Work Text:
Glinda couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from Nessarose Thropp’s ruby-red shoes, sticking out grotesquely from beneath the crooked house. They glinted in the afternoon sun, red as the blood steadily pooling around the Governor's crushed corpse.
The last time Glinda had seen those shoes, they had been a beautiful silver. But now, they glimmered a deep, ominous red. Some magic—Elphaba’s, she would know it anywhere—had twisted them into something darker. Their transformation was as eerie as the rumors surrounding Nessarose herself: the Governor of Munchkinland, suddenly able to stand on her own two feet, appearing at the assembly declaring the borders of her land were to be sealed. Imposing absolute martial law.
And now, Nessarose was dead. Crushed beneath a house that had fallen from the sky, of all things. And her blood-red shoes tugged at Glinda with the unmistakable, insatiable pull of Elphaba’s dark magic. A fresh wave of anger rolled through Glinda as she remembered how the same magic had hung in the air that night in the City—when everything fell apart, when she realized how little she truly mattered to the people she thought she’d loved, and who she thought had loved her in return.
The memory was a wound that would not stop bleeding.
She had fought so hard to save Elphaba. Tirelessly, relentlessly. Behind closed doors, she had argued and pleaded with the Wizard himself, convincing him that an offer of peace was not only possible but necessary. She had laid out all her carefully chosen words, cloaked them in diplomatic charm, and painted Elphaba as someone worth saving. Someone who, though angry and wild, was just a tired and scared girl who had acted too rashly all those years ago. Someone who could be molded into a tool for his vision of good.
The Wizard, of course, still believed Morrible’s lie that Elphaba was dead: a falsehood Glinda had never entertained for a second. But he had agreed to make the offer, assuming the Witch still lived. And for the first time, Glinda felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps there was still a chance to undo all the chaos and destruction that had followed them all for years. Perhaps this time, Elphaba would trust her enough to stay.
But Elphaba hadn’t trusted her.
Elphaba had rejected peace with the Wizard. Rejected staying with Glinda. Destroyed everything Glinda had tried to build for her with a few angry words.
And then, like salt to a wound, Fiyero finally made his choice too. Glinda tried not to let her thoughts linger on the look on Fiyero’s face as he stared at Elphaba, but it haunted her. The way his eyes had flickered only breifly between them both, torn for only the tiniest of moments before he made his decision.
“I know what choice I would have made on the tower that night, Glinda. And it was not yours.”
He hadn’t even said goodbye. He had simply taken Elphaba’s hand, as though he’d been waiting for that moment all along, and ran.
For eight days, Glinda stayed locked in her rooms, trying not to imagine them together without her. Trying not to think about what they might be saying, what plans they might be making, what they might mean to each other. She told herself it didn’t matter. That she had stayed behind because it was her duty to the people. That she had stayed because it was the right thing to do, choosing stability over chaos and compromise over rebellion. That she had stayed because she would not let Oz fall to ruin like everything else Elphaba seemed to touch.
Glinda could still feel Elphaba’s judgment from that night in the City, when Glinda didn’t take her outstretched hand as they turned to flee. The way those dark, piercing eyes had looked at her, accusing her of cowardice, of betrayal, of complicity. It was always the same with Elphaba: her way or nothing. Join her cause or be estranged. Leap on her broomstick or be left behind.
Fiyero had leapt. And she had once again been left behind.
A sharp knock at her door had pulled Glinda from her stupor on the eighth night. A servant had delivered the news: Nessarose was dead. The Governor had been crushed by a flying house, and the young witch responsible needed to be escorted to the Wizard’s palace immediately. And so, here she was. Makeup redone, dressed in her finest gown, playing her role perfectly, as always. But Glinda's composure was starting to waiver as her gaze lingered on those cursed shoes. The ruby-red slippers glinted in the sunlight, the deep, unnatural color that shimmered like blood. And she could still feel Elphaba’s damn magic in them. That same wild and uncontrollable power she knew so well - like a living thing that fed on all of Elphaba’s anger and worry and pain.
Glinda’s jaw tightened as her own fury still simmered. She told herself she didn’t care about Elphaba or Fiyero now. She had tried to save them, and they had left her behind again.
A nervous voice broke through her thoughts.
The girl—Dorothy, or Dottie, or whatever her name was—was chattering about Kansas. A dreadful-sounding place. She spoke with wide-eyed innocence about the house falling, about her strange arrival in Oz. Glinda barely listened.
The child was no witch, as far as Glinda could tell, but something about her presence was… off. A girl from some distant star across the Badlands, dropped into Oz by some mysterious power, and now bound up in a tragedy she couldn’t possibly understand. It was baffling, and Glinda didn’t know how the Wizard would fix it, as he would no doubt promise to. Perhaps Morrible would know a spell to send the girl home. Or perhaps Morrible would see the girl as a new pawn in her endless games of power and propaganda.
Before Glinda could chase that thought, the air around her shifted. It darkened and grew heavy, like a thunderstorm about to break. A pulse of power rolled through the square, and then, there she was.
Elphaba.
She appeared in a swirling cloud of red sulfur, her skirts billowing like smoke, her hat silhouetted against the afternoon sun. Her eyes burned with a fury that made Glinda’s stomach drop.
Glinda had seen this fury before, in the forest that day when Elphaba had unleashed her magic on the soldiers. But not even that Elphaba looked as terrifying as the Witch who now stood before her: there was something wild and unhinged in this Elphaba. This was the true fury of the Wicked Witch of the West
“I thought you said she was dead!” the child gasped, drawing nearer to Glinda. No doubt Elphaba was using her magic to make herself appear in some dreadful form to the girl.
Glinda’s voice was cold and steady, though her heart pounded. “That was the Witch of the East. This is the Wicked Witch of the West,” she said, her words deliberate and cutting. “She’s far worse than the other one was.”
Elphaba’s attention snapped back to her with wild and furious eyes. “Who killed my sister?” she asked venomously. Her voice had a raw, trembling edge. “Was it the girl?”
The girl stammered, her small voice shaking as she insisted it was an accident.
Elphaba’s face twisted, warping into something even darker, almost feral. “An accident?” she repeated, the word sparking off her tongue with barely-restrained power. “Well, my pretty, I can cause accidents too.”
Her magic surged, rattling the carts and stalls around them, sending ripples through the very air. Glinda could feel the power tightening, coiling like a serpent poised to strike. The Munchkinlanders nearest to her cried out in fear, shrinking back as the air grew heavy and sharp.
Elphaba took a step towards the girl.
Glinda acted quickly, forcing herself to stay calm as her pulse hammered in her throat. “Aren’t you forgetting the ruby slippers?” she said, her voice cutting through the tension.
Elphaba froze, her gaze snapping back to Nessarose’s mangled body. She stooped to reach for the shoes, her hands trembling violently—not just with rage, Glinda realized, but with grief. She didn’t miss the way Elphaba’s shoulders heaved, the way her fingers hovered just above the shoes like they were the only thing tethering her to sanity. But even in her despair, Elphaba’s magic roiled chaotically around them, threatening to burst into a disaster.
A plan formed in Glinda’s mind. If Elphaba thought the shoes were all she had left of Nessarose, she wouldn’t harm the girl wearing them. Glinda could use that to buy them all some time…
It was cold, calculated magic—exactly what the situation demanded. The ruby slippers vanished from Nessarose’s feet in an instant and reappeared on the girl’s. In another second, she bound them to the child, so they could not be removed by any hands but her own.
Elphaba’s roar of fury ripped through the square. The sky darkened further, and the ground trembled beneath their feet, the cracks spreading like veins through the yellow and red bricks. Glinda barely held her ground as Elphaba turned on her, magic radiating from her in furious waves.
“You!” Elphaba hissed, her voice low and deadly. “What have you done?”
Glinda forced herself to stand tall, though every instinct screamed at her to run. She met Elphaba’s glare head-on as her heart pounded in her chest. “It’s too late,” she said, voice sharp. “There they are, and there they’ll stay.”
Elphaba’s eyes widened briefly, and Glinda saw something truly unhinged flicker in their depths. Grief and rage seemed to blend into something that bordered on hysteria. She looked like a creature barely holding itself together, her magic leaking from her in uncontrollable bursts. This was the Witch of the West - the terror of Oz. And she was quite possibly about to kill everyone in the square.
“Give them back,” Elphaba seethed, her voice now a growl. “Give them back now, child. They’re of no use to you. I’m the only one who knows how to use them.”
Glinda glanced at the girl, who stared at her feet in horror, and leaned in to murmur, “Keep tight inside of them. Their magic must be very powerful, or she wouldn’t want them so badly!”
The girl’s trembling hands clutched at her skirt, her shallow breaths audible in the silence, but Glinda’s words had the desired effect. Elphaba’s gaze snapped back to her, eyes flashing again.
For a terrible moment, Glinda regretted it.
Now she couldn’t look away from the unbearable pain that burned beneath Elphaba’s fury, stark and raw like cracks in glass. Her hands, clenched tightly at her sides, trembled faintly, betraying the fragile edge of her control. It wasn’t just anger in the magic pressing down on Glinda—it was anguish, roiling and barely contained beneath the mask of rage.
“You stay out of this, Glinda,” Elphaba spat, voice trembling but her expression set, as if daring Glinda to ignore the pain so plainly etched across her face. “Or I’ll fix you as well.”
It wasn’t a threat born of hatred—it was something else. A warning. A desperate, unspoken plea to back away before Glinda made this even harder. She almost looked broken. Not in her fury, but in the deep, hollow way she carried herself, as though Nessarose’s death had ripped away what little she had left tethering her to reason.
Glinda’s chest ached with the weight of it, but she couldn’t let it show. She couldn’t let herself falter.
A bitter, sharp laugh bubbled up in her throat before she could stop it, tinged with the same hysteria that was coloring Elphaba's features. “Oh, you have no power here! Run along now, before somebody drops a house on you too.”
Elphaba flinched almost imperceptibly, her eyes widening briefly before narrowing with renewed fury. The grief flickered back beneath the surface, hidden again, and for a moment, Glinda thought Elphaba might strike her down then and there. But the Witch’s gaze just flicked skyward with a darkening expression.
“Very well,” Elphaba muttered in a flat and cold voice. But the fire in her eyes didn’t die. “I’ll bide my time. But just try to stay out of my way. I’ll get you, pretty—” she glanced at the creature in the girl’s arms, her lip curling—“and the little Dog too.”
Then, with a swirl of sulfur and smoke, she was gone.
Glinda exhaled shakily, her knees trembling beneath her gown. She told herself that she had done the right thing. The shoes would protect the girl.
But as the last echoes of Elphaba’s magic faded, Glinda couldn’t help but feel like she’d just made everything worse.
Thirteen was old enough to travel on one’s own, right? Glinda had already been sneaking into parties at that age - surely a trip down the Wizard’s road wouldn’t be too great a danger for the child. Though the Wizard had been clear in his instructions - the little witch was to be escorted back to the Emerald City - Glinda could argue that her bubble couldn’t fit them both. After all, wasn’t that why the Wizard created the road in the first place?
And if Delilah Gale got a little lost along the way, well…there was no harm in that. It would only buy Glinda a little more time. The girl would be fine—so long as she stayed on the road, she could always be found again.
The village square near the house’s ruins was completely empty now. The Munchkinlanders had all gone to raid the Thropp manor, eager to strip it bare of trinkets and valuables. They likely wouldn’t return for at least an hour or two.
A few scattered poppies, trampled by the earlier chaos, caught Glinda’s eye. She bent to gather them into a bouquet and knelt beside Nessarose’s mangled body. The sight tugged at something deep in Glinda’s chest.
“Oh, Nessa…” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“What a touching display of grief,” a sharp voice spat behind her.
Glinda’s shoulders tensed as she swept to her feet. She turned to meet Elphaba’s glare, and for a moment, the weight of it almost knocked the air out of her. Elphaba had apparently calmed down enough to not immediately blast Glinda into a thousand pieces, but her raging fury had now been replaced by something almost worse: a dangerous calm that barely masked the hysteria lying beneath.
“I don’t believe we have anything further to say to one another,” Glinda said, refusing to let herself falter under Elphaba’s piercing gaze.
Elphaba’s hands clenched at her sides, and her words came through gritted teeth. “All I wanted was something to remember her by. And all that was left of her were those shoes. ” Her voice cracked slightly, though she tried to mask it with anger. Her eyes flicked to the road where Dottie - no, Delilah - had disappeared. “And now that wretched little farm girl has walked off with them!”
“Elphie,” Glinda started, softening despite herself. She took a hesitant step toward her. “I’m—”
But Elphaba cut her off sharply, speaking pointedly over her. “So I’d appreciate some time— alone —to say goodbye to my sister.”
The words were an order, not a request. Glinda swallowed hard and backed away from Nessarose’s body, giving Elphaba the space she needed.
Elphaba knelt beside her sister, her trembling hands hovering over the legs that had shriveled unnaturally in death. The removal of the shoes had taken what little rigor had been left in her form. Glinda heard the faint whispers, the raw edge of Elphaba’s voice as she pleaded with the corpse: “ Nessa, please. Please, please forgive me. I’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
The sound broke something in Glinda, despite all her anger. She took another tentative step forward, reaching for Elphaba’s shoulder. “Elphie,” she said softly. “You…you mustn’t blame yourself. Accidents really do happen.”
The was the wrong thing to say.
Elphaba’s head snapped around with a fierce glare, and the sheer force of it made Glinda stumble back a step. “Accident?” Elphaba hissed, her voice rising with barely restrained fury. She rose to her feet in one fluid motion and pointed sharply at the house. “You call this an accident ?”
“Yes!” Glinda said, her voice higher than she intended. She immediately regretted it as Elphaba’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Well, alright. Maybe not an accident .”
“Well then-” Elphaba’s voice trembled as she spoke. “What exactly would you call it?”
“A regime change!” Glinda blurted, desperate to defuse the situation. “Caused by a…uh…bizarre and…unexpected…twister of fate?”
Elphaba’s expression darkened further as she stepped toward Glinda. Glinda found herself backing away, even as she tried to hold her ground. “Oh? And tell me, Miss Upland, do cyclones normally appear out of the blue in Munchkinland?”
“I don’t know!” Glinda cried, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “I haven’t really thought about it, Elphie.”
“Of course you haven’t thought about it ,” Elphaba spat, crossing her arms. “Even though the truth is staring you squarely in the face. You’re too busy telling everybody how wonderful everything is to see it.”
The pointed use of that word— wonderful —landed like blow. Glinda swallowed around a fresh wave of fury, forcing herself not to break under Elphaba’s judgmental gaze.
“I am a public figure now,” she said icily. “People expect me to—”
“Lie?” Elphaba interrupted with a raised eyebrow, her tone dripping with mockery.
“Be. Encouraging,” Glinda finished through gritted teeth. “And while we’re on the subject, how has the revolution been going, Elphaba? Have you actually done anything other than ride around on that filthy old thing you call a broom?”
“Well…” Elphaba said, her voice calm but simmering with fury. “We can’t all come and go by bubble, can we? Some of didn't become sycophants to a monster just to get a new mode of transport.”
The bitter accusation in Elphaba’s voice made Glinda flush with hot fury. Everything left unsaid in the Emerald City was still swirling between them, and all the shame and anger of the last week flooded back through her.
Elphaba turned and strode away from Glinda, as though utterly disgusted by her. “I do assume the bubble is the Wizard’s invention. If it’s not, he’d certainly still take credit for it.”
“Yes, well.” Glinda shouted at Elphaba’s retreating form, before she could stop herself. “It seems a lot of us are taking things that don't belong to us, aren't we?”
Elphaba paused mid-step, then slowly turned back. Her eyebrows lifted in mocking surprise. “Oh, that’s what has you all in a tizzy. I see.” Her voice was laced with cruel sarcasm. “I know it may be difficult for that blissful, blonde brain of yours to comprehend that someone could actually choose to leave with me when I ask.”
Glinda’s grip on her wand tightened, and her heart pounded as Elphaba walked toward her, each step deliberate.
“But it’s happened. It’s real. And you can wave that ridiculous wand all you want—you can’t change it.” Elphaba stopped a foot in front of her, smirking with sick humor. “People do not belong to you, Glinda. Fiyero certainly never did. He loves me, and he chose to come with me. You did not.” She tilted her head, her voice dropping into a venomous whisper. “The only thing I’m trying to work out now is what part of that you’re actually jealous about.”
The slap echoed across the Munchinlanders’ square.
Elphaba stumbled back, clutching her face, her eyes wide with shock and pain. But then, to Glinda’s horror, a high, hysterical laugh spilled from her lips, sending a chill straight up Glinda’s spine.
“Do you feel better now, dearest?” Elphaba asked as she clutched her face, voice dripping with false mirth.
“Yes,” Glinda said through gritted teeth.
“Good.” Elphaba smiled sweetly as a sudden wave of magic slammed into Glinda, knocking her off her feet and leaving her gasping on the ground. Elphaba stood over her with a mean gleam in her eye. “So do I."
Glinda reached out instinctively, her wand flying to her hand. The motion sent it striking against Elphaba's legs, making her stumble and fall to the ground. Elphaba scrambled back up, her eyes blazing with fury. Glinda’s wand had startled her, but she had recovered quickly. With a sharp flick of her hand, a pulse of green-tinged magic erupted from her palm, striking the ground just inches from where Glinda was struggling to stand.
The earth beneath Glinda’s knees cracked, forcing her to stumble as well when she rose, but her grip on her wand tightened. She leveled it at Elphaba, her heart pounding as the weight of their confrontation bore down on her.
“Don’t you dare,” Glinda hissed, her voice trembling with fury, though her knees felt weak.
“Don’t I dare?” Elphaba snarled, her lips curling into a wild, humorless grin. “Don’t I dare? Tell me, Glinda, what exactly is it that you’re going to do?” She swept her hand through the air again, and a gust of wind tore through the square, sending Glinda’s curls whipping into her face.
Without hesitation, Glinda raised her wand, muttering an incantation through gritted teeth. The gust dissipated in an instant, replaced by a shimmering golden barrier that crackled between them. Elphaba’s smirk faltered for only a moment before her expression twisted into something darker.
“You think you can stand against me now?” Elphaba spat, taking a step closer, her bare hands twisting as they crackled with residual power. “You’ve spent your whole life hiding behind the Wizard’s bubbles and Morrible’s half-remembered charms. You have never known real power.”
The words struck a nerve, and Glinda’s anger flared hot. “And you’ve spent your whole life destroying everything you touch!” she shot back. With a sharp twist of her wrist, her want sent a weak bold towards Elphaba, who deflected it effortlessly with a flick of her arm.
The impact of their magic sent sparks raining across the square, illuminating the cracked bricks and casting eerie shadows across the empty space.
Elphaba retaliated, sending a surge of power toward Glinda that pushed her and her charmed shield back several steps. The golden barrier shimmered under the strain, and she dug her heels into the ground to keep from toppling over.
“Still hiding,” Elphaba sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. “You’ll always be hiding, won’t you? Behind your spells, behind your titles, behind the Wizard —”
“That’s enough!” Glinda snapped, her voice breaking as she lashed out with her wand again. The bolt of energy wasn’t precise—it didn’t need to be. It struck the ground near Elphaba, sending up a burst of debris that forced the Witch to shield her face.
“Enough?” Elphaba repeated, her laughter sharp and unhinged as she stepped through the dust cloud, unharmed. “We haven’t even started, my sweet.”
She lunged forward, closing the distance between them in a few swift strides, her fingers crackling with barely-contained magic. Glinda reacted instinctively, slashing her wand in a wide arc that sent a wave of force rippling outward. Elphaba was forced to use the magic she had built up to deflect it, and she turned towards Glinda with a snarl. Around them, the stalls and the bricks began to tremble again. The girl’s house groaned like a wounded creature.
“You don’t even know what you’re fighting for anymore, do you?” Glinda shouted over the noise, her voice hoarse.
Elphaba glared. “I fight because no one else will,” she said. “I fight because you won’t!”
The words struck Glinda harder than she’d expected, and her focus wavered just enough for Elphaba to seize the advantage. With a powerful wave of her arm, Elphaba sent a surge of magic that shattered Glinda’s barrier and sent her sprawling to the ground once more.
But before Elphaba could make use of her upper hand, a sudden commotion erupted at the edge of the square. Shouts echoed through the air, and the heavy stomp of boots grew louder.
Glinda’s heart sank as the Gale Force soldiers flooded into the village, their uniforms gleaming under the dim light of the overcast sky. Elphaba turned toward them, her expression twisting with a mix of anger and disdain.
“You called them, didn’t you?” Elphaba spat, glaring at Glinda as the soldiers advanced.
“No,” Glinda said breathlessly, scrambling to her feet. “I didn’t—”
But Elphaba wasn’t listening. She raised her hands as the soldiers surrounded her, her magic flaring dangerously once more. The soldiers hesitated, their weapons raised but their movements uncertain.
“Stay back!” Elphaba snarled, her voice echoing across the square. “I swear, I’ll—”
“Don’t!” Glinda shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos. She stepped forward, her wand still gripped tightly in her hand. “Elphie, not again. Please .”
For a moment, Elphaba’s eyes met hers, and Glinda saw the flicker of something vulnerable beneath the rage. An explosion in a forest. A secret meeting in a confession booth. A stolen kiss. She had hurt them and asked for forgiveness.
But the moment passed as quickly as it came, and the soldiers seized the opportunity to move in while Elphaba was distracted.
They overpowered her with sheer numbers, wrestling her to the ground despite her thrashing and the wild surges of magic that lashed out around her. The air crackled with her fury, but then one of the soldiers wrenched open her jaw and poured a strange green liquid down her throat. Elphaba choked on it, gasping and coughing violently.
Glinda watched in horror as the energy surrounding them—the electric, chaotic hum of Elphaba’s magic—abruptly vanished. Elphaba’s body went still, her breathing ragged, and her skin turned a pale, sickly green as the realization seemed to hit her as well.
The Gale Force’s new commander stepped forward, offering Glinda a hand and pulling her shakily to her feet. “I’m sorry it took us so long to get here, Miss,” he said briskly. “We must go—the Wizard’s tonic will only last a quarter hour. She needs to be secured by then.”
Glinda barely heard him, her focus fixed entirely on Elphaba. The witch was pinned to the ground, her chest heaving with her strained breath. Then her gaze snapped back to Glinda. The betrayal in Elphaba’s eyes was a dagger to her chest. “I can't believe you would sink this low.” She said darkly, her voice trembling with both fury and grief. “You used my own sister’s death as a trick to capture me.”
“No,” Glinda gasped, trying to step forward, but the guard held her fast. Her voice broke as she pleaded, “No, I never meant for this to happen! Elphie—”
“Coward,” Elphaba hissed, her voice dripping with venom.
Glinda’s breath hitched. She wrenched herself free from the guard’s grip and rushed toward Elphaba, ignoring the dozen guns swinging to point at her. But she barely made it two steps before the sharp sound of a musket lock clicking froze everyone in place.
“Let the Witch go,” came a quiet, calm voice. “ Now .”
Glinda turned slowly, her heart leaping into her throat. Fiyero stood behind the soldiers, his musket pressed firmly to the commander’s temple. His expression was eerily calm.
Elphaba made a terrible, strangled sound as she struggled against the men restraining her. “No, Fiyero! Run—”
Before she could finish, one of the soldiers drove his fist into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She crumpled forward, gasping in pain.
Fiyero’s eyes flicked to her briefly, but his focus returned to the commander almost immediately. His finger hovered over the trigger, steady despite the chaos. “What do you think, Commander? Want to see if I’ll actually pull the trigger?”
The commander licked his lips nervously, trying to maintain an air of control. “Oh, I have no doubt you would,” he said, though his voice wavered slightly. “You always were an idiot. But my life is nothing compared to the Force’s capture of the Witch.” He spat on the ground. “Or her consort .”
Fiyero snorted lightly, though his grip on the musket didn’t waver. “I always wanted to be a consort. Much less pressure than being a prince.” His tone was casual, but the underlying menace was unmistakable. “But you’re right… let’s make this more interesting, shall we?”
Before Glinda could process his words, Fiyero shifted the gun’s aim, pointing it directly at her.
Her heart stopped.
The musket barrel tracked her as she instinctively stepped back.She stared at him, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
Fiyero nodded toward the commander, never taking his eyes off Glinda. “Let her go, Captain. Or explain to all Oz how the Wizard’s guards stood by and watched while Glinda the Good was slain.”
“Fiyero…” Glinda’s voice trembled. She took a hesitant step forward, confusion and fear swirling in her chest.
The musket wavered slightly in Fiyero’s grip, his hands shaking as he struggled to maintain his calm façade. But his voice remained firm. “I said. Let. Her. Go.”
There was a long, tense silence. Then, with a curt nod from the commander, the soldiers released Elphaba, and she fell to the ground in a heap.
This was it. Glinda knew this was Elphaba’s chance. The power was still in her—surely she would rise, cast a spell, and level the square if it meant escaping. But as Elphaba staggered to her feet, the debris around them trembling with her effort at summoning her power, she faltered. Her legs wobbled, and she nearly collapsed again.
Her eyes darted to Fiyero, wide with panic. “Yero, I can’t,” she gasped. “They gave me something. I can’t summon any magic—”
Fiyero’s own eyes widened a little at the realization, but then his jaw tightened as he jerked his head toward the road. “It’s alright. Elphaba, just go—now.”
“No!” she cried desperately, anguished. “No, not without you!”
“Fiyero, please—” Glinda’s voice broke, though she didn’t even know what she was asking of him.
His gaze snapped to hers, and for the first time, she saw the immense fear in his eyes. But he didn’t waver. “Go, Fae—now!”
“Yes, go, little witch,” the commander sneered. “And we’ll have fun with your little boyfriend while you’re gone.”
Elphaba froze, staring at Fiyero. She couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t make herself leave him.
For Oz’s sake. Of all times to start second-guessing leaving people…
“Elphaba!” Glinda yelled, desperate to pull her attention away. She scooped up Elphaba’s hat from the ground and hurled it toward her. “We can’t go with you—go. Do it now!”
For a moment, Elphaba was still frozen in place, and Glinda’s heart stopped as she realized she might stay and fight. But then Elphaba trembled, her resolve breaking. With one last desperate look at them both, she grabbed her broom from the ground and shot into the sky.
The square fell silent. The Guard stepped towards them both. Fiyero looked desperately between her and the approaching soldiers, trying to find a way out.
His eyes met Glinda’s again, and he took a long, shuddering inhale.
The gun fell from his hand.
“Seize him!”
The soldiers lunged, tackling Fiyero to the ground. He didn’t fight back. His weapon clattered away across the bricks as they hauled him to his knees.
“Stop!” Glinda cried, rushing forward as the commander struck Fiyero across the jaw. Blood spattered onto the yellow road as Fiyero spat bitterly, glaring up at his captors.
“Get out of the way,” the commander snapped, his voice cold. She heard Fiyero’s breath quicken - pure fear.
“No!” Glinda said fiercely, planting herself between Fiyero and the soldiers. “In the name of goodness, stop it!” She stomped her foot, and the men hesitated. “Don’t you see? He was never going to harm me.”
She turned and knelt before Fiyero, her breath catching as she looked into his wide, panicking eyes. As quick as she could, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, trying to reassure him. “He was never going to harm me,” she repeated firmly. “He just… he loves her.”
“Glinda,” Fiyero choked out, words breaking with grief and fear. “Glinda, I’m so sorry—”
The commander yanked Glinda back, shoving her into the arms of a lieutenant. “Take him up to the field by the road!”
“No!” Fiyero gasped, his voice laced with panic.
The commander ignored him. “Put him on one of those poles and hang him there until he tells us where the witch went!”
The soldiers began dragging him away. Fiyero struggled desperately, but their grip was unrelenting.
“Please!” Glinda screamed, thrashing against the lieutenant’s hold. “Please don’t hurt him! Fiyero—”
The commander turned, his expression cold and merciless. “Bring her too,” he growled. “She should see what happens to those who fraternize with a witch.”
The cornfield was half a mile away—ten minutes of marching and dragging. Fiyero could feel the jagged edges of a cracked tooth cutting into the soft flesh of his tongue, but the pain was nothing compared to his fear.
But he would not give her away. He would die a thousand deaths, endure any agony, before he gave them what they wanted.
The pole was already waiting for him when they arrived, its splintered wood rough and unyielding. They tied his arms and legs tightly to it, forcing his body into a cruel position that left him struggling for breath. Every pull to lift himself was agony, his shoulders screaming as they bore the weight of his body.
But that was nothing compared to what they did next.
The question was asked. He stayed silent.
One of the soldiers grabbed his hair and hacked it off with a jagged knife, the soft strands falling into the dirt. They laughed, mocking his ruined appearance and the Witch they claimed he served.
He hadn’t seen her when he ran into her. They were both lost in their own world. He hadn’t known her then, not really, but something about her sharp words had intrigued him.
The question was asked again. He stayed silent.
Two girls dancing together at the Ozdust. Crying. - and he was crying with them now - An odd, graceful duet. He stared at them and a strange rush of affection swept through him.
The end of a gun connected with his ribs, and he heard the sickening crack of bones breaking. The pain was blinding, stealing the air from his lungs. He screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the vastness of the field.
Toss, toss. He was laughing - and she smiled. And then everybody was asleep and the Cub was in his arms before he could think about it. And they were running together. He’d never felt more alive.
The next blow shattered his knees, and his body sagged against the bindings. The scream that tore from his throat was raw and unrelenting, his entire world reduced to the unbearable fire of his shattered joints.
Her voice was in his mind now, calling him unhappy. The way she’d touched his face, the way her words had cracked open something inside him that he hadn’t realized was there. The way he knew he was doomed from that moment on.
The question was demanded. He stayed silent. A machete gleamed in the dying sunlight as it was drawn from its sheath, its edge catching the light. Fiyero flinched, instinctive terror gripping him-
They had left him behind when they went to the CIty. And that was okay until it wasn’t. Years spent chasing every lead, leading the very men who hurt him now just to find her-
The blade descended, carving into his flesh with brutal precision. He screamed again, his voice hoarse and breaking, but still, he didn’t speak.
Glinda crying in his arms as she told the story of meeting the Witch in the forest. Him comforting her. Clinging to her as they worried and grieved together for the life they should have had.
The question was threatened now, their voices cruel. He sobbed wordlessly, unable to form a coherent thought through the haze of pain.
Elphaba crashing back into their lives, bleeding but alive, and Glinda’s gentle hands saving her as Fiyero stood frozen feeling so in love…
They ripped at his shoulders, tearing the muscles apart to pin him tighter to the beam. His skin burned with each new cut. Broken bones. Torn flesh.
A kiss goodbye. An engagement.
Then came the fire. The searing, unbearable heat of flames licking at his skin, eating away at him inch by inch. He convulsed, his cries guttural and inhuman as his body writhed against the pain.
A prostitute in a doorway. A quiet summons from a servant during his engagement ball.
A white-hot pain sliced across his face, mangling it. He could not stop his screams now. He could not even remember why they were doing this to him.
The Witch of the West staring down at him with her dark, dangerous eyes, smiling wickedly. The knowledge of her power was heady and doing wonderful things to his mind. She moved slowly over him until his eyes were glassy and his mouth dropped open, her hands on his wrists as his had been on hers. And all he knew to say was Fae…Fae…please…
“Elphaba, please!” he gasped, his voice trembling and broken, even though he knew she couldn’t hear him. Even though he didn’t want her to save him—he wouldn’t let her risk herself. But still, he begged: anything to stop this. Anything but what he had sworn not to do-
A loaded gun. Let her go.
The commander approached again, his cruel smile visible even through Fiyero’s haze of pain.
Fiyero tilted his head back against the pole, his vision blurring as the sun dipped lower in the sky. He stared at the glowing western horizon, his breath shallow, his body trembling. He couldn’t think of anything but her—the way she had looked at him, the fire in her eyes, the way he had felt so alive fighting for her cause all those years. She was the only one who ever saw him.
The question came again, but it barely registered this time. His mind was fading, slipping away from the pain, from the shouts of the soldiers.
Somewhere, deep in his fogged mind, he swore he could hear her voice, clear and insistent, calling his name.
And as the last shred of consciousness left him, his final thought was of her.
Always her.