(for good spoilers below)
just some Thoughts™ on glinda post canon~
Glinda hasn’t slept since the Wicked Witch of the West was killed.
She had never been a very good sleeper, even back at Shiz. She’d lie awake for hours, replaying every conversation and interaction she’d had that day, wondering if everyone still liked her. If she’d done enough. For the four years she spent as Glinda the Good, the pattern only got worse.
She went from performing to groups of students her own young age to performing to groups of hundreds of citizens, every single one of them staring up at her with fear and hope in their eyes, a desperation to be guided and comforted during such “dark times.” She’d lie on her perfect pink bed in the palace and picture their faces, cursing her mistakes in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Madame Morrible’s.
The last two nights before…before…had been restless and long. She’d torn her wedding dress off in a way it would never recover from, collapsing onto the sofa with a heaving chest and teary eyes. The wind had lashed against the balcony doors, and her heart had lashed against her ribs, pounding and snapping and breaking apart.
The two of you? This whole time?
She’s not sure whether she truly fell asleep or if she simply passed out from exhaustion, head stuffed with cotton and cheeks covered in salt. She didn’t even-- Glinda wasn’t even sure which person she felt more hurt by. She’d channeled her hurt into a petty bitterness the next day, oddly reminiscent of her time at Shiz, but by the evening, the energy for such an act had faded, and she’d stared down at the mob in a horror that stole her breath.
She didn’t get any sleep after…after. She didn’t even consider trying. She’d stumbled back into the palace still trying to compose herself, and she’d let a cold sort of numbness take over as she confronted the Wizard and Morrible. She barely even recognized the voice coming out of her, barely even recognized the girl in the mirror.
That girl. Beautiful. Powerful. And utterly dead inside. As dead as her best friend. As dead as her fiancé. As dead as if her heart had been flattened by a house or beaten by a soldier or melted by that awful little girl. Glinda watched the sun rise over the Emerald City with a cold sense of detachment, frozen down to her bones as she picked up her crown and her wand and made her way outside.
The Wicked Witch of the West is dead!
The Grimmerie is heavy in Glinda’s arms. Her cheeks are wet beneath her fingers. The closet smells of must and mildew and ancient wood, the door filled with cracks and holes that let Glinda peer through to the other side, eyeing the shadows as they play across the tapestry.
I love you, keeps ringing in her head. Over and over and over, swirling and pulsing and making her skin feel licked by flames and her heart feel torn to shreds. She can’t breathe, her mouth clamped shut against the sobs, as anticipation builds along adrenaline, and Glinda is dying, she must be dying, because nothing should hurt this much. Nothing should feel like her heart is being ripped out of her chest, ripping and cracking and shattering under the sound of a splash of water and wailing cry, and she can’t, she can’t, she can’t--
When she blinks her eyes open, she’s on the floor. Her dress pools around her, her knees aching from their impact with the stone. She’s shaking all over, crying so hard she’s bound to make herself sick. The door creaks when she shoves it open, and Glinda isn’t stupid, she knows what she’s going to see, but there’s still a small, desperate part of her that can’t help but whisper, “Elphie?”
It echoes through the empty room, Glinda’s trembling legs bringing her closer and closer to the only thing left of her friend. Nononononono, she chants in her head. It’s-- There’s no way for her to even begin to process the maelstrom inside her. No way for her to articulate how she feels like she’s being stabbed with iron rods, the molten metal burning within her as she curls around that hat.
You said everything would--
The sheer shock of hearing Chistery speak pulls her back to reality a bit, glancing up wide-eyed at the blue-furred Monkey in front of her. He’s holding something, shifting it in her hands, glaring at her as he--
Glinda screams, falling to the side just in time. The thing in Chistery’s hands is a spear, sharp and wicked and coming right for her. She scrambles to her feet, tripping over her dress and heels on the wet stones, holding the hat like a lifeline as she tries to evade the angered ex-guard.
“You did this!” Chistery screeches, his voice slamming into her ears as her back slams into the wall. “You did this to me! You did this to her! You did this!!”
Glinda is trapped; she’s stuck. He leaps at her, hundreds of pounds of pure muscle and rage, his wings giving him momentum across the floor as he opens a maw full of teeth as long as her hand. She’s screaming, sobbing, begging for mercy as a piercing pain starts to tear through her, but she cannot escape her fate, she cannot escape her guilt, she deserves this, she deserves this, she deserves--
She does so screaming, flailing in her pink silk sheets as her body lurches to the side, tumbling to the floor with a thud. She finds herself curled with her back against the wall, hands gripping her hair as she breathes in shallow, shaking gasps, wide eyes locked and staring. She-- He was--
It wasn’t real, she tries to tell herself. Stop thinking it; it wasn’t real! Except…it was. All of it up until Chistery attacked. That wasn’t a dream, that wasn’t a nightmare, that was a memory. And those words. You did this!
Glinda had told Morrible to use Nessarose. Glinda had sent that little girl to the Wizard. Glinda had watched as those hunters swarmed the streets. Glinda had stood there, hidden and cowardly, as the love of her her best friend was murdered.
Is it true you were her friend?
You’re the only friend I ever had.
Glinda curls forward with a sob, her forehead nearly touching the cold marbled floor. The sound that comes out of her is animal. Wounded. A keening wail that echoes off the tall walls and probably carries down through the palace, but she doesn’t care. There’s no one left to hear. No one left to care.
And Glinda was too late. Too late to realize her mistakes. Too late to see how far she’d fallen. Too late to beg forgiveness and say she’s sorry and plead for Elphaba to come back, please come back, I’ll go with you this time, I promise, just come home--
But home doesn’t exist anymore. There’s just Glinda. Guilty. Heartbroken. And alone.
Pink goes good with green.
She doesn’t know how long she stays there. Long enough for her legs to go numb. Long enough for the sun to start to peek through the windows behind her, shadows stretching long across the floor. Long enough for her tears to stop, leaving her hollow and aching and so, so tired.
Eventually, she stands. Her legs shake, but they hold her. Everything hurts-- her chest, her throat, her eyes. It’s an altogether familiar feeling, and Glinda rubs and shakes the stiffness from her body as she stumbles toward her bathroom, the same pattern as every morning recently.
Every morning since the Melting.
There is a part of her that wishes she’d just stop. A part of her that whispers every day that it would just be easier to stay curled up there, frozen and fractured, until the weak, tattered organ in her chest finally gives up on her. It’s a sweet temptation-- a release from all this pressure. All this heaviness and guilt.
But Glinda is done taking the easy way out. The coward’s way out. She had made a promise, and as much as she hates the very thought of putting that crown back on her head and facing the cheering crowds of her subjects, she must keep going. For Elphaba.
Everything's going to be fine.
snowghoul
pixelskylines
tangentwithtanner
dailybridgerton
