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Now that she is older and if not wiser then certainly shrewder, it is obvious to Elphaba that she made a mistake in allowing her roommate to see her off at the train station. Pride, her father had often reiterated, goeth before destruction and haughty spirit before a fall. And she had been prideful, though there had been nothing yet of which to be proud. She neither wanted nor enjoyed fuss, she told herself, and Glinda was its living embodiment. It was a short walk, after all, and she had very little luggage to carry. Too used to her own company, she had not needed anyone to wave her off and assure her she would be missed. And even if she had, she doubted she would have chosen Glinda for the task. But, of course, nobody else had ever wanted to do those things for her. And, Elphaba had to admit, it was wonderful to be loved so completely as Glinda loved her friends.
But now that she comes to think of it, perhaps it was not pride at the root of it, but pity. Glinda had sobbed into a pillow all night - incredibly theatrically with great heaving sighs, but nevertheless, it had hurt her to listen to it.
"I thought you wanted this suite to yourself anyway," she'd said. "It's not forever. You won't even know I'm gone."
"I'm completely alone."
"You're not completely alone at all. You have Fiyero."
Glinda looked up at her like a kicked dog and immediately let out a howl of distress.
"I see."
His distance had been increasing, but selfishly and perhaps it was damned pride again, Elphaba had thought that was directed solely at her. Can it be pride, she wonders, to believe someone finds you so repulsive that their complete intolerance for company revolves around you alone? Not, she decides, when it must be the case. Then it is simply fact. For here he stands, tall, broad-shouldered, disgustingly dashing in that ridiculous bottle-green military uniform. Captain, she has heard. Captain, she sees now, in the three pips glittering mockingly at her in the moonlight. Once again, in her absence at Glinda's side, where he belongs.
Metaphorically, of course. Glinda the Good is not expected to lead raids in darkness, nor hoards of pitchfork-wielding nearby villagers, pails of river water in tow. The chill night air and the enveloping darkness are the realm of her handsome swain.
And the fool has separated from the herd.
There it is again. Pride. He has been clever enough to track her, after all, though she suspects he has no idea exactly how close he is to catching her in this moment. In daylight, he would see her clear as the grass, but she is cloaked in the safety of night. She sucks in a breath, not daring to move even to push herself against the abandoned barn. Despite herself, her breath hitches as he slams a hand into the wooden frame. His face, usually almost hauntingly beautiful in its serenity, twists into a mask of torment. She aches to reach for it, but his pain, she reminds herself, trying to swallow her pride in it, is her success. His torment is her constant slipping through his outstretched fingers.
More than anything, she wishes Glinda had stayed behind and did whatever Glinda did with a free weekend. Perhaps then they would both be a mere memory. Perhaps then she could take this opportunity to move swiftly and mercilessly against her great enemy. This man in his green and gold captain's jacket lives because he is Fiyero, but she is not sure he would extend her the same courtesy.
In fact, she is very sure he would not. After all, he has never stared too long at her face in profile, nor looked in her eyes long enough to recognise them in a crowd, nor watched her hopelessly in love with another and sickened in agony. Any misplaced pride leaves her completely, replaced by a shame that makes her want to claw out of her own skin.
She cannot bear to watch him in this most private moment when he thinks he is alone, cannot bear to look at him as his anguish morphs into pride, as his face becomes not that of the man she loves with all that is left of her disloyal and useless heart, but that of The Gale Force Captain who Caught the Wicked Witch of the West. She squeezes her eyes tightly closed as the soft pads of his footsteps approach.
"Captain?"
She opens them in time to see him turn in the direction of the disembodied voice, in time to take a step back into the gloom, in time to realise that she has been lucky tonight for reasons completely out of her control and lucky is something she cannot afford to be. She cannot allow herself pride in this escape which she has not made for herself. She cannot allow herself pride at all. Pride, as she repeats now in her father's stead, goeth before the fall. And no matter how many times one defies gravity, one always ends up falling.
Usually for someone one shouldn't.