It was a clear spring evening. The moon, as it passed over the Emerald City, illuminated the quieted bustle of the metropolis and sent a bright silver beam straight through a window of what had once been the Wizard's Palace, onto the face of Glinda the Good.
And Glinda the Good could not sleep.
It was not the moon that kept her up, though, but a memory.
Glinda sat up cautiously in bed, careful not to wake the figure that lay next to her. She looked at him, considering: if he woke, he would ask her what was wrong, and when she'd told him, he would hold her, comfort her.
Glinda sighed and quietly slipped out of bed, careful not to rouse him. He would hold her and comfort her, but he would never, ever be able to understand exactly why.
Finding her robe at the end of the bed, she wrapped it around her shoulders and went quietly out the glass door through which the offending moon was shining. There was a chair on the balcony, and she sank down into it, looking out over the canal the balcony fronted.
Happiness is relative, thought Glinda, rubbing her eyes wearily. How could someone be happy, pursuing a goal they're dedicated to but being hunted, hated for it? And how is it that I am happy, with what I've done, what I've seen?
But I am happy. Funny, that. There was a time I thought I never would be, ever again. She propped her chin on her hands, squinting, fancying that she caught the light off of the distant Lake Chorge. But Glinda knew she couldn't.
Once there was a time when I thought I could see anything I wanted. And now, some things I want to see most, I can't.
After a moment, Glinda stood and went back inside, out of the night but then into the next room. Making sure the closing door made no noise, she moved quietly across the room and stopped where her infant son lay, for once quietly asleep.
You too. I hope it brings you bliss.
Glinda's hand trailed down, but didn't quite touch the baby's cheek. She shut her eyes, briefly, keeping tears at bay.
Bliss?
The baby's eyes opened, and with a sigh, Glinda picked him up, to quiet him before his hushed whimper became a wail.
Oh, Elphie. You couldn't imagine.
Who says exercises in typing discipline can't be fun? For some reason, I made this 400 words exactly. What'd you think?