A/N: Another one. Instead of writing chapters for the forgotten fics, I'm writing new ones. Don't worry, I'll get to making them. I've had no time, what with the epicentre of all things boring--I mean..school; at least, that's what those dictators there call it--nagging my brain into studying and working. Why couldn't I have inherited a broom from somewhere? One with actual magical powers, not the worn down one I have that occasionally smells like sparrow piss. Or, I imagine it does. My imagination's been a bit overactive lately. And now I'm rambling on.
I just had to write this down before it erased itself from the depths of my brain. It's short, but the ending had to stay there or I would miss the perfect chance to use it, so don't badger me, or I'll set my dog on you.
The noise of the crossfire shot through my ears as though a bullet had been fired straight through my eardrums. I saw many others clap their hands over their ears, but I didn't; I had to hear what was going on, despite the chance that I might become deaf. Although the shots missed me, they hit a great many of people. And there was Fiyero. Dear Fiyero. He was lying on the ground, his hands over his chest. At first I foolishly thought he was sleeping, but I was desperate for an optimistic outlook on life that didn't involve my slanted look, and I don't know why. He did look asleep to me, until I saw the flow of blood rushing from a sickeningly visible hole in his body. My scream never left me, and instantly, my mind went blank. It's funny how you can strive to empty your brains of stray thoughts when trying to concentrate on something, and even with an immense effort, you don't succeed, but in the most panicked, most tragic times, you don't even think of trying, and you get it right away. But you aren't even interested in succeeding; all you can think of is the tragedy. What a waste of effort, then.
And life since Fiyero's death has been hollow and empty. Though I'd like to see my college friends--dear Glinda, Crope, Boq--I can't. The underground life is one of sacrifices, and hermitage is just a miniscule fraction of them. But if I wasn't willing to make sacrifices, I wouldn't have chosen this life. It's for the good, or the great. Or the nothing at all. It's all a matter of what happens. And since my life has been random since I was born, it's hard to predict what will happen in five minutes.
As well as hollow, my life has been redundant. Wake up. Eat. Feed Malky. Sleep. Go to use the loo in between. And I it's possible my life would always be like that. Who wouldn't? Even with my appearance, I don't get much excitement.
The pain from the fall off the bed from twisting about in my sleep still throbbing in me, I hobbled around, getting dressed. As I opened the blinds I noticed some sort of ceremony, or assembly--whatever--happening on the streets. A load of Gale Forcers were parading around, chanting things. Naturally wanting to keep up with the rest of the world, I opened the door a crack or two, looking at the procession. It seemed to be some sort of announcement, and I was quick to scurry outside to hear it. Whatever it was, it must be important--hence the formal marching and chanting, which actually sounded a lot like yelling. Just in time, I tried to concentrate on the voices. All I could hear was, "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz will appreciate it greatly and you will be rewarded." Wonderful. I was too late, and I missed the most important part. But I heard people gossiping and discussing the news--leave it to them to start chattering the minute officials leave--and I managed to hear something. Apparently, the Wizard was looking for a secretary, an assistant--someone who'll help him sort out problems and such.
And as much as it sickened me, as much as I wanted to throw up on the spot because I felt so horrible just thinking it, I contemplated the matter. I thought of joining him. Though I'd like to fight 'till I die, I'm tired. I'm worn out from this endless battle. And it would give me an advantage. A way to get closer to the Wizard, to find his weaknesses. To defeat one's enemy, one must know one's enemy. It's just for battle purposes. It's not as if I'm actually going to consider full-on joining him.
At least, that's what I told myself.
But marching up there in broad daylight, to apply for the position, was senseless. Position. Pawn. How similiar those words are, both in meaning and when voiced. And then I remembered that day, with Glinda, saving her own skin at the meeting with the Wizard. But I can't be mad at her--she's just not meant for that kind of life. For the life of a fugitive from herself. She's happy now, if the propaganda says anything at all, and that's what matters.
Do you even know the meaning of the word pawn?
The words hit me like a slap, hot and stinging, the second time. And then, because of remembering that sentence, because of the wretched Wizard, I was determined to get the position. No matter what it took. Even if I have to retch into the nearest receptacle, or possibly on someone--because I really don't give a damn if they're covered in vomit or not--I will get it. For what he did to Fiyero, for what he did to me, I will destroy him inside out.
Even if I have to destroy myself in the process.