To say that the Witch was a freak of nature, despite the harshness of the term, describes her quite accurately. Her odd coloring was merely and outward manifestation of her so-called twisted nature. From the moment she was born she was, well… different.

The instant she emerged from her mother's womb it was ordered that she be taken away. Not a soul could bear the sight of her, and no one was sure what to do with her. Her parents sought countless remedies, none of which could normalize her complexion.

Slowly, as years went on, her parents grew to tolerate her. They treated her with a sort of forced acceptance, but it was obvious they loathed her and loathed themselves for having created such a creature.

So, you see, it couldn't have been easy.

*****

I am often asked to discuss the extent of my relationship with the Witch. It is often queried whether the she and I were friends. The answer is dependent upon what, exactly, is meant by the term "friend." I did know her, that is, our paths did cross. I cannot determine whether chance or fate brought us together. I despised her, and she detested me with equal fervor. Yet we were thrust together, two opposites forced to reconcile our differences for the sake of our own sanity.

She was nothing short of fascinating. For hours, she could sit with her long, slender legs curled into her chest as a book perched precariously on her knees. The thick, dark curtain of her hair often hid her face from view, but when she became particularly enthralled in a passage she would crane her neck so to better absorb the words on the page. Shimmering strands of black would slide over her shoulders and into her face obstructing her view. In a swift, graceful motion she'd sweep the offending chunks of hair out of her face and onto her back, revealing the elegantly defined structure of her handsome face.

Her jaw was unusually square, and her cheekbones were high and distinct. Her eyes were her most beautiful feature, mosaics of deep emerald, warm turquoise, and shimmering golden flecks.

I first fell in love with her eyes. I felt them. Wherever I went, they seemed to follow. I grew accustomed to the way she watched me as I readied myself for sleep. I became acutely aware of how when I unfastened the clasp of my brassiere, her breathing would hitch.

I feigned ignorance, pretended to be unaware of her eyes upon my hardened nipples until the night we made love in the moonlight: the night we abandoned all pretense, the night that set my soul alight and taught me of love's blindness. I learned that love in its purist form was not rooted in anything physical, but was the spiritual manifestation of inseparable souls.

I came to her in the dark, and she received me as if she'd been waiting. Her hands slipped around my waist as I sat astride her and our mouths slowly came together. Her lips were soft upon my own, and her mouth was warm as my tongue slipped inside. We closed the space between our bodies and my breasts pressed against hers. Her nipples strained against the cloth of her nightgown, and she moaned as my thumb grazed the hardened knots of flesh.

Her grip on my hips tightened, and she pulled me so I was sitting on her stomach. The continued pressure of her hands on my hips forced me forward and I planted my knees on either side of her shoulders. She then guided me upward, positioning my burning center directly above her mouth.

I fell into her when her tongue gently parted my folds, and when I pulled away she raised her face to meet me. Her tongue moved in broad, even strokes, pausing only to prod the bundle of sensitive nerves just above my opening.

I moaned, cried out as she pleasured me, and held steadfastly to the bedpost to avoid collapsing. I shook, trembled violently, but she gripped my thighs and held me in place as her tongue skillfully kneaded and sucked the folds of my sex.

The pleasure surged in great waves, building, swelling slowly and gently, and then crashing violently weakening my hold on whatever kept me rooted in reality, and sent me spiraling into a starry sea of dark and light bursts. My legs quaked; my thighs twitched and I shuddered as an overwhelming series of involuntary contractions shook me and caused me to give way, drenching her face with my wetness.

She held my hips, and positioned me on her stomach again, and her eyes met mine for a brief moment. I kissed her, tasting myself on her lips and hoping the searing fervor of the action would convince her of my unconditional love for her.

My hand ventured from her leg to her thigh, but was halted the firm grip of her hand.

"Please, Elphie," I begged, "Let me, I want to."

"Galinda, I--"

"I don't care." I smothered her chest with light kisses, and stared into her eyes in the dark, "Let me."

Her hold on my wrist loosened but didn't cease.

"I won't be offended if you're scared, and you pull away."

"Whatever do you mean, my love?" I asked.

"I'm don't—I mean, I'm not—"

"I don't care what you are or what you're not." I whispered, "I love you, Elphie, let me make love to you."

She guided my hand to the flat plane of her stomach, avoiding the junction between her thighs.

"Let me." I said softly into her ear. She shivered, and her fingers relaxed. I let my hand glide slowly across the soft, velvety skin of her stomach, then allowed my fingers to drift between her thighs. Her breath caught, as did mine.

I froze, not so much out of horror or disgust, but out of shock. I'd expected slick, wet folds similar to my own, but instead I was met with the firmness of another type of appendage.

Her muscles were tense, and she did not breathe. I wasn't frightened. I didn't pull away, as she'd expected me to. I took it in my palm and stroked it gently, lovingly, until her breathing slowed to normal, and she breathed a sigh of pleasure and relief.

It surprised me, it was so…unexpected, so uniquely fascinating, utterly new to me—but then again, Elphie never ceased to astonish and amaze me. That she allowed me to touch her could not have made me happier; she trusted me, shared with me what she kept from everyone.

I only loved her more for it. It excited me and stirred in me a new sense of curiosity about her. I used both of my hands and occasionally my lips, tongue, and teeth, to please her, eliciting sharp gasps and stifled moans from her beautiful green mouth.

I positioned my hips above hers, holding her in place as I lowered myself. There was a sharp pain at first, followed by an unbelievable feeling of bliss as she filled me. I felt myself flush as, very slowly, we moved as one. Her hips rocked against mine as the penetration grew deeper. Our pace quickened, and we sighed and moaned together with each thrust of her hips.

"Harder…" I breathed. She complied, increasing force and speed. I lowered my chest to hers and our lips met in a bruising clash of lips and teeth. Her arms slid from around my waist to my back, raking through my hair as kissed and filled me.

"Guh— " she grunted in an attempt to pronounce my name as her hips twitched and shook beneath me, "G—g-linda!" With trembling hands she held me closer as she was overcome by a series of spasms. She pushed into me a final time, then fell back onto the bed, breathing heavily.

Later Elphaba addressed what she assumed was on my mind. She explained her birth defect and wove an outline of her tormented childhood—her parents, who'd been told by a local sage to expect a baby girl, opted to raise a son. She'd been born with, and still possessed internally, both female and male reproductive organs, the latter of which due to its size was thought to overpower the former.

Her parents attempted to steer her towards masculinity, but as she matured her features, though pronounced and angular, remained feminine—delicately shaped eyebrows, long, thick, dark lashes, and soft, full, pouting lips. Most importantly, Elphaba did not feel male. She did not identify with others of the male persuasion, and had always—despite how others addressed her—thought of herself as female.

I did not tell her that although I was quite interested in what she had to say, her gender didn't matter to me. I didn't love her for her soft, pert breasts, or for the firm, pleasurable member between her thighs. I loved Elphaba for who, and not what, she was.

*****

I am told that according to the Time Dragon Clock, the melting occurred at the thirteenth hour, the direct result of a bucket of water thrown by a female child.

I clutch what's left of my dear, beautiful, beloved Witch, mourning quietly as tears wet my cheeks. I cannot bare the thought, can't face the reality that she will not return. I expect her to; each night I look eagerly to the western sky. In sleep, she comes to me. Her silhouette is painted on the horizon as the sun sets. She sweeps me away on her broomstick, carrying me in her arms as we ascend and become one with the sky.

When I wake I can still feel her arms around me. I feel her hair as it whipped gently at my face as we flew. Sometimes, when I feel her presence the strongest, I softly speak her name. A wind blows in from the west, whispering in what is undeniably my beloved's melodic voice, hold out my sweet, I will return for you. I believe that one day, she will.