Chapter Text
Darkness. Cold. Those were the first things noticed. Slowly, nerve endings started firing, then pain ensued. It shot daggers across muscles and twisted down a spine. Emerald eyes blinked open, squinting into the blinding morning sun.
“Where am I?” a voice croaked, “Did it work? Oh please, Oz, please tell me it worked.”
Slender hands lifted the lone figure off the damp slate floor. Struggling to stand, legs wobbling and still shaking from the adrenaline, they stumbled into a stone pillar, gasping with pain.
Memories came flooding back… A gunshot, a woman’s voice, a blinding light, an explosion that sounded like a thunderclap. His face. Then nothing. Nothing but cold darkness.
‘That hunk of tin is the first one to go,’ thought the figure sharply.
“ I wonder how long I lying there?” the voice scratched out, rough from overuse. With eyes slowly adjusting to the light, the figure surveyed the chamber. A large circular window dominated the far wall, illuminating the gray stone walls with soft light. A cloth-covered mirror caught the eye near the wooden doors. Grunting with effort, the figure made the trek across the room, ignoring every stab of pain racing across sore muscles.
The musty canvas fluttered to the floor, sunlight catching the dust in its rays. Tired emerald eyes stared back from the mirror. They danced across sharp cheekbones, traveling down to the small scar raised against plump, full lips. A stab of pain flashed across the figure's eyes; the memory still felt fresh, though it had been well over a decade since the incident that changed everything. Shaking slightly, pale green fingers reached up and toyed with the deep chocolate locks that had gotten in the way of the figure’s inspection. Looking again into the mirror, the eyes traced every inch of the slim figure, ensuring there were no obvious broken bones or cuts.
“Well, it seems I’m in one piece at least, thank Oz,” the figure muttered, relief palpable. Again, Emerald met Emerald through the ornate mirror.
Her mother’s eyes. Another stab of heartbreak shot across her face. How long had it been? Five years? Ten? It was hard to tell anymore. It felt like a lifetime since she last heard her mother’s voice or saw her soft smile.
Rosalind Tigelaar stood slightly shaking before her reflection. The Radiant Rose of Oz. Ward and Heir Apparent to her Goodness, Glinda the Good. The Illegitimate Daughter of the Wicked Witch of the West. The Wicked’s Spawn. That cursed nickname had been whispered through the rolling hills and villages of her parents' homeland. She had survived, thrived even under her Aunt’s care. But still, she only seemed to be tolerated because of Glinda’s astute political savvy and iron grip on the people's hearts. Without her interference, the little witch surely would have been killed as soon as someone discovered the truth of her parentage. Oh, and nevermind the fact that the rumor of her illegitimacy was untrue (that had always bothered her). Her parents had made their vows outside of Oz’s borders well before her birth. But it mattered not to those who spent years spewing their hatred and spreading outrageous lies about her mother. All because of two power-hungry mongrels. Those deplorable frauds were at the top of her Hit List.
With a bitter chuckle, Rosalind shook her head and scanned the chamber again, hoping that the items she tried to bring with her survived the journey. Sighing in relief at the sight of her bag and (more importantly) her mother's broomstick, lying on the slate floor.
Ignoring her body groaning in protest, the young witch made her way over to retrieve her items. Her mind finally cleared, allowing her to think.
‘Alright, Rosalind. Remember the plan. If that blasted spell worked as it should, then I don’t have much time. Thank Oz, the broomstick made it back with me.’
With shaking hands, she pulled a worn black hat from the bag and stared at it for a long moment.
“I will save you both,” she vowed softly, “we will be together again, as we should have from the start. All of us. And everyone who stood against us will pay for what they’ve done to this family.”
With that, she placed her mother's hat onto her curls.
Slinging her bag on her shoulder and grabbing her mount, Rosalind Tigelaar glanced over at the mirror for the last time, taking in her reflection. Chocolate locks falling down her back, enchanted pink roses still braided into her hair courtesy of her beloved Aunt. The black dress, piped with small gold accents, clung to her form and was covered by her emerald-lined onyx duster. She wore them like armor. For her, they were a reminder of her old life. Her family. Determined, hard eyes stared back from the mirror. It was time.
At that moment, Rosalind felt every inch mother's daughter, her father’s daughter, her aunt’s heir. Ready for action. Ready for war. She would get her family back. No matter the cost.