In Memory of Father

Over the next three years, everything changed in Munchkinland. Those who were once friends of the old governor now became enemies of the new one, and were quickly ousted. Law after law was passed to restrict mobility, until all the Munchkins were more or less slaves, prisoners in their own land.

Nessarose Thropp wore black almost every day after her father's passing. For some it was the sign of mourning, for others…a sign of evil. As the Munchkins believed white to be the color of a good sorceress, so they believed black to be the sign of a witch. A wicked witch, nonetheless. She didn't care; let them speak out against her. She became more and more reclusive, locking herself away at Colwen Grounds and never seeing much of anyone.

She rarely went out to Center Munch to visit her father's grave.

But then again, people in her condition really couldn't move around a lot.

In the mansion at Colwen Grounds, those servants who attended on her wore drab, steel-gray dress uniforms. No bright colors, nothing to remind her of the time before her rise to power. It was too painful, for her, at least.

In her private chambers, usually kept very dark and dismal, the governor of Munchkinland sat in her wheel-chair, more like a small chariot, and a richly adorned one at that. Her maid-servants were attending on her: those were the only ones who could do this kind of intimate work. They dressed her, changed her clothes, and carried her into bed, even to the privy when the need arose. For now, at least, they were fitting a pair of stockings onto her legs. Drab and jarring stripes of black and white along them, but protocol demanded it.

Once they were on, she waved them away and rolled her chair over to her desk. Upon it was a little silver bell, which she rang. Moments later, a very annoyed Boq walked into the room.

"Your orders, Madam Governor?" he queried.

"Just Nessarose, Boq." She returned, trying to give him a warm smile. "Could you fetch the post for me, please?"

He sighed. "As you wish. Anything else?"

"Yes," she said. "There's something here in this box," she pointed to a box that sat down at the bottom of the floor, just out of reach. "Could you open it, please?"

"Your wish is my command, madam." He said sardonically. Walking over to the box, he opened it up and lifted it up to Nessa's gaze. The glimmer of something silver shone up from within the box. She looked away, trying not to show him that she was crying.

No tears to spoil her pretty face.

"Could you please put them on my feet, Boq?" she asked.

He sighed, then took the bejeweled slippers out of the box and placed the one upon her little foot.

"Boq," she said at last. "Could you also go to my desk and get me the first paper at the top?"

"But, madam, what about your shoes?" he queried.

"Yes, yes, that first."

He quickly put on the second slipper onto her feet. Glad to be away from her, even if only she was a back-turn away, he walked over to the table and picked up the paper. Out of curiosity, he began to read it.

"Don't read it, Boq." she stated. "Just give it to me."

"Right away, Madam Governor." He sighed frustratedly. He picked up a book, placed it under the document, and gave it to Nessa.

"Ink and pen, please?" she asked.

This was getting on his nerves. She could do these things, she did not need his help. Why was she putting him through this torture? It was not enough that she had made her presence odious to him by reason of forcing him to be her servant, and all the laws passed to restrict movement, but now she had to keep him by her side every second of every minute of every day?

He walked over to the desk, picked up the ink jar and the quill, and placed them on the arm of Nessa's chair. She dipped the tip of the quill in the ink and scribbled N. Thropp, Supreme Governor of Munchkinland on the paper.

Wicked Witch of the East would be more like it, Boq thought.

"Make sure this is published where all can see it," she said, rolling up the document and handing it to Boq. "And, remember, the post."

He sighed. "As you wish, madam." He walked away before Nessarose could call out after him.

She was not stupid. She knew what the people were talking about her, the names they called her. It wasn't enough that their ruler had let them have freedom of speech, now they were slandering her with it. Well, she would make certain to take that away from them as well. The document Boq carried would see to that. It would even keep him from speaking out against her, and against any decision she might make.

Nessa sobbed in loneliness, gripping the mirror that always sat in the seat of the chair, just next to her hip. Three years hadn't been that long of a time, she was still young, still beautiful. Even if the people of Munchkinland called her a no-good witch, just like...her...at least she wasn't green. At least she had father's love.

And the slippers. They meant everything to her now. Get rid of all gaity, of all color and brightness, for that reminded her of her youth, when she was foolish, weak. But do not get rid of the slippers. Not those...

"Remember," he said to her. "I'm only sending you to this school for one reason..."

"I know, I know," she returned. "To look after Nessa." Such insolence in her voice, and so early on!

"My precious girl!" he fondly stated, his voice soothing as he knelt at her side, love beaming out at her from his old face. She was the youngest, the crippled one, but she was also the most loved one. "I have a parting gift for you." He brought a small box up from out of the confines of his robe, and her face lit up.

A pair of silver slippers, bedazzling with the glass beads and shimmering jewels studded onto it, shone up from out of the box. She took one out and examined it. They were so beautiful!

"As befits the future governor of Munchkinland." he said warmly. A small kiss he planted on her cheek, and she smiled back.

It was a sign of his love, the only true love she had ever known, she told herself. She could not be parted from the slippers, she would wear them all the days of her life, and when she was buried, they would be fitted on her cold, dead feet when they put her in the ground. The whole world would know that this was the most beloved, the one that her father loved.

No, she said. This much, at least. For you, father.

(AN: A little bit short, but Blue-Eyes insisted)

(Come to think of it, I might continue on this story. Whether here in this story, or in another, I'm still not sure yet.)