bare my neck, and feel the incomparable chill of her beak against my flesh.

Dusk has come, and so too my time. I fall forward like the Sun's great light, and close my eyes so that I can concentrate on any final words that are whispered to me. The air feels like water, crushing, drowning, starving, and the cold pervades everything else. The fear grows despite my confidence, and not for the first time I wonder about what will happen if I do not return from dust.

But then I open my eyes, and the fear is gone. The Moon has thrown her bouquet up towards me, and the roses bask and bloom in the final light of the day. Flowers rise as a bird falls, and the poetry of the moment is overwhelming. As my heart stops, the first spark of the next fire ignites in my breast, and I am consumed in fire.

I know that I am ash when I die. I know that I become lifeless dust for brief moments, and am then reborn. But there is no experience of that moment. There is no limbo, no brief instant where I at last stand outside of the mortal realm and glimpse whatever judgement waits for me. One second, my fire is going out, and the next, I am alight and streaking down to the base of the pillar. The charred remains of the sunburst roses flutter and fall around me, and the jubilant uproar of the guards rises up to meet me.

It has been a good death. I look forward to yet another good life.





They disperse quickly after my death. The guards funnel off to take up those lovely ornamental positions that they like the look of themselves at, and the Moon takes off for her tower. She has the night to attend to, after all. A part of me dislikes that they all move on so easily after that spectacle, but it is a tiny part of me, a shred of the phoenix I used to be. The new me is not concerned with the past, only with what is to come.

For that, I follow the Sun. At first, I fly ahead, racing along the walls, the paint crackling and bubbling beneath my wings. But as I reach the first labyrinthine crossroads, I realize I don't actually know where the Sun is going. Of course, I could go off and make my own fun, but the Sun always has such good ideas for pranks. I fly back to her, roosting on her back in a motion so fluid you might mistake me for a being of water instead of fire.

She turns and smiles at me, not the mysterious look she uses on her subjects but her genuine smile. I imagine that, if I could only die once, the Sun's genuine smile would make me quite afraid of her.

It is slow going to get wherever she wants to go, but I do my best not to mind. It is one of the few sacrifices I must make as the Sun's companion; I am a creature of constant change, while she has no need for the concept and only changes to break the cycle of boredom. She feels no need to hurry anywhere, and can wait for almost anything to happen. I, on the other wing, try to make the most of the time between rebirth and death, even though I really have just as much time as the Sun. It's such a fascinating dichotomy that she's written more than a few pretentious poems about it.

Eventually, we arrive in one of the older rooms, where stone walls at least half as old as the castle stand unmarred by tacky paint. It's little more than a meeting area, a foyer of sorts to the sitting room. There is a wooden table with some crinkly old books laid out on it, but my attention is drawn to the lovely perch beside the table. I leap from the Sun's back to the tempting surface. The wood warms beneath my talons, and I am jut getting comfortable when the Sun shoos me off of the perch. I swat a burning wing at her, and a tiny scowl flits across her muzzle.

"Be a gracious host, Philomena. We have guests this evening."

Upon hearing those words, I leap away from the perch and settle on top of one of the books. Why didn't she tell me we were having guests? I've only just been reborn, I still have feathers to grow into, ash to shake out of my down, and that's to say nothing of my heat...

"Quit your preening, Philly. You look gorgeous."

I wish she wouldn't call me that. It's such an... ungraceful moniker. Still, it's nice to know that the new body is just as beautiful.

There's a knock at the door, and the Sun smiles that fake smile. "Come in," she says, and I turn my eyes to the new arrival.

I recognize the first one to walk through the door. I've called her many things over the years, from 'the student' to 'the Want-a-Cracker horse', and on at least one occasion 'STAND STILL AND LET ME INCINERATE YOU, YOU PETULANT INSECT', but that was then. She's grown quite a lot as time has gone by, experiencing changes that the Sun has long since ceased to go through. Even I can feel the presence she has, weighing down on reality like a metal ball on a rubber sheet. If she wanted to make me eat a saltine cracker now, she'd probably be able to pull it off. But as the Sun gives her greetings, my attention shifts to a new face.

There are many birds living in the palace gardens, but there are no owls. It's actually been decades since I last saw one, and it seems that I have forgotten how... imposing they could be. Even this one, small and close to my level that he is, has an eldritch air to him. There's an inscrutable gravity to those little black eyes, as if all of the knowledge in the universe is contained in that tiny brain. He could be an airheaded idiot, for all I know; all owls have this same look to them.

This is the main reason why I avoid owl nests. Looking for the secrets of the universe in a hatchling's eyes is a great way to hasten the next death.

"Oh, hello, Philomena." Little Miss All-Feathers-Are-Quills has finally stopped chatting with the Sun long enough to notice me, and that jars me away from eye contact with the owl. "I don't suppose you've met Owlowiscious, have you?" She gestures to the owl, and he hides behind his wings. I would too, if I went by such a ridiculous name. What, is she trying to make her tongue fly out of her mouth in protest?

With quite a bit of coaxing from the student, and a fair amount of tittering from the Sun, the owl finally makes his way onto the proffered perch. It's made difficult by his insistence on keeping his face hidden, but he manages. I refuse the urge to laugh, mostly to make up for how embarrassed he must be feeling. He finally puts his wing down, but he keeps his eyes focused on the student.

"Well, we'll leave you two to get acquainted," the Sun says suddenly, and the speed at which the unfortunately named owl turns to face her is stunning. "The two of us have important matters of state to discuss." The Sun nudges the student, and the student responds with a blush and a coy little smile. I take that as the signal to ignore them, and return my focus to the owl.

With his eyes turned away from my own, he seems far more unassuming. His shape and coloring put me in mind of a log of wood, though his compact little wings seem more wont to conjure up images of a halved roast chestnut. His eyebrows almost seem to pop off of his face, in a way that might seem imposing if they were not such an unassuming shade of brown. His adorable little talons can scarcely be seen from any angle I can reach while behind him, so dwarfed are they by the perch he has settled on. Every single feather looks like a shaving off of some venerated tree, and...

Did I seriously just call his talons adorable?

A blush burns its way up my breast, and the owl chooses this moment to turn and face me. Those eyes that seem to hold within them the darkness that waits at the end of time are instead ablaze with flames. My flames, reflected in those unfathomable depths. I can scarcely tell whether his eyes are actually sparkling as he admires my beauty, or if that is simply a trick of my mirrored light.

I have heard scholars say that birds have a language all to themselves. In truth, any given bird has two languages. There are the calls and cries that carry meaning between two of the same feather, and then there are the gestures with which we speak to those who are not, in one sense or another, the same thing as us. There are sounds I can make that can only be understood by another phoenix, but if I wish to make my thoughts known to a bird whose feathers do not burn, then I must use my entire self, fluffing my feathers or scraping my beak against walls to make my point. 

But I do not have to say anything. The owl flaps his wings as hard and as fast as he seems to be able, blowing a slight breeze up against me and igniting a few small flames amidst my feathers. My heart flutters like the fire, for I can feel in my bones what the owl is trying to tell me. 

I try to cry, but all that happens is that two plumes of steam rise up from just under my eyes.

The owl makes room on the perch for me, but I do not dare to accept the invitation. He cocks his head so far that it turns upside down, clearly questioning me. I spread my wings wide, and ignite a flame upon my chest. I let it grow and swell until it is nearly the size of my beak, and then bat it towards the owl with a lazy flap of my wings. It scarcely moves faster than the Sun, so unless he truly is a simpleton, the owl should be able to dodge.

He does not dodge. Instead, the owl flaps his wings as hard as he can, buffeting the fireball back towards me without leaving his perch. I catch the fireball on a wingtip, tucking its flames back within myself as I stare the owl down.  Surely the meaning of my gesture cannot be lost on him. He must realize that I am fire, and that all my embrace could bring him is pain. He must know what I am.

The owl leaves the perch for a few seconds, flying over to nuzzle against my chest. The feel of his feathers against mine makes my heart skip a beat, and I suck as much of my flame away from the surface as I can manage. Before my fire can ignite once more, the owl has parted from me and has flitted back to the perch. As my chest sputters back to its full flaming glory, the owl gives me a look, and makes room on the perch for me.

There is something to those eyes, a more certain knowledge than I have seen in the endless eyes of other owls. This one, this Owlowiscious, he knows what I am and how dangerous I could be to nest with.

But he doesn't care.