Voila, chapter three! This one is rather long, and I think I like it. As always, credit to Kennedy Leigh Morgan for putting up with my random ideas and helping them make sense. This story wouldn't be what it is without her.
Disclaimer: I'll only remember to do these every few chapters or so. Wicked and Son of a Witch don't belong to me, but if GM would write a sequel then I wouldn't have had to write this. :D
"Yes, goodnight then." She turned to find the large wooden door towering over her like some great menace. She sighed heavily, reaching cautiously for the door handle, failing to be amused by the lame obstacle that the door presented. 'You just have to push then flick the latch.' The voice came floating back to her and she obeyed, leaning heavily against the door before working at the handle. It swung open obediently.
"Well, I'll be," she muttered in wonderment, closing the door behind her and advancing into the room. Glancing towards the bed, expecting to see the comforting presence of green limbs and dark hair spilling from beneath the pink coverlet, she half-believed she had. She flung her head back. The bed was empty.
Glinda flew back to the door and out into the hall, nearly stumbling into Nor and Sister Doctor in the hallway. "Lena's gone. Where did she go?"
Sister Doctor's face was darkened by a frown. "What?"
"I said, where did Lena go? She's not in the room."
"She isn't in the tower room, I was just there…" She glanced about, as if expecting Lena to emerge, laughing slyly, from the shadows. The only sign of life in the bleak morning was a lone figure on a bench in the courtyard. She approached it, only vaguely noting the presence of Glinda and Nor on her heels.
"Mother Yackle, what are you doing out so early? It's chilly," Sister Doctor asked, only slightly masking her apparent annoyance.
Yackle looked up at her questioningly. "Seeing off a friend."
They all glanced quickly at the gates. There was no sign of anyone there. "Mother, who?" By this point, Sister Doctor sounded exasperated and exhausted.
"Why, Lena, of course," she replied, as if the fact of it should have been quite obvious.
Glinda took a step backwards in disbelief, immediately biting her tongue. Yackle is old, she's delusional, she doesn't know what she's talking about.
She stumbled back to her room, leaving Sister Doctor and the others to the weak sunshine and the pure tolling of the morning bell.
Slamming the door unnecessarily hard behind her, she gazed, long and hard, at the bed, which now seemed ridiculously flamboyant to her. What really mattered was the absence of what should have been there—a green-skinned bundle of quiet conviction that she had come to love.
Sinking wearily to the mattress and burying her face in her hands, she did not object to the tears flowing quickly down her face. She was exhausted, and the situation seemed all-too-familiar to her. Was she always to be the one left behind?
Stop overreacting. Nothing proves she's gone. A voice of reason interrupted, somehow providing comfort enough for her to fall back onto the bed and slip into a desperately-needed sleep.
Reaching the quiet, lapping waters of the steely-gray Kellswater, she paused. Too far South. She glanced up at the slowly-lightening sky, sighing. How am I to know which was is West with no stars?
She sank objectively to the sandy fringes of the water, gazing meekly at her reflectionbeing tossed and flipped and mirrored in distorted patterns in the small waves. A chilly gust of wind blew harshly in her ear, whipping her hair about viciously. Glancing up at the sky, she narrowed her eyes.
Another gust of wind ripped across the despondent waters, and the broom blew several feet away into the grass.
"Stupid wind," she muttered, standing to retrieve it. It trembled in her hand and she gasped, releasing it. It defied not only her expectations, but the laws of gravity as well. Instead of falling to the ground, it hung in the air, like some mystic phantom.
Tentatively, she raised shaking fingers and curled them around the shaft of the broom. It remained firm in her hand, dispelling the theory that it was imagination.
She did the only thing that it seemed reasonable at the time for her to do, and mounted it like a horse. Another brittle flurry of chill air sent her veering off into the sky, leaving the sun and the accusatory, distant waters of the lake behind her.
The broom streaked through the air of its own accord, leaving Lena helpless upon it, a green speck at the mercy of the wind and the world. Somehow, it made sense to her, riding along, unbidden, beneath the shifting mists of clouds. It was the way her life had always been.
Just when the cold wind biting through the thick folds of the cloak began to be too much to bear, a small town shrouded by the slopes of the Kells came into view. Uncertainly, she urged the broom downward, landing with a most unceremonious whump at the edge of a wheel-rutted dirt road. "Ow…"
Standing gingerly, she sat off down the lane, wrapping the unfamiliar scent of the cloak about her and hiding beneath the shadows of the hood.
Reaching a midsize, wood-sided inn, she approached and knocked lightly on the door. After a moment a figure appeared, squinting out at her, struggling to see her face. Realizing her rudeness, she flung the hood back, being enveloped instead by flying wisps of loose hair.
The man fell into the door, backing away in terror.
Damn, she thought. I don't know the last thing about meeting people.
He flew off into the depths of the inn, leaving the door wide. She entered and closed it behind her, blocking out the mercilessly howling wind. The quiet tinny of a bell echoed from within, and she made her way towards the sound, emerging at a type of reception desk. The man from the door was standing at it, pounding on a small bell incessantly, and another man was emerging from a back room. He paused at the sight of her. "Well, is that what all the commotion's about?"
Slowly, the man at the desk turned on his heel, seeming alarmed but quickly calming himself with a small "Oh!"
Lena clutched at the rough handle of the broom, biting her lip, waiting for the introduction to, someway or another, end. Or begin.
"You scared the Dickens out of me!" he cried good-naturedly. "I saw you with the hair and, and—I thought it was that old green Witch back to haunt me! Yes, I can see now that I was wrong, you don't look a lick like her. Except for the hair and that skin. Yep, undeniably green, the both of you."
Lena bit back her surprise. "You knew the Witch?"
"Well, yes and no. Oh, how rude of me. I'm Koen, and this is Davu. And, you are?"
"I'm Lena. I'm somewhat new to this area."
"That's no problem," he reassured her. "You know where you're headed?"
"Not exactly."
"Well," Davu cut in, "We're in Red Windmill now. Back down the road you just came," he nodded his head, "is Knobblehead Pike, Fanarra, and the like. Up that way," he nodded his head again, "is Kiamo Ko, and that's about it. I wouldn't fancy a trip in that direction."
At her questioning look Davu added, "We were there, Koen and I, weren't we, Koen? Wasn't much of a stay. There was the Witch, kept mostly to herself, sad kind of creature. And the family, but they're gone now," he scoffed, gaining the somewhat distant look of one in memory, "not that I did anything to help with that. Anyhow, now it's just empty, so I hear. No one goes up there. Not anymore."
- - - - -
The aging stone structure loomed before her like a tall steeple, hanging over the edge of the mountain, leering at her. The broken cobblestone path led way to a broken gate, flanked on either side by rough stone walls nearly hidden beneath the thick green ivy snaking along the stones. A shrill scream of wind worked through the cracks, and she shivered, entering the deserted courtyard and spinning about on her heel.
The walls seemed weary with neglect, beginning to crumble beneath the strong fingers of the ivy. The stones echoed her lonely footsteps. Suddenly, something caught her eye, and she approached it. Hidden in a small copse of trees was a series of headstones, overgrown with weeds. She pulled on a heap of it and it fell away like ashes. Bending, she ran her fingertips along the names.
Fiyero; Prince of the Arjiki, Sarima; devoted wife of Fiyero, Manek, and beside that, Irji; sons of Fiyero. Removed a little ways to the right were two smaller tombstones, one of which was planted behind freshly dug earth. Gulping, she leaned in to examine them. Elphaba, carved in an unskilled hand. And below that, looking like it had been carved more recently than the name; Lover of Fiyero. And below that still, nearly fresh words; Mother of Liir. She moved to the second gravestone, which appeared to be a piece of stone from the battlements of the castle itself. Very crudely scratched into the dirt-encrusted surface; Nanny.
Suddenly, she paused. She could feel something, or someone, peering out at her from the shadows of the ramparts.
"Hello?" The small echo of her voice joining in with the cry of the wind sent a chill down her spine. "Anyone there?"
A Snow Monkey, bent over with age, approached, the delicate wisps of wings on his back reflecting the gray morning light. It cocked its head to the side uncertainly. "Elphaba?"
"Uh, no. I'm Lena. Liir's daughter," she offered.
Recognition flashed over his white-glazed eyes. "Yes, of course. I'm sure you've heard this before, but you look quite like her."
"So I hear," she said quietly. "What was she like?"
He smiled slightly, baring his teeth. "She had love and passion and hate and you'd never know which it would be." He sighed reflectively. "She taught me. And she taught herself. Flying on that broom and reading that old book. She wasn't really wicked," he added thoughtfully.
"You cared for her?"
"I'd never known anyone else to care for. But that, in itself, says something. She was quite extraordinary." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I want to show you something."
She followed along after his hunched form until they reached a small door, hanging crookedly on its hinges. "This was her room. I'll be back in a moment, I have something to show you."
Ducking beneath the cobwebs strewn across the stop of the doorway, she entered the confines of the room, which was windswept and bitterly lit by the sun shining in through the open window. To one side of the room there was an open wardrobe hung with a few dark dresses, moth-eaten and fading. The corner held a small, bare bed, and next to it a desk littered with random objects; a round glass orb on a stand, an assortment of books, and an upended bowl along with various utensils.
Sitting down upon a small stool near the desk, she reached for one of the books, but paused. The light shining through the glass orb dispersed, a splay of colored light against the pale green of her fingers.
She reached for it, taking the imperfect glass into her palms. In the reflection on its surface, she could see her rounded green face, surrounded by windswept hair in desperate need of a combing. Suddenly the eyes were no longer the soft gray of cool water, of morning dew. They were a deep, rich brown, creased in a loving smile. She gasped and dropped the ball to the floor, where it landed with a loud thunk, splintering along its seam and rolling half-heartedly across the dust-covered planks.
The Monkey was lingering in the doorway, carrying with him a large, leather-bound book. "I wish you hadn't done that," he said quietly.
"So it seems you're back."
The sight of the dark-haired man at the door made him sick. "What the hell do you want, Shell?" he spat.
"Just thought I'd pay you a little visit now that you're visiting in Southstairs. Or did you finally develop a taste for the ladies?" He was mocking him.
"Sick bastard."
At this, Shell lost his detachment, smiling coldly. "I'd watch your tongue if I was you. As I remember, you're the one locked in Southstairs. The last thing I need right now is an excuse to off the green girl. Especially with your dear friend's damnable habit of scrawling "Elphaba lives!" all over tarnation. It's hardly fitting."
Liir dropped his jaw in amazement, immediately wishing he hadn't done so. Shell had undoubtedly noticed--there was a small spasm of fear flickering through his eyes.
"I guess there are more people against our dear Shell than he realized," Liir stated insolently.
His eyes flashed. "You can make this easy, or you can make it hard. Where is the green girl?"
Liir clutched his hands into fists. "Go to hell."
Shell's face twisted into a frightening smile. "Sure. But I'll make sure you join me there." He turned quickly, slamming the cold door behind him, leaving Liir once again with only dirty water and guilt for company.
He reached slowly into his pocket, drawing out a folded, yellowing paper, and smoothing it out carefully. Upon its crinkled surface was a girl, smiling slyly and seeming to gesture to the world around her with open green arms. Lena, by her father, Liir, he read. He had remembered the picture of Nor all too well, and had, in recent years, drawn one of Lena while away. A reminder of the girl he still cared for, though he didn't know how.
He suddenly remembered, more clearly, the drawing of Nor by Fiyero. This is me Nor, by my father F. Before he left.
"That won't be Lena," he whispered into the dank air. "I'm coming back."
Only the wind answered.