She has never turned it away, but neither has she sought it. Always, she lets it fall into her lap, acts with bored deference. It's a defense against the sickness, this passivity.
She knows well the havoc that will come should eyes be allowed to see inside, where, within her fire, there is a fragile thing. Her heart, beating like any other; fierce, heavy. They burn their hands trying to reach, she sends them away with bitter laughter. Idiots.
She wishes to be in a storybook, that everyone could see where she hides, waiting for someone to run through the flames.