A/N: Hello again, ladies and gents; this latest chapter is going to be a bit shorter than my usual output, in part because it's meant to be something of a breather as far as action goes (because, as Nami Swannn rightly pointed out, Glinda and Elphaba have been through hell and deserve a break by now), butalso because it's meant to act as a springboard into the events of the next few chapters. As always, I leave you to be the judge of how well it works.
PS: LolaVerdigris, thank you so much for your review; I hope I can continue wiriting this story to the standards of writing quality and creativity that you've enjoyed thus far.
So, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Wicked's not mine. I've had it tested very thoroughly.
What with the chaos raging back and forth across the decks of The Triumph, the arrival of the Deviant Nations' border patrol vessel went almost completely unnoticed. By that stage, there was nobody left on the bridge to work the instruments that would have detected the ship's approach; those unlucky few who remained on the top deck were – for one reason or another – in no fit state to alert the rest of the crew to the enemy ship hovering above them; and of course, the rest of the crew was still huddled below decks, busying themselves with increasingly desperate attempts to escape (most of which were entirely futile, given that the portal had closed in the intervening confusion).
As such, the patrol ship was able to go about its business in peace: once its crew was certain that they weren't in any danger of being spotted and that another portal wasn't due to open at some point in the next few hours, they scanned the becalmed airships for any sign of the target they'd been sent to locate; it took much less effort than originally expected, for halfway through the initial scan, the target herself chose that moment to clamber onto the anchored cargo transport's deck.
Even at this distance, it was clear that she matched the description that Greenspectre control had provided to a T: green skin, dark hair, pointed hat – and of course, the enchanted broomstick. Furthermore, she was slowly hauling a bloodied figure across the gangway and shouting for assistance.
So, pausing only to report the situation and call for reinforcements, the patrol ship gunned its engines and descended towards the warship. It took several tense minutes of negotiation to convince the target that they were there to help, but eventually they were allowed close enough to send in a medical team; with the patrol ship's guns trained carefully on The Triumph's deck just in case any of the U.R. crewmembers decided to rally, the medics slowly went about stabilizing their newest guests.
The target (designated as "Elphaba Thropp") was unharmed, for the most part: other than a few bumps and bruises, the most serious injuries she'd sustained were a few unpleasant looking cuts to her arms and legs – apparently sustained from crashing into the bridge windows.
The blood-streaked figure that Elphaba had been lugging around ("Glinda Upland," or so the target called her) was a much more serious case: on top of numerous sprains and broken bones, she was sporting third-degree burns on her right hand, and a deep laceration wound on her torso; worse still, she looked to be unconscious from blood loss. And while the source of the injury didn't appear to have done too much damage to the internal organs, the wound itself looked to have been corrupted with powerful magical energies – not something that could be treated by the average field medic.
And then there was the man (presently unnamed) found lying next to Glinda in the transport's cargo hold, and if her condition had seemed grave, his was almost beyond hope: half-dead from blood-loss, unconscious, broken-nosed, apparently concussed, and sporting a pair of brutal-looking gunshot wounds that would probably leave him crippled in his arm and leg if he survived.
Of course, the chances of that happening – already dangerously slender – were looking unlikelier by the second; quite apart from the fact that a patrol ship's medics simply weren't equipped to deal with these kinds of injuries, the crew of the warship were starting to emerge from below decks, many of them clearly itching for a fight.
Fortunately, it was at that point that the reinforcements finally arrived, propelled across the border by judicious use of acceleration spells: two heavy frigates and a hospital craft – the former to escort the U.R. warship back to Greenspectre for processing, the latter to attend to the wounded among the targets.
Of course, it wasn't nearly as simple as it sounded: it took the better part of an hour to funnel the healthy members of the warship's crew into a suitably-guarded holding area and direct the wounded among them onto the medical craft; this in itself was no easy task, considering that it required the U.R. servicemen to leave themselves at the mercy of physicians who were clearly Distorted. Even though most of them were unskilled rookies even greener than the target, there was no denying that they were all loyal men of Unbridled Radiance: as soon as they realized what was happening and where they were going, most of them attempted to attack the paramedics or just commit suicide – though actually accomplishing either was a different matter. It took Elphaba's terrifying presence on the deck to cow the reluctant crewmen into submission, even if she was only there to insist that the transport's "passengers" receive treatment first (an issue that probably would have spiralled out of control if the hospital craft's captain hadn't agreed to assign the best doctors aboard to the task of healing Elphaba's badly-injured associates).
And then there was the problem of getting the battered warship in motion: though the damage done to the ship in Elphaba's attack was minimal, it still took some time for the technicians to get used to the ridiculously streamlined control scheme so often utilized by Unbridled Radiance's airships. Eventually, the captains of the frigates decided it would be best to have The Triumph firmly tethered to both ships, allowing them to tow it along if control over the ship lapsed; thankfully, that solution brought the majority of their problems to an end.
So, after a routine check of various systems and tethers, the small cluster of airships finally set off towards the safety of the Deviant Nations. As they flew, even the captains had to laugh at what a sight it would have made to anyone watching: a tiny patrol vessel leading the charge, two frigates in the middle dragging along a U.R. warship, and an almost sheepish-looking hospital craft bringing up the rear – it must have looked like the weirdest regatta fleet in naval history.
"And there won't be anybody here to see us for another couple of hours," one of the lieutenants was heard to say. "I almost wish that damn portal was still open. What a sight this would be for the Empress, eh?"
Unbeknownst to him and all other crewmembers, something far below them was watching; something with no skin and just a few too many arms. It chuckled gleefully as it watched the fleet drift away, filling the desolate canyons of No-Man's Land with the spine-freezing echo of its all-too-recognizable laughter.
"ONE battered little doll back tothe toyshop," it purred. "You'll be BACK, Green Girl. You'll be back for the LOST little toys wandering my garden; you'll WANT the Ragdoll as much as I want my SWEET little darling..."
Elphaba couldn't sit still.
Perhaps half an hour ago, she'd been given a seat in the battered steel corridor outside operating theatre #5, and told to wait there until called upon. At the time, she'd been all too willing to comply: after all, Glinda had been rescued and was being patched up in the room beyond; plus, Elphaba didn't have too many healing spells in her repertoire, so there wasn't much else she could do under the circumstances except sit still and hope for the best.
But the waiting... the waiting was intolerable. She'd never been particularly tolerant of being forced to sit and wait during a crisis, and this particular variant on the "the waiting game" was doing its level best to shred her nerves into confetti. After about a minute and a half of waiting, she was out of her chair and marching continuously up and down the hallway like a clockwork soldier all wound up, and before she knew it, she couldn't stop.
Of course, it wasn't just impatience. And it wasn't just the crushing sensation of helplessness that came from knowing that her talents were effectively useless in this situation (especially with the Grimmerie still confiscated); that in itself would have been more than enough to drive her to the very brink of insanity. No, what had her out of her seat and pacing up and down the corridor was the simple fact that Glinda might not make it out of this debacle alive: Elphaba had seen the injuries – the gash criss-crossed upon her stomach, the scorched hand, the crooked limbs, the blood that had poured down her front and across the floor when she'd stood up... And how long had she been like that? How much blood had she lost before the medics had finally wrapped her up in stasis bandages and hauled her onto the hospital ship?
It's happening again, she thought despairingly. One of my friends is going to die and there's absolutely nothing I can do to stop it. Dr Dillamond, Nessarose, Fiyero... and now, Glinda. Is Chistery going to be next? One way or another, that's how it's always going to be: I'll be too late, out of reach, lose control, or just fail in the attempt.
She shook herself, and tried to focus on something else. After all, with such an eventful morning, there had to be something else to draw her attention: the journey by broomstick, the wild blur of the landscape around her, the adrenaline rush that freedom and sheer speed had granted; or perhaps the assault on the warship, the familiar triumph of seeing her enemies run in fear, and the feeling of magic rushing through her veins – more potent than any ever before, perhaps the result of spending hours in magical nullification. There was even the interesting issue of the people who'd arrived to help her: though clearly loyal soldiers of the Deviant Nations, most of them weren't members of the Irredeemables or even visibly altered in any way; in fact, most of them were perfectly ordinary human beings, only distinguishable from Ozian guardsmen by their dark grey uniforms - and their oddly casual behaviour around Elphaba and the weirdly-modified surgeons of the hospital ship.
But in the end, all she could think of was Glinda, or more accurately, what she'd been wearing when Elphaba had found her. It was silly of her to think of it at a time like this, and probably more to do with desperate coping strategies than anything sane, but looking back she found it almost hilarious; the sight of Glinda Upland – who barely deigned to look at any article of clothing that didn't have a price of at least three digits, who never wore anything that didn't exactlymatch the fashion trends of the month, who grumbled like a thunderstorm at the prospect of wearing a colour other than some variation on white, pink, blue or gold –wearing a mechanic's boiler suit. Elphaba would have laughed if the situation had felt a bit less dire. In fact, the only thing stopping it from actually being hilarious was the thought of what might have driven her to wear it as a disguise.
What had happened to Glinda in Unbridled Radiance? She'd seen the extent of her injuries, not to mention the dark circles under her eyes and the dirt caked on her face, but that honestly didn't indicate much except for a great deal of stress (which was hardly a surprise, all things considered). What had she experienced out beyond the opposite border of No-Man's Land? What had she seen? What had she done to get herself this far? And what had been done to her?
She thought back to what Glinda had said, in the last few seconds before she'd lost consciousness:
"Please... tell me this isn't a dream; tell me I'm not hallucinating, that I'm not about to be dragged back to hell - anything you like... just tell me that this is real."
What had Glinda been subjected to if her only recourse had been to imagine that it was hell?
"Miss Elphaba?"
She looked up from the pitted iron deckplates, and realized that one of the ship's medical specialists was standing in the doorway: as expected, his gown was now covered in a significant amount of blood, as was the curious ruff of transparent skin and bone spines his neck had been sculpted into. Thankfully, his expression didn't appear especially grave; unfortunately, this was because the doctor's mouth and nose had been replaced with a set of chitinous mouthparts reminiscent of a praying mantis's, and his face didn't convey expression very well (though it would seem to confirm Kiln's remark that other mage-surgeons were a lot more flamboyant when it came to self-modification).
"We managed to seal the wound and knit most of the bones back together," he intoned, "But unfortunately, we've hit a snag in preventing further blood loss."
Elphaba's heart sank. "What do you mean?" she asked tentatively.
"One of the injuries inflicted on your friend was inflicted with a very potent spell. As far as I can tell, it was originally intended to paralyse her; but very recently, another spell was cast on her to modify the original... and it's freezing her blood."
"There's nothing you can do about it?"
"Normally, I'd be able to cleanse the spell from her body, either magically or chemically. But in this case, the magic cast upon her is too potent to dispel... and it's very distinctive power as well." The specialist sighed, eyes briefly downcast. "It would seem that on her way out of Unbridled Radiance, your friend had a face-to-face encounter with the Radiant Empress."
Oh no, no, no, no... Elphaba shook herself, trying to clear her thoughts without much success: No wonder she was talking about what the Empress had planned for her – she must have heard about it first-hand! And I was wondering why she was so scared, why she thought she was hallucinating or in hell... And somehow, another of my friends is going to die because of me – because, for all intents and purposes, I DID IT-
"... which is why I'm going to need your help for the final stage," continued the specialist.
"Sorry?"
Without saying a word, the specialist stood aside, allowing her to see into the blood-spattered operating theatre behind him: at the opposite end of the room, Glinda lay on a surgical table, eyes closed, her body deathly still; even with most of her body lost behind curtains and surgical equipment, Elphaba couldn't fail to notice the blood caked on her bare midriff and the pale, greyish tint to her skin. But between her and the table, there stood a wrought-iron lectern, and sitting on it was a familiar leather-bound book.
The Grimmerie.
"To the best of my knowledge," said the specialist, "There's only one book of spells powerful enough to dispel enchantments worked by the Empress; furthermore, from what the Great Mentor and Doctor Kiln have told me, there's only one individual – apart from the Empress herself – who's capable of flawlessly translating its contents."
"But how... when did-"
"It was teleported onto this ship less than a few hours ago, apparently at the request of the Great Mentor; it seems she knew that you would require it."
Elphaba fought a very powerful urge to bang her head against the wall: first Kiln, now the Mentor – they'd both been manipulating her from the moment she'd arrived in Greenspectre! They'd planted the broom, they'd given her the tools to find Glinda, they'd made sure that the anti-magic enchantments were routinely deactivated, and they'd made sure that she'd known. And when Unbridled Radiance had bombed Greenspectre, the Mentor had sent Kiln to make sure that Elphaba was treated as quickly as possible. They two of them had even arranged ships to provide backup for when she actually needed to head over the border. As for why they'd done this, and why they hadn't just given her what she'd needed instead of playing cloak and dagger, that was something she'd have to determine later, when Glinda wasn't in danger of expiring.
Stepping into the operating theatre and up to the lectern, she peered over its edge at the figure lying prone on the table: Glinda's breathing, though worryingly tense, seemed healthy enough for the moment, but her skin was looking paler and sicklier by the minute. "How long do we have before the curse goes terminal?" she asked quietly.
"About an hour."
"Then I'd best get to work. And no interruptions," she added sharply. "The spells in this book have a nasty way of backfiring if they're spoken incorrectly."
"I have been briefed extensively on the subject, I assure you..."
Elphaba barely even heard him; she was already leafing through the pages, allowing her instinctive fluency in the spellbook's incomprehensible language to guide her across the lines of arcane glyphs and towards a chapter that might be useful: she knew there had to be a spell that could undo the curse that was freezing its way through Glinda's veins here; after all, with the sheer variety of techniques Elphaba had already used, would it really be such a stretch to imagine that there'd be a cure for something as comparatively mundane as hexed blood? With spells that could allow cripples to walk, grant monkeys the gift of flight, and even grant a dying man life independent of his heart, it was almost guaranteed!
And what about the spell she'd been casting when Fiyero had-
No. No, she couldn't afford to think like this. She couldn't lose confidence in herself now: Glinda's survival depended on her casting this spell – quickly, carefully, and without error. This was not going to be like what had happened to Fiyero. This time, it was within her power to save the life of a friend and this time she had more than enough time to do it right for once in her life.
It took several minutes, but at last she found the page she'd been looking for – in much the same weird instinctive manner that she'd found her way to the last few dozen spells of the Grimmerie she'd used. From what little Elphaba could intuit from the ancient text, the spell the page detailed appeared to be exactly what she was looking for: an enchantment to cleanse the blood of impurities and poisons. Of course, actually getting it to work was completely different story... but at this point, she didn't have the time to second-guess herself.
So, with one eye on the page in front of her and the other focussed on Glinda's unconscious body, Elphaba began to chant.
At first she could only speak the words slowly, hesitantly, every fibre of her being desperate to keep herself from muddling the incantation through unnecessary haste; but as she reached the second line on the page, her breathing steadied, and slowly but surely, the chanting began to pick up speed, the enunciation becoming smoother and more elegant – until what had started as a tentative, apprehensive stutter of whispering had transformed into a fluid, confident intonation that rolled and rippled across the operating theatre with a strength that rivalled her glory days in Oz.
And as she chanted, she felt vast tendrils of magic slowly take shape in the air around her, invisible to the naked eye, but to her thaumaturgical senses, seemingly drawn in multicoloured lines across thin air; it was almost as if she was sketching something into existence, some colossal plant with roots and vines now slowly reaching out to embrace the figure lying on the table in front of her.
Somewhere in the back of Elphaba's mind, an unpleasant voice whispered, You're almost halfway through the spell: this is where you make a mistake, remember? This is where you mispronounce a word and the whole thing collapses in on itself and burns Glinda alive. You know it's going to happen, so just stop chanting while you've still got the chance; you know it's only going to be worse if you keep on chanting. Stop now, while there's still a chance of making reparations. If you let it pass the middle-point, then you'll have no way of stopping the backlash from killing her. And then you'll have killed your best friend for nothing – just like you killed Fiyero.
Furiously derailing this hateful train of thought, she did her best to quash the incoming wave of self-distrust and carry on chanting. She was past the midway, now, hurtling towards the climax of the spell: she could sense the tendrils of magic slowly wrapping themselves around Glinda's body, permeating flesh and bone as they sought out the corruption of the Empress's curse. But far from looking healthier as the tide of energy swept across her, Glinda looked just as grey and deathly as before – if not worse.
But then the finale of the spell: suddenly Glinda was bathed in a familiar emerald-green light as the curling grip of magic around her dissolved into a cloud of free-floating energies that –hopefully – took any corruption found in her circulatory system with it. Then, Elphaba almost shouted the last word of the spell, scattering the cloud into nothingness; what remained the tendrils finally released their hold, unceremoniously dissipating back into thin air and leaving Glinda alone on the slab.
There was an ominous pause as the specialist quietly went about checking the patient's vital signs. Eventually, his mouthparts quirked upwards into some rough semblance of a smile, and he said, "It appears that you were successful, Miss Elphaba; the curse has been completely purged from your friend's body."
Elphaba sagged with relief. "That's... w... wonderful news," she mumbled breathlessly; suddenly, the weight of a night without any proper kind of sleep was pressing down on her, slowly forcing her into the soft porous earth beneath her feet (even though logic politely reminded her that she was still on an airship). "Wha... what... what happens now?"
"Well, I would imagine that we wait for her to regain consciousness. It may take some time."
"Oh... can I... can I wait in here, then? I'm feeling kind of tired but I... I don't want to leave her alone..." Her vision was blurring very slightly, and her knees felt like they were about to buckle.
The specialist nodded, calmly drawing the chair from the corridor with a long, serpentine arm. "You can relax for the time being," he informed her as she collapsed onto the cushions. "We have at least four hours before we reach Greenspectre."
"Why aren't we using... the magical acky..." She shook herself, trying to stay awake enough to remain coherent. "The magic acceleration enchantment?"
"We're trying to avoid unnecessary stress on the hull. Plus, we're not in any hurry."
"Oh... fair enough. You sure I'm... I'm no longer needed? You don't need the Grimmerie for one of the other patients?"
"If we do, you will be the first to know."
"Alright then," she mumbled, and let her head gently loll forward. "G'dnight..."
The last thing she saw, before her eyes finally slid shut and sleep descended on her, was Glinda, her skin slowly returning to normal, her breathing slow and relaxed.
Then darkness enveloped her, and she knew no more.
Much to Dorothy's surprise, the guards were oddly unconcerned by the sight of Elphaba blasting the window open and rocketing off into the morning sky.
True, they hadn't exactly been casual about the situation, but there was something vaguely rehearsed about their actions, as if they'd been expecting this – a fact that only seemed all the more blatant when Dorothy noticed that the guards had requested that a glazier follow them into the room. Furthermore, she hadn't gotten into any sort of trouble over keeping the broom and the map a secret: she'd simply been escorted out of the room and told that she'd have to stay somewhere else while the windowpanes were replaced.
In the end, Vara and Harker were called to look after her, and they took her downstairs to one of the smaller dining chambers for breakfast – and for a great deal of conversation, of course. Having noticed the fact that Dorothy had seemed more interested in asking questions about the Deviant Nations and Unbridled Radiance, Vara took this opportunity to bombard her with questions about her past for a change: what world she'd originally come from, where she'd grown up, what her life had been like, how large her family had been… it seemed as though the blue-scaled woman was almost as good at asking questions as she was at answering them, for Dorothy found herself replying almost automatically; of course, she'd been almost completely silent about life before her arrival in Oz ever since she'd found herself in this strange world-beyond-Oz, and she was desperate to take her mind off every other nightmarish thing she'd seen in the last day or two, so in hindsight it wasn't all that surprising that Dorothy found herself eagerly replying.
She talked about Kansas, about the farm and all its many buildings, rooms and odd corners that she'd explored so diligently; about Aunty Em and Uncle Henry, how they'd taken her in after her parents had died; about her chores on the farm, what she did in her spare time, of Toto and the other resident animals (though she had to clarify that none of them could talk); she even went so far as to talk about the twister that had dragged her house out of Kansas and deposited it in Munchkinland. For her part, Vara listened avidly, asking more questions when something needed explaining; she was utterly astonished by the absence of magic in Dorothy's home life, the lack of airships in the skies over Kansas – even the distance between the Gale farm and the nearest town startled her. But she seemed happy that the war between Unbridled Radiance and the Deviant Nations hadn't reached Kansas yet, and even happier still that Dorothy had grown up in a land at peace.
"I've heard some of the strategists claim that, sooner or later, every civilized country in this world will be forced into the war," she said, her tone almost gloomy for a moment or two. "Still," she added brightly, "At least some of them will end up on our side, right?"
"We can but hope," Harker grunted. "Course, we might as well hope the war's over before it comes to that, eh? At the very least, we can hope U.R. runs out of Clarity at some point."
Harker had barely said a word over the last few hours of discussion; most of the time he hadn't even bothered to look up from his plate of scrambled eggs, and other than the occasional sideways glance at the mention of Dorothy travelling to another world by house, he might as well have been eating breakfast alone.
"That reminds me," said Dorothy. "Last night, during the gas attack on the palace…" She took a deep breath; this was something that had been worrying away at the back of her mind for quite a while now, ever since she'd heard Elphaba's inexplicable confession. Once the bombing was over and the Witch was awake again, she'd tried asking her about it – the key word being "tried"; every time Dorothy almost plucked up the courage to ask about it, she found herself losing confidence and giving up. Either it was the thought of sparking Elphaba's none-too-pleasant temper, or just the sheer impossibility of the question. How was it possible to just ask someone if their family hated them entirely out of the blue?
She swallowed, and continued: "Before you caught up with me that night, I heard Elphaba saying… some very strange things."
"Not all that surprisin'," said Harker. "Clarity messes with your head; it loosens the valves on everythin' you keep locked away, makes you talk about all sorts of things you'd never say if your mind was in one piece."
"But does that mean that Elphaba was just… talking gibberish?"
"Of course she was talking gibberish; that's what Clarity talk is. More than half the time the poor bastards (Vara shot Harker a disapproving glare) who've breathed it in are talking about things which only make sense to themselves."
"No, no, no, that's not what I meant…" Dorothy took another deep breath. "What I meant was, if people who've breathed Clarity all talk like that, does that mean that none of what Elphaba said was true?"
"Why? What did she say?"
And here was the moment that Dorothy had been dreading. "She said…" She swallowed hard; maybe it would be better if she just admitted a little of what she'd heard. "She said something about her family hating her."
There was an awkward pause.
"Yes," said Harker quietly. "That sounds pretty true to Elphaba."
Vara's eyes narrowed. "And just how do you know that? The last time we talked about her, you told me very succinctly that you didn't know that much about Miss Thropp; now, all of a sudden, you do. Care to explain?"
"Is it something to do with what happened before the memory smelting?" Dorothy asked, hoping against hope that she'd somehow found a key to unravelling the mysteries surrounding them at present.
Because he had no eyes to widen, Harker's reaction was very subtle and only noticeable by the sight of his jaw dropping ever-so-slightly. A moment later, it was gone. Suddenly as dull and blasé as ever, he calmly announced, "I can neither confirm nor deny…"
Vara laughed – but not quite as enthusiastically as usual.
And then, just as Dorothy was starting to wonder if anyone could offer a concrete answer to the question, there was a muted beeping noise from somewhere very nearby; it turned out to be coming from a tiny patch of scales on Vara's left wrist, now inexplicably flashing an urgent red. Without commenting or even bothering to look surprised by this development, Vara put her wrist to her ear, listening carefully to the bleeping scales for perhaps thirty seconds. "Incoming reports from the skyharbour," she said at last. "It seems Elphaba's back, and she's brought friends with her."
"Friends?" Dorothy echoed. What happened to only rescuing her best friend? She wondered silently.
"More specifically, half a shipload of prisoners fresh from Unbridled Radiance, and the rescue craft the border guard sent to pick her up... plus one unconscious female, currently en route to the Hallcroft Secure Medical Facility for recuperation and additional treatment."
There was another beep from the wrist-scales, and Vara frowned. "It says that you're wanted down there, too."
"What? Why?"
"Apparently they doctors are a little concerned that you weren't taken to see them immediately after arriving in Greenspecre; they're worried you might be feeling a few after-effects from your meeting with the Hellion. I can delay this if you like, but-"
"No!" Dorothy yelped, slightly louder than she'd originally intended. "I don't have any problems with paying a visit now. None at all."
At this, Vara and Harker did their best to hide amused smiles behind their hands. On the upside, the two of them had the decency not to laugh at Dorothy's obvious agitation as they lead her out of the dining chamber, through the winding labyrinth of corridors, then down a long flight of stairs leading towards the palace's airship dock. For her part, Dorothy didn't care about being laughed at: the idea of the Hellion's paralysing touch – or something much worse – remaining with her, just waiting for the right moment to spark to life and leave her helpless... it was almost too horrible to imagine.
Thankfully, the hospital was only a short airship ride from the palace, about fifteen minutes at the very most, so she didn't have nearly enough time to let her fears grow any further. Equally thankful, the view from the windows of the ferry was absolutely extraordinary, at least enough to take her mind off any thought of lingering illnesses: even with the repairs still underway, the city was still undeniably magnificent, the domes and turrets of its skyline putting even the Emerald City to shame. And as they drifted through the canyons between the great glass towers of the business district, every single mirrored wall reflecting the dazzling blue sky and aglow with glittering sunbeams, Dorothy could almost believe that the Hellion was no more real than a nightmare.
But as she watched the monuments of the city slowly drifting past, another thought occurred to her: if she was being taken to the exact same hospital that Elphaba's mysterious friend was recovering in, she might just have a chance to find out who she really was; and perhaps – as well as revealed exactly the sort of person that the Witch would befriend – there might be some clue here that would explain all the confusions and oddities that she'd encountered over the last few days.
This thought remained with her, even as the ferry docked at the base of the gleaming white hospital building and Dorothy was swiftly escorted inside – first past the solid granite perimeter wall, then through the heavily-guarded security checkpoint, and finally into the depths of the fortress-like medical facility itself.
The journey through the corridors passed in seconds, the desks, wards, stairwells and many twists and turns all blurring together; for all Dorothy knew, the three of them could have been travelling by magic, their progress down the corridors accelerated by an enchantment. Occasionally, Harker and Vara would explain that they'd entered a different region of the hospital, or a face would briefly emerge from the swirling chaos of scenery around them – sometimes one of the Irredeemables, sometimes an ordinary human being, sometimes a doctor, sometimes a patient. Then the face would vanish back into the murk and Dorothy would be left blinking in bewilderment at everything around her.
And no sooner had Vara found the time to lean over and say, "It's always a little disorienting on your first visit," they were suddenly standing in the middle of a deserted hallway, right outside one of the private rooms. The door was slightly ajar, but thanks to the glaring sunlight pouring into the corridor from the mullioned windows, it was almost impossible to see into the shadows of the room beyond.
"This is it?" Dorothy asked.
Vara nodded. "The doctors said they'd be along in just a minute," she explained. "You go on in. We'll be back at the stairwell if you need us."
Tentatively pushing the door open, Dorothy plucked up a great deal of courage that she probably didn't really need and stepped into the dimly-lit room beyond. For a minute or two, she blinked owlishly into to darkness, trying to get an impression of the room's contents but only perceiving a few armchairs and a huge bed surrounded by curtains and humming machinery. Once she realized that her eyes weren't going to adjust to the light, she wearily crept across the sparsely-carpeted floor and opened the curtains a tiny crack... and quickly realized that she wasn't alone: the bed, as it turned out, was occupied. Even with the translucent blue curtains blocking her view, there was no mistaking the distinctive shape of a human being asleep beneath the covers... and someone sitting nearby.
Tiptoeing closer, she drew aside the curtains – and only just stopped herself from gasping in surprise. Slumped in an armchair right next to the bed was Elphaba, hat off and her usual expression of barely-restrained anger now softened and relaxed by what could only be a very deep sleep; unless Dorothy was imagining things, it looked as though she might actually be smiling.
But that was nothing compared to the woman lying in bed next to her: what with the tangled hair, the sickly pallor and the troubled frown, it took quite a while before Dorothy finally recognized the sleeping figure as none other than Glinda the Good.
Somehow, the Good Witch had ended up stranded in this world as well... and the Wicked Witch of the West had rescued her.
But surely she couldn't be Elphaba's mysterious friend; even after all the weird and maddening things Dorothy had seen during her time in Oz and the Deviant Nations, the faintest idea still sounded ridiculous and impossible to her. She'd seen the two of them argue as mortal enemies less than an hour after she'd arrived in Munchkinland, heard the two of them threaten, challenge and rebuke one another. Hearing that, how could anyone think they were friends?
But if that's so, then why did a spell that was supposed to lead to Elphaba's friend lead to Glinda. And if they were actually enemies, then why did Elphaba even bother to rescue her? If she really hated her, why is she currently her only visitor at this hospital apart from me?
Looking back on everything she'd heard about the mysterious friend over the last few hours, it made perfect sense: Elphaba's description of her friend's personality was a near-perfect match for Glinda (right down to the suspiciously appropriate use of the word "bubbly"); the argument the two had gotten into on their second-last meeting – that had to have been the confrontation she'd witnessed back in Munchkinland; and what about that reference to "taking a path in life that she couldn't follow"? Elphaba had even claimed that her friend had been her exact opposite! Good god, it seemed so obvious in hindsight that it was almost embarrassing to think of.
But what about the here and now? A disagreeable voice clamoured from the back of her head. You haven't really found any proof – only things that you think could be proof. So, what in this room could possibly make you think that they're friends?
Dorothy's eyes strayed to the gap between chair and bed: Glinda's arm had slid out from under the covers and was now dangling over the edge of the mattress, and at some point before dozing off, Elphaba had reached out and clasped the patient's hand in hers.
They're holding hands, Dorothy thought bewilderedly.
Elphaba and Glinda are holding hands.
The Wicked Witch of the West and Glinda the Good ARE HOLDING HANDS.
And then, just as Dorothy thought her mind could take no more, Glinda began to stir. Suddenly terrified that one of the two would wake up and realize that she was intruding, she frantically slid the curtains shut and ducked behind one of the furthest armchairs.
Meanwhile, Glinda was now muttering feverishly in her sleep, tossing and turning, shivering and twitch and giving every impression of being in the midst of a nightmare; as the fit went on, her movements became more and more distraught, the whisperings growing more coherent and more panicked too: listening closely Dorothy thought she could make out the words "Please no," or "I'm not important, I swear, I'm nobody," and perhaps most disturbingly, "give me back my skin."
Scant moments later, Dorothy didn't need to listen closely anymore: now hysterically flailing her limbs as if lost at sea and drowning, Glinda's voice swiftly rose from a mutter to a piercing scream of terror.
"SOMEONE STOP THEM!" she wailed. "GET THEM AWAY FROM HER! ELPHABA! ELPHIE!"
And suddenly, Elphaba was awake and drawing the screaming figure of Glinda into a tight embrace; it took almost a minute for the now-frantic Good Witch to stop struggling and properly awaken, but eventually her wildly-flailing arms went still and her body went limp, collapsing into Elphaba's arms. Then, Glinda began to sob – and not the pretty, ladylike weeping that Dorothy had sometimes imagined that that the Good Witch would indulge in if she ever found cause for grief; this was unrestrained, undignified bawling, punctuated by soft, incoherent whimpers (some of which sounded oddly like "Please forgive me"). This was the kind of crying that Dorothy herself had succumbed to when she'd awoken from a nightmare, before Aunt Em had arrived to comfort her in much the same way that Elphaba was now comforting Glinda.
For about five minutes, the two of them remained locked in their embrace; Glinda's choked sobs slowly fading away, Elphaba gently stroking her quivering friend's back and murmuring reassuringly into her ear. For her part, Dorothy could only stare in utter amazement, scarcely able to believe what she was seeing.
Eventually, Elphaba whispered, "Are you alright?"
"I... I think so. At least, I-I-I don't..." She took a deep, shuddering breath as Elphaba lowered her back into bed. "Are we dead?" she asked at last, and Dorothy was immediately struck by how small and childlike the Good Witch's voice sounded in that moment; up until then, she'd only been able to think of Glinda as an utterly unshakable big sister to the people of Oz – maybe a little bit eccentric, a little bit giggling and not-entirely-serious, but otherwise an unstoppable force for good in Oz. Dorothy had never imagined that she could ever feel fear or uncertainty.
"No," Elphaba soothed. "We're both very much alive."
"But I remember blacking out... I was bleeding really deeply and I thought... I thought I died, and now I'm here and all my wounds are gone and... well, you can see why I think we'd be in the afterlife or something like that. Come to think of it, what is this place?"
"A hospital in Greenspectre – or at least, that's where the soldiers said they were taking us when they woke me up a couple of hours ago."
"Greenspectre?"
"It's in the Deviant Nations."
In spite of herself, Glinda actually managed a weak laugh. "So I've ended up being captured by them too?"
"Not really. I can honestly say that "rescued" would be a more appropriate word. As far as I can tell, this is protective custody; they're a bit curious about us for... well, for reasons you'll discover soon, but other than that, I don't think we're any danger."
"But I saw you surrounded by the raiding party just before -"
"They didn't capture me; I joined them voluntarily. Of course, I was imprisoned in the city for a while for... well, it's a long story. Hopefully it'll all make sense once we've had a chance to get all the facts out in the open."
"What about Omber?"
"Who?"
"The man who... well, I'm not sure if he's a man or a woman, but... well, someone helped me escape from Exemplar; I think he – or she – was right beside me when you arrivified on the transport."
"Was that the one who'd been shot in the shoulder and kneecap?"
"That's him. Or her."
"As far as I know, he's been taken off to another wing of the hospital for emergency treatment; apparently he... or possibly she ... is a very delicate case." Elphaba paused, the ghost of a hesitant expression drifting across her face. "Glinda, do..." She swallowed. "Do you want to talk about what happened to you?"
Glinda said nothing; from what little Dorothy could see of her from behind the armchair, her expression had instantly sobered, and her ashen features were now frozen in a look of downcast contemplation. For perhaps twenty seconds, she remained deathly quiet, biting her lower lip in agitation – as if trying to puzzle out a response, without much success if the silence blossoming across the room was any evidence.
"I'm not forcing you to say anything," Elphaba reassured her. "I just want to know if you're alright. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to-"
"They caught me on the train," Glinda interrupted; all of a sudden, the uncertain expression was gone and her face was now gripped by the same look of unrestrained horror that she'd worn upon awakening from the nightmare. "They caught me on the train just a few hours after they left you behind; I knew something was wrong, because we stopped at a platform, and we..."
Dorothy, who was already pushed to the very limits of her well-distended credulity, could scarcely believe what she heard next: even Elphaba's own astonishing confessions didn't come close to the story that now exploded out of the Good Witch's mouth. It was as if a dam somewhere in the depths of Glinda's mind had burst and all the details of her time in Unbridled Radiance were pouring out of her like a flooded river. She didn't stop to let Elphaba ask questions, she didn't stop to ask any questions of her own about what had happened – she barely even stopped to take a breath; she just opened her mouth and the words of her story deluged outwards, her voice shaking with grief and remembered fear and audibly struggling with the effort of keeping herself from speaking too quickly to be understood, as if her life depended on her telling the story as clearly as possible.
She spoke of how she'd seen the Vigilant Eyes burn a rescue party alive – and muttered again and again that she hadn't gotten out of her seat to help; of her first meeting with Unbridled Radiance's ambassador and the capture and imprisonment that had followed; of hours spent either drugged and plagued with nightmares or awake and chained up inside an inescapable steel coffin (at this point, Glinda came dangerously close to hyperventilating, as if still reliving the confinement); the weird and unearthly glimpses she'd caught of Unbridled Radiance's capital, Exemplar; finally, the deluge of explanations had ground to a halt when she detailed her meeting with the "Radiant Empress," and spent almost half a minute trying vainly to explain who the woman really was, always trailing off into anguished silence before she could finish. But after forty-five seconds of agitated stammering, Elphaba finally squeezed her hand and said, "It's alright, Glinda; I know."
Briefly soothed by this, Glinda's panicked monologue continued, faster and faster with every sentence: she spoke of how she'd been cursed, frozen in much the same way that Dorothy herself had been frozen by the Hellion's touch, and left helpless on a slab; the awful moment where the doctor had arrived to cut her open – right before "Omber" had rescued her; the terrible journey through the underground tunnels below Exemplar; and finally, most terrifyingly of all, being forced to hide in a supply cupboard and watch the awful process of "Purification." Most of it, Glinda hadn't been able to even mention without shattering her already-fragile composure: more often than not she was only able to get as far as "he was screaming for help and nobody was listening" and occasion, "his skin, they-" before dissolving into hysterical sobs. Finally, once she'd had time to catch her breath and dry her eyes, she finally reached the last stage of her story – or at least, the last of it she was willing to admit – and it was almost inaudible, the most Dorothy could recognize of it being the words "killed," and "beaten," before the rest of the conversation softened to a whisper and the deluge of information finally dwindled away.
"You see why I thought I was in hell, don't you?" Glinda said at last, her voice soft and exhausted. "I thought I was being punished for... for leaving so many people to die when I could have helped them; I mean, being forced to watch you being captured by the raiding party, Walter's family slaughtered, the torture, the Purifications... I mean, doesn't that sound like the sort of thing I'd deserve for doing nothing?"
"Glinda, what are you talking about? You've done nothing that could possibly warrant eternal punishment-"
"What about the lion cub? What about Doctor Dillamond?" Glinda's voice rose to a scream. "What about Nessarose? What about Fiyero? Even if I wasn't the cause of what happened to them, I didn't do a thing to stop it!"
There was a pause, and then Elphaba spoke in a voice that sounded almost as hollow and tearful as Glinda's had. "I've done the same thing myself, remember? Nessarose was my fault, Glinda: I was too stupid to trust my own premonitions and she died because of it; and do you remember what I said about Fiyero? That was my fault from beginning to end – including the reason he was in Munchkinland to begin with."
"But what about Walter, or those people I saw being tortured and burned-"
"You couldn't have done anything to save them: you said yourself your wand was broken, and you were outnumbered. Don't blame yourself for being intelligent."
Glinda let out a noise that sounded half-sob and half-giggle. "I never thought you'd ever use that word to describe me, Elphie."
Elphie? Dorothy's head, already overloaded with information, very nearly exploded in utter incredulity.
"Well," Elphaba continued amusedly, "You have grown up a lot in the last few years; you're not nearly as blonde as you think."
This time, Glinda really did laugh – but only briefly. "I don't feel it," she said quietly. "I don't know if I've really learned anything in all that time, least of all about magic. I mean, I'm nowhere near as good as the people of Oz think I am, and I'm not even in the same league as you... but there's one thing I know for certain," she added, her voice suddenly brightening.
She leaned forward, and hugged Elphaba tightly. "I missed you," she whispered.
Smiling, Elphaba returned the embrace... and unless Dorothy was mistaken, she thought she saw tears in the Wicked Witch's eyes in that moment.
At that point, Dorothy decided that she'd heard enough: she wasn't sure why she'd been directed to this room, why the doctors hadn't arrived yet for the check-up, or why someone hadn't decided to look for her if she was in the wrong place, or even if the weirdness she'd just been witness to was true or even possible. Quite frankly, all that malarkey could wait – at least until she was out of this room and no longer eavesdropping. After all, it was bad enough that she'd stayed here and listened in on a private conversation between two evidently close friends; watching the two of them as they were now just felt wrong.
So, ducking into the shadows and making sure to keep plenty of furniture between her and the two embracing friends, she crept noiselessly towards the exit. She didn't get to her feet again until she was almost halfway into the corridor, and even then she did so as subtly and quietly as possible, taking care not to run until she was well out of sight.
Unfortunately, as soon as she picked up speed, she almost immediately cannoned into small cluster of figures heading in the opposite direction.
"Ooof! I'm sorry, I-"
Dorothy's jaw very slowly dropped open.
Four out of the five were instantly recognizable or else generally indistinct - Chistery, the skeletal Dr Kiln, and three stoic-looking palace guards. But it was the woman in the very centre of the group that had caught her attention, for she was easily one of the most alarmingly distinctive people she'd ever seen:
Wrinkled and stooped by old age, she could have been anywhere from seventy to a hundred, but Dorothy had to wonder if she was even older than that. Clad in a ragged grey robe, her withered frame was supported by a complicated-looking assembly of supports and crutches, including a set of jointed brass limbs to which her own atrophied legs were supported by. Her right arm had been roughly hacked off at some point in the past, and a gleaming mechanical replacement now sat in its place. And the woman's face was a mass of merging wrinkles, bald scalp and old scar tissue, dozens of ancient battle wounds having carved her face into an unsmiling mask that rivalled even Elphaba's blood-chilling stare for sheer intimidation value.
Then Dorothy saw the right side of the woman's face, and suddenly the world made even less sense than before.
"Who-" she began.
"For now, you can call me the Mentor," said the ancient woman. "As for my real name... you'll learn soon enough if you haven't guessed already. In the meantime, I have to apologize for your treatment thus far, young miss: you've been brought to this hospital under false pretences."
"So... I'm not in any danger? There's nothing left behind by the Hellion, or-"
"No. You're perfectly healthy from what the mage-surgeons have discerned."
"Then why did-"
"A matter of secrecy. Again, I apologize, but I had to ensure that nobody was able to make too many connections between visits in case someone discovers the reason for the conference held here; some communications broadcasts can be intercepted, you see, sometimes by unfriendly forces. And," she added solemnly, "The conference we hold this morning concerns you too..."
The Mentor smiled - an expression almost alien to the horribly-scarred face. "By now, I'd imagine you, Elphaba and Glinda all have questions concerning how you got here, how the two factions came to be, and of course the secrets I've been keeping up until now. So..." She gestured towards the hospital room with her prosthetic arm, gears whirring musically.
"...Let's not keep them waiting any longer, shall we?"