Disclaimer: Being that this is called fanfiction, I do not own the characters or locale in question.

Author's Note: In this, Elphaba's liquid remains are a physical manifestation of her memories. Not unlike a pensieve.

Footsteps echo dully on the stone floor.

Shallow and nearly translucent, the dwindling puddle almost goes unnoticed. Its perimeter forlornly encroaches on moldy castle walls, seeking respite between cracks and crevices, hiding from the touch of the sun. Evaporation is rebirth. Even in death, Elphaba seeks to defy.

Something wet, salty, slips down the perpetrator's cheek. Lands audibly with a soft plip. Sends a faint ripple across the even surface.

Her cloak flaps strangely in the mild breeze. Nimble fingers curl at the knuckle, tense with anticipation. The sky is clear—a good omen, to most. But she wrestles with discomfort, an unwelcome sense of foreboding on this most auspicious eve.

Overhead, applause sounds. The Witch cannot make out its source. Dulcet coloratura and repulsive basso have long since mingled in her mind. Glinda. Morrible. Who could tell? It is the voice of injustice.

Still, she feels a quiver of remorse. For would-haves, could-haves, should-haves. For might-have-beens. The book, which weighs down her bag, is a constant reminder of her choice. A rash, foolhardy choice. But a choice she would make a thousand times over.

It is not that she is without sin. Without jealousy, or avarice. Morality is a touchy subject. The Wizard was not altogether incorrect in his spiel. But the Witch knows well what lines she will not cross. What instincts, what creeds, she must abide by.

More tears prick, like thorns, at the corners of her vision. The scene fades abruptly.