Chapter Text
At first, Glinda doesn’t understand what she’s doing.
She only knows that she can’t sleep. She can’t rest. She can’t even breathe properly in this emerald prison with its too-bright lights and too-loud sounds and these horrible, horrible wings hanging from her back like anchors.
It’s been two weeks since the transformation. Two weeks of pain and confusion and learning how to exist in a body that no longer feels like her own. The palace doctors have finally cleared her to leave the infirmary, declaring her “stable enough” to move to her newly-assigned quarters.
Stable. As if anything about this is stable.
Glinda stands in the center of her new room—dark, isolated, freezing cold—and feels utterly lost. The bed is too large. The ceiling is too high. The walls give off a faint emerald shine that warps every shadow into a child’s nightmare. Everything is wrong.
Her wings ache. They always ache, a constant throb that radiates from the base of her spine up through her shoulders. The new bones haven’t finished settling. The feathers are still tender, sensitive to every brush of fabric or shift of air. She can’t lie on her back anymore. Can’t sit comfortably in most chairs. Can’t do anything without being constantly, painfully aware of all that has changed.
Glinda is so tired. But every time she tries to sleep, panic claws up her throat. The infirmary bed had felt too exposed. Too open. She was a butterfly on display, pinned down and vulnerable from every angle. Despite being given food and clothes and a soft new bed, Glinda knows a cage when she sees one. The door for this room only locks from the outside.
Slowly, Glinda sinks down onto the mattress, her wings spreading automatically to keep from pinning them beneath her weight. She stares at the pile of pillows stacked against the headboard— thick and soft and covered in emerald silk. It’s a plain room, nothing extravagant, but everything looks the part of palace suite…and she knows that’s half the point. That’s why Glinda is still here, after all.
Her fingers reach out without conscious thought, pulling one of the pillows closer. Then another. She doesn’t know why. Just that she needs them…somewhere else. Not stacked up against the wall where they’re useless.
She arranges them along the sides of the bed, creating a low wall between her body and the open room. It’s not much. Barely anything, really. But when she lies down in the space between them, something in her chest loosens slightly.
Still wrong, though. Still not…enough.
Glinda sits up again, frustrated with herself. This is stupid. She’s being ridiculous. They’re just pillows. Pillows don’t matter. Pillows won’t stop someone from— from touching her—
But her hands are already moving, pulling the thick duvet off the bed entirely and bunching it up at the foot of the mattress until she has a barrier on all four sides. She doesn’t have words for what she’s doing. She just knows that each adjustment feels a little more right. A little more safe.
When Glinda finally lies down again—on her stomach, face turned to the side, wings spread carefully within the nest of fabric—the difference is immediate. The space feels smaller. More protected. The pillows and duvet create walls all around her, and suddenly the vast, exposed room doesn’t feel quite so overwhelming.
Glinda’s eyes drift closed. For the first time in two weeks, she falls asleep without crying.
When Glinda wakes, it’s to sunlight filtering through the pillows around her, creating a soft, diffused glow. For a moment—just a moment—she feels almost peaceful. Then reality crashes back in. The ache in her wings. The strangeness of her body. The knowledge that today Morrible will begin her “training.”
But Glinda also notices something else: she actually slept. Deeply, and without the nightmares and fits that have plagued her since that day she watched Elphaba fly away. She peers out from around her handiwork, seeing it properly in the daylight. It reminds her of the childish forts she used to make as a young girl, hiding from her parents and the world. The pillows are arranged in a loose circle, the duvet pulled up to form a low tent at the foot of the bed.
She should probably put it all back the way it was. But when Glinda thinks about sleeping in the open again, exposed and displayed the way she had been for days before she gained the strength to move, her stomach twists with dread. She doesn’t want to go back to that feeling— trapped in place by her own weakness, the palace medics poking and prodding and exclaiming with disbelief. Never knowing what might happen to her as she slept.
Just one more night, Glinda tells herself, fluffing one of the pillows as she regards the rest of the room. It might be childish…but she needs the comfort. The false sense of security and protection. She craves it, in a bone-deep way that she cannot shake. Yet, one more night turns into two. Then three. Then a week.
Until Glinda just stops questioning it.
***
Glinda doesn’t remember getting back to her room. Everything has been a haze since the hood went over her eyes. All she can think of is the darkness. The way her lungs had seized up, unable to breathe, unable to think. All she can feel is the panic that had flooded her system, making every twitch and breath from the room’s only other occupant sound like a hammer to her ears, louder even than the rushing roar of her heart.
She doesn’t know how long she was under this time, or how she got from the training room back to her own quarters. She has grown accustomed to this particular brand of torture that Morrible calls training, and Glinda has learned to appreciate the floaty, foggy escape that her mind sometimes offers when everything else becomes too much. But it leaves her shaky and anxious when she comes to, entire swaths of memory gone from her brain.
Glinda finds herself standing in her room with the door locked behind her, her whole body shaking so hard even her wings are rattling. Her feathers are puffed up to twice their normal size, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Like a trapped bird.
The thought almost makes her laugh. Almost. But if she starts laughing, she’s afraid she won’t be able to stop. She needs— she needs—
Glinda’s eyes dart around and land on the bed. Most of the pillows were stacked carefully in the corner, the sheets and duvet lying flat. Glinda had been trying to break herself of the habit of rearranging things. It seems silly now, so many months into this life. Childish and immature. Like a security blanket she should have outgrown.
But looking at that flat, open bed now, all Glinda can think is: No. I can’t.
She moves on autopilot, her hands grabbing pillows and blankets and sheets. She’s almost manic, building far beyond a simple stacked barrier. She creates walls that are higher, thicker. Takes the heavy duvet and drapes it over the whole structure, blocking out the light. Grabs spare blankets from the wardrobe and adds them too, creating layer upon layer of soft barriers between herself and the world.
It’s the most elaborate fort she’s ever made. The most intentional— far beyond simply shuffling her bedding around. When Glinda finally crawls inside, the space is dark and close and small. It’s exactly what she needs, calming a part of her mind that had been screaming ever since the hood went on.
Glinda curls into a tight ball in the center, her wings wrapped around herself, and just…breathes. In and out. In and out. She sets a rhythm and counts it off, imagining that each exhale is another wave of tension being released, calming herself bit by bit. The fabric muffles the sounds from outside, and the weight of the blankets overhead feels grounding and real.
Gradually, Glinda’s heart starts to slow. The shaking eventually subsides, and the panic recedes like a tide pulling back from the shore. Her wings are tucked close to her body, pressed to her bare skin and brushing against tender bruises and fresh scrapes. The pressure sparks ancient memories, the phantom feeling of a strong pair of arms and warm green skin. Curled around Glinda like a shield.
It’s only then that the tears come, hot and bitter and silent. She hates this. She hates this life, she hates these wings, and she hates this pedestal she’s been placed on, forced to parade around with a smile on her face as though her life is anything but a nightmare. And more than anything— Glinda hates crying.
You can’t let them see you break.
When Glinda was a child, her momsie had made it clear that appearance was everything. Glinda had lived by that motto for so many years, shaping her every action around that all-consuming desire, that need, to be admired. To be loved. To be told she was doing something right. She had fought her way to the top of the social totem pole, and in her complete naivety, Glinda had truly believed that she had succeeded in capturing perfection.
What a complete fool she had been. A young Glinda could never have fathomed the stakes she now faced. It was one thing to win over a classroom or a school, but to make all of Oz fall in love with her? That required a level of perfection, of performance, that Glinda faced the consequences of every day. Her popularity was a double-edged sword— it was the only reason she was still alive, but it was also what was killing her, a little bit more with every training session or flight test that Morrible threw at her.
The sorceress had made it clear what her expectations were. She had taken an unanticipated disaster and turned it into an opportunity— having looked at a broken, bleeding mess of limbs and somehow seen an angel. She had turned Glinda into a beacon of goodness that shone only for the Wizard, and no one was allowed to see the truth beneath the mask. No one was allowed to see this version of Glinda, shaking with exertion and gasping for breath with lungs that never seemed able to get quite enough air.
Glinda hates it. But she can’t risk losing it— the security that is her own position. Perhaps on some days she thinks about what it would be like to finally be free, in the only way she could be, but there is a survivor’s instinct still burning within her that Morrible has yet to snuff out. And…deep down, there is a part of Glinda that still holds on to that childish desire to want to be good.
The fresh cuts on her face sting fiercely as her salty tears hit them, and Glinda bites down on her lip to prevent a crooning whine of distress from leaking out. She is not supposed to cry or croon or complain. She is not supposed to be seen like this— not even by the staff. So she shuffles herself deeper into the pillows, her tears contained within her small sanctuary. No one can hear her cry. No one can see her break down.
Here, it’s just her. Alone. Hidden. As safe as she can get in this gilded, emerald cage. Sleep pulls at her, the wispy lure of escape. But the more relaxed Glinda grows, the stronger the unwanted memories become. She usually tries so hard not to think about the past. About the person she shared those memories with. It’s a slippery slope, those thoughts, an icy patch of longing that slides right into a pit of despair.
Elphaba, Glinda thinks, and it almost undoes her. She has long since stopped believing that Elphaba, that anyone, is coming for Glinda. But tucked away in the privacy of her hideout, her ears tuned in to every scuff or creak outside the door, Glinda feels so desperately, horribly alone.
No amount of pillows could make her feel as safe as being held.
***
Glinda is still arranging the last pillow when her door swings open without warning. She freezes, hands still gripping the fabric, her heart lurching into her throat. Her head swings around with frightening speed, keen eyes honing in on the familiar figure standing in the doorway.
“Pet,” Morrible says, her voice clipped and cold. “I hope you know today’s performance was utterly abysmal. We need to discuss your—”
Morrible stops. Her gaze lands on the bed, taking in the elaborate pile of pillows and blankets that Glinda has built. Then it shifts to Glinda herself, caught in the act of tucking a sheet into place. The silence stretches out, thick and suffocating.
“What,” Morrible says slowly, “pray tell, is this?”
Glinda’s hands drop. Her wings fold tight against her back, trying to make herself smaller. Less of a target. “I was just— I was just making the bed—”
“Don’t lie to me.” Morrible’s heels click sharply against the floor as she approaches, her eyes scanning the bed with undisguised disgust. A wicked smirk curls her mouth. “You were making a nest.”
The word strikes right through to Glinda’s core, pinging around in her brain and screeching with some primal, guilty need. Glinda feels her face flush hot with shame. She hadn’t even realized.
“I-I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to—”
“To what? Embarrass yourself?” Morrible’s voice cuts like a blade. She gestures sharply at the bed, at the carefully arranged pillows and blankets. “Clearly, you’ve already done that.” Her lips twist into a sneer. “I thought we were past such…regressions, Glinda. This is animal behavior.”
Each word lands like a physical blow. Glinda shrinks back, her wings trembling.
“It—” Glinda’s throat is tight, words sticking. “It just helps me sleep, I don’t—”
Morrible scoffs, reaching out to yank one of the pillows away, throwing it to the floor. “Please,” she snaps, eyes rolling. “You think anyone would respect you if they saw you like this? Your job is to inspire faith. Not to roll around in the blankets like a brooding hen.”
Another pillow hits the floor. Then another. Morrible tears apart the nest with clinical efficiency, stripping away each layer of Glinda’s careful construction. The soft thuds sound like bullets, a piercing pain making Glinda’s limbs jerk in a stilted effort to make it stop.
“Please—” Glinda’s voice breaks. It’s just pillows; she shouldn’t care, but there’s a tangle of panic constricting her lungs because this is all she has, and she needs it. “Please, Madame, I promise I’ll stop, I won’t do it again—”
“You’re right. You won’t.” Morrible pulls the last blanket away, leaving the bed bare except for the fitted sheet. She glares at Glinda, daring her to make a move as she backs toward the door and raps sharply against the frame. A soldier ducks his head inside, one of several Glinda knows stand between her and any exit.
“Send someone to clean this up,” Morrible orders, and the soldier nods sharply before disappearing again. Glinda realizes abruptly what is happening and feels a wave of horror wash over her. Despite all the training and torture she’s endured, this feels the most like betrayal.
A pair of servant girls enters the room, gathering up the pillows, the duvet, the top sheet— everything except the single fitted sheet covering the mattress. Glinda watches, panic mounting, as they carry them all to the door.
No, no, nonono. The only ounce of safety she’s managed to glean from this miserable life of hers. And it’s all being taken away.
“Madame Morrible, please—”
“You’ll earn these back.” Morrible’s voice is cold, final. “When you’ve proven you can behave like a person instead of an animal. When you’ve shown me you can resist these…disgusticifying urges.”
She pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at Glinda with something that might be pity if it wasn’t so laced with contempt.
“I had such high hopes for you, Glinda. I thought you were better than this.” Her gaze rakes over the bare room, then Glinda’s hunched form. “Don’t disappoint me again.”
The door closes with a soft click, and Glinda stands alone in her room, staring at the stripped bed. At the flat, exposed mattress with its single sheet. She sinks down onto the edge of it, her wings drooping, and feels something inside her break.