Rifiuto: Non Miriena
Written: 2005 Found: 2017- Licia
The mirror on the vanity was cracked; the toiletries she and Nessa had once used were scattered about the floor, gathering layers of dust.
Slowly, she made her way through the room, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Her gaze moved to the cot that had once stood with the head against the wall directly in front of her. It had been hers; Nessa's had been against the adjacent wall.
Dolls and books and other things she and her sister had loved so lay scattered about; some of the dolls faces had cracked, or they'd broken entirely; their fine porcelain skin reminiscent of what had happened to her family. Slowly, carefully, she knelt down, picked up the only doll that had managed to survive without destruction.
Her long black hair was in curls, and she wore a beautiful green dress and matching hat with black shoes. She gently ran a finger over the doll's face.
In a collection of thousands, why did you survive when so many others didn't? Can you tell me, little doll?
She looked up; the dollhouse that the King of Quox had given her and her sisters still sat waiting for someone to play with it; the furniture inside was still as usable as it'd been the day they'd received it. A moment passed, before she turned her gaze back to the doll in her hands.
Of everything I can see in here, you and the dollhouse survived. Why, though? What made you both so special?
She sniffled, swallowing against the pain in her chest.
"When is Uncle Irji going to realize that we are too old for dolls? Or dollhouses?"
"I like the dolls he brings us when he visits."
"That's because you are still young enough to want to play with dolls, Nessa. I don't."
Her gaze moved up from the doll's face, and she turned. Suddenly, it was as though she were back in the bedroom she shared with Nessa, before the revolution. Things that had been scattered were now in their proper place; clothing stolen was returned; the beds righted, the vanity mirror fixed. And her little sister, was sitting on her bed, swinging her legs back and forth; she looked to be no older than eight.
"Nessa." She moved closer, tears gathering in her eyes. Her last memory of her little sister was in that basement, hearing her screams as the guard did all he could to assault her and steal her innocence before killing her. But here, in their bedroom, the girl was happy, healthy, and most certainly alive. The child looked up as she approached, she quickly wrinkled her nose.
"Fabala?" She kept quiet, struggling to keep from crying. "When did you get so old?"
"I'm not old. I'm only ten. Sophelia is fourteen- she's old."
Her gaze moved from the younger girl towards the vanity, her breath catching in her throat. It can't be. But it was- herself, sitting at the vanity, running a brush through her hair. The girl turned from the mirror, having caught a glimpse of her in the surface.
"Who are you? You aren't allowed to be in here, these are our rooms."
She didn't say anything; she couldn't. She couldn't wrap her mind around what she was seeing or hearing. The ten-year-old got up off the stool, hurrying for the door.
"You had better go away, or I'm going to tell Mama and Papa!"
"Fabala, no!" Nessa cried, as the older girl turned back to them.
"Nessa? Fabala? What's going on-"
Elphaba felt her heart twist again, but this time, it was a twisting of a different kind, as her older sisters- twelve and fourteen- entered the room from the adjoining hallway that connected theirs to the younger girls. All four girls wore eyelet lace dresses, each in a different color- Sophelia's was light pink, Oziandra's light purple, Nessa's light blue and Elphaba's light green. They all had their hair pulled back and held with bows, and wore white stockings with light satin slippers. Tears began to well in her eyes, and she reached up, clutching at the pendant.
"Elia... Raina..." She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. That night in the basement, she was certain she had seen her sisters alive for the last time, until she could join them, but fate had other plans. And now, here they were, alive and healthy- as alive as she was. The tears she tried so desperately to keep from falling began to slip down her cheeks; this wasn't right. Why had she survived when they hadn't? What made the Unnamed God choose them and not her? How was that fair?
"Who are you?" She looked up find herself staring into Sophelia's eyes. But she couldn't speak, couldn't say a word, and instead, reached out to wrap her arms around her sister, but at the last minute, pulled back.
"I've never seen her before." Oziandra joined them, and Nessa spoke up from her place on the bed.
"It's Fabala, Elia! I swear! She's just gotten old!" Her two oldest sisters turned to stare at the eight-year-old, before their gazes moved to the ten-year-old standing not far from them.
"You mean grown up, Nessa?" Sophelia replied, and the girl shrugged. After a moment, the oldest daughter circled her sister, drinking her in. "She certainly does look like Fabala. But there's no way it's possible, Fabala's right there." She turned back to her little sister.
Elphaba wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. "Oh... Elia... Raina... I miss you so..." She choked on a sob. Her heart twisted; between losing Fiyero and being here, she couldn't take it, and her knees gave out. She collapsed, the doll still clutched tight in her grasp.
"Elia, is she okay? What's wrong with her?" Sophelia shook her head, kneeling down.
"I don't know, Nessa. I- Are you okay?" Slowly, Elphaba raised her head, meeting her older sister's gaze. "Who are you?"
"I... I survived. I survived the massacre at the governor's mansion... I survived and you didn't... none of you... not the servants, not Mama and Papa... only me..."
Sophelia turned to the younger girls. "Fabala, go get Mama and Papa. Hurry!" Without a word, the younger girl left, rushing down the hallway. Minutes passed by, before footsteps could be heard and the door opened; the girl returned.
"What is so urgent, Sophelia-"
Slowly, Elphaba turned at the voice. "Papa." A moment passed, before Frexpar smiled softly at her.
"Hello, Fabala." Tears glistened in his eyes. "My, how you've grown, my darling." Melena joined him, slipping her arm through his. Shell, at six, poked his head around their mother to stare at her.
She sniffled, slowly climbing to her feet. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry you didn't-"
"Shh. Hush, Fabala. We know." Melena whispered, giving her daughter a small smile. "We're just glad you did."
She took a deep breath, reaching out for her mother, knowing that she wouldn't be able to touch her. She shook her head. "I don't want the crown. I don't want to be the Samrãjñī, I don't belong in this world anymore, Mama. I wanted my family back, but not this world. I want my husband... I'm sorry, Mama-"
"We know, Fabala, trust me, we know. We've been watching you. You've brown into a beautiful young woman. We couldn't be prouder of you. Tell Fiyero thank you, for us."
Elphaba shook her head. "He's back in Munchkinland. He left me after-"
"We know, darling." Frexpar said, sadness in his eyes. "Fabala, you do understand that all your mother and ever wanted for you was to be happy- yes, the marriage would have been political, but as long as you were happy, that was all we truly cared about. We chose Fiyero because we knew he could make you happy. That is all we ever cared about, for all four of you."
She sniffled, meeting her father's gaze. "I want him him back... Papa, it hurts so much..."
Melena swallowed, grasping her husband's arm. "No..." Tears came to the empress's eyes as she watched her only surviving child. The girls gathered around, curious.
"Mama, what's wrong?" Oziandra asked, worried.
"Soulmates?" Slowly, Elphaba nodded. "Oh, Fabala... it was our- your Papa's and mine- that ended our dynasty. I had hoped... that what Locasta said wasn't true..."
"I know I belong with Yero, Mama, but-"
"You don't belong here." She turned, to see the ten-year-old standing before her. "You never belonged in this world. You were never part of our family. You're nothing but a pretender, a fraud, trying to get Papa's throne, and you know it."
She awoke, to find herself having curled up on the floor of her former bedroom, still clutching the doll, any sign of her parents and siblings gone. "Of course they're gone, they're dead." She muttered, slowly climbing to her feet. As she left the room, she turned back, the words her of ten-year-old self still ringing in her ears, so similar to Signor Crope's.
Nothing but a pretender.
