Archive of Our Own ^beta

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The sky wept. Glinda didn’t think it ever rained so hard in Oz since Elphaba left.

Each drop hammered the marble of the palace plaza, a relentless percussion of absence. The people called it a blessing, this cleansing rain, driving the witch from the skies. Only Glinda knew the truth.

It was no weather pattern conjured for the public good. This was a private, elemental grief. The storm’s fury was a ghost in the water, a reflection of a green-skinned girl who had felt everything too deeply, whose name was now a whisper beneath the thunder.

Her sorrow, finally unleashed.

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Glinda traced the fragile, curling and time yellowed page. The ink was fading, the ancient spells within dissolving like smoke. Scholars warned the volatile Grimmerie was decaying, too dangerous to attempt preservation - but she couldn't relinquish it.

Her fingertip hovered over a specific smudge of ink—not a spell, but a sketch. A lopsided sunflower, drawn in a moment of rare lightness. Elphaba’s laugh echoed in the silence, a ghost in the fading lines.

It was a memory, not a weapon. And as it dissolved, so did another piece of her.

She, instead, held the book tighter, defying the inevitable fade.

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The dust of Shiz settled on the small trunk. Glinda, the only mourner, opened it.

Inside, nestled beside a pointed hat, was a journal. Her breath caught. She opened it, and her own smiling face, notes from her, drawn in careful, loving ink, gazed from the margins. Passages on every page. Amidst Elphaba’s dense script, she was the constant annotation.

Glinda traced the lines, a sob escaping. All those years, she believed she was the sun. Only now did she see: she was not the light, but the thing upon which the lonely green girl had written all her love.

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The first snowfall dusted the Emerald City. 

On her balcony, Glinda found a coat, the fur impossibly soft, the pink pure. No note was needed. It hummed with a familiar, defiant warmth against the chill. 

She smiled, her breath a cloud in the air, and slipped it on, burying her face in the familiar smell of mint and wildness she’d come to miss, to mourn, to dream of when she retreated to the warm embrace of the shadows.

Far below, a flash of black skirt disappeared around a corner, Elphaba’s solitary footprint in the snow the only signature being required.

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Elphaba’s shabby hood and clock obscured the green. From the crowd, she watched Glinda ascend from the palace, pink tulle and practised smiles that Elphaba could see through the cheers, the adoration a physical force, a wave of sound beating against Elphaba’s chest.

This was her doing. Her exile had polished Glinda into a jewel for people to admire the shine of. The bubbly girl was gone, replaced by a symbol. A costume for a nation that needed a hero to love and a witch to hate.

Elphaba turned away, her own disguise the only honest thing in the square.

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The ginger-spiced scent greeted her first. On the balcony sat a plate of cookies, golden and perfect. For the coat. A note in Glinda’s looping script.

Elphaba’s throat tightened. A selfish, hungry ache urged her to hoard the offering, this tangible proof of a fragile truce. Instead, she broke a gingersnap three ways.

Chistery chittered his thanks, crumbs dusting his fur as he scoffed it. The Scarecrow’s stuffed mouth couldn’t smile much, but his eyes held the familiar warmth of Fiyero somehow.

“Here.” She murmured, pressing a piece into his straw hand.

They ate in silence — a quiet Christmas communion.

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Glinda usually placed fresh pink tinged lilies upon the cold, grey stone. Every week, a quiet ritual of atonement for someone she only met briefly, but connected with more to her most.

From the concealing treeline, Elphaba watched, her skin camouflaged by the shadows.

A profound, complicated gratitude swelled within her—for this kindness shown to a sister who deserved both scorn and pity.

After Glinda departed, Elphaba emerged. She approached the grave, touching it before laying a single black orchid beside the lilies - a token only one would understand.

A silent thank you for someone she could no longer reach.

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The rain-slicked cobbles of the Emerald City gleamed under Glinda’s lamp.

Then she saw them: unmistakable, scuffed black boots. “Elphie?”

A shift in the shadows. A familiar voice. “Go away.” 

“Please.”

Silence, then a whisper. “They’re watching you.” 

“I know.” Glinda stepped into the darkness, letting it swallow her whole, losing her primp and proper visible form and becoming merely a voice. She found Elphaba’s chilled hand in the black, their fingers intertwining, a stark contrast of silk gloves and warm skin.

For a moment, there was no divide - only two pairs of boots, close together on the wet stone.

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“I remember when we were happy…once. In fact, it was the happiest I’ve ever been,” Elphaba murmured, her green skin pale in the twilight.

Glinda’s hand, soft and sweet, reached for hers once more. “We can be that again.”

The memory was a physical ache: nostalgia of shared secrets in dusty dorm rooms, breathless laughter soaring above the Oz sky, other things. It was perfect, gilded, shattered by the world they chose for the other.

Elphaba withdrew, the space between them widening into a chasm of principle and pain.

“We can’t-” She said, the truth absolute. “-and you know that.”

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"Did you ever find one?"

“Find what?” Elphaba asked, though she knew already.

“A cure, when you read the Grimmerie. Did you find one?”

Elphaba’s evergreen fingers brushed the dusty bricks in front of her, rusted red against the small of her back. “No.” She finally whispered, the word brittle. “Not for this. The book only showed me the beautiful, terrible magic of what is. Not how to change it.”

She turned, her dark eyes holding Glinda’s. “Some roots are too deep. Some things simply… are. I’ve learned to accept what I am a long time ago…just like you do.”

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“These rooms combined are almost as small as our dorm room was. Why move here?”

Glinda’s fingers trailed over a table. “I wanted somewhere that was…cozy. The city isn’t cozy. Not anymore. I think it’s nice. Humble.”

Elphaba's gaze softened, taking in the worn rug, the single window overlooking quiet fields of poppies. No cheering crowds, no gilded halls, no one cheering Glinda’s name through the streets.

She understood the unspoken truth. Cozy meant safe. Cozy meant unseen. Cozy meant them together, somewhere they didn’t have to look over their shoulders. “It is.” Elphaba finally agreed, nodding. “It really is.”

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Once again, Elphaba jerked awake, the phantom scream of her sister echoing where only desert winds howled, Nessa’s crushed form beneath the house a spectre that no solitude or lingering time could banish.

Her emerald skin clammy, she was about to leave the bed when Glinda turned, her arm draping over Elphaba’s, the pulse coming from her wrist like a gentle, glowing star.

No words needed, only a persistent, soothing warmth against the memory of the storm.

Elphaba felt it, her rigid shoulders slowly easing as she tucked herself in again, the latter a light holding the tempest at bay.

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The fog of Winter rolled out soon thankfully, a grey, wet shroud she didn’t miss as she found him in the castle ruins, slumped and dripping.

“Fiyero…” She whispered, her hands gentle on the sodden burlap. Loosened stitching, waterlogged straw, he was frayed more than she accidentally had made him.

She worked quietly, her magic a soft glow mending the seams, replacing the damaged husks with dry, golden straw.

She could not give him back his body like it once was, but she could keep his form whole against the elements that threaten to take him away from her again.

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The pre-dawn gloom of Glinda’s cottage was Elphaba’s only sanctuary.

Each morning, she slipped from the warmth of the sheets, careful not to wake the latter as she glided among the small walls. Her token of thanks: a pinch of grounds, water heated with a silent flick of her wrist, milk and sugar added afterwards until it was just how she liked it. 

She placed the cup on the nightstand, a silent vigil against the day ahead. Before the first bird sang, she was gone, back to her palace, leaving coffee’s heat to wake the Good Witch she loved so.

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Wracked by a fungal plague like a lot of her subjects, Glinda lay in her cottage, Elphaba nursing her.

Her castle garden had been overflowing, Chistery assisting her in harvesting the most defiant and resilient of the bunch, like squashes, brewing a potent broth. “Eat.”

Glinda complied. A fierce, golden light erupted from her pores. She shimmered, her skin casting glittering motes like the OzDust ballroom itself. Elphaba gasped. “No, not again! I’m so sorry-”

Glinda weakly raised a hand, watching the light dance across her fingers, a smile gracing her lips. “Oh, Elphie. It’s just like being beautiful again.”

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They lay in the wildflowers as the sky deepened to violet. The first star blinked. “That’s Lurline.” Elphaba whispered. “It’s always the brightest when the sun sets.”

“-and that one?” Galinda asked softly. Elphaba followed her finger. “Mistress Mauri. She who spins the world’s thread.” 

Another flickered in the distance. “-and that?”

“That is part of the Calvary, a chain of horses. Fiyero showed me that one, years ago.”

Galinda turned her head. “They’re beautiful.” She wasn’t looking at the stars anymore.

Elphaba smiled, meeting her gaze. “I know.

Overhead, the sky was vast and full of impossible, glittering things.

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The whispers began when Glinda insisted on black. In the Emerald City, the request was near treasonous, but it was done, the coat delivered by page to the cottage on Elphaba’s birthday. 

“What is this?” Elphaba looked up with shining eyes. 

“A coat like mine, with just as much love stitched in.” Glinda said, her voice softer than usual.

The latter touched the fine wool, her fingers trembling. No one had ever given her a gift, even her father or Nessa. She slipped it on, the rich black fabric a defiant shield, seen not for her color, but for herself.

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The castle was Fiyero’s home, not hers. Here, in Glinda’s sun-drenched cottage, the air was sweet, unburdened, even with those nearby that would think of her as wicked.

“Please stay.” Glinda whispered, her hand a fleeting warmth.

Elphaba looked at the Scarecrow, tethered to Fiyero’s soul and led him to the wildflower field, a silent sentinel to watch over their fragile peace.

“Be free.” She told Chistery. He chittered, then led the winged monkeys into the whispering woods. Turning back, she saw Glinda waiting, hope a tangible light. Elphaba stepped inside, the door closing on one home, opening on another.

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The Munchkins quivered, their tiny voices a chorus of dread. 

"She was seen!" Chirped a terrified citizen, pointing vaguely west. "Near Glinda's cottage! The Wicked Witch of the West!" 

Glinda, ever poised, tried to soothe them. "My dear friends, please-" She began, her wand sparkling reassuringly. "-you mustn't believe all things."

Her words, however, did little to dispel. The mere mention of the witch, the sister of a tyrant, the daughter of a ruler dearly missed, the scapegoat of a sentimental man, made their already loud chattering just louder. 

She could only guess some fears ran much deeper than reason.

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Elphaba inhaled deeply, channelling the air like she was back in Shiz, light and with purpose. 

She raised a whispering breeze that lifted thousands of wildflowers - an apology - toward the distant Munchkin villages. The gesture was slow to reach them, but powerful. 

Soon, nervous groups began navigating the winding path to Glinda’s secluded cottage. 

Elphaba stood waiting near the gate. Her smile was genuine, without the cruel edge others had made her out to have. "Welcome."

Glinda simply watched the scenes from the framed doorway, a silent, proud witness as the breeze shifted and the Munchkins’ minds did as well.

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The inkwell is nearly dry. A fitting metaphor. The Munchkinlanders’ tentative smiles are a balm I never expected, their small kindnesses and niceties slowly erasing the fear along with the stares at my skin.

My heart, however, is a louder thing. It speaks only of Glinda. Her laugh is a sunbeam in this unfamiliar place, her very presence a light.

I want to ask her, to really build a life within that light. I craft the words in my head, over and over, but the inkwell is dry, and my courage too.

I fear her answer would break the spell.

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The dinner was Glinda’s idea, a redo of the soup she had served her, only with slightly less glitter. Elphaba simply watched her, this golden girl who saw green not as a curse anymore, but a colour.

“You didn’t have to set the table.” Glinda chirped.

“Yes, I did.” Elphaba sighed. “I wanted this to be special.” She took a breath, her heart a wild thing inside. “I want to make this permanent. Please, marry me.”

The spoon clattered against Glinda’s bowl. Silence stretched, then broke on a whisper, a single, luminous word that filled the space between them:

“Yes.”

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Elphaba seethed. “They call you a witch. A title of fear, of scorn.”

Glinda merely smiled, her hand finding Elphaba’s. “They called me ‘Good,’ you ‘Wicked.’ They gave us separate boxes. Now?” She shrugged, a gesture both delicate and defiant as she. “The world sees one word for us both. It levels the field.”

“It stains you." Elphaba insisted, her dark eyes fierce.

“No, my love.” Glinda whispered, her voice soft as a spell. “It binds us, just like rings will come time. Now we are truly equal in all things, not just in the deepest parts of our hearts.”

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The letter was an impossibility, the Governor’s seal stark on the parchment. A teaching post. Here. In their Eden. “They’ll throw rocks.” Elphaba whispered.

Glinda took her hand. “They are more understanding now. You’ll have a classroom. It’s a stage. Show them the brilliant mind behind the… pigment. Show them the you that you couldn’t, that you weren’t allowed to show. You get a chance now to be their guide, not the monster they made you out to be so long ago.”

Elphaba looked at the letter, then at the hopeful face of her friend. She picked up the pen.

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The cornfield was now Fiyero’s kingdom, but the crows were a jealous court. Elphaba had done her best ot protect him; weaving a shimmering barrier—a windshield of air and will—that hummed around his post.

He knew it was not enough.He watched her, his straw heart knowing its time was borrowed. “El-” He whispered, plucking a golden stalk from his own chest. “For you and her. Let it grow something new. I’m sure you can make it so.”

She cupped the offering, this fragile legacy, as the wind, now gentle, whispered through the shielded corn. He stood straighter, protected, eternal.

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The amber potion simmered, infused with the straw Fiyero had provided for them.

Elphaba’s hands trembled. “It’s ready.” She whispered. Glinda watched, her face a mirror of anxiety and love.

“Glinda…” Her voice was fragile, her skin glowing eerily dull in the dim light. “If… if the child is like me… will you… could you still love them?”

She didn’t hesitate. She cupped Elphaba’s cheek, her touch as gentle as a sunbeam.

“My darling Elphie-” Her voice was fierce, precious with promise. “I will love any child that is a part of you. They could never be anything but beautiful.”

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The summer air hummed, thick and heavy in the cottage, but for once she didn’t feel it.

She wiped her brow, her other hand pressed against the swell of her belly as she reached for a high shelf. A stack of books trembled.

A rustling of silk announced Glinda’s return. “Fabala, no. Leave it.” She gently guided Elphaba to a chair.

Elphaba’s sigh held a spark of magic, making the curtains flutter. “I’m not an invalid.”

“You are a marvel-” Glinda corrected softly, her hand resting on the curve that housed their slowly unfolding future. “-and marvels deserve to rest.”

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Elphaba trembled. “He’s green.” She whispered, recoiling from the bassinet, still feeling the pains of birth.

Glinda’s smile was reverent. “He’s perfect.” She gently lifted their swaddled son. “Just like his mother.”

Elphaba flinched, years of scorn echoing in her mind. “The world will–”

“The world will see better.” Glinda interrupted softly. Her gaze was unwavering, filled with a love that took her breath. She carefully placed the infant, Liir, into Elphaba’s arms.

Tentative, afraid, Elphaba looked down. His green skin was warm. He yawned, a tiny, trusting fist curling around her finger.

Her fear melted. Here was her family.

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Elphaba led Liir into the woods with a trusting hand, stopping only when spotting her prize through the trees. “These are my friends.”

The flying monkeys chittered, Chistery fluttering down, cocking his head. Tentatively, Liir reached out. Chistery nestled into his touch, warm and trusting.

Later, snuggled between Elphaba and Glinda, he asked about the shining city over the hills; far from their haven. Glinda’s voice was tight. “It’s beautiful, but its heart is cold.”

Elphaba held him closer, her embrace a safe harbour against all. “True magic isn’t in gleaming towers like that, brave boy. It’s here with us.”

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Elphaba traced a symbol as Liir’s small brow furrowed in concentration, her voice soft as she directed his hands. “The intent matters most.” She murmured, her green fingers gentle with his own.

Glinda watched from the doorway, her smile a private thing. From a shared dorm room na dhate thinly disguised as wonder and jealousy. Now, Elphaba was a teacher, and she, a wife, both of them as one.

Their eyes met across the room. A universe of history passed in that glance—sorcery, sorrow, shared love - woven together like threads in a worn flannel shirt.

They were frayed, but enduring.