Rifiuto: Non Miriena
A/N: Written: 2012. Rewritten: 2014. Found: 2018.- Licia
The language was coming back to her; the more time Melena spent with her, patiently teaching her how to read and speak, the easier it was for her to pick up the language. Though she still resisted, she was slowly starting to lose the battle to keep her resolve. It was only the third day of her week in the white man's world, and the older woman had decided that she needed to buckle down to make sure that her oldest daughter would remain in the white man's world.
With a soft smile, Melena reached over, gently patting the younger woman's hand as she stood. It was starting to get late, and they'd been at this for hours. "You've done very well today, Sophelia. Well done." She leaned over, but the girl jerked away. She would not allow intimate contact; something Melena was unused to, for a child almost always accepted a kiss from a parent. A soft sigh escaped her throat, and she moved away, making to start supper. She had noticed that the girl still did not respond to her given name; she clung stubbornly to her savage name-
No, not savage. Tibbett has reminded you repeatedly that the tribe your daughter has been with for the last seven years is not savage at all-
"Would you like to-" But the words died in her throat as she turned, to find the chair her daughter had been sitting in empty. The young princess had slipped out of it as silent as a tiger, disappearing without a sound. With a soft sigh, she turned back to fixing dinner. Shell had watched from his place in the living room, from his seat on the sofa, a book open on his lap, as his oldest sister had darted out of the kitchen and skulked silently up the stairs.
Quietly shutting his book, he'd gotten up and followed her, being careful not to alert her to his presence. He stopped outside her bedroom door, debating whether he should knock, before finally deciding against it and gently turning the door handle. "Elia?" Peeking through the slightly open door, he caught a flash as something dropped to the floor, as black cascaded down her back from the bun Nessa had forced her hair in that morning, followed by a slice of milky white skin and a glimmer of green.
The teenager let out a startled cry, unaware he'd been leaning against the door and stumbled into the room, landing on his knees, causing his oldest sister to turn. She stood above him, the dress she'd been forced into pooled at her feet, along with the undergarments, clad in only the skin she'd been born in, long black hair tumbling down her back in a pin straight waterfall of raven silk that reached the backs of her calves, almost to her ankles. It was tradition in Arjiki culture to not cut the hair, for they believed it possessed pieces of the soul- trimming the dead ends would rejuvenate the pieces of the soul that lived within, but to chop it off completely was sacrilege.
Elphaba's hair had been just to the small of her back when she'd been taken that long ago day in the Thousand Year Grasslands, but in the seven years since she'd been gone, it had grown exponentially; it was part of the reason why she always kept it in such thick, braids. Not only was it at times difficult to manage, but with three children all under the age of six having been borne of her womb in three short years, she often found that their favourite thing to do was tug on her hair, often to get her attention. If she kept it up in thick braids, the length was shortened in appearance and the children couldn't grab it as easily as when it was loose.
Shell quickly scampered back, hitting the door jamb as his sister turned, stepping out of the pooled material at her feet. She shrugged, inviting him to look, for he was a man- despite his age; in the tribe, boys of his age were often married or seeking out the hand of a young woman of the tribe to marry, and had or would see the developing body of their bride soon enough. As she was older than the young white by a mere five years, and had already carried and birthed three children, his wandering gaze did not unnerve her like her husband's had that night they had first consummated their marriage.
Fiyero's blue gaze had drunk every inch of her, every soft white curve and flat surface in, memorizing her, feasting on her before taking her softly. And as the pair had gotten older, as they'd grown up together, his gaze had turned from an eager youth's excitement, to one of a mature man's appreciation. As her body had grown, her belly swelling and growing round with each child they had created, her husband had drunk in the softening of her, the fullness of her breasts, the looseness of her hips, the taut, thin skin that rose out before her. And with all three of her children now free of her womb and in the world, the last true gaze her husband had had of her the night before she'd been taken had been one of love. He'd searched and found the hidden curves and valleys left by pregnancy and childbirth, the silver scars that graced her inner thighs, the light pooch just above the curls between her legs that was the last remnant of her children having resided within her womb...
He had drunk her in, finding every little memory that marked her skin, and traced it with his hands, his mouth, his tongue, that night. He tasted every bit of her and she him, unaware it would be the last time either would do so. And now, she longed for that gaze, that touch.
The boy swallowed thickly, watching his sister like a cornered animal as she simply pulled her long black hair over her shoulders, obscuring her breasts. "I... I'm sorry, Elia, I didn't mean-"
But all she did was turn, going to the dresser and grabbing the brush that sat atop, and it was then that he saw the hundreds of green diamonds that cascaded down her back like a waterfall.