Summary: They say that children are resilient but when the strange green child of Munchkinland is raised in a household of violence, despair, and grief how will she cope? And when a child is forced to become a parent to their own parents how does that change them? The story of Elphaba Thropp, the child that becomes the Wicked Witch of the West, is one that would cause even the coldest grown man to cry.

Genre: Drama/Angst

Rating: T

Author's Note: So here is the prequel to my expanding Wicked series. Unlike Breathe: Book II this story has only a few chapters finished (so my updates will catch up to my writing very soon) and therefore updates will be far less regular than the updates for Breathe are. This story is just to kind of take a break from Breathe a little bit because that story's starting to get a little complicated with everyone all together again and the nice little despairing love triangle going on there. So, hopefully you shall enjoy this story and for those who are curious or are just starting to read my series here are the stories in the series in chronological order:

The Porcelain Doll
Loathing: The True Story Behind the Friendship of the Witches of Oz
Breathe – Book I: Of the Emerald City
Breathe – Book II: Of the Journey Back

It is my intention that every story can be read as a stand-alone but some things are referenced between stories but a basic knowledge of the book and musical should be sufficient. And seeing as this is the prequel to the series there really is no need to read any of the other stories first as technically this is the first one.

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The Porcelain Doll

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Prologue:

She remembered the day as if it was yesterday. She had turned her eyes away from little Nessa for only a moment but the next thing she knew the tiny toddler had succumbed herself completely under the water in the bathing pail and could not pull herself free from its suffocating grasp. She had screamed for her father and mother and Frex had come in mere moments. He pulled Nessa free and patted the child's back harshly as he held her close so that little Nessa could cough up the water she had accidentally swallowed.

That was the first time he had hit her. She remembered the shock that had coursed through her as the back of his hand had struck against her cheek. She remembered how she had cried out, and how that had only angered him further. She remembered the fury in his eyes and the bite of hate in his voice as he had screamed at her. She remembered how her cheek had stung for hours and how her lip had swelled up from the force of his strike against her.

She remembered it all as clearly as it had happened yesterday. But it hadn't. It had happened years ago now. So many, many years ago that it was hard to place them. She was old now, far too old to be dwelling on the past but as she looked at the porcelain doll sitting on the dusty dresser of Nessa's room she could not help but remember. It was Nest Hardings, it was the old Eminent Thropp house – dilapidated and worn from the lack of care over the years, it was Nessa's room. If she closed her eyes and breathed as deeply as her tired lungs could allow her to she swore she could still smell Nessa's scented powder in the air. If she concentrated hard enough she could almost see her sister standing before her in her magicked jeweled shoes.

A green hand reached out and gently caressed the side of the cracked doll's face. The once snow-white porcelain had turned brown, stained with dirt and age, and the nose was missing completely. A leg sat at an odd angle and the clothes were crumpled and wrinkled. It was a tiny doll, meant for a child, and she could not believe that Nessa had held on to it for her entire life but yet here it was, sitting before her. Its face was as meticulously painted on as she remembered it to be, its lips as cherry red as ever.

"Mother?" Two hands, neither pale nor dark-skinned, reached out to take a shaking green arm in their grasp for support. "Mother, are you well?"

"This doll is from my childhood," she said, her voice harsh and raspy in her age.

"Does it hold good memories?"

"Good and bad." She wheezed slightly as her lungs struggled to breathe as she stood. If she would only sit down she would feel so much better but she was as stubborn as ever and refused to show such a weakness even though there was no one around that she needed to impress or prove wrong.

Her eyes slid shut and she searched through her past in her mind as if she were browsing a book. "I'm glad we came here," she eventually muttered.

"You're not going to be able to fly home, are you?"

She laughed but the sound was cut short by a ragged cough. When she had gathered her bearings again she replied with a simple, "No."

"What shall happen to me then?"

She opened her eyes then and brown eyes stared into blue. "Oh, Mirelle, little Mirelle," she muttered. "You're not so little anymore, are you?"

"No, no I'm not."

"I wish Glinda could see you now, and Fiyero. Oh, how proud they would be of you." She brought her hand up and laid it against the side of the child's face. The green skin had garnered a strange yellow hue due to the sickness that plagued her body and it looked strange against the not-quite-dark skin of the half-Vinkus child.

"You raised me, they'd be proud of you too."

"The only good thing I've achieved in my life has been raising you properly. Everyone else I failed but… but you, you turned out like you should have."

"What shall I do with the Grimmerie when you are gone?"

"It goes to you, I assume."

"You know I cannot read it."

"Well, then I guess you'll just have to learn, won't you? For both of us, for all of us." She chuckled at that. "I told your mama the same thing once, when we were just young. Long ago, before that Dorothy child melted me. I'm sure you've heard the tales."

"Yes. Look, mother, you should sit."

She nodded and let Mirelle lead her from the dresser and to a large leather chair in the corner of the room. She sat down and Mirelle kneeled beside the chair, letting her hand rest on the wrinkled green skin of the old woman's arm.

"I can't believe you managed to fly us both here in your old age." Mirelle was in awe, she was shocked at the power the green woman still held within her.

"It's called magick for a reason," she said as she turned her head from Mirelle to stare at the wall. "I only wish I could have given you my powers but such things did not happen for you are not mine. And though I love Glinda dearly she never really held much aptitude for sorcery, did she?" She laughed and for a moment seemed lost in old memories of school lesson's gone wrong before shaking her head and returning to the present. "The broom," she whispered, suddenly remembering where she was in her life and how her time was running short, "the broom, I suppose, shall go to whomever it will allow to take it. I fear I magicked it alive and who knows what will happen to it when I am gone." She shrugged. "It might lose its powers completely, I cannot say, but do not try to force it to your will. It will not allow such a thing, do you understand? Let it be what it wants, okay?"

Mirelle nodded but upon realizing that her mother was not looking at her she voiced her response with a quiet, "Yes, it shall be left to its own devices when you are gone."

"Good."

"You're really dying, aren't you?"

She turned her head to look at Mirelle and the sadness she saw in the child's eyes scared her. "I'm afraid so," she said; barely audible. "But do not fret my child, it will be okay. We did good, don't you see? We all did, even those we lost." She closed her eyes then to keep her burning tears at bay as the grief and guilt settled in the pit of her stomach. "I only hope that I will see them again, each and every one. You don't realize how many friends you've had until they are all gone."

"It's too soon!" Mirelle suddenly shouted and her voice was choked, frantic. "I'm not ready to say goodbye!"

She opened her eyes. "Don't you see I'm tired? I'm the last of my friend's left, which shouldn't surprise me much for it was always me that bore the brunt of the pain, but still… it is hard to watch all the ones you care for die. I wish to see them again, I hope to see them again, and maybe I will, maybe I won't. But you must understand Mirelle… the world no longer needs me and it's your turn to shine. So shine bright, okay? For every one we lost was to save you, remember that, and cherish our memories because it's all you shall have when I am gone."

"But… but… but mother!"

"Life has been harsh to me my child, far harsher than you could ever imagine, and part of me is still bitter about the injustices done to me. I've been tired of life for a very long time, since before you were born, yet I held on for as long as I could to see you raised well. And here you are, exceeding expectations I could never have even fathomed. Your parents would be proud."

"The people say you were a prostitute."

The words were harsh, almost like a slap, and the green woman inhaled sharply; closed her eyes. "What makes you say such ugly things now?"

"I don't want you to die without me knowing," Mirelle whispered and it was clear that she felt guilty for what she had just said previously. "I mean… I just… well… I guess I'm curious. And maybe, maybe I could learn something if you told me, you know, about your life."

"It's a long story."

"We have time still, don't we?"

She opened her eyes and smiled softly. "A little time is left now, here at the end. Perhaps it would be good for me to say my part, to let the people know why I turned out like I did. You'll tell them for me then, will you? Perhaps in a book. You are awfully good at words you know."

"If that is your wish mother then I shall. If you ask me to write of your story then I will. But I must hear the story first, will you tell me?"

"Some warmed milk would be in order for such a long tale, don't you think? And you need a chair too. Then I'll begin, okay?"

Mirelle nodded and left the room. An hour later they sat across from each other at the old dining table with its uneven legs and high-backed chairs. Mirelle had a cup of tea and papers strewn about her to record what she might forget while the old green woman had a cup of warmed milk and her memories.

"My first vivid memory is of Nessarose's, my sister's, birth," she began, "and, as it always was on fateful days in my life, it was raining…"