Rifiuto: Non Miriena

A/N: Written: 2012. Rewritten: 2014. Found: 2018.- Licia

The soft rays of sunlight brushed against her eyelids; the gentlest of kisses, alerting her to her second day with the Thropps. Slowly, her eyes opened, and once they adjusted to the light, she let her gaze wander before she slammed them shut again. Maybe, if she kept them closed, she would wake up in their tent, in Fiyero's arms, and this would have all be a horrible, terrifying nightmare.

But when she opened her eyes for the second time that day, she was sorely mistaken.

She lifted her head when a soft knock sounded on the door, and after a couple of moments, she climbed out of the bed, hurrying to unlock the door. Instead of the younger girl, Mrs. Thropp stood on the other side; a look of shock crossed the older woman's face, before a soft blush tinted her cheeks. She said not a word to the teenager, didn't ask at all why she was nude, just slipped inside and made her way to the dresser. However, she stopped, upon seeing the dress and undergarments crumpled in the corner. A simple sigh escaped her throat, and she set to work, pulling out another pair and another dress.

I'll make sure those are washed and pressed so they're clean for her tomorrow.

She then turned to face her daughter, who stood regarding her with a look of suspicion. Melena silently let her gaze wander over the teenager's body, noting the subtle differences to her body that had taken place in the last seven years and comparing them to the girl she remembered. Her child, her beloved little girl, had not possessed a single curve before that day- none that were visible, that is. Sophelia had gotten her cycle a year prior, and the changes to her body were slow and subtle. Her breasts had started to develop, small buds upon her chest, like most girls her age. Her moods had also begun to change, and her body had slowly started gaining soft curves.

But the young woman before her, no longer the tender age of thirteen, but nineteen, did not look like a girl struggling to fit into a woman's growing body. This girl seemed to embrace the body she had grown into; it had felt the touch and caress of a man, taken the firmness of that same man into the softest part of her and wrapped around him, becoming one with him, even as he released the seeds of himself into her. This body she had grown into had accepted his seed willingly, had adjusted as that very seed burrowed deep within the egg that resided in her womb and proceeded to form and grow, it had carried and borne three children- Melena's own grandchildren, whom she never knew existed, until now. My darling, my baby girl, what cruel god decided to steal you from me and give you to the savages? What did I do wrong? I know I was not a good enough mother; I tried so hard to be. And you were my pride and joy... and to have lost you... only to have you returned to me... I have lost you all over again. You look like the babe I bore all those years ago, but you aren't. You are not my baby girl, not the one I remember. Oh, Sophelia, my baby, will you never return to me?

Tears filled her gaze, slipped down her cheeks, and after she looked up at the soft brush of a finger against her skin. On soft feet, Elphaba had made her way towards the older woman, recognizing the pain in her gaze; it mirrored the pain she herself felt. Gently, she captured the tears that trailed down the older woman's skin, their gazes meeting. She cooed softly, like she often did to her children to calm them when they began to cry, and Melena turned her head, choking on a sob.

She pulled away from the girl, dropping the clothing and moving to take a seat upon the hope chest at the end of the bed, covering her mouth with one hand and burying her other in her skirt, over her womb, attempting to stifle her sobs. No matter how she looked like Sophelia, the girl before her wasn't Sophelia, no matter the blood in her veins or the features she shared. Not anymore. She was a savage, an Indian, a... a squaw... married to a savage prince, who had borne him three savage babies, who had lain- willingly- with him, every night, for seven years.

No, not savage. No matter the people, Sophelia would never turn savage, no matter how long she lived among them, or what they made her do. She's your daughter, you know her- She shook her head. No, you don't. Not really, not anymore. You know the girl she was before she was stolen away, not the girl she is now, and despite your attempts to accept her deal, you have not bothered to look past what you see- the changes in her body, the diamonds upon her back, the language she speaks and the gods she worships- and tried to accept her for what she has become. You have tried to change her, without giving any thought to what she desires. She desires to return to the tribe that raised her, that cared for her, that loved her the seven years she was with them, before the white man ripped her from them, just as the Indians ripped her from you those seven years earlier. You see what you wish to see, not what you need to see.

She thought back to Tibbett, to his story; how he too had lived seven years among the Arjiki, and spoke of their peaceful way of life, their desire to be left alone, and their believe that all things come from the Great Mother; how a woman named Sarima, who had lost her own babe in the process of birth, had taken in a captive young white boy and raised him as her own, loved him as her own, and how he grieved the loss of her and his tribe every day, for these last twenty years or so. Was he really so different to the girl standing before her? To her daughter?

No, cried the small voice in the back of her mind. He wasn't. He isn't. He is similar to her in many aspects, except in that he has been forced to return to society, and all but lost that part of himself, all but lost his connection to his tribe. The pain in his eyes is evident. Would you really be willing to make her suffer the same fate? Especially when you know that she never truly belonged to you in the first place?

She looked up as Elphaba took a seat beside her on the chest, reaching out to brush her fingers against the woman's cheek. Melena met her gaze, slowly lowering the hand from her mouth, as the young princess's lips formed hesitantly and clumsily around one single word,

"Hush."