AN:

Hello, dear people!

I am back with a new, shorter story. This time, set mostly in the musical verse. Since it has a bit of a plot bunny feel to it, I hope it can live up to everyone's expectations-including mine.

If you happen to have the time and bandwidth, comments are always highly appreciated. Above all, however, I hope you enjoy reading!

See you again soon and take care!

xoxo MLE

(=^_^=)

Chapter One

A palace built from emeralds, a crystal ballroom, buzzing with courtiers and noble guests, as well as an army of servants. It was all hers and even after seven years of reign she sometimes still wished that it weren't so. That she hadn't paid the terrible price she had, that this cruel privilege had never fallen into her hands. She liked to console herself with the notion that it had all been inevitable, that she'd never had a choice; yet that clearly wasn't true. She'd had so many opportunities to choose one way or another. One by one, her very own choices had led her here, to this night, onto this dais, from which she overlooked her subjects as they danced at her pleasure, to the tunes that the musicians played only for her.

Abruptly, the Throne Minister rose to her feet. The man to her right who'd been waiting in the shadow of her ostentatious chair scurried forward to receive her orders or convey her message to the crowd so that she would not have to strain her voice while the vast room was in joyful disarray. She dismissed him with but the smallest wave of her hand, then proceeded to lift her voluminous skirt ever so slightly and descend the stairs before her.

Those closest to the dais shrunk back and bowed, watching her keenly for any indication of her intended path so they might clear it for her. She nodded at them graciously before veering somewhat to the left and then straight ahead. Smiling constantly and acknowledging her most distinguished guests as she went, she made her way to the far end of the ballroom. When she arrived, the group of men that she'd spied from her elevated vantage point were indeed still standing and conversing in the very same configuration that had drawn her attention in the first place. Naturally, they looked up and paused when they noticed her, then straightened their backs and bowed low.

"At ease, gentlemen."

Her voice was firm but quiet. It was their obligation to listen out for it, not hers to make herself heard.

"Please do not mistake my ball for a military parade and spoil the other guests' fun."

The three younger soldiers in their shiny ceremonial garb chuckled at that and their shoulders relaxed, while the most senior among the group, a silver-haired man of tall and strong build, stroked his whiskers but otherwise stayed as stiff as a board.

"I do wonder what you've been discussing with such saturnine looks on your faces," the much shorter, petite woman said, scrutinising the older man in particular. He was one of the four commanders of the Home Guard and a constant pain in her neck. Among her tasks keeping her troops busy enough so as not to wreak havoc tended to be the most challenging of all.

"We did not intend to mar this beautiful evening, Lady Glinda. Yet we have a duty to protect Oz, and the recent influx of unregistered Animals—"

"Oh please, gentlemen!"

She mustered her most splendid smile and took the time to regard them all warmly, one after the other.

"I'm ever so appreciative of your commitment to the safety of our country and countrymen. However, we've been discussing this dreadful issue all day long. Now is certainly not the time. For your own sanity's sake, please do try to unwind and enjoy yourselves. Your mind and body will be all the better for it. After all, an excess of worry has never benefitted anyone.

"Find a beautiful girl," she laughed, tapping her folded fan against the shoulder of the chap closest to her. "Take her to the dance floor"—this time she utilised her ivory and silk accessory to lift a shy, young fellow's chin as he chose to study his feet. "Give her a whirl," she said, casting the third soldier an alluring glance before turning back towards his superior. "Commander Cherrystone. I require a partner."

Unable to reject the ruler of Oz, he took her outstretched hand and kissed it.

"With pleasure," he rasped before leading her away.

For two excruciatingly long dances she endured his arm around her waist, his breath as it caressed her ear. Though she was used to all those things, she would never not despise them. That was her duty: to wave and smile and pretend that she was the happiest she'd ever been. When really, she hadn't enjoyed as much as a semblance of happiness in a very long while.

The moment she finally retired and sat back down on her throne, delicately flushed from the exercise, her eyes sought out the commander one more time to ensure he wouldn't fall back into his old, brooding ways. She was pushing herself too hard to appear jovial for others to sour the general mood. Of course the Animals were a substantial concern, but if she admitted as much, the military would be already gearing up for a strike against them. Unfortunately, despite her hard work behind the scenes, sentiments against those poor creatures remained too strong for Ozians to see them as anything other than a threat. Her holding back the capital's armed forces when they were obviously ready to intervene would not garner any sympathies from the masses. She had to weigh her options with exceeding caution and be cunning to not accidentally exacerbate the already precarious situation.

After the festivities had, at least officially, come to a close, she walked her private corridors in near darkness. She preferred it that way. The lack of sensory distractions helped her to centre herself after an entire evening of grandeur and opulence.

Of course, her official instructions did not betray her true motivations. Wasn't she meant to revel in her wonderfulness, in her power, in the love of her people? No; to the first steward of the grand palace she'd said, "The economy is not quite out of the woods yet. Better not to squander precious wax on corridors that will never be seen by anyone but us. Light the ground floor and the guest wing as if every day were a Lurlinemas day, to inspire courage and pride. Don't waste any candles on the disused halls and parlours of the second floor. For the servants and I the bare minimum shall do."

The bare minimum often had to do for her, at least whenever the public eye was turned away from her. Tonight in particular, she only allowed one maid to attend her, to help her remove the most intricate layers of her gown.

"That will be all," she told the girl before she'd even had a chance to remove her mistress' corset. "Draw a bath for me in the adjacent room, will you? And prepare some towels. I will clean myself."

An uncommon yet not outrageous request.

She watched the maid as she withdrew, walking backwards and almost stumbling over her own feet. The corners of her tight lips curled into an evanescent smile. She was fond of that child, who was so very young that she never dared to contradict her or speak a single unnecessary word in her presence.

Now that she was alone at last, Glinda reluctantly finished where the servant girl had left off, loosening the strings of her tightly laced corset. Taking it off provided her with no relief. Rather, her final structure of support, the only thing that had kept her upright this entire time, was gone.

She inhaled the fullest breath she'd been able to draw all day, but slumped over at the same instant, leaning heavily, inelegantly against the huge four poster bed. The thin, midnight blue dressing gown that the maid had prepared lay no more than a few feet away. Nevertheless, grabbing it and slipping into it required an unlikely amount of effort.

With heavy steps, she made it to the side of the bed, but not to climb into it. Instead, she fell to her knees, remaining in that position for a brief while as if in prayer. Then, with a deep breath, she gathered her resolve and pushed aside the heavy brocade skirting and reached into the dark that concealed her most treasured belongings.

A dusty wooden chest, sealed with a keyless iron lock. It didn't look like much, but that more or less was the point. It seemed too small to the unsuspecting eye to harbour anything larger than a tiara and too plain to be worthy of any jewellery. If her servants found it while sweeping the room, if anyone ever asked about it, she'd declare it nothing but a collection of silly little keepsakes. And while keepsakes might be an adequate description of its contents, silly and little were certainly not.

Trembling slightly, she pressed her pale hand against the dark wood, right above the lock. She wasn't ready to open the chest quite yet. Somehow, each time she pulled it out, it took her longer and longer to prepare herself for what she would be gazing at. Her next breath came in more like a gasp, the one after that like sob. Before she knew it, she was crying, tears running down her cheeks, ruining the makeup she'd not yet removed.

She bunched up the fabric of her dressing gown's sleeve in her hand and wiped her face clean. Gently, delicately, as if it wasn't her own hand, as if she wasn't simply trying to get the job done. As if she might just imagine that someone else was there beside her to wipe away those sorrowful tears for her, to comfort her. Of course there wasn't, and there never would be. Glinda the Good, beloved by all of Oz, was now the loneliest she'd ever been in her life.

With a flick of her wrist, she summoned a silken handkerchief from her dresser. While she might drench her clothes in tears, she wouldn't sink so low as to stain them with snot—not even in her deepest grief. For a moment, she allowed herself to give into the despair. It was a necessary process that she had to go through every then and again, because her relentless bravery was otherwise sure to drive her thoroughly insane. After sufficient tears had been spilt and the last of her powder and blush had been washed away, she at long last put her fingertips against the chest's lock.

"Happy Birthday… to you…" she sang in a broken voice before her throat became overwhelmed by more mucus and could no longer produce any sounds that might resemble a melody.

It wasn't her birthday, of course. Elphie, that wicked thing had never told her when her birthday was. Neither had her father ever sent a present that might have given away her secret. And Nessa? Glinda hadn't asked her at first, and after her sister's disappearance… well, after that, she'd never uttered another word about her. Not to Glinda, not to anyone. Not a single damn word.

At any rate, it was better to think of this as her birthday than the polar opposite. Though the pain remained. Elphaba still remained dead either way. Dead, dead, dead. Neither reality, nor Glinda's humble subconscious could be fooled so easily. But the words came easier that way, she found, and every little bit helped when it came to carrying on with her own life.

Finally, the lock sprung open. It fell off willingly, so Glinda didn't have to fiddle with it herself. With but the slightest tap against the lid, it flipped back, surprisingly soundless, given its heavy appearance. The insides looked empty, unless one knew where to search.

Undeterred, Glinda reached deeper into the chest than seemed physically possible and produced a bottle. A tiny, green flask with a faded label. Her hand curled around it tightly the moment it came into view. Her eyes began to well up again. Releasing an abrupt sigh, she set it down to her left and tore her gaze away from it.

'It was my mother's, that's all!'

Her then roommate's words reverberated in her already aching head. She hadn't been able to understand then, but she certainly did now. She was glad to know that nobody would be able to steal her memorabilia from her as easily and disrespectfully as she had pilfered Elphaba's bottle from underneath her pillow all those years ago.

And she had more than only this one bottle, too. The next item she removed from the chest was larger, heavier, and would have baffled anyone watching her. A broom. The broom. The one that had carried Elphaba away from her after their unfortunate encounter with the Wizard. She still resented it for that, though it had, without a doubt, saved her neck back then. But to what end? So she could suffer and pay bitter penance for her disloyalty to that tyrant? Only to meet her untimely end in a filthy tower instead, at the hands of a witless child? Wouldn't she have been better off by her side, for good or for ill? Glinda for her part would have given anything for but another day spent with her roomie, her friend, her…

She closed her eyes until the tremors that shook her subsided. Such lines of thought were better avoided, and generally, she did the best she could. But contrary to popular belief, she was not in perfect control over everything.

In the end, her misgivings notwithstanding, she'd kept the legendary broom, the witch's faithful mount. Hardier and less demanding than a living being, yet more animated and wayward than a mere object. It vibrated in her hands, either grateful for the measure of freedom, or indignant to be touched by undeserving hands. She couldn't tell. She wondered whether Elphaba had ever established any sort of rapport with it, whether she'd understood its wants and needs. Whether it indeed had wants or needs.

Worried that it could rebel against her, she placed it down firmly, willing it to stay put. It had taken flight once before, when she'd first freed it from the Wizard's vault. Getting it to descend and allow recapture had required patience and coaxing, and the better half of a week. These days it seemed more docile. She imagined it like a feral pet that, despite its wild urges, still required human intervention, unequipped as it was to survive on its own. Tonight, it obeyed her.

Her hands dove into the chest once more to recover the final object. They weren't quivering anymore, they were shaking—but only until they grasped the sturdy yet pliable material they'd been seeking. Out of the obscure depths of the chest emerged the hat. Elphie's hat, her signature accessory. The very one that she'd gifted her, first placed upon her head. The more unbecoming details of that story were unimportant now. She'd made her amends after all, and Elphaba had worn her head covering with pride ever since. If she tried hard enough, imagined fervently enough, Glinda could still detect her scent on it, still feel her warmth, maybe find a long, raven hair hidden within its conical body.

The hat, she did not put down, not immediately. She clutched it to her breast and collapsed around it like she once had on the cold stone floor of Kiamo Ko.

"Oh Elphie!" she exclaimed as she had back then, in that dank, secret corner of the castle where Elphaba had met her unlikely match. Where Glinda had witnessed her dearest Elphie's death with her own eyes. The sights, the sounds, even the nasty smells all continued to haunt her to this day. She expected they would for all eternity.

When she felt marginally calmer, she eventually placed the hat atop the chest. It had fallen shut on its own accord after all its treasures had been removed from its bowel. Her eyes returned to the bottle, moved past the broom, and then to the hat again, which held the greatest meaning to her. Yet there was another item to complete this collection and gingerly, with a heavy sigh and grim determination, she got up to retrieve it.

On a tall, narrow shelf, among a host of lesser books—of magic and otherwise—sat the Grimmerie, sensing that its time had come, that she was approaching to fetch it. It backed into her hand with some force, bending back her wrist as she caught it. In that, it was similar to the broom, though its inherent power was much greater and intimidated her. Her promise to Elphaba was the only reason why she still hung on to it.

And the only reason why she did not keep it stowed away in her practical, little chest.

At one point she used to study it daily, then weekly, then monthly. These days she only opened it when she was at her most desperate, despite remaining unable to make any sense of it. But on this particular anniversary each year, she picked it up with purpose and reverence, to lay it down next to the other relics. It was when she was most hopeful to decipher at least the most insignificant of its passages, the most innocuous of its words.

Carefully, she placed it onto the plush rug before the bed, arranged the bottle and the hat to either side and the broom above. She caught the broom inching closer to the book, like a child longing to be reunited with their mother. Giving it a stern look and pushing it back up where it ought to be, she made it submit to her will.

Her left hand pressed to her heart, she reached out with the other to caress the Grimmerie's old and worn leather cover, wipe away some of the dust with soft strokes. As a rule, she never showed it any love, but on this day, she was reminded of how she'd come into its possession.

"Because I knew you…" she murmured underneath her breath and shed another tear.

Nothing happened at first. She didn't expect anything to happen anyway. But after a clock-tick or two, an odd sensation began to spread from her fingertips upwards, overtaking her hand, then her arm. The initially mild tickle developed into a feeling of thousands upon thousands of needles pricking her skin with increasing intensity, until a mighty jolt made her recoil in surprise and pain.

Before her wide eyes, the book of spells began to glow, then opened, pages fluttering this way and that, as if blown by a strong gust. The air around her vibrated and an unpleasant humming filled her ears. The vibrations made it harder on her lungs to get their fill of air, leaving her breathless. Her heart hammered so hard in her chest that every gasp hurt like a knife had been plunged in between her shoulder blades.

"Stop," she chocked out, panting, but contrary to her doting subjects, the book cared nothing for her feeble command.

"I said stop!" she tried anew, with as much strength as she could possibly muster.

As obstinate as its previous owner, the Grimmerie decided to levitate in front of her, mocking her attempts at domination.

Horrified, she scrambled to her feet, grabbing Elphaba's hat out of instinct. Though when she stood there, looking back and forth between the book and the hat, she couldn't think of a single way to put it to use.

She pulled it onto her head, mostly to free her hands, then lunged at the book with all hat was left of her courage. Concentrating on her hands, she readied them, requiring them to be stronger than they'd ever been before.

"STOP!" she cried in sheer desperation, at the top of her nearly evacuated lungs. Placing one hand on each side of the book's cover and breaking a profuse sweat, she did her upmost to close it shut.

It was the hardest she'd ever struggled in her life, but much to her astonishment, she prevailed. The moment the book snapped back into its original state, the halo around it dissipated, the power that had lifted it vanished, making it fall heavily into her unprepared hands, very nearly dropping to the ground.

She dropped to the ground instead, exhausted and frightened in the aftermath of the powerful experience. The book in her lap had lost all its lustre, and she suspected that, even if she dared to try, it would not open for her in a long while.

Sluggishly, she pushed it off to the side and allowed exhaustion to wash over her. This would be all for tonight. She had, without a doubt, come to the end of her tether. With a listless knock on the lid, she bid her chest to open up again, so she could return Elphaba's belongings to where they were safest, and to finish her work, she slid the chest back into its dark hiding place. Her eyes fluttered shut the very instant her weary head fell against the wooden frame of her bed, and a heaviness cloaked her body like a chainmail blanket. Out of all her senses, her ears alone maintained some degree of acuity, listening out for… for what?

Footsteps. She jerked awake immediately, her mind suddenly keen as a Vinkun blade. Her head whipped around to check her surroundings, starting with the door. It didn't fly open, no one came barging in. She froze and continued to listen. Whatever footsteps she may or may not have heard earlier were gone now. No one was coming. Not a soul seemed to have been alarmed by the ruckus and magick blasting from this room. How could that be?

Gaze falling onto the book, she wondered whether, in her overtired and fraught state of mind, she'd imagined it all, whether the book had never challenged her, and her wellbeing had, in fact, never been in any danger. Whether she'd, like all those times before, not at all succeeded in teasing even the smallest response from the Grimmerie. It was a plausible explanation.

Drawing the dressing gown tighter around her shoulders, she staggered to her feet. The bed beckoned to her, promising sweet rest and endless comforts. Fancying herself above such temptations, she dragged herself to the door on the opposite side of the room, behind which she knew a bath to await her.

Her girl servant had done exactly as Glinda had told her. The big tub in the middle of the otherwise rarely used parlour was filled to the brim with milky white water, scattered rose petals floating on its surface. An abundance of candles flickered on the surrounding side tables and shelves and stools, making the chamber look more festive than any other, bar the great hall or the ballroom. Perfumed towels lay ready for her, along with a sponge and a diaphanous, silvery nightdress. Overcoming her tiredness in order to complete her toilette suddenly didn't seem entirely impossible—until she dipped her hand into the water and found it to be ice cold.

She shuddered, and not only at the intolerable temperature. How long had she postponed her bath for it to lose any trace of warmth? Had something else caused it to turn frigid before its time?

Well, be that as it may; she wasn't going to expose her worn-out body to that sort of torment. Not tonight, not ever if she could help it. She scooped up some of the fragrant water with her hands and boldly splashed it in her face until she was satisfied that all the makeup and sweat and tears had been rinsed away. This would have to do. Come morning, she'd call for another bath. The sweet girl wouldn't think anything of it.

On her way back to the bed her foot kicked something, hurling the small object across the floor until it hit her vanity with a melodious chink. She startled. While the dim light prevented her from seeing particularly well, an uneasy feeling overcame her immediately.

Frantically, she hurried to where she suspected the item and stooped down to pick it up. She probed for it and whimpered when her hand grasped only a worthless quill she must have dropped earlier. Unconcerned in her panic with neither grace nor etiquette, she crawled underneath the table where she found it. Thank goodness.

It was, exactly as she'd suspected, Elphaba's green bottle. It was not, however, damaged, and she kissed it in pure relief. She figured that she must have overlooked it earlier. Perhaps her fight with the Grimmerie had hurled it out of reach and out of mind. How lucky was she to have found it before worse could happen. To think that a servant might have mistaken it for a simple liquor bottle in the morning and disposed of it. The mere notion!

But pulling that chest out a second time and unlocking it felt like more trouble than she could manage that night. As long as the little bottle wasn't lying on the floor, she hoped, it would be safe enough for at least a short while. And she knew just the place to keep it.

Her dreams, when they did come after a long, exhausted and unconscious period of slumber, were disorientating and terrifying. There was a deafening noise that she could not place right away. The sound of waves perhaps, or rather the howling of wind. Yet it was different to the wind in the turrets of her towers, different to the wind that blew in her face whenever she was out in the fields, traveling Oz. It was a wind that swept across the land unchecked by castles, houses, or natural barriers.

Focusing on that thought, she suddenly was able to distinguish another sound: the cracking of thunder and its echoes in the distance. This wasn't an ordinary gust of wind, this was a full-fledged storm. A storm mightier than she'd ever witnessed in her lifetime.

While it brought lightning, it did not bring rain. When her body was ready to feel, there was no wetness and no cold, but a strange, unfamiliar and unenjoyable heat. She'd never experienced wind to be anything but chilly or at least refreshing, so that piece of the puzzle kept her occupied for long enough to distract her from another sensation that, eventually, became far more uncomfortable.

Sand. Sand in her eyes, sand in her mouth, gritty and disgusting between her teeth. Sand pelting her delicate skin, unprotected by clothes. She had trouble imagining a place with so much sand. The Vinkus? No, she'd been there. The Vinkus was far cooler than this. Or maybe it wasn't a real place at all. Maybe this was a dream and nothing but a dream.

Just a dream.

Of course! This meant that she should be able to open her eyes then, to no detriment of her sight. It was her dream. She could do whatever she wanted.

But she couldn't.

At the very attempt, grains of fine sand lodged themselves in the slight gap between her lids and irritated her eyes so viciously that she had to squeeze them together all the more tightly. Tears sprung up to flush out the foreign matter.

Despite all this, she remained certain that in truth, she was still lying in her own bed at the Emerald Palace. No matter how ungovernable this dream was, it still was nothing but a dream. Albeit, maybe a magick one. Was this, too, the Grimmerie's fault? Would she need to solve some riddle to wake from it? Slay an enchanted beast to free herself?

Either way, her first cause of action would have to be to overcome this wretched state of paralysis. But how? Simply believing that she should be able to open her eyes was not enough. While this was most definitely a figment of her own mind, it was not bending to her will as a normal dream ought to. So she would have to work harder to tame it.

Wind. Sand. Hot air. She needed to protect herself.

Oh! She nearly laughed out at how simple the answer was. Luckily, she stopped herself in the nick of time, or she would have swallowed a big mouthful of sand.

Concentrating hard on the picture in her mind—harder than she usually would, because she needed to be absolutely sure that the trick would work right away—she held out her arm, summoned energy in her palm, then described a circular motion with her hand while her wrist stayed perfectly still.

The ball of energy turned into a small, transparent sphere that readily extended outwards and soon engulfed her entirely. Shimmering with the same iridescent quality of an ordinary soap bubble, it appeared just as fragile as one. Fortunately for her, it was sturdy enough to shield her from the harsh environment she'd found herself in and strong enough to lift her up higher and higher.

Though the howling of the wind was muted now, and the sand no longer seemed to bother her, it took a lot of effort to convince herself that it was safe to open her eyes. By the time she did, she was already floating high above the ground, higher than she'd dared to rise before. High above a mighty sand storm, raging across a desolate wasteland.

Suddenly, a tattered black cloud rose from the eye of the storm, spreading as it darted towards her, faster and faster. Screeches added to the general cacophony. This was no normal cloud or, more likely, no cloud at all. They were birds, crows maybe. No. Larger than crows. Ravens? Eagles?

They collided with her before she could identify the creatures. And as resilient as her bubble was, it was no match for their talons or claws or… teeth?

She shrieked.

Next thing she knew, she was falling. Falling and falling, the noise, the sand, the wind all wrapping around her form as if trying to crush her. Before the pain she expected could truly materialise, her body stopped feeling, her vision turned black and then, there was only silence.