Oh, she wants it. Wants it because it means being something other than this.

Fengye simply cannot stand from lying on her own. She cannot walk over roots and branches on her own. She won't stop of her own will when the dream of flying is there, so close, to her empty fingers. But she will make it perhaps twenty meters before it becomes clear she must be carried. 

The futility of this struggle is clarifying. She wants that power enough to do this. She wants that power because she has to do this. Around and around the circle of yearning goes. I want this so I can stop this. I can't stop because I want this. The waterwheel grinds strength in its jaws and she feeds it relentlessly. Maid, you think you struggle? Turn your gaze upon this wretched thing. Your curse is but an echo of this weakness.

She can't do it. She collapses. A fire needs fuel, no matter how brightly it would burn.