Notes: So I was thinking about fairy-tales and how the heroines always get saved instead of saving themselves, and after a long fall down the rabbit hole, this is what I produced.

Warning: non-graphic domestic violence, child abuse, arson... it's not a disney fairy-tale, folks.

"What's your name, young one?" asks the fairy.

You know not to tell the fairy your name. You've been tracking down hints and scraps about the fair folk for a long time now. You came prepared.

"Some people call me Cinder, ma'am." Or Cinderella, you think. You've heard the insult so often the two names have blurred together. Soon enough you'll be rid of them both.

You're young and untroubled and no one has smothered the fire in your soul or the warmth in your laugh when the fever sweeps through the country-side. The whole household catches it, except you, and in the confusion there's no one to catch you playing with matches in the kitchen save for the overworked cook. The little playful flames don't burn you, not the way your mother's lips did the evening before she woke up with the fever. You rage when they don't let you see her; you rage at your father when he arrives home from traveling two days too late for the funeral, looking shattered; you rage at each successive governess that tries to temper you fiery spirit. Your father smiles helplessly but never stops looking shattered each time he interviews another: "Her mother was always a firebrand, too."

The fairy's eyes sharpen and her innocent grandmotherly façade vanishes. She looks pleased—in a feral, cunning sort of way.

"Very well, Cinder. What do you wish of me? An escape from this place, I'll wager? It won't take much, young and pretty as you are. A gown of stardust and glass slippers, a carriage to take you to the ball—the bachelors will snap you up." The fairy looks you up and down, slowly, and you get the feeling she'd like to snap you up, too. Then she looks away from you and preens one of her incandescent wings, sounding bored. "Who knows, maybe the prince himself will whisk you away to a life of bliss."

You shake your head. "No, thank you." Bliss does not make for good tinder.

You know the woman brings ill-fortune from the day you meet her. When she gives you an enthusiastic embrace and kisses your cheek you feel the chill on her skin. She sucks the warmth from everyone at the party, even her two daughters, who are silent and perfect as ice sculptures. You know that if your father marries her, she will suck what little warmth and life remains in him until he perishes. Not even the fire in your soul and the warmth in your laugh will be enough to stop her—not that you laugh much anymore. You father doesn't believe you, though, not after you drove off all the governesses. He insists you need a woman's guidance, a mother's touch.

"I know exactly what I want," you tell the fairy.

"Really? Do tell." You watch her delicate, sensuous lips quirk in surprise.

You tell her, even though you're slightly distracted by a warmth in your cheeks and your ears that has nothing to do the vengeful burning of your heart.

"That's quite a wish," the fairy purrs. "What will you give me in return?"

You rage, because it's all the fire in you knows how to do. You rage all the way through the courtship, the marriage and the funeral. You rage all the way up to the moment she hits you. The shock is as powerful as a load of snow dumped on a fire-pit. There's nothing but embers left, and every time a small flicker of defiance begins to kindle, there's another cold blow or harsh word to smother it. You learn to keep your defiance to yourself, compressing it tighter and tighter into a burning core of resentment. You bide your time—learning from the other servants, listening to gossip in the markets, finding out how the world works. The only times you let the firebrand out are when your step-mother extends her cruelty to the servants. You feel responsible for them.

You take a breath and lift your head high. This is it. "I'll give you my name."

The fairy grins widely, and the sharp teeth she reveals do not take away from her beauty. "Deal."

Finally, the moment comes. The last of the staff who saw you grow up have retired, or with your help found other positions. You've slowly managed to grow a fairy-ring in a hidden corner of the garden. The prince is holding a bachelors' ball and your step-mother and her daughters will be gone all night.

The fairy steps closer, right to the edge of the fairy ring, and for a moment you are frightened, but you stand your ground. There's no going back now. "My name is—"

Then the fairy leans in and kisses you, stealing your breath and your thoughts and your name all in one motion. She smells like woodsmoke and tastes like honeysuckle. When she breaks away you feel a strange warmth roll through you, and you know she's granted your wish.

"Ella, Ella, El-la…" The fairy says the name like she's savoring it. It no longer feels familiar; you realize you would not answer to it if someone called to you. The fairy looks you in the eye. "When you're done, you may come back if you wish. I like your fire. But I'll only wait until midnight."

You run through the house, and every step you take leaves a growing fire behind. Your shoes burn away until you're running in your bare, unburnt feet, and you wonder if you should have taken up the fairy on her offer of glass slippers. The playful flames don't burn you, and rising smoke seems to lift a weight off your shoulders. When the ball is over, there will be nothing but cinders left for your step-mother to come back to.

"Did you decide to come with me, Ella?" asks the fairy.

You know not to follow a fairy into its ring. You've been tracking down hints and scraps about the fair folk for a long time now.

You take her hand. "Call me Cinder."

Notes:

So the femmeslash was an accident but I like it. Anyways, inspired by the quote: "Cinderella never asked for a prince, she asked for a night off and a dress" (Kiera Cass)

If you liked this, check out my other twisted fairy tale: Always There Will Be Blood