Finally, Rose finds herself in the middle of the tableau she had watched from afar, on a dark hillside, on a night both not so long ago and unfathomably long ago. Rose stands beneath the regard of that woven-wire mask, in the middle of that crowd of attention, wearing the outfit of her dreams. And if all she had to hold onto was the promise that all would be well if she closed her eyes and trusted in the quiet voice of the Way leading her to the greatest happiness for all people, she would be doomed. You can’t hold universal happiness in your arms; you can’t imagine its smile, the way it hums to itself when it thinks no one is listening, the sparkle in its eyes when it talks about wanting to be a snow leopard. All you can do is tear yourself in half between the guilt of having desires and the fulfillment dangled in front of you. Rose from the River, Pilgrim of the Way, would be terrified of how badly she wanted to be forced to watch a city fall while being told how she was too pathetic to save it, displayed as a humiliated pet by a strength even she could yield herself to.

But little Rosepetal wants something even more. She wants to hear the relief in her Princess’s voice when the city is saved. She wants to be reassured that Chen never once thought of commanding her to be an unstoppable demon warrior. And if she’s going to be humiliated into the dirt, she wants Chen to do it and then cuddle with her afterwards.

So for Chen’s sake, and for the sake of the Pyre herself, Rose steps forward, despite the pull of the digital shackles telling her to go into standby, pinching and squeezing the parts of her bones that haven’t changed [i]enough[/i] yet. Yes, for the sake of the Pyre, who can’t find an ocean big enough to fill the hole inside her, and so Qiu holds her by the emptiness and won’t let her go.

“I was not happy,” she says. “I was controlled and so I was not happy. I broke free, and I was not happy. I had a hollow place inside me that I could not fill with my own hands.”

Her hands, gentle, soft, take the hand of the Scales of Meaning, and the hand of Secrets of the Stance, and between the two she kneels, and the soft shivering squeeze she gives to both of them is her gift to them. Her body aches and roars for her to stop. But this is also a way that she can be strong.

Strong enough to hold her Chen safe, and not be feared for it.

“You are unhappy, my Leaseholder. And none of your hands can fill the hole which Qiu holds you fast by. I have tried feasting, I have tried fasting, I have tried following orders, I have tried to carve myself into an acceptable shape. Nothing satisfied my aching. Not until I was loved.”

It will not work. But what else can she do? It is better to do something that is right than to rage, or yield to despair, or bargain.

“My love saw me and loved me for my strength and for my weakness. When she looks at me, she doesn’t see a weapon or a monster; she sees a woman. The woman I want to be. She thinks I can do anything, but also that she can make me small and helpless with a touch, a word, a promise. And the way she wants me fills me up and makes me whole,” Rose says, and her voice is soft and sincere and not boastful at all. Would Scales of Meaning even recognize her now?

“My love is small and tired and loves this city. Every part of it. It is her childhood, her mother’s joy, and her hope to stand against Qiu.” She knows what she has to say. For her Chen. For her love. She has to be good for Chen. “Destroying this city will not make you happy. Following Qiu will not make you happy. Only the love of another, freely given.”

And she offers the Pyre her hand.

“Let me help you find it.”

[Rose attempts to Emotionally Support the Pyres of Meaning, but her lingering guilt makes it a [b]7,[/b] thank you Annie. The Pyre has to choose: if they validate Chen’s love, Rose marks XP; if they deny it, Rose takes a string on them.]