Rifiuto: Non Miriena
A/N: Written: 2012. Rewritten: 2014. Found: 2018.
Four Months Later
Manek was growing, like all children do.
Elphaba delighted in watching the subtle changes in her youngest, as her two oldest flitted about the tribe, learning and growing at a much more rapid rate, creating friendships and learning duties, though they still had time for play, like all children.
And in the back of Elphaba's mind, hung the scouts in search of her... a nightmare that very nearly came close to coming true.
It was one late fall day when Elphaba was in their tent with her children, nursing the baby while she watched over Irji and Nor that a ruckus could be heard outside. Irji immediately rushed to the tent flap to lift it and peek out, but Elphaba called him back, a stone settling in the pit of her stomach. As he returned to her, curling into her other side, she could hear voices, heard her husband's voice and her father-in-law's, followed by a strange voice she'd never heard before.
"Now you listen to me!"
Another voice followed, one that spoke their language, and soon it stopped. It took a moment, before she realized it was a translator, someone who walked between the worlds of the white and the Arjiki.
"Rumor has it there's a white woman living in this camp, and I demand you bring her to me so she can be returned to her rightful family! They've been searching for her for years and they want her back!"
Once she finished nursing the baby, she laid him in his cradle, before standing and quickly making her way to the flap of the tent. Though she didn't touch it, she leaned close, so she could hear better, heart in her throat.
"... toronò alla sua legittima famiglia! Hanno cercato per lei per anni e vogliono la schiena!"
She could hear other voices; Fiyero's soft lilt reached her ears, and she felt her heart flutter. "Non c'è nessuna donna bianca qui." As if he could sense her listening, he stopped, but only briefly before continuing. "Se c'è una donna bianca vivere con qualsiasi tribù deve essere il Scrow e Yunamata. Non qui, non con Arjiki."
Silence filled the space for several minutes, while the scout was relayed this information by the translator. She could sense the anger radiating off the man, though she could not see him, and prayed that no one would speak up and turn her back to them. Though she needn't have worried; she was their Crown Princess, the mother of three children, as much Arjiki as any of them- they would not betray her. No one in the tribe would, for they loved her so.
Just as Fiyero loved her.
She had married their Crown Prince, laid with him, made children with him, given birth to those children, she was as much an Arjiki as any in the tribe, anad no one would give her up.
"Now you listen here, all of you! The Thropp family is paying good money for her return! That money can buy you guns, ammunition, clothing, whatever you wish! Return her to us, and you can have it all!"
She gasped silently, covering her mouth with her hands.
Thropp.
Though she possessed no memories of who they were, the name set off something in her heart, though good or bad she couldn't tell. It gnawed at her like a wolf on the hunt, demanding to be remembered, but she possessed no memory to attach to the name. Though it must have gone along with the dress she had found folded and hidden away in a corner of their tent. After a moment, she moved to where the dress was hidden and pulled it out.
The paisley print was faded in places, though still held its rich color. The ribbons were frayed at the ends, but still good, as were the undergarments and boots. She studied the materials, trying her hardest to connect the belongings to the name, but she couldn't. After several minutes, she looked up, turning back to the tent flap; it was quiet. A moment passed before it opened, and Fiyero entered, being careful not to disturb the baby, who had fallen asleep. He made his way towards her, and was surprised to find her holding onto the things she'd worn from the white man's world.
She slowly lifted her gaze to his, and he saw the questions in her eyes; she'd heard everything. He just shook his head, the meaning clear. You belong to us. You are Arjiki, not white.
By the time evening fell, and with the children tucked in their beds, she left the tent, the things from the white man's world in her grasp. Fiyero, worried about her, followed. He watched in silence as she made her way to the fire that still burned brightly in the center of the village. Avaric was in counsel with the other elders, and most of the village was sound asleep.
She stood at the fire's edge, the boots and clothing in her arms; the light from the flames danced across her pensive features, and after a moment, he joined her, laying a hand on her shoulder. She glanced back at him, before taking the ribbons and tossing them into the flames. Then, she threw the boots in; sparks shot into the air, only to extinguish moments later. The undergarments were next, going from a creamy white to black in seconds.
Finally, she turned to the dress. The dress held memories that she not longer possessed, from a time she did not remember nor wanted to recall. Though the print was lovely, it did not belong to her, but to the girl she had been before she came to the tribe; a girl she no longer remembered. Without a second thought, she threw the dress into the fire, watching it go up in flames, taking with it the life she had left, and the family she would never meet again.
Fiyero wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing a kiss to her head, understanding. The meaning was clear: her family was here. And by burning the things from the white man's world, she was claiming her destiny, her right.
She was now, fully, completely, Arjiki.