Passion

He was the sort of person who had no regrets. He had no friends among his people, and he hated their government. There were only two joys in his life: fire and the wind. Fire was his tool; the wind was his love.  He built himself a dwelling far into the forest, and the wind would speak with him, whispering through the trees and caressing his face. He would offer fire to the wind, and she would take the flames and dance with them, twirling them higher and spreading them farther. They lived together for several seasons, loving and being loved, and the man's fire grew stronger and brighter. 

One day, the wind grew tired. The air in the forest became still as she rested. The man, in his conceit,  grew angry. He lit a fire, but the wind would not dance; he walked through the trees, but the wind would not speak. In his anger, he cursed the wind, claimed to be above her and shunned her. The wind's heart broke as the betrayal of his words reached her. She surged into a tempest, raging more than she had ever raged before. She wrapped around his fire and smothered the flames; she tore the leaves from the trees and then ripped the trees from the ground. In her torrential heartbreak, she lifted the man's house and hurled it far away, scattering his few belongings. But the man did not repent. He swore at her and cursed her name, shaking his fist to the sky before taking what had survived the tempest and leaving. The wind howled, shrieking after him and speeding him on his way. 

He stayed away for many moons, taking the art of his fires to other villages. But no one appreciated his fire, and his temper flared higher than the flames that brought his revenge. He could not find happiness; instead, he lost his freedom. As he sat in one cell after another, he thought back to the forest and the devastation he had caused with his foolishness. For the first time he could remember, the man actually felt regret for his actions. But then he would grow angry and shove away the memory. 

Still, time passed, and the man grew older. As he aged, his temper waned. His fires slowly faded and eventually left him. The only thing that remained to him was the memory of that which he had lost long ago. He longed to feel the wind's embrace and hear her whispering words. So he packed up once again and traveled back to the forest.  

The wind sang forlornly through the devastated forest. Their home had not been the same since she had raged at the man. The roots of the trees had returned to the dirt, but the trees had grown twisted and ugly. The wind's song brought tears to the man's eyes as he stared at the once-magical forest. The wind welcomed him, but there was only sorrow in her embrace. The man wished to apologize, but he did not know what he could do. The man decided to bring the wind a gift: once again, he gave his flames to her. She took the fire and spread it through the twisted forest, burning the trees and renewing the ground. 

For the first few seasons, nothing remained in the barren land but the man, the wind, and ash. But then the first sprout lifted its tiny stem through the grey dust. The man and the wind remained there, guarding the trees and helping them grow. But the man was human, and he was old. He knew that his mortality would soon separate him from his love. He would not live to see the forest grow. The wind could sense his sadness; she watched as the forest's growth paralleled her love's withering. So the wind decided to repay his gift with one of her own. As the man lay dying, as all mortals do, the wind waited. She waited until he drew his final breath and then caught that exhalation of spirit. She wrapped around his soul and drew him away from his corporeal form to the fire he had enjoyed so much. The man's spirit joined with the flames, and he danced with the wind. 

To this day, the man's spirit remains in the fires of this land. That is why fire rejoices when we kindle him; he is reunited with the wind, and they dance.