A/N: *sigh* The best-made plans of mice and men, ladies and gents. I'd hoped this next chapter was going to detail the promised "Plague of Transformations," but reality and subject-balancing issues got in the way: for a start, this was a decidedly busy month - I'm just glad I managed to get out a second chapter early on before the workload hit me; secondly, I was about halfway through it when I realized that the promised subject matter was crammed into the very end of an already-oversized chapter, so it wasn't much about the Plague at all. So, chainsawing time. As such, this chapter and the next are going to be one huge chunk of dream-memories and backstory - the Plague will be on in chapter fifteen. I beg your indulgence, and I'll try to stop making overly-optimistic predictions of incoming content.
In the meantime, welcome to chapter fourteen, ladies and gentlemen! As irritating as it is that I didn't get to include what I'd been hoping to include, I'm just glad it's up at this point; those of you who've wanted to know how this weird and troubling alternate universe came to be, key details will be out in this chapter and the next.
Nami Swannn - yeah, suspicion is a very safe policy for Elphaba at this point in time. I'm also glad you think I managed to make Elphaba's confession suitably sad - personally, I thought I rushed it a bit, so it's reassuring to hear that it was appreciated.
To my newest guest, thank you so much for your compliments; I can only hope the story continues to provide enough twists and turns to keep you entertained. Also, I live for the reviews where people start theorizing on what's going to happen next: thank you so much for sharing your thoughts and speculations. As for how accurate your predictions were, and wether or not it's going to be a Gelphie... you'll have to wait and see. Keep up the theories, dear guest!
So, without further ado, read, review and above all, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Wicked be notte mine. Ownerfhippe if impoffible on my parte.
What with the chaos of the last twenty-four hours and the glut of troubling information the two of them had been privy to, neither Elphaba or Glinda were expecting to get much sleep that evening. But somehow, after about five minutes of lying in bed with their eyes kept determinedly shut, they actually began to drift off to sleep: maybe the dream pills had some kind of sedative side-effect, or maybe it was the simple reassurance of each other's presence. One way or another, within seven minutes, the two of them were asleep and – just as the Mentor and Kiln had intended – dreaming.
Meanwhile, Dorothy had her own supply of troubling issues and unanswered questions to think about. Along with learning that the two witches were friends and she was in a world that had once been Oz, there was still the matter of how her house had somehow wound up in this universe… and the fact that even if she did get to sleep, she was almost certainly going to have nightmares about the Hellion, again. She was almost completely resigned to a sleepless night when she remembered what she'd heard about the dream pills, and a plan slowly emerged in her brain: the last time she'd fallen asleep, she recalled, her dreams had been almost exclusively of the Hellion; but if she took one of the pills, not only would she sleep without nightmares, then she might just be able to find out the truth about the Gale House (well, assuming it really was her house, and assuming that this universe's version of her had actually been here in the past). So, she'd crept out of bed and tiptoed into Glinda's bedroom; finding it open and unoccupied for some reason, she'd quickly located the bottle of pills sitting on the vanity. "Just one," she told herself, tipping a single electric-blue pill into her hand. "Just to see if it works."
Ten minutes later, she was back in bed, fast asleep and dreaming.
Hundreds of miles away, across the Deviant Nations' border and right upon the edge of Unbridled Radiance, the four unlucky companions huddled around the light and warmth of a hastily-built campfire. By this stage, none of them were interesting in sleeping in the dark, the Lion least of all; besides, they needed a fire to cook what little meat that the four of them had succeeded in gathering into a meagre dinner for Toto and the Lion. As the two of them sat around the fire, morosely chewing their way through the last of the capybara meat, Fiyero and Boq settled on the outskirts of the jerry-rigged camp; the latter on guard, the former lost in thought and too preoccupied to notice that the Lion was now snoring loud enough to get the attention of anyone in earshot.
Unbeknownst to either of them, something red and glistening hovered overhead, whispering soporific incantations that curled unpleasantly into the companions' ears and slowly fogged their minds into dormancy. "HUSH little darlings," it cooed, "Sleep souNDLY in THE warmth of the Hellion's arms…"
And a minute later, much to their surprise, the Tin Man and the Scarecrow found themselves drifting off to the first sleep they'd experienced since their transformation – and more importantly, the first dreams…
After the incident on the rooftop, things settle down for a while: in fact, for the next day and a half, Elphaba is forced to spend her time lounging around the prison hospital, waiting until Morrible and her specialists are finally satisfied that the green isn't likely to make any sort of resurgence. Glinda once again takes a leave of absence and takes up residence in the recovery ward with her. Together, they spend their days in long, rambling conversations about almost anything that crosses their minds: Fiyero, Nessarose, Glinda's work for the Wizard, or just the world outside the prison walls – everything except what the people of Oz currently think of "The Wicked Witch In Captivity," or the pending date of the dreaded reintroduction.
Elphaba's personality has changed again, Glinda quickly realizes: she's no longer crushed by failure or prone to sobbing fits of grief, but she certainly hasn't returned to her usual acerbic wit, either. And in all thirty-six hours of waiting, there's not even the faintest sign of a bad temper threatening to erupt; she doesn't even seem vaguely impatient over the course of the long wait. If anything, Elphaba seems almost preternaturally calm: a little puzzled, a little inquisitive, but other than that she's entirely at peace with herself – perhaps an understandable result of becoming normal at long last.
And that fact alone is enough to keep Glinda marvelling at every single move her friend makes over the next few hours: it's almost indescribably weird to her, seeing all the familiar mannerisms in action, but stripped of the signature green tint that made Elphaba so readily identifiable. In fact, it's probably one of the very reasons that Glinda decided to spend the time here with her, just to make sure that what she saw that night on the rooftop wasn't her imagination. Then again, it's hardly as if that was the only reason she'd decided to stay here: amongst other things, she had to keep Elphaba from dying of boredom… and to make sure that Elphie wasn't in any danger.
In danger of what? She asks herself once or twice; now that Elphaba's agreed to work for them, Morrible and the Wizard aren't going to let her come to any harm, right? With the guards at the walls, she should be perfectly safe from anyone trying to assassinatify her.
But that doesn't stop her from worrying about all the problems that could possibly emerge, as the hours grind on and the afternoon slowly bleeds into evening. The worst and most obvious of them is the Wizard's plan to "reintroduce" Elphaba to the people of Oz – as if the last few months of the so-called reign of terror was just a really bad first impression; how was the public going to react when they saw the ex-Wicked Witch of the West unveiled as a fully-rehabilitated member of the Wizard's government? Would they accept it… or would Morrible's propaganda finally backfire? And if it did, it'd be a disaster of massive proportiations: from what Glinda's been told, the reintroduction's supposed to be a public ceremony with thousands of people in attendance – a riot just waiting to happen.
Suffice to say, she doesn't get any sleep that night whatsoever that night: she can only lie awake in bed, trying not to think of angry mobs and lynchings. Elphaba lies in the bed next to her, sleeping like a baby under the watchful eyes of no less than thirty-seven of the Wizard's personal guard; watching her like this, shrouded in blankets and smiling at some happy dream, Glinda finds herself suddenly terrified that this will be the exact moment that something goes horribly wrong – Morrible's treatment will break down, one of the guards will turn traitor, a comet will burst through the roof of the building, and one way or the other, Elphaba will end up dead. For eight heart-stopping seconds, Glinda remains sitting bolt-upright in bed, one eye fixed on the wand lying on the bedside table to her right, the other frantically scanning the room for possible threats, her entire body poised and ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble. But, thank goodness, nothing of the sort happens… and she's left with an even worse dose of insomnia than before.
At five o'clock in the morning, she finally nods off – only to be shook awake by Elphaba at midday. "Morrible just left," she murmurs, face paler than ever. "The good news is that I've finally been cleared to leave the hospital and released from prison."
"Mnn. Tha's wunnerful. W'll h'v a party. When 'm 'wake. Hmmmnnr. Wha's the bad news?"
"The bad news is that the reintroduction ceremony's set for eight o'clock this evening."
Practically launching herself out of bed, Glinda flings herself down the corridor in near-blind panic, hurtling down stairways and along bare linoleum floors without even noticing the keening wail of her bare feet. Crashing to a halt in the entrance hall, she only just manages to catch up with Madame Morrible before she reaches the door. "The ceremony," she manages to gasp out. "Why now? I thought we were going to give Elphaba time to-"
"We don't have time," Morrible snaps. "We've delayed too long already, and for the first time in twenty years, we're in danger of losing control of public opinion: the people were aggratified enough when they heard that we hadn't decided to execute the Witch, but now that the rumour-mill's heard that we might offer her amnesty, they're on the verge of a full-scale riot."
"They were happy enough when I told them I was going to try and reform her-"
"And they weren't expecting you to succeed, either! They were hoping that you'd give up or be betrayed – something that would give them the excuse to demand Elphaba's execution!" She takes a deep breath, and continues in a low, menacing voice, stripped of all her characteristic bluster: "Listen very, very carefully, Miss Glinda: we have run out of time. If we are ever going to reintroduce Elphaba, it has to happen tonight or not at all. If we leave it any later, nobody will know how much she's changed until the riot is over and your friend is dead. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes," Glinda mumbles helplessly.
"I should hope so. Now start getting ready; the wardrobe and script people will be along in half an hour, and I expect you and Elphaba to be dressed and rehearsed by 7:30 sharp. Make sure she knows the lines and make sure she doesn't fly off the handle; her life depends on it. Good day."
Glinda is left to hobble back upstairs on feet that feel like they've been carefully tenderized with an iron mallet, trying valiantly not to panic as she slowly limps to the safety of the recovery ward. Thankfully (if that's right word for these circumstances), Elphaba seems quite calm in the face of tonight's appointment with the lynch mob – or perhaps she's just better at hiding her fear. She'd have to be, after experiencing so many brushes with death during her "reign of terror."
Half an hour later, Morrible's production team arrives at the hospital building, a small army of tailors, scriptwriters, image consultants, publicity specialists and other assorted flunkies in emerald-green uniforms. Once they've finished staring at the soon-to-be-reintroduced Witch, the script people bring out the evening's speech and start prepping both Elphaba and Glinda for the ceremony; as they do so, the wardrobe people bring out the selected outfits for tonight, and without so much as "by your leave," start dressing the two of them even as they try to rehearse their lines.
The script itself is horrendous: there's to be stern chastisements from the Wizard, appeals to justice and compassion from Glinda, and so many solemn demonstrations of repentance and shame from "The Once-Wicked Witch" that Glinda has to wonder if the ceremony's meant to conclude with Elphaba's ritual suicide. And then there's the endless monologues from both Morrible and the Wizard: some gunk about the nature of Wickedness, how evil must always be punished, and how ultimately good will triumph over evil and – "as has happened upon this day" – the Wicked shall be guided to the light. This is the sort of thing that would have had Elphaba screaming expletives at the top of her voice before her capture. Even now, she looks a little disgusted – as opposed to Glinda, who, from what she can see of herself in the mirror, just looks sick.
On the upside - if there's an upside to any of this -, the dresses are nice.
Well, her dress is nice.
Elphaba isn't even given the dignity of her old outfit; she's dressed in a plain white robe, a pair of sandals, and that's it. Apparently, it's supposed to represent penitence or purity or whatever other cheap concept Morrible's arranged for the audience to think about… but looking at Elphaba now, dressed in drab cotton and linen, with her hair untied and hanging loosely down her back, the only thing Glinda can think about is the black cloak and pointed hat still locked away in the prison storage unit – and the little green bottle, confiscated and held Oz-only-knows where.
Worse still, as the day rumbles on, it's clear that Elphie's newfound serenity isn't going to last: she's started fidgeting, biting her nails and pacing for as far along the corridors as the guards will allow her. It gets so bad that Glinda actually has to put a hand on her shoulder and try to reassure her – using platitudes that Glinda herself doesn't even believe in.
But they have to keep Elphaba calm: they aren't just facing the possibility of stage-fright or a panic attack if things get too much for her; if Elphie loses her cool during the ceremony, she runs the risk of unleashing her powers – which might just be the excuse the mob needs to attack.
And all too soon, it's seven-twenty.
Having gone through one last rehearsal, the production team give the two Witches a last minute brush-up, before marching them out of the hospital building, out of the prison compound, and into separate carriages. Glinda's luxurious, bejewelled coach is to be taken directly to the steps of the palace where the ceremony is due to occur; Elphaba's black cab will wait behind an armoured cordon until the signal is given, before making the quarter-mile procession towards the palace.
No sooner has Glinda sat down on the cushions, she finds herself being hurriedly escorted off them and out into the bustling chaos of the city square, time having apparently decided to slice at least twenty minutes off the journey from the prison to the palace steps. She does her best to smile at the faces staring up at her without actually looking back at them, to think of how beautiful the city is tonight and what a marvellous sight the glittering emerald buildings make – and fails miserably; instead, her eyes are drawn to the vast crowd of spectators that have amassed in the square. Even from a distance, she can tell that they don't look happy; if it wasn't for Fiyero and his men, they wouldn't have bothered to keep the coachway clear, and even with the guards doing their best to keep order, it still looks as though half of them are in the mood to attack any coach that dares approach.
Sighing deeply, Glinda takes her place at the wide landing atop the stairs, just ten feet above the milling crowd; Morrible's already waiting up here in her sumptuous press secretary's robes, her powdered face smiling mercilessly. According to the script, she's supposed to be presiding over the right half of the stage, whereas Glinda will be given the left; the Wizard, when he finally emerges, will be given centre stage (And unless she's deeply mistaken, that part of the steps is heavily coated with cables and wiring – all the better for his Ozness's grand entrance, no doubt). And of course, keeping the crowd away from the stairs is a long line of well-armed guardsmen.
Not for the first time, Glinda wishes she was somewhere else.
And for perhaps the twenty-eighth time that day, Glinda wishes that Elphaba was somewhere else as well.
Then, there's a whisper from one of the guards: apparently, the signal's just been given, and "the witch's" coach is on the way, due in less than five minutes. And before Glinda has time to curse herself for not wishing more accurately, the Wizard chooses that moment to make his entrance: with a colossal bang and blinding flash of pyrotechnics, a huge cloud of smoke billows from the centre of the stage – the better to disguise the elevator lifting the Wizard into position; when the smoke finally clears, the Giant Face is glaring down at the spectators, its brass features gleaming brilliantly in the torchlight.
Even amplified by machinery, the Wizard's voice is all but lost in the initial storm of applause: the most Glinda can hear is something about how the Wicked Witch has finally been brought before them to face judgement for her crimes, and how the fate decided for her would be unveiled tonight, but the rest is almost completely inaudible over the chaotic blend of cheering and booing that now fills the air.
Then, the black coach rounds the corner and slowly begins the long, winding passage across the square. And if the crowd had been chaotic before, now they are downright feral: instantly, the air is flooded with screamed obscenities and death threats, and practically reverberating with wordless roars of rage and hatred – and every single shout is directed at the coach now trundling into the depths of the congregation. It's impossible to even guess at what's being said for the first few seconds of howling and shrieking, but eventually, Glinda manages to discern the word "kill" being repeated over and over again just under the flow of profanity. Fortunately, despite the undercurrent of violence, nobody seems interested in actually attacking – at close range anyway: the armed guards and the threat of Elphie's magic might keep rioters from getting within arm's reach of the coach, but that didn't stop them from throwing things at it.
All of a sudden, there's a flurry of new sounds filling the already overcrowded air: the musical clink and clank of bottles smashing against the coach's armour-plated hull; the whinny of panicking horses; the swearing of the coachman trying to shield himself from the missiles and control the horses at the same time; the yells of the guards as they try to keep the crowd from surging forward; the thunderclap of Morrible's attempts to disperse the attackers; the Wizard roaring for order – or attention, it's hard to say – and for once being completely ignored; and all around Glinda, the industrial hammering of her own heartbeat.
There's a scream: the left row of guards has just given way, and people are charging towards the coach; the scattered guardsmen do their best to force the rioters off the path, but as soon as they finish shoving them back into the crowd, a few more trickle out – the trickle expanding into a stream, the stream into a river, and suddenly the entire left half of the crow is thundering towards the coach. The right row of guards, desperate to help their comrades among the left, break flank in a pointless attempt to stem the tide. Now the right half of the crowd is attacking the coach as well, clambering up the wheels and hammering furiously at the reinforced windows.
Glinda is vaguely aware of her feet carrying her down the stairs and towards the mob, even as her mind remains fixed on the sight of the newly-freed horses galloping away (the forcibly-retired coachman jogging after them). In some dim and distant part of her mind, beyond the weird mixture of panic, horror, and horse-obsessed disbelief that's claimed her brain, she knows that she'll never get to the bottom of the stairs in time. And even if she could, getting through the throng of people will be impossible. Even with magic on her side, even if she uses the bubble, she won't be able to reach the coach quickly enough; even if she knew enough combat magic to blast her way from the stairs to the fountain, she still wouldn't be able to reach the coach in time.
Then she feels it: the distinctive spark of magic in the air, and not from her or Morrible either. Glinda lets out a groan of horror: Elphie's panicked, she thinks despairingly. This is it; this is the excuse the mob's been waiting for-
Suddenly, the pulse of magic expands; a moment later, a colossal shockwave ripples out across the square, sending rioters flying off the side of the coach and toppling the rest of the mob like ninepins.
Glinda herself is almost toppled over by the blast, and only just stops herself from falling forward and down the stairs; instead, she slides backside-first onto the nearest step, landing in an almost-comical sitting position – one allowing her an unimpeded view of what happens next.
Before her stunned eyes, the coach wobbles, quakes, and finally cracks open like a giant egg: the square is instantly bathed in light – and not the familiar emerald green glow that usually accompanies one of Elphaba's surges of involuntary magic, either, but pure white incandescence. It's so dazzlingly bright that Glinda can only look at it with one hand shading her eyes, and even then, the only thing clearly visible is the broken husk of the coach and the cowering shapes of the mob surrounding it. But then the light fades, and Glinda finally sees her.
Elphaba stands at the very centre of the ruined coach, surrounded by a blazing white aura of magical energy. Her eyes are half-closed, but not to keep out the light; if anything, she looks as though she's awakening from a deep sleep. And somehow, this expression, her relaxed pose, the newly-purified skin, and above all the dazzling glow around her have inexplicably transformed her from a frightened prisoner in cheap robes to…
…to…
The mob is silent now: most of them are still too scared to move, but a few of them have gotten to their feet, if only to creep tentatively closer to the source of the glow. Looking at their awestruck faces, Glinda realizes that the rumour-mill left a few gaps in the story this time: they'd obviously heard about offer of amnesty made to Elphaba, they clearly hadn't heard about the "degreenifying" operation; they'd actually been expecting to see the green-skinned monster from the rumours get up in front of the Wizard and receive a full pardon.
And speaking of which, the aforementioned pardoner is looking decidedly put-out by this turn of events: Glinda can't see the Wizard at the controls from this angle, but the Face is no longer moving – a good indication that he's too shocked to keep up the act. Morrible, who doesn't have the luxury of a giant mechanical face to hide behind, is too shocked to look dignified for probably the first time in public life.
Of course, even that's nothing compared to the sheer astonishment of the guards: apparently, they'd believed that Elphaba's spirit was completely broken by her defeat, and on seeing her flare up again, most of them dropped their weapons and ran for cover; those that didn't are staring, rifles dangling loosely from their fingers or on the ground in front of them. If Elphaba wants to run – or to kill the Wizard, to shower the crowd with all the destructive magic she possessed, or just call for a revolution – nobody's going to stop her.
But all she does is continue along the path towards the staircase, her walk and posture so serene she's almost gliding. Nobody can bar the way: the guards are still a mile away, and the crowd parts so readily before her they might as well be hypnotised.
Eventually, Elphaba reaches the base of the stairs, and after hovering in place for a heart-stopping fifteen seconds, she kneels.
She kneels.
"Your Ozness," she whispers – voice amplified either by magic or by the incredulous silence around her. "I have come to humbly request your forgiveness."
Muted whispering ripples across the crowd around her.
"I know I have done nothing to deserve such generosity, that less than a year ago, I was plotting to destroy you and the people of Oz. But Glinda has shown me a new way, and through her efforts, I have been changed for the better: I can no longer call myself the Wicked Witch of the West; I can only be known as Elphaba Thropp, the name Her Goodness has helped me to rediscover. I do not wish for money, power, or prestige; all I would ask of you is for a second chance – a chance to make my redemption worthwhile, a chance to prove to the people of Oz that I can rise above what I was, and a chance to do all the good I could never have done as my lesser self."
Glinda has no idea where the applause begins: maybe it's from the nearest members of the crowd; maybe it's from the guards, from Fiyero; or maybe it begins with Glinda herself. One way or another, the entire crowd is suddenly roaring their approval, stamping their feet and chanting her name. Somehow this debacle, combined with the only lines Elphaba was provided in the script, has done in minutes what was supposed to have been done in hours.
After this, the rest of the ceremony is pretty much an afterthought. Admittedly, the last few minutes of it are a bit of a hurdle for Glinda, who's almost sobbing with laughter by that stage. One way or the other, the Wizard grants Elphaba his amnesty and protection, along with a promise of employment within his government (to be decided later).
Finally, as per the script, Elphaba is led away by Glinda and the attending captain of the guard, off to her new home in one of the palace's many concealed chamber; of course, nowhere in that particular edition of the script did anyone specify that the crowd would have cheered for her so loudly… or that Glinda and Fiyero would be on the verge of collapsing in relief…
… or that Elphie would be wearing that odd little smile.
Watching the ceremony conclude from the balcony of Nessa's palace apartment, Boq only barely manages to suppress a smile. Outwardly, he's just as stunned and amazed as every other member of the crowd; inwardly, he's rejoicing. For the first time in months, hope is in sight: it's a slim chance, but if Elphaba's apparent redemption could mean a chance at getting out of this horrible job and close to Glinda once again, he's willing to accept any odds, even if it's a million-to-one chance.
The idea is simple enough: now that Elphaba's been forgiven by the Wizard and allowed back into polite society again, she can now exert a little influence over her sister. More importantly, their meetings at the hospital were enough to smooth over the many bumps and bruises the intervening months threw at Nessarose, so their friendship should also help. All Boq has to do is pluck up the courage to approach her and talk to her about what's been happening: convincing her to pull some strings in his favour isn't going to be easy – after all, Elphaba isn't renowned for her sweet temperament, and hearing that Boq has deceived her sister long enough to accidentally trap himself in a dangerously obsessive romance isn't going to endear him to her. But he can live with being yelled at by Elphaba: after all, this debacle was his fault – he deserves criticism by this stage – and he can live with having his ears bashed for an hour if it means that the earbasher in question can talk some sense into his current employer and all him to resign in disgrace.
And it'll have to work, because he can't take another day of service. It's not the actual duties of the job that really get him down: pushing the wheelchair, delivering meals, acting as a secretary, helping Nessa in and out of bed and fetching things that she can't reach are dull jobs but hardly unbearable.
No, what has him begging for redundancy is much worse: the palpable atmosphere of loneliness and frustration that surrounds Nessarose in her frequent moments of depression, only amplified by the dark, echoing corridors of the Thropp household; the baleful stares of his fellow Munchkins, all of them silently accusing him of treachery, none of them interested in hearing a single word of expedition; the thrown stones and screamed insults from the unsubtle among them; the guards watching his every move; the moments when Nessarose changes tacks and tries to be social with him, which always, always ends with a screamed row and both of them in tears… and worst of all, the terrible, hateful silences.
He needs to get out of this job – for the sake of his sanity, and likely that of Nessa too. The penalties do not matter: even if he'll never find employment anywhere in Munchkinland, it'll be worth it; even if he'll end up having to pay a fine or take a beating, it'll be worth it. Just as long as he has the opportunity to see Glinda again, and tell her-
"Boq! We need to get going now."
He barely has time to realize that Nessa's just finished answering the door when his employer's words actually finish the journey from his ears to his brain. "I'm sorry, what? Where are we going?"
"Back to Munchkinland. I've just got a letter from father: he's finally conscious again, and apparently he's going to need my help in governing from now on."
"But what about the deputy?"
"He's been dismissed. Apparently, I'm taking over the duties of deputy for the time being; that means we'll have to be out of here and on a train back to Munchkinland by dawn. So, I'm going to need my things packed up as quickly as humanly possible, okay?"
It's at that moment that the bottom drops out of Boq's stomach: this is the worst thing that could have possibly happened under the circumstances. For a start, while Frexspar Thropp's recovery means that there'll be limits placed on Nessa's authority, having her made his deputy just means she'll have even more power than before; and this time, she won't just have employer's rights on her side, but she'll now have the additional clout particular to a state official! And even worse, the opportunity to speak with Elphaba and get out of this hellish job is now circling the plughole. If he leaves the Emerald City now, the chances of ever getting out of his job will drop to zero – Frexspar will never do anything to upset Nessa, and with the rumours of the two "Witches" working together flying about, Elphaba isn't likely to visit the family home anytime soon – and if she does, he'll probably be barred from speaking to her.
Desperate, he tries stalling: "But don't you still have business here? I mean, there've been journalists booking appointments with you since this afternoon –"
"Boq!" Nessa hisses. "I am not in the mood to stay in this city just so some overpaid reporter gawk at me for the next two hours, least of all while my father's still teetering on the edge of another heart attack. Now get going: I want us out of here within the hour. Is that clear?"
In that moment, Boq wants to cry: he wants to sob and wail and scream out every single drop of bitterness and self-loathing he's accumulated over the last few horrendous months, bang his head against the wall once or twice for good measure, and finally admit the truth that he's been too cowardly to admit to; he wants to fling himself to his knees and howl, "Oh for fuck's sake, can we PLEASE just admit that we hate each other? For the last two years, I've been in love with a woman who's never yet succeeded in calling me by my real name, and you've been in love with the world's most pathetic, desperate liar! We are never going to really love each other, Nessa, because this is not love: its self-delusion! We're just going to keep secretly hating each other and getting more and more miserable with every passing year. I'm sorry for everything I've put you through because I wasn't able to own up to the truth, but we have to put an end to the farce we've made of our relationship – assuming we even had one to begin with. Please, just fire me – that way, we can part ways and try to recover what's left of our lives!"
But then, the moment passes and Boq's ingrained cowardice slams back into place. "Yes, ma'am," he says quietly. "At once, ma'am."
"My name is Nessarose, Boq; I told you to call me by my name."
"Yes, ma'am."
She can't sleep.
Morrible's given her quite possibly the most luxurious room in the palace, second only to the Wizard's private chambers in sheer opulence; after so much time spent either on the run or in hospital, a room like this should have been an open invitation to sleep as indulgently as possible. Besides, it's been a very tiring day: after a brush with death, a magical flare-up and a speech in front of almost half the Emerald City's population – all held consecutively – Elphaba's certainly exhausted enough to collapse into bed and sleep for the next eighteen months.
And yet she still… can't… sleep.
There's simply too many questions on her mind for her to sleep soundly, too many issues waiting to be investigated: quite apart from the appointment scheduled with the Wizard tomorrow morning, the matter of her future employment, and the possible means of helping the Animals from within the Ozian government, there's so many other things to think about.
For a start, there's the curious and somewhat troubling state of her own mind: Elphaba can't recall a time she's ever been so calm; she can still feel a little of her old hatred and bitterness, but only distantly, as if through a thick wall of ice. She doesn't feel emotionless – after all, she was laughing out of sheer relief a short while ago, and the affection she felt as she hugged Glinda and Fiyero that evening wasn't feigned or anything like that; but when her attention turns inward, when she thinks of all the frustrations and anxieties that once drove her temper, she finds them still and cold beneath the mental permafrost. Did Morrible make a mistake during the procedure? Is this another side-effect of all the spells cast upon her, like the change in the tone of her magical energies … or is it something else?
Her skin itself is a matter of some concern: half the time, she finds herself glancing into the mirror and wondering why she can't see herself and who this mysterious dark-haired stranger is supposed to be; at other times, her skin feels ill-fitting and unfamiliar, as if she's wearing new clothing. Her sense of touch seems wildly distorted, either completely numb or so amplified that she finds herself almost paralysed by sensory overload.
And then there's the simple fact that nobody seems to recognize her any more: while she was still recovering, quite a few of the nurses honestly didn't know who she was until they'd checked her patient number; regular visitors to the hospital had asked "who's the girl you've got in the Witch's old bed?" The guards, the tailors, the scriptwriters, the attendants – none of them would have recognized her if not for directions provided by Morrible or Glinda. Even Glinda herself had clearly needed a second or two to recognize Elphaba's new self.
And what about the events of the ceremony? Looking back on them, none of the audience's reactions make any sense: she can understand shock and awe at the magical flare-up, but why had they been cheering? Why had they chanted her name? Why had they called her "beautiful?"
She recalls the conversation she'd had with Glinda prior to the operation, when she'd first voiced her doubts that anyone would accept her even after the green pigment was drained form her skin. After all, one simple operation couldn't erase the effects of almost half a year's worth of propaganda-fuelled hatred, could it? As far as they were concerned, she'd still be the Wicked Witch of the West to them – except this time, they'd say that she was "hiding her wickedness beneath human skin."
But she'd been wrong.
When she kneeled before the Wizard with her new skin and the halo of magical luminescence surrounding her, the people of Oz truly believed that she'd cast aside Wickedness. She'd heard what they'd said about her, as Glinda and Fiyero had led her away:
"…The poor woman must hate herself for what she did when she was still wicked; I hope…"
"… the light from her, I've never seen anything like it: it's just as well she lived long enough to be redeemed – it'd have been such a terrible shame to let all that potential goodness go to waste…"
"… it's only natural that she'd become beautiful after being turned good; everyone knows only the good witches can be beautiful – it stands to reason. I mean, look at Glinda…"
In the past, she'd been happy to accept this sort of talk as another sign of the Ozian people's cataclysmic gullibility; but now, there's something about it that strikes a chord somewhere in the depths of her mind, something that makes her feel uncertain for the first time in months. Perhaps it's the effortless calm that's descended upon her following her transformation; perhaps it's the radiant light that has replaced the haunting green glow that normally heralded her magic. One way or another, there's a tiny seedling of an idea planted in the depths of her brain - a thought she can't yet accept, but at the same time, she can't entirely rid herself of it:
What if they'd been right about her all along?
Fiyero isn't normally one for eavesdropping on anything, least of all conversations between the Wizard and his newest servant; but after so much time being unable to visit Elphaba, it's the least he can do to make sure she survives the first few months as a government employee unharmed – starting with making sure that the opening interview doesn't end in disaster.
So, when Elphaba and Glinda arrive for their appointment with the Wizard, Fiyero takes the time to ensure that all his official duties for the morning are handed over to one of his deputies (ideally the snotty little bastard that almost killed Elphaba while capturing her all those months ago), before making his way downstairs to the audience chamber. By the time he gets there, the two have already entered and the door is locked behind them; fortunately, as guard captain, he's entitled to the master key. Equally fortunately, the long corridor leading to the audience chamber itself is not only extremely dark, but also thickly bordered with curtains, statues and columns – offering plenty of hiding places to eavesdrop on the conversation from.
The interview is already underway, and so far, things seem quite friendly for the most part: for a start, the Wizard has decided to conduct this meeting face-to-face rather than speaking through one of his many props; secondly, though Morrible is present, she seems a little too preoccupied to dominate the conversation; and thirdly, Elphaba doesn't sound angry or even vaguely stressed. However, there's an icily sarcastic note to her voice, cutting through the unearthly veneer of calm that's surrounded her since the reintroduction: Fiyero isn't sure if he should worry about this or not; on the one hand, getting snippy at this stage of the negotiations might just cost her everything, but on the other, it means that whatever it was that Morrible did to her, it didn't include mind control – at least as far as he can tell.
"… a position that will allow you make use of your skills and expertise," the Wizard is saying. "As such, it won't be in the same class of work as Glinda, but you will have to make the odd public appearance here and there."
"I understand," Elphaba murmurs, her voice alarmingly contrite. "But what is this position, exactly? What sort of work am I going to be performing?"
"Administrative, of course."
Even from here, Fiyero can clearly see the look of surprise blossoming across Elphaba's face. Morrible must have noticed it too, because she immediately remarks, "Understand that we can't allow you a position of too much influentiation, at least not this early in your career: we still can't trust you unreserviatedly at this point. And we can't entirely trust you with magic yet, either."
"I thought was one of the reasons you wanted my services in the first place."
"Oh it is. You will of course be required to provide the occasional display of display of magic to augment the Wizard's reputation, but your own personal use of magic is limited to what your handlers will permit. Furthermore, the restrictiations on your magic extends to your employment as well: we can't very well have you made a magic researcher, or magic expert or magic grand vizier, as we'd originally intended," she adds sharply. "You will have to earn our trust."
"Fine," Elphaba sighs. "Regale me with the grisly details."
"Now, now," says the Wizard chidingly. "It's not nearly as bad as you think. You're to be given a directorial position; more specifically, you're to be made the first director of our newly-established Department of Animal Affairs."
For almost ten seconds, the audience chamber is silent: Elphaba has clearly been caught entirely off-guard, because Fiyero's pretty sure he's never seen her jaw drop like that before; Glinda, who was still smiling at the prospect of a directorial position when the news arrived, is now sitting deathly still in her chair, the smile frozen on her face; even Morrible looks astonished. In fact, it seems as though for the first time in her long career, the Wizard's unofficial second-in-command has finally been left in the dark.
Eventually, Elphaba manages to gasp out, "What?!"
"An appropriate position, I think you'll agree. You'll recall I only started the persecution of Animals because we needed them as an enemy that the people could focus on: thanks to your efforts to make yourself an enemy of all of Oz, we no longer need them in this position – or anyone else now, given our current stability. Trouble is, we can't just say "all is forgiven, they can return to society." There's still plenty of discriminatory sentiment preventing us from integrating the Animals back into the population, lots of old laws that need to be rewritten or erased. So, we need an organization capable of handling Animal-specific matters – and who better to administrate it than you, Elphaba?"
There's another long pause.
"Is it really that simple?" Elphaba asked. "You didn't need to oppress them any further, so you just stopped doing so and created a whole new department to reintegrate them? And you're putting me in charge of it?"
"Well, it's been determined that the operation of…" A grimace briefly marred the Wizard's smiling face. "…silencing the Animals was ultimately too costly to maintain; worse still, nothing of any value was produced - most of the silenced animals were either rabid or crippled for life, you see. If we want to retain our position of stability, we can't afford to waste money on projects that go nowhere, no matter how politically advantageous they may be. And… I thought putting you at the head of the program might also help you integrate into the government a little easier – something to make you a little more comfortable about working with us."
"How very generous of you. May I ask what I've ever done to deserve such unwarranted concessions?"
"Well, you are one of the most powerful witches I've ever encountered; a friendly working relationship counts for a lot. And, as far as the public's concerned, you're still repenting for having forcibly given wings to the monkeys, so taking this job is an act of atonement on your part."
"Right…"
The meeting drags on for another hour, all four participants discussing work for the next year or so: Elphaba discusses the possibility of the flying monkeys being released from their cage, rehabilitation of Animals in the process of being "silenced" and the current location of Dr Dillamond; Glinda asks how much freedom will be allowed and how many restrictions will be in place; Morrible interrogates Elphaba as to how much she knows about the bureaucracy required for such a position; and the Wizard just sits back and regulates the conversation, answering where appropriate.
Once the questioning is over and done with, the two witches stand, bow to the Wizard (quite reluctantly in Elphaba's case), and depart as quickly as possible. Fiyero is about to follow them, when he hears Morrible's voice echo across the audience chamber:
"Director of Animal Affairs? With all due respect, your Ozness, what were you thinking? I thought we were going to give her Bureau for Magical Education! You said yourself that she was perfect for the role!"
"She is, but…" The Wizard sighs. "You said that magical education was at an all-time low, down to two or three students per year at the most, as I recall - and that's in prestigious schools like Shiz. The poor girl would be spending all her time regulating subject matter for classes that might never happen-"
"THAT WAS EXACTLY THE POINT! She'd be happy readying the syllabus and learning materials for a subject she clearly understood, her new admirers will be happy seeing her as a director, and we'd be happy because she's in a zero-influence position and we wouldn't have to watch her every move. With Animal Affairs, she will require constant surveilification to make sure she doesn't make waves! Why did you do this? Why didn't you consult me first?"
"Madam Morrible, at the risk of sounding unnecessarily flippant, I did: you didn't respond to the memo."
"I was performing tests!" Morrible snaps defensively. "I've had a lot of important work to do regarding Elphaba's current condition-"
"As have I," the Wizard interjects. "Animal Integration is also an important issue, Madam Morrible; as problematic as it is to put Elphaba in charge, we need her for this. If we were to put another bean-counter with no interest in solving the problem in charge of the department, the whole thing will end in a riot – from the human population, from the Animal population, or both if we're really unlucky. We need someone who cares enough to get the job done before the issue grows any worse… and after everything she's been through, I think Elphaba deserves better, don't you agree?"
"Wh… better for… y…. how… why…."
For the first time in her entire life, Horrible Morrible is left entirely speechless. In the end, she can only mumble, "We'll have to discuss this later," and storm off in a flurry of billowing silk sleeves.
Now left alone in the audience chamber, the Wizard sits down in one of the empty chairs with a heavy sigh; for perhaps two minutes, he remains there, staring into space and apparently lost in thought. Fiyero is distantly aware that he should probably be leaving around this time – after all, he's heard almost anything of value and he knows for a fact that Elphaba's in no further danger; more to the point, people are going to ask questions about his absence this morning, and while his prepared alibi of "ensuring the safety of both the Wizard and Miss Thropp" might work, there's a good chance it'll just end up casting a lot of doubts in his direction. After all, it's hard enough playing the parts of Fiyero the lovable hedonist, 'Yero the adoring sweetheart and the incorruptible Captain Tiggular, without being under suspicion of being Fiyero the potential traitor.
But just as he's about to turn and leave, the Wizard reaches into one of the many pockets of his cavernous grey coat, and draws out a tiny green bottle. A moment later, he draws another bottle from his pocket: it's almost identical to the first, but from little Fiyero can see of it at this distance, it's pitted and cracked in several places. For about ten seconds, the Wizard studies the second bottle, humming absently under his breath.
"Next time, I'll talk about it," the Wizard says to himself. "Next time, I'll ask her where she got it… and her birthdate…"
He shakes his head.
"Come on, Oscar; even if it did belong to Melena, it doesn't have any bearing on who the girl really is. And if it does, so what? You're much too old to play at being a father."
Brilliant! Fiyero thinks. Now it's time to play at being Fiyero the detective so I can find out what the hell that even means.
Thanks to the Wizard's unexpected generosity, Elphaba is allowed at least three weeks of relative peace and quiet before taking on the duties of her new position. The key word here is "relative": in spite of all the luxury and free time she's afforded, it's clear that she's being kept under constant surveillance; even the big display of redemption at the ceremony hadn't been enough to drive away all suspicions, it seems. But as irksome as it is at times, being followed around by a small, semi-invisible retinue of bodyguards, palace security, and professional spies almost seems reassuring to Elphaba. If nothing else, the notion that nobody entirely trusts her is an encouraging return to normality, and it keeps her from listening to that odd, nagging train of thought that's been wafting across her thoughts ever since the reintroduction.
What she finds vaguely irritating are the outside intrusions: every week, without fail, someone or something ends up dragging Elphaba back into public life; maybe it's journalists conducting "a devastating expose on the Wicked Witch of the West," or maybe it's an official summons to some gala night or masquerade or – most irritating of all – some ceremony praising the Wizard and his numerous works. Along with the indignity of being sat down in front of some enterprising reporter and having to recite her extensively-revised life story, or being the guest of honour (or the guest of dishonour as the case may be) at some uniquely uninteresting party, she can't stop herself from wondering a bit about the treatment she receives.
Once again, she finds herself at a loss to explain the public's apparent adoration, even after everything she's done as the Wicked Witch of the West: the journalists treat her with sympathy for having lived such "a dark and unhappy life before being redeemed"; with a little help from Glinda, the ladies and gentlemen of high society are treating her as one of their own by the end of the first week; and every time she's seen in broad daylight, there's someone who wants to shake her hand – assuming it's not an entire crowd of people there to marvel at her – and praise her, most often for being so "beautiful". Elphaba doesn't find it annoying per se; on the contrary, she finds all the attention quite flattering; plus, it's nice to see Glinda playing the part of a dizzy socialite again after being forced into the role of a responsible adult for so long…
And yet, with such praise being heaped on the former Wicked Witch of the West, Elphaba can't help but feel puzzled. Once she's gotten over the confusion of being called "beautiful," she can only wonder even further.
Is that really all these people need to prove that she's no longer wicked? A few words of explanation and a pretty face?
And then, to her deeply-muted frustration, that question invariably draws her back to those uncomfortable thoughts she's been trying to avoid ever since her first night as a free citizen: of how much her magical energies have changed – from haunting, ominous green to radiant, purifying white; of how calm and peaceful she's felt since her operation, and of the fact that she hasn't lost her temper at all since then. It's as if the same procedure that drew the green from her skin has also drawn the bitterness from her mind… and whenever she thinks in this direction, the weird and maudlin train of thought whispers, but what if it didn't do that at all? What if growing calmer and more positive is just a natural side-effect of becoming physically normal? What if you're finally learning what's it's like to be normal, sane and good?
Occasionally, there'll be something to take her mind off these disquieting thoughts: perhaps it'll be some dignitary from Munchkinland or Gillikin country who hasn't quite bought into the growing myth of Elphaba the Redeemed – some courteous man or woman who'll shake her hand and act out all the diplomatic pleasantries required of them, but spends most of the party throwing fearful, paranoid glances in her direction. Or perhaps there'll be an opinion piece in a newspaper: if it's from the Emerald City, it'll usually be an article politely questioning the wisdom of allowing a convicted criminal into a position of authority so soon after her release; if it's from one of the other territories of Oz, it'll be something much fierier, usually lambasting the Wicked Witch for duping the Wizard, or the Wizard's aides for allowing the Witch such undeserved power (but never the Wizard himself, of course). And while Elphaba has to try very hard to actually find these dissenting opinions, a nasty remark here and there makes a welcome change from all the saccharine adoration.
With so much to occupy her mind and so much unnecessary praise to fuel her doubts, she's almost glad when the time comes for her to assume official duties: for a start, she now has something to do with herself aside from read, chat with Glinda or Fiyero, and endure the Emerald City's dreary nightlife. True, the run-down government building she's to preside over isn't exactly what she's been expecting, nor is the musty office, the bewildered-looking civil servants, the cluster of guards and examiners here to keep an eye on her activities, or the small avalanche of paperwork that thunders onto her desk less than two hours after preliminary introductions. Admittedly, being called "Director" is somewhat flattering, and she finds the sight of cowed bureaucrats jumping and scurrying for cover every time she raises her voice… and after the many evenings spent drifting around in the ballgowns and frocks Glinda selected for her, there's a certain masochistic joy in wearing the sombre grey uniform of an official.
And the work itself is more than engaging enough to keep her busy from dawn to dusk: from the very beginning, she's tasked with shutting down the Animal detention facilities, arranging for the relocation of the inmates to open communities in the major cities of Oz, and the gradual re-integration of these Animals back into mainstream society – which, as Elphaba quickly discovers, means putting them back to work and having them pay taxes again.
Other than that, there aren't many orders from the Wizard. It doesn't take long for her to discover the exact reason for this is the exact same reason why the Wizard hasn't just solved the issue through an official decree: it's just too politically sensitive to get closely involved with in case he gets splattered with the controversy surrounding the issue. On the upside, even with Morrible's guards peering over her should, Elphaba is still afforded a great deal of leeway.
Unfortunately, that also saddles her with all the red tape the Wizard wouldn't have to deal with. From the very beginning, her days are spent dealing with the bureaucracy: lists of names, population surveys, medical reports from prison doctors, psychological evaluations on half-"silenced" Animals, transportation schedules, official apologies, proposals of compensation, letters to urban planning councils and zoning boards, communiques from the treasury, and strongly-worded letters by the hundreds. Ton after ton after ton, whole forests of paperwork cross her desk, to be signed, replied to, denied, argued over, delegated, referred upwards, or replaced with something more palatable – except of course for the complaints from uppity citizens demanding that she wake up to the "moral decay brought about by Animals in our neighbourhood," which are to be recycled as toilet paper.
To say the least, it's quite absorbing: more than once, she's emerged from the ocean of papers to find that it's half an hour past closing time; more than once, she's dozed off on the coach ride home, not even realizing that she'd been feeling sleepy until her eyes had flickered shut. And then, there's all the workloads she brings home with her, whole evenings spent pouring over the next budgetary kerfuffle sent up from accounting – only to end the night face-down in a stack of repatriation forms, until Glinda or Fiyero stops by and drags her off to bed. And so the routine goes on: getting up in the morning, going to work, chiselling away at anti-Animal organizations, dealing with difficult employees, shuffling with papers, arguing with the bigoted or stupid, then going back to her apartment for more work, then sleep; weekends and holidays are spent on hobbies and loved ones – of which, Nessa is sadly absent for reasons that nobody's been able to explain.
And slowly but surely, the transportation orders are sent out…
It could be his imagination, but the cell block seems even colder than usual. Not that the men in charge call this place a cell block: officially, it's "the sleeping quarters" of an "Animal Re-Education Centre"; unofficially, it's known as the cages, the stables, the pigsty, the barn, the haystack, and occasionally, the freakshow.
Of course, the Lion doesn't want to think too closely about the nicknames the guards have given to the centre itself: most of them have an alarming tendency to make him panic and burst into tears – which usually results in him being dragged out of his cage and beaten over the head with a leather cosh until he either stops making noise or loses consciousness altogether. It's even worse now that they know for a fact that he's a coward. Before this unfortunate discovery, he had a minute or two to calm down and stop crying before the guards finished donning their safety gear; now, they don't even bother with the safety gear – they just haul him into the corridor and batter him senseless.
He's been here for a month at the very most, and it feels as though he's been here for decades. Because most of this place is underground and windowless, there's no way of measuring the passage of time except by the mysterious schedule that the specialists operate by – and most of that involves the Animal prisoners being led into a roaming pen and encouraged (with the aid of a cattle prod) to behave "naturally."
The Lion's tried to behave naturally – he wants to behave naturally, because it'll at least mean that he's no longer a coward. But he can't: every time he's brought out to the pen and told to attack one of the other Animals, he can't bring himself to do it; not when the guards threaten to skin him alive, not when they starve him for days, not even when they replace his meals with the filleted remains of an ex-prisoner, he still can't do it. He's too paralysed with fear to be a real animal, though Oz only knows what he's afraid of. Either way, these sessions invariably end with him being half-electrocuted with a cattle prod and dragged back to his cage to recover, shivering even more than usual.
Truth be told, he doesn't mind that: he got used to these involuntary twitches ages ago. In fact, he recalls that back when he was a cub, those shivering fits actually earned him a nickname from his keeper – one of the few concrete memories of his childhood he still possesses.
Nor does he mind that most of the Animals in the cells have stopped whispering to each other, or that a few of them have started baaing and mooing incessantly, or that the specialists who work here have a similar treatment in mind for him. He doesn't even care that, if that doesn't work, the guards will probably just shoot him. Even though he'll be sobbing like the coward he is when the firing squad finally lines up, he's still comforted (but only just) by the fact that he'll have found a way out of this hellhole, and he won't have to be afraid ever again.
What he does mind is the endless waiting: sitting alone in the impenetrable darkness of the cellblock, freezing cold and virtually alone except for the fleas and the occasional guard drifting past his cage, it's very hard not to whimper in fear at the shadows closing in around him – or to keep his thoughts from heading in unpleasant directions. In times like this, he finds himself remembering the bars of an even smaller cage pinning him in place, while deafening voices thunder down at him from all angles; he recalls a screaming pain in his back and sides, of something tearing at his fur and jabbing him in the ribs; the sensation of being picked up and moved away at high speed; and most puzzling of all, the colour green.
And it's here he is, half-in and half-out of his fractured memories and wondering if the room is any colder than usual, when one of the specialists bursts into the cellblock with a nerve-jangling thud of slamming doors. Accompanying him is a short, dark-suited official-looking figure holding a clipboard and pen; the two are deep in conversation, and as the murmuring echoes back and forth across the cellblock, it's clear that neither of the two are in a good mood. The bodyguards lumbering after them don't look terribly pleased either.
"… how can they justify this?" the specialist is saying. "I thought the Wizard was in full support of the plan!"
"Immaterial at present," the official snaps. "It's been decided that the operation is simply not worth the effort."
"Not worth the effort?! How can he say that when he was the one who permitted our work in the-"
"That was then, this is now. More to the point, the Wizard is not pleased with your results: none of the animals you've sent out have been fit for labour of any kind, and given the substantial expense of silencing them, I'm sure I don't need to tell you why this facility is no longer considered a worthy investment."
"But what's going to happen to them?"
"Reintegration."
"WHAT?"
"You heard me. Now get these Animals out of their cages and ready for transportation; I expect this facility to be cleared out within the time specified, or you'll have to answer to the departmental Director of Animal Affairs."
"Who the hell is he? More importantly, why should I care about the retribution of some bureaucrat? If anyone should be in command of these matters, it should be the Wizard!"
"The Wizard has given the director control of all Animal Affairs in Oz, and by extension, this operation. More to the point, I think you should fear her retribution more than the Wizard's; speaking from experience, the former Wicked Witch of the West is much more active in correcting potential problems."
For a whole thirty seconds, the corridor is silent.
"Nothing further to say? Good. Now, if you're finished hanging onto your defunct authority, I think we can continue the evacuation; and try not to finish any further silencing while you're about it – the director would be most displeased if she had to issue a warrant for your arrest."
"But wha… where am I supposed to start? There's almost fifty-three Animals in this building alone- about three hundred and eighty-seven in the entire facility! How are my staff-"
"I think it might be best if you actually read the paper I gave you, Doctor. For brevity's sake, I'd suggest you begin with Animals that can be helped the easiest - those who weren't susceptible to the silencing treatments. Like this one for example…"
There's an awful pause, as the Lion realizes that the official is pointing directly at him.
"Uh… I surrender?" he murmurs hesitantly.
"You see my point, doctor? Now unlock the cage and get him the hell out of here."
Time passes, first in weeks, then in months: Elphaba's workload trundles on, too engaging to be monotonous; bigoted dissenters are – with the Wizard's permission – either ignored or openly castigated; one cartload at a time, the Animals are slowly led from the depths of the re-education camps and into the newly-constructed urban zones across Oz - all of them designed to provide civilized conditions for the new tenants; slowly, the workplace restrictions against Animals are eroded away by a steady stream of bureaucracy, and while most of the paying work they can receive is still limited to unskilled labour and menial services, it's at least a step in the right direction; much trickier but even more rewarding is the challenge of getting the schools to accept Animal students; best of all, treatment of the silenced victims produces results, and Animals long thought reduced to insentience start to speak again.
Still no sign of Dr Dillamond, though.
Madam Morrible begins to drift further and further away from the spotlight, immersing herself in complicated magical experiments that take up so much time that most of the press secretary's official duties are now conducted by one of her underlings. As for what she's trying to learn, she refuses to elaborate: all she's willing to divulge is that the experiments are of vital importance, and that's it – assuming she's even in the mood to speak to the questioners in the first place. By the end of Elphaba's fifth month in office, nobody except servants are allowed past the banks of thaumaturgical machinery and alchemical apparatus and into Morrible's quarters.
The Flying Monkeys are released from their cage, and permitted to fly free in return for being inducted into the Wizard's service as aerial observers – a legion of airborne spies to help tighten the old man's stranglehold on the country. Every so often, Chistery pays her a secret visit, informing her in a mixture of broken speech and complicated gestures of their latest orders; slowly but surely, Elphaba's influence is growing – clandestinely as well as legitimately.
And then, about eight months after Elphaba was made director, the Department of Animal Affairs succeeds in relaxing the old regulations enough to finally employ Animal workers: five newly-educated bureaucrats ready to join the workforce. Much to her surprise, they thank her in person, hugging her and wringing her hand; they tell her stories about how her reforms saved them from being silenced, and how the Animal communities are flourishing all over Oz. Elphaba would have thought that they were trying to humour her, had she not toured some of those communities in the last couple of months and seen the evidence with her own eyes – seen Animals living, working and building families in the specially-built districts, observed the tentative businesses, and the grudging acceptance of the human citizens.
Somehow, Elphaba's accomplished more in the last two or three months than she has in her entire career as the Wicked Witch, and she's done so from within the enemy's government – an idea that she would have balked at in her prime. Back in her days of open warfare against the Wizard, she succeeded in liberating several Animal "resettlement camps" and blowing up a few enemy forts, but she never achieved anything close to what's been attained now. And back then, she certainly never would have received the admiration she's getting now: half the upper crust are toasting her for "quelling potential unrest", the newspapers are lauding her for "atoning for her crimes against human and Animal alike," the Animals themselves are thanking her for not losing sight of her goals, and the Wizard himself is now singing her praises from on high. In all honesty, Elphaba isn't certain if she should be pleased or depressed by this.
One way or the other, this gets those troubling thoughts bubbling across her brain yet again – now asking, what if your success isn't entirely due to the method you used? What if it's a result of the operation? What if it's a result of you finally achieving goodness? Did you ever wonder if you were destined to always fail prior to the day you were made normal?
The good news is that these thoughts are easily dispelled by a completely different line of problematic ideas that's almost impossible to deny. The bad news is that it's the notion that in spite of everything she's done for Animals at the present, she still hasn't done enough: even though the resettlement camps, cages and silencing operations have long since been brought to an end, even though Animals are permitted to live a civilized lifestyle and most have access to education and employment… it's still not enough.
Though they're no longer seen as unnatural creatures "best to be seen and not heard," Animals are currently second-class citizens; the districts that they live in are little more than ghettoes, segregated from human neighbourhoods and ruthlessly policed by the guards, ostensibly for the protection of the inhabitants; and while Animal-owned businesses bring in plenty of money, human business are still reluctant to hire Animals for anything other than menial labours - cleaners, mechanics, waiters, porters, valets and other beneath-notice dogsbodies. The five now employed at the department were lucky enough to rise to the level of bureaucrats and pen-pushers, but it's not likely that any of them will see a promotion in the next twenty years.
And Elphaba finds herself unable to do anything about it: she's reached the limit of her powers as a director; every time she tries to push for Animals to live outside the ghettoes, for the restrictions on employment to be repealed altogether instead of temporarily relaxed, the Wizard firmly declines – Morrible emerging from her extended sabbatical to make sure that Elphaba toes the line. As far as the two of them are concerned, it's enough that Animals are reintegrated and under control: giving them any more freedom than necessary is none of Elphaba's concern.
Before the operation, this would have sent her flying off the handle; in her current state, with her thoughts cold and sharp and unclouded, it just leaves her deep in thought. She puzzles over the conundrum as she's led away from her latest meeting with the Wizard, as Glinda reassures her that she'll get results soon enough, as she and the servants ready her outfit for the evening's masquerade ball, and as she glides to the ballroom in her newly-prepared costume (a silken ebony dress with a dark green-coloured bodice and a glittering emerald mask; apparently, the Wicked Witch has been reduced to a joke following the glorious rise of Elphaba the Redeemed – as the people call her now).
As the festivities swarm around her, Elphaba is very much aware that while she might have reached the limit of her powers as a director, she hasn't yet reached the limits of her powers as a witch. And for the first time since she was forced to abandon the mantle of the Wicked Witch, she finds herself thinking of rebellion once more…
… No, not rebellion. Open rebellion was her first mistake as the Wicked Witch of the West. Declaring her opposition to the Wizard had lost her the battle before it had even begun; this time, she'll need to be far more subtle if Animal equality is to be achieved. She'll need to subvert this entire government from the inside, slowly and carefully. And this time, the key targets of this revolution are much more accessible to her:
The Wizard can't be trusted; he might have been willing to allow Animals back into society and show them a few token gestures of goodwill, but that doesn't mean he's guaranteed to leave them alone; after all, they were the enemy he used to cement his rule in Oz – what's to stop him from making a scapegoat of them again should the need arise? And even if Elphaba was willing to ignore that, his style of governance is ultimately just an act of bewitching the populace with illusions and falsehoods while he and a privileged few enjoy the power and luxury they've stolen from their "worshippers." He'll have to go – either by assassination or abdication – not just for the good of the Animals, but for the good of Oz itself.
Of course, Morrible will have to go too: as long as the Wizard's capable of supporting her ambitions, she'll continue to support his policies, and even as preoccupied as the old bat is, she still commands a lot of influence. Plus, in the event that Elphaba will have to seize the throne, it's not likely that she'd be willing to take orders from one of her old students – not unless coerced.
But how to effectively get rid of both?
How to dispose of the two in a way that won't result in unnecessary casualties, irreparable damage to Oz's infrastructure, or force the country into a prolonged civil war? More importantly, how can she achieve the power to do any of this without alerting either of them?
But once again, perhaps it's not a matter of force at all.
Perhaps it's simply a matter of disposing of them one at a time.
Perhaps it's a matter of giving the people of Oz an enemy.
And perhaps it's a matter of utilizing people nobody would think to notice.
She knows that the plan slowly taking shape is going to take a lot of time and effort to prepare and even more work to utilize effectively… but it'll be worth it. If it means equal rights for the Animals and a chance to liberate the people from this farce of a government, it'll be worth all the effort and hardship.
After eight months working as a civil servant, only performing magic at the Wizard's command or at Glinda's parties, it's high time she came out of retirement and played at proper sorcery again.
It's time to begin a masquerade of her own.
Back on the earthly side of the rainbow, Dorothy Gale's life goes on as mundanely as always.
She plays, she helps out on the farm, she attends school from time to time, and she dreams of all she could do with her future. Occasionally, her routine is broken by extraordinary moments: her eleventh birthday party, as joyous and festive as the Gales can afford; letters arriving from friends and relatives beyond Kansas, telling her of the cities with their towering buildings and far-off lands that sound as though they could only exist in her imagination; a carnival comes to town – and though Dorothy has to sneak off the farm to visit it, somehow the magic of the big top seems all the more impressive for it.
In fact, the only thing that troubles her as the days and weeks and months trickle along, is the inexplicable feeling of uneasiness whenever her gaze shifts toward the horizon.
For some reason, every time she looks at the sky, she's expecting to see a twister bearing down on her.
A/N: Coming up next... THE PLAGUE OF TRANSFORMATIONS. For real this time.