Note: I own nothing in Wicked; though have taken to putting a bit of my own personality into Elphaba's. Don't worry; she will still be sarcastic and witty, even as a young girl.
Like Mother, Like Daughter
Everywhere she turned, she heard his voice; saw his eyes holding fire behind them. She would have hated to even have his eyes, though he would have killed her as an infant. But she was certainly her mother, even at only 12. And it was this Frex feared of his oldest daughter. Elphaba had Melena's emerald green eyes with flecks of brown that would fade as she grew, but the skin was a mystery no one could explain. The youngest Thropp daughter had hazel eyes, honey brown hair, and fair skin- all opposite her sister, who had hair the color of a raven and was perfectly straight. What the sisters had in common, however, was their personality and drive of their mother, though Elphaba held it more openly than Nessa. Each of them was fighters and held views on things. Usually, this got them into trouble with Frex. Elphaba was independent and didn't care what others thought or said of her and seemed sure of herself, while Nessa was more to herself and a sweet natured soul who never thought she was good enough. Little did these sisters know was that as years passed, their bond would only grow, causing them to ironically, drift apart.
"Maybe if you hadn't of hid my books, I wouldn't be down there!" the green girl cried, emerald eyes fierce as she glared at her father. She had again, gone down into the sort of basement to fetch the books on magic and the like, against her father's wishes. Perhaps she did it to simply spite the man. Frex shot back, bringing his hand back, "Maybe you should listen to me." Elphaba nearly lost her footing, though still fell to the floor, and didn't cry. Not infront of him anyway.
Alone she sat in the room that would never reflect her as a person, the crème bedding and walls. The high ceiling with it's mesmerizing chandler of crystal, sending off beams of blues, violets, rubies, oranges, and even emeralds. Carefully, she applied a small amount of oil to a washcloth, dapping it gently to the stinging cheek. The dizzying sensation had past ages ago, and now lingered the pain of moisture on her skin; even oil caused her to wince ever so slightly. Elphaba's eyes darted to the door, which she had locked, before grazing to the single bookshelf, which held her novels, but now held those of religion. I'm starting to lose the fate in the Unnamed God and Lureline I had. Before falling into a light sleep, she had unlocked the door and laid on her side, slender green fingers seeming like flower stems on anything she touched. It was a curse, she knew, that would only get worse as each second, minuet, year, that passed.