I'm not satisfied with the latter part of this chapter...But it will have to do. Just in-between-ness...[whut? I don't know either]. Review? :)
Six months of emptiness, watching the leaves slowly transform from lush summer green to a delicate autumn amber and fall gracefully to the ground, then the first fall of winter snow coating the ground in a blinding white carpet. The refined beauty was entirely lost on Elphaba, and not even Glinda's encouraging, repentant letters could ease her anguish.
Fiyero didn't write.
Elphaba did, but out of the countless letters she penned to him, not a single one was ever sent. She returned to the bottom of the bottle that she had taken refuge in during her marriage to Rilt, and started chewing Pinlobble leaves when she simply wanted to float away from her life and the alcohol wasn't proving effective enough.
Melena and Frex worried about their daughter, but she refused to talk to them. Nothing could lift the girl from her misery, nothing but Fiyero. And he never came.
Fiyero returned to default, living on his reputation. He partied every other night, and brought home girls. He never knew their names, and more often than not, he couldn't even remember their face five minutes after they left in the morning. They were all blonde, with blue eyes, he knew that much.
Elphaba didn't write.
He wrote innumerable letters to her, each one of them apologising for his rash behaviour. But not one of them was ever sent; he didn't have the courage to admit that he had been wrong.
Biaxana and Follor worried about their son, but he refused to talk to them. Nothing could lift the boy from his misery, nothing but Elphaba. And she never came.
Elphaba took another swig from the bottle of sharp tasting liquid, savouring the searing heat as it made it's fiery way down her throat. The Pinlobble leaves had turned to an unpleasant mush in her mouth, and she spat them unceremoniously into the little bin at her bedside. She lay spread-eagled under the duvet, and only her raven head and one skeletal arm clutching the bottle could be seen. Her once silken hair had become matted: she hadn't washed it for days.
She thought about Fiyero, and the hurt in his eyes the last time she had seen him. Another drink was required for this memory, and it made her head spin. Her depressed musings were interrupted by Nessarose, who quietly opened the door.
"Fabala?" the girl whispered, afraid to raise her voice in case it upset her sister. Elphaba grumbled in acknowledgement, but made no attempt at welcoming her sister. The sixteen year old persevered. "I brought you some cake, Fabala. Cooky made it especially for your b-"
"Don't!" Elphaba snapped, turning her steely gaze upon her younger sister. Nessarose refused to be cowed. She slammed the tray onto Elphaba's bedside cabinet, hurt blazing in her eyes.
A horribly familiar, agonising expression.
The green girl turned from her, and Nessarose screamed stridently in exasperation.
"What is wrong with you, Elphaba?" she shrieked, throwing herself onto the bed beside her sister and laying one lily white hand on the emerald shoulder. Elphaba squirmed out of her reach.
"Nothing's wrong with me, Nessie. Whatever gave you that idea?" she replied, a false, almost mocking cheeriness in her voice.
"The fact that you haven't left the room for weeks might be a little hint towards something being wrong. I'm sixteen, Fabala, you can talk to me." Nessarose pleaded.
"You're still too young! You wouldn't understand!"
"But-"
"Just leave me alone, Nessa." the young woman sighed, pulling the duvet up over her head, being careful to take her bottle under with her. A few moments later she heard Nessarose crossing the room and closing the door just as delicately as she had opened it.
Minutes passed before Elphaba dared to peek out from her cocoon, crawling towards the little plate of cake. She looked sadly at it for a moment, before taking a nibble with her un-brushed teeth. It was sweet, and she savoured the pleasant flavour as it filled her mouth, erasing the taste of the alcohol.
"Happy birthday to me…" she sang dismally, sticking one wasted finger into the chocolate sponge, contemplating.
Eighteen years old, and she had already had enough.
Fiyero stood in the ballroom of another nameless stately home, a glass of something he didn't want to think about clutched in his right hand. He frowned and knocked it back, watching as two small, plump blonde girls approached him. 'Are they twins?' he wondered as the two sashayed towards him in perfect step.
Then he realised. They weren't twins. They were one girl, and he was so drunk he was seeing double.
"Shit…." he muttered violently, rubbing his eyes and staggering back a few steps. The blonde girl caught him with an amused smile.
"Watch yerself, yer hi'ness, " she giggled, her strong Munchkin accent reminding him of the servants at the Thropp household. Fiyero smiled widely then staggered again. His stomach heaved, and he vomited all over the parquet floor.
"Heh…Sorry," he laughed apologetically, trying valiantly to exit the room. All of the nobility around him eyed him with disgust, incredulous that this boy was a future king.
When the cold hair hit Fiyero, he breathed it in deeply, almost ravenously, attempting to clear his head. He realised with a jolt that this most recent party was taking place in Munchkinland, in Nest Hardings. Taking another deep breath, he thought about Colwen Grounds, probably no more than two miles from where he stood.
Steeling his nerves, the young prince made his unsteady way in the direction he thought it ought to be in. What he was intending on doing once he got there wasn't clear.
But he was going to go anyway.
: ) Not my best. Deal with it, my pretties. x