A/N: Yay! My first 14000-word chapter! Well, ladies and gentlemen, this one's been simulteneously a lot of work and a lot of fun to produce; I'm hoping that I can continue to startle and surprise you (in a good way), and with any luck this latest chapter will provide plenty of twists and turns to keep you entertained - and hopefully keep the plot churning, but you'll have to be the judge of that. Be warned: lots of dream sequences this chapter, and that means lots and lots of itallic font segments.
Before we begin, I'd like to thank all my reviewers, favouriters and followers for their kind support. Please feel free to review and furnish me with your thoughts, opinions, critiques and guesses as to what might happen next.
Nami Swann, I'm glad that you find Hellion as scary and disturbing as I'd intended her to be, and I'm also glad you noticed the atmosphere of wrongness about the land of Unbridled Radiance. As for the "Poor Glinda" aspect... well, without saying too much, this is going to be another "poor Glinda" chapter. Please forgive me.
Ms Helfire, I'm glad you like the story and its characters so far. As for reviews and attention, I'm just happy that I've got a review count that outnumbers my chapter count at the moment; it's a weird thing to be happy about, I admit, but having a little recognition is better than none at all. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter, and thank you once again.
So, without further ado, let's begin: read, review and above all, enjoy!
12/8/2015: Mopping up spelling/grammatical errors and other foul-ups. Please forgive the lateness.
After shaking hands with the Witch, Dorothy had spent the next half an hour trying to make as little noise as possible; she could tell that she'd seriously annoyed her during their last conversation, and given that the Witch looked as though she was in the mood to kill somebody at the best of times, Dorothy wasn't in the mood to provoke her any further.
Of course, that wasn't her only reason for keeping quiet: she had a lot to think about in the meantime – for instance, where they were going, why they were going there, and what would happen when they finally got there; who the "Irredeemables" really were and if they were safe people to be around... and of course, the question that was currently turning Dorothy's stomach into knotted rope: would she ever walk again? The Witch (Elphaba, she reminded herself) had said that she might recover; she'd also said that the "mage-surgeons" who'd made the Irredeemables might be able to fix her, but was it really such a good idea to leave herself at the mercy of doctors who regularly made people into... monsters?
And another thing, why was Elphaba trying to make her feel better in the first place? Why was she being so... nice? True, she'd lost her temper a couple of minutes later, but the Witch had gone to the trouble of saying that she wasn't going to hurt her, and she'd stayed true to her word so far: at any point in the last hour, she could have very easily killed her – either with magic or with her bare hands. She'd even made some worryingly accurate points in her last rant, the one about Dorothy not asking questions about Oz being the most cutting. She'd even admitted her real name, one so pleasant-sounding that Dorothy honestly didn't know what to make of it – or her. In fact, what was Dorothy supposed to make of anything she'd been told?
And then there was the talk of the Witch's dead sister, Nessarose – and Elphaba's insistence that she'd never really been wicked; how much of it was truth, and how much of it was lies? So many questions and no answers in sight, it made her head hurt just trying to sift through the mess. Eventually, she gave up on thinking about the questions for the time being: she certainly didn't have any answers, and she doubted that asking the Witch for advice would be such a good idea.
So she listened to the sounds of the ship around her instead: the distant rumble of the engines, the whistling of the wind just outside the porthole, the footsteps on the decks overhead – and a sudden yell of "YES! YES! WE ARE SODDING VICTORIOUS!" Not too far away, there was an answering roar of approval from the crew, followed by a loud bang of bottles being uncorked.
"I wonder what they're celebrating," Elphaba muttered to nobody in particular. Ever since their last little chat had ground to a halt, she'd been very quietly reading; as it happened, the battered rucksack that she'd stowed by her bed had apparently contained quite a few books, one of which had been the massive leather-bound thing that she'd been leafing through for the last few minutes, guided by the soft glow of a hovering ball of light. Given that Dorothy couldn't move from the bed, she could only catch a brief glimpses or two of what the Witch was actually reading –yellowed pages and weird, complicated looking symbols – before she was forced to use her imagination to fill in the gaps. It was almost certainly a spellbook, of course, but what was Elphaba looking through it for? Was it something that was going to be used on her? Was it something she planned to use on the Irredeemables? Or was she just trying to pass the time?
There was a distant fluttering from the corridor, and one of the flying monkeys abruptly swooped into the room, hooting joyfully as it barrelled into Elphaba. "Holy hell, Chistery," she gasped. "Why so excited?"
"He's enjoying the festivities, just like the rest of us," said a voice from the door. It was Vara, the woman that Elphaba had been chatting with on the way to the airship, a conversation that Dorothy had been too busy worrying to pay much attention to. But now that she had a better view of her, Dorothy realized how unusual she really was: before, she'd seen the blue scales running across Vara's face but she hadn't how many of them she wore, and what they looked like up close; each one was about the size of a bottle-cap, rough and thick like the skin of an alligator, and coloured a haunting shade of blue. Startlingly, apart from the scales that decorated her forehead, cheeks, chin, neck and arms, the woman looked quite normal: straight dark hair, green eyes, a pleasant smile, and (under the scales) smooth, tanned skin. Looking at her, Dorothy could only imagine what had driven the woman to have herself remade like this - or any of the other Irredeemables, for that matter.
She was so taken aback by the contrast that she almost completely failed to notice that Vara was now wearing a bright red party hat, and holding a large plate of pastries and cakes. "I thought you might like some of the party food," she said.
Dorothy opened her mouth to politely refuse the offer – after all, she didn't yet trust the Irredeemables, and for all she knew, the food might just be poisoned. But then the scent of intermingled chocolate, peppermint, raspberry and cinnamon hit her like a runaway train, and her stomach noisily reminded her that she'd missed lunch. In the end, what finally emerged from her mouth was a bemused mumble of "thanks very much," as she helped herself to a piece of caramel slice.
Elphaba, meanwhile, was far more level-headed. "What's the occasion?" she asked, cautiously.
"We've just received word from the other raiding parties making their way back from U.R.; it's been a sweeping success, all in all."
"How's that? I mean, in the case of this group of raiders, it hasn't been all that successful; no offence, but you only blew up one building, stole nothing, killed no-one and the only hostages you've taken are us... and we're not really hostages."
Vara raised her eyebrows. "What makes you think we had to do any of that? What makes you think any of the other raiding parties had to do anything except make as much of a rumpus as possible?"
There was a pause, as Elphaba visibly considered this. "Ah," she said quietly. "You were a distraction. Fair enough. Question is, what were you trying to distract the enemy from?"
"A military base about thirty miles to the north of where we met you: from what the returning strike team's reported, they've pretty much wiped it off the face of the map. With that gone, the enemy won't be sending any further airships over the border for the time being-"
"Giving you time to plan the next move," the Witch finished. "I'm familiar with the tactic. I'm surprised you're telling us anything about it, though."
"You're not exactly spy material, not by U.R.'s standards anyway."
"And if we were?"
Vara shrugged. "Not as if you can do anything about it from here. And besides, it's just one move... the latest move in a very, very, very long war."
Something in the scaled woman's voice piqued Dorothy's curiosity. "How long has it been going for?" she asked.
Vara gave her an odd little smile. "Let me put it this way: my parents were still kids when it started. When they left the country for the Deviant Nations, they were just teenagers." She sighed. "Yeah, they were among the first refugees to leave U.R.; believe it or not, that was how they first met – in the exact same cart that was taking them out of the war zone. Not exactly love at first sight material, if you take my meaning: bombs going off in the distance, the streets wet with blood, the air stinking of dead bodies and fresh sh-"
Elphaba coughed loudly.
"Oh, right. Sorry, I've gotten a bit casual about that sort of thing. But yeah, the war's been going on for a long time... I think about forty years at the least. In the beginning, there were actually pitched battles, day-to-day artillery barrages, airstrikes, wizards and witches flinging magic at each other -constant fighting from dawn to dusk. That went on for about ten years before the Deviants united their armies and fleets under one banner and settled just out of U.R's reach. Ever since then, the fighting's been pretty on-and-off; there've been border attacks, skirmishes, air raids, and even the occasional doomsday device, but it's been rare that anyone's been able to make it past the border defences of either side. No-Man's Land makes it even trickier."
"No-Man's Land?" Dorothy echoed. "The captain said something about that before, but-"
"It's where the worst of the fighting took place in the early years of the war, basically a desert full of crashed airships and mass graves that nobody in their right mind would cross on foot. All those magical duels and bombardment didn't help much either: it's said to be infested with monsters created from spells gone wrong; I've even heard tell that the Hellion lives somewhere out there." Vara paused for effect, and then announced. "Incidentally, we're actually travelling over No-Man's Land right now."
Dorothy, having suddenly lost her appetite, carefully put the raspberry tart she'd been considering back on the plate.
"Oh don't look so gloomy, we're perfectly safe up here. In fact, airships are the only safe way to cross No-Man's Land these days – not that it's stopped U.R. from sending ground troops through it."
"So... we're above it now?"
"That's right."
"Can we take a look-"
"I can see where this is going," said Elphaba, slamming her book shut and getting to her feet. "Arms out," she instructed briskly. Dorothy, who was almost used to the idea of being carried around by the Wicked Witch of the West by now, obediently stretched out her arms she could be lifted from the bed and over to the porthole. Thankfully, though the window was barely large enough for anyone to see the sky through from the bunks, once she was being held right next to it, Dorothy found herself with an extraordinary view of the landscape beneath the ship.
Hundred feet below them, the forest had given way to a long, barren stretch of plain, dotted with craters and split by deep canyons and fissures. There didn't seem to be any trees or grass growing down there except for the odd skeletal husk of a dead tree here and there; and while she couldn't see any of the ground troops that the "enemy" had apparently been sending over the border, there were signs that people had been here – very briefly. From one end of the wasteland to the next, the ground was littered with the broken hulks of crashed airships: wooden ones like old sailing ships, most splintered to pieces by their final crash-landings; metal ones with no signs that they'd ever been aloft by balloons, now warped and rusted by years of neglect; and there were some that looked so elaborate that Dorothy couldn't even guess at how they'd been able to fly – platforms surrounded by dozens of huge brass rings, hollow glass balls large enough for a human being to sit inside, long dart-shaped ships with bird-like wings sprouting from their flanks, and one that looked like a series of cheap carpets sewn together. In any case, all of them were wrecked, rings twisted out of shape, glass shattered, wings broken and skeletal, carpets tattered and torn... and many of them were surrounded by the withered shapes of their long-dead crews. Monstrous though the sight was, Dorothy could only stare in morbid fascination and take in all the grisly details.
One thing that caught her eye was the many ragged flags hanging from the masts of the ruined ships: there were many different designs used, but the two most common were those that Vara helpfully identified as those of modern Unbridled Radiance and the Deviant Nations. U.R.'s flag was white, marked with a smiling mask-like face hanging above a golden sceptre – "Their sign of beauty's supremacy," Vara scoffed – while the flag of the Deviant Nations was pitch-black, depicting a huge red hand crushing the golden mask of Unbridled Radiance in its clenched fist.
"No need to be told what that means," said Elphaba sarcastically. "While we're on the subject of wars, has nobody tried to sue for peace in the last four decades?"
"Oh, both sides try to make some kind of settlement every five years or so... but the peace treaties usually depend on one side accepting the other's beliefs: we want to live without the Radiant Laws; they want us to adopt the Radiant Laws, have our leaders submit to Purification, and have us Irredeemables burned alive."
Elphaba sighed. "I didn't think there'd be much success. After what happened back in Oz, that's pretty much the norm for the battles I've gotten myself involved in..."
Dorothy twisted around in Elphaba's arms. "The Wizard didn't give you the chance to make peace?" she asked. She wouldn't have been surprised to hear that the Witch had refused that kind of offer, but to hear that the offer had never been made... well, it just didn't sound like the Wizard. Why wouldn't he give her the chance to surrender?
But Elphaba shook her head. "He offered it... once. In private. And I doubt he told anyone outside his inner circle of what happened, either, or even what he'd give me in return."
"Why? What did happen? What was he going to give you?"
"Rehabilitation."
"What?"
"He offered me the chance to join his government and be introduced to the people of Oz as his Grand Vizier, freshly-rehabilitated and turned good. He said I deserved it after proving my worth so many times over... he said I could be wonderful, just like he was." She took a deep breath, allowing Dorothy to briefly ponder the sarcastic edge to her voice. "But," she continued, "the bargain depended on me overlooking everything he'd done."
"What do you mean?"
The Witch's face briefly twitched with anger, and for a moment, Dorothy thought she was going to yell at her. But instead, she only whispered, "Did never wonder why I fought the Wizard in the first place?"
In spite of herself, Dorothy actually found the courage to respond: "I know," she said, "I know: I didn't ask any questions about Oz, and I'm sorry... it's just that-"
"What's that?"
Halfway through the apology, Elphaba's eyes been absently wandering off in the direction of the porthole, and she'd obviously seen something interesting out there, for without warning she all but lunged in its direction, banging Dorothy's elbow painfully against the wall.
"Ow!"
"Sorry. But just look at that over there – you'll know what I'm talking about when you see it..."
Dorothy scanned the horizon outside the window, looking for anything that might have caught the irritable Witch's attention; for perhaps five seconds, she only saw more of the vast wasteland that she'd seen before, with its deep canyons and endless airship wrecks. Then, she saw it: lying alone in the middle of a huge crater, the badly-corroded stern of an airship lay half-buried in the dirt. Though most of the colour had been stripped from what was left of its hull by wind and rain, there were still a few stubborn patches of green paint here and there. But it was the flag hanging from the crooked mast that drew her attention: tattered and faded though it was, there was no mistaking the emerald-green flag of Oz and its distinctive Z-Inside-The-O emblem.
"Now just how the hell did that get here?" Elphaba demanded of nobody in particular.
"What of it?" Vara asked, shrugging. "Do you recognize the flag or something?"
"Well, yes," said Dorothy. "But how would it have gotten here? I thought you said this battle was just between you and U.R. – you didn't say anything about Oz getting involved." (Was it her imagination, or did an approving smile show itself on the Witch's face?)
"I don't know; I never even heard of Oz before I met you two. Maybe the ship got here by following No-Man's Land up from the south; there's always a little bit of foreign airship traffic coming up from the countries beyond the reach of U.R. or the Deviant Nations – perhaps there's a route back to Oz there. Or maybe the ship was brought here by whatever brought the pair of you here. Who knows?"
"I don't think it's as simple as that," Elphaba murmured. "I mean, Oz doesn't have airships: the nearest thing we have to an airship like the one we're travelling in is a hot-air balloon. I think if the Wizard's government had developed an airship, I'd have noticed at some point. More to the point, that thing's been here for years..." She paused, briefly lost in thought. "I'm going to have to have a word with the captain about this."
"Go right ahead; he's in the mood for a chat – festivities do that to leaders."
"Speaking of which..." Elphaba suddenly reached for the plate of party food and helped herself to a slice of chocolate cake. "Sorry," she mumbled between mouthfuls, "Conundrums make me hungry."
Dorothy almost laughed; it was so unlike everything she'd seen of the Witch up until now that she only just managed to hide her smile behind her hand. But as Elphaba turned towards the brig door to continue the chat with Vara (inadvertently taking Dorothy with her), she caught a corner-of-the-eye glimpse of something on the landscape through the porthole, and craned her neck to look.
Not too far from the rusted husk of the Ozian airship, a small house squatted. Its windows had long since been shattered, and the doors hung off their hinges at drunken angles; the roof was full of holes and the timbers of its walls looked as though they'd fallen victim to a fire or two.
But despite all those signs of disrepair, Dorothy knew without a shadow of a doubt that, somehow, her own house had ended up among the wreckage of the war.
Once the near-fatal coughing fit subsides and Elphaba recovers, it's revealed that someone had actually tried to poison her. To Glinda's relief, the damage done is middling at best; equally reassuring is the fact that this incident convinces the security chief to post more guards – this time inside the ward. He assures her that all six of them are obedient enough not to ignore the Wizard's orders, and will not make any attempts at assassinating the prisoner– or hinder the doctors' efforts to keep her condition from worsening.
Then, the doctors inform them that the patient (spoken in the same tone you'd say "prisoner") can no longer accept visitors on the grounds of unconsciousness. So, she and Fiyero are unceremoniously ejected from the building and sent back to their respective workplaces – her fiancé to the barracks, Glinda to the palace. She spends most of the trip back worrying about every possible thing that could go wrong: what if there really is another assassination attempt? What if the Wizard orders Elphaba's execution? What if the doctors can't heal the aftereffects of the beating she suffered? What if she dies?
The small army of reporters waiting for her at the palace gates only make things worse: they've got their own questions to ask of her, from the relatively benign "What is the Witch's current condition, Your Goodness?" to the gut-churning "Will the Wizard be demanding capital punishment for the Witch?" Even the few of Glinda's admirers that have followed her coach this far end up asking similar questions, but they voice their queries in a much more passionate tone of voice – and replace "The Witch" with "that fucking whore." For her part, Glinda offers her usual dazzling smile, shakes her head, and insists that she has no comment on the issue and an official statement will be released later today when the Wizard has had time to consideratify the issue... the special words, carefully rehearsed for occasions where Morrible hasn't given her a speech and doesn't want her running her mouth, now repeated over and over and over again. By the time the gate finally clangs shut behind her, Glinda's repeated those words no less than eighteen times (to reporter and bystander alike); her neck aches from shaking her head, and her face is beginning to hurt, too. And as she climbs the stairs to the relative privacy of her bedchamber, she realizes that she's never had so much trouble keeping a smile on her face before.
Once the door is shut behind her, once she's managed to sooth her racing heartbeat, she tries to work. Sitting down in front of her mirror, she massages her face, reads and re-reads the script she's been given for next week's festivities, and tries to look like her usual self as she rehearses. But she can't: now that she's hidden from the eyes of the public, she can't keep the anxiety off her face, so her crowd-pleasing smile now looks pained and desperate, and the voice that once sounded bubbly and pleasant little more than a panicked whimper. She doesn't even look like herself: she's pale, sweaty, her immaculate curls beginning to slide into disarray, her hands shaking and twitching and oh Oz, there's blood on her hands! It must have been from when Elphaba was having the fit... Did any of the reporters notice?
She hastily showers, washing off as much of the blood, the sweat and the smell of well-matured anxiety off her as she can. But Glinda knows that it's not going to be enough: as soon as she's dressed, she does the only thing she can possibly do to assuage the nervousness. She pays a visit to Madam Morrible's quarters and (after knocking for about five whole minutes) asks her if it's possible to make inquiries as to Elphaba's sentence.
Morrible is a little testy at the interruption, to say the least. "My dear," she announces, somehow managing to make "my dear" sound like a declaration of war, "You told those reporters that the Wizard will be releasing a statement later today, and he will; you will know when the rest of the Emerald City knows."
"But Madam, this is something I need to know; I need to know what's going to happen to her– it's important."
"So is the issue of deciding Miss Elphaba's sentence. There are many issues to consideratify, my dear: current political climate, potential negative reactions to lenient sentencing, the severitifity of her crimes, the aggravatications she presented to the government, the chances of her being successfully rehabilitated, possibility of escape attempts, possibility of assassination attempts, possibility of her surviving her first night of recovery – the list goes on and on."
Oh Oz, not more questions, Glinda thought. Out loud, she begged, "Please, Madam Morrible; she's my friend – at least let me know if she's going to be executed or not."
The press-secretary's nostrils flare in annoyance. "Miss Glinda, need I remind you that despite your current friendships, you are still a member of His Ozness's government and expected to abide by the Wizard's decisions regarding statements to the public?"
"Madam, please!" Glinda almost screams the last word.
Morrible throws up her hands in exasperation. "Oh very well... but this information is to remain confidentual; do you understand? Good. Your friend will not be facing execution. She'll remain incarcerated until such time as the Wizard can adequately decide what to do with her – which could take months, so don't hold your breath. And yes, before you ask, you still have visiting rights... once she's actually stable enough to accept visitors."
Thanking Morrible profusely, she hurries back to her room, feeling pathetically relieved - if not actually happy. But it doesn't show in the mirror, in spite of all the reassurances; she barely succeeds in mustering something akin to her usual smile at dinnertime, and she barely touches her food anyway. Worse still, sleep is almost impossible that evening: she can't stop herself from imagining that lonely prison hospital, dark and empty but for the sleeping figure of Elphaba... and the assassin creeping up on her.
Next morning, she finds no letters from the doctors informing her of her friend's, and no newspapers joyously proclaiming the death of the Wicked Witch. And, as the day drags on, she hears no sounds of celebration and now whoops of "She's Dead!" no matter how far she strains her senses. By dusk, she's almost completely assured herself that Elphaba is safe for the time being. So far, so good: now she just has to keep up this panicky little routine until she's allowed to actually see her again.
It takes almost a fortnight until a letter arrives, informing Glinda that the patient/prisoner is now well enough to converse with visitors. So, she clears her schedule for the morning and heads straight for the prison. However, it seems as though somebody's already had the same idea:
Nessarose is sitting by the gate, eyes wet with tears and a fresh bruise blossoming on her cheek; the manservant pushing her wheelchair isn't much better, now sporting a black eye and a bloody nose. Apparently, the two of them had arrived in the Emerald City for the sole purpose of visiting Elphaba, only to end up being refused entry by the guards. When they'd protested, the guards had simply roughed them up and flung them out the doors. "Criminal conspiracy!" she hissed, tone swinging wildly between anger, grief and physical pain. "That's what they accused me of! They said I was trying to organize an escape attempt; I told them I'd brought all the necessary paperwork with me– I even showed them the papers, for Oz's sake – and they tore them up! They said they were fakes, said that'd be exactly the sort of thing that the W-Wicked Witch of the East would do!"
Glinda suddenly feels... odd. It's not because she feels sorry for Nessa – that's nothing new; no, this sensation is nothing like the grey cloud of pity usually hanging over her head when the misfortunes of Elphaba's sister become noticeable. If anything, this feels more like ice forming in the pit of her stomach. It's not until she finds herself storming up to the nearest guard that she realizes what the sensation is: anger. And not the usual, petty irritation directed at delayed magazine subscriptions, cosmetic foul-ups, fashion disasters and all the other little annoyances she encounters from time to time. This is the purest, most undiluted dose of rage she's ever felt in her life.
"I'm sorry, Miss Glinda, but the Wicked Witch of the East cannot-"
"Her name is Nessarose Thropp," Glinda hisses, voice sounding unnaturally cold even to her. "She's not a witch, she hasn't committified any crimes against the Wizard, and she's not going to help the prisoner escape. She just wants to see her sister. Is that so hard to understand?"
A look of infuriating condescension crosses the guard's face. "Your Goodness, perhaps you've never encountered true wickedness before. In my experience, it runs in families, you see; I'm sure his Ozness will understand what happened here-"
"And I'm sure that the newspapers will understand what happened too," she snarls. "They're not going to hear anything about wickedness, magic or escape attempts; what they're going to hear about is the fact that one of you punched a wheelchair-bound girl in the face."
The guard has the decency to look embarrassed. "Sometimes, punishing wickedness isn't enough, you understand - we have to sometimes prevent wickedness from ever-"
"By hitting crippled girls in the face? Keep talking: the Herald will want to hear this, and they'll probably want your name too." Glinda takes a deep breath. "Nessa and I are going to be paying a visit to someone today: it can either be the prisoner or it can be the editor of the Herald, and once they get a good look at that bruise, your story will be all over the city. If you're in luck, you'll be fired; if not, you'll be spending the next five years as an inmate at this very prison. Do I make myself clear?"
There's a pause, as the guard hastily prepares a ramp for Nessa's wheelchair; Nessarose herself tearfully thanks Glinda (as does her manservant, for some reason), but she barely hears any of it: she's too busy wondering what the hell she'd been doing for the last few minutes. She's never done anything like this before in her entire life: blackmail, threats, use of her own media connections, even the wellspring of rage she'd tapped into – where had any of those ideas sprung from? What the hell had she been thinking? She takes an even deeper breath: it's clear that she's out of sorts, probably a result of stress from this entire imprisonment/hospitalization debacle. She can only assure herself that everything's going to be fine; once she's certain that Elphaba's safe and well, she can go back to being Glinda the Good, smiling and bubbly and never angry in the slightest.
Once they're escorted past the ranks of gun-toting security guards and into the hospital, though, Glinda realises that it may not be as simple as that...
The doctors inform them that Elphaba's condition has improved considerably, thanks in part to the radical use of magic in treating her injuries. However, it'll still be quite a while before she'll be allowed outside the hospital, or walk, or even eat without assistance; she's also on regular dosages of sedatives to ease her pain, along with stronger doses in order to help her sleep (and to keep her from getting violent, Glinda speculates). On top of that, she's under constant observations of a small horde of doctors, surgeons, anaesthetists, experimental pharmacologists, physical therapists, experts in healing magic, thaumaturgical theorists, security consultants and guards. And of course, the nurses: checking her temperature, changing her bandages, feeding her, cleaning her, emptying the bedpan, and assisting her with every other little thing the patient is no longer capable of accomplishing on her own. To their credit and (Glinda's considerable relief), they don't seem inclined to see Elphaba as a monster or treat her with any kind of hatred: the Wizard obviously spared no expense in finding consummate professionals for his prize prisoner's recovery.
It happens that Elphaba is awake, but still bedridden and barely capable of movement: the broken bones of her legs and arm are healing, but very slowly; and while she can actually move her jaw now, her emerald-green face is still mottled with livid purple bruises and dotted with surgical scars. Oddly enough, the thing Glinda finds most upsetting is the fact that she's been stripped of her familiar black cloak, dress and hat; lying in bed and dressed in plain white hospital scrubs, she seems inexplicably... diminished.
She accepts the gentlest of hugs from both Glinda and Nessarose, she smiles awkwardly through the pain in her limbs and face, she comments on how wonderful it is to see them again. But Glinda can tell that there's something horribly wrong with Elphaba, something beyond the shattered limbs and battered skin: it's as if all the righteous anger and fire that had once animated her has been extinguished; the sarcasm is gone from her voice, as is the familiar acerbic wit and prickly temper; even the expressions on her face lack the old vitality. And in the place of that glorious energy, all that's left is... weariness. Exhaustion. And, just beneath the unconvincing laughter, sorrow.
I couldn't make them listen, she'd said.
She keeps up the half-hearted facade of happiness right up until Nessarose briefly leaves to ask a few questions of the doctors; as soon as she's certain that her sister's out of earshot, Elphaba starts to cry. Slowly at first, just a few tears - like the first raindrops that precede a hurricane; then, agonized sobbing, deep shuddering breaths and floods of tears. She tries to speak, to explain herself, but all that emerges are incoherent sobs and whimpers. At first, Glinda can only stare in disbelief: in all the years she's known her, she's never once seen her cry. Then, she remembers her compassion, and gently holds Elphaba in her arms until the weeping subsides.
Once she's calm enough to speak clearly, Elphaba finally explains: "I failed," she says quietly. "I couldn't make them listen; I tried to tell the people about what the Wizard was doing, who he really was, what was happening to the Animals... but they wouldn't listen. I couldn't make them believe. I couldn't fight him, either. I couldn't save the Animals, not when it really counted... I couldn't even avoid a simple ambush..." Her voice threatens to dissolve into sobs again, but Glinda sooths her as best she can, stroking her back until her breathing returns to normal.
"It's going to be okay, Elphie," she tells her. "Everything's going to be okay. I'll be here for you. No matter what happens, I'll be here for you..."
Glinda's eyes fluttered open, the comforting warmth of the dream evaporating around her as she woke.
Immediately, she noticed two rather disturbing things: firstly, there was a rank, acid taste in her mouth; secondly, she was now looking out at the world through a pair of eyeholes barely large enough to see through, leaving the rest of her vision shrouded in darkness. Yawning wearily, she reached out to remove whatever was covering her face...
Only to find that her arms refused to budge; the same went for her legs.
In fact, the only part of her body that she could move even slightly was her head. Baffled and more than a little concerned, she peered down into the darkness that surrounded her, trying to get a good look at what was keeping her body motionless; after several seconds of fruitless gazing, she saw what looked like handcuffs clamped around her wrists and ankles. And then, as her eyes adjusted to the dark and sleep-induced numbness finally left her body altogether, she suddenly realized that this wasn't the only thing wrong with her: along with the restraints keeping her limbs in place, her body was now fitted with dozens upon dozens of wires, tubes, and catheters; it was almost impossible to tell what they were for, but given that quite a few trailed under her dress and up her legs, Glinda wasn't entirely certain that she wanted to know. For good measure, there was a respirator mask fastened over her face.
Horror-struck, she looked back up through the eye-holes, hoping to find some clue as to where she was and what had happened to her: after several panicked glances from left to right, it turned out she was leaning against the wall of a long, stainless-steel corridor; there was no sign of any furniture or decorations, except for the row of eight oddly-shaped containers stacked against the opposite wall. But it wasn't until she noticed that room appeared to be gently rocking from side to side that she realized that she was on board a train. No, still on board a train...
The memories of earlier that day flooded back: arriving in "Unbridled Radiance," boarding the train, being separated from Elphaba, seeing the Vigilant Eyes in action... and meeting the ambassador. She'd been drugged, hadn't she? Yes, she'd been told that the Empress wanted to speak with her. Did that mean that this was where they were keeping her until then?
Her eyes absently flitted back to the containers leaning against the wall in front of her. All eight of them were identical: perhaps six feet tall and three feet wide, made from a gleaming combination of brass and chrome, they looked almost like coffins – except that each lid bore a sculpted human face. Looking closely at the nearest of those androgynous faces, Glinda realized that under the eerily serene expressions, each one had eyes made of clear glass... just like the eye-holes that she herself peered through.
She was imprisoned within one of those coffins.
On some distant level, Glinda knew that the most rational thing to do under the circumstances was to stay calm and figure out a way of escaping – and, if that wasn't possible, wait until she was released. After all, she still had the oxygen mask over her face, so she didn't have to worry about suffocating. Unfortunately, Glinda's rationality had been shoved to the back of her mind from the moment she'd realized that she was trapped in the coffin, allowing her claustrophobia to take control; in that moment, the only thought running through her head was "I've been buried alive, I've been buried alive, I've been buried alive, I've been buried alive, I've been buried alive..."
"HELP!" she wailed, voice muffled by the respirator. "HELP! SOMEONE HELP! PLEASE! GET ME OUT OF HERE!" She struggled vainly to move, to undo her restraints, to knock her coffin over, to get someone to hear her – all in vain. "HELP ME!" she screamed desperately.
For the next minute, she screamed and cried and hollered, until her voice finally gave out and she slumped back in her coffin, both her energy and her panic exhausted. And then, just as she was beginning to despair, a tinny little voice said "Psst!"
"What?"
"I think I've got #5 here – were you screaming?"
Glinda floundered for a moment. "Y-yes," she stammered pathetically. "Yes, that was me screaming. Can you get me out of here?"
"No such luck," said the voice. "I'm in the sarcophagus next to you, #5."
"But how are you talking to me? How can I hear your voice in here?"
"These sarcophagi are fitted with microphones and speakers, just in case these "Purified" bigwigs want to hold a conversation with us during the trip. I've been fiddling about with the wires inside this thing for a while – almost electrocuted myself while I was about it – but I've managed to hijack the speaker inside your sarcophagus and transmit my voice."
"Well that's very nice of you, whoever you are... but why am I here? I mean, I know why the ambassador drugged me, but why's he keeping me in here? Is there something wrong with just putting me in handcuffs or something?"
"You've obviously made quite an impression on him. These things are reserved for only the most valuable or dangerous of prisoners, ones they can't afford to give even the slightest chance of escape. Even selected candidates for Purification aren't usually given this kind of treatment."
"Oh, wonderful! That's very reassuring!"
"Just stay calm. You're safe enough for the time being. Plus, you're not going to be made into one of those smug bastards who put you in there; that gives you some time and leeway to figure out an escape attempt once they let you out."
"But... it's... I can't... I... I..." She was on the verge of hyperventilating again; the darkness was crushing down on her, the eyeholes of the sarcophagus shrinking and the light dimming and and and-
"Look, try thinking of something else, okay? Tell me your name; tell me about yourself."
Glinda swallowed hard, balling her fists as she tried as hard as she could to steady her breathing. "I-I-I-I... my name's Glinda Upland," she gasped out; she meant to stop there, but something in her brain latched onto the words as the only logical way of keeping herself from going completely mad, and she started repeating herself – slowly at first, but as the walls of the coffin started pressing down on her once more, she found herself speaking faster and faster until the words themselves dissolved into incoherent gibberish. "My name's Glinda Upland. My name's Glinda Upland. My name's Glinda Upland, my name's Glinda Upland, my name's Glinda Upland my name's Glinda Upland my Name's Glinda Upland myname'sGlindaUplandmyname'sGlindaUpland-"
"Yes, you've made that abundantly clear. My name's Omber Landless. Just try to breathe normally: in, out; in, out. Remember, you're safe, and there's a chance for you to escape. Keep talking to me, nice and slowly- ohshit!"
From somewhere just out of Glinda's sight, the sound a door loudly swinging open had echoed. A moment later, Ambassador Hayfelt strolled into view; nothing about him had changed since their last conversation – least of all his smile, which now gleamed under the stark overhead lights of the carriage.
"And how are we faring this evening, my honoured guests?" he asked, addressing the ranks of sarcophagi as if they could respond. "I hope you're enjoying the trip so far. Alas, we won't be disembarking in Exemplar for another three hours – so many miles of countryside and town to travel – so we'll be able to savour each other's company for a little longer..." He chuckled, a disconcertingly pleasant sound to Glinda's fear-crazed mind. "My friends," he purred. "My poor, unenlightened, imperfect friends; I do so wish your journey ended with Purification. You would know the bliss that I feel, and at last understand the Empress' sacred mission... but it was not to be. Oh well, your fates do not all end in death, and I will petition the Empress to grant you the Purification you secretly long for – once your purposes in the capital are fulfilled, of course. Until then, dream of beauty and perfection, and know that it could very well be your destiny..."
He glanced in the direction of Glinda's sarcophagus, and his eyes briefly scanned her up and down just as they had when they'd first met. Deep inside the container, Glinda squirmed uneasily; being on the end of that piercing stare felt disorienting, and not just because she'd only just managed to steady her breath, either: it was as if there was actually something hypnotic about his eyes that made her feel dazed and light-headed. The feeling of inadequacy she'd felt around the Purified women grew, the feeling that she didn't deserve to stand in the ambassador's presence almost eclipsing all rational thought; and with it came another feeling – a desperate sense of loneliness and sorrow. For the briefest of moments, she felt like begging the ambassador to allow her to stay with him, to help her be like him; she wanted to get down on her knees and promise to do anything he wanted, just so she'd have the chance to linger in his presence for a minute or two and dream of being as perfect as him... and then, Glinda blinked and suddenly the spell (or whatever had just happened) was broken: alarmed and more than a little disgusted at the direction her thoughts had been moving, she looked away from the eyeholes and stared resolutely at the floor, hoping that she wouldn't have to meet that gaze again.
"Why, Glinda, you're awake!" exclaimed Hayfelt. "The sedatives must have worn off. Well, we can't have you tired and unpresentable before the Empress..." He strode over to the side of her sarcophagus, knelt down, and from just out of Glinda's sight, there came the sound of buttons being pushed and dials turned. Then, there was a hiss from the respirator, and a strong smell of orange blossom flooded her nostrils.
As her vision faded, Glinda cast one last bleary glance at the world visible through the eyeholes... and saw Hayfelt gently caressing the face of her sarcophagus. "Sleep well, my dear," he whispered. "Pleasant dreams..."
For the next five months, Glinda spends as much time as possible visiting Elphaba.
It takes at least eight solid hours of negotiations to convince Morrible and the Wizard to allow her this much, though; the Wizard isn't certain what the public will make of their resident media darling associating with the recently-arrested terrorist, and Morrible clearly doesn't trust Glinda – not after she found out about the blackmailing attempt on the guard. But even the curmudgeonly press secretary admits that the public might just applaud the visits if they were posed as a formal attempt by both the Wizard and Glinda to reform and rehabilitate the Wicked Witch of the West.
So, all-day visits are arranged for at least twice a week: on these days, Glinda shows up at the prison at nine in the morning, helps Elphaba with breakfast (at least until she recovers the use of her other arm), spends mid-morning to mid-day talking and reading with her, helps her with lunch, encourages her as the physical therapist puts her through the daily exercises, helps her with dinner, and then departs – ready to repeat the routine in another four days.
Needless to say, it doesn't take long for these visits to become the highlight of Glinda's week: after being cut off from Elphaba for so many long months, she now has a chance to make up for all the lost time and all the missed conversations; indeed, half the time spent on her visits is spent chatting about what the two of them did during their long separation – though the story's of Elphaba's time as the Wicked Witch of the West are much more interesting, of course. And it's during these times, when she tells her stories of swooping out of the sky to rescue captive animals, of launching bolts of searing flame into barracks and guardhouses, of writing her name in the sky in pitch-black smoke, of the sheer joy of flight, that Elphaba sounds the most like her old self.
When they're not talking, they're reading books – either borrowed from the prison library or delivered as presents from the extremely rare well-wisher. Of course, thanks to the cast over Elphaba's left hand and the jittery medication-induced twitch in her right, it's very difficult to her to hold a book or turn its pages; so, Glinda reads aloud to her. And astonishingly enough, she actually enjoys it; with the help of her best friend, Glinda finds herself enjoying books for the first time in her entire life – an experience infinitely sweetened by the proud smile she occasionally sees Elphaba wearing.
And then, there's the exercises: because the prison exercise yard isn't considered suitable for "the recuperating prisoner's" health – and because it's simply too much of a hassle to keep the other prisoners from interfering with her – Elphaba's physical therapy takes place in the expansive gardens that border the admissions building. Every day, after lunch, she and a therapist spend two hours rebuilding her muscles and testing the strength of her bones, gradually moving towards the day that she can leave her wheelchair, and then move without the aid of a cane. It's on one of these sessions that Glinda decides to invite Nessarose along: it works better than even she expected; Nessa helps her sister get used to being confined to a wheelchair, encouraging her to move under her own steam, even challenging her to the occasional race around the garden. Seeing the two of them speeding along the paths at high speed, giggling like children and dodging the restraining arms of the therapist, Glinda rejoices: Elphaba is healing.
But for all these tantalizing signs that she's on the mend, it's clear she hasn't truly recovered entirely: occasionally, Glinda arrives to find Elphaba hastily wiping tears from her eyes; at times, she'll stop talking in mid-sentence, looking as though she's just remembered something horrible, and once she's recovered her voice, she'll shudder and change the subject; and then there are long stretches of silence when her depression seems to take on a life of its own, and she can't even bring herself to speak. Once, the wheelchair race leaves Glinda behind, and when she finally catches up with them, she finds Elphaba crying onto Nessa's shoulder. "I could fly once," she was mumbling. "And I thought nobody could bring me down..."
And then there's the disappearance of Elphaba's old sarcasm and irascibility: once upon a time, she'd have an insult ready for the nurse who'd stared at her for too long, or a harsh word for the orderly who mishandled her. Now, she barely even reacts. The side-effects of being moved from one kind of medication to the next doesn't help, especially during those awful periods when she's forced to go cold turkey and endure the withdrawal symptoms – some of which are so bad that she's left half-paralysed in bed, twitching, sweating and sobbing in agony, Glinda holding her hand for every searing minute of her recovery.
It's torturous to watch this sort of thing play out, but play out it does... as the weeks turn into months, the bruises slowly vanish, the scars fade, and Elphaba graduates from a wheelchair to a set of crutches.
As such, Glinda is almost relieved when Madam Morrible arrives with the details of Elphaba's sentence; if nothing else, it might just give her the incentive to fly off the handle like the good old days. The meeting takes place out in the garden, with Elphaba sitting peaceably under a chestnut tree, Glinda seated beside her... and Morrible towering in front of them, blotting out the sun.
"And just what the hell are you doing here?" Elphaba grumbles (and Glinda mentally punches the air). "Have you run out of backsides to kiss, or something?"
"I am here on behalf of the Wizard," Morrible fumes back. "He has decided to extend to you a most generous offer of clemencifity."
"No surprises that the cowardly old fart wouldn't deliver the offer in person."
"Do you want to hear this offer or not, Miss Elphaba? I very much doubt another will be forthcoming."
Elphaba scowls, but remains silent – much to Glinda's relief; as much as she likes to see the familiar prickly rebelliousness in action, she doesn't want to see Elphaba jailed for the rest of her life, or in front of a firing squad for that matter.
"Good. In the past, you've made no secret of desiring a very specific boon from the Wizard –"
A sudden tremor in the world around her shocked Glinda back into wakefulness; she heard shouting in the distance, and the sound of equipment being unloaded. Someone was moving her – no, somebody had dropped her.
"Careful with those damn things! They're being sent to the Empress."
Slowly, her sarcophagus was tilted upright, and the scent of orange blossoms once again flooded her nostrils...
They're alone, now. Morrible has given Elphaba some time to decide on whether or not she'll accept the Wizard's offer; she even went out of her way to say that she'd need time to consider all the possibilities at stake... which is such a patently nonsensical remark that even Glinda notices it: there are only two options to be found; either Elphaba can agree to the bargain, take the chance of achieving the one thing she's always wanted in life, and be accepted into the Wizard's government; or, she can refuse and spend the rest of her life in the solitary confinement cell of a maximum security prison.
And that's assuming that they don't just kill her and make it look like an accident before she gets within fifty yards of the place, so maybe there are more options.
But whatever the case, Glinda knows that this is one point in her friend's life when flying off the handle isn't an option: Elphaba needs to agree to the bargain. True, it'll mean that she'll have to betray her principles and work for the enemy; yes, the guilt and shame she'll suffer as a result will be horrific; and admittedly, Morrible did mention the distinct chance of her dying on the operating table. But the only alternative is a life sentence spent alone and in darkness. And more to the point, this offer will grant Elphaba everything she always wished for: she'll be given authority, respect, the love of the people, the means of putting her talents to good use, a chance of living an almost-normal life... and the opportunity for her and Glinda to work together, just like they'd always wanted.
There, in the shade of the chestnut tree, Elphaba looks uncertain for the first time in her life. "She's got to be lying," she whispers, clearly trying to convince herself more than anyone else. "There's no way she could possibly deliver on what she's offering. She said herself that she was only able to use a few spells of the Grimmerie-"
"But what if she's telling the truth, Elphie?"
"So what if she is? It doesn't mean anything, not while..." The fire in her eyes gutters and fades a little. "While he carries on destroying the lives of Animals all over Oz," she continues, visibly trying to hold on to her anger. "How can they ask me to work for him after everything he's done? Do they think they can bribe me into being his obedient lapdog? Do they think they'll have me parroting out every stupid, vacuous little statement he wants voiced?"
"It doesn't have to be like that," Glinda wheedles. "You can still fight for Animal Rights; I mean, you've seen how much effort he's putting into this bargain, he wants you to be on your side – maybe enough to accept a few concessiations to the deal. And even if he doesn't allow that, once you're part of his government you'll have the influence to make things the way you wanted, but the inside: you can countermand orders, you can delay orders for brainwashings or executions, you can persuade officials, you can even petition the Wizard himself. Accepting the bargain doesn't mean you'll have to give up everything, Elphie. Just some things."
Elphaba gives her a look of mingled admiration and depression. "Is it just me, or have you actually been learning something useful for once in your life?"
In spite of herself, Glinda smiles; a compliment and a dose of the old sarcasm! Maybe Elphaba can recover after all. "Well," she giggles, "it had to happen sooner or later." She refrains from mentioning that the political savvy she's just displayed has only been learned since Elphaba was recaptured, in preparation for the day when Glinda might have to use some political knowledge to help her; prior to then, she was the same bubble-headed party girl with no opinions, no skills and no influence – and no worth, either, she thought bitterly.
Meanwhile, Elphaba looks thoughtful... but she's clearly not convinced just yet. "Assuming the operation does work," she sighed. "Do you really think this is the right thing to do?"
"Absolutely," says Glinda automatically.
Once again, that look of admiring pride and self-conscious misery.
"You heard what Morrible said: if you turn this down, they'll lock you up and throw away the key; you'll die in prison, and we'll never see each other again. This is the only way you can get what you wanted. And it's the only way we can be together," she adds, before she can stop herself.
If she noticed that slip of the tongue, Elphaba doesn't comment on it. "She's wrong," she said at last. "Even if the procedure works as planned, it won't make the people love or respect me; you can't change public opinion that easily, no matter what that wrinkled old egomaniac thinks. As far as they're concerned, I'll still be the Wicked Witch of the West no matter how much I change."
Glinda winces: this is not the time for Elphaba to recover her old self and fly off the handle. She needs to keep her from getting too cynical about the agreement. "It won't be that way, Elphie: the point of the whole procedure is making sure you change in a way that they can accept."
"And what change is acceptable to the good people of Oz?" Elphaba snarls.
"Well, once the procedure's complete, you won't be wicked anymore!"
There's a horrible pause, as Glinda suddenly realizes that she's just said the worst thing she could have possibly said under the circumstances: all traces of defiance are gone from Elphie's face; now, more than anything else, she looks crushed and defeated. "I won't be wicked anymore," she echoes. There's a tremor in her voice, as if she's on the verge of tears. "Implying that I was?" She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Did you believe the rumours all along? Did you really think I was wicked?"
Glinda's stomach plunges to the heels of her shoes; suddenly, she can see the entire history of Elphaba's life sentence playing out before her eyes: the refusal of the bargain, the trial, the public humiliation, the transportation, the shaved head, the manacles, the cell, the darkness, the beatings, the long years in a tiny lightless room at the bottom of a converted mineshaft, the attempted suicides, the abuse by the guards, the slow descent into madness, and all because Glinda had opened her mouth too wide. She flings her arms around Elphaba, frantically pleading, "No, I didn't mean it like that; I'm so sorry, I just meant that you wouldn't be wicked to them-"
"It's okay," says Elphaba; the hurt is still raw in her voice, but at least she doesn't sound as if she's about to cry. "I understand. As long as I'm like this, they can't see me anything other than an unnatural monster, as Wickedness incarnate." She sighs. "And this is the only chance I'll get to change it. Very well then: you win. I'll accept the offer."
She stands, clearly about to follow Morrible's path towards the warden's office, but turns back at the last minute: "You're pretty much the only person in the Wizard's government I can trust at this point, Glinda: if this is the only way we can be together, then I don't want us separated ever again. From here on, we're friends. We don't ignore one another, we don't abuse each other, we don't abandon one another, and we don't betray each other. If I promise you that much, can you promise the same?"
"Without hesitation," says Glinda solemnly.
I owe her that much, she thinks. No more betrayals, no more cowardice; from here on, we work together.
But as she leads Elphaba inside, she can't help but wonder if – in persuading her to accept the bargain - she hasn't betrayed her already...
Light flooded Glinda's vision.
Someone had opened her sarcophagus, letting some dazzling white light from overhead blaze into her eyes; they'd also removed her respirator mask, which probably explained why she was awake. And she could breathe, now: she could finally breathe easily; the sense of being buried alive was gone, hopefully for good. She would have thanked her rescuer, but she was so groggy from the after-effects of the orange-blossom gas and her claustrophobia that she could barely move, let alone speak. So, she just stood in the open sarcophagus, enjoying the fresh air and wondering what the hell was going to happen next.
As she pondered this, the restraints holding her in place were swiftly undone, at long last freeing her arms and legs; but thanks to the last few hours of imprisonment, she was so numb that the moment the final clamp around her left arm was released, she immediately fell bonelessly forward out of the sarcophagus. Fortunately, someone had already prepared a stretcher, allowing her a fairly comfortable landing.
For what felt like centuries, she lay there in an exhausted heap; all around her, the blurry figures of technicians were disconnecting her from the tubes and wires that had kept her safe and monitored while inside the sarcophagus, and meticulously cleaning her body as they went. But Glinda could only stare blearily up at the light and think about the dreams she'd had while entombed within her sarcophagus. Occasionally, she would mumble aloud something, hoping that thing would start to make sense if she asked – until one of the technicians held a drinking straw to her mouth and she absently realized just how thirsty she actually was.
At some point, the stretcher started moving – she could tell because the lights overhead began to change position. With both her vision and sense of time perception shot to hell, it was impossible to guess how long this journey took or even where she was going. But eventually, she was gently hoisted out of the stretcher and into a chair. Then, as the indistinct figures of the technical crew began retreating from her sight, she felt a sharp pain in her arm; one of them had given her an injection.
Eventually, she felt the sense of weariness and disorientation trickling away, and realized that she was sitting in the otherwise deserted interior of... well, it looked like a glass-walled monorail. For some reason, she was the only passenger in the entire vehicle – and hers was the only chair, too. Outside the monorail, the shadow-streaked walls of an underground platform were about the only thing in sight... except for a tiny pool of light, at the centre of which Ambassador Hayfelt stood.
"You're very lucky, my dear," he announced calmly. "The other prisoners are being transported to the prison complex to await interrogation; you, on the other hand, are being sent directly to the Empress. And she's even arranged a very special transport to the palace just for you – and a glimpse of the oldest and proudest city of her mighty empire. Exemplar welcomes you, my dear..."
Then, the monorail started to move along the track. For perhaps twenty seconds, Glinda was out of the chair and trying to find a way of getting the door open; then, once it became clear that there'd been no way of even chipping the reinforced glass without the aid of her wand (which hadn't been seen since she was first captured) she sat down and watched the walls of the tunnel slowly dwindled until the monorail was aboveground, trundling through the night, along an elevated track through...
... through...
When she'd first seen the Emerald City, Glinda had known for a fact that it was the largest, grandest, most glitteringly magnificent city she'd ever laid eyes upon. And though she was more inclined to look upon the thoughts of her younger self as naive and often stupid, there was no denying the sheer size and grandeur of the Wizard's shining metropolis - with its dazzling green walls, the towering buildings, and the many hundreds of thousands that composed the populace.
Exemplar somehow outdid it.
From the moment the monorail emerged from the tunnel, it had been surrounded on all sides by colossal towers hundreds of stories tall, at once elegant and monolithic in their design, each one a single needle-sharp finger pointing toward the night sky. For the first time in years, Glinda felt dwarfed by the scale of a city around her, a feeling that only grew when she looked down and saw the vast canyon of roads hundreds of feet below her, thronged with people going about their night-time business. But most astonishingly of all was the very reason she could see any of this in the first place: the entire city was composed of some gleaming-white stone that gleamed like a beacon even in the half-light of the dusk; every single building, road, pathway and monument glowed an enticing white, from the deepest foundations to the highest spire, flooding the city with so much light it seemed as though the sun had never set. And this, in turn, allowed Glinda to see the many dozens of shapes that filed across the sky above her: ships suspended in the air by huge balloons, floating above the skyline and ferrying Oz-only-knew what across the city; human-sized metal darts that zipped madly out from the city hub towards the horizon as if they'd been shot from the barrel of a gun; and most commonly of all, the huge billboards hovering miles above the ground.
They weren't advertising anything, though: they were there as lessons. "BEWARE DEVIATION!" they proclaimed, silhouetted figures above the slogans displaying horrific features – crab claws, tentacles and slug-tails in place of feet. "BEWARE DISTORTION! TRUST IN OUR EMPRESS AND CLEANSE THE MONSTERS FROM OUR MIDST!" In other billboards, the familiar smooth skin and unending smiles of the Purified were on display, promising "the bliss of perfection" to those deserving of it. Less often, there'd be an image of the empress, a tall, radiant figure shrouded in glowing white robes, her hands outstretched as if to embrace the new arrivals. And last but certainly not least, there was the one lone billboard hovering above the gates of the city and any thoroughfares for new arrivals: "WELCOME TO EXEMPLAR," it proclaimed, "THE TRUEST CHILD OF UNBRIDLED RADIANCE."
Eventually, the monorail's destination appeared before them: the tallest building in the entire city, it consisted of three monolithic towers stretching out from a vast cathedral-like base. Each tower was tipped with a diamond-shaped roof and encrusted along its length with beautiful statuary and murals, though it was difficult to guess at what any of them depicted at this distance, even with half the city providing light to see it by. What could be seen was the statue standing between the three towers, a tall, saintly woman cloaked in a face-concealing robe, arms once again outstretched in welcoming - again, a clear depiction of the Empress; this building could only be the palace that she'd been told about.
Minutes passed, with Glinda paralysed with fear and amazement at the sight of everything around her, and the monorail continuing its slow journey towards the palace; but eventually, the entrance to a tunnel yawned open in the wall before them, and then the monorail was surrounded by nothing but blackness.
She wasn't sure what might happen next: however, one possibility she expected was for the monorail to grind to a halt inside an underground train station of pure white marble, decorated with statues of bold heroes and magnificent beasts; there, she'd be escorted by guards along a narrow, winding series of corridors that led the Empress' throne room. But given just how much this strange country was doing in order to confuse and subvert her expectations at every turn, would that really be the case?
No sooner had she thought those words, when she felt a gust of magic sweep into the carriage towards her; as clumsy with magic as she could be at times, even she could recognize a spell of transportation when she felt it.
But then she blinked –
- And when she opened her eyes again, she was no longer aboard the monorail.
She was standing in the middle of an enormous stone hall, apparently made from the same glowing white substance that the rest of the city had been built from. Looking around, it was immediately clear to Glinda that this was some kind of throne room: it had the same dimensions as the Wizard's throne room back in the Emerald City, from the wide flight of stairs to the expansive galleries overlooking the room, though the colour scheme was much brighter of course. There was even a huge throne at the far end of the hall, made of burnished gold and gleaming platinum, and left curiously unoccupied. Indeed, the entire room was empty; there weren't even guards standing by the doors.
All the same, Glinda couldn't shake the feeling of being watched from every single angle, even though she could clearly see that the hall was deserted. So, if only to assuage her own nervousness, she double-checked the room: nobody standing by the doors, nobody lurking in the galleries, nobody sitting on the throne, nobody standing behind the throne, nobody hiding behind the columns, and nobody sneaking up behind her. She took a deep breath, reassured herself that nobody was there, and tried to stay calm; it didn't work: after all, the Empress – whoever she was – was supposed to meet her here and explain why she'd been captured and imprisoned in the first place. If nobody was there, then what was the point of this meeting? But then, now that she thought about it, would the meeting really be such a good thing? After all, this was the same dictator who'd permitted a trio of flying mantelpieces to burn a group of protesters alive.
Sighing furiously, Glinda ran through her routine of checking the room one last time: nobody standing by the doors, nobody lurking in the galleries, nobody sitting on the throne, nobody standing behind the th-
Glinda yelped in shock: someone had just emerged from behind the throne, a tall, spindly figure clad all in black, from the crisp tunic and trousers to the fine leather gloves and boots. The only disruption to this colour scheme was the silver mask he wore over his face: it bore a close resemblance to the faces on the sarcophagus lids, but this one was more detailed; it had a much more distinctive shape to it, with actual cheekbones and a chin, though the look of unnatural calm on the face was almost identical. But that wasn't what had caught Glinda's eye: what had was the array of weapons attached to the intruder's belt, specifically the wide-barrelled handgun and the long, thin blade - a wicked cutting edge barely concealed by the gold-plated scabbard.
But he wasn't alone in the room, either: all of a sudden, there were guards stationed at the door, and on either side of the throne, too – though Glinda hadn't heard anyone entering. Had they been teleported into the room, or had they just been invisible and waiting for her? More importantly, did this mean that the Empress was here to? Or-
"Glinda."
There was a deathly pause, as Glinda very slowly turned to face the speaker.
Standing less than three feet away from her, clad in the same resplendent white robes worn by her statue and by the posters in the sky outside, stood the Empress of Unbridled Radiance. She was tall and slender, her skin as pale and as smooth as that of a porcelain doll, her hair dark, long and lustrous; her face was undeniably beautiful, from the deep crimson lips smiling in welcome, to the eyes that glittered like stars. But then, everything about her seemed impossibly beautiful, right down to the simple grace with which she strode calmly towards Glinda. In fact, the only thing she found odd about the Empress' was that, other than her immaculate garb, the only sign of her authority and wealth was the plain silver circlet she wore across her brow.
But all of this – the crown, the robes, the perfection of her face, skin and body – the more Glinda looked at it, the more it became apparent that it was all secondary to one important fact:
The Empress was none other than Elphaba Thropp.
True, her once-green skin was now as pale and smooth as ivory, but there was no mistaking the distinctive curve of the face and the layout of the features: this woman was Elphaba, somehow stripped of emerald colouration, but still Elphaba regardless.
"Welcome back," the Empress / Elphaba continued, her voice calm and unemotional. "It's been too long."
Glinda struggled to find a response, but she couldn't: the sheer shock had frozen her vocal cords.
"And yet, your betrayal still stings." There was a note of sorrow in the Empress' voice, now; unlike the Purified, her expression and her emotions could change. "We promised each other that there'd be no further separations, that we would never again abandon each other. And yet somehow, here we are..." She shakes her head. "Why did you betray me, Glinda? How did our friendship falter, in the end? I thought you were as dedicated to the mission as I was; I thought that I could count on your support when I needed it. And yet, you left me... and you did your very best to destroy me."
This was a nightmare – it had to be; it was the only logical explanation for everything she'd experienced so far. This couldn't be reality, not when she'd found herself in a world where Elphaba had somehow become an Empress and now stood here demanding explanations for betrayals; no, no, in the real world, she was fast asleep in bed, at Shiz most likely, and this was all just a bad dream induced by a few too many cocktails at the previous evening's dance at the Ozdust.
But then, a far worse idea occurred to Glinda's shock-mangled brain: what if she'd actually died and gone to hell? What if the accident at Kiamo Ko had killed her, and everything she'd experienced since then had been part of her eternal punishment? The more she thought about it, the more terrifyingly possible it sounded: getting stranded in a strange land and being separated from Elphaba – a punishment for having refused to help her back when she could have joined her fight against the Wizard; those awful, awful dreams of seeing Elphaba captured and broken – fitting payback for all the times Glinda had wished that her friend had chosen to betray her principals and join her in the Wizard's service; the experiences on-board the train, being forced to watch those protesters being murdered and being betrayed by an elite "friend" – how else would you punish someone who'd known what awful things that had been done in the Wizard's name and chosen to ignore it in favour of wealth and privilege? And the imprisonment in the sarcophagus, that could only be divine vengeance for allowing the imprisonment and brainwashing of Animals. But of course, the worst had been saved for last: here was Elphaba herself, having been allowed into some glorious afterlife that Glinda would almost certainly never see, demanding to know why she'd been betrayed - why Glinda had told Morrible and the Wizard how to bring her out of hiding, and gotten Nessarose killed as a result.
No, that wasn't the worst. Any minute now, Fiyero would be here too, still bloody and broken from all the tortures visited upon him, demanding to know why he'd been left to such a horrible fate...
Once again, her rational mind tried to inform her that there was no proof that any of this was true. Once again, it was ignored: bewildered by everything she'd seen and heard so far, and with the concept of eternal damnation dangling horrifically at the very front of her mind, Glinda was on the verge of tears.
"We were friends once," Elphaba / The Empress whispered. "I thought I could trust you; was it really too much to hope that you'd remain my friend?"
That did it: Glinda started to cry; deep, lung-clenching sobs that shook her entire body, and tears that all but blinded her. As she did so, the Empress swept forward and wrapped her arms around Glinda, enveloping her in a warm embrace; for the next minute or so, she held her there, stroking her back – just as Glinda had done for Elphaba in the dream. As for Glinda herself, she could only weep and pathetically apologize for every act of wrongdoing she'd ever committed in her entire life.
But eventually, her tears dried and her crying dwindled to a halt, and Glinda found herself still reassuringly ensconced in her friend's arms. "Is this real?" she asked nobody in particular.
"Funny you should say that," said the Empress. "As I recall, the last time I saw you in person, you were missing an arm; you were scarred quite extensively too. You developed into an impressive student of magic, but there are some injuries that even you couldn't heal without my aid. So, your presence here is... something of a paradox."
Glinda blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You have your mage-surgeons, I have mine: it might be possible to temporarily restore your old appearance... but the question is, why would you want to? You've made it painfully clear that you weren't interested in embracing beauty, and I doubt you'd ever defy those stubbornly-held beliefs of yours, least of all on some foolhardy quest into the capital." Her voice turned cold. "You could, of course, be a decoy sent to distract the attention of my scouts: you've certainly made a big enough spectacle of yourself, to say the least. But you're much too good an actor to be just a distraction; I mean, that dress was burnt to ashes decades ago, and how would you have been able to impersonate a voice that didn't survive long enough to be recorded? And a wand? As I recall, Glinda Upland's wand was snapped in half more than thirty years ago. So, I must ask: who are you?"
"You know who I am," Glinda protested.
"If you claim to be Glinda Upland, you admit to being a traitor to Unbridled Radiance, in violation of every single one of the Radiant Laws, and directly responsible for rebellion against our most sacred principles. If you claim to be one of her servants in disguise, then you are still guilty, albeit of lesser offenses but still guilty. And if you claim to be something else – a temporal echo, an illusion with a mind of its own, a living memory escaped from some veteran's head, or something even more mysterious... well, I'm sorry, but you need to account for yourself, and if you can't, then you must permit my specialists to determine the answers to my questions."
None of this made any sense to Glinda: either she was slipping back into a nightmare, or this was the last moment before divine punishment began anew. "Elphie, I don't understand what you mean, I-"
"Shhh," the Empress whispered, her voice soft and comforting. Stretching out her left hand, she gently stroked Glinda's cheek, caressing her face with slender, delicate fingers and lulling her eyes shut. "It's going to be okay, Glinda," she promised. "Everything's going to be okay. I'll be here for you. No matter what happens, I'll be here for you..."
And then, a stabbing pain tore through Glinda's stomach; eyes opening wider than ever before, she stared down at her body in disbelief - and saw a blade of solid ice protruding from her belly. And as it sliced cruelly into her flesh, a deep crimson flower of blood began steadily blossoming across her dress.
With one swift movement of her hand, Elphaba withdrew the blade and let it melt back into nonexistence; Glinda gasped at the renewed pain, one hand immediately flying to the wound in her gut, the other grasping at thin air in a desperate attempt to keep herself upright. But as she began to topple, Elphaba – no, the Empress – reached out and scooped her up in mid-fall.
"Shhh," she whispered. "It'll all be over in a minute. Just a few more seconds of pain, and then you'll be at peace forevermore."
"Elphaba," Glinda choked out, weak and unfocussed from blood loss. "W... where's Elphaba?"
"The woman you called Elphaba died a very long time ago, my dear. I am the Radiant Empress, and that is all I need be." And with that, she lowered Glinda down into the puddle of blood that had formed beneath her. "Sleep well," she whispered. "Don't wake up..."
The last thing Glinda saw before she lost consciousness was the Empress' robe, still unblemished white, somehow untouched by the blood she'd spilled on it.
A/N: Will Glinda survive? What awaits Elphaba and Dorothy in Greenspectre? What revelations will a meeting with the mysterious Great Mentor provide? These details and more in the next chapter!