He is a creature whose very essence depends on fire. It crawls through his veins and over his bones, sparking to life in the cavernous space in between his ribs and within his chest. It defines him, but does not control him. The fire is his to control.

He cannot imagine being controlled by the fire, though. How heavy a weight that must be, for despite its flickering form, fire is cumbersome in a way the other elements are not. It does not simply hurt; it consumes and annihilates, leaving nothing behind but a blackened memory and the lingering scent of soot. Only when the fire has destroyed everything in its path does the regrowth begin.

Another sorry forms at the back of his throat, but he doesn't let it slip past his teeth. There is something about her that makes him think she doesn't need or even want his sympathy. Maybe its something in the spark of her eyes, or the crisp way her words are formed as she tells her story. She may not have been born one, but she is a wild thing now, and he's never met a wild thing that felt sorry for itself.

So instead of empty words he inclines his head, offering acknowledgement and consideration as her words find his ears. Her story ends abruptly, as if someone had simply snuffed out her flame and left only the smoke behind. His eyes find hers and the phoenix in his chest stirs, begging to be let lose and heal her. He shoves it down, but the tightness at the back of his throat doesn't let up. He takes a moment before he speaks, and when he does his voice is clear. "If you could go back to how you were before...would you?" he asks, his head tilting in that avian way of his. "If I offered you my tears, would you bathe in them and hope they put out the fire?" Perhaps he shouldn't offer such a thing; he has no idea if its possible, to combat her magic with his. But it felt like a better offering than an empty sorry. Words are wind, but his tears are a promise.

He has never stopped to think about the limitations of his magic; he has never had a reason to. There has been no situation that made him pause, no need to question the intricacies of the power that flowed like magma beneath his skin. If someone was cold, he warmed them with his flames. If they were too weak to walk, he carried them in his talons. And if they were broken and battered, he healed them with his tears.

It has always been so straight forward for him, until he met her. Even the phoenix preening and ready in his breast is taken aback, unsure of the answer. She doesn't need him for warmth or transport, but he isn't sure she is broken or battered either. At least not in a manner he can heal. His tears are meant to stitch flesh and muscle, not mend aching hearts.

He watches her carefully, his features tight with worry and concern. She is clearly aching, he can feel that deep down in the marrow of his bones. He could feel it even without that magnificent, magical bird hidden beneath his skin. He listens to her quietly, noting the dullness, the hopelessness that seems to coat her words. "We can't change our pasts, but we owe it to ourselves to learn from them, to grow from them. The scars are gotten in vain if we don't." he says softly, his dark eyes capturing the flames of hers and reflecting them back to her.

Immortals know that lesson all too well, even though their scars will never be visible to the outside world.

Her next question breaks through the solitude, despite it being asked so quietly. "I don't know," he answers, while the pause hangs heavily between them "I've never pushed the boundaries of my tears. I can heal things that are physically broken or damaged, but Brinly...I don't think you're either of those things." He reaches across the space, his muzzle searching for her shoulder in an offer of comfort. "The fire isn't yours. You are the fire. It doesn't respect you, because its consumed you."

He falls quiet again, hoping he hasn't said too much. Knowing that he's probably right doesn't help much, either.