She woke to the warmth of the blanket, the glow of the lantern hanging above, the comfort of an old, worn matress beneath her, and the stiffness of her broken body lapping waves of pain at her conscience. Even so, she stared with blank absence at the wooden ceiling equalling staring down at her.

A soft ruff called for her attention, but she didn't pay any, not even after another one - closer this time. Not even when feeling paws against her bandaged, splinted arm. Not even when those ruffs became worried whimpers.

There was a heavy clunk and the bulky door of the room swung open, bringing in a cold draft and flurries of heavy snow before a familiar figure shut it, holding a bowl, from which a handle of a spoon peeked out; she registered the aroma but didn't find any worth to react. And silence was free to be as loud as it wanted: Rose staring at the ceiling, the figure at Rose, and finally the silence drew Rose to settle her eyes on Green Robe.

Who finally: "Not going to say anything?"

Silence.

"Nothing?"

Nothing.

"Very well." Green Robe went and knelt beside Rose on the floor, "I am Theresa. We are outside Bowerstone in a Gypsy Camp near Bower Lake, I believe you've heard of it, no?"

Only staring still.

Theresa continued: "Your faithful friend found you broken in the streets of the city. Its been two days since I brought you here,"

Rose looked away, finally noticing the circular window through which she could see the snow not faltering and some clinging to the pane.

"I've requested that the Gypsys take you in their care, and as you can tell are very hospitable - this caravan, for example. They were surprised to see that you still lived in the condition that you were, more so finding how quickly you healed with so few potions. But, the healer suggested that you heal naturally with the more severe injuries so as to not deform any bones and such in potion-healing. And I agree, if you seek revenge -"

Rose's eyes were back to her.

"A yes, I presume. Rest. Heal. In time, I will help you," Theresa took the spoon from the bowl and presented it to her, "For now, eat."

Rose stared at the spoon - the stew mixed with the broth from the beef, the mouth-watering aroma seemingly in the back of her throat and dancing on the back-end of her taste-buds. Floating on the surface were bits of green onion and small bits of carrot. Rose pouted, pressing her lips together. Then, slowly opened her mouth, allowing Theresa to slip the spoon in and for deliciousness to pool her mouth.

Rose drank the stew, but slowly ate the beef and carrots, feeling their texture, taking in their taste, the consistency; each chew exploded strong with flavor, by the lack of good food. Slower, slower, and slower until she was forced to stop, to grit her teeth and squeeze her eyes shut, from the tears and the swelling emotion that twisted her face. The moan that wormed through her teeth heralded the sobs thereafter. Her body trembled, jerking as she took sobbing gasps.

Theresa set the bowl and spoon down, reached, and parted the hair in Rose's face aside. That seemed to put Rose back into a degree of control of her emotions: her face hardened and her eyes were bonfires whose heat were only able to lick the air of the robed killer that had saved and was now feeding her, evident by Theresa's body stoicity and feeling nothing radiating from the darkness of her hood.

But her glare didn't hold the power Rose thought it had: "I can understand your hate. But there is nothing you can do about it now. Blame me as much as you want - you family is dead, and never coming back. If anything, use that anger and forge the mentality you desire when you face Lucien."

Reason brought Rose to that same conclusion, but, still, she stared - for moments. Then, turned away. The mold of rock and steel that took the form of her dormant anger from the years since her parent's death suddenly broke away, revealing the broken child she had been working to hide from the world, and the tears began to flow again, steady now, the brunt of the crashing waves calmed.

The smell of the stew was before her again, the spoon protruding from her peripheral. In glancing at the spoon, her eyes skipped over to Theresa. That empty darkness still surrounding her face, it was opaque, there was nothing she could read from it. The cold yawning in from the outside, peeking in - pressing its face against the window, the small space of this caravan, despite the dog and Theresa, Rose huddled on an isle of conscience in a lapping sea of loneliness.

Powerless, begrudgingly, Rose ate another spoonful of stew.

Another.

Another.

And another.

And another.

Mechanical, almost impulsive - Rose let herself go, no longer caring for the moment, and found the amount of stew cupped in the spoon becoming smaller and smaller, then presented the beef and carrots that had sunk to the bottom of the bowl.

There was fulfillment, a sense of satisfaction.

But: "...I hate this," Rose mumbled, looking absently at her broken body, "Sparrow should'a eaten that... an'... and now... He's... he's... All dat time ah'made t'protect 'im... All dat I indur'd t'keep 'im... Ah' - I - I shud've..."

"Lament all you want, Rose." Theresa said, wiping Rose's tears, "The fact that you're here, and Sparrow isn't, will never go away."

Rose moved her right arm but the stiffness and weight reminded her that it was practically bandaged into a sort of cast, resorting to biting instead - biting air, Theresa swift in her reflexes. From Rose's perspective, by her conclusion in hindsight, the slightest initial movement of her jerking her head seemed to gave Theresa the indication, if possible, even before that.

Despite the tears tracing down her face, the fire blazed high again in Rose's eyes, "I'm not stupid - you're the reason that fact's real!"

"And here's another fact: I can't predict the future. All I did was nudge you into a direction, just like everything in life. Where that direction leads you is something that is either in or out of your power. For you, there are many others who have suffered worse fates."

"How would you know - how do you see out of that hood?!"

"By living on the streets," Theresa's tone hinted on anger, heavy and imposing, "you should know, Rose. There's more to life than just seeing."

The fury shrank away and the child was re-placed, and was quiet a moment before: "...Whatever..." Then a pout curved Rose's lips, "...Um... I, uh... I know that was rude, but, um... Can - Can you..."

"Yes?"

"I need... help..."

"With what?"

Rose flushed: "I need t'... y'know... I need t'... go..."

"Ah. Of course."

Moments later, having finished in helping Rose relieve herself, Theresa helped Rose back into her bed, pulling the wool, worn blanket over her.

Theresa: "I won't always be here to help you, one of the gypsys will check on you regularly, for I have something that requires my attention. Rest. If things go well, I will be here by morning."

Just as Theresa turned away, Rose: "Wait."

Theresa stopped.

"Can you, um... Will... Can - " Rose frowned with pursed lips, feeling her face burn, unable to look at Theresa, "Um... This - this is... ridiculous, but, uh, before you go... you seem to know a lot, about the world I mean, and, so, um, ju-judging by your words. So, um, can... can you, tell me, a story, before you go?"

A moment of silence.

Rose could feel Theresa's eyes, invisible by the darkness clouding it, trained on her.

"...Very well." Her tone, Rose was able to hear the easiness in Theresa's tone, even if there seemed just a bit of it.

Theresa settled herself beside Rose's mattress again, pausing, then: "Once upon a time... There was a young girl who lived in a small village with her Mother, her Father, and her little brother, whom she loved very much. But the brother was such a lazy cow that he had forgotten to get a present for her birthday, like last year, but she had an uncertain inkling that it would be chocolates. She went out on the fields, passing time for her brother to arrive..."

Moments passed...

"...She was alone. Fire ravaged for as far as she could see. Her beloved home burned. Bodies littered the paths and dirt, gruesomely, that she wandered in shocked silence. Wandered absently, aimless, her brother's whereabouts tearing at her conscience. She stumbled upon her father, and... broke down, and her cries is what a passing Hero -"

Theresa stopped, head perking up catching the slightest movement of Rose's slumping head, her eyes closed and her breathing even and soft. Theresa stared a moment at frail Rose, then brushed aside the strands that had fallen over her face. The bandages, the splints, the tears and the emotions - Rose sleeping: Theresa was looking at the molded sculpture of broken innocence.

Theresa took a gentle deep breath, and stood but stopped before she even moved by the jerking of Rose's body, the twitching of her face. Her breathing was pacing, panting.

"...S'barrow...?" She mumbled, "...Mm'um... Dad... Where - where... Where did'jyou go...?"

The dog whined, tailed wagging nervously, glancing at Rose and Theresa, who gave a calming rub to its back.

Theresa's hooded head dipped before going back up for Rose, and dared: "Is there something wrong?" Her voice soft, gentle.

"M'family's gone... Ah'dun'no wer'dey are... M'scared... I'don' wanna be alone..."

Theresa looked at Rose's hand, and slipped her hand into Rose's, "But I'm here. How about we look for them together?"

"...Really...?"

"Yes. Really. But, unfortunately, I won't always be there to guide you."

Rose's face formed the slightest wince, "...Mmm..."

"Don't worry. Even when I'm not with you, I'm always watching over you."

"...Bra'miss...?"

Theresa wrapped her pinky over Rose's, and saying confidently, "Promise."

Rose said no more, her body calm, relaxed. Her lax face and the soft heaving of her chest showing of peaceful sleep. But Theresa kept her pinky locked awhile longer, then carefully removed herself, pet the dog, went to the door and glanced back at Rose, and walked back out into the cold world.

"Hey, Rose, how old are you"?


"Uh... thirteen, fourteen?"

"Then why're you holding that axe? It's too cold and the snow is still here, yer not old enough to hold that - yer still healing! Mum said that it would take a couple'a months fer you be okay to walk or run or hold something heavy like that axe!"

"...Well, I feel fine. Even though it's been only two n'a half weeks."

"I know! Y'look fine! All yer splints and casts and bandages n' stuff are gone! The Seeress said that you feel from a 'great height', and from what I saw that was true! Yer broken bones, parts of yer body bending the wrong way, de'... cuts n' stuff - you even had that stab wound from that branch you fell on!"

Rose's hand went to her stomach and rubbed her thumb, feeling the splotched scar through the fabric of her shirt. She didn't know how, but Theresa, if their conversation from before in her caravan said anything, seemed to have a way with her words if she weaved the details of a bullet wound into a stab wound. What she, herself had been told: she had tripped off a high cliff and slammed onto a branch that had a sharp broken existing branch while escaping from bandits, her brother being the unlucky one slain.

Rose: "Yeah..." Slowly her eyes narrowed and her lips slowly pushed themselves into a pursed frown: sleeping, in dreams, nightmaric flashes of that night always somehow manage to slip in for the last couple of days. The developing bags under her eyes told everyone around her how she was dealing with the ordeal.

"Look. At least rest fer a while, so I don't have to look like my Mom already when I'm still ten, there's a saying that worrying is bad for yer skin 'er whatever."

Rose turned her head, eyes drooping: "Do you believe everything you're told, Gretta?"

Gretta swung her fists down, "Jus' put d'axe down!"

"Fine!Fine!" Rose replaced the axe where it was and stepped away, staring at it.

Gretta sighed, relieved, then, looking at Rose, "I'm gonna haft'a watch you, don't I?"

Rose, without turning away, "Funny how you sound like a mom, already."

"Healed or not, yer pushing yourself when you should be resting - someone has t'watch you!"

Finally turning, Rose, her brows furrowing, "Look, Sparrow -" She stopped, paused, a momentary heavy silence slipping in then out, "Gretta..." She looked away, rubbing her neck,"I'm ..." Another pause, "Whatever... Do whatever you want."

"Then it looks like I'm following you, today."

Rose frowned; in all honesty there wasn't much to do with this weather. Yes, the snow had stopped, but most of the camp was still shoveling as much snow as they could to make the ways more accessible before the weather decided to paint the whole land white again. Granted, there were some books she was given when she was crippled those first few starting days in the camp weeks ago, but, she was already losing interest in the whole activity altogether, already growing bored of the books that were waiting in line just by looking at them. Perhaps there would be one book, that she didn't have, that would bring her interest back, but with the weather, the rate of which the traveling gypsy merchants going in and out of the camp dwindled.

There was getting to meet the other gypsys in the camp.

But, Rose didn't find any worth or point in doing so, and she wasn't feeling up to it: though it had been weeks ago, mourning knew how to welcome itself in the human consciousness, take comfort and settle itself in. It was by proximity to the camp's healer that she and Gretta had met each other.

Going outside the camp to play near the frozen lake was also a thing to consider, but, being outside the walls of the camp was deemed unsafe in general by the rise of bandit sightings in the area. There was a chance that there wasn't any bandits in the area at that this time, but the chance of there are being bandits was off-putting - better safe than sorry. And Rose didn't want to try her hand in trying to survive death a second time.

A frigid wind blew and Rose shuddered and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and clutched her cloak closed, slightly hunching. Snow no longer glided down from the grey sky but that didn't stop the biting wind.

"...Rose..." Rose turned to Gretta, her dark hair a curtain around her head with strands partially obscuring her tan face, which she didn't seem to mind, fidgeting and clutching the fur pelt she was using in use of a cloak closed, "Can we go inside?"

Rose took a glance around the camp: again, people were about with spades to shovel away the snow for the paths around the camp and the fronts of the caravans; someone had gotten a fire going and gypsys were crowding around there, those who didn't want to stay cramped inside their caravans, sitting around the growing fire from the stocked firewood, chatting heartily with some laughter about; the fireplace, for now, it seemed, was kept to a certain size and height, by the firewood, for the three pots hanging over it from a made spit, the gypsys having carefully and specifically gotten handfuls of the clean snow to boil to drink and keep worm, if they didn't add anything to make stew or other hot beverages. By a wafting aroma, one of the pots seemed to be brewing a stew.

Rose pointed to the camp fire, saying to Gretta: "You don't want anything to eat?"

Gretta looked a moment at the campfire, then turned back to Rose with a pursed frown, "Well... maybe..."

It was settled: Rose passed Gretta, calling and gesturing for her to follow: despite not having known each other for very long, Rose was able to learn that Gretta would look sheepish despite her seemingly indecisive words with particular things, which would mean she would want something or partake in something. Though Rose didn't really show it, she enjoyed Gretta acting in such a way, it was something to joke and tease about. Despite, it reminding her about Sparrow in Gretta's innocence. Which, in turn, Gretta know just enough about Rose by observation to recognize certain patterns in her face:

Gretta, upon catching up to Rose: "Sad again?"

"No."

"...Want a hug, or something?"

Rose widened the distance between her and Gretta a bit, but Gretta closed in, slipping her tiny hand into Rose's, feeling it jump: "...Um, don't be sad. Okay?"

Rose remembered the same tone of voice from a boy:

...I love you...

Rose didn't say anything, but didn't remove her hand either.

Upon approaching the camp fire, a familiar face spotted them and approached them in turn: "Feelin' okay, Rose? En'y of yer injuries still hurting or need t'be addressed?"

Rose: "I'm fine, Tanya. Really." She caught a few curious glances from the others at the camp fire, kids and some of the adults, they looked away when Rose turned her eyes on them but some of those eyes settled back on her when she stopped.

"An' I believe that," Tanya said, "But someone practically havin' a full recov'ry after they broke their body in two weeks - its unheard of! Even now a'm still tryin' t'understand what I had seen takin' care of you. Yer'a tough girl, y'know that?"

Rose looked away, eyes going bottom right: "Maybe..."

"Not everyone k'in survive a height you fell. Seein' how you healed under' my supervision, I k'in say yer'a tuff girl."

Rose: "Thanks. I guess..."

Tanya smiled, her hand to Rose's shoulder, guiding her and, by them still holding hands, Gretta, to the campfire, "You two pro'bly havn' eaten yet, haven't'chu? Is the stew done yet?"

A man at the camp fire was stirring a wooden spoon in one of the pots, pecking in with his hand spices and such, it appeared it be, "Just 'a fffew stiirs aaan' - there!" And he picked one of the bowls that had been beside his feet and poured two ladle scoops in, which he then gave to Tanya, "'Ere, one for the Rose, I'm assuming," And as said, Tanya giving the bowl to Rose, he poured another bowl, "And this for Gre'tta."

Taking a sip with the spoon soon after given, a slight smile pulled Rose's lips. Rose didn't get tired of the taste, this being the most exquisite stew she had tasted despite being so simple of a recipe, this also being the same exact stew when she first awoke in the gypsy camp, in, now, her caravan, those painful weeks ago. But, not without a pang of regret: food of this kind tasted better in the company of family, she was aware of this due to the season and had expected such instances to occur during it, that didn't mean she was always prepared for it.

One can smile for anything, but it was only measured by the rest of facial context: Rose felt a small pull on her cloak. Turning, Rose caught a glimpse of an all too familiar boy in patchwork clothing in her peripherals, but, blinking, it was only Gretta, those small multi-colored jewels of hazel shining with concern as she was chewing. Her eyes drooped, the smile fading, glanced at Tanya, the cook, and the rest before going off towards her caravan.

Gretta: "Waim! Hul' on -" She stuffed another scoop of stew in her mouth, swallowed and followed: "Waffer'me!I godda wath'you!"

A kid at the camp fire: "What's the matter with her?"

The Cook: "She's still in pain."

The same kid: "What d'you mean? She's healed, right?"

Tanya didn't say anything, eying Rose and Gretta as they went to Rose's caravan with her arms folded.

The Cook: "Y'll understand someday that there are just some wounds that never heal completely."

The kid tilted their head: "But, wouldn't they still be in bandages or bleeding if that happened?"

The Cook chuckled at the kid's child innocence, picking another bowl of stew, "You'll understand later in life." With a grunt, he pushed at his thighs off his seat, bowl in hand, and to Tanya, whom he presented the bowl, "Here, a reward, per say, for your work last night."

Tanya: "Thank you,"

In Tanya taking a sip, the Cook: "She is your daughter - that sense of duty."

"...I guess she is."

"You don't sound too happy."

"Don't worry, we have enough food this winter, people are watching above the gate - we're in no imminent danger."

"I know, but -"

"Relax. People are looking to you to heal us when the time comes. And you patients are still in need of you."

Tanya took a deep breath: "I know..."

Upon approaching Rose's caravan, the heavy door jerked, thudded and swung open, paving the way for a familiar face trotting to them.

Gretta: "Arfer!"

Rose's head snapped to Gretta, eyes wide, flashing with the embers of anger until realizing she was still eating with a full mouth, then frowned at herself, sipping her stew with burning cheeks, pouting as she savored the taste in her mouth as a distraction from what she had done. As much as it was nearly phonetically the same as Arfer's name, the dog's name was actually Arthur, named on a whim and at random, the name coming to her on a sudden spur of thought. From there it just stuck - Arthur was Arthur. It was decided. Of course, however, there were incidents such as this by the slur of the tongue or a mumble that had 'Arthur' sound like 'Arfer'. Inevitable, but rose dealt with it.

Arthur padded his way through the damp dirt path, panting, tongue lolling, and excitement polished his black eyes. Slowing nearing, and now before Rose and Gretta, Arthur spun around, seemingly chasing his tail, before sitting and looking expectantly at his friends before him. But upon, then, catching a certain scent coming from them, Arthur crept close to Gretta, craning his head to her bowl, sniffing that delicious aroma wherein his paw reached up for the bowl that was turned away before he could do so.

Rose: "Arthur!"

But, Gretta, glancing back towards the campfire, spotting Tanya busy, sitting beside the others at the campfire, warming up, "Okay okay okay, okay okay okay," She said, feeling a paw on her thigh, "Hold on, wait a min', okay?" And proceeded to shovel her mouth of as much stew as she could hold in her mouth, carrots and beef included, puffing her cheeks, carefully drinking the stew.

Rose: "Is your's not hot anymore?"

Gretta turned her head, shaking her eyes as some tears slipped down her face, a faint: "...Mm-mm."

Rose: "Heh..." It was humorous enough to warrant some sort of laugh.

Having gotten her fill, Gretta crouched down and held her bowl for Arthur. who went for it, slurping the stew, some of it splashing from his tongue, and, tasting it, biting for the beef floating about, too taken by the flavor to notice he was taking in the carrots, too.

Rose arched her brow at Gretta, who only put a finger to her lips, glancing back at Tanya - she was still in the clear.

Rose rolled her eyes and continued on to her caravan, Gretta going after despite Arthur pawing at the bowl for her to stop, some of the stew spilling in the process, but that only encouraged him to be the third follower.

Going up the steps to the front door of her caravan, Rose stamped her feet in getting rid of the snow clinging to her fur boots and entered her caravan, cool from the cold air entering the ajar door when Arthur went out. It was no campfire, but Rose went to the opposite end of the caravan and there was a metallic squealing when Rose turned the small knob of a oil lantern: small space, small area, Rose gave the lantern another purpose as an crude heater of sorts. Of course, being its size and meaning to be a light source, it would take a while for the inside to heat up to comfortable temperature.

Gretta went to the side of Rose's caravan, set her bowl down for Arthur to finish, raced around the corner, up the steps, and through Rose's door.

Who: "Hey hey! Get the snow off your shoes!"

Jumping at the Rose sharp and loud shout, Gretta went back out on the steps and stomped her feet, glancing at the sides and even checking the bottoms of her soles to be sure there wasn't any snow left. Which, seeing she didn't see any other patches of it, Gretta went back inside and closed the door behind her.

And finally took in the inside of Rose's caravan: by decor, it didn't look any different to any other caravan in the camp, but the difference being the growing neat row of books on the right wall - if looking from the door in - which were only three books high and three across - small, but a premonition into the future, seeing how other gypsy traders come in and out of the camp all the time through out the year.

Rose, herself, was seated on her mattress balancing the bowl on her lap and a book open in her hands, eyes gliding left and right, going down, reading the pages. Soon the page was flipped, and it was evident by the placement of the pages that she had already reached the middle of the book, remembering that these books were given to her during her crippled days.

Gretta stood, staring at Rose passing her time, flipping page after page, slurp after slurp of her stew, now chewing the beef from the bottom of the bowl, before finally, Rose: "Aren't you going t'sit?"

Her feet having been nagging at her to do so, and because she was finally given permission, feeling she had been intruding somehow, Gretta obliged and sat down across from Rose, bringing her knees to her chest, staring and staring at Rose, in fact, almost absently at the spine of the book she was reading. If Rose minded, she didn't say anything, but did give an occasional glance at Gretta in turning pages. And, as such, they were both having a very loud, awkward, creepy silent conversation about each other, the crisp flipping of the pages accentuating the obscenity of their mannerisms in this situation.

Finally, forcing it out, Gretta: "So, uh... how, um... how many books, have you, read?"

Rose's eyes looked up from the pages, staring at Gretta.

She didn't need to speak to say what was on her mind: Can't you count?

Gretta looked to the row of books and counted: nine in all, but, in taking this second sort of glance, Gretta saw there were four of them that was stacked upside side down while the rest was properly done.

Gretta: "Sooo...four?" And looked back to Rose for confirmation.

Rose didn't say or do anything other than read and finish the last remains of her stew wherein she set the bowl and spoon to the side, now fully concentrated her on book.

Another moment where silence pardoned itself through the two of them, broken by the whistling through the tiny crevices of the caravan from a strong wind that blew over the land. And Gretta jumped at the thud at the door, scratching following after but it all became clear hearing the whimpering.

Rose, finally: "Led'im in, will'ya?"

Gretta stood and went and, sucking in air and holding her breath, tugged on the handle of the heavy door until it gave, popping, catching Gretta off balance and tumbled onto her back. But, Arthur was finally inside and attended Gretta at once seeing her on the floor, wincing, and she assured that she was fine by her petting him.

Rose opened her mouth to speak but returned to reading upon seeing Gretta return to the door to close it, grunting and pushing with all of her might so as to slam it shut. There, inside the warm room, Arthur went to Rose's side, lying down, and Rose pet him in welcome; Gretta, herself, returning to the same spot she had been before.

Another lonesome staring contest before Gretta forced out: "Um... What, stories do you, like?"

Rose actually took the time to pause, looking up in thought a moment, before she shrugged: "I dunno."

Gretta looked back to the book stacks and saw the pattern: all, or at least most, of the the titles Rose had were of hero tales and of mythical monsters, at least from what she could assume; only a few modern books, however. Peering to confirm the title of the book Rose was reading: Recorded Tales and Feats of Briar Rose. She took a second glance at the stack, then back to the book in-reading: that would definitely explain the disappointing book numbers, considering the collection already gathered here in camp for stock in the camp store - most of the books Rose had were considerably worn but still intact and pages yellowed, some, respectively, already going brown, a few looking as fragile as the elderly - one drop or wrong turn of the page could break the book, but appearances can be deceiving.

Already feeling a sense of her pushing a boundary of sorts, Gretta dared: "Um... Rose? Why do you have books about Heroes?"

Rose lifted her book just slightly enough so that Gretta would be out of peripheral view, and, thus, altogether.

And, Gretta was at a loss: clearly, Rose was greatly affected by the death of her brother, the whole ordeal leading up to that - all of it, Gretta assumed. But, if she herself is unable to help a peer like Rose, even a little, how was she supposed to take up the mantle of her mother in the future? Granted, her time to be her mother's daughter wouldn't be that near in the future but it was something to consider when she still had the time to think of such things when not bound by responsibilities.

She got up and stood before Rose: "Um, Rose? Is it okay if I sit beside you?"

Moving her book, and to Gretta, Rose's eyes peered over the top of her book for a moment's glance like two light houses whose intense beams were zeroed on her before they were shadowed behind her book, saying nothing still.

Back to relative silence, whimpering Arthur pawing at Rose's lap for her to consider the offer but all she did was absently pet him.

Gretta stared at Rose, still nervously standing, fidgeting slightly. She then forced herself, finally, to stiffly go to Rose's vacant side and set herself down, scooted herself as close as she thought comfortable for Rose. She leaned to the side a bit to peek at Rose's book, being able only to comprehend that there were words on the old paper before Rose turned enough inward, towards Gretta. Gretta stopped at once, and frowned, downcast, feelings of failure washing over her.

She stayed that way a moment before she looked to Arthur, seeing him eying her, she could feel, by suggestion and probability, that Arthur wanted her to do something but she couldn't read anything from the dog. But, desperate, Gretta wrapped her arms around Rose, who tensed at once at the first touching sensation, left hand clawing.

Rose looked down at Gretta, who looked up at her, those brown twinkling jewels from the lantern overhead, saying: "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Spar - I -" Rose snorted, leaving it at that, adding: "Do whatever you want..."

Gretta: "But... I wanna help you. And, yer not letting me."

Rose, didn't say anything.

And Gretta said no more.

Moments passed - flip, flip, flip of the brown pages; time passed, and the nudge against her arm interrupted Rose's reading. Looking: Gretta had dozed off and slumped onto Rose's left side. Rose's hand jerked towards Gretta, palm open, but, only moved so much to look as a involuntary twitch similar to before.

She stared a moment, taking in the lax and slumped form of Gretta, reminding her of a boy - a boy who would fall asleep the same way whenever they sat beside each other in her telling stories. Actually, in fact, if Sparrow had been a girl, Rose wondered if he would look just like Gretta, some, even the hintest of, features bearing resemblance was uncanny but likely coincidence. From what she remembered of Father, he wasn't that kind of person, that kind of lecherous womanizer, a player of a certain type of hot-potato. Even if he was...

Actually, she couldn't even imagine it.

She returned to her business, to her book, flipping page after page when Arthur's head shot up from the ground, ears perked.

Rose: "What's wrong, boy?"

It was all she had time to say before the tremorous boom shuddered her whole world. Gretta jerked awake, glancing about: "Rose? Rose, Rose, what's happening?" The edge and fear in her voice was clear.

Either by her haunting pain or having brushed with death before, Rose was calm, questioning the same thing, setting her book down and going to her door when the coming roars and battle cries became a crescendo, the bangs of gunfire and the cries of the fallen.

In the fast panic growing outside, a cry named the madness: "Bandits!"

"Mom!" Gretta sprang to her feet, and would have opened the door if Rose didn't catch her.

"Wait!" Rose said, "Right now, we're more safer in here!"

Gretta struggled, wrestled to get herself free in vain from Rose's unprecedented tight clutches: "But Mom's out there! Mom!"

There was the sound of distinctive return fire from a retaliation from either the gypsys or the guards that do their rounds here from this part of Bowerstone. Either way, gunfire and clashing swords had grown prominent compared to just moments ago. Thinking it now, it was amazing considering that this caravan was as close to the wall of the camp as some other caravans, and the hope of being ignored was destroyed when Rose's world exploded. The front of the caravan blown away from the blast, but the door, resilient, was chucked from its hinges, slamming more into Rose than Gretta, being thrashed down to the floor by the inertia, yelping and writhing clutching her side, feet kicking. Rose was flung to the opposite end of the caravan with the door, yelping in crashing into the wall with the door being a sucker punch to her upper body then sprawling onto the floor. In which, a sharp pain burst from her shoulder with an intense heat blossoming there and down her shoulder and what she could sense being her left side.

Eyes heavy and drooping, body fatigued by the onset of pain, with the whole world sounding distant and faded, going into gradual silence, her whole world became an intense indiscernable grey, vertigo lapping at her conscience. Her groggy moan was the only thing that told the world she was still alive. Conscience becoming foggy and all thoughts shattered. Addled, Rose could make out barking and pain cries of a man and the calling of a few others. She could only vaguely comprehend why a young voice would be desperately calling her name before everything went black.


There it was again...

That space. That endless void of white.

The boy who had been crying before was now sitting, legs out and hunching with his head dipping down. There was a quality of absence about him, his stare into that white nothingness with those dull eyes and his lack of any words, not even blinking.

Then his lips quivered, pressing together to purse, and he shuddered as tears welled and fell down his face. His tolerance was short, and he shut his eyes and bit his lip, stifling a moan enough only for it to be hoarse.

And, he didn't know why he was crying.

Everything began to blur, then the white was being edged off by black blots becoming larger and larger, swallowing everything until all was black again.


Rose jumped awake with a gasp, seeing her blurry vision and feeling the tear streaks down her face seconded by the pain in her shoulder and the burning that reached down to her forearm, barely reaching her wrist but could feel heat in parts of her hand.

"Rose!" Rose recognized the voice.

She turned her head and her eyes widened: "...Tanya...Your face...!"

Tanya touched the bandage patch taking up almost the whole of the left side of her face, a smile crossing her face: "It's not as bad as it looks," She said that yet she winced, but continued: "I, was, more, concerned about you: you had, glass in your shoulder that was, also burned by the oil from your lantern, it slid down, your arm. I'm sure you can feel it."

She did, could feel the pain pinching her consciousness. Though her body was sluggish, she touched the bandages.

Tanya: "I told you you were'a tough, girl - from what we can tell an explosion threw, the door of your caravan at you, you should be wrapped in, bandages and splints and yet all you had was the glass and the burns."

Saying that, Tanya's face fell: "Although, even though we'ave potions, not much left to spare now, your arm is sure t'scar, even fer you. Your side, might fare a bit better, if you're, lucky, it'll heal just fine."

Rose grunted, sitting up (during this realizing she was dressed in a vested shirt), aided by Tanya but stopped altogether in Rose putting her hand to her mouth.

Tanya: "You okay?"

"Feel like -"

"Nausea?"

Rose gave a small nod so as to not, by chance, vomit.

"Not surprised. Theresa said you would likely have a concussion."

"Theresa's here?"

"Yes. She's dealing with other patients right now, and she was the one who got the guards. And, yes, the camp is doing fine. We were able to drive the bandits,back before the did any bad damage -"

"Arthur?" Rose looked past Tanya, having spotted fur in her peripherals, and saw the splints and the red-spotted bandage wrapping over his torso - him unconscious on his side.

"Don't worry. He's doing fine, but he hasn't woken up yet. Rose?"

Rose went dead silent, remembering: "Where's Gretta?"

Tanya took her turn of silence, looking away, and Rose spotted the painful, sombre look.

Rose: "Gret-ta," She enunciated, "where is she?"

"She - uh... Um. We - we-were, able to, drive the bandits back, but, not before they... took some people..."

It became clear, remembering that young voice before she blacked out:

Rose! Rose! Help! Heeelp!

Rose: "Have the guards - are they investigating?"

"As, far as we, know..."

Thick tension flooded the air, and Rose: "...You don't sound too confident."

Reading people by their faces - that was an essential credential she had easily picked up during those days on the streets, and, remembering Arfur, was glad to have learned such a skill early on. And she could see it: the restraint on Tanya's face even if the patch covered most of it; the barest twitch she noticed on her face; how she kept glancing away - a predominant, an obvious notion.

"Ah, um..." Her voice was wavering and could hear the coming break, "Ah - Ah - jus,'" She turned away, going for the door of this caravan, and it was clear: "Jis' res'fer nao!"

Rose spotted them, the tears. Even here, behind the heavy door and the walls of the caravan she could faintly hear Tanya sobbing outside. And not being the in the condition to move, she couldn't - well, either way, whether she could cover her ears or not, it didn't take away the fact of the likely fate of Gretta, or the others. But, the more she listened, the more a grimace came onto her face, the more her mind receded to an earlier point in time, and how she seemed more alive then, having the mind to take on the world if she willed it, if having a healthy body at that time.

Grunting as she slowly eased herself back onto her back, she sighed, and stared at the ceiling.

A moment passed.

She looked at her bandaged arm, turning her hand to seeing the bandaged parts of her palm and the individual wrapped fingers - four, including her thumb.

She eyed the ceiling again.

And sighed again.

Time passed. Tanya had calmed and gave her the run down of what occurred since yesterday, it turned out: when any and all fires had been put out, when the damaged had been assessed, the injured was rounded up and taken into Tanya's hands, her injuries done first, addressed by Theresa. Potions were handed out, sparing sips encouraged and bandages sparsely used for the more critical (had enough left over for Rose's wounds to be completely addressed) with the aid of Theresa. Some merchandise and food was stolen, and, as aforementioned, people were taken as well. Guards went to follow the bandits' tracks, as also said before, but they haven't returned yet, but hopes aren't high.

And now...

People...

"Are you just gonna let them off the hook?" Rose asked.

Tanya didn't say anything, having brought in lunch, but: "Just rest, Rose. Yer not going t'help anyone or yourself if you don't heal." And left.

It was her only conclusion, maybe even jumping the gun a bit, but: this has happened before. Maybe not directly before, likely the traveling gypsys. The others gradually taking notice of their lacking presence, becoming tangible, more so for some, like Tanya, assumably. None are seen again, and talk and talk and talk spreads and grows nervousness and fear. Apprehension and more weapon protection.

She stared at her food.

Took a bite.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Stared into the distance a moment, saying it was absent-staring would be a lie.

And sighed again.

From there, time passed too quick for comfort and it was already sunset, a burning orange sky becoming orange-red by the clouds crawling across the sky. Tanya was nice to mix some potion with her stew, but that only made things more unfortunate for Rose: now able to stand, standing outside looking at the burning dawn with hints of twilight coming on:

She sighed a fourth time.

And when darkening twilight came.

A fifth sigh.

And a six when finding a certain axe.

"What are you doing?" She knew that voice from anywhere.

"Nothing." Rose said, and tried to hide the axe in her cloak, being only able to grip and not tuck the axe under her arm, "I'm fine, Theresa."

"A foolish thing to do, even consider, to go after those bandits in your condition."

"And you just want me to leave it alone, too?"

"Again, you are wounded. And lacking in any sort of fighting experience. The only thing you would achieve is your death."

Rose gripped the axe hard that her hand shook, was silent a moment before, "Then, you... might as well kill me now." If she couldn't find the guts to look at Theresa, at all, then its telling how she would hold herself against even the weakest bandit.

Silence, no words, moments seemed to pass in the tense eternity.

Then: "If you are so insistent... Take this."

Rose finally turned, and an odd familiarity struck her seeing the circular object in Theresa's hands, the intricate 's' brought a sort of calling sensation in her, but, there was something else, an apprehension she couldn't put her finger on: "W- what - what's that?"

"...A relic. It'll let me speak to you, only you will be able hear my voice with it. If you are serious about this, I suggest you take it."

Rose stared a moment at the relic, trying to reach the fogged reaches of her memory bank for the reason for the familiarity edging on her conscience, before, defeated and pushing the whole thought aside, stepped to Theresa who careful placed the circular object into Rose's bandaged hand. A light then shone, enveloping the relic whole, and its one foot wide body shrunk to about the size of her palm. It had a brass outer ring that was connected by the four silver points from the inner blue and adorned gold center ring which had the silver 's' in the center of that.

Theresa: "Worry not, for that is one of its functions for easy carry."

Bearing that in mind, Rose, as best as she could but managed, slipped the object into her skirt pocket. With this, realizing how just how inadequately dressed she was for fighting, seeing how it was inevitable in dealing with bandits. Too many clothes that restricted her movement - her cloak, her heavy sweater and heavy long skirt, her fur boots. All factored with the fact of her still healing body, her arm, and the slight nausea still persisting -

Theresa: "Do not worry." There was a gentle confidence in her tone that Rose couldn't help but suspect, "As I said, the relic will let me speak to you. I may not be with you in person, but I am with you in spirit. If you plan to save Gretta and the others, I suggest you do so now, while there is still some light to guide you." But then she held out her hand, "Or, are your doubts more deciding than yourself?"

Rose glanced the gate: "Even if I do get out of the camp, where do I -"

"Remember what the gypsys here call me?"

Rose narrowed her eyes: "The, Seeress, yes..."

"I've had a particular vision: moving shadows going east of here, and settling in a camp near the road going to Brightwood."

Rose roughly estimated the time to get there with the snow, the coming darkness, and the fact of the wild life becoming more alive - the humans retreating back to their homes, or walls in the case of this camp, and allowing the animals to roam free without worry to prey any lost and/or braving stragglers in the night, if they weren't hibernating, that it.

Altogether: it would take possible two and a half hours, if she remembered the distance between Bower Lake and Brightwood right. Night would already be fogging everything in darkness by then... If Theresa's supposed 'vision' was to be taken for granted.

But: "Won't anyone see my leaving the camp? The gate was blown apart."

"And a temporary one has been piecemealed together in its place. But with the numbers that are able to work, it may become too late to build a proper gate should any wondering packs of animals get too curious."

Rose could see what Theresa was suggesting: the fact this new gate was too hastily put together there would no doubt be holes and crevices to squeeze through for someone as small as her. And for small predatory animals, possibly like a wolf, possibly.

Rose pat the pocket that kept the relic: "I can hear you through this?"

"Asking more questions means losing precious time before it is too late."

Rose knew she was avoiding the question, but not without a grain of truth.

She frowned, then walked off toward the gate, holding the axe near the axe head and pulling her wrist back in keeping and hopes that the handle wasn't making a protrusion in her cloak. Glancing and glancing for any eyes going her way, which she didn't seemed to find any until reaching the gate.

Rose: "Tanya..."

Tanya was with crossed arms under her cloak. The footprints in the dirt and the patches of snow show she had been here for a while, if those were indeed hers, but this was insisted by the steaming mug beside the steaming pot on the ground.

Tanya opened her mouth but paused. Her lips pursed, and her unpatched eye wavered with emotions, tears welling.

Then it settled on Rose, shifting with streaking tears, sniffing, "Don't go..." She gasped with emotion, "Don't - don't go..." Her face twisted and scrunched with pain, closing her eye and putting a hand to her face, "Please, please don't go... please..."

Words echoed in Rose's mind, bubbling back:

...Don't go... Don't leave me all alone...!

Rose gripped the axe hard, panting slightly, just able to stifle the tears lapping at the dam: "I... I need to."

She cursed herself mentally - what a way to start a reason.

"Rose, please, I appreciate the sentiment, but, you'll die. Your just'a kid, wounded at that, with only the axe you keep staring at, I presume."

Rose found her mouth working before her brain, her voice suddenly forceful: "You're just gonna leave your daughter?"

"DO - Do you think I want to?" Rose could hear it, the rage but also the desperation, "Do you think that I don't love her and wish the best for her? Do you think I...I..." She instantly became glassy-eyed and tears streaked down her face, covering her mouth.

That conclusion from before: this has indeed happened before. Of course, if Gretta was her blood daughter she would have had her blood father, as he would also be Tanya's husband, assuming. But, perhaps, with this...

Regardless, she still needed a good reason for Tanya to step aside, the sun was not on her time: "Uh... Tanya, I... Theresa gave me something that'll help me, she'll watch over me."

"...Still... This is, this is something for the guards, just leave this... jus' leave this to them..."

Time was slipping from her hand, Rose glanced at the sky: the orange was a burning red that was quickly darkening to blues and purples. But within the mindset with what Rose can piece together just by their interactions from today, Tanya had her reasons for stopping her here, and as such there would be trouble in trying to convince Tanya to step aside.

But, knowing better: "Sorry..." Rose broke into sprint and shoved Tanya aside, who fell onto the wet slush, but Rose misjudged the woman by her reflexes by a swipe that caught Rose's cloak, yanking it off her shoulders, but Rose ran on, throwing herself through a crevice in the gate, taking care to slow before leaping.

She grunted, shifting her body to squeeze through, the wood scratching at her skin but winced at the it scraping at her bandages, ignoring the biting pain at her arm and shoulder and, finally, slipped through. Tugging off anything caught be it clothing or bandages, Rose ran over the bridge, sliding off to the right side of the hill the bridge was used for, and made off to Brightwood, cries echoing in the distance.

She ran as long as she could before needing to catch her breath and finally looked back and her brows rose at seeing no sight of the camp or any chasers. In fact, taking in her surroundings now, from what she had heard from the coming and going merchants she was already approaching the region of Brightwood, if the changing trees and flora around her said anything. The darkness of the night was now seeping onto the world, only so much light lighting her way by the omniscient eye that was the moon, and the cold was becoming colder, just now realizing by shuddering and carefully hugging herself for her left arm. Which, looking now, strips of bandages had been torn off, exposing her burn and cut flesh. Rose grimaced: they were uncovered, open to any material of the world - Rose didn't mean for her to take much care only so far in this ordeal.

"I didn't expect you to be so close so early," Rose jumped, readying the axe - right hand at the center of the base of the handle, the left hovering above the bottom, ignoring the pain in her arm, and glanced about to find nothing, "Don't be alarmed. As I said before, I'm speaking to you through the relic."

She fished the relic from her pocket, and her expectations were disappointed there was no indication that the relic was indeed working as intended by Theresa.

"You're almost there," Said Theresa's voice, "You should see it not far off. Do you see it?"

Rose took a second glance at her surroundings: there were orange glows of flames partially obscured by the snow and flora. Rose crouched down and approached slowly, so focused she wasn't aware of the unprecedented grace she put into each step, the quick yet almost inaudible stepping. The distance closing, she saw the camp - two, three camp fires; counting - thirty men that she could count. Her heart would have sank if not spotting the taken gypsys in a cage, and others separated into two additional cages, shivering and huddling together in the cold, just barely able to spot Gretta.

Theresa's voice came again: "Slavers. Nowadays, slavery isn't a rare sight, but it is not uncommon. Be careful, the numbers are against you, but I am here, a second pair of eyes: to your left, one of the men appear to be leaving the camp."

It being pointed out, Rose did see one of the slavers dragging a gypsy women away.

She was able to spot one of the men that the slaver passed raising a bottle: "'Ave fun, Tim'ey! Don' dam'ige the goods too much!"

This Timmy only grinned and tugged at the resistant woman; Rose didn't realize her bandaged hand was wet, dripping blood, shaking, her nails digging into her palms.

Theresa: "A perfect opportunity. Follow them, he's likely to pull the woman to a more quiet spot from the camp."

Rose was already prowling after the two, her eyes intense fires trained on the slaver. A few paces away, the slaver began to indulge on his dish that he never got to taste for the axe head cleaving into the side of his neck, stumbling him to his knees and fingers pressing against the wound, crimson rolling down the skin of his fingers; the last warmth he felt, and the girl with grit teeth and anger flaring her face slamming something down on his head was the last thing he saw before everything went black.

Rose wrung the axe off the cleaved head of the unmoving slaver and glared a moment before addressing the disheveled gypsy, who stared at her with wide eyes and mouth agape.

Rose: "Are you okay?"

The woman kept opening and closing her mouth, trying then finally found her voice: "Yer - yer Rose, right? The child the Seeress brought to us? You just killed -"

"I know." Merely, matter-of-factually, with a hint of joy.

"You - yuh - bu' - but yer just a child! I mean - thank you, but -!"

Rose glanced back the way they came, "Listen, I need you to tell what you saw in their camp."

"...Why? Are - are you - ARE you thinking of taking all of them alone?!"

"No: I have the Seeress - Theresa helping me, she's watching me right now. She's the reason why you're not - why you're safe right now."

"She - The Seeress is watching you?

"Yes! Come on! Tell me already!"

"O - O - ok-kay... Uh - um..." The woman paused a moment, thinking, "Uh... They're - they're all, stupid?"

Rose motioned with her hand, prompting: "...And?"

"They - they, uh... th-they-they have guns and b-b-blades and axes and ssuch... an-and... I-I didn't s-see any do-dogs - an-and-d - I'm sorry, I'm just - we - we wer-ern't given any pelts or cloaks or anything..." This proven by the woman clutching herself for warmth, shivering, teeth slightly chattering.

Rose couldn't deny the coming cold of the night, feeling that she herself was shuddering slightly from the lack of warmth, the thick clothing keeping her from becoming like the woman standing before her.

Rose: "Sorry, but, I forgot to get my cloak when coming here, I didn't think they would come this far away from the camp. But, hurry and tell me more, while we still have the time before they suspect anything."

The lie was guaranteed at the mentioning of the other slavers, but remembering the dead one before them, now given a time to breathe and think, the woman tugged off the pelt on the slaver and shook with a shuddering moan, grateful for the warmth wrapping around her, closing her eyes, but, opening: "Oh, do you need this?"

This was thought by Rose shaking, but not catching what she was looking at:

It was there.

She could see it in the coming light of the moon.

Nestled in the holster, the grip of a pistol radiated an evil that latched onto Rose, slithering and coiling her, squeezing the air from her lungs - she suddenly found it hard to breathe, wincing and putting a hand to her chest for the intense tightening there as her knees suddenly gave and collapsed onto her hands and knees.

The woman went to her side and tried speaking to her, but Rose was only hearing muffled words.

But Theresa words were clear: "Can you hear me? Do as I say: take a slow deep breaths - in, out, in, out. Inhale. Exhale. Don't think about that night, think about now. Think about what you can do now and prevent anything like that from happening under your watch. All of what you saw - switch the people with the people you know now. Switch Sparrow with Gretta."

Rose was raggedly breathing, trying, but seeing that pistol brought a rushing wave of emotions and vivid memories of that night in Castle Fairfax. But, that imagery of Gretta in Sparrow's place was bringing her back in control of her body, slowly bringing her mind back into focus, the tension in her chest lightening and breathing becoming easier. A moment passed and she was able to stand again, the sensation still lingering but tolerable otherwise.

The Woman: "Are you okay?"

Theresa: "The slavers haven't suspected anything yet. A distraction to draw their numbers away could help turn the odds in your favor, but at the cost of the slavers being on edge and bringing suspicion. If that's what you decide, the means to do so are in front of you."

Rose, answering the woman, keeping her eye off of the pistol: "I'm fine... for now..."

Finally, the woman caught what Rose was looking at, and said, "Look. You're still too young, even if you took a life - with... out, hesitation... You can't die at your age. I - I... the best you can do is get everyone else out."

The woman stooped down, pulling the pistol from the holster and picking a handful of bullets from the slaver's pocket. In stuffing those in her pocket, she reached again and pulled a key from a pouch, which she gave to Rose.

"You're lucky you killed one of them guarding the cages. I'll distract them, I'll run off and fire a couple shots. Hopefully, maybe half of 'em will look fer me."

Rose: "Wait... but, what if... what if they - ah! - find you?" Rose re-did Theresa's instructions, breathing slowly with a hand on her chest.

The woman grimaced, averting her eyes: "I... I, I'll be fine." And forced a smile, "I know how to use a gun. I have enough bullets here to take down some of 'em."

"B-but - I - I -"

"We're not heroes, Rose, we're just people, we can only do so much." The woman reached and grabbed the dead slaver's arm, "C'mon. Help me pull 'em out of sight."

As Rose did, Theresa chimed in: "She's right. Try to attack the camp with you two alone and both of you will surely die, and Gretta, gypsys, and those with them will be sold off as property. With this, you at least have a chance."

Placing the body some distance away and applying snow over the few blood spots trailing to the body, the woman pulled the banged and battered sword sheathed at slaver's hip, "Here, you'll need this more than me. Can you hold it okay?"

Rose assessed by weighing and giving a few testing swing, "It's a bit heavy, but I can swing it."

"Hmm. Kinda odd for someone skinny as you. But," She paused.

"What?"

The woman shook her head and brought Rose into a hug that gradually became firm: "You're doing a great thing. For someone yer age, yer doing something very brave."

"Uh... um..."

The woman removed herself: "Right. The camp's over there, remember?" She gestured to the general direction of the slaver camp, "When I shoot, wait for them to get away from the group, sneak around and open the cages. Okay?"

"Okay, but - bu -"

"Good. Like you said, we don't have the time. Let's do it." Rose saw the same forcefulness in the woman smiling before sprinting off, through the flora and the snow.

She was too fast, Rose stalling and stuttering and the sensation of weakness, unable to ask a simple thing: what is your name?

Rose became downcast a moment before turning to the freezing dead slaver, brows furrowing in contempt, the embers of the hate she had before becoming stoked. Her foot smashed into the dead slaver's groin before sneaking off to the camp.

There, at a safe distance away, she spotted the cages and the people shivering in them, huddled and clutching each other for the warmth they were sharing that was evidently not enough to carry them through the rest of the night. And she saw why the woman said the slavers were stupid first: the cages were facing outward, towards her, instead of toward in the center of the camp. She spotted a pile of bodies that could only be the guards that were sent off to find this camp. Persistent, the cold latching onto Rose, she waited for the woman's signal, that moments later, rang out in the distance. The slavers in the camp looking to that direction, reaching for the guns and swords. There was talk amongst them before a group grew by the number of gunshots that popped off: there was argument and shouting at one another in deciding for what to do before there finally came a begrudging consensus: over half of the group splintered off in search of the supposed party wandering in this cold night for a guaranteed extra weight to their coin purses. But, there were stubborn fools that followed behind them a moment after they left in apparent competition. The result: five people were remaining, the guards left in the greedy hopes of the party that left, and these five look to be the bottom of the bunch. While concern did weigh down on Rose's mind for the woman, Rose forced those thoughts aside when sneaking to the cage with the gypsys. They were too cold to be aware of her presence until one of them heard a clicking at the cage door and turned to see her.

In Rose giving a nearly quiet shush, more eyes turned to her and twinkled with hope and she shushed again, glancing up at the five remaining slavers who were the greenest she had even seen or heard of for slavers: one already off to sleep, two of them so bored they were doing the ol' patty cake, singing included, the fourth drooling and eyes so absent, the fifth - dare she describe, there was a sort of... romantic quality about him in staring dreamily into the night sky. From her peripherals, Rose saw the people from the two other cages, on either side of this one, were beginning to take notice and put her finger to her lips at both of them.

Before she opened the door, however, whispering: "I need a few of you to come with me and help me take care of the last slavers here."

Glimmering in the moonlight, Rose spotted Gretta's eyes: "R-Ro-rose?"

"Hey," Whispered one from one of the other cages, "What about us?"

Rose shushed again, glancing with fearful caution at the slavers again, then, after brief consideration, "We don't have much time! The slavers are gonna be back -"

Rose's head snapped to the direction of the consecutive gunfire shouting far off into the distance, already fearing the worst for the woman whose name she never got to learn, biting her lip.

And while the slavers' comments were popping off in the distance as loudly as their guns, Rose: "We don't have the time!" And then to cage she was at, "Hurry! Choose!"

Volunteers came by the dozens but Rose had to narrow the numbers for the obvious reason that even people as dumb as slavers can come by would notice missing stock and or rapid numbers escaping from captivity. As such, including Rose herself, there were six people. Carefully, gingerly pulling the door open by the rusting condition of the cage, eying the hinges and attentive to stop at even the tiniest squeak, which, much to her and the others' relief, there wasn't, and pointed out their ideal positions for a preemptive attack, needing to give one of them the sword she had obtained earlier:

Two of their numbers were to wait: them hiding behind the cage they just escaped from to rush for the two playing patty-cake.

The one that Rose gave the sword to: she circled to behind the dreamy romantic as he was the most likely one to call the party back; Rose gestured to her neck, then jerked her hands in fists as though she were stabbing with a stick.

One man with a bandana volunteered for the sleeping one: unwrapping his bandana and wrapping the ends to his hands.

The last spotted a hefty rock for smashing: fitting for the last slaver, the dribbler, primitive killing for the one giving the air of one.

Rose, herself, after considering again, she went to the two other cages and unlocked their doors, saying it was: "Just in case." But, after that she was to supervise the whole ordeal and give help to anyone needing it, it was the only role that the volunteers agreed on.

So, after carefully sneaking into position, the gunshots and shouting ticking their remaining time away, Rose held up three fingers where she hoped the five could see, and if they didn't, she said, follow the others:

Three.

Two.

One.

She swung her palm down.

The two hiding at their cage darted for the playing duo, clutching them and, following Bandana's example, had taken the risk of using their shirts, for the cold, to choke them out.

The Romantic shot up from sitting, opening his mouth to garble the blood that was spilling from his mouth from the blade protruding forth from his neck.

Because he was sleeping, Bandana quickly slipped his bandana over his target's throat and planted his feet at the back of his target's neck and, in leaning back, pushed his legs with his all, the scrabbling fingers against the bandana to pull away were no match.

The Rock Man, after his first swing, the Dribbler was more resilient than had thought, tackling Rock Man down soon after of the blow struck against him, wildly swing his fists like a child in a tantrum. Solely concentrated on his assailant he didn't notice Rose rushing for him with the axe high, cleaving down and drinking blood with its maw half-way in the top of the Dribbler's head, where then all his movements stopped at once and went limp.

In seeing one of the shirt-stranglers having trouble with their slaver, jerking the axe out of the Dribbler's head, in which blood spewed and splashed onto Rose, dotting her lower stomach of her shirt up and onto the left side of her face with red, Rose dashed for the struggling slaver, eyes trained with utter focus, and the axe flashed silver in the flickering fire - the last thing the slaver saw before everything went black as the axe blade smashed into his face;and the axe drank in more blood.

That done, removing the axe, Rose glanced around at the work that was done: all of the last remaining slavers were dead. In seeing the small number of stock pile weapons and the arms on the dead slavers, Rose found her mouth moving: "Each and every one of you grab a weapon - if there isn't any more, grab a good rock or stick to use. The group that had left will be back soon - hurry!"

And at once, the people that were captured stormed out of their cages and took up arms, following Rose's advice for the lack of any.

Bandana found the courage to approach Rose: "H-Hey... Are you okay?"

"Yes? Why wouldn't I be? We killed them out any injuries. Hurry up and arm yourself!"

Bandana: "I - ye-yeah..."

As Bandana went off, Rose saw Gretta staring at her from beside the cage she was just in, seemingly no longer cold, at least, not too much evident by her slightly shaking.

Rose didn't notice as she approached Gretta becoming tense, and before her, kneeling: "Don't worry. We'll be fine, you don't have to get a weapon if you don't want to."

Gretta gulped, and stiffly nodded.

A moment passed and everyone was at least armed with something.

Rose scanned their surroundings.

And smiled.


The slavers that had set off came running back wheezing and clutching at their bodies, some of them carrying and dragging their wounded back to their camp that they noticed after a moment taking a breath was deserted. But, signs were clear of a struggle.

"Oi!" One of them shouted: "You fa've nimwitts, whe' ar' you?!"

A moment passed - nothing.

This Caller turned left and right with all the poise of an agitated person on the edge of blowing their top, clenched jaw and grit teeth, hands in hard balls: "Damn it, wher' ar' you all?!"

"Fire!"

Things went too fast for complete comprehension after that shouting voice of a young girl that was followed by consecutive gunfire: the man winced and folded feeling a sharp tense pain from his stomach that passed through his whole being, and had only enough time to do that: the girl that had shouted that command charged and leaped, becoming shadowed by the moon above, but her eyes and her open-mouthed smile and the axe were plain to see, the blood that had splashed onto her face.

Rose delivered that killing blow, axe onto the crown of the head with all of her might, lucky break for her size for the slaver to go down in one hit.

She had ordered half of those with guns, those with deemable aim, armed with rifles to line up in a three respective single file lines: the first row up firing in short interval succession, that way the rows would sill rain bullets while giving reloading row to do just that. The rest of the shooters, those who didn't have as good aim were armed with pistols, positioned closer to the slavers, and shot to their hearts content, for as long as the ammo they had.

Caught off guard and confused, added with their numbers being wounded and exhausted from just returning here, half of the group was already dead or added to the number of casualties. When the pistol shooters ran out of ammo, they readied their blades or, as a majority of them had, rocks and sticks and charged on. Aided by the Rifle Rows, their casualties were kept to a low as the shooters covered the front liners despite the lack of skill of a sword or lack of proper equipment.

And with those charging, was Rose, adrenaline invigorating her body and reflexes, though only able to kill some she was able to injure the slavers to the favors of the following up attackers. Swinging and swinging as though in a raged abandon,seemingly to any on-lookers, Rose's mind was clear despite becoming linear with her objective:

Kill the slavers, if not, injure to make things easy for the others, make them pay - was the sole engine working in her brain.

Swinging and swinging, the axe suddenly becoming lighter with each, a practiced grace her mind was too focused to notice, bringing her movements in and out of different slavers until she found herself looking at the sky after being tackled down - a slaver. Perhaps this slaver thought he would at least go down with at least one kill, the easiest being Rose, being the child, but didn't get to taste it when the barrel of a pistol made all the light go out. Blood splashed onto Rose, hair, face, clothes, onto the smoking pistol was in her hand, snatched from the ground nearby, that was thrown away thereafter. But the body fell onto her - the stench, the blood; it took all of Rose's might to push the body off of her, and when she jumped to her feet the coming silence told her it was over.

Looking around, there wasn't a single slaver left alive.

There were cheers, of course, but weary eyes fell onto Rose, staring at her back, becoming bloody by the spreading blood.

One of them approached, with fear and nervousness stiffening her every step, her tiny voice barely audible: "U-um... Rose?"

Rose turned around, and saw Gretta scream, covering her eyes with her head down, tears flooding through her fingers.

Rose reached for Gretta: "Gretta? Gretta, I'm fine, what's -" She stopped, gasped, and sneezed, dropping to her knees, "Ahh-ho ghaad! Its - i-i-i - AAEETCHOO!"

Three of the on-lookers watching this moved: one to calm Gretta, the other two to Rose, to find her warmth, tugging a decent heavy cloak off a dead slaver and wrapping it over her while they wiped away from the blood from her face when they brought her to the still burning camp fire. Which, was quickly tended to to be sure it was kept ablaze and was even made bigger for all the captured to circle around, people taking the deemable cloaks off the dead and handing them out.

Moments of this passed: warming up, taking time to count the injured and possibly fatalities. But, soon, footsteps were heard crunching towards them, but none of them raised any weapons:

"Bloody hell! This is a bloodbath!" A guard that voiced the thoughts of the others that followed behind him.

The guard looked up at all of those around the now-bonfire: "Did'jyou all do this?"

Nods and voiced confirmation went about, as well as details of what happened before and after this ably named 'blood bath.'

There, a talk of what to do from here was conducted, a quick one: being offered to be escorted to the gypsy camp, a group of which were recently kidnapped from there, there was a consensus that agreed. Some wood from the campfire was carefully taken as crude torches but also as sources of heat, that, once becoming dangerous to hold any longer or dying or crumbling away, were dropped. However, after sometime, they arrived at the Gyspsy Camp.

And, as Rose found herself fearing as they were walking along, a scream split the air, and Tanya burst from the swinging door that was built in the temporary wall. Which, now that she looked at it again, a sense of shame coming onto Rose: with how she got through, she could have destroyed the gate. Perhaps this was a sign to how truly inadequate she was.

Tanya: "Rose! Rose, why are you bloody, are you okay, where are you hurt - how bad is it - your wounds opened again!" But then Tanya she dropped to her knees, pulling in Rose and Gretta, close by, into a tight hug, kissing both, and becoming a sobbing mess.

After, the gypsys that were kidnapped returned to their loved ones, while the others that were captured were quickly given spare tents, which a number people had to squeeze together inside to compensate, and camp fires were made with meals that were able to be spared. Gretta was quiet through all of this, and it was clear this brought Tanya distress, but, duty called, and Rose was treated first:

Her burns in her arm and the cuts in her shoulder had, indeed, reopened and had bleed, worse that it had mixed with the blood that had soaked her clothing, Tanya's anxiety was evident by her using a quarter the medicine made by Theresa, which she had made that day, in hopes of preventing infection or anything worse. Which, a few days later, had worked - no signs of disease or infection whatsoever. And because Rose was splattered and reeked of blood, Rose was forced to bathe, efficiently using cups of boiled water cooled to hot to wash her body. And with the help of Theresa, all of the injured were healed without worry.

The guards had offered to stay the night with the group of people camping in the camp, going on shifts to be on the look-out - it was accepted immediately.

Rose wanted to talk to Gretta, but, when she did, the young girl merely went away, avoiding her. Rose left Gretta at that, merely giving her space, after all she had seen given that she was still a kid. Rose found herself downcast by this, trudging to her caravan before remembering it was in need of repair.

But there was a tent beside it, and before it, by a camp fire, a familiar person: "Ah. There you are. I knew you would return victorious."

Rose crossed her arms, frowning: "Yeah... But, I don't feel like I won."

"Gretta, the Healer-to-be, no doubt. Give her time. She has witnessed what a child should not see at their age, give her time, which I'm assuming you are doing," Theresa gestured to the chair on the opposite side of the campfire, and Rose accepted the hospitality: "Don't burden yourself with regrets and doubts or anything of the sort that you are feeling right now. Instead, look at the people you saved,"

At Theresa's gesture, Rose turned her head to the people she had saved, the captives and the gypsys, their love and germinating friendships reflecting on the fires glowing their faces orange. The warmth they felt, Rose could feel from here, being with each other, their chats with smiles despite the ordeal they faced or the injuries on their bodies, despite the hints of trauma that Rose could sense, but, perhaps that was just her.

Theresa continued: "Because of your actions, they now have each other, instead of themselves, confined will to the mercy of their now-would-be masters. A fate that can be worse than starving on the streets, but, by your experience I'm sure you can understand."

Too much had happened today - Rose didn't want to remember, think about any of her experiences she went through with Sparrow - in fact, altogether because of Sparrow, but, now, she found her mind seeping back into those memories, moments playing in her mind.

"If you do wish to defeat Lucien, remember there is no strength without pain, and no aspiration without suffering. Without suffering, there can be no progress, no wisdom. Anything you could have done better, aspire to do better."

Rose: "So, you're saying that all my experiences, no matter what it is, I should be using it to better myself?" She paused a moment, then, "Like, being better than degenerates?"

Theresa, that calm, vacant tone of her's: "Take it as you will, Rose. But there is a difference in bettering yourself and following your beliefs to following a crusade."

Perhaps it was the fatigue, perhaps it was ignorance, but, Rose, brows furrowing: "What?"

Theresa presented her hand, saying: "That relic, I need it back. Its essential for what I must do. Do not worry, you'll receive it again, in time."

Again, with having so many things happen Rose didn't find any worth of consideration - she returned it without question.

Theresa: "Your faithful friend is still recovering, but should wake soon. And in the meantime, use this tent for your lodging until your caravan is repaired. Your books managed to survive the ordeal and are inside."

Theresa saw Rose's absent eyes staring into the fire, "Don't be so hard on yourself, Rose. Rest, you've been through a lot. No need to stay up."

Rose sat absent-minded for a moment longer before dragging herself up from her seat, the fatigue sinking in, needing to push at her knees to stand, and into her tent, where she settled into the bedroll inside and slept moments after she closed her eyes. Her dreams going to a certain man, a certain woman, and a certain boy.

Theresa sat there, near the campfire for awhile before turning her hooded head to the tent Rose was now sleeping in, staring. Then back to the campfire, staring more until: "Perhaps... this... Only having read so much and yet..." She stopped there, falling silent for a moment before standing from her seat and going to see if anyone in the camp needed her services.

Having seen her during the escort back to the gyspsy camp, the moment Rose woke the next day she went to Tanya, asking for the woman whose name she didn't know. She was guided to a caravan on the path leading to the overhanging bridge of the gate, that now had enough hands where full repair was already in sight despite needing a few more days of work, where two girls were playing with dolls just outside it, and Rose could see the resemblance.

Tanya gently smiled: "Hello, girls."

One of them didn't say anything but look with weary eyes.

The other, however, braved and forced out, mumbling: "...Hi, Tanya..."

It was obvious to Rose that these were the woman's daughters, that they were distressed by the condition of their mother by the lack of motivation in their play, but their eyes said it all. What made it hurt the most - they both looked to be about eight years old.

Tanya: "Has your mother woken up yet?"

"...No..."

"Can I see her? To check on her?"

The girls' eyes shifted to Rose.

Tanya: "This girl... This is the girl that saved everyone, and she wants to see if your mother is okay."

The girls' eyes then shone with admiration while still being nervous.

And finally, that first girl: "You - you saved... Mom...?"

Rose found herself becoming nervous in turn: "Y-yes..." In that coming brief pause, Rose had to consider telling them that Rose was the reason why their mother was in her current condition, tell them she had to sacrifice her well-being for her to save the others: "Uh-um..."

Thankfully, Rose was spared from saying such words: the girls went to the door of their caravan, pulling on the loop-handle together until helped by Tanya, who opened it for them. Then, they stood still, that admiration before overwritten by worry washing over them in seeing their mother unmoving inside.

Tanya knelt to their level: "Hey, you like Lucas's stew, right?"

The girl on the left stiffly nodded, not saying anything, but the other: "...Mmm-hmm..."

"Then, go there now," Tanya pointed, "Lucas is cooking it right now, go on. You might be able to get seconds."

Uneasy, the girls looked at each other, then staring uncertainly at Tanya.

The girl on the left: "You'll take care of her... right?"

"Terri." Tanya said, "What am I, in this camp?"

"The camp Healer..." Terri mumbled.

"Yes. That means that anyone injured is my responsibility," She looked to the girl on the right, "Hanna. Do you have anything to say?"

Hanna looked down, not saying anything, but she glanced at Rose before taking Terri's hand and guiding her off to the direction Tanya pointed to.

Rose eyed them until they disappeared behind one of the tents clogging the center of the camp, then to Tanya: "Those are her kids?"

Tanya: "Yes. And her last."

Rose blinked: "Huh?"

In Tanya entering the caravan, Rose followed, apprehension hitting her like a wall the moment she entered, seeing the woman on the bedroll. She jumped at the heavy clunk of Tanya closing the door. Tanya's footsteps on the wooden floor of the caravan seem to grow louder with each step with a gradual echo; Rose found herself gripping her skirt. As aforementioned, the woman was on the bedroll with a blanket over her, her face pale and seemingly drawn by being shadowed by the light spilling in through the window, her hair splayed, going up the pillow and off the bedroll, if she was wearing anything she wasn't wearing a shirt.

Tanya carefully pulled back the blanket.

Rose gasped, hands cupping over her mouth, eyes going wide, getting tunnel vision:

There were bandages in other places of her body, but the wrapping just under her waist screamed for attention, disappearing in the skirt she wore - there was a red spot growing in the waist bandages.

Tanya sighed: "...Gotta change those."

As Tanya went to do that, Rose found her voice again: "S-so... when - when you said -" Rose was struck into silence by the red stitches below the woman's belly button.

Tanya sighed again: "It was a long night last night - I knew I didn't sew it right. Hang on."

The moment Tanya left to get her things, Rose had enough time staring at the bleeding stitched wound for it to be branded into her mind.

She had saved all the other people.

But...

Her, this woman...

'Are those her kids?'

'Yes. And her last.'

It was simple math, but...

When Tanya returned, Rose had to recompose herself before finally getting her nerve: "She-she... she can't... She can't have any more kids...?"

"Yes," Tanya said, after applying a sort of powder and undoing some of the stitches to properly restitch, "Even when Theresa saw it, even there was nothing she could do."

The first set of stitches were undone, and Tanya readied the needle that had the new stitch tied, but, she inspected for infection, which required peeling the folds of the wound back, just enough for Rose to ask, averting her eyes: "Whe-where's Gretta?"

"In my caravan."

Rose excused herself and left, going for Tanya's caravan. Gretta wasn't outside. Rose before and staring at the caravan door, stood there for a moment before finally getting the courage to knock.

Nothing.

Rose spotted Terri and Hanna sitting by the cooking fire, eating their stew but also spotting Rose and staring.

Rose knocked again, "Gretta, its me. Its Rose. Are you okay? Can I talk to you?"

There was a faint shuffle from the inside, and the doorknob of this caravan door turned, popping open where Rose heard a grunt from the other side. The door opened wide, and Gretta stood before Rose, still in her nightwear.

For a moment, they stood stock still, staring at each other, life going on all around them.

Then:

Rose: "Um, Hi."

Gretta: "Hi..."

They returned to silence, not saying anything, looking towards but not directly at each other.

Then finally, Rose: "Can I come in?"

Gretta stiffly stepped aside, and Rose entered.

Tanya's caravan was wider than the others, a given given the fact Tanya was the camp healer, suspended shelves on the walls filled with jars of different plants, herbs, and the like. Books here and there, medicinal powders from Theresa, from what Rose could remember from last night. There was a small table set against the far right corner that had mortar and pestles and clay bowls. There were two separate bedrolls - one done, nice and prim; the other - the blanket dragged off, evident that this was the bedroll Gretta sleeps in, despite it being larger than her.

Gretta: "...Wud'jyou wan' t'talk about?" She still wasn't looking directly at Rose.

Rose: "Um... Are you doing okay? I remember you screamed when you saw me last night."

Gretta averted her eyes completely, but tried to find something else to look at, manners conflicting with feelings, "Yeah..."

"Was it because I had so much blood on me? Did you, um, did you think I was gonna die?"

Tears filled Gretta's eyes: "...You were smiling."

"What? Wait, when?"

"Every time!" The tears were streaking down Gretta's face, her eyes finally Rose "Every time you killed or - or-or-or-or, cut one of the slavers you kept smiling. That's, probably why, everyone did what you told them to do."

Rose thought back to last night, trying to distinctly remember any sort of sensation, any sort of sense that she was, indeed, smiling during the whole rescue and attack on the slavers. She couldn't.

"Are you sure? I don't think that I was."

"Rose, why do you think there were people scared of you? With - with all the blood and, you smiling?"

"I - I... I don't even -" Rose spotted the apprehension on Gretta face, the lingering fear, "...Was I smiling?"

Gretta stiffly nodded.

Rose thought back again, putting a hand to her head, digging and scrapping through her memory.

Gretta: "...Rose?"

"Yeah?"

"...Do you promise - I- I know that you - I know that you can-can't forgive bandits a-and th-those kinds-s of, people, and I'm-I'm t-t-thankfully that, that you saved me, b-but... p-please, don-don't become worse than them hating them."

"I..." Those eyes, those brown washed with a sea of tears, Rose felt something familiar about them, something which urged her to oblige: "Uh, sure... I promise."

With that, Gretta closed in, wrapping her arms around Rose's waist, sniffing, and Rose felt a wet spot developing on her shirt. Rose returned the gesture, again, by obligation, softly rubbing her back.

There, Rose let Gretta let it all out a moment, before, looking up: "So, has Arthur woken up yet?"

Removing herself, Gretta wiped her face, "Not yet. But he's not in any danger. Before we slept, Mother checked his wounds - 'he's just as though as her' she said."

"They're closed already?"

"Yep. Everything else about him seems fine, all he needs to do is wake up and take it easy for a couple of days, if he is anything like you. Actually, is your arm healed already?"

Rose partially undid the bandage at her wrist and presented the healing but progressively good burns.

Gretta stared, then: "You and Arthur are weird..."

Rose didn't have any comment, at least worth mentioning, but the whimpering at the opposite end of the caravan was telling: the rays of morning light seeping in through the window settled over Arthur's body, twinkling the black pearls of his eyes. He whimpered but there was a blank, confused air about him, glancing about before he groggily swung his head to Rose and Gretta. Seeing them, he planted, pushed at the floor with his legs to stand but they gave immediately and he plopped onto the ground.

Rose rushed to his side, "Arthur, no! You're still healing - its okay, it okay."

As she did that, Gretta snatched her pelt-cloak, "Where's Mother?!"

Rose: "Uh... at Terri's and Hanna's caravan."

Gretta paused a moment before shoving open the door and leaped out, rushing up the slope.

There, them together again, Arthur sniffed at Rose's bandages, whimpering again.

Rose: "Oh, this? Its fine - I'm fine, really," Like with Gretta, Rose presented the condition of her wound to Arthur, "See? Even though you got it worse than me, you seem to be as tough as me apparently."

There was a curious glint in Arthur's eyes.

"I don't know what that means, but," Rose carefully wrapped her arms onto Arthur's form, her eyes closing with a small smile on her face, "I'm happy that you're here."

Arthur whimpered again, but Rose sensed a grateful tone, confirmed by the tongue soon licking her face.

From there, days passed - weeks, months, years. The pain of loss, the pain of consequence, stirred and brewed. Burning. And thus, eight summers, eight winters of the fire kindling itself - dormant strength that Rose didn't even realize would be so dangerous.

And so fragile.