A/N: First, this is dedicated to both the lovely zarri-of-the-vinkus and OMG it's WickedJelly. Happy birthday, dears!

Secondly, this is the first Wicked fic I ever wrote, almost a year ago xD. January 9th, if you want to get technical. Only the last 300 words are recent, so if it doesn't sound like my recent stuff, that's why. Also, I have used lines from this in my Finale drabbles, as I didn't intend to publish this, but hey.

Enjoy :). Reviews are loved, as always!

Emerald Decadence

A soft breeze slowly swept through a broken city, caressing the crevasses and alleyways almost tenderly; it was in no hurry to finish its roaming of the decadent remains of the Emerald City.

The city was so transformed, changed by the winds of time. Once hectic, full of bustling crowds and lively sounds and sights, an occasional breeze or sad pattering of rain was the most life the city saw now.

Today was unusual, however. For what seemed like ages since the city had fallen into decay, an occupant roamed. Black boots strode silently and slowly on the beaten, broken, no-longer-beautiful Yellow Brick Road; apathetic black eyes took in the sight of the once-wonderful city around the raven-clad figure with no regret. The citizens of this city had scorned her, so she felt no remorse in their demise, as they hadn't in hers.

However, the cloaked figure couldn't help but feel a bit of longing as she picked up a broken pair of green spectacles; forgetting herself for a moment she put them on, feeling ridiculously silly, remembering the last time she had worn a pair like these.

"You look positively emerald!" Glinda's voice still rang in her mind's ear as if they were both standing in the vibrant streets of the Emerald City.

'If Fiyero could see me now,' she thought sadly. Her lover hadn't wanted her to come, but she had insisted, and by now he knew not to get in the way of her and one of her missions. 'Besides,' she thought half-heartedly, 'it's not as if I'm strolling into a bustling town anymore.'

The figure, known to most as the Wicked Witch of the West, to fewer as Elphaba, and to fewer still as Elphie or even Fabala or Fae, should the circumstances allow it, smiled ruefully. It had been– had it really been almost ten?– years since her 'melting', and this was the first chance she'd had to walk a street freely, to return to Oz… and yet, it was emptier than she could ever imagine.

She found herself walking faster, her mind filled with what she had recently learned about Glinda the Good Witch's downfall and the destruction of Oz.
Almost immediately after she had 'melted', Glinda had ordered the Wizard take an 'indefinite leave of absence', similar to Morrible's indefinite sentence to incarceration. The citizens of Oz danced in the streets for seven days and nights, celebrating the death of the Wicked Witch, honouring Dorothy as their saviour. Things truly seemed wonderful in the Land of Oz – for a short time, at least.

However, mere months after her 'death', discontent multiplied and riots seemed the new way of life. Poor Glinda was their new scapegoat, blamed for the dying crops, the failing economy, the number of plagues and massacres.

Glinda the Good finally fell, as all politicians must sometime in their reigns. The Good Witch was still partly Galinda, the insecure girl from Shiz, and it had its influence on her; Glinda's end was not a heroic one – she did not go down defending the Animals, other minorities, or as she had promised not to, Elphie. Glinda fell as Elphaba knew she eventually would – desperately clinging to what little popularity she little had, telling her few followers exactly what they wanted to hear in hopes she could somehow revive her lost support.

After she forcibly resigned, there was no more hope for the Emerald City. Anarchy reigned, unleashing a final, silent end.

Elphaba's pace slowed slightly as she saw the shattered remainders of the great Emerald palace ahead of her, seeming to taunt her with why she had come.

Glinda was dead. Her best friend- her only friend- had not even managed to outlive the Witch of the West. Nothing about this was fair.

Finally, Elphaba reached the reason for her travels, the object of her melancholy musings; a simple, under-decorated gravestone rested mere metres from the heart of the City. Gulping down the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat, Elphaba approached it as if it were a vicious beast: cautiously and looking quite unwilling to do so.

Here lies a woman,
Who tried too hard,
Succeeded too rarely,
Was loved by many,
And known by few.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she knelt on the ground before the stone; though her only audience was the cool, stale night air, it lessened the grief. "I'm so sorry, Glinda. I was a fool to leave you here, with these- these monsters. They tore you apart, and it's my entire fault. I'm sorry I put that burden on you." She took a deep, long breath that rattled every inch of her. "I'm sorry we didn't tell you we were alive. We left you alone," she murmured, her voice cracking towards the last few syllables. "For goodness' sake, look at me. I'm sitting at your grave, speaking to you as if you were listening." A strange sensation arose in her, almost as if she had to sneeze- her eyes prickled uncomfortably, welling, as her nose twitched.

For one of the first times since she left Oz, Elphaba allowed a few silent tears to drip down her cheek, if only for a moment, before wiping it away with her cloak. "Goodbye, Glinda," she whispered, placing the pink rose she had brought with her on her friend's grave and standing up.

It was fitting, she reflected with a bittersweet, nostalgic smile as she turned, making her way back in the same direction she had come from. Glinda was right.

Pink does go good with green.