She really is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. As small and soft as her new name, with coltish legs he rarely sees now, hidden by a vast array of gowns for state occasions. It feels obscene to think about the loveliness of her body in ways it never did at Shiz; its rounded shoulders, the flare of her hips, even the slightly plump bottom she hides so well with a professional tailor. It is no longer hers to admire. It is the body of Glinda the Good and sacred to the nation.
He is still permitted to touch it; aches for it. At public events, he may rest a supportive hand in the small of her back or, when the announcement calls for it, perhaps even at her waist as he pulls in close. The perfect pair.
What he misses most is the careless drop of her head to his chest. She was never quite tall enough to reach his shoulder. Her swanlike neck exposed to him. The bounce of her honey-blonde hair as she flopped against him. The scent of strawberries and snowdrops within it. A deep, almost throaty laugh that surprised and charmed him purely because it didn't suit her face when he would trace patterns into the bare skin of her arms until she squirmed in delight. She has since perfected a sound more befitting Oz's great champion of goodness. Like the chiming of tiny bells, eyes twinkling, cheeks rosy, Glinda's laughter is perfect.
When first he arrived in the Emerald City, her nails were bitten to the quick; Morrible had forced her into satin gloves at every opportunity as though she were attending the opera. They had laughed about it. He had promised to swat her hand from her mouth whenever it approached, though he knew he could not swat away her guilt. And now that her long nails are perpetually filed into perfect, pearl-pink ovals, he misses it. She said she looked ridiculous in those gloves, but Galinda carried herself with such dignity that for all her faults, she had never been ridiculous. And Glinda is simply not allowed to be.
Her appreciation for it – the ridiculous, he supposes, but if he is truly honest with himself, for life, for him – has melted away. Her smile, once so easy and endearing, and just a little crooked on the left, has been transformed into a mask of perfect symmetry. Her teeth have been whitened until they shine, catching the light as she grins out from stages and platforms across the country. It is a smile to win hearts and prizes. She receives mail praising it.
Her mouth is still his favourite feature; generous and plump with a captivating cupid's bow. Painted a slightly darker pink now, just to be sure her smile is captured for the pictures, but still Galinda's. Still Galinda's little pink cat's tongue running over the innermost corners to catch her lipstick before it can bleed. Sometimes, perhaps not so often as he once did, he still finds himself wishing Glinda would allow him to kiss it off.
But when she speaks to him, with her rounded vowels and clipped consonants, the spell is broken. The ever-thundering media machine has crafted a beautiful tone – lowered it ever so slightly so that it may remain bright and cheerful, but with a certain unearned gravitas. A nanny's voice, he thinks, soothing and sweet, but authoritative. A perfect choice for a people's princess. For a mother of the nation. For a wife.
"Dearest?"
She is always calling him back, Fiyero realises, wondering if she knows neither his head nor his heart lies entirely with her.
But everyone tells him she's so good. So happy. So in love.
So why isn't he?