Hi, guys! Guess who's back this chapter!

Also, I recently did an illustration of Rose, so if you'd ever want to see, it's in my profile.

I don't own!

I really like what has been dubbed, 'family time'. Of course, this is the first time that the group has all been together since I was in the hospital (that I know of), so I can't say I've had much of it, but what I have had, I really like.

Mom decided to invite my grandparents and aunts over for lunch. They all came (well, not all, since Mom has an insane amount of siblings, but all the ones I actually know about are here, so that's all that matters to me), so we're currently piled into the living room, eating sandwiches because my mother burned the meat. And vegetables. Actually, she pretty much burned everything (the cake is extra crispy). However, it doesn't matter, because we're all sitting around, laughing at Aunt May, who is telling a wild story about the time she and Mom broke into their friend's house, stole all the underwear, and hung it up on the tree that was in the friend's front yard. I really like this story.

However, in the midst of the tragic tale of how May nearly broke her arm falling out of said tree, there's a knock on the door. Mom's eyebrows scrunch up. "I'll get it."

She does so and Aunt May continues her story. But after a few minutes, she comes back in. Something's wrong, I can tell. But she's smiling. "That was just a guy trying to sell shit." Her eyes 'coincidentally' go to the clock. "Holy crap, it's late. You guys don't want to get caught in traffic."

"Nancy, we're in New York," May says, grimacing. "There's traffic all the freaking time."

"And we have a Romeo here, waiting to talk to his blushing Juliette," Aunt Anita says coming back in (when did she leave?) with—Dad!

I can't stop the grin from growing on my face. "What are you doing here?" I ask, excited. Now he's here and we're all together again and that's good.

"Just visiting. I also need to talk to your mom for a few minutes. Privately."

I can take a hint, so I stand, ready to wait outside. However, May grabs my arm. "You're not going anywhere. Neither are we. Your turn, Wifebeater."

Dad's eyes go wide—I've never seen him so shocked. He takes Mom by the wrists, his hands shaking. "Nancy—Nancy! What are they talking about? I—I've never hit you, have I? Nancy, please—I've never, right? I—I mean there's been a few times that I can't remember after getting tipsy—But I would never—would I?" His voice is breaking—hell, he's crying.

Mom sighs. "No—Edward, calm down. You've never hit me." Her voice is tight, annoyed. She's holding her jaw tensely.

"Then why—"

"Just forget about it!" she snaps. He lets go of her, but doesn't stop sniffling. She takes a deep, shaky breath. "Just—go back there, into the bedroom, so we can talk. And if any of you," she says, waving her hand, gesturing to all of her family. "Want to eavesdrop, you've got another thing coming." And then they both go into the back. Thankfully, I don't hear any screaming.

A sudden ache just envelopes me, like a dark cloak. I ease down onto the floor. Her family seems almost proud of themselves. "They—they've never fought like that."

With those few words, their pride fails and they turn all attention to me. Nana gets down with me. "It's alright, sweetheart. I'm sure they're both very stressed—you know how when you're stressed, you get really, really cranky? They're like that. It's alright."

You know how when you're spoken to as if you were a child, you get really, really cranky? That's how I am right now. That's how I want to respond. But I won't. It's not lady-like. I just sit there and can't wait for it to be over, ignoring the slight buzzing in the back of my scull.

They don't stay in the bedroom for very long. They're both recovering from being emotional, their faces red and blotchy. Dad leans down. "Hello, dear."

"Hi. Is everything alright?"

"Yes, of course. Listen, I've got to go now. I'll be back to visit soon." He hugs and kisses me, and then leaves.

Okay, what the hell just happened?

Of course, all eyes are on Mom. She shakes her head. "Can we just ignore what just happened and get back to May's story?"

Everyone agrees (I don't, but I don't speak my opposition to it either; I have a feeling that this is a shared idea among my family). However, May's storytelling isn't as exciting as it was before, with the mood dampened and questions hanging in the air.

It's not long before everyone leaves, which is to my relief. That faint buzz has turned into pain and they're just so loud…I wanted them gone, for once. Now that everyone's gone, I can talk to Mom. I ask her what happened. "Rose, it's nothing. We just—he was updating me about the war. That's all."

"Then why did you yell at him? Is it because of me?"

"No, no, sweetie. It's not. He said the war is pathetic and should be over within a week or so, and that he wants us to go back."

"And you don't want to?" I ask.

"You do? Rosie, we've just—everything's been better here. I mean, I'm not being driven insane by my 'royal duties' and all that 'lady' shit, you're safe for the first time in years, and you seem to love my family. Things are finally getting better for us, and I don't want for it to go away."

"But it's isn't it our duty? We aren't just people. We're royalty. Andalasia needs us."

"I'm a mother before I am a queen. I care more about you than I do some silly country that I wasn't born in."

"But I was born there. And I think it's my job to go back."

"Rose, no. The answer is no. I don't think you're safe there, so—no. That's final. Maybe in a year or so—you know what, when you're eighteen, you can do whatever you like, but until then, you're my child and you're under my roof, so no. Sorry."

My cheeks are burning. How dare she? This is my homeland, my father that we're talking about. I want to scream, but I don't. The ever present stabbing in my head just grows in intensity—holy shit. I'm about to have one of my fits. So, I just shrug and say, my voice low, "I'm going to go lie down." And I do. It only takes a few minutes of snuggling into the pillows before I'm fast asleep.

When I wake, I feel terrible and smell vomit. Crap, I had the fit in my sleep and now I'm going to have to clean it up before—

"Oh! She's conscious—thank God," I hear Mom say, sounding panicked. I slowly look up—any light just makes my headache worse—she's talking on the phone. "Okay, I'm going to hang up so I can comfort her—is the ambulance still on its way? Okay, good. Alright. Thank you. Bye." She turns it off and eases down next to me. "Hey, sweetheart," she whispers softly. "Are you alright?"

I grunt and nod. She starts stroking my arm.

"Stay awake for me, alright? There's some people on their way to take you to the hospital so we can make sure you're alright."

"I—I'm fine," I mumble. "I have these things all the time…"

She looks so surprised and sad. She gently squeezes me. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," I tell her.

She grimaces, as if she knows something I don't. I don't like it.

There's a knock on the door that reveals a bunch of people in blue outfits. One of them, a tiny woman—actually smaller than me—comes up and helps ease me out of bed. Huh. She's small, but strong. She and Mom walk me to the elevator and then down to the first floor—I'm so dizzy I can't stand straight, let alone walk. There's a little wheely bed in the lobby. They let me rest on it. Good. I fall asleep.

When I wake up I'm in a room like the one I was in when I first came to New York. Mom's sitting in a chair pulled up to my bed. She smiles softly at me. "Hello, Sweetie."

My head is still achy, but better than it was. "Why are we here?" I ask. I don't like this place. Mom's bed is so much more comfortable.

"You had this thing called a seizure. We just want to make sure everything's okay. You used to have them when you were a baby—has this ever happened recently? Can you remember?"

I nod. "Yeah. I've always had them. While I was, uh, away, I'd have one every week or so. It's not a big deal."

"Rose—" She shakes her head. "Okay, we'll just tell the doctor that. You might get to go home tonight, than, since you've had them so much before."

Good. I want to go home.

Mom's right. We tell the doctor, a redheaded woman that reminds me of a fairy, that and she shrugged, said it was probably a chronic problem, had us make an appointment with some special doctor or something, and then checked us out (which was a whole ordeal, but Mom handled it). So, we're on our way back to the cozy apartment.

We get there and Mom puts in a movie (I don't want to sleep any more). We curl up on the sofa and Mom asks, "Since when did you start having them? I'm just curious."

"Probably for as long as I can remember. For some reason, I always hid somewhere whenever I'd feel one coming on. I forgot why, but I just did. I didn't get them very much when I was little, maybe one a month, at the most, but once I left, they were really frequent. I once had five in one week."

She takes a soft breath, looks down, looks back up, and then pets my hand. "What happened during that week? Anything especially bad or good?" Her voice is higher than usual. She's scared for the answer. "You can tell me."

It comes back to me clearly. That week—that month—was utter hell. It was when I was pregnant—I had just found out and was starting to plan an escape. I wasn't going to let my child live in that place. But then Mica found out and grabbed me one night, dragging me to my room. He force-fed me this vile liquid and within the hour I started having pains. He started beating me—it was the worst beating I'd ever had with him—and then that was the end of it. I swear, I can still just feel the stabbing in my gut and the blood passing from in between my legs. I take a deep breath. Now is the time—if I want to tell her, I should do it now. I glance at her; she's watching, waiting patiently. She deserves to know. She deserves my honesty. Tears rise in my eyes and I scratch them away.

"If you don't want to talk about it, it's okay. I understand."

God, she's trying so hard. I can tell she wants to know. I can tell she's afraid. I can tell that she'd sit here all night waiting for me to talk.

"No," I rasp. "I—I just—I need—" I need to tell her. "I—I—I was—I don't know—eleven? Twelve? It was—was about a year ago—beginning of spring—and—and I—" Suddenly, I can't breathe—every breath becomes forced and shallow and thin.

"Rose," she says, her voice stronger, sturdier. She takes my hand and give it a firm squeeze. "You need to take a deep breath. It's okay. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you like that, alright? I'm not going to let that happen. If you want to tell me about it, you can, but first you need to calm down."

Much like Detective Olivia, she talks me down from the hyperventilating cliff (though she's a lot better at it than Olivia). Which leads to her holding me and just stroking my back. Finally, I just blurt, "I was pregnant."

She freezes, for just a second, but then goes back to her rhythm. "Okay. Did you miscarry?"

"I was forced to abort it. He—he beat me until there was blood—God, there was a lot of blood. So much blood. And pain. I've never hurt like that—ever. And—And like—I was just so sad after it—I'm not even sure why. Like, I couldn't have taken care of him. I was making plans to run away, but how far can a twelve-year-old and her baby run? I'd never worked, stopped school, and looked terrible. I guess I could've gone into prostitution—I—I was already one, pretty much—but I wouldn't want him around that. But how would I feed him or get clothes or put him through school or—I just—I don't…I just don't understand why I'm still so upset about this. I didn't want him—well, okay, part of me did, but—I should've been relieved."

"I think that the biggest thing was how it was done. That's really, really scary to go through. Cut yourself some slack. That was a vicious thing that happened—you are so strong, you know that? Those bastards tried to knock you down as much as possible, but you're still standing."

"Barely."

"Eh. We've all been there. But if that had happened to me…I don't think I'd have made it out alive."

"I didn't have a choice. I—sometimes I just wanted to end it so much. It would've been so easy. Just hang myself or cut my throat or tie myself to an anchor—but I couldn't. I mean, if I had, you and Dad—what would you two have done? You would need an heir, but, I mean, I nearly killed you when I was born—what would a second child have done to you? That's an added ten years and if you had problems when you were still in the healthy age bracket, what about when you're out of it? You'd die and then the baby would die and then Dad would go nuts and then it'd all go to hell and it would all be my fault just because I couldn't handle life anymore and—"

"Rose," she says, loud enough to silence me. She suddenly looks years older, and sadder. "You—you're a very good person and…I…I'm not even sure how I can respond to that. I'm glad you chose not to end it—that's one of my biggest fears, even now. But you can't take that much responsibility onto yourself like that, alright? You're only a young girl and that's too much for you to take onto yourself. Now, give me a hug because I think we both need one right now."

I obey readily and it's one of those hugs that just turns into a comfortable embrace. We stay like that until the movie's over.

I think I really scared Mom. She just has this distant look in her eyes and it kind of scares me. It's like she's in some sort of battle with herself. A few times, I can see her jaw twitch or her mouth form words, but nothing comes out. We go to bed as soon as the credits roll without exchanging any more 'hard' words. She doesn't move away from me, even as we're falling asleep.

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