And so it seemed, a student from the Vinkus, in strange ceremonial garb, coming late for class, opening the wrong door, confused and apologetic.
...
Glinda would start as if from a frightful dream, and nestle in nearer to Elphaba, who seemed at night never to sleep. Daytimes, the long hours spent in poorly sprung carriages, Elphaba would nod off against Glinda's shoulder
-Wicked, Gregory Maguire
The witch found herself preoccupied, as the end of days approached. Her mind was full, so full it overflowed into ramblings, into twitches and mumbles. The boy was somewhere near, underfoot, pale and whiny, then gone to dance attendance on Death. The witch thought of him not once when he disappeared from sight, selfish self reasserting. There was so much left unsaid.
Some was dreams, and some life, and she had no witch-glass to tell the difference.
Glinda and Fiyero had both traced gentle fingers on green skin.
That was true, right? The witch couldn't think straight, see straight, be set straight. Her confusion was real now, madness almost all that remained: madness and memory.
Was it sowing the wings onto monkeys, was that her crime? Did the fact that Chistery and the others loved her make up for the occasional deaths of early test subjects? She wasn't sure, and now that Death's handmaiden, the gift of the goddess, the so called 'Dorothy Gale' awaited her below, these questions seemed important. More important than the memory of white hands on green skin? More important than blue diamond tattoos and easy smiles? She didn't know. The memory of people long gone gave some measure of comfort, but even as she saw this, acknowledged this, IT flared in her again. It burned. Guilt.
The witch was green as sin, but whose sin? Her own, her mother and father, was she punished for their sins? If the witch had ever believed in the Unnamed God, she would argue that no-one is punished for the sins of their parents, but she was an atheist, and lacked this comfort.
No-one ever said green with guilt, though the alliteration was pleasing for the Shiz dropout and scholar. Guilt was red, red cheeks and sweaty palms. Or pink, in its less violent outbreaks. The witch frowned. That can't be right, the guilt is mine alone. My actions, my failures.
And she did not think of Glinda the Good, on the seat of power for those short weeks. And she did not think of Fiyero Tigelaar, unfaithful husband and absent father, who followed when he should not have.
She would not, could not. She must keep hold of anger and betrayal, of the faint memory of shoes which once meant filial love and now were the shoes of a corpse.
Chistery chattered at her side. His small hands tugged at her skirt. He still would not speak, though the witch sensed that he could, that she had indeed discovered what none else knew- that animal could become Animal.
Did it matter? Am I not the serpent in the garden? I give wisdom, and with wisdom comes pain.
Vaguely, the witch remembers a Cow she'd met, a long time ago. The Cow had been bitter, already mourning her own death. Surely to go death in innocence was the better route?
The witch cackled. My mind wanders like a great grey Ewe amongst a field dotted with cowslip. Or is it Ram?
Now she laughed in earnest, letting the simple vision drive out more complicated ones. Like the Dorothy child's plain face and wide eyes, eyes that in their naivety reminded her of a time when she had been Elphaba, or even Elphie, and not just the witch. At first, the girl had seemed a shadow of herself, but now, facing death, hearing the girl's footsteps on the stairs, she was reminded of others. Of dear Fiyero, looking so frightened and embarrassed as that magicked ornament attacked him on his first day.
Of Glinda, Glinda who had first and best loved the girl underneath the witch, underneath the green skin and the pointy chin. Glinda who had gold hair and a golden soul underneath it all. Glinda who once mused about children and giggled as her roommate laughed and made a rude gesture. A gesture, then a touch, then a word, then nothing between them but skin.
Elphaba shivered. It would not do, now, to think of that.
Undignified, to murder or to die filled with lust.
More than that. Maybe even more than lust- this is simple, easy and false.
(Vaguely, the witch heard the girl crying and apologizing for something.)
(Sounds penetrated as if from the bottom of a well.)
Even here, at the end of all things, with her skirt burning and the bucket of water coming towards her in an agonizingly slow movement, Elphaba was frightened to name it. Naming it was shaming the memory of her fight, her struggle. Naming that feeling would be like forgetting Fiyero, or dismissing what they had because he was not first and best.
But even before the water hit, her cheeks and eyes were burnt, and in her ears was only the noise of a carriage and a carriage horse, and all she felt was silk underneath her fingers.
That's right, Gelphie and Fiyeraba. Because in the bookverse, I can see it.
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