Jake sips his coffee as the early sun breaks through the gauzy kitchen curtains, sleep still weighing down his eyelids and a yawn starting in the back of his throat. His children sit on the other side of the island, backs straight, faces drawn. "You don't want to see your grandparents." Jake eyes his three teenagers warily as the light through Rose's curtains creeps deeper into the house. "Why?"

"They're kind of mean," Ava offers.

Jake folds his arms across his chest. "Not to you. They love you."

"They're mean to you," she retorts.

"Ava, sometimes a guy just doesn't have the best relationship with his in-laws. That's nothing to be upset about."

"Dad, can't we just stay home today? You don't like them either." If Luke weren't seventeen, Jake would be tempted to think his son is whining.

"I've never said that-" and here Jake struggles to keep his voice from squawking sharply.

"We could have a pajama day-" "-our own cinnamon rolls-" "-and naps. Dad, you're old, you love naps."

Jake sighs heavily. "They miss your mom too, you know. Saddle up." He cringes at the sudden lapse into his father's lingo. "Forget that last part. Just chill, guys. It'll be fine."

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Stan lounges in their apartment, munching oddly colored veggie straws, and it might be comfortable except that the entire Dragon Council is crammed into one little, dank studio, and then there's Rose, who would love to be pretty much anywhere else.

"Everything is under control!" The troll protests. "Rose is a great roommate. My hair has never been silkier."

"You're using my conditioner?" Rose sputters, jerked from her thoughts.

"It smells like almonds and cherry blossoms," Stan chirps. "And that heat protectant spray you bought gets me an extra hour of daylight!"

Councilor Kulde glares at the large, purple troll. "You were not sent here to test hair products."

Stan winces. "Not sent, volunteered."

"You were drafted," Andam growls. Stan glances at him but decides not to argue the point. "And you," the councilor begins, pointing at Rose, "are going to have to make a decision."

"I'm tired of making decisions."

Kulde arches a snowy eyebrow at her. "Running from destiny isn't making a decision, Huntsgirl."

"Of course it is," she snaps. "And I wasn't running away."

The old man huffs. "The fate of the magical community is at stake, and you're arguing like a child."

The magical community. The magical community is always at stake; always teetering on the edge of absolute destruction and abject misery. Chang gathering forces is nothing new, and if it's the numbers that scare them, Rose doesn't see what use she is, anyway. Her war crimes have always been helped along by overpowered magical objects. "I'm not helping you. I don't need any more blood on my hands."

"What about your children?"

She stiffens. "Get out."

"Their lives are at risk, Huntsgirl."

"My name is Rose," she says, tilting her chin up as she glares at the council members. "Rose. And I'm not your weapon, or your tool, so get out of my house."

"Chang has made several attempts to release the Dark Dragon from his prison," Omina says, the first time she's spoken in all the time the council has been here. "Her last was nearly successful. We are asking you, Rose- "and here she sends pointed looks at the other two councilors- "to find Chang, and to kill her before it's too late."

"No," Rose snaps. "I told you I won't do it. And I don't see why you need me. There are three of you, more if you recruit other dragons."

"We cannot," Omina says. "The bylaws-"

"You can use my name, then," Rose says, quietly. "You'll humor me, but you don't look at me any differently than they do. So I'll tell you one last time: Get out." There's steel in her voice, hard and cold, and the elders file out of her door. "I wouldn't survive her army," she adds, an afterthought.

"We know." Kulde's voice is as cold as her own.

To go on the suicide mission or not to go on the suicide mission; that has always been the question.

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Her parents are terser than usual this Christmas. They've always been unimpressed with him, this boy who turned their daughter cold-blooded.

"It might be better," her father breathes deeply, "if you just dropped them off."

The feeling, like a slap, surprises him, even if Jake hadn't expected them to be happy to see him. He is careful not to blow smoke through his nose, something he's been doing more often lately. "Maybe you're right."

Luke's eyes are wild, as if he's a much younger boy about to be abandoned, but he stands still as a statue. "Grandpa, can we just have Christmas?"

"Of course," and here her father cracks a wide grin, clearly forced. "Let's open presents. Grandma is working on breakfast."

But the message is received, and Jake slips out into the snow as Rose's father ushers the children inside. It might be better if he just dropped them off. Better for all of them if he goes for a long Christmas flight.

He finds himself at the reservoir, snow crunching under his shoes. The cold barely registers, but then it's never bothered him all that much. Scuffing at the ground with one foot, hands buried in his pockets, Jake wonders where he went wrong. It's probably that they'd moved too quickly, become so serious so fast, crossed bridges and burned them too young. It could have been the proposal. He'd always known that didn't come out right. Or maybe he shouldn't have approached her in Hong Kong the way he did. That was absolutely wrong, but what choice did he have?

But then, had it happened ten years later, would he have put his wife or his grandfather first? Maybe the real problem is that he doesn't know. Cleave to your wife, honor your elders.

It's a life or a mind, and it's an impossible choice, isn't it? Except the loss of a life can never be rectified, but there's still hope for a lost mind. It's damage, not death. So he made the right choice, then, because Rose can recover, or at least get better, and Gramps is still kicking.

And anyway, it isn't as though he could have asked for her opinion. His nose burns from the cold, his eyes from something else.

"Do you miss me?" He asks the old reservoir; the only response is distant highway noise and the wind in the trees.

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"What do you tell them?"

Stan looks up at her from his pot roast. "I was hoping for 'Happy Holidays' today, but they really weren't getting into the spirit of the season." He takes a deep sniff of the wafting steam, gleefully bouncing on the balls of his feet.

A knife in one hand traces the skin of her wrist delicately, sharp point leaving little bubbles of blood behind that spread out and blend into the red birthmark.

Stan stops his bouncing and eyes her warily, one finger creeping toward a phone.

"I'm not trying to kill myself if that's what you're worried about," she snaps.

Stan's eyes narrow. "You're not being very reassuring."

Her smile, tilting too much toward mania for anyone's comfort, quirks upward. "I don't deserve death. It'd be too easy."

"This isn't what I signed up for," the troll mutters.

"I thought you were drafted." Rose eyes the thin, red line that shines scarlet next to the duller red of the dragon on her skin. "I should have cut this off years ago." She really should have. Think of the trouble it would have saved her, if Jake had seen an ugly, rugged scar instead of a delicate dragon with a lacy tail wrapping her arm like a bracelet. He'd have recoiled, probably, backed away from the unstable girl with the heavy, prematurely lined face and ghastly hand. Maybe she could have walked away from all of it if she'd cut deep enough, done permanent nerve damage to her wrist and ruined her hands (those skilled hands, her teachers said).

Just as well. She can be more careful now. Not a sound escapes her as she slides the knife under the birthmark, like filleting a fish. Stan visibly cringes as her blood begins to drip to the floor. "Wrap that up!" The troll is veering wildly between the bathroom (where he's sure he put a first aid kit) and the kitchen (where he's sure he saw it last).

"I'm fine," she gasps. Really, Rose can see darkness starting to cloud her periphery and doesn't mind stopping for the night. Giving up on the gauze, Stan tears a strip off his shirt and frantically wraps it around her wrist as she clutches at the wall for support. "I have to get that skin off first," she protests.

Stan pulls her upright, and she realizes she was teetering more than she thought. "Eat dinner. Go to bed," he says sternly. "You can torment yourself in the morning." His single eye looks comical pulled into a frown, but the laughter dies in her throat as her vision swims.

"Help me," she whispers.

He scoops her up and carries her to her rumpled mattress. "I'm trying."

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A/N: Wowwwww it's been ages. Is anyone still following this? If you are, bless.

This chapter isn't as long as I would have liked it to be, but I wanted to get it off my computer. I've been working on it for literally three years off and on, and it was getting ridiculous.

The good news: We're just about halfway now, and I think this is where Rose is starting to have to deal with her stuff. I think now that I've sorted out how to pivot everything and chosen a catalyst, I'll be able to move faster.

Famous last words of many a fanfiction author though, amirite?

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all.