Your pleas have been duly noted and so I will continue this fic. I already have a shady, amorphous layout of the plot in my head. Now I just have to transfer those unshapely thoughts onto paper and let them form as they will.

In this chapter you get a bit more insight into "Rose" and just a teensy hint of the atrocities done to her and her family. Kudos to anyone who can guess who or rather what she is. I don't mean species-wise, she's definitely human. It's actually quite easy to guess, just take a look at the detailed summary and disclaimer in Chapter One and piece it together with the inferences Tristan makes in this chapter. Of course, I cannot tell you if you're correct until "Rose" herself finds out.

I would like to thank my reviewers. Keep them coming lovelies!

Melissa: I doubt I'll become a writer when I grow up because I prefer it as just a hobby.

watrfairie: Well, actually, yes I do aspire to become a doctor when I grow up. I guess the little bit of knowledge I have comes from reading a lot and watching ER. Oh yeah, I'm a romantic.

lauren: Yeah, perpetual bad grammar deters me from reading many fanfiction stories. I mean, I can handle a little bit because I do it and we're not perfect. I have to give lots of credit to my eleventh grade English teacher for making me a better writer.

Elvensilver: That really wouldn't work out because my plots have a tendency to change a lot before I write it down and it would just be too complicated. I wouldn't say no to suggestions though.

ellie mae: Thanks. Always like to tell it straight, unless it serves my interests to be subtle.

Thanks also to fairiepixie3 and Belle Quest as well for their urging me on. Psst, readers, to get me to update faster, give me lots of reviews. I make no promises though because my workload at school is extremely heavy at the moment.

Beads of perspiration ran down her forehead, her teeth gritted together in stern determination of keeping her moans of pain inside, the fist on her good arm was clenched tightly, her fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palm. She kept telling herself that pain was relative, that she ought to be accustomed to it by now after the last few trips. Her pulse was nearly that of a hummingbird's she fancied and her lungs were struggling to bring in air to her seemingly oxygen-starved body.

"Rose, stop. You do not want to over-exert yourself," Tristan cautioned in a concerned tone.

Rose ignored his words and continued to plow forward, balancing herself on her uninjured leg as she tentatively set the one with the stab wound to the thigh down. She could not fight the overwhelming urge inside to keep going, to not stay confined to the infirmary forever however secure she might feel. There was something inside that kept egging her on, telling her she had important things to do. What those things were, she obviously did not know, but she hoped she would learn in time. Of course, she had to walk those few steps from her bed to the end of the infirmary first. Once she conquered that obstacle, maybe things would occur faster.

"Rose," Tristan reiterated in a sharper voice.

"I'm not stopping!" she declared imperiously.

She should have eaten those words, for right after she said them her foot faltered and she teetered backwards into the waiting arms of the prince of Kyrria. Hot tears of anger, indignation, and pain sprang to her eyes and she tried to wrench herself from his tight grasp. Tristan, having the greater strength, did not release his grip.

"Rose, if I have to, I will drag you back to that bed. Your leg is not fully healed yet. It's great that you want to keep it exercised, but learn to know when enough is enough or you'll end up doing yourself more harm than good," he chastised gently.

Rose breathed heavily as the roiling fury at herself, her overbearing babysitter, and her traitorous leg subsided slightly. Everyone had learned early on that Rose had a fearsome and uncannily short temper and was not prone to hiding her feelings very well no matter how much she tried. She was almost the complete polar opposite of the icy cool crown princess. Tristan wrote nightly in his journal of the girl's progress and made the occasional inferences of her personality and what sort of person she must have been before the "accident". What was shaping up was quite fascinating to Tristan and helped he, his family, and his teacher try to pinpoint where she might have come from.

She spoke Kyrrian almost perfectly, but it would appear, for the moment, to be the only language she could remember. Judging from her temper, she seemed to have an impetuous side and she had this tendency to act tremendously imperious. Her authoritative attitude only strengthened their theory of her birth being one into wealth and power. She was well educated, judging by the books she kept requesting so she would not rot in boredom while she recuperated, and she spoke in a refined speech, while occasionally regressing into swearing tirades. All that did not add credibility to Rose being a farmer's daughter, but her nature was not that of a demure noblewoman. 'Twas a good thing Tristan was not acquainted with many demure noblewomen.

What still had Tristan scratching his head was her well-toned physique. Though it had diminished slightly due to weeks of lying motionless in a coma, there was still evidence of one who exercised often and exercised heavily. This was most unusual for a girl of supposed high birth. Women born into prominent families had the luxury of bodyguards and other such forms of security so they did not have to usually forsake their femininity for a sword.

There were, of course, always exceptions to this unwritten societal custom and there were no formal laws barring women from fighting alongside their menfolk. It just was not normally done in Kyrria or neighboring kingdoms. Women of high status, more often than not, chose not to take up the sword because it was not in their nature. They were seen as gentle, refined, nurturing, and peacekeepers; certainly not warriors. Their talents were put to far better use as scholars, advisors, mothers, wives, and healers. Women dominated the Royal Healer's Guild of Kyrria, outnumbering men by more than half. Their intrinsic aptitude for the skill was world-renown, not just in Kyrria.

Girls of underprivileged birth tended to be the ones to take up arms beside the men, especially those that were raised on farms where great physical strength was a must-have for everyone there. Those girls could usually fight just as well, probably even better sometimes in spite of their lesser physical strength, as the next man. Add that to their natural dexterity, they made formidable opponents indeed. They could not rise up into any upper echelons within the army (the higher ranks reserved for those of the upper class), but there were plenty of peasant-girls who served as common foot soldiers. Usually, these girls joined the army because their family had grown too large to accommodate them and they did not fancy becoming maids to help support the family, they followed a relative, friend, or sweetheart, they wanted to join, or they just had nothing better to do.

Tristan was forced to merely support Rose on the trek back to her bed, as she would not deign to be carried. Mandy had been right when she spoke of the girl having a stubborn look about her. It was not just a look; it was an implacable part of her character. For the past two weeks since she had awakened, she had been working tirelessly to gain back strength in her slightly atrophied limbs. Tristan, Jasmine, and even his twin had to repeatedly keep her from working herself to death from exhaustion. It would not take much to force her tenuous recovery spiraling into regression if she kept working at it so tenaciously.

"I don't understand! It was just a bloody thigh wound! Why is it so hard to walk?" she exclaimed as soon as she plopped into the bed.

Tristan handed her a cloth to wipe her sweat-drenched face and poured some water from a golden pitcher into a small cup and handed it to her. He sat down on the chair beside her bed and faced her with a sober expression upon his face.

"It's going to be a long while before you can walk without pain and even longer before you walk without limping," he began hesitantly.

Rose frowned at the dim prognosis. Surely a non-fatal stab wound such like she had suffered would not cause so many problems? Yet, he was the healer, not she and therefore he knew more about it than she did.

"The angle of the blade tore some muscles and ligaments in your thigh and you have had internal scarring because of it. That's what's impeding your movement so much and you're not helping any by overworking it," he finished, carefully gauging her reaction.

Rose was silent for a few moments as she took in the full weight of those words. She seemed more stunned and afraid by those words than angry, which was an immense relief. Her golden-hazel eyes flickered in deep thought and she met Tristan's emerald gaze head on. His eyes held warmth, compassion, and pity. She looked away quickly because she did not particularly care for pity.

"Will I ever walk normally again?" she asked softly.

Tristan slowly nodded his head. He reached out to take her hand but she jerked back, relapsing back into the state of skittishness she had seemingly been cured of. He swallowed awkwardly and proceeded to explain.

"Eventually, if you give it a rest for a while and don't work it so hard. I thought Jasmine had already told you this," he stammered.

Rose cocked her head and scowled at him.

"Well, if I had known, I would have actually listened to you about giving it a rest in the first place. I may be hard-headed, but I'm not a fool," the irate girl snapped.

"The elfish potions we're giving you are stimulating the intricate rebuilding of those muscles and ligaments, but it will take a long time. You'll just have to hang in there," he assured her.

"Elfish potions? Which ones were they?" she asked curiously. She had been bombarded with so many damn potions all a variety of colors, smells, and tastes (most tasting quite horribly).

"Um, the ones that probably tasted the best," he tried.

"Ah."

"So…manage to recover anything of your memory?" he queried hopefully.

Rose ran her hand over her forehead again and then dolefully shook her head. She had been working more on making her body well than her mind, as she became extremely frustrated with her lack of memory. It probably would have helped once she accomplished the first tasks of recuperating and finding some way to get out of here. Yes, having a memory of who you are, where you come from, and how you came to be found in the river half-drowned would definitely need to also be covered were she to get anywhere at all. It was not that she wanted to leave Kyrria because everyone was being so kind to her. If she could have, she would have just cut her losses (memory and all) and stayed here. But she could not ignore the growing urge within her to return to whence she came. It was growing increasingly palpable that it was imperative she regain her memories and return home, wherever that happened to be.

"Oh, well, I'm sure they'll come back," he replied, his voice belying his supreme disappointment.

Unlike the boy, Rose was not exactly looking forward to the moment when/if she regained her memories. Her clipped dreams were terrifying enough; she was hardly willing to be handed the whole cavalcade of events that ended with her floating in the Lucarno practically a hair's breadth from Death's Door. When she awoke from those unfathomable nightmares, she would have tears streaming down her face, her skin would be icy cool, which conflicted with the coating of sweat she would often find herself in. Naturally, she made the intuitive leap of guessing people very dear to her had probably been killed and she was not certain she wanted to face the knowledge to confirm it.

What was most disturbing, however, when she awoke from those night terrors were not the feelings of grief, terror, or shock. It was this thought which she had kept tightly locked away from everyone around her, even Tristan. She could not explain it in words suitable enough to convey the utter desolation she felt when ever she broached the subject of finding her memories and returning home. It was another emotion, different than the others, but tremendously linked, no doubt.

It was the bitter, prickly sensation of betrayal.