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It started not long after the third anniversary of the Melting. Glinda remembers this, because that’s how she measures time: by the day the Wicked Witch melted. It wasn’t always like that, of course; there were the years before the Melting that Glinda measured time by the day that Elphaba left. And before that, though it was so long ago that she hardly remembers, she simply used the month and year like any other Ozian.
The eleventh anniversary of the Melting will be coming up soon, and Glinda doesn’t know whether she’ll survive this one. Every year she loses some of her ability to breathe, as well as a portion of her sanity, because every year she must pretend that the Wicked Witch is dead, and that she is grateful for it, and that she doesn’t know the Wicked Witch has been lingering just out of her sight for the last eight years.
It started with something innocuous enough. Just days after the third anniversary, Glinda had stumbled with a drink in her hand and nearly spilled it and its bloodred contents all over her favorite gown. She should have spilled it on her gown, but the wine had parted around the fabric to land in two distinct puddles on the floor.
So, of course Glinda thought she’d finally begun to use magic subconsciously. What other explanation was there? Wine doesn’t just avoid expensive clothing when spilled, and no one else had been around to see the near-miss. At least, she didn’t think there had been.
News had begun circulating around Oz around that time that the Scarecrow had returned. Glinda tried to ignore it at first—what should it matter to her that Fiyero was back if he couldn’t be bothered to drop in and say hello? Never mind the fact that she wasn’t meant to know it was him. He could do what he pleased, and Glinda would continue her work as if that sack of straw were meaningless to her.
And as if she hadn’t been hoping for news of the return of another figure from those events eleven years ago.
She shouldn’t have expected it, and it was pathetic to hope for something like that. Elphaba was dead to the world, and she wouldn’t have stirred things up by returning then. The simple fact was that she’d left Oz—left Glinda—without warning. Oh, sure, Glinda wasn’t supposed to know; she was supposed to believe the Wicked Witch had melted alongside the rest of the mindless, hateful sheep of the country, but she couldn’t pretend for even a moment that it was true.
No, that’s a lie. She had believed it briefly, just for a clock tick, when it had happened.
Those screams had been convincing enough to fool her in the moment. They’d pierced through her chest as if she’d shared Elphaba’s agony, felt it along with her. It wasn’t until the screaming faded away that Glinda’s mind cleared, and she realized how ridiculous it was. Of course Elphaba wasn’t dead. Anyone who had known her for any real amount of time would have seen her in the rain, or washing her hands, or—if they were lucky, and Glinda was quite certain she had been the only one so lucky, though it had only been one time—in the bath.
Which meant Elphaba had put her whole heart into the performance of a lifetime, knowing Glinda was listening, with the sole intention to leave. Glinda hated thinking it, but she couldn’t help but feel as if it would have hurt less if Elphaba had died that day.
But that was a lie, too. Glinda was angry, and she would always be angry, but she could never wish Elphaba dead.
It started with the wine. Maybe a few other little things here and there: the key Glinda had misplaced appearing right in the middle of her desk, the Quadling representative at a public address suddenly losing his trousers after attempting to embarrass her. Those could have been coincidences, though.
What really blew Elphaba’s cover, whether she realized it or not, was the day several months later that Glinda had been taking a walk through the gardens and lost her balance on a slick stone by the pond. She almost fell in, which would have very thoroughly ruined her day, except that she was caught by magic.
It’s easy to recognize magic after one has felt it once or twice. It’s not so easy to recognize the signature, the invisible something in the magic that marks it as belonging to one sorcerer or another, like a fingerprint. But Glinda knew Elphaba, and even after all those years, she felt the Wicked Witch’s signature as easily as if the magic catching her had been Elphaba’s very own arms.
Her breath stopped when it happened. Surely Elphaba hadn’t returned to Oz? Not just to stay hidden and save Glinda from slippery floors. There was no other explanation for what she’d felt, though, and for a moment she actually believed her dear old friend had come to see her again, that she would reveal herself in all her green glory among the verdant foliage of the gardens and ask forgiveness for what she’d done.
But she never showed herself. Not even after Glinda collapsed in tears beside the pond and begged her to come out, just as she had the night of the Melting, and just like that night, her pleas fell on deaf ears. Dead people can’t hear, after all, apparently even when they’re not really dead.
But they can watch.
Glinda had decided then that she hates Elphaba. Another lie, of course, but she hoped that if she thought it hard enough, it would be true. So, she hates Elphaba for leaving. Hates her for coming back, hates her for always seeming to be around and especially hates her for never, ever once in the near-decade she’s been back, allowing Glinda to see her. Not even a glimpse spared for the woman who had thrown away her own hopes and dreams to take on her cause, her responsibilities. Oz, does Elphaba even understand everything Glinda has sacrificed for her? Or does she simply not care?
It’s getting harder. Not just the undefined state of her former friend’s existence—though Glinda did spend about a year wondering whether Elphaba really had died at some point and had decided to haunt her for the rest of her life—but everything. Every little thing is getting harder every single year.
Glinda spent this past year making as many mistakes as she could, just to see whether Elphaba had a limit. She doesn’t seem to, considering the helpful little spells have never stopped, but Glinda has found that the Wicked Witch isn’t always watching after all. There are times, usually late at night or in the early morning, that she’ll fumble a glass and watch it shatter or slip up with a knife in the kitchen and cut her finger.
It feels wrong to admit, but she actually likes the feeling of it, of knowing she’s done something that Elphaba would normally have stopped, like some minuscule act of rebellion. So, she starts doing it more and more, just to feel something besides the mind-numbing drone of politics. Or, maybe she’s hoping the Wicked Witch will get fed up with it and confront her. Anything to break up the monotony of what has become Glinda the Good’s perfect little life.
“You know,” Glinda says the night before the eleventh anniversary, as she sips on her fourth glass of wine to prepare for yet another celebration of Elphaba’s death, “I really wish we could stop playing this horrendible game. Surely you don’t still think I believe you’re gone, Elphaba? It’s not like you’ve been subtle.”
She doesn’t get an answer, of course. Why would she?
“Or maybe you just think I’m an idiot,” Glinda murmurs. “And maybe I am. But it really would have been easier to move on if you weren’t still here, you know. It’s really quite wicked of you to do this to me.”
Glinda grips the glass in her hand as tears threaten to well up in her eyes. No, she will not cry over this. Elphaba doesn’t deserve any more of her tears. Or maybe she does, if it’ll make her feel bad. Surely she feels bad when Glinda cries over her? She must care deeply about the Good Witch’s happiness and wellbeing to have haunted her so thoroughly for so long, saving her from even the most mundane inconveniences.
Glinda doesn’t understand it. How could Elphaba care so much, but never do the one thing Glinda actually wants her to do? Needs her to do? If things keep going this way for much longer, Glinda won’t be able to take it anymore. Something will snap, and she’s not sure what will happen when it does, or who might get hurt. Probably only herself—although, Elphaba would probably stop it before she even earned any kind of release from it.
It’s this line of thinking, coupled with one too many drinks, that drives Glinda to the decision that she simply will not allow this to continue.
She’s confronted Elphaba before. Maybe not so directly—she doesn’t want anyone overhearing and learning that the Wicked Witch is truly still alive—but she has begged and pleaded for Elphaba to show her face just once, to come back into Glinda’s sight for just one night, to allow her a proper goodbye if she would be so insistent on depriving Glinda of her presence.
Now, Glinda throws back the rest of her wine and sits the glass down on her beside table hard enough that it breaks, just long enough for the jagged edge to nick Glinda’s palm before the glass repairs itself.
Glinda laughs. “So you are watching right now,” she says. “Good. You’d better listen to me, Elphaba Thropp. I’m done with this. If you don’t get your green ass in here right now, I’m—I’m going to make you regret it.”
Great Oz, eleven years since she’d last seen Elphaba’s face or heard her voice and Glinda still can’t manage a proper threat. Not that she doesn’t have the practice—unruly dignitaries and political troublemakers have earned her malice more than once—but what could she even truly threaten Elphaba with? It rings hollow with the knowledge that even if Glinda knew where to find her, she could never hurt her old friend.
But she could hurt herself, which Elphaba seems so incredibly averse to.
Oh, yes. That would certainly catch Elphaba’s attention. Perhaps it would even prompt her to finally listen. Perhaps, if Glinda is feeling brave enough, she could make it so bad that Elphaba would be forced to show herself. Sure, yes, it would be risky, but…does it matter? If she dies, at least she’ll be free from the sense that she’s slowly losing her life, anyway.
Ironically, Glinda feels more alive than she has in years as she takes the newly mended wine glass into her hand and brings it down hard, with visible intention, on the nightstand.
“You want to fix things for me?” Glinda hisses. “Fix what you broke and help me.”
She draws the sharp end of the glass stem down her arm so quickly that she doesn’t even have time to prepare herself for the pain—and quickly enough that Elphaba doesn’t react in time to stop her. She grits her teeth and whimpers as she pushes the glass as deep into her flesh as she physically can, to the point that she thinks faintly she may have scraped bone.
It doesn’t last long, of course. Elphaba’s magic wrenches the glass away from her and sends it flying into the opposite wall, which Glinda realizes smugly is the first time Elphaba’s calm demeanor has ever seemed rattled.
Glinda clutches at her arm, nails digging into the unmarked skin around the wound as the blood wells up around her hand, flowing freely from such a deep laceration. It fucking hurts, but somehow it feels good, too. Healing magic is tricky, and as far as she knows, impossible to do from any kind of distance. This wound would keep bleeding and keep hurting and keep killing her until Elphaba finally shows up or until Glinda runs dry—whichever comes first.
She does expect Elphaba to show up. Glinda can’t imagine after all she’s done from the shadows that Elphaba would allow her to die. She must be nearby if she’s watching, after all, and she’d be in no danger of discoveration in the confines of Glinda’s private quarters.
But perhaps Glinda had underestimated how truly unwilling Elphaba would be to show herself even now, because as time ticks by and there’s more blood on her nightgown and on the floor than she’s ever seen in her life, she’s still alone.
Glinda backs into the wall and slides down to the floor as it gets harder to stand, her heart pounding feverishly and her face wet with tears. Maybe Elphaba was never even there. Maybe Glinda’s sanity has been gone for much longer than she’d thought, and she’s only been imagining the Wicked Witch’s presence. Maybe it was all some elaborate subconscious excuse to one day kill herself. Wouldn’t that be something?
Honestly, though, Glinda doesn’t want to die. What she wants is for things to change, but if they can’t change in the way she’d prefer, she supposes this is fine. And the pain, at least—the oscillation of stinging and dull throbbing through her arm and her chest—distracts from the pain of knowing she truly has lost the only person who had ever understood her.
Glinda leans her head back against the wall and closes her eyes. It feels odd, dying. She can feel her heart racing in her chest as if she’d run a marathon, but the rest of her feels sluggish and weak. And it’s so hard to think! Where has her mind gone? She can’t seem to grasp the meaning of words anymore, but at least she doesn’t actually need to use them. There’s no one here to listen.
She thinks it’s probably the wine poisoning what’s left of the blood in her body that grants her the beautiful hallucination in her final moments. She can’t open her eyes to see it, but she can feel Elphaba’s hands on her, touching her arms, her neck, her chest. She can hear that low, sweet voice, though the words don’t register to Glinda’s mind. Still, it’s a pleasant way to ease her into death. She can pretend she got what she wanted after all in her last vestiges of consciousness.
In what should have been her last vestiges of consciousness.
She can’t imagine how or why it’s returning to her now, but she so wishes it wouldn’t. The pain in her arm is somehow worse than before, and her head aches, and Oz, this was supposed to be over by now.
Glinda waits for the tide to pull her back under, but it doesn’t. She’s stuck awake to feel the pain she’d brought on to herself, even as she wills herself to drift off again.
…Is she in bed?
Glinda works her stiff fingers into the fabric beneath her and decides that, yes, she is in bed.
Her bed is not where she had been before. Someone must have put her there.
“Are you awake?”
Glinda freezes. It’s the same voice she’d heard before, but now it sounds loud and clear and real.
She doesn’t open her eyes. She doesn’t want the illusion to disappear, if that’s what it is. And if it’s not, then she’d be better off not knowing, or else she might strangle Elphaba for showing up now—even though it is what she’d asked for.
“You took your sweet time,” Glinda says, her voice hoarse. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I got here as quickly as I could.” Elphaba’s voice sounds taut. Angry, almost. Well, good; now she could feel a fraction of what Glinda has felt for the last decade. “What if I hadn’t been fast enough?”
Glinda can’t help it. She laughs. “It’s not as if I used a gun,” she says. “You had plenty of time.”
“I wasn’t here, you little idiot. And teleportation only works from a short distance.” A pause. “You can’t refuse all blame. You never looked for me.”
“I asked for you. I begged for you to come.” Glinda opens her eyes now, anger flaring in her chest. And there the Wicked Witch stands at the foot of her bed, tall and proud.
Except…she doesn’t look much like a Wicked Witch anymore. She’s dressed in a simple frock, hair tied back from her face—with a twist in the knot, Glinda notes, just the way she’d taught her to do it back at Shiz. And there are tears in her eyes.
“I couldn’t come,” Elphaba says, her voice low. “And if you’d have thought about it for even a moment, you’d understand. I flew here, Glinda. There will be reports all over the papers by morning.”
Glinda’s throat tightens. “I thought you were already here,” she whispers. “It was your magic. I know it was. You had to be watching.”
“I was,” Elphaba says. “From outside the city. In my crystal ball.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t you know I would have come to you if it wouldn’t get me killed?” Elphaba crosses her arms tight across her chest. “You’ve had the freedom to come to me this whole time. And you never tried.”
“I was supposed to think you were dead.”
“I never expected you to believe that. You’re not stupid. I didn’t think you were, anyway.”
Glinda takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Elphie.”
“I’d certainly hope you are,” Elphaba says. Then, her voice softens. “I almost lost you.”
“I lost you a long time ago,” Glinda murmurs. “Not all of us have crystal balls to spy on each other with. If I had known—” She sighs and shakes her head. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry. Truly, I am.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Elphaba says. She finally moves closer, skirting around the foot of the bed to sit at the edge beside Glinda. She reaches out to cup Glinda’s face, brushing a gentle thumb across her cheekbone. It feels so familiar and so good that Glinda thinks she might still pass away. “I’ve missed you, my sweet.”
Tears well up in Glinda’s eyes. She truly hadn’t thought she’d ever hear that endearment in that voice again. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, you know,” she breathes. “For coming. I won’t let them, I swear.”
Elphaba smiles, baring that lovely gap between her front teeth, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll try,” she says.
“I’m going to do more than try.” Glinda pushes herself upright, wincing at the strain in her arm. The wound is closed, but it still throbs painfully beneath the skin. “I would have done it all those years ago. You know I would have. I wanted to clear your name. Let me do it now.”
“I’m afraid it might be a bit too late for that.”
“I’ll do it anyway.” Glinda clutches at Elphaba’s hand and holds it against her chest. “I can’t go back to the way things were. I can’t, Elphie.”
“Glinda…”
“Elphaba.”
Glinda stares into the gemstone-green eyes she’d missed for so long, desperately trying to convey how serious she is. She can see the warring emotions Elphaba’s face, and she pushes just a little harder.
“You must want it, too,” Glinda says. “Or were you keeping such a close eye on me because you had nothing better to do?”
“I didn’t,” Elphaba says. “I don’t. But I like seeing you; I like making sure you’re okay. It’s the best I can do with what I have.”
Glinda grips Elphaba’s hand tighter. “But I wasn’t okay.”
The thin green hand trembles in Glinda’s grasp. “I know.”
“I loved you.”
Elphaba’s jaw clenches, fighting off the fresh tears welling in her eyes. She watches Glinda for a long moment as if debating whether to say what’s on her mind, and then she does.
“I still love you,” Elphaba says, her voice so low that Glinda almost can’t hear it. “That’s why I came back to Oz at all. I love you, Glinda. That’s all.”
“It might have been easier for you to move on if you’d stayed away,” Glinda says equally as quietly. “Easier for both of us. Perhaps we could have forgotten one another.”
“I could never forget you.”
Glinda sighs. “No. Neither could I.”
Elphaba’s eyes drop to her hand, still held so tightly against Glinda’s chest that she wouldn’t be able to pull it away even if she wanted to. “So, why?” Elphaba asks. “Why do you want me here so badly if you don’t love me anymore?”
“Because I still love you,” Glinda admits. “I never stopped. Not for a moment. You’re in my lungs, Elphie; I can’t breathe without you.”
Elphaba swallows hard. “You must be able to,” she says. “You’ve done so much for the good of Oz. You’re an incredibly competent politician. You’re telling me you’re not even a little bit happy with what you’ve made?”
“Of course I am,” Glinda says. “But I did it for you. I never wanted this to be my life.”
Elphaba knows that. Glinda recalls every single one of the late-night talks they’d had at school about their childhoods and their dreams and the things they would do if they could do anything. Politics was never even a distant option for Glinda, but Elphaba was always the first thing she took into account. In her dreams, Elphie was always there.
“Okay,” Elphaba says. “You’re right. So, tell me what I can do for you now. Tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen.”
Glinda shakes her head. “You know what I want, and I don’t believe you will.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Glinda could feel her own heartbeat through Elphaba’s hand as it thunders beneath her ribs. She doesn’t want to say it. If Elphaba refused for eight full years, why would she accept it now? Because Glinda finally dove off the deep end and can’t be trusted with herself? She wants her friend back, not a caretaker.
“Please, Glinda. It’s been a long time. I need to know exactly what it is you want from me.”
Glinda had managed to hold her own tears at bay until now, but now they fall down her cheeks all at once. “I want you,” she says. “You’re all I’ve ever had. I want you back at my side. I want a life with you.”
Elphaba finally manages to free her hand and holds Glinda’s face between both of her palms, wiping the tears away and leaning closer. “And if it goes wrong when you try to pardon me? On the anniversary of the day that you told them I was gone, no less?”
Glinda’s stomach turns. It would be a lot for the people to take in, and she’s sure many of them wouldn’t accept it. But the Wizard is gone. Madame Morrible is gone. And if there’s anyone they’ll listen to, it’s their Good Witch.
“You’ll be protected,” Glinda says. “I’ll make sure you’re safe, even if they don’t understand. But it’s high time history learns the real story.” She attempts a smile, but she’s so certain that Elphaba will refuse once more that she can’t muster it. But until Elphaba replies, at least, she can pretend her friend will agree.
Elphaba takes a deep breath and nods. “Then I’ll stay.”
Glinda blinks. “What?”
“I’ll stay,” Elphaba says again. “I want to stay.”
“What changed?” Glinda doesn’t want to sway Elphaba’s decision, of course, but she literally cannot believe it. “Why not go back to wherever you were hiding and keep watching me with your fancy crystal ball?”
“Because now that you’re here in front of me,” Elphaba says, “I can’t leave you again. I can’t go back to pretending I didn’t tear a piece of my heart out to leave in your hands that night. It hurts. And sitting next to you right now is the first time it’s stopped hurting in eleven years.”
Glinda can’t breathe, and she’s not sure whether it’s hope or fear clamping down on her chest. “Even though I…I forced you to come?”
She’s well aware that what she did was probably the worst act of manipulation she’s ever committed, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d ruined any chance she’d have had to keep Elphaba in her life. She wouldn’t have even been surprised if Elphaba had healed her and then left for good, never to betray her watchful eye with a silly little helpful spell again.
But now she’s saying she wants to stay. Despite it all.
“I should have come sooner,” Elphaba murmurs. “I’m sorry I didn’t see how unwell you were. I want to stay, my sweet, but swear to me you’ll never do that again.”
“I won’t,” Glinda says quickly. “I won’t, Elphie, I promise. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She doesn’t feel the wave of emotion coming until it washes over her, crumpling her into Elphaba’s chest where she cries with all the desperation that had built up inside her over the years. It comes pouring out without her permission as she clutches at Elphaba’s clothes, balling her fists in the fabric and spilling her tears onto warm green skin.
Elphaba’s arms wrap securely around her, hugging her close and tucking her safe beneath her chin. “It’s okay,” she breathes, and Glinda faintly registers a sob escaping Elphaba’s chest. “It’s all right, Galinda. I’m here. Oz, you scared me.”
“I’m sorry,” Glinda whispers again. “I’m sorry. I love you.”
Elphaba presses her lips to the top of Glinda’s head and rakes her nails soothingly down her back, her own tears wetting blonde hair where they fall.
They stay like that for so long that Glinda’s cries fade to quiet hiccups, and the hiccups fade to sniffles, and she’s almost soothed to sleep by the steady beating of Elphaba’s heart. But she forces herself awake again to reach up and wrap her arms around Elphaba’s neck, running her fingers through those lovely tiny braids and nuzzling against Elphie’s cheek.
She doesn’t want to fall asleep now, not when she can finally feel Elphaba’s presence again—the touch of her skin, the scent of pine and paper and incense, the sweet sound of her voice crooning terms of endearment against Glinda’s ear.
“I love you.” Glinda can’t stop saying it. The words tumble from her aching chest out of her mouth: “I love you; I missed you; I love you so much, Elphie. Please don’t go.”
“Never.” Glinda feels Elphaba’s lips on her cheek, and she melts further into the embrace. “I love you, too, my sweet. I’ll never leave again. I promise.”
Elphaba has broken promises before, but Glinda doesn’t mention that. It’s been too long, and she needs to believe it even if she has to force that belief into her bones. What’s the point in any of this if she can’t muster enough trust to let herself be happy?
But with the way Elphie’s arms press possessively into her back and her waist, hands firm but tender where they hold her, and full green lips leaving soft, ardent kisses wherever they could reach, Glinda finds she doesn’t need to force anything at all. The belief and the trust fill her chest to the brim so naturally, offering her the promise of life, of a real life, and allowing her to breathe freely for the first time in years.