Title: No One Mourns the Wicked
Summary/ Author's notes: my very first Wicked fanfic : ) Oh, a thank you note for Kari, for being the light of my day and for reading this over for me. :)
Author's note | July 2011 — This was written in March 2009, when I was a full member of the Wicked fandom. I'd kept it safe and locked on livejournal, but I was reading it yesterday and I realized I actually liked it. So here it is.
It starts in your hands, your fingers. The tips tingle, you feel more than you normally do, a sudden awareness of the textures you touch, of the wood you're holding between your index finger and your thumb. Your hand stops in its way to the back of your head and you can't control it, can't make it move like you always do. Your arm looses strength, you feel the energy seeping through your elbow as if it was liquid, and the arm falls down slowly, resting on the vanity in front of you, the wrist turned to the inside, hand half-poised, half hovering on the edge of the table.
Then it goes to your shoulders, and from there to your stomach. It's not a completely unpleasant feeling, it's almost like you're flying, but you know you're going to fall sooner or later. It's cold and it's warm and it's like falling into a darkness you've never seen before, a pit so deep and wide that all you can see around you is emptiness.
Your legs follow your abdomen, and it's like a liquid spreading through the inside of your body, making sure every corner is covered, every crease is wet and touched by it. Your thighs, your knees, the space behind them. It continues its way down your legs, moving to your shins, your ankles, like a warm blanket. You shiver, your legs shake when the heat and the cold hit your feet, and the hand that was lying on your lap is now clutching the fabric of your skirt, knuckles white from the force you put into it.
Your face is the last to react. Years and years of concealing your true feelings gave you that power, that ability to allow your entire body to react before your face does. Your eyes meet their equals in the mirror, and even though the reflection is empty, your eyes are now filled with tears, the tears you haven't shed in years.
Your jaw locks and you close your mouth fiercely, your nostrils flaring with the effort you make in order to intake air. The hair pin that your hand was holding falls to the ground and its noise makes you turn your head to the door of your room, where the housekeeper stands, her expression unreadable.
"What do you mean… gone?" your mouth moves and your brain forms the words, but you don't hear them. You can't hear anything but the buzz in your ears, the same word being said over and over. Gone.
"They say it was water, M'Lady." The old woman says, nonchalantly. "She… melted."
"Melted." You repeat the old woman's word as a hand falls on your shoulder. Instead of the comfort that is intended with the gesture, you feel the heat of a burning iron, your skin being marked by the carefully manicured fingernails of your Crage Hall friend, one of the few you still talk to. You want to shake that hand off, but your shoulders are still locked, your eyes still in the mirror, your mouth still a thin line across your face as your jaw tightens.
You don't allow the tears to fall. The hand that was clutching the dress raises slowly to your chest as you press against it, hoping to disintegrate the hard stone that was just placed there by the words of the housekeeper. Your face still doesn't move, your curls are still intact in a picture of sheer perfection, the kind of perfection you got everyone used to.
You are finally able to move your legs, and you use your right hand to gather support on the vanity, getting up from her chair in a smooth, graceful movement.
"Please, excuse me" Shenshen's hand moves away, and the eyes of the housekeeper follow you as you take confident steps towards your private study (a place you never used to actually study, but to spend hours meditating on your beauty and how you could improve it). The door closes behind you, and you lean against it, your head hitting the cold wood with a thud before you allow yourself to close your eyes.
Your lips quiver before you take a shaky breath, the kind that makes your chest rise and fall painfully; your hands come to rest on your face, both your pinkies grazing over your mouth as the rest of your fingers touch your cheekbones slightly.
"Oh, Elphie." you murmur as the tears begin to fall, a small trail on your left cheek, coursing between your fingers until it reaches your wrist, and then the air, and then the floor.
Something within you has shattered and you are not sure of what it is. It could be your heart, but you never believed the sappy voices that related it to how you feel; it could be your soul, but that was more of her thing, wasn't it? The soul, the sin, the documents she read on good and evil. You feel broken, and you don't know where it comes from, although you can tell it's from inside of you.
There is no screaming. You can't afford it, not with Shenshen and the housekeeper on the other side of the door. But the pain, the real pain hits you at last and you open your mouth in a silent cry as you try to fight it. It's real, it's there, and you don't know what to do about it. It's like someone pierced you with a knife, you can feel the heat and the liquid that keeps you alive seeping from the wound. Except your hands are clean, and everything around you is clean, and you don't know what is going on.
It's her hands, it's her dark, straight hair and her muffled moan against your neck, so many years ago. It's her hand slipping easily into your clothes and finding the places that still make you sigh and shake. It's the kiss, that final display of affection, just as she was abandoning you. It's her hands against your face, green against flesh; it's her chest against yours as you shared a bed in the third class wagon, her arms around your midsection, your legs between her legs.
You take a breath. One, two, three, four. You don't know how, but you've gone from lingering at the door to leaning against the desk, your hands gripping the edge of it with a force you didn't know you had within yourself. You lower your head and take another breath. The pain doesn't subside, and something in you tells you it never will.
So you raise your head and look up, staring at the dark sky outside your window. You know your part, you know how to play it, and you have to do it now.
A third long, deep intake of air gives you the strength you need to pull yourself up, and you wipe your cheek with the tips of your fingers. The pain is still there, but you look at the door and force the smile back to your face. You are a woman of duty, a woman made for the spotlight, and you're sure the spotlight will be waiting for you when the news hit town. You were made for it.
Another deep breath and you're at the door, opening it, the smile on your face as radiant as it has ever been.
"I guess tonight is a time for celebration, then!" you exclaim, and Shenshen's smile returns, as she says:
"I think no one will ever mourn the Wicked Witch."
You smile and walk towards the vanity. I will mourn her, is your last thought before you pick up the hairbrush and wonder which dress you will wear for the celebration.