Character Name: Rosalie (Rose) Thomas (Dubois) Age: 23 Appearance: shoulder-length dark curly hair, round face with light freckles. About 5'3" and 130lbs (sans baby) Family: Her late husband, James, and unborn baby - she is the only child to Mary and Albert Dubois. Personality: Rose is kind, timid, and friendly. She has a fiercely caring heart that sometimes gets her into trouble. She stays close to those she loves and tends to be overly emotional, especially in the throws of the Second World War. Heat. Rosalie had never felt heat like this before; it wrapped around her like a hot blanket, threatening to draw the very life from her. The smoke burned her eyes and when she inhaled, it burned her lungs, too. She coughed and tried to cover her mouth, but she was too crushed for her hand to make it to her mouth. The church had been packed just fifteen minutes ago with the women, children, and babies of Oradour-sur-Glane, and now they were screaming. Fourty-five minutes before that their sons and husbands had been ripped from their very hands. Rose could still see the dark, unforgiving eyes of the man that had ripped her James from her. “Don’t kill her, she’s with a baby!” James had cried out. The soldier had put his gun to his head and murmured something in German. Rose didn’t know German, but James did, and from his expression she knew the soldier’s words hadn’t been pleasant. James had given her one last longing glance, the kind he had given her on their first date and wedding day, before he had disappeared with the rest of them. James. God, he had been so happy when they had found out they were pregnant! He has always wanted to be a father. And when the war had broken out, he had taught her self defense. Even how to shoot a gun. James had taught her a will to live even if he wasn’t there to protect her. It was that thought that brought tears to her eyes. Whether James was alive or dead – and something deep in the pit of Rose’s stomach told her it was the ladder – she knew he wouldn’t want her to go down without a fight. It was with that sentiment that Rose, five month pregnant belly protruding awkwardly in front of her, pushed through the barrage of screaming women and children. One lady was clutching an wailing infant against her breast, and Rose bought back the tears. They all had no chance. She had managed to scramble towards one of the broken church windows, the glass shattered from the intrusion, and pull herself onto the sill. Rose had tried to peek around the edge of it, the heat licking at her heels, but a young boy had shoved them both through before she could have a second thought. The young woman screamed as they both went tumbling into the thick brush outside. Gunshots rang out, and when Rose opened her eyes, realizing that she was alive, she found the limp and bloodied body of the boy across her lap. His eyes were closed and there was a nasty, perfect little bullet hole in his forehead. A perfect hit. She wanted to vomit and scream and cry, but she could still hear the Germans mumbling nearby. Asking in broken English and German, asking if she was dead, too. She was too thick into the brush for them to find her, and she curled into herself. She could still feel the heat from the fire on the interior, and the wails of the diminishing numbers inside made her chest tighten. Rose pressed her fingers against her belly. Two lives. Maybe that’s all that would ever remain of Oradour-sur-Glane. She knew James would be proud of her, but the mere thought of her husband made her heart clench. Something told her she’d never see him again.