Shadows
They talk of all sorts of things in the streets of the city. She hears what they say without being seen—in a city where all of the buildings are as green as her skin, what once marked her as an oddity has become an unexpected camouflage. In the light of sunset her customary black clothing turns her into merely another shadow cast upon one of many jade walls.
But even shadows have ears, she thinks as she approaches a group of talkers. They continue on in conversation, oblivious to her presence, and she allows herself a twisted smile. What she wouldn't have given for such anonymity during her childhood. How different she might have become, had no one noticed her as anything out of the ordinary.
Now, she scorns the thought. The treatment she received in her childhood led to the development of a strong personality. It forged in her the stubbornness necessary to survive in a world where injustice runs rampant. Besides, those days are well past, and now she is a different person, a different name even—a new identity, given an unprecedented chance to rewrite the injustices of her own history, if not those of others as well.
And, in the most supreme of all ironies, her future takes shape in the mirror opposite of her past. Where before all talking stopped when she walked into a room, not one of the people in the group she observes now even notices her existence, much less her proximity to their discussion. They continue on, talking about trivial things like the weather, which is beginning its decline into autumn winds and chill, or their families, which she is not interested in. Instead she waits for talk of action—revolt, reform, resistance.
It does not come. The chatter dies down as the sun dips further below the horizon. Then it is gone, and as if on signal they all disperse, moving quickly in their separate ways, once again simply unnoticed individuals lost within the masses, caught in their constant struggle against the unseen oppression of the cold, hard world around them. It is a losing battle, she knows deep inside, but her whole life feels like the pursuit of one lost cause after another. Why not support this one? She has nothing better to do with her life, she rationalizes, no friends or family worth worrying about. She is alone in this world, and her singular, silent existence has suited her fine for years now, ever since she left—
She cuts herself off, knowing that she must not think of her past. For, though it introduced her to unprecedented ridicule, she was also allowed a glimpse of what normal could be like, even if it only lasted a few years. There was that time while she was still at university, before the murder of Dr. Dillamond but after grudgingly gaining Galinda's respect, before the intrusion of Nessa the perfect but after achieving the camaraderie of Boq and the others—
Don't think of the names, she tells herself sharply. No—don't remember the happiness you found in the midst of utter chaos. Don't remember the people you left behind that day, the people who were the first and closest things you ever had to friends. She knows she cannot afford to remember them, because with memory there is room for regret. She cannot afford to regret the actions that have made her the person she is or is not today. In her line of work, such sentimentality can be deadly. She fights a losing battle against the raging tide of her memory—but when has she ever been on the winning side of any fight? She cannot even defeat herself.
The crowds are gone, now. They have all left with the light—it is no longer safe to walk the city's streets in the dark. She does anyway. She has nothing to lose but her own life, upon which she places little value. Once she might have feared death. Now, as she paces through the darkened alleyways, she fears only the shadows that take on the forms of familiar faces, beckoning to her with imagined pleas. Here the illusion becomes Boq—there it is Glinda—around the next corner, Fiyero—
Fiyero?
Fiyero, walking through the slum district on a harsh fall night, one that is only growing colder. Fiyero, whom she has not seen since her hasty departure from Shiz all those years ago. Fiyero, who she recognizes still, standing in flesh and blood, not feet from her. He crosses out of her line of sight, vanishing from her field of vision as he turns along the main street and disappears into the better part of the neighborhood.
She stares wide-eyed at the spot where he was, willing herself to believe—what? That he is not truly here, in the city? That the figure was merely an animated delusion? That maybe she saw someone else, who only appeared to have the same dark skin, the same blue tattoos shaped like small diamonds, the same confidence of step?
No, she shakes her head, she is certain of the figure's identity, certain of the memories he resurrects, certain that this marks the beginning of an unaffordable yet unavoidable detour from her current lifestyle.
She continues on, willing herself to forget this chance encounter with her past. Before, it would have meant nothing, but now the chill wind whispers of change. She longs to return to her loft, to regress to the one last place where no one else has found her. She needs to be alone.
But her reaction to seeing Fiyero like this suggests to her for the first time that, just maybe, she has been alone for too long.
A/N: To everyone who read this far, I'd be eternally grateful to you for reviewing! This was written last night from 10:00 to 10:40, at which point I was so tired that I actually typed a good portion of this with my eyes closed, but I really like the way it turned out. I'm really interested in feedback on this, since it was just an errant thought late at night that had to be written. Again, thanks for all who read this, even if you don't review (though I really wish you would, even if it's just a line or two).