Author's Note: It's a bit Alice in Wonderland meets Hook, but I hope you enjoy anyway! It feels wonderful writing Wicked again. Please, leave comments, reviews, criticism--I do take them to heart and it helps me improve and grow. Thank you!
Full Synopsis: After entering the Time Dragon Clock, Elphaba travels to the 21st century where a life is already waiting for her and Fiyero. Meanwhile, Glinda has married the new Emperor, but finds that a new enemy is arising—one she's not ready for. Over ten years have past since the two friends last seen each other, but when Elphaba's daughter, Elena, stumbles into the world of Oz by accident, the return of the Wicked Witch is more than inevitable. It's fate.
I Am Of Two Worlds…
Chapter One
Strawberry, cinnamon and mint in the air; every ingredient handled with care; a blending of black and pink and green, and maybe a color yet to be seen; double, double, a pinch of trouble, stir and whisk and let it bubble. Precision and measure, a dash of pleasure, simmer and soon we'll have a treasure.
A trickle of sweat followed the crease on her forehead. Glinda wiped it with the back of her sleeve. It was the only time she didn't care for deportment or style, the only time when she was completely content with being, well, a slob. The Grimmerie was stacked between a dozen cookbooks in the corner where she knew she wouldn't be tempted to look. That thing was full of spells and recipes for disaster; how could anyone possibly do any good with it?
The cauldron began to shake and she shushed it back to stillness.
"What smells so sweet?" A man with dark, wavy hair resting neatly on top of his shoulders entered and kissed his wife on the cheek.
"It's the brew," Glinda answered automatically, her eyes fixed on the pot.
"No, I think it's you," he said smiling. But, even the compliments went over her head. He knew nothing could interrupt her at work and that was why he loved her so much. "Dinner?" Before he could dip a finger inside the pot, a wand slapped the back of his hand.
"It's a potion. And you'd be well off if you kept your grubby fingers out of this one," she said, giving him a stern look. "Besides, we don't want you growing extra body parts." She lowered her eyes back to the fire, fluttering her wand over the embers.
"Not that potion again," he said, sighing. "Glinda, how many trials have you had with this one?"
She was quiet for a moment. "Five…"
"Glinda."
"…hundred. And three." She grabbed an apple slice and dropped it into the cauldron, poured a bowl of rose petals and sprinkled a bit of starlight. She continued to stir.
"I don't want you growing another arm," he said.
"I have an antidote already made," she said pointing to the bottle of magenta, although she couldn't help but shudder at the thought of another arm growing out of her. Actually, she was completely adamant of preventing that from happening because she almost had a meltdown the last time something unusual had grown out of her. For three hours, she was anatomically imperfect, absolutely hideodeous, U-G-L-Y with quite a suspicious alibi. No, she was ready this time because if she ever saw another mole again, she swore she would kill herself.
The brew began to boil and blubber, tremble and hiss, its content stirring itself into a shade of blue and silver. Glinda bit her bottom lip and stared at it hopefully. She grabbed onto the edge of the counter until her tiny fingers turned pale, until the potion began rise to the brim and slowly…
"No… no!" Before she could stop the pot from overflowing, two arms slipped around her waist and pulled her away. A large cloud of green smoke hovered above the cauldron and it burst into droplets in the air. She knew it would only be seconds until the whole cauldron exploded. A cape was drawn over her, shielding her from the blast. She pressed herself against her husband's chest as she tried to keep a stiff upper lip. Another failure.
"Sweet Oz," she grumbled softly after the excitement had subsided. The ceiling and walls were covered in gray and indigo globs of what the explosion had spat out. The cauldron had cracked in half and the fire was dying in the ashes. "Sorcery, potions—why are they all so difficult for me?"
"Don't be so hard on yourself," he said. "Your potions and antidotes are remarkable. You concocted remedies for the ancient curses of the Grimmerie. You saved the Governor of Munchkinland from living a life of tin."
"But this is for me," she said desperately. It wasn't that she meant to sound selfish. She didn't mean to think too much of herself. In fact, she would sacrifice herself for the good of the people; a martyr she would be if times warranted it. Although she shamefacedly admitted to herself that she would do it out of acclaim. She knew a girl who had done it regardless of what people thought of her.
"It's a difficult potion," her husband reassured her. "It's nothing I have ever heard of."
"I wish Elphaba were here," she confessed, picking up the broken parts of the cauldron.
"Glinda." He sighed. There was distress in his frown. The way his forehead wrinkled with concern made her feel guilty. She was usually so optimistic and perky. He lowered his voice. "This is black magic. These types of concoctions, what you're trying to do, date back to Lurline's time, when sorcery was uncontrollable and alchemy dangerously unlimited. Magic then would involve murdering Animals and using their organs to cast the most powerful of spells. You can't attempt their magic without… replicating that kind of sacrifice."
She closed her eyes and held her breath, trying to suppress the chill from spreading across her body. History was never one of her favorite subjects, especially when it entailed stories of disasters and misfortune. "Don't say that. I can too do this without black magic." With a flick of her wand, the room began to tidy itself up. "And I'd appreciate it if you don't mention such horrificious things in my house," she added tersely.
A small smile lingered over her husband's lips. She hunched her shoulders, hiding her shivers. It was baffling how he always remained so calm and serene in even the most trying of times. Whether he was mocking her or whether that was admiration in his eyes, she didn't know—men were another subject she could never truly figure out. She once thought she knew a lot of things about love, glory, success, but she was quite good at fooling others, including herself.
"You can try the Grimmerie."
A dark shadow cast over her face. "I can do this without that book." Most of the time, she thought he was mocking her.
"Why don't you burn that thing if you loathe it so much?" he asked, grabbing an apple that had miraculously survived the explosion. He bit into it with a loud crunch.
"I don't… loathe it," she replied sour-faced.
"Yes, you do. From what you've told me, that book mutated Monkeys, made brooms fly on its own, hexed men into tin and assisted the former dictator of Munchkinland by giving her enchanted shoes. Why, that book could have been born in the hands of the Wicked Witch herself."
She dropped her hand gently to her side and the magic ceased around the room. She knew she couldn't be mad at him, or at least, she shouldn't be, because it was partly her fault. To him, Elphaba and the Wicked Witch were two completely different people. Everyone in Oz had been too swayed by the Wizard's outbursts and campaigns to bring down the Wicked, and no matter what she said or did, she couldn't undo it. And she couldn't risk her reputation and her promise to Elphie. Only she knew the truth about who was evil and who was good.
"I told you, the Wizard surrendered the Grimmerie," she said sternly. "He didn't leave voluntarily, he was overthrown."
"Overthrown? By whom?"
"By me!"
"For Oz's sake," he said, shaking his head. "I thought you dropped this crazy notion, years ago."
"It is not crazy!"
"Then how did I become Emperor?"
She held her tongue. It was true she had only told him a year after they were married about the Wizard's true reason for his departure (excluding the story about Elphaba). She told him that the Wizard was spying on Oz's citizens and cleansing the land of Animals, purposefully instilling fear and chaos and an enemy. And although her husband agreed the Wizard was truly a tyrant and believed Oz was better without him, he hardly considered the idea that Glinda the Good, the inexperienced Witch of the North, overthrew the most powerful being at the time.
He was patiently waiting for a reply. Both of them were too proud to admit defeat or even acquiesce to a mutual truce.
"Don't you remember, darling?" asked Glinda, raising her wand again to continue her enchantment. "Your uncle was sovereign before the Wizard took over and you are the only living heir." She could tell he had stopped listening. His eyes were locked on the wall behind her as if he was expecting an intruder. "What is it?" she asked.
"Unrest in the South," he said omnisciently. His premonitions came spontaneously. He never mastered the art to control them, but he somehow trained himself in a form of astral projection so he would be able to enter his visions as a ghost. "Come in."
There wasn't even the slightest rap on the door. Nonetheless, it creaked open and the King's advisor appeared, a bit older, more skilled, but not as intelligent. "I'm sorry for interrupting His and Her Highness—"
"Don't be so formal, Timolt, just tell me what compelled you to interrupt my moment with my beautiful wife?" Glinda couldn't keep her cheeks from flushing. She watched as the man at the doorway scratch the back of his neck. He cleared his throat.
"Governess Rowena of Quadling Country requests an appearance."
It was silent for a few seconds. "Fine," he said. "Send word that I will meet her for tea at her castle in one hour."
"Wouldn't it please your Highness if she traveled here?" asked Timolt, but his question was met with a hasty response.
"I said I will meet her there and I believe my word is final. You are dismissed." He didn't raise his voice, but the deep tremor in his tone was daunting. When his advisor's footsteps disappeared, he apologized. "I'd cut my leg off before I let that woman in our home. Now what were we arguing about?"
"I have a headache," she said. These migraines were real at first, but she found herself using them as excuses more and more. The cleaning enchantment had just worn off and the room was just about spotless. "I think I'll lie down for a bit."
"Would you like some company?" he asked.
"No." She forced a smile. "You have a meeting with Ro'."
"I'm beginning to think you married me because I'm royalty and not because you find me irresistible."
She turned around and placed her hand on the knob, her eyes glistening. "Don't be ridiculous, Liamn. You know I love you endlessly."
xoxoxo
She's back…The Wicked Witch of the West!
You're daft! She's dead. Melted, what's left of her had seeped between the cracks of the land and down to the Unknown Depths.
She's risen! I've seen her flying on that broomstick of hers.
You're sick! Don't listen to her, she's gone mad.
Fellow Ozians, this is a misunderstanding. There is absolutely nothing to worry about, the Wicked Witch of the West is indeed dead—
You lie!
My goodness.
You went to school with her, didn't you say?
That is an entirely different subject matter, dear—
Conspiracy!
Enough. I will not have you accuse your Empress of treason. This woman is sick. Take her to the sanatorium.
The Great Time Dragon Clock floated above the Emerald City. While it has been nearly five years since its hands have moved from the seventh hour, the Dragon continued to roam Oz as it has been doing since before the Fairy Queen transformed these tracts of soil into fairy territory. Ozians across history have always had the comfort of looking up at the sky to find its guardian lurking above the mountains at the Vinkus or bathing in the lake at the Upperuplands of Gillikin Country. Only later did a powerful sorcerer enchant the Dragon with a clock as a favor to the Empress.
Since the Death of the Wicked, Oz has been relatively peaceful, possibly too peaceful, but no one could be blamed for their joy. After enduring the evil doings of the Thropp sisters (rights stripped from Munchkins and Animals as if they were second rate citizens, dark magic and fear everywhere), Ozians had reason to be over-joyous. And Glinda the Good encouraged the optimism. They didn't need to know that a different sort of tension replaced its former, one that was out of their control and a bit out of hers.
Darling, is everything alright?
I feel faint.
Now, don't complain about my driving. I've manned this Bubble for years now—
I see green. Who is that?
She was sitting up in her bed. She must have been in this position for a while, breathing heavily, but she had just now awoken. It was just now she could see the shadows looming from behind the corners, just now she could hear the crickets humming outside her window and her husband softly snoring next to her. Only moments before had she seen and heard something vastly different. The dreams always revealed themselves that way, with scenic images, and strange voices that never matched what she was seeing. The Wicked Witch? A Time Dragon Clock? What could it be about this time?
"Elphie?" A body rose beside her, trying to study her expression in the dark.
"I'm okay," she said. "And, God, Isaac, don't call me that."
"Come on, it's cute," he said, slipping his hand around her arm.
She felt his lips on her neck, soft and loving. She laughed, ticklish at his touch. A shy moon peeked in the window, and in the light, she could see his eyes admiring her cream-colored skin. "You tease. It is not cute. I hated that nickname as a kid and I hate it now. I don't even remember where it came from." Honestly, she didn't. It must have been from the distant past, maybe from school as a little girl. Maybe some kid called her Elphie at the swings because of her long, thin face, prominent chin and nose. She supposed she looked kind of like an elf.
"Janice," he whispered.
"That's better."
"Another dream?"
These dreams weren't infrequent. They were weird and slightly scary because they seemed so real in her head. But, she knew they weren't true. Witches, Munchkins, some golden brick road and transportation via gigantic bubbles—she couldn't even fathom where she had gotten such a crazy imagination. "At least I'll have another chapter to tell Elena at bedtime tomorrow," she said, cheerfully. It sounded forced, however. At first she thought telling their seven-year-old stories of an Emerald City would be fun. As the dreams became more vivid and intricate, she found she'd rather read Elena Dr. Seuss. Unfortunately, their child had become too attached to the Good Witch of the North and the Wicked Witch of the West that no other fairytale would do.
"Are you sure you're alright?"
She was never sure, but her answer was always the same. "Of course. Don't worry about me." This time, she couldn't even believe herself when she said it. The frown on her husband's face gave it away. He knew something was wrong, but that was as far as his knowledge went. There was no use dreading about these types of things, he reasoned, no use wasting your time thinking about these things. But, she couldn't see it that way. There was a missing link, a life, a childhood she couldn't recall and because she couldn't remember, she couldn't let herself move forward.
The rut was ten years running. Job after job, she had gone from, with no satisfaction in any of them. Somehow, she kept finding herself doing a temp job as a history teacher in a nearby junior college. Perhaps, the more she dug into the past in general, the more she would be able to learn how to unravel her own mystery. Sadly, it was summer now, so she was momentarily unemployed. The only job she had at this instance was that of a stay-home mom.
"Let's go back to sleep," he said softly into her ear. She felt his gentle fingertips brush her long, black hair behind her ear and he kissed her on the cheek, warm and comforting. She let herself sink back into the blankets. I'll be okay, she reassured herself. Tomorrow she would worry about her daughter, the job, the laundry, the cooking, cleaning out the attic, the bills, calling the plumber to fix the garbage disposal and the OC Register printing anymore bad press about her small activist group. She closed her eyes and went to sleep.
The Emperor is not feeling well right now. Please hold all business and postpone all meetings until his recovery. Any pressing or dire news should be put in writing and the Empress will attend to it as soon as she can.
This is her fault and I'd like to say it to her face!
Timolt, leave us. Thank you for your help, but I can handle it from here. Governor Bick, what concerns you?
It's Boq, for Oz's sake! Nearly fifteen years…
Sorry.
You better do something about this… this…
About what? What's the matter?
The spells, your antidotes for the ancient curses. They're reversing.