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The palace in Emerald City is like a slumbering beast, with the dark hallways acting as the maw. As she travels down them she is swallowed up by the beast’s gullet. She wonders if there will be any piece of her left after she has been consumed. The halls feel endless and imposing, constantly shifting. She often loses track of where she is. Has to double back to try and find her way. (No one offers her any help. Why should they when she is of no use to them with her lack of magic? Instead they let her be eaten by the beast.)
She remembers running through these halls. Running after her. Now there are no flying monkeys after her, nor do guards chase her every step. And yet Glinda has never felt more… (Safe, her mind interjects before she can finish the sentence. But fear lingers like a whisper in her heart.)
Eventually, she finds the room she is supposed to be in. She holds the doorknob with trepidation. She can feel the eyes on her, the ones belonging to the guards that are standing by the door. For every moment that she doesn’t open the door, she feels their judgment on her. (Foolish little girl is what they must think. No less than you deserve, her heart hisses at her.) Glinda forces herself to turn the knob and walks into the room. Sitting at the table inside is Madame Morrible looking impatient and decidedly not amused.
“Sorry, I am late,” Glinda apologizes profusely. These days she doesn’t add that she lost her way…again. It would only make her look more incompetent. (And Madame Morrible already thinks you’re a fool.)
All she gets is a disapproving shake of the head and a clucking of her tongue before she sharply indicates the seat in front of her. Glinda feels herself flush with shame as she walks over and sits down.
The shame doesn’t leave her. It never has in their magic seminars. Even when they were at Shiz. She can feel Madame Morrible’s judgment of her. Disappointment. Failure. The magic wouldn’t come then and it still won’t now. Many and more months have passed. The weather changed, the days grew long and then short again, the moon waxed and waned. Glinda is only aware of these changes in the periphery of her perception, in the words spoken by others. Too dangerous to be allowed to leave, too valuable to lose, so the Wizard and Madame Morrible determined. (They fear Elphaba – her name feels like a stab to the heart – will return for her. Though Glinda knows better. She has learned in this life that she is not someone people return for. No one would risk their hide for her sake. She can’t blame them, because she can’t say she wouldn’t do the same. Life is simple and transactional like that.) Even after she doesn’t return for months and months and the rumors die down, Glinda remains trapped (protected, her mind replaces stubbornly) by polished walls.
She knows if she had magic she could leave the palace. Be able to protect herself. Feel the sun on her face, feel the wind blowing through her hair, feel alive. She wants that, she wants her magic, she wants and she wants and she wants. And life gives her nothing. Only a spluttering spark in her gut that she can’t stoke to life. However much Madame Morrible might force her to learn spell after spell, to practice her breathing, to feel the magic. Glinda feels as lost in the hedge maze that is her mind as she does in the palace.
Madame Morrible is talking, Glinda knows she should pay attention. But all she can focus on is the cold hard look of disinterest in dark eyes. Glinda knows they can look different. She saw the way her eyes would light up with pride (and covetousness, her heart implores) when she looked at Elphaba after she completed a spell successfully. Glinda used to sit in those classes and watch them interact and she yearned for what she could not have. The training wand, a heavy useless weight in her hand. She was there to be indulged, like a spoiled vapid child. She could read it in Madame Morrible’s eyes, that same doubt and disbelief her parents would express. (She represses the memory of kind green eyes full of faith and kind words spoken into the quiet of a shared room. The reason she was even allowed in that class in the first place.) Glinda blinks rapidly to clear her vision.
When Madame Morrible stops talking and looks at Glinda expectantly, she puts on her best smile and raises her hand to the indicated object. She so wants that look of approval that Elphaba got so easily. Perhaps this time she will succeed. (She does not.)
Sometimes she feels that Elphaba is haunting her. As if she has died somehow without anybody noticing. The itch on the skin of her hand that would have been holding hers. The green of every surface reminding her of her skin, her eyes. The sound of pages flipping in a book. The sound of a second set of steps echoing her own. Glinda feels like she is going insane. As the walls shift around her and she feels the ghost of her like a breeze on her skin, Glinda wants to scream at her to reveal herself and to stop her wicked tricks. She needs her here so she can yell at her for leaving her behind. (She refuses to accept that she decided to stay. That the decision was mutual. It is not that Glinda regrets her decision. She doesn’t, she doesn’t. It is that Elphaba will not leave her alone to wallow in her choices.)
It is only in the deepest darkest part of the night when Glinda can admit to herself that she misses her. Those are not moments of conscious thought. No, quite the opposite. It is when she closes her eyes and her mind drifts off to sleep. When her defenses are down, she is forced to sink or swim through the deep dark waters of her psyche. And so Glinda swims. And she dreams, she dreams, she dreams. She remembers their dorm back at Shiz: the nights spent talking, the nights spent fighting. In the end they were one and the same. They gave her Elphaba’s attention. Sole and undivided as she desired. She dreams of other moments as well, moments that are too confronting, too raw.
(The rushing sound of the train moving at high speed. The light of the moon casting them in white, surreal contrast. The train was like a liminal space. No one could reach them, no one could touch them, no one could hear them, no one could hurt them. And so they gave in to the tug of feeling from the string tied around their hearts. They drew closer and closer until it was hard to say where one ended and the other began. Lips pressed softly to green skin. Tentative touches by gentle fingers turning ever more insistent. The slightest edge of pain from the bite of nails in arms, shoulders, thighs. Glinda had never seen someone look so beautiful, so vulnerable. As she looked into green twinkling eyes, she knew she would never feel a love like this ever again. How could she have thought she loved Fiyero at all? Chest to chest, their hearts beat in sync. Glinda let their lips meet as her hand found its way between her legs. The heat she found there matched the warmth that permanently resides in heart when she is around. Glinda let her fingers drive her to ecstasy. Her love, her Elphie.)
She shoots upright in bed. Her chest is heaving, out of breath. Her heart is racing. It has grown cold, no heat will reach it now. She is alone surrounded by darkness. She was wrong before, the palace isn’t a beast swallowing her whole. Instead it is a tomb where no daylight will reach her. Just endless halls of green walls. The floors and walls are shined to such perfection that she sees versions of herself everywhere. Twisted and surreal. Just her, only her in this dark and silent and imposing building. She is alone, not even Elphaba’s ghost can keep her company. Her skin prickles all over. She wraps her own arms around her. It does nothing. Glinda wonders if she is even real at this point. (Is she going to die here?)
Glinda stares at the closed door. Behind it lies a room where discussions are being had about the fate of Oz. She has always been taught the value of power by her parents. What it can offer, what it can provide. The control it would offer her. She wants it. And she is so close. Just a few steps and a wooden door. Just a few inches between herself and freedom. Freedom to leave, or freedom to stay, does it matter at this point? But instead of striding ahead and opening that door, she is left out in the cold hallway. Waiting for Madame Morrible who told her to wait for her here. Glinda wonders what they are discussing at this moment. (Is her name ever on the tip of their tongues or is she an abstract figure? The Wicked Witch, they are calling her. Glinda’s stomach twists at the memory of her downcast expression in that tower upon hearing those words. She shoves it down, down, down.)
Lately instead of fearing she will never leave this place, she has started to fear being sent away, back to Shiz. She dreads the thought of being sent away after they have decided she is of no use to them. The social embarrassment the Upland name would suffer if she were to be given a place in the Wizard’s inner circle only to be told to return to school within a year. She could not bear the weight of her parents’ disappointment. Especially remembering their pride in the letters she receives now. (Death might be preferable to failure. At least she would die with their love intact.)
She can see the Wizard and Morrible do not want to give up on her just yet. She can see they want her to succeed just as much if not more than she does. Glinda knows the political games. She knows they want not only the magic she can offer, but mainly the image she represents. (They want to use her against Elphaba, she knows this. Her heart tells her to stop before it is too late. Her mind tells her Elphaba made her decision, and Glinda should not be beholden to her foolhardy choices made in anger and haste.) She wants to scream at them, to just believe in her, she can do it, she can. Instead she remains quiet unless spoken to, polite to a fault. This is how she was raised.
But as the door remains closed in front of her, Glinda feels an itch beneath her skin that she can’t reach. It grows worse. She grinds her teeth and determines she will succeed. She will, even if it kills her.
Her failures pile up, but Glinda’s determination does not wane. She keeps trying and trying. Instead of desperation or sadness, she focuses on a more productive emotion: anger. She feels anger at her circumstances, anger at her lack of magic, anger at Elphaba for leaving her. (Most of all she feels angry at herself. Alas she will not admit that, except in her heart of hearts.)
It reaches a boiling point one day when she has failed again. Instead of the usual sigh of disappointment, Madame Morrible has launched into a tirade on how much she misses her star pupil. How could she possibly be left with just Glinda? As she hears her go on and on about Elphaba’s magical prowess, she feels the rotten feeling of jealousy wind its way around her heart. The same way it did when she pulled that prank with the hat on her. It feels like hot molten lava threatening to pour from her hands, her eyes. She slams her eyes shut with haste and steadies her breathing to release the feeling. It feels inexplicable and strange.
Distantly she hears the soft ringing of glass shaking. And then closer, much closer than before, Madame Morrible’s voice next to her ear, “What do you feel?”
Glinda clenches her jaw and grits out through her teeth, “Anger.”
“What else?”
She considers saying nothing more, but the intrigue she hears in her teacher’s voice keeps Glinda talking. She has never sounded more engaged during their classes. “Jealousy,” Glinda admits.
“Focus on that emotion, let it run through you, harness it,” Madame Morrible tells her. Glinda feels the weight of her hand resting on her shoulder. The touch is cold where Glinda feels all hot and flushed with something.
She closes her eyes and dredges up the memories where these emotions felt the strongest. Words flash through her head, words spoken by her mentor to Glinda, to Elphaba. The way they contrasted. Always she got what Glinda wanted.
To Glinda: If someone very special were to come along.
To Elphaba: I would like to teach you privately and take no other students.
To Glinda: I have no faith in you. My personal opinion, dear, is that you do not have what it takes. I hope you prove me wrong. I doubt you will.
To Elphaba: I have faith in you.
She sits with that feeling of jealousy, and she covets what Elphaba used to have. What she threw away so carelessly. This is everything you’ve dreamed of. You can have all you’ve ever wanted. And she walked away from it, from her.
Then there it is, suddenly as easy as breathing. The magic forces its way out of her like a burst of fire. It burns on the way out. Her anger was like simmering coals, but now it feels stoked into a scorching fire. The glass she had heard ringing distantly explodes in a sudden burst. The lights around them flare and dim dangerously until at least two bulbs burst with an overload of electricity. Glinda experiences all of this like an out of body experience. The magic is at once so overwhelming and unexpected that she feels out of control. (She thought magic was supposed to give her control? She forgets determinedly the time Elphaba explained to her how her magic made her feel foreign in her own skin, as if something else took over.)
Glinda doesn’t know if she likes the feeling.
She forgets about that thought when she is brought back to herself by an approaching hand. Before she can stop the movement, Glinda flinches remembering months ago when in her frustration her teacher had lashed out at her. She had understood then as she understands now. Glinda had simply covered the bruise with make-up and gone back to their seminar the next day. No harm, no foul. (Then why did she flinch just now? It must have been the unexpected movement after the out of body experience, Glinda decides. Or perhaps the lack of contact over these past months. Glinda has been so alone.)
Softly like reassuring a spooked horse, Glinda hears the soft murmurs of praise as the hand touches the skin of her face. The palm is pressed into her cheek. It is blissfully cold in comparison to the fever caused by the magic Glinda still feels running through her body. She remembers a hug offered after Elphaba’s sudden departure, tears still fresh on her cheeks. Glinda yearns for that comfort. She leans her face into the palm of the hand and blinks up at her through tear-filled eyes. (Glinda sees a cold calculating glint in her eyes, which she elects to ignore. Instead she focuses on the smile directed at her. This is how she used to look at Elphaba. Glinda did good.) The heat she still feels coarse through her body turns to a comfortable warmth as a feeling of accomplishment settles over her.
Madame Morrible’s thumb strokes her cheekbone and tells her with a voice full of pride, “You did good, dearie, you will do wonderfully after all.” Glinda feels a smile pull at her lips and she lets it take over her face. (When was the last time she felt a touch on her skin that was kind? Not since…) She nuzzles into the soft skin of the hand pressed to her face to shut the thought up. For once Glinda allows herself to feel less alone.
Her success gets her what she wants. Madame Morrible tells the Wizard of her magic. When she does, Glinda can feel pride oozing off of her, she revels in it. The door she was so diligently waiting outside before opens up for her. Glinda walks in.
And as the door of the room clicks shut behind her, Glinda knows she made it. (Then why do you feel so empty without her here? Her heart, as ever the traitor. She silences it.) She takes a seat at the table and puts on her best smile. It might as well be real when the only person who could have discerned it as fake isn’t here. Glinda forces the thought from her head and smiles wider.
She made it. She made it. She made it.