Rifiuto: Non Miriena

A/N: Written: 2006. Found: 2017- Licia

She bolted.

Her chair clattered the floor, but she paid it no mind. She heard Trism call for her, heard Glinda, and Partra and Zor and Trot, but she ignored them all, rushing from the room. Footsteps soon sounded, and she picked up her pace; she didn't remember where she was going, she simply ran, rushing through the palace, Everic's words ringing loud in her head.

Stole Melena from me. Stole Melena.

No, it couldn't be true. It just couldn't be.

Eventually, she made her way into the grand ballroom, down the stairs-

Her heel snagged on the worn carpet of one of the steps and she fell, landing on her knees. She looked up, finding herself staring at a portrait of her family, painted back in nineteen-ten. Melena was seated in the center, in Imperial court dress, surrounded by her children- similar to a portrait that had been taken a year before the revolution, except that photograph had only been Melena and her daughters. But this... this beautiful, formal portrait had Melena in the center, with her daughters surrounding her on either side- Sophelia and Oziandra on the left and Elphaba and Nessarose on the right, also in court dress, with Frexpar and Shell standing in the center, behind Melena, in uniform.

Climbing to her feet, she hurried down the steps to the floor of the ballroom, before skidding to a stop in the center of it.

The doors closed, locking behind the men. Her dark eyes darted between the men, confused now. Why were they in here? Shouldn't they be out, waiting for Manek to come?

She shook her head, turning back to the portrait; her mother's eyes seemed to bore into her, imploring her to understand.

Understand what? That she had once been the sweetheart to a mad king? That that very king believed that Frexpar had stolen her from him? That her family had been assassinated because of a jealous man? Or that she very well could have been Everic's daughter, a princess of not Fliaan, but Ev? The very thought made her sick to her stomach.

Silence reigned.

She remembered this ballroom; watching the guests dance with her sisters from their hiding places on the balcony, forbidden from joining in the fun until they reached their teenage years. The orchestras and glowing chandeliers, the beautiful gowns and handsome suits; looking at the portraits of not just their family, but of family members long since dead and gone...

They waited, in silence, unsure of what to do. Where was the camera? Had someone gone back upstairs to get it? How many photographs would they end up taking? Just one? Or multiple, like the formal portraits they used to sit for? And since it was to let the rest of their family members know that they were okay and would soon be safe in Gillikin, would it be sent to the papers as well?

The men stood together in clumps, staring at the family, leering silently at the daughters, whispering behind their hands and making lewd comments to each other; comments that would occasionally reach her ears, and make her uncomfortable.

She choked on a sob, shaking her head. "No... no... there's no way that's true... no..."

Footsteps could be heard, but she didn't turn to greet them. "Fabala!" Trism's voice barely made a dent in the chaos that was currently swirling within her mind. She tangled her hands in her hair, trying to stop Everic's words from entering her head and contaminating her thoughts even more. The fact that that man could... could... could... she couldn't even think of the right words!

"Will we get to come back, Papa?"

Frexpar turned to her, reaching out to take her hand, and she leaned over, stretching to take his in hers. He squeezed gently, glancing at Melena, who smiled softly and then glanced down at her hands, twisting her wedding ring nervously. After a moment, she glanced at Elia, who smiled softly at her.

The footsteps got closer, and she bolted for the other end of the ballroom. She had to get away; she couldn't think with the others around, couldn't piece together the scattered puzzle in her mind. She needed quiet, complete and utter quiet. Other footsteps besides her husband's could be heard, and she picked up her pace.

"Fabala! Fabala, stop!"

She ignored him. She had to get away- get out, away from the palace, away from the House of Special Purpose, the basement her family had died in, away from Fliaan, the very country and people she loved so. The Vinkus; she could go to the Vinkus. No, it wasn't far enough. The City... or Gillikin... no, the Glikkus. Yes, the Glikkus would be perfect. Or maybe... maybe she could even escape across the Impassable Desert; surely that would be far enough away from this... this... this deception.

But could she really do that? Could she really leave her country, her children, her husband- the man she loved with all her heart and soul? Could she really run away and disappear, change her name and forget everything about her past, her family?

The men checked their weapons, made sure they were loaded. Each man had been assigned a family member or servant to kill, and he expected them to do their job and do it well. He glanced at the young boy- no older than sixteen- who'd been assigned Elphaba Frexparia. A moment had passed, when the boy's face had paled upon receiving his assigned person, and Diggs had feared that he would have to replace the boy, but eventually, he'd straightened up, accepting that the fourteen-year-old princess with the kind nature and sweet smile was his to slaughter, to do with what he wished before he took her life.

He knew the truth of this night and these men- though hidden behind shirts, ties, and marriages- these men he'd gathered would turn into savages once the order was given.

She slammed her eyes shut, clenching her jaw and covering her ears, but it didn't stop the words or memories from coming.

Melena. Me. Frexpar. Stole. Kill and destroy. I told him to. The revolution was the perfect cover. Perfect cover. Perfect. Massacre.

"No..."

Trism's footsteps got closer; vaguely, she could hear the others on the stairs. "Fabala!"

Slowly, Diggs's gaze traveled to each member in turn, before he cocked his head. Time seemed to slow, as he watched them, saw the unwavering loyalty in the servants' faces, the love between Frexpar and Melena, the innocence of the prince, the devotion and fragile beauty of the four young princesses, none of them older than eighteen. They stood gathered around the fallen emperor, empress and sickly prince, for one final photograph. He watched the second youngest daughter take her little sister's hand, share a smile with the girl, and he was briefly reminded of his own boy, only a couple years or so younger than these girls.

What a beautiful, final portrait.

Perhaps he should have taken a final photograph of them, after all, so that he would have something to remember them by, before he ordered his men to kill them. Something he could take back to the Evian king, as proof that they had stood for that last 'portrait', before the firing squad carried out their orders. Something he could look at years from now, and relive- the moments right before he and his men massacred the Samraat and his family.

Yes, now that he thought about it, a portrait to take back to the Evian king would definitely have been a good thing.

She once more covered her ears, letting out a scream, so similar to the screams in that basement, that echoed through the palace, haunting those who heard it, and giving them a taste of the horror Everic's sick plan of revenge had unleashed on an innocent family that night twenty-one years earlier.

Trism rushed to her, and his arms wrapped tight around her waist, catching her as she began to crumble, holding tight as she began to struggle. Glinda and Trot stopped on the balcony, watching as Zor, Partra and Locasta hurried to help. A moment passed, before the two women followed, skidding to a stop behind the others. She fought against him, kicking, shoving, doing everything she could think of, but he didn't let her go; instead, he tightened his hold. "Fabala! Fabala, listen to me, love! Listen to me!"

"No! Please!"

It took only a few minutes for Glinda to realize what was happening; she covered her mouth with her hands, tears in her eyes.

"I don't understand, what's going on?" The blonde turned to the First Lady, the tears in her eyes slipping down her cheeks.

"She's... she's back in that basement... oh, Fabala-"

The smoke of gunpowder fired quickly filled the room as the men began shooting; copper, metallic and strong, filled the air, mixing with the screams of her family and the servants as they realized what was happening.

She struggled against him, trying her hardest to break free and run. "Please! I won't tell! I promise I won't tell! I promise! Please!"

Trism held her closer, curving his body around hers, tightening his hold as she fought against him. "Please, Fabala! Listen to me! You're safe! You're safe! You're back in Fliaan, and you're safe!" He pressed a kiss to her head. "You're not in that basement anymore, love! You're in my arms! You're with me, Fabala! You're with me! You're safe now! You're safe! Sweetheart, please! Please, stop! Fabala!"

She shook her head, long black hair, now down around her shoulders in tangles. "I won't tell! Please! I promise, I won't tell! I promise!" She tried her hardest to pull away, scratching like a cat cornered in a barn. "Fiyero!"

Hearing his brother's name come from her lips was enough of a shock for him to release her. She tumbled to the marble floors, knees hitting hard, and after a moment, she scrambled away on hands and knees, turning back, meeting Trism's gaze. The others watched as she sat back, scrambling as fast as she could, feet lashing out against an invisible gunman, though her gaze never left her husband's. Zor moved to help her, but Glinda grabbed his arm.

"No! Don't! She's not here! She's back there, in that basement."

Zor turned back, watching as the young empress turned to rise on her knees, facing away from them, as though she were facing-

The door.

Please be open! Please! I can't go out the other way, this is my only hope! You have to be unlocked-

She let out a cry, pounding on the wood in a vain attempt to alert someone outside, on the other side of the eight-foot tall fence the guards had built around the mansion to keep them in and the villagers out.

She turned around, sliding to sit back on the ground, shaking her head with fear in her gaze, tears in her eyes. "No... please..."

Trism had slowly been making his way towards her, but now he stopped, seeing the fear in her eyes. No, not fear.

Terror.

She was absolutely, completely terrified.

He moved closer, and she kicked out at him, begging him silently to leave her be, to let her live. She could hear Nessa's screams, as one of the guards held her down and raped her against her will, no matter how hard she fought. And Raina... by now having drawn her last breath; the servants, long dead before the girls even realized what was going on. Elia lay somewhere on the other side of the room, head gone, brain matter splashed across the back wall like paint; and Mama and Papa... both dead before they even were able to fully comprehend what was happening. Shell... she couldn't hear him, couldn't hear his screams, his pleas... was her baby brother even still alive?

Suddenly, Nessa's screams stopped, and she looked up at him. "No... please... I won't tell... I promise I won't tell..."

He raised the gun, and she choked on a sob.

"Fiyero!"

Glinda buried her face in Partra's shoulder as Trism rushed forward; he knew not why she collapsed, but the Dowager and Glinda did. "Fabala! Fabala!"

Frantic, Trism gathered her in his arms, cradling her close, trying his hardest to wake her, to no response. She had a pulse, and he could feel her heartbeat, but it was as though... as though she'd been knocked out...

"Zor! Zor, help me with her!"

The young Governor rushed forward, kneeling down beside the king. They worked for several minutes, before Trism turned back to the women. "Glinda, fetch Dillamond! Now!" Without a word, the blonde rushed off to do as told, disappearing into the palace. "Come on, Fabala, wake up for me! Wake up for me, darling! Fabala, open your eyes!"

"Why is she not responding, Partra?" Locasta asked softly, and the Dowager turned to the former Evian princess.

"She was knocked out. In the basement that night. That's how she got out, Locasta. She was knocked unconscious and then taken away after the bodies were taken out of the house to be disposed of."

Eventually, Glinda returned with Dillamond, who quickly set to work, as Trism and Zor scampered back to give him space. Zor tugged Trism back with the others; he gathered Trot in his arms, trying to calm her down. The day had quickly gone from light and exciting to horrible in a matter of moments. He glanced at Trism, who never took his eyes off his wife's supine figure as Dillamond worked on examining her.

"What does Yero have to do with this, Mother?" His voice soft, void of all emotion. Locasta shook her head, not entirely sure herself; Elphaba had never told her of her oldest son's role in the massacre of the Thropp family. It was Elphaba's secret, and as long as the young woman was alive and able, her secret it would remain. "What does my brother have to do with this? What does he have to do with my wife?"

"He was there." Both Tigelaars turned to Glinda, who had wrapped her arms around herself, as tears slipped down her cheeks, making her blue eyes red and puffy. Trism moved towards the blonde.

"What? Glinda, what are you talking about?"

"He was there that night, Trism. In the basement." She replied, gaze going to the portrait of the family. "Trism, he... Fiyero was assigned to kill Fabala."