Febuwhump Day 12: Spiked Drink
Word Count: 6166
Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl
Rating: T
Characters: Olivier Mira Armstrong
Warning: Violence, violence towards a child
Summary: Her father had always warned of getting kidnapped. Seven-year-old Olivier now has been. The question is, how will she handle it?
Notes: N/A
Spiked Drink
Little Olivier Armstrong woke up slowly. Her head felt heavy, and her eyes didn't want to open. It wasn't the way that she usually woke up, and she knew that something didn't feel right. She wasn't sure what, though. She did her best to shake off the feeling and sit up, so she could look around and figure out what was going on.
When she did, she froze.
This wasn't any place she knew. It was a room, and she was on a pallet of blankets on the floor. There was a door and a window that was shut, but that was it. There was old, peeling wallpaper on the walls, and the floors looked like they needed mopping to her. The whole room was… what was that word Auntie had used last week? Dingy. Yes, the whole room was dingy.
Olivier looked at herself. She still had on her pale pink dress, and her shiny black shoes too. Her stockings felt a little crooked, but she could fix that. Her hair, except for the Armstrong curl that always seemed to escape, was still pulled back in a thick braid down her back.
So, aside from feeling a little weird, she was okay. But… where was she?
Olivier bit her lip as she thought back. She had been at the park with Mother, and Amue and Strongine, and Baby Alex. They had been playing, but Amue and Strongine had been thirsty. Mother had been busy with Baby Alex, so Olivier had volunteered to go over to the stand that was selling drinks and buy them all something. Mother had asked her if she was sure she could do it, and Olivier had been. Besides, she was the eldest. It was her job to help look after her sisters and brother and help her parents where she could.
She had taken the money that Mother had given her and gone over to the stand. But there had been a lot of flavors, and she hadn't been sure which one she wanted. The man had given her a sample of one to taste, and she had accepted it. And then… And then she had started to feel funny. Really tired and heavy like she wasn't able to move well. Kinda like she had felt at first when she woke up.
And she woke up here, all alone, without Mother or her sisters and brother.
With a jolt, an idea hit the seven-year-old. Could this be a kidnapping? Father had always warned of it happening. That was why he made sure they trained every day, so that if someone tried to take them, they could fight back and hopefully get help.
Olivier didn't fight back though, or at least she didn't remember it. She hoped that Father wasn't going to be mad at her about that.
She stood up and brushed off her skirt, putting the blanket she had been under back onto the pile, laying it neatly like Mother would have wanted her to do. And then she looked around the room.
There was no closet and no furniture in it. The pallet of blankets was just that—a pallet of blankets. The door was locked, and she couldn't get out of it. The window was low enough that she could see out of it, but high enough that getting out of it would be difficult. The latches were up high. It was too dirty to see out of, too, so she couldn't tell what was on the other side. Olivier side-eyed the pile of blankets. Maybe if she folded each one up, she could stand on them and get to the window easier. Father and Mother had always said that if they were taken by strangers, to run away if they could. Getting out the window might help her run away.
With that thought in mind, Olivier went back to the pile of blankets she had been laying on. Some of them were old but thick quilts. They ought to stack high, just when Julia, one of the maids, had helped them stack some quilts to make a throne during a game of make-believe once. Olivier would start with those.
The quilts were heavy, and it was hard to drag them over to the window, but she managed. She folded them over, a bit messily, but it was good enough. Julia would have helped her fold them better. But these quilts weren't for putting away nicely. They were for helping her to get away. Stacking them was a little difficult too, but with enough tugging she got them one on top of another. The pile of them came up above her knees. Olivier decided that it should be high enough to help her.
She climbed on top of the stack and was able to get to the window much better. It was still dirty and hard to see out of, but she could, just barely, reach the latches. She reached for them, on tiptoe, her hands brushing them.
And then the door opened.
"What the—"
It startled Olivier and she started to whirl around, only to lose her balance and fall on the ground. Her head was still a little off, and before she could really get it back together again, the skinny man who had entered the room has his hand painfully around her arm, jerking her up and yanking her out with him, all the while calling for someone. Olivier stumbled along, her head spinning at all of the sudden movement.
She was drug from that room into another, bigger room. It looked like some sort of old meeting room, all tall ceilings and fading artwork and wallpaper. There were chairs and benches around, and in a group of them, people.
It suddenly occurred to Olivier that she should be resisting, and, getting her feet under her, she pulled back, digging her heels in. "Let me go!" she yelled, and twisted, trying to get her arm free. She must have surprised the man, because she did slip free for a second, but he was quick and on her again, this time with a hand on both arms, pushing her in front of him. She twisted, trying to get to where she could claw at his hands, and tried to kick at his legs, or trip him up, but he was a lot bigger than her and he was stronger than her and forced her along until she was unceremoniously plopped into a chair.
The moment he released her she tried to leap up and run again, but she was pulled back into the chair.
"Now, now, let's not have any of that."
A different man, bigger and looking more fit than the other man, sat on a chair in the middle of the circle. He had a cigar and was smoking it, and Olivier wrinkled her nose at it. Father sometimes had a cigar, but they smelled a lot nicer than the man's did. There were other people around too. A few more men, and a couple of women. None of them looked particularly nice and Olivier noticed weapons on all of them. Guns, knives, and she wasn't sure what else, but they looked like weapons. She wasn't sure what to do.
The cigar man stood and came closer to her. "Well. You're a pretty little thing, aren't you?" he said.
Olivier froze and stared up at him. What was she supposed to do? What was she supposed to say? He was frightening, this man. Big and something about him made her scared. He seemed dangerous, and it frightened her. She could feel the fear welling up inside of her.
Mother had told her once that it was alright to be afraid. That everyone felt fear. But she had also told her that not everyone needed to see that fear. It was good to let those close to you know your emotions, but that those who weren't didn't always need to, because they wouldn't always be kind about it. Olivier had asked how she could keep people from seeing she was afraid, and her mother had told her that when she was afraid, she just lifted her chin up, looked people in the eye, and remembered who she was. Mother was a Tallmound, one of the five great families of Amestris. She was also an Armstrong by marriage, another of the five great families. That gave her the knowledge and the confidence to mask her fear.
Olivier was an Armstrong. The Armstrongs did great things. They served their country, they faced down challenges, and they made discoveries. She was also part Tallmound, and they, too, were a formidable family.
Olivier wanted to be scared. She wanted to cry. She wanted Mother and Father and Auntie and even Julia. She could do that. She could cry and be scared. But did this man need to see that? Did any of these people? She glanced around at them for a moment. No. None of them needed to see how she felt. They weren't going to be kind with her fear, she could tell.
So, Olivier lifted her chin, looked the cigar man in the eye, and remembered who she was, even if her hands were shaking. "Yes," she said. "I am. And you're an ugly man who smells bad."
The man blinked at her for a moment, then snorted. "You've got spunk."
"She was trying to escape," the skinny man said, and Olivier glared at him.
"Escape, huh?" the cigar man said. "How?"
"She'd piled the quilts and was standing on them, trying to open the window."
The cigar man raised an eyebrow. "Smart. But it's not going to get you anywhere." He leaned down close to her, too close, and Olivier leaned as far away from him as she could, which wasn't very far. She didn't like it. She wanted him out of her space, but she had an idea that pushing him away both wouldn't work and wouldn't be a good idea. So, instead, she glared at him, even if she was shaking. "That window is nailed shut. They all are. You're not going to get out through them."
He had a smirk on his face that made Olivier mad. It was just like when Vincent Strongsword had said she couldn't play battle because she was a girl. Olivier tightened her glare. "You're mean and ugly and you smell bad, and I won't stay with you!"
Mother always told Olivier that she needed to control her temper, and Mother was usually right about these kinds of things. But Olivier wasn't thinking about that, and she lashed out, kicking hard with her feet. The man let out a grunt of pain, and Olivier grinned, satisfaction welling up in her.
But that satisfaction only lasted a second, because the next thing she knew his hand was making contact with her face, hitting her hard enough to knock her out of the chair and the skinny man's grip, and send her still uncertain head spinning. Before she could recover, he was hauling her up, one hand wrapped tightly around her upper arm, and the other gripping her jaw tightly.
"You'll learn your place here, brat," he said. "One way or another."
Fear shot through Olivier, but he let go of her chin and roughly pulled her along, back into the room she had been in to begin with. He threw her in, and she landed hard on the floor, skidding on it. He followed her in, grabbed the blankets, and threw them out of the room.
"Sleep without anything tonight. We'll see how you feel come morning."
The door slammed behind him, and Olivier heard it lock. For a moment she laid there stunned, and then, slowly, she started to pick herself up. She sniffed, tears coming to her eyes, and sat up. She'd never been treated like this before! Her face hurt, and her arms did too. This wasn't like the hurt that happened in training. This was different, and no one had ever hurt her like that.
She looked around the room. It was barren, and, from what light she could see through the window, it wasn't close to dark yet. She had no blankets, no food, and her face and arms hurt. Olivier crawled to a corner, curling up there. Her dress was dirty now, and her white stockings were too. It didn't matter. She pulled her knees up and pulled her skirt down over them. Now that she was alone, it was okay to cry, right?
She hoped so because that's what she was doing.
As far as she could tell, no one came to check on her throughout the night. It was still early spring, so while the days were warm, the nights were cold, and Olivier had spent the whole night in the dark, cold room with no food and no water and no bathroom. Very little light came in through the window, and the chill seeped in from the walls. Olivier curled up close to the door, where a little heat came in under the crack in it. She tucked her legs into her skirt, curled around her arms, and let her hair down to try to cover her face.
It was okay, she told herself. She liked the cold. She always liked it when they went up north. She'd just pretend she was up there and sleeping outside. It was hard, though without a blanket or pillow or any food. Her stomach rumbled, and she wasn't sure if she had been this hungry before.
At some point she fell asleep, her head still feeling funny, and her face and arms hurting. She would have kept sleeping, if she hadn't been woken up by the door ramming into her.
"Ow!" she said, trying to figure out what was going on.
"Move!" said a woman's voice from the other side of the door.
For a moment, Olivier was confused and then she remembered the situation that she was in. She scrambled away from the door, looking up to see who was coming in, and glaring at whoever it was.
This was a woman, muscular, with short-cropped hair and a scowl. She looked down at Olivier and scowled at her. "Don't bother with that glare," she said. "It's not gonna get you anywhere. Come on, the boss says to feed you."
Food was good, Olivier thought. But she didn't trust these people. Should she go with them? Her stomach rumbled out loud, and that seemed to make her decision for her. She was still scared, though, and she was still mad, too. She remembered a party once, where someone had said something to make Mother mad. Mother hadn't yelled or lashed out. She had just stood tall and strong and been cold to the person, even if later Mother had told Father just how angry she had been. Maybe Olivier could do something like that. After all, these people still weren't people that should get to see her feelings.
Olivier stood up and brushed off her skirt. She straightened her tights and ran her fingers through her hair. Then, holding her head up high, she left the room. She saw the woman roll her eyes, but she didn't bother to respond to it.
"Come on, kid, this way," the woman said, leading her on. "Bathroom first, then food." Olivier looked around as they walked, trying to figure out what might be good hiding places or ways to escape. The woman was eying her. "…Boss hit you pretty good. Does that hurt?"
Actually, yes, her jaw was sore, and so was one side of her face and her arms. But she wasn't going to let her know how much it did. "…A little," she said after a moment.
The woman snorted but didn't ask her any other questions.
The bathroom looked dirty, and the breakfast that Olivier was given was, quite frankly, terrible. But it was better than nothing, and she was hungry, so she ate it all. Then she ate some more. After all, they hadn't given her food last night. They might not give her food again, especially if she tried to escape. She might as well eat all she could. She just had to think about it like the time she and Lydia Brightree tried to see how much cake they could eat. Only she'd stop before she threw up. She thought she heard the woman mutter something about spoiled rich kids, but she wasn't sure what she meant, so she didn't bother saying anything.
"You hear anything from the kid's parents?" the woman with the close-cropped hair asked.
"Yeah," the skinny man said. "They're upset and angry. Didn't give in to our demands."
"Yeah?" the woman said. "What'd they say?"
The skinny man shook his head. "Some crap about how the Armstrong family line will carry on and they're not going to give in. And something else about bringing the weight of the family down on us when they caught us."
"Huh. Not the usual lines," the woman said. "Usually, they're falling over themselves to give into any demands we ask, especially for the eldest." She glanced at Olivier. "Maybe she's not as valuable to them anymore."
"Whatcha mean?" the skinny man asked.
"Well," the woman said. "These rich families are all about family lines. Sure, she's the eldest, but maybe with a son now, she's not as important."
Olivier paused, as if struck, and glanced over at them. She knew that everyone had made over Baby Alex when he was born. Father had been so happy when he found out he had a son. And of course, people hadn't paid as much attention to her or Amue or Strongine, but that's how it always was when a new baby came. Just because Alex was a boy, it didn't mean that Mother and Father didn't care about her as much anymore, right? She was the eldest, wasn't she? She was going to be the head of the family one day, because she was the eldest. That's why she learned her family history and tried out the various arts that the Armstrongs had passed down for generations, and had begged her father to learn swordsmanship, so she could carry the family sword one day, proudly. She was still important to them, even with Alex here, right? Even if Father couldn't stop talking about him, and he seemed so happy and—
"Alright kid," the woman said, cutting off Olivier's thoughts. "Back to the room."
Olivier's thoughts focused. She didn't know if what they said was true or not, but she did know that she could prove herself to Father and Mother. "No," she said.
The woman scowled deeper. "I said come on. Back to the room."
She reached out for Olivier, but Oliver pulled back. "I'm not going!" she said, and slid out of the chair, ducking the woman's hands.
The skinny man got up too, and lunged at her, but Olivier darted away. No. No! She wasn't going to stay here! She'd find a way out! That would make Father proud of her for sure! She darted and dodged and slipped under chairs and benches. The woman with the short-cropped hair and the skinny man chased Olivier, saying words that she knew Mother would not approve of, and some she had never heard before, but figured she ought not to repeat.
There was a door on the far side of the room, and Olivier figured that was her best bet for escaping. She twisted and ducked, the voices of her two captors raising up as they chased her. It had the unfortunate side effect of drawing the attention of the other people she had seen in the room the day before, and soon it was more than a few people chasing her.
She managed to duck around them for the most part. When someone did manage to grab her, she hit, bit, kicked, and punched. Father had made sure that she knew a few things about fighting, and Olivier did not hold back on them, lashing out with her full force. Her goal was to escape and prove that she was still worth caring about!
Somehow, against all odds, she managed to make it to the door. She threw it open, and raced out of it, kicking at a man who tried to grab her feet. There was a long hallway, and she raced down it, although she had to be careful of her footing as she got to the far end of it. There were pieces of brick laying around and she nimbly dodged over them.
And then, suddenly, something slammed into her, knocking her down to the ground. A piece of brick dug into her as the weight came on her, and she cried out, yelling both in pain and anger. Footsteps caught up, and she felt hands on her. She twisted and fought, yelling and snapping at people, but they managed to subdue her. Strong arms wrapped around her, pinning her own arms to her sides, and someone else grabbed ahold of her legs.
"LET GO! LET GO OF ME! LET GO OF ME!"
She screamed at the top of her lungs and thrashed with all her strength, but it was to no avail. They still took her back to that room and quite literally threw her in, slamming the door behind them. Olivier hit the wall hard and then rolled away with the momentum. For a moment, she laid still in the middle of the room, chest heaving from the exertion and head spinning from all of it. She could hear the commotion outside of the room as the kidnappers took stock of themselves.
After a few minutes, the sound faded, her head settled, and Olivier slowly sat up, pushing hair out of her face, wincing as she did. Her dress was torn and dirty now, and her stockings were in tatters. Her shoes had scratches in them. There were scrapes on her knees, bleeding and dirty, and her side hurt a lot. Olivier sniffed, but she uncurled her hand. In it was a piece of brick. She hadn't meant to, but her hand had curled around it, and it had gotten trapped in the folds of her dress when she had been restrained.
Olivier sniffed, and the tears welled up in her eyes. She wanted to go home! She wanted to be home with Mother and Father and Amue and Strongine and Baby Alex! Even if it meant that they liked Baby Alex better, she still wanted to be there with them instead of here, where she was hurt and in pain and dirty and cold and would he hungry soon. She just wanted to go home! The tears welled up and she couldn't help it anymore. She gave in and sobbed.
Sobbing, she found out, made her feel a little better, but in the long run it didn't do anything but give her a headache. After a bit her tears dried up and she sat there, still afraid and upset. She had tried so hard to get away and it had failed! Why had it failed? What else could she do? She rolled the piece of brick around in her hand, staring at it. There had to be something else she could do. She couldn't stay here. She couldn't!
It wasn't fair! Why was she here? She had just been trying to help and now she was trapped here with these people! She was trapped here, and they were trying to use her to get her parents to do things, and they were probably all happier with Baby Alex and—
In a fit of anger, Olivier raised her hand, the brick piece in it, poised to throw it—and then paused. The window was just beyond her. She had, once, accidentally broken a window when she was younger by throwing a rock. She was stronger now, and more accurate. Maybe…
Olivier bit her lip. Should she do it now? Or should she do it later? There was noise from outside her door. If she threw it now, they'd hear her. Maybe she should wait until later. Sniffing, she settled herself into a corner to wait until dark, hiding the brick piece under her skirts.
Her door didn't open again that night. They slid some granola bars under the door at one point, and she ate them, although she wished she had some water. She grew tired as the day waxed on, but she refused to fall asleep, afraid she'd sleep through the night and miss her chance. Finally, after what she guessed to be hours after dark, Olivier stood up, took careful aim, and threw the brick piece with all of her might.
It hit the window, hard, and the window cracked. But it didn't shatter. The noise, though, had been loud, and she scrambled to get the brick piece again, picking it up and throwing it once more. This time, the window shattered, and she ran up to it. She could reach that part of it, and grabbed on, wincing as the glass that was there cut her fingers. She let go, and then, thinking for a moment grabbed her skirt, wrapping it around her hands, and grabbing on to the windowsill again. She pulled up, bringing herself up to the edge, and pushed on the glass that was still there. It cut her hands and her legs, what was left of her tights giving her no protection. She could hear a voice and footsteps coming her way. She looked down. The ground was further away then she thought it would be. But she had jumped off of swings when they were that high. She could do this.
The door opened behind her, and she jumped, only to have someone grab her legs as she did. She slammed into the outside wall, the pieces of glass that were left cutting into her and she cried out. Her hands scrambled for purchase on the outside of the wall even as she thrashed and wiggled, but it didn't matter. She was pulled back in no matter how much she scrambled around.
"Girl, I'm getting tired of you and your defiance."
Her arms were twisted behind her back, and she was forced to the floor. She twisted her head around, looking through her hair. It was the cigar man again, and he looked angry.
"Let me go!" she demanded.
"Not a chance," he growled back.
He jerked her up, twisting her around so that he could keep a hold of her arms with one hand, and tuck her legs under his arms in such a way that he kept them pinned. She struggled and yelled, but it was to no avail. He took her back to the main room, where others staggered in.
"What's going on?" the skinny man asked.
"The brat almost escaped again," the cigar man said. "She broke her window and was jumping out."
The woman with the short-cropped hair cursed. "This brat is trouble."
"Help me with her," the cigar man said. "We're not going to take anymore of her trouble."
Fear shot through Olivier. What did that mean? "NO! STOP! LET GO!" Olivier screamed, even as she redoubled her efforts to get away.
She bucked and twisted with all of her might and managed to get a hand free. She slammed it into the cigar man's groin. His grip instantly loosened, and she twisted, tumbling to the ground. She hit and turned to run. But the only way to run was towards the table, still with dishes from the night before. She ran towards it, dodging around one of the men, although that put her straight in the path of a chair. She lept for it, using it to try to boost her onto the table so she could run across it. But she was grabbed before she could, falling and hitting the table instead. She scrambled for anything to grab and found herself with a knife in her hand.
Olivier was scared. She was terrified. The fear she was feeling was more then she had ever felt before. She didn't look to see what she was doing. She had only used practice swords so far, and a knife was much, much smaller, but she still lashed out with it like it was a sword and stabbed whoever had her in the leg.
The person—a man—yelled and let go, and Olivier tried to escape again. But she was outnumbered, they were stronger than her, and they were mad. No matter that she was an Armstrong, Olivier was just one small seven-year-old girl, and there was only so much she could do. Minutes later the kidnappers had her pinned down, holding her despite the bandages and injures she could see on them.
The cigar man appeared over her, something in his hand.
"Hold her down," he growled out. "She's too much trouble. We're gonna give her more of the sedative."
"NO! NO! STOP! LET ME GO! GET OFF OF ME! NO!" she screamed it out, terrified, still trying to fight but not able to do anything. Tears formed in her eyes. There was nothing she could do! The cigar man got closer with that vial, and she closed her mouth, refusing to open it. He reached out and pinched her nose closed and waited. She tried not to, but her mouth opened to gasp for air, and he poured the liquid in her mouth, forcing her jaw closed afterward, a hand clapped across her mouth so she couldn't spit it out, and holding her nose closed again, so she'd be forced to swallow.
She had no choice. Instinctively, her body swallowed the liquid, and tears fell from her eyes.
And then, the door banged in. Everyone looked, and between the bodies of the adults that were holding her down, Olivier could see Amestrian blue, the same blue of Father's uniform. Several of her captors moved, heading towards weapons, taking their hands off of her. Olivier bit one that still had her, kicking with her feet too. They weren't terribly concerned with holding her anymore, though, and Olivier saw her father in the mess of soldiers, a look of anger like she'd never seen before on his face.
"DADDY!" she cried out, falling back into what she had called him years ago.
"Olivier!" she heard him respond.
She rolled, getting on her hands and knees, and standing up to race to him. But the liquid was already slowing her down, and she was finding it harder and harder to move, to think. All she wanted was to be in her father's arms, but her arms and legs felt heavy, and before she understood what was happening, she was falling. The last thing she saw was her father rushing towards her.
Olivier woke up slowly. Her head felt heavy and thick, and her body did too. She blinked her eyes awake, although honestly all she wanted to do was go back to sleep, and looked around.
She had no idea where she was. But at least it was clean and all white.
"Olivier?"
Her head turned to the side, and she saw Father there, his brow creased in worry.
"…Daddy?"
He smiled at her. "Yes, my rose, it's Daddy."
Her eyes scanned the room. "Mama?"
Mother was in a chair, leaning on her arm, asleep. Father nudged her gently. Mother woke up almost at once. "Philip?!" she sounded alarmed, but the caught sight of Olivier. "Oh, Olivier!"
Olivier teared up. "Mama… Daddy!" she held out her arms to them, and they didn't hesitate. She was scooped up off of the bed that she was on, and into their arms. She cried as they held her, but it was okay. They cared about her. They wouldn't be unkind to her emotions.
"I—I'm sorry!" she said as her tears finally slowed. "I'm sorry!"
"Sorry?" Father asked. "What on earth are you sorry for?" He brushed her hair back with his hand, being careful of the side of her face that was sore.
"That… that I couldn't escape," she said. "I tried! You told us to always try to escape! But I couldn't! I failed! I'm sorry!"
"Oh, Olivier," her mother said, leaning over to put a kiss on her head. "It's alright. You did fine."
Her father gave her a squeeze. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he said. "Look at you—you fought hard. You tried. And we're so very, very proud of you for that."
She sniffed and looked up at them. "You are?" she said. "They said… they said that you wanted Baby Alex more than me."
"Of course not," her mother said. "We love him, and you, and your sisters." Her mother's look changed, and she looked sad. "I should have never let you go get the drinks alone, Olivier. I'm the one who should be apologizing." She put a gentle hand on the side of her face. "My brave, helpful daughter. I'm so glad you're going to be alright."
Olivier sniffed. "What happened after?" she said. She looked at her father. "You came to rescue me."
"I did," Father said. "And I brought a contingency of men with me. All of the kidnappers were captured. They were already a bit roughed up, and it seems that was from you," he chuckled, although his amusement faded with the next sentence. "Although it seems that you shared your fair share of injuries too, my rose."
"I cut my hands," she said. "And scraped my knees. And the cigar man hit me and grabbed my jaw,"
Olivier said. She could feel herself trembling slightly. "I didn't like it. I didn't like being treated like that."
Instantly, her parents' arms were around her again.
"Don't you worry, my rose," Father said. "I'll make sure that you're safe from that ever happening again."
Olivier didn't know if he could do that. But she wanted to believe that he could. Besides, she was tired, and she finally felt safe for the first time in days. Still sniffing, she snuggled into her parents' arms and let her eyes start to close.
She was never going to buy a drink without her parents there again!
Epilogue:
Philip Gargantos Armstrong looked down at his eldest daughter as she slept in her mother's arms. He reached a shaky hand out towards her, gently combing her hair back.
"A cen for your thoughts," Genevieve said softly.
"…I was so scared," he said. "I heard her screaming from outside that old worship hall, heard her yell "get off of me," and then when we rushed in, and I saw them holding her down…" he paused, swallowing. "The only thing that helped that was seeing her run towards me. But then she collapsed, and I… Her dress was torn, her stockings were in tatters, she was beaten." His hands were still shaking, and he pulled them back, gripping the chair hard and feeling it creak and groan under his grip. "I feared the worst."
Genevieve nodded. "I would have too," she said. "Although… she did still go through quite a lot." She looked back down at the sleeping Olivier in her hospital gown and couldn't help the shaky breath she took.
"She did," Philip agreed.
Bruising up and down one side of her face, bruising along her jaw and on her arms, a large, deep bruise on her side, general bruises from, the doctors said, it looked like being thrown around. There were scrapes on her knees and legs, cuts on them as well as on her hands. She was dehydrated, and she had been given a dose of a sedative that was not recommended for children twice.
She was going to be okay, though, and that was the good part.
The kidnappers had some healing themselves to do. It was evident that Olivier had fought back, as they had bruises, cuts, broken fingers, noses, and ribs, and, in one man's case, a deep stab wound. She may have thought that she had failed, but Philip knew that his rose had fought back as hard as a seven-year-old could.
That, of course, wasn't counting the injuries his men had given them, or that Philip himself had inflicted.
"It might be a good idea, when she's feeling better, to let her see someone about this," Genevieve said. "It had to be a harrowing experience at her age."
"Perhaps so," Philip said. "But for now, I just want to stay here with her."
Genevieve took another shaky breath. "As do I."
Philip put his arm around his wife and reached out a hand to his eldest daughter. He'd see to it she was as safe as he could make her—and that she continued to have the means to defend herself.