Summary: They say a Witch cannot die. When Elphaba Thropp finds herself inexplicably alive after her deadly melting by the hands of young Dorothy Gale she is determined to not let her life spin down the same despairing circle as before. But when someone who is supposed to be dead, just like her, turns up alive how will she cope? And when everyone has moved on but her how will she survive? The world is cruel but this time the wounded woman that is Elphaba Thropp is determined to find her happiness, no matter the cost.

Genre: Romance/Drama

Rating: T

Author's Note: This is a story in the every going Wicked serious I have apparently begun. It is the third in the series (with more planned, because I simply love Wicked too much to end this serious):

Loathing: The True Story Behind the Friendship of the Witches of Oz
Breathe - Book I: Of the Emerald City
Breathe - Book II: Of the Journey Back

Reading the first two stories is not really necessary as I've tried to make each story a separate story in its own regard but I do reference events in both of the previous stories but hopefully you can enjoy this story without having to read the first two.

As always any similarities to the fanfictions "Black & White" and "A Time for Rain" by "TheWitch'sCat" are purely coincidental and due only to the fact that those fanfics are absolutely stunningly amazing and I recommend you go read them right now! I also don't intend any plagiarism of either TheWitch'sCat nor Gregory Maguire and this is all in good fun. Enjoy.

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Breathe
Book II: Of the Journey Back

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The last thing she remembered was the very vague feeling of… something… in her abdomen, in her body – growing; and it scared her.

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Prologue:

Was Liir her son? She didn't know. She couldn't know. If she knew it would be all the more painful to cast him aside like she did. If she knew it would be all the more painful to look at him. After all, his resemblance to Fiyero was hard to ignore, even shrouded in the fat of children as he was. He had that same look to him. And his eyes. They made the Witch shiver when she saw them. They made her heart constrict and the air catch in her throat. So she stopped looking because it was easier that way.

But when that icicle fell, when it pierced through the poor skull of the little bastard of a child Manek, she felt it was supposed to be some sign. It had, after all, been her who had magicked the icicle to fall – and she knew that – but she refused to believe it. She wasn't a murderer, she couldn't be a murderer. Not anymore. She had killed enough by accident in the Emerald City, under the guise of the revolution's work, she refused to accept that she had done it now on purpose. Even if it was for revenge. Revenge was dangerous, revenge was dirty, and revenge only brought more pain.

So when she left to visit her sister she didn't say goodbye to anyone, because it hurt too much to say goodbye. She just mounted her broom and disappeared – like she had always told Fiyero she would. And she flew too long, and she flew too hard, and her head ached with the effort and the wind, and she was cold. But she did not stop until she was there, standing in the backyard of the house in Munchkinland, where her sister lived.

Nessa was not surprised to see her. And they talked for small snippets during the few days she was there. For the time of her visit she spoke with her father only once, and it left her bitter and terribly furious. So she avoided him and did not even bother to say goodbye when she left. She felt no better after the visit than she had before.

When she returned to the castle of Kiamo Ko in the Vinkus she found it deathly still. Only Nanny remained, and Chistery and her other familiars, and the air itself seemed thick with accusations. Nanny told the story and the Witch was furious at herself for allowing such a disaster.

She allowed herself to feel some measure of happiness when Liir returned from wherever he had been – proving that he had not been taken with everyone else.

Seven years, for seven longs years she tried to get Sarima and her family back. Seven years of useless plotting and pitiful plans. Seven years of creating a band of winged-monkeys. Seven years of anguish and guilt until the letter from Shell arrived.

Nessarose was dead.

The Witch left Kiamo Ko on her broom, and when she arrived at her sister's old home she found her father. He was old, and failing of health, and sitting unmoving in his room. She kneeled down beside him and she knew that his vision was nearly gone because he didn't recognize her immediately. When he finally did he scowled. "What are you doing here?" he snapped out, except his voice had lost its strength and the power he had always had over her seemed to be slipping away.

"Nessie's dead," she replied; far too calmly. "And I remember I used to love her once, when I still could love, so I came to pay my respects as any sister should."

"Get out of my sight you sorceress failure!"

She didn't flinch at his words, they didn't sting her like they used to. She was beyond that, she had come to accept that Frex would never love her; would never be her father. She had tried and tried and tried to make him love her, make him accept her, but she was tired of trying. She was tired of everything. She was tired of living her life according to others. She was tired of only doing what she thought was right for the world and not her. She was just… tired. So she left then, and walked the house alone.

She felt something welling up inside of her. Was it grief? She didn't know. She couldn't tell. She spent a few days there; sleeping little and remembering far too much. Her unexpected meeting with Glinda had shocked her slightly. And those shoes – Nessa had promised them to her! – but they were gone now. That wretched Glinda had given them off to that wretched Dorothy girl. She felt anger at that, and it startled her, but she did not fight it. She was angry at Glinda, and the love she had always held for that bubbly blonde roommate of hers seemed to have faded away with time. She wondered why but did not dwell on it. It took too much effort to wonder why, too much concentration. She didn't have the strength within her to care anymore – she was beyond caring. Caring hurt and she didn't want to hurt anymore.

When the funeral was over and she had said her due to her father she found herself in negotiations with the Wizard himself. But he would not listen, and there was little she could do, and the truth about Fiyero's death was spoken. The Wizard had killed him, and everyone from Sarima's family except Nor. And it was all too much for the Witch to bear.

So she killed Madame Morrible – but the old Headmistress was already dead before she bludgeoned her so she hadn't really killed her. She still wasn't a murderer. She felt the need to tell someone but she refused to go to Glinda because she was still angry at her over her sister's shoes, and still didn't want to get her old friend tangled up in her disaster, danger of a life. So she went to Avaric – who was still an asshole that could hardly remember her name – not caring if he got killed because he was seen with her. And she got drunk, and shared a philosophical conversation with people she didn't know. She lost track of time and her mind became fogged up with the alcohol and she later wondered, vaguely, if they had had sex. She couldn't say she would be surprised if they did – after all, he had raped her far too many times for her to count anymore.

There was something with Boq, she remembered that later, but she couldn't say what. The alcohol still had its grip on her when she had met him but she remembered that she had scared him somewhat. She hadn't meant to but she wasn't surprised. She had probably looked like some drunken, deranged animal about to go on an uncontrollable killing spree. Sometimes she felt like it – just killing those around her. She wondered if it would give her some peace, to cause pain to others; to hurt others like she had been hurt.

Then there was the clock of the time dragon. And it was all too much to comprehend because she had still been drunk. But it had implied that the Wizard – the Wizard! – of all people was her real father. It disgusted her and she refused to believe it. Adding it to the pile of memories she kept locked in her mind.

She had waited fifteen years and been five minutes too late to exact her revenge on Madame Morrible. She had waited seven years only to find that she could not save Sarima and her family and that her last chance at forgiveness was lost.

There was only Kiamo Ko. And it was far too large, and far too empty, and the air stank of her failures. But she had nothing else, nothing more, nothing less, and the guilt and pain settled in the pit of her stomach to forever stay. It balled up inside of her and would not be willed away.

And it was all for nothing, she realized, when the water was upon her.

Dorothy. Dorothy, the wretched girl that had killed her sister and then stole away the shoes meant for her! Dorothy, the wretched girl who had begged for the very forgiveness that the Witch had spent so long striving for! It was an unbearable cruel twist of fate that was more painful than she could have ever imagined.

But even as the water brought her pain, then numbness, the words came in a hushed whisper from her mouth. A spell, from the Grimmerie, that she could not recall ever understanding, was uttered from her mouth. And then there was nothing.

It became a celebrated event; the death of the Wicked Witch of the West.