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When Madelane Morrible was seven years old, her father gifted her a baby falcon. It was an unimpressive, small creature with ruddy brown feathers and bulging black eyes that reflected light like marbles. But she cherished the gift nonetheless, seeing as her father rarely gifted her anything but his scorn. With a rough, handmade glove made out of Quoxwood leather–one that was much too large for her tiny hand–she trained the creature to hunt on command. Mostly small things like rodents and sparrows; nothing as impressive as her father’s falconry party, taking down larger prey like foxes and hares. But she swelled with pride whenever that ruddy bird dropped a dead rat into her hands, returning to her finger with a high pitched whistle.
Madelane had come to care for the bird somewhat, though she could hardly say she loved it. The thing was smelly and messy, noisy in its cage when not in flight. It took her months to teach the thing proper recall, and years to let it fly off leash, confident it would return when she summoned it. The falcon lived for only three years before it was killed; snatched from the air by a larger eagle and torn to shreds right there in the clouds. Morrible watched it happen with a sort of morbid curiosity. Years of training was gone; pulled apart right before her eyes. Yet she observed the massive eagle with a burning desire in her chest.
A desire for more.
That little ruddy bird taught her many important lessons in childhood that her father never bothered. She learned how to be steadfast and patient in her training. She learned reward and praise was good for manipulating simple minded creatures. And she learned that weak, small beasts would always lose out in the world to something bigger and stronger. So, when the time came, she began to climb. To avoid the same fate as her dear falcon, she targeted the biggest and most powerful of them all. Today, she was the second largest bird in the sky, dwarfed only by a man too foolish to control Oz by himself.
“Madame! The Wicked Witch, she’s there!”
Lifting her eyes to the beautiful blue sky above Gillikin, Morrible felt a smile curl onto her lips at the dark silhouette hovering in the clouds. It had been years now; years since Elphaba–a powerful sorceress dwarfing even herself–had slipped through her fingers. But the green-skinned wretch had foolishly left something behind. That, of course, being her little blonde songbird. Morrible didn’t ever scoff at possible opportunities, even if the Upland girl had chafed her the moment she arrived at Shiz. Galinda–or Glinda, as she was called these days–had been helplessly left behind, mutilated and scorned by a girl she once thought was a friend.
Morrible knew the backfiring levitation spell was an accident, but it was just too good a chance to pass up. Glinda was a shattered soul left in the hands of two vultures. Elphaba was foolish to have run. Or at least, to have run without something that had once been precious to her. It had taken endless time and patience to do what was needed. Hours of grueling training; a vicious cycle of breaking and rewarding a heart that had once been so pure. But Morrible was sure now; so sure, in fact, that she was ready to put that training to the ultimate test. Waving their caravan of witch hunters to a stop, she elegantly dismounted her horse, heart thrumming in excitement.
“Ma’am? What’s the plan?” A guard asked, all eyes on Morrible as she opened her saddle bag, removing her glove. It wasn’t the same as she’d had as a child, crafted of a much better quality leather and lined with fur. It was thick and ornate, stamped with patterns and woven with braids. But it functioned the same as the handmade one she’d kept close as a girl.
“We do nothing,” Morrible told her men, causing them to glance at one another curiously.
“Nothing, ma’am?”
“Yes.” Morrible grinned, moving to the very back of their little parade. With a wave of her hand, the wooden door on a small rolling cart unlocked. It smelled of an animal, golden staw floating from the wooden floor and into the dirt. From inside, a pair of bulbous, marble-like brown eyes stared back. Expectant. Empty. “My dear,” Morrible soothed at once, reaching her glove through the door. “Come with me.”
A hand gripped the thick leather, pale and colorless as snowfall. White pinfeathers sprouted from the skin on her exposed wrists, fluttering as they caught in the lovely Gillikin breeze. Slowly but surely Glinda emerged, her messy blonde braid framing her gaunt, haunted face. One step in the dirt, then two, her bare feet sinking into the soft earth. Morrible hadn’t allowed her outside in preparation for this moment; it had been six weeks at least since her bird had seen sunlight. Glinda lifted her head, dark eyes squinting in the daytime. Her cottony wings unfurled from between her shoulder blades, stretching out with a tedious shake. These were the very wings Elphaba had given her all those years ago; a parting gift, of sorts. Morrible had seen opportunity in them, even if the wizard could not. She had been gifted a new and bigger falcon to train, just as she had when she was a girl.
She had missed practicing her falconry.
“My dear, my dear,” Morrible crooned to the girl, gently caressing her face, careful not to touch her with her bare hands. “You have trained for this moment.”
“...moment?” Glinda asked her hesitantly, leaning into the touch while grabbing onto Morrible’s leather wrapped wrist with both hands.
“The hunt is upon us,” she told her, pointing to the sky where the witch’s silhouette still floated. Glinda followed her hand, her face unchanging as she looked upon the black splotch. “Bring that raven to me, and you will be rewarded handsomely. You are so good, my dear little meadowlark. Bring me the raven, and this,” Morrible lifted the chain hanging around Glinda’s neck, giving it a knowing tug. “May no longer be necessary.”
“You’ll unlock it?” Glinda asked her softly. Morrible tilted her head, but lifted a finger.
“Only if you succeed. If you fail, the punishment will be severe. Do you understand?”
Glinda nodded slowly, releasing her mistress's wrist. She stepped back, giving her feathers a shake as dead ones fell from within the soft down. Morrible, seeing her bird’s willingness to complete the task, grinned again. She waved her finger, urging the girl out into the open field of gold and green grasses. The guards looked on in wonder, not knowing they had been carting a rather impressive falcon along for their journey.
“Don’t fail me, girl,” Morrible warned, placing her fingers between her lips and giving a sharp, high pitched whistle. Glinda spread her wings, lowering herself to the ground. With a snap, the chain around her neck released. “Go.”
She took off, her massive wings kicking up grass and dirt as she pushed from the earth and into the air. Watching the bird fly, it took her a moment to find her rhythm, wobbling with each flap. But soon enough she was racing into the cloud cover, vanishing from sight. They had practiced takeoff and landing for years; her speed and agility was unmatched. Morrible kept her eyes on the sky, fingers at the ready. There was a sudden black streak as it cut through the air, followed by an equally fast white bullet. They made chase, dancing in the air after one another at a pace that was near impossible to keep track of. Then, after a while of back and forth:
“Look!” A guard threw out his arm in disbelief. The black silhouette was tumbling down towards the ground, knocked clean off her flying broomstick. Morrible felt immense pride flood her ribs. She whistled her next command, squinting as the white bullet dove straight downwards towards the now helpless Wicked Witch of the West. The goal was to capture her, not kill her. At least not yet. With a great flap of her white wings, Glinda slowed her own descent, grabbing onto the shadow with both hands and locking on.
“Follow them!” Morrible ordered her men, watching the battalion rush in a hurry through the field. In a cloud of dust and debris, the falcon and the raven made contact with the ground, a broomstick falling from the sky and shattering into pieces as it too plummeted. Unwilling to run, Morrible walked casually towards the now formed ring of guards, two of them stepping aside to let her through.
Like a bird of prey with a rat clutched in its talons, Glinda stood on top of Elphaba, one foot on her chest, both hands around her neck. Her wings gave a mighty and irritated flap as the green woman struggled, clawing pale skin until it bled. But, as she’d been taught, Glinda didn’t let go. She stared down at her prey in focused, dark-eye’d silence, shifting only to better her grip while not killing her catch.
“G–linda!” Elphaba rasped desperately, her eyes wide in horror. Morrible gave a sharp whistle, holding out her glove.
“Return, meadowlark.”
In a flurry of feathers Glinda released, the guards surging forward to lock their new prisoner in irons. Hauled to her feet, Elphaba struggled and thrashed, but was surely and irrevocably caught. Glinda returned to Morrible’s hand without fail, placing her chin gently on her outstretched finger. Her wings folded up and her chest heaved with exertion, but she’d been trained well. “Well done, little bird,” Morrible praised, using her thumb to wipe a bead of sweat from Glinda’s cheek. “Well done.”
“You monster!” Elphaba snarled. “What have you done to her!”
“Pests will always squeal when caught. Worry not, my pet.” Morrible, against her own rules, used her ungloved hand to gently pet Glinda’s blonde hair. The girl whimpered, leaning desperately into the touch as she closed her eyes. “You’re a good girl, Glinda. And I am proud of you.”
“I’m so tired, Madame…” she whispered then, still rasping for breath from the exercise. Morrible just nodded her understanding.
“You have demonstrated your training quite amicably, dear,” she assured, watching as Glinda fell to her knees before her with a tired huff, wings splayed out behind her in a curtain of white. Morrible placed a gloved hand on her head, making eye contact with the Wicked Witch who looked nothing short of tortured. “Take the wicked one back to Oz,” she ordered, swinging her arm back towards their caravan. “There is still much work to be done.”