Title: One Who Mourns The Wicked
Characters: Glinda
Summary: She shifts her hand slightly, so that the setting sun over her shoulder can fill the carvings with light, an echoing revenant of her friend's warmth.

If the citizens of Oz had looked to the evening skies at just the right moment they may have spied a familiar satellite drifting higher than anyone else could recall seeing it fly – Glinda Upland's prismatic bubble catches a thermal and pitches a few more feet into the air, squeezing through a thick canopy of trees on the outskirts of the Emerald City. The parabolic exterior of her atypical vehicle touches down on a small platform of earth – which has been magicked into a cliff face on the side of a large tree – and pops, splashing beads of soapy fluid onto bark.

"Elphieee," she trills, a melismatic syllable dangling off the end of her friend's name. Glinda giggles; she's managed to squeeze in a couple more notes this time, and she nods in approval at the endearing accomplishment.

"I brought you daisies this time," Glinda says softly.

The other flowers have not withered or faded yet; amaranthine blossoms a product of the Grimmerie's magical spells. They're arranged in a neat garland around the smooth, marble headstone embedded into the ground. She tucks the bouquet she brought into the heart of her shrine, like a centrepiece.

(The roses would probably look better, but what the heck.)

Hitching up her flowing dress, Glinda sits before the cut stone – it's pointed so that the conical, raven-black hat can perch precisely on top of it – and starts to weave a band of daffodils through her golden locks.

"It's been a while, Elphie. I'm sorry I haven't been visiting often, but the Ozians haven't adapted to living without the Wizard just yet; just today a couple of them asked when he would be coming back." She pauses to fasten the petals to her hair with thread. "I told them I didn't know, but we know that he isn't coming back. Not after what he did."

She wishes that she could have fashioned a more elaborate memorial, but she couldn't have drawn unwelcome eyes to a grave in remembrance of a person no one but her wanted to remember. Besides, there wasn't even a body; it would have felt even more peculiar than usual to bury a vial of steaming liquid. Besides, Glinda thinks that she would have preferred this anyway – to evaporate into the sky like a soul, flying to stratospheric heights, a benevolent percolation. She imagines Elphaba raining down over Oz, collecting in the ponds at Shiz, watching over Munchkinland with invisible eyes, running in rivulets down the glass-green window panes of her palace. She's everywhere, Glinda tells herself, and this makes things easier. Just a little.

"Well, things have changed a lot, Elphie," Glinda sighs. "I made Nessa one too. It wasn't easy, you know; they wanted to turn the whole house into a monument. I don't think anyone should be able to tell that the legs are prosthetics – no one wants to get close enough. Everyone's afraid of the Wicked Witches, even though they're already…" Glinda trails off, unwilling to complete her sentence.

"Gone," she compromises finally. Even that word sounds horrible as sin.

"We found Doctor Dillamond – I've been trying to get him to speak again. There's been progress – he can say your name again – but it's going to take some time." She smiles. "He still calls me 'Glinda', though. So the name change does work out, I guess.

"Boq loves his stuffed heart quite a bit. He went nearly ballistic when I told him that it made him look shinier. He always was a little weird, don't you think?" Glinda waits a few seconds. No reply. "You would have laughed at that," she murmurs.

"I think that I might be able to change him back someday. I've been studying the Grimmerie for a few months now; I can't read everything yet, but I am trying. Look at what I can do now –" She draws out her wand and twirls it. "Solkof elehka tum tun djisa, solkof elehka tum tun djisa…"

The green leaves overhead begin to blanch slowly, etiolating with Glinda's chanting. They're pale after a minute, almost mimicking the colour of skin. Almost, but not exactly.

"I thought that you would have used that one immediately," she says sadly. Did she doubt her own proficiency to use it properly? Did she not know of the spell? Or was her friend already comfortable enough with her unusual pigmentation? So many questions, all of which would remain answerless.

Warm tears fall into her lap (she doesn't care that she can't wash it out of her dress later). Glinda leans closer to the chiselled marble, palming the words inscribed on it. She feels her words breaking in her throat under the weight of grief. She'd told herself to be strong for this moment, and Elphaba would have wanted that.

"I miss you so much," she whispers, and her voice is no longer musical and light; it stings her dainty vocal cords with its harshness. She shifts her hand slightly to the left, so that the setting sun over her shoulder can fill the carvings with light, an echoing revenant of her friend's warmth.

Elphaba Thropp

The Good Witch of the West, a loving Sister, and a Friend who Mattered

Flying Solo, and Flying Free

A/N: I was going to spend the night studying Math, and then this happened. Curses.