He is fire. Never forget that, never confuse that. He is not a child of fire- a παιδί της φωτιά. Nay, once upon a time, he was a child of the sky. Born to freedom, and flight, and beauty-but he did not belong. He had no wings; he could not fly. So instead, he fell.
That is all he remembers. Not how long; not how far; just….down. Down, and Down, and Down, and SPLASH! Water. Sea. He was surrounded by change, and comfort, and beauty. But he did not belong there. He had no fins; he could not swim. So instead, he sank.
He felt it for a moment as he drowned-burning, yearning, warmth in the pit of his belly, and in his veins. Maybe-just maybe…
The dark engulfed him in its' vast vacuum of nothingness. And he saw light in the dark-pinpricks of color and wisps of smoke. He knew not where he was, except that it was Here. And Here was cold, and hard, and beautiful. But he could not belong. He was hale, and hearty, and living-the land of the dead was no place for him.
He found it in the ashes of a phoenix's nest. All red water, and ebony rock-and white hot pain when touched. But the pain soothed him. It could not harm him, for it was his lot in life to toil forever and to never know the bliss of Dark. Nay, it could not harm him, but it could help him. Help him to bend metal to his will-to create power, and industry, and beauty. For he could never possess beauty; never control it –it would simply slip away- but maybe-just maybe- he could create it.