Author's Notes: Hi. I've decided to continue this story. It is not complete and furthermore I have no idea where it is going. So far, it's staying on the fluffy side, however I must warn you that this is unlike me and there is no telling how long the spell will last. It is going to be femslash. Eventually. Someday. I appreciate feedback, especially since this chapter has not been beta-ed. Please catch my mistakes so I don't have to. However, please don't be rude about it. It's annoying, mean and frankly just not very classy. That didn't come out very frank. One last thing; I put a disclaimer at the beginning of the first chapter, which I'm now calling "Prologue" since that's what it's turning out to be. That's all I'm doing. Not doing it again. It applies for the whole story. Anyone with a problem with that can bite me. All right, I'm done now. Enjoy. And that's an order.

The dead cannot forgive or condemn. They have better things to do I'm sure. So, what good are promises when made to those who cannot see it kept? What is stopping me? Nothing. But then…I couldn't commit a wrong against somebody from whom I had no hope of forgiveness. Even if it's better for them. No. I will not treat anyone as such a child, deciding without their permission what better serves them. No one deserves such disrespect and scorn.

Not even the wicked.

Especially not the Wicked.

Late in the early morning, privacy found at last in her rooms, Glinda allowed herself the comforts she had been denied throughout that day's fervent festivities. Many days' festivities. How long was this to last?

She wept. She sobbed. She dropped to the floor, holding her arms to herself as if her heart would fall out of her without the help. The one thing she did not do, which she longed for more then anything, was to scream. To scream the truth from the highest rafters until her voice was only a memory. She had already relived this fantasy a thousand times in her mind that day. She wondered if it would be that way forever, day after day of stopping words in her throat, night after night of shouting in her sleep.

"Promise me, Glinda." Three simple words that so mercilessly asked such a tremendous task. And two words, even simpler, that foolishly accepted.

If I didn't love the bitch so much I could really hate her for this. But then, if she hadn't she wouldn't want to break this promise so badly. Wouldn't have needed to make it to begin with. It wasn't fair really. To hate was so easy, this day had proven that. To love was so hard, so…painful. They were both, however, nearly impossible to shake. It seemed the world would be better without either of them. No hate, no love, that was what she needed. That was the only way she could survive this existence. Except that love was the only thing keeping her in it. I wanted this for so long. Now I only want to run away.

What in all Oz had made Elphie think she could do this? She was alone. How could you leave me all alone? You've dropped me on the ground and I can't stand up again. And I'm supposed to do all you couldn't. I can't even do what you could.

Elphie had believed though. She had staked her life on it.

"Dying is easy," Glinda whispered bitterly into the empty room. The moment she heard them aloud, she was certain the words were true. Dying is easy. You took the easy way out, Elphaba. For the first time she was struck by a lance of real rage at her lost friend, until she remembered the end of that indictment. For once. You took the easy way out for once. I suppose I can't fault you that. It's my turn now.

"My turn." She spoke out loud and found it gave a small piece of strength, as she imagined Elphaba's…well whatever it was that Elphaba had passing to her in some elaborate rite. She spoke it again with greater conviction, sharper, bolder. Louder. Again, like an incantation, she chanted. She felt her heart, her body, her mind grow sharper and surer. She rose to her feet, hands clenched at her side, eyes shut tightly, head thrown back as she shouted to whatever gods happened to be listening.

"MY TURN"

"Um, Miss Glinda?"

She spun toward the door at the small knock and smaller voice beyond it. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her lips parted and eyes wide in sudden fear.

The knock came again. "May I…may I come in Your…Your…?" She, for Glinda now identified the voice of their young Dorothy, seemed to falter at a proper honorific.

"Of course, my dear. Just give me moment." Glinda's automatic singsong voice seemed only slightly rushed. She darted to her vanity, quickly wiping the smudges and tears from her face, tucking back her frazzled hair, smoothing her wrinkled dress.

"Come in" she lilted. Come in, witch killer.

The girl slipped in the door, quiet and shy.

"They…they're still out there," she said, nervously clasping her hands.

Glinda smiled. "They do love their celebrations. And there is much to celebrate, thanks to you!"

The girl's eyes cast downward. Not much pride for an honored hero.

"Yes," she said hesitantly. "That's what I wanted to…to talk to you about."

Glinda smiled comfortingly, motioning for the girl to sit down on the lush, brightly colored sofas. She then waited for her distraught visitor to speak. And waited. And waited. She had been about to offer the girl a refreshment when the silence was broken.

"The Wizard is a fraud."

Glinda was startled. For the first time Dorothy's voice was sure, unwavering. There was no subtle questioning, no uncertainty or silent begging for affirmation. And her eyes were laid intently on Glinda as if she were…judging. Warily judging, like a mouse that for the first time noticed the cat at its side. Glinda swallowed. Dorothy let out a sigh, again lowering her gaze.

"You knew," she whispered.

Glinda had no answer for that simple accusation. It was true, but there must be some reason some…excuse. Dorothy, however, wasn't interested in one.

"Why were they enemies?"

"Who?" asked Glinda hiding her wariness. She feared she already knew the answer.

The girl sat straighter, her words coming out in the hurried frenzy of a mind frightened of it's own thoughts.

"They were enemies. He wanted her dead. Was glad of it. It used to be obvious. He was the Wonderful Wizard of Oz. She was the Wicked Witch of the West. Of course they would be enemies. Although, now that I think on it, there was never a reason given why. And it's just that the Wizard turned out to be not so…wonderful. So, maybe the Witch wasn't quite so…so…"

Here she faltered. Unable to finish the thought, to fully commit to the implications, she fell silent.

Glinda had stopped breathing. She found herself urging the child on. Come on. Come on. You can do it. You can see it. You can say it. I can't. But you can. Suddenly she was confronted by the tempting thought of loopholes. She wasn't trying, it was just happening. Wasn't it? All the girl had to do was ask, and all she had to do was nod. She had promised not to tell the truth. She never said she would lie. Perhaps if some citizen of Oz ever thought to ask "Was she really wicked?" Glinda could carelessly reply with "Of course, silly," and a smile. But here, with this girl who already seemed so close to the truth, who had seen her, spoken to her…killed her.

Her breath hitched. Could she do that? So severely punish a girl who had been nothing but an innocent pawn? She was, Glinda realized, innocent as much as she may wish to blame her. Witch killer. But no, that honor belonged to Madame Morrible and the Wizard. And Glinda herself. To absolve her own guilt she would pass it to this child with righteous anger. No. This pain she bore inside with these terrible, beautiful secrets were her own to bear.

I can't do this, she realized with silent anguish and fear.

You must, replied a voice inside her sounding eerily like a certain green witch. You promised.

Glinda smiled her most genuine smile on short notice, moving to sit beside the distraught girl.

"Just because someone lied about some things doesn't mean they were a bad person or did bad things or didn't do good things that helped people." In this case it did, but the statement on its own was true enough.

Dorothy's eyes rose to look into the pretty witch's own and Glinda saw the beginnings of tears in them. What was truly happening in that young heart? What had brought her to such distress and drove her to seek out not only comfort but answers from her now mistrusted guide? The girl's lips parted to draw in breath, but whatever she had to say was interrupted by a knocking. At the window, here on the fourth story.

Glinda's brow furrowed in puzzlement at the insistent tapping at the glass. She looked out through the dark window and made out a faint outline of a small figure. She rose to investigate, leaving Dorothy at her seat confused. She opened the window gently and found…a bird. A blackbird. With a small parchment clutched in the beak that had been pecking at her windowpane, it (he? she?) emulated an air of impatience. When she reached a hand out, it quickly dropped its package into it and flew off into the night. She was unsure whether the glint of intelligence she had seen in the bird's eyes had been imagined. Warily, she closed the window, turning her back to it and casting her eyes to the note in her hands.

"What is it?" Asked the girl.

Glinda shook her head in puzzlement, slowly opening the carefully folded but dirty and weather torn parchment.

She glanced at the writing. Her brow furrowed. She scanned the words. She blinked. She read it again. Her lips parted and let out a deeply held breath. She examined the words once more, her vision caressing each individual letter. Her eyes widened. She gasped, loud and hard.

And as she fought to remain standing, she lifted her eyes to the very confused young girl in front of her.

"What?" Was the quizzical question.

Glinda opened her mouth to answer.

And found she had no words.