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They say that flames cannot be tamed. That fire runs wild, doing as it pleases, with no master of which to speak.
She proves them wrong.
She has always loved doing that.
She winds flames around her wrists as bracers, wraps them around her shoulders as a cloak, rests them on her head as a crown, wears them on her body as a dress. They scoff to see her, but she ignores them. If she takes notice, it is to stare into their eyes with her own fiery red ones, until they duck their heads and mutter excuses.
Whispers surround her. How can she do what she does, they ask? How can she harness the flames as easily as if they were pieces of fabric, material meant to be woven by her hands? Is she demon possessed? Perhaps the Anti-Christ himself, or, rather, herself? The wife of Satan?
The truth is much simpler, much less demonic than they would suggest.
She is, quite simply, singed.
She is not broken. She is bruised, she is burnt, but she is not broken. She fights too hard to be broken. The fire of hate, the flames of childhood pain, she refuses to let them overtake her. But they can singe. And they do.
Burn scars spatter her arms, and are covered by bracers; her back, by the cape; her legs, by the skirt; her face, by the veil hanging from her fiery crown. None need to know that she is singed.
And so, the rumors continue.
She will not give in to their words. She goes about life as normal, ignoring the looks she gets when around town.
Except for the ones from him.
He looks at her differently. Almost with admiration. She cannot ignore his eyes. They seem… familiar, though she knows not why. All she knows is that she cannot ignore him, so she must avoid him.
Yet she keeps finding him. Maybe purposefully; maybe she wants him to see her. Maybe she wants to know what he wants from her. But, regardless, she keeps seeing him. Rather, he keeps seeing her.
And, when he presents her with a bouquet of roses and a simple request, she knows what he wants before he ever asks.
And she agrees.
She takes the roses gently from his hand, turning them in hers. She hears his sharp breath as they burst into flame, and his relieved exhale as the flame is extinguished to reveal the roses turned solid ruby, with stems of polished silver.
And that is the beginning.
Slowly, slowly, he begins to heal her pain. He cannot unsinge that which is already singed, but he can keep her from further damage. And he does. He does so very well.
He is not scared of her, and that is enough for her. He sees it differently, however. He sees her for who she is, not for her past. He believes she is deserving of love.
And so he asks for her hand in marriage.
Her father, more than anyone else, is responsible for her fire, and would not approve for anyone not exactly the same to marry her. He is not the same, and she does not bother to ask.
So her mother gives her in marriage. She is given to him, and they share rings. Her wedding day, she forsakes her fire, for the ceremony alone. She soothes it, replacing it with a beautiful white dress, gloves, and veil, though the crown remains.
And as he kisses her, she allows her dress to explode into flames once more, lighting up the room, using the rubies in their rings as prisms.
After the ceremony, she takes him with her to the middle of a field. Her first step away from the center carves a divot into the ground; each after that, dirt and stone is melted away, forming a perfect, beautiful spiral staircase of polished obsidian. She takes him by the hand, leading him further and further underground, until they reach their home - until they reach a cavern, with a palace of the same obsidian as the stairs, adorned with rubies.
She leads him to the palace, and to the room she has constructed for the two of them, where the first flowers he gave her are resting on the mantle. With a flick of her fingers, the fire is lit.
And, for the first time, she allows someone to see her burn scars.
He sees her scars, and loves her the more for it.
Yes, she may be singed, but she is not broken.