At first, the distant glow of the swamp seemed warm and comforting, an oddly orange tint to the air and the faintest hint of something smoky on the breeze. It became markedly less pleasant as the fire grew closer, sweeping them out of their homes until hooves trampled underbrush in a mad dash to get away.
Fire was scary.
Fire was pain.
Fire was death.
They ran and ran, away from the fire, away from the heat. And once out of danger, they waited, all of them. Alongside him were hundreds of faceless kimeti, staring back at the swamp in pained sadness. Some were injured, but others were not, and all eyes were locked on the swamp, all ears filled with the crackle of burning wood and boiling water.
When it was done and the fire burnt out, they made their way back toward the swamp, careful hooves avoiding the patches of still-heated earth. It was a wasteland now, black and ashy with patches of white where all usefulness had burnt away. But farther into the ravaged lands of what had been the swamp, they found the edge of swamp untouched, and cried out in relief. Their home was gone, but the swamp remained, and they found a new home.
And days upon days later, when the first shoots of new growth broke their way up through the forgotten ash-land, he learned something else.
This... was a cleansing fire.