Rifiuto: Non Miriena

A/N: Warning: Contains mentions of rape. Written: 2006, Found: 2018.- Licia

Somehow, someway, Trism managed to get his wife completely undressed.

It had been a struggle, but eventually, after locking her in the room with him, he'd managed, despite her screaming, crying, begging.

And somehow, he'd managed to get her into the bath. By the time Cattery returned with Doctor Dillamond, Trism had managed to get his wife out of the bath and back into a clean, dry pair of pajamas. He'd tucked her into their bed and taken up residence beside her, holding her hand and stroking her hair. Her dark gaze moved to meet his, and she choked out two soft words that broke his heart. "Please... don't..."

"Your Majesty?"

He looked up as Doctor Dillamond made his way towards them. Trism choked on the words in his throat, as he stood, never releasing her hand. "What's... what's wrong... help her, Doctor... I... I don't know what... what to do..." Gently, the good doctor moved the young king aside, causing him to release her hand, before turning to examine the young empress. "I don't... I don't know what to do... for her... I don't know what..." Locasta hurried to her son, taking him into her arms, rocking gently back and forth as they waited for the good doctor to finish his examination.

Elphaba looked up at him, her gaze glassy, yet clear.

She slipped silently back into her room, hurriedly shutting the door behind her and making her way to the bed she'd chosen as hers. In silence, she dropped down onto it, tears drying on her cheeks. She throbbed, and most likely bled, down there, but she made no move to clean up.

She didn't even really get the chance, if she had had one.

For a soft knock on the door drew her attention from her own self destruction, and she looked up. "Your Highness?"

With a speed no one knew she possessed, Elphaba reached out, grabbing Dillamond. Her small fingers latched around the older man's wrist, and she squeezed, swallowing thickly. "Please... Sister... please..."

Dillamond's gaze moved to the others in the room, but he didn't speak. He couldn't be sure of his hunch until she next spoke, and so he waited, patiently and with bated breath.

It was not her family's trusted physician who had been with them since before she had even been born, but a nun, in black habit and rosary beads, who stood within the doorway of her room, brought to them on this first night in what would be their slaughterhouse, with her fellow sisters, bearing food and a few meager blankets and other amenities to make the three former royals as comfortable as possible- all the guards would allow.

She shook her head, opening her mouth to speak. "I..." She sniffled. "I am... no longer a... a princess... sister..."

The nun, in her late thirties, slipped into the room, hurrying to her side with a soft push of the door closing behind her. "Daffy, Your Highness." She took a seat beside the girl. "And you shall always be a princess, no matter your status in life."

Tears slipped down her cheeks, as she met his gaze, her voice soft. "When... when Doctor Dillamond arrives... I... I wish to... to have him... check me..."

The good doctor stopped, heart stalling. He had been a mere boy when his father had been murdered along with the other loyal three at the Governor's mansion that long ago night in nineteen-eighteen, when the last of the Thropps had been slaughtered in that basement.

"But whatever for, my child?"

She sniffled, tightening her grip upon the nun's wrist. Tears filled her eyes, as she choked on the words. "Because... because I have been..."

Dillamond glanced at the others. He knew that only Her Majesty truly knew of his connection to the family's former physician; for when she had first sought him out, all those years ago, the first thing she had asked had been if he remembered having tea with the royal family, and chasing after the four daughters of the Fliaanian emperor when they played upon the beach as children. And when he'd answered that some of his fondest memories were of the daughters, she embraced him, telling him that his father had been a wonderful man, had served her family with pride and honor, and that she felt it only right to have his son now look after her and her growing family.

"... taken... my... my virtue has been... stolen... please, Sister Daffy, I beg you..."

Gently, Dillamond laid a hand on her head, quieting her with his touch. "I will make sure the doctor knows, Your Highness."

She smiled softly, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks; tears the nun gently wiped away. The woman quietly whispered a prayer as she held the child close, for she was exactly that, a child. No matter the perceived wrongs her father and mother had done to the people, she, and her siblings, were still children, still innocents, that did not need to pay for their parents' sins.

Once she was asleep, Dillamond turned to the king, who stood with tears in his eyes, for he had been through an ordeal tonight himself, watching his beloved wife slip back into perceived madness. "Well?" The tears in the king's voice wrenched at his heart. The doctor felt immense heartache for the royal couple, for they had endured so much in the last several years-

"Her Majesty..." He swallowed, meeting the young king's gaze. "It is Post Traumatic Stress, Your Highness." No one noticed the slip except Trism, but the young man ignored it. Dillamond had known him from the time he had married Elphaba, when he'd still been Prince of the Vinkus, and the good doctor was allowed such a minor mistake. The young ruler nodded, arm crossed over his chest, elbow balanced on his hand, thumb nail between his teeth as he slowly paced nervously for several minutes before reaching up and running a hand through the mess that was his sandy hair.

"So how do we stop it, Doctor?" He turned to the man, arms out. "Tell me, how do we... stop this so I can have my wife back? So my children can have their mother?"

Dillamond shook his head. "I'm not sure, Samraat. There is no book to tell us how to treat this condition." Glances were shared between the others, except for Partra. Though Elphaba was the ruler, and therefore held the title of Samrãjñī or Empress, Trism, as her consort, held the title of Samraat, for he was her husband. The Dowager knew that there had been so few Empresses in Fliaanian history who had ruled without an Emperor by her side. Despite his background role, Trism was still her husband; Elphaba may have ruled Fliaan alone, but she still turned to her husband for counsel and support. "I've done all I can for Her Majesty at the moment."

"Thank you, Doctor. You may go." Slowly, Trim went back to their bed, climbing up beside his wife and taking her hand. He brought it to his lips, holding it there for several minutes. Never taking his eyes off his wife, he addressed the others in the room. "You can all go back to bed. Thank you for your concern."

No one moved for several minutes, before Glinda finally spoke up. "Trism, maybe we should-"

"You heard Doctor Dillamond, Glinda. He's done all he can for her for now. We need to let her rest."

"But Trism-"

"Now, Glinda!" He swallowed. "Go, all of you!"

Slowly, the others began filing out of the room, until only Cattery, Cata, Partra, Locasta and Faola remained. The young Crown Princess glanced at her grandmother and great-grandmother, before making her way to the bed. "Daddy?" Trism turned sharply, softening when he saw his oldest at the bedside. "Will Mama be okay?"

Wiithout releasing his wife's hand, he reached for his daughter, who climbed onto the bed, curling into his lap. Trism sighed, brushing a kiss to his oldest daughter's head. "I hope so, my little wolf." He pressed another kiss to her head, breathing in her scent, letting the familiar, heady scent of his child calm him, as it calmed all fathers. Then, he patted her hip. "Come on, pup, back to bed."

The girl turned to him. "But Daddy-"

"I'll be with Mama tonight, I won't let anything happen to her. I promise."

Once the child was gone, Trism turned back to Cata, who stood on the other side of the bed. He glanced at his wife's sleeping form, before turning back to the cook. "You gave me bits and pieces, out there in the storm tonight. My wife's home safe- as safe as she can be, given the circumstances- and now I want the truth. All of it, Cata."

The young cook glanced at the woman sound asleep in bed, and for the briefest of moments, she was staring at that eight-year-old girl, who had gotten so sick with measles they nearly lost her, had had to have her head shaved because of it, and then contracted pneumonia not long after, making her even sicker- to the point where she lost drastic amounts of weight, and by the time she turned nine, her eyes were almost too big for her small, gaunt face. The child who had turned into a walking skeleton, and took a year and a half fully recover- not just regrowing her long, black hair, but regaining weight and getting her strength back. Slowly, the woman's gaze moved from the empress to her emperor.

"You may have it, Your Majesty, but I must warn you- what you ask for is no fairy tale."