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Chapter Text

Her knuckles were permanently dusted with chalk residue, a fine white powder that seeped into the cracks of her skin like tiny ghosts haunting her hands. Glinda traced the faded blue veins on her wrist absently, the motion almost hypnotic. Below the tower window, Oz's glittering capital sprawled in orderly splendor—a sharp contrast to the chaos brewing inside her own chest.

Elphaba and Fiyero were gone. They'd left her alone. Again.

Morrible’s cane tapped a staccato rhythm against the marble floor outside the chamber door. Each strike echoed like a hammer blow in the oppressive silence. Glinda straightened her spine, smoothing her pink silk gown with trembling fingers. The Headmistress enjoyed theatrics; she’d make them wait precisely thirty seconds longer than necessary today.

A bead of sweat trickled down Glinda’s temple despite the room’s chill. She didn’t dare wipe it away. Morrible’s punishments had evolved from tedious etiquette drills into something colder, sharper—a chess game played with scalpels instead of pawns. Last Wednesday, it was the scent of scorched violets that clung to Glinda’s hair for hours afterward.

The lock clicked open. Morrible entered, her smile a thin crescent moon slicing through shadows. "Ms. Glinda, I am here to inform you tht due to your ex-fiancé's actions we now need the Witch more than ever However, there is only one way to bring her back. Guards!" Two Emerald City soldiers marched in, "Boys please take Ms. Upland to the chamber, and make sure the chains are tightened. I'll be there in a moment or so." The soldiers each gripped one of Glinda’s arms, their leather gauntlets biting into her skin as they hauled her toward the iron-clad door Morrible held open. The scent of antiseptic and burnt ozone flooded her nostrils—a cruel mimicry of Elphaba’s storm magic.

Glinda’s heels scraped against the marble as she was dragged down a spiral staircase, the air thickening with damp stone and desperation. Below, a cylindrical glass chamber hummed with violet energy, its surface etched with shimmering runes. One guard shackled her ankles to a cold copper plate while the other secured her wrists above her head, the metal cuffs vibrating with latent power. Through the haze of fear, she pictured Elphaba’s frown—that fierce, protective scowl she’d worn when shielding Nessarose from bullies. If only she knew. If only Glinda could scream it across the Waste

Morrible’s cane tapped closer. "The Witch responds to pain," she purred, adjusting a dial on the control panel. "Particularly yours, my dear." A needle-thin beam of light shot from the ceiling, searing Glinda’s shoulder. She choked back a cry, teeth sinking into her lip until copper bloomed on her tongue. Violet sparks flickered across the glass—Elphaba’s signature color. Morrible laughed. "Ah. See? She senses you." Another beam lanced her thigh, and this time Glinda couldn’t stifle the whimper. Her vision blurred with tears, but beneath the agony, warmth pooled in her chest. Elphaba. Fighting her way back through the pain Please don't fall for Morrible's tricks.

The soldiers' hands tore at her gown with practiced brutality, pink silk shredding like confetti in a hurricane. Each rip bared more skin to the chamber's biting cold—first her shoulders, then her back arching involuntarily as the fabric pooled at her waist. Morrible watched, tapping her cane against a dial that flooded the room with rushing sound: the Shiz University bell tower chiming midnight, Elphaba's laugh during their first clandestine bottle of sparkling wine, Fiyero's hollow wedding vows. Memories became scalpels flaying her mind open.

A cat-o'-nine-tails whistled through the air, its leather tongues finding the exposed curve of her spine. Glinda screamed into the echoes of Elphaba singing *Happy Birthday* in her off-key contralto—the night they'd shared a single straw in a mint lemonade, knees brushing under the library table. The lash fell again, painting fire across her shoulder blades. She tasted blood and lemonade syrup, smelled old books and ozone as branding irons heated nearby. Copper and coal.

The brand hissed when it kissed her hipbone—a twisted version of the Wizard's sigil, still glowing cherry-red as guards pinned her shuddering body against chilled glass. Pain carved pathways to memories she'd buried: Elphaba's fingers brushing hers while handing over Grimmerie pages, the green girl flinching when Glinda once tucked a stray curl behind her ear. *Property of Oz* bubbled into her flesh alongside the scent of scorched skin, yet all Glinda could think was Her hands were always so warm.

Morrible leaned close, breath smelling of peppermint and decay. "She sees you now, little spark—sees how beautifully you break." Violet energy pulsed in the chamber walls, forming fractured shapes—a stern jawline, wild black hair. Glinda wept, not from the wounds weeping down her back, but because the phantom eyes watching her held no anger. Only heartbreak. And recognition.

One guard slid his gauntlet along her thigh, chuckling at her flinch. The other traced the brand with a calloused thumb, pressing until Glinda gasped. "Playtime, boys," Morrible murmured, turning a dial. The chamber filled with the tinny melody of *Dancing Through Daylight*—the song Glinda had hummed while sewing Elphaba's torn cloak after a protest. Music twisted into violation. Leather tongues kissed her ribs again. And again.

Glinda's mind fractured. Pain became Fiyero’s hollow wedding kiss in the Emerald Cathedral. The guard’s grip became Nessarose’s cold fingers clutching her prayer beads. But the violet sparks? They solidified into Elphaba’s hand reaching through smoke during the Lion’s protest—not pulling her to safety but shielding her. Always shielding her. The lash fell. Glinda arched, silk in ruins at her waist. A guard’s knuckle brushed her breast. She spat blood onto the glass, whispering, "Elphie... run."

Above, the tower window exploded inward. Shards rained like ice daggers. Through the smoke and moonlight burst Fiyero, scarred face contorted in fury, tackling the guard tracing Glinda’s brand. And behind him—her—Elphaba landed in a crouch, obsidian cloak billowing, eyes twin pools of liquid midnight fixed on Glinda’s bleeding form. The air crackled, smelling of storm-rain and scorched wool.

"Glinda!"

Chapter Text

Morrible's cane clattered to the floor as her hand snapped around Glinda's throat, pressing her against the humming glass. Cold rings bit into the tender skin beneath her jaw. "One step closer, Witch," the Headmistress hissed, her breath reeking of peppermint and decay, "and I'll show you precisely how fragile sparkly things can shatter." Glinda choked, her vision swimming between Elphaba's furious silhouette and the violet sparks dancing across the chamber walls—a cruel mockery of her friend's power. She felt Morrible's thumb dig into her pulse point, a silent promise of snapped bone.

Fiyero froze mid-lunge, his scarred knuckles white around a guard's collar. Elphaba remained perfectly still, yet the air thickened with ozone as invisible currents whipped her cloak into furious waves. "Unhand her," she commanded, her voice low and crackling like distant thunder. Morrible merely laughed, tightening her grip until Glinda gasped. "Surrender," the Headmistress purred, dragging a fingernail down Glinda's branded hip where *Property of Oz* still blistered raw. "Drop your defenses, Elphaba, or watch your precious Glinda learn how loudly pink silk screams when it burns."

Glinda met Elphaba's eyes—those pools of liquid midnight now churning with storm-light—and shook her head infinitesimally. Blood trickled from her split lip onto Morrible's hand. "Don't", she choked out, "it's exactly what she wants". The Headmistress snarled and slammed Glinda's temple against the glass, making violet runes flare like agonized stars.

Elphaba's fingers twitched. A low hum vibrated through the chamber’s copper floor plates, rattling the branding irons. Fiyero lunged again, but Morrible flicked her wrist. Emerald energy lashed from her rings, throwing him against the wall with a sickening crunch of bone.

"Last chance, Witch," Morrible sang. "Kneel, or I carve her voice box out with this". She drew a thin, crystalline blade from her sleeve—its edge singing with corrupted magic—and pressed it against Glinda’s throat where a pulse fluttered like a caged bird.

Gritting her teeth, Elphaba slowly lowered to one knee, cloak pooling around her like spilled ink. Her gaze never left Glinda’s. "Harm one more hair on her head," she whispered, "and I’ll unmake every stone in this tower". Violet sparks cascaded from her palms onto the floor, spreading like ghostly vines toward Morrible’s boots.

Morrible’s crystalline blade drew a crimson bead from Glinda’s throat. "Guards!" she barked, triumphant eyes never leaving Elphaba’s surrender. "Chain this witch and her brute with spell forged irons—the ones that drink magic like desert sand." Two soldiers dragged Fiyero, limp and wheezing, toward the chamber’s shadowed alcove while another clapped heavy manacles around Elphaba’s wrists. The metal hissed where it touched her skin, leaching her storm-cloud aura into dull gray wisps.

The spell forged chains coiled around Elphaba’s body like starving snakes, their inner glyphs pulsing hungrily. Fiyero groaned as similar restraints clamped his ankles and throat, each link humming as it siphoned his vitality. Morrible stroked Glinda’s sweat-drenched cheek. "Watch, darling," she murmured. "Watch magic gutter out."

As the guards secured the last lock, Elphaba’s shoulders slumped—a puppet with severed strings. But Glinda saw it: a flicker of defiance beneath the green girl’s lashes, a silent countdown echoing in the tightening of her jaw. Morrible’s blade pressed deeper. "Now," the Headmistress crooned, "where were we?"

The crystalline knife traced a leisurely path from Glinda’s collarbone to her branded hip. "Tell me, Witch," Morrible purred, twisting the blade until Glinda’s gasp tore through the chamber. "Where are you precious Animals hidden?" Blood welled beneath the tip, bright as crushed rubies. Elphaba strained against the spellforged chains, gray mist rising where the manacles devoured her magic. "Don’t—" she rasped, but Morrible dug deeper, carving a shallow furrow beside the *Property of Oz* scar. Glinda’s cry dissolved into whimpers, her knees buckling as the scent of copper and scorched silk bloomed thick in the air.
 
Fiyero writhed against his shackles, choking out a raw plea. "Stop—take me instead!" But Morrible only chuckled, dragging the blade upward to rest beneath Glinda’s ribs. "Speak, Elphaba. Where do your traitors nest?" Elphaba’s chains rattled as she lurched forward, desperation stripping her voice to a broken rasp. "Please—I'll give you names, maps, anything! Just don’t touch her!" Her green skin paled to the color of bruised moss where the spell forged metal drank her essence, each word costing her strength. Morrible smiled, pressing the knife deeper until Glinda’s whimper crescendoed into a sob that shook her broken body.

The blade twisted, carving a jagged line toward Glinda’s sternum. "Lies won’t spare her pain, Witch," Morrible hissed. Violet sparks still flickered weakly in Elphaba’s eyes—a dying storm—as Fiyero strained against his bonds, veins standing like ropes on his neck. "Her screams are on your conscience!" Morrible’s voice sliced through the chamber. "Beg harder."

Elphaba’s chains rattled like dry bones as she lurched forward onto both knees. Her palms hit the copper plate, fingers splaying as cold glyphs drank her warmth. "I beg you," she rasped, voice frayed with anguish.

Morrible’s cane tapped impatiently. "Lower, Witch." Her blade lingered above Glinda’s trembling ribs. "Scrape your forehead against the floor. Show Oz how thoroughly magic crawls." Violet sparks guttered in Elphaba’s eyes like dying fireflies as she pressed her brow to the metal—her cloak pooling around her like spilled ink.

The Headmistress leaned down, peppermint breath frosting Elphaba’s ear. "Now lick it clean," she hissed. "Show Glinda what devotion tastes like." Glinda whimpered, twisting against her bonds. Blood dripped onto the copper beside Elphaba’s cheek.

Slowly, agonizingly, Elphaba extended her tongue. Metal seared her taste buds—ozone and despair—as the chamber hummed with starving spells. Above her, Morrible laughed, twisting the knife deeper into Glinda’s flesh. Crimson bloomed like a poisonous rose.

"Look at your mighty Witch now, pet," Morrible crooned to Glinda, pressing Elphaba’s cheek harder against the filthy grate. "Licking the filth from the soles of Oz’s servants. Just like she licked up crumbs of praise at Shiz." Elphaba’s breath hitched as her tongue scraped leather and grit. "You failed every step, Elphaba—failed to protect Nessarose from her own ambition, failed to shield Fiyero from the Lion’s claws..." She ground her boot heel into Elphaba’s neck. "...failed to keep your precious Animals from my cages. Most unforgivably?" Morrible leaned close, rancid breath misting Elphaba’s ear. "You failed this golden fool who believed your lies." Glinda choked on a sob.

The blade withdrew from Glinda’s ribs as Morrible seized Elphaba’s hair, wrenching her head back. "Swallow it," she hissed. "Swallow your disgrace." Tears carved paths through dust on Elphaba’s cheeks as she obeyed, throat working convulsively against the sludge coating her tongue. Fiyero roared incoherently, rattling chains. Above them, violet sparks flickered—Elphaba’s silent tears falling onto copper.

Morrible released her with a shove. "Now, Witch—tell me where the last Free Animals hide." She kicked Elphaba’s ribs. "Or watch Glinda learn how pink silk melts." Elphaba curled inward, shaking—but her eyes snapped to Glinda’s.

Slowly, painfully, she dragged herself toward Glinda’s suspended form, chains scraping copper. "They’re…" Her voice broke. "They’re beneath the Clock of the Time Dragon." Morrible’s cane froze mid-tap. "Liar!" Elphaba’s fingertips brushed the air inches from Glinda’s bleeding ankle. "Truth," she gasped. "In the gears… where the cogs grind slowest." Her green-tinged fingers stretched, trembling. So close.

"Chain her tighter!" Morrible snarled. Guards seized Elphaba’s shackles, yanking her backward until her arms wrenched taut. Her claws grazed empty air where Glinda’s skin had been. "No!" Elphaba screamed—a raw, broken sound—as metal bit deeper, leaching her magic into gray smoke. Morrible smiled. "Hold her," she ordered, turning toward the exit. "I’ll verify this myself." Her heels clicked toward the stairs. "If you deceived me, Witch, Glinda’s screams will taste like honey."

The door slammed. Silence swallowed the chamber, broken only by Elphaba’s ragged breaths and Fiyero’s choked sobs. Glinda lifted her head. Blood slicked her lips. "Elphie…" she whispered. "The Dragon Clock… it’s a trap?"

Elphaba flinched as if struck. Her eyes—still pools of liquid midnight—flickered away from Glinda’s branded hip, from the raw *Property of Oz* scarring her flesh. Chains clanked as she curled tighter, pressing her cheek against the cold copper floor. The taste of grit still coated her tongue, metallic and thick as shame. She’d traded hope for time, bargaining sacred truths while Glinda bled pink onto glass. Her fingers dug into her palms until green skin split. Failed. Always failing them.

Fiyero strained against his chains, voice hoarse. "Elphaba, look at me!"

But she kept her face buried, shoulders trembling. The spell forged metal drank the violet sparks from her veins, leaving her magic a dull throb. She’d crawled. She’d licked filth. She’d begged, and Glinda had watched—Glinda, who’d once laughed with her over stolen lemonade, who’d trusted her to be strong. Now, every whimper Glinda stifled echoed the scrape of Elphaba’s tongue on Morrible’s boot sole.

Glinda’s whisper cut through her agony. "Elphie… your hands." Elphaba froze. Glinda’s gaze wasn’t on her bowed head or trembling limbs. It was fixed on her shackled wrists. Blood seeped where the spell forged manacles had bitten deep as she strained toward Glinda moments before. "Even now," Glinda breathed, "you reached for me." Elphaba’s breath hitched. She uncurled her fists. Her palms were raw, nails broken—but stretched toward Glinda’s dangling feet, still reaching.

Always reaching.

Even in disgrace.

A sudden ozone crackle split the silence—not Elphaba’s fading storm magic, but something sharp and sterile, like lightning trapped in a bottle. The chamber door groaned open without a touch. Footsteps echoed: precise, unhurried, each tap of polished boots against copper plating timed like a metronome. Glinda’s breath caught. Morrible’s heels had been sharp staccato; these were deliberate, resonant thuds that vibrated through the floor. Violet runes flared weakly along the glass walls, recoiling from the newcomer’s shadow.

The Wizard stood framed in the doorway, his tailored emerald suit absorbing the chamber's violet light. His polished boots—silent where Morrible's had clattered—tapped the copper plating with unnerving precision. A scent of lemon oil and preserved roses clung to him, sterile and ancient, masking the coppery tang of Glinda's blood. He surveyed the scene: Elphaba crumpled in chains, Fiyero straining against bonds that siphoned his vitality, Glinda suspended like a broken doll against humming glass. His smile didn't reach his eyes—flat, reflective discs behind gold-rimmed spectacles.

"Tut-tut, Ms. Glinda," he murmured, voice smooth as poured mercury. "Must we always make such a mess?"

Chapter Text

The Wizard's polished boots halted inches from Elphaba's bleeding cheekbone. He nudged her chin upward with his toe, forcing her to meet his mirrored spectacles—twin voids reflecting her chained form like a broken insect pinned to velvet. "Ms. Elphaba," he sighed, the scent of preserved roses thickening as he leaned down. "Still playing the martyr while your friends bleed? How... predictable." His gloved fingers traced the air above her spellforged chains, relishing their dull hum as they drank her magic. "All that wasted power," he tutted, "and you couldn't even protect your little pink doll." Elphaba's chains rattled as she tried to twist away, but his boot pressed harder, grinding her face into copper stained with her own blood.

He turned toward Glinda, his shadow swallowing the violet runes flickering across her suspended body. "You see, my dear," he murmured, plucking a shred of torn pink silk from her shackled wrist, "this is what happens when you trust a monster." With deliberate slowness, he rubbed the fabric between gloved fingers, watching it disintegrate like ash. "She promised you revolution. Instead?" His gesture encompassed Elphaba's crumpled form, Fiyero's labored breaths, Glinda's branded hip. "This." The word hung like poisoned honey, thick with faux pity. "Elphaba didn't just fail Oz—she failed you. Left you naked and screaming while she licked Morrible's boots."

A choked sound escaped Elphaba—half-growl, half-sob—as she strained against chains leaching her strength. The Wizard chuckled, adjusting his spectacles. "Listen to that," he mused, circling her like a curator examining flawed taxidermy. "The mighty Wicked Witch, reduced to a mewling kitten." He crouched, voice dropping to a venomous whisper only she could hear. "Tell me, Elphaba Thropp... does it hurt more knowing Glinda watched you crawl? Or that I watched you betray every oath you ever made?" His gloved hand hovered above her branded wrist—the one marked *Property of Oz*—before flicking it dismissively. "Pathetic. Even your suffering is mediocre."

Straightening, he smoothed his emerald lapels, the sterile lemon-oil scent overpowering the copper tang of blood. "Morrible was impulsive," he declared, pivoting toward the exit. "But I? I appreciate artistry." His gold-tipped cane tapped the copper floor rhythmically. "Guards—remove Miss Glinda’s restraints entirely." The soldiers hesitated, exchanging confused glances, but obeyed, unlocking her shackles. Glinda crumpled to the floor, bare skin scraping cold metal. Her shredded gown hung in tatters, barely concealing her branded hip and the weeping wounds across her back. She shivered violently, arms wrapping around herself as the chamber’s chill bit into her exposed flesh. Elphaba lunged forward against her chains, a raw cry tearing from her throat—cut short as the Wizard’s cane struck her shoulder, pinning her down.

"Not so fast, Witch," he murmured. His gaze never left Glinda’s trembling form. "Strip her." The command sliced through the air like a scalpel. The guards seized Glinda’s arms, hauling her upright. She fought weakly, gasping as they ripped the last clinging shreds of pink silk from her body. The fabric fluttered down like dying petals, leaving her utterly exposed beneath the humming violet light—every scar, every bruise, every trembling muscle laid bare. Elphaba’s chains screamed as she writhed, magicless and helpless, her green-tinged knuckles white where she clawed at the floor. "Look at her, Elphaba," the Wizard commanded, his voice honeyed poison. "Look at what your weakness wrought."

Forced onto her knees by a guard’s boot, Elphaba’s head was wrenched back, fingers tangling in her wild black hair to force her gaze upward. Glinda stood trembling, tears carving paths through the grime on her cheeks, her breath hitching in silent sobs. The violet runes cast cruel shadows across her bare skin, highlighting the raw *Property of Oz* brand, the lash marks striping her spine, the purpling bruises where gauntlets had gripped too hard. Elphaba’s eyes—those liquid midnight pools—drank in every detail: the shudder of Glinda’s ribs with each ragged breath, the tremble in her bloodied knees, the way her hands futilely tried to shield herself. A low, animal moan escaped Elphaba, her body shaking with suppressed rage and shame.

The Wizard leaned close to Elphaba’s ear, his breath reeking of preserved roses and decay. "Remember this," he hissed. "Her nakedness. Her terror. Her trust in you—shattered like that cheap glass chamber." He gestured dismissively at the humming walls. "This is your legacy, Witch." Behind him, Glinda whimpered as a guard traced his gauntlet down her arm, making her flinch. Elphaba’s gaze snapped to the touch, her pupils dilating with primal fury. The Wizard smiled. "Every whimper you hear? That’s the sound of your failure." He straightened, adjusting his spectacles.

"Now," the Wizard announced, turning to Glinda with theatrical grace. "A proposition." His polished boot tapped the copper floor near her trembling feet. "Submit willingly to me right here—no resistance, no struggle—and I’ll grant you three comforts: a bedroom with soft linens, a private bath with warm water..." His cane gestured toward Elphaba and Fiyero’s chained forms. "...and their shackles removed alongside you." He paused, letting the offer sink into the silence broken only by Glinda’s ragged breathing. "The room blocks magic, of course." His smile widened at Elphaba’s choked gasp. "No tricks. No escapes. Just... rest."

Glinda froze. The Wizard’s offer hung in the air like cobwebs—deceptively light, yet suffocating. His polished boot nudged her bare foot, its chill seeping into her bones. "*No* tricks," he reiterated, his mirrored spectacles reflecting her naked, trembling form. "Merely… endurance." His gloved hand gestured toward Elphaba, still pinned and bleeding on the floor. "Refuse, and I’ll let Morrible finish peeling her apart. Slowly." Elphaba’s chains rattled as she strained against the cane pressing her shoulder blade into copper plating, her eyes—wide with horror—locked on Glinda’s face.

TW: Rape

The Wizard’s fingers brushed Glinda’s branded hip, tracing the raw *Property of Oz* scar with clinical detachment. "Such soft skin," he murmured. "So easily torn." He leaned closer, his lemon-oil scent cloying. "Stay still. Don’t fight. Let it happen." His gaze slid to Elphaba’s shredded knuckles. "And when it’s done, you’ll all walk free to that room. A bath. A bed. No magic… but no more pain." His thumb pressed against the knife wound Morrible had carved beside her ribs, drawing a sharp gasp. "Or would you prefer to watch Elphaba break?"

Glinda’s vision blurred. She saw Elphaba’s green skin paling where chains drank her magic, Fiyero’s choked sobs as spellforged steel siphoned his strength. The Wizard’s glove closed around her wrist, cold leather biting into bruised flesh. His other hand slid to the small of her back, pushing her forward—toward the glass wall still humming with violet light. "Choose, darling," he breathed against her ear. "Save them… or doom them." Her knees buckled. Against her thigh, she felt the hard outline of his belt buckle through his tailored suit. Elphaba’s ragged cry tore through the chamber: "*Glinda—don’t!*"

Glinda squeezed her eyes shut. Tears mingled with blood on her lips. She felt the Wizard’s grip tighten, his breath hot on her neck. Slowly, deliberately, she stopped struggling. Her body went limp in his arms—a surrender as silent as a grave. The Wizard chuckled, low and satisfied. "Good girl," he purred, his fingers tangling in her hair as he forced her forehead against the cold, humming glass. Behind them, Elphaba screamed—a sound like roots tearing from the earth—as the Wizard’s free hand slid between Glinda’s thighs.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice slick as oil. His thumb pressed against her bruised ribs where Morrible’s blade had carved flesh. "Say *‘I want this.’*" Glinda trembled, her breath fogging the violet-lit glass. She tasted salt and despair. The image of Elphaba’s broken posture flashed behind her eyelids—the bowed head, the shackled wrists still straining toward her. For Fiyero’s choked breaths. For Elphaba’s tears. She swallowed. "I..." The word scraped her throat raw. "I want this." The admission hung like a noose.

The Wizard’s triumph was instantaneous. He wrenched her head back, exposing her throat. "Louder," he demanded, his other hand roaming possessively over her hip, fingers digging into the brand-marked flesh. "*Say* it." Glinda’s gaze locked with Elphaba’s across the chamber—those dark eyes wide with horrified comprehension. A guard’s boot pressed Elphaba’s cheek harder into the copper floor. Glinda inhaled sharply. "I want this!" she cried out, the words echoing off the glass like shattering crystal. Elphaba flinched as if struck.

Satisfaction radiated from the Wizard like heat from a forge.

He pressed Glinda harder against the humming glass, its violet light casting jagged shadows across her skin as his tailored trousers rasped against her bare thighs. The cold leather of his glove invaded the space between her legs—a violation as clinical as surgery, punctuated by the sharp pinch of his fingers digging into her branded hip. Glinda’s breath hitched, her body rigid with terror, eyes squeezed shut against Elphaba’s agonized stare. She focused on the copper tang of blood still coating her tongue, the ozone stench of dying magic, anything but the tearing pressure building where his knee forced her legs apart. A whimper escaped her lips—tiny, broken—as the Wizard’s breath fogged her ear: "Good. Very good."

He entered her with a brutal thrust that slammed her temple against the glass. Pain exploded behind her eyes, blinding white and violet. She tasted bile. Distantly, she heard the clank of Elphaba’s chains shrieking against the floor, Fiyero’s raw, wordless roar, but they faded beneath the tearing agony inside her own body and the Wizard’s low, rhythmic grunts. His gloved hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her cries as he pistoned against her, each movement scraping raw flesh. She stared unseeing at the violet runes flaring like dying stars, feeling the cold slickness of her own blood mixing with his sweat where their bodies met.

Time fractured. Every jolt sent fresh waves of nausea through her. She felt his teeth scrape her shoulder, the buckle of his belt biting into her lower back, the suffocating press of his chest crushing her lungs. Her fingers scrambled uselessly against the glass, leaving smears of blood and sweat. Elphaba’s tortured gaze burned in her mind—the green skin ashen, lips moving in a silent scream, eyes reflecting Glinda's own shattered image pinned like a butterfly. The Wizard’s rhythm grew frantic, his grip bruising. "See?" he hissed, breath hot and rancid against her neck. "This is power. Not her pathetic storms."

***Over

He finished with a final, jarning thrust that drove the air from her lungs. Pulling away abruptly, he adjusted his pristine suit without a glance, leaving Glinda slumped against the glass, trembling uncontrollably. Warmth trickled down her inner thighs. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by Fiyero’s choked weeping and the wet, ragged sound of Elphaba retching onto the copper floor. The Wizard wiped his gloves on a silken handkerchief, his spectacles gleaming impassively. "That," he murmured, tucking the soiled cloth away, "is obedience." He turned towards the guards. "Clean her up. Then knock them out and take them to the room."

Elphaba’s chains screamed as she lunged forward, her green skin corpse-pale beneath spellforged restraints. "I’ll skin you alive," she rasped, blood-flecked spittle staining her chin. Her nails dug furrows into the copper plating, violet sparks sputtering weakly at her fingertips—drained but defiant. "Every night you breathe, Wizard, I’ll haunt your dreams with this." The guard’s boot crushed her face against the floor again, grinding her cheekbone into cold metal. She didn’t scream this time—only locked her shattered gaze on Glinda’s trembling form.

Glinda couldn’t look away. She tasted salt, copper, and something sour—his scent, clinging to her skin like oil. Her body felt foreign—torn, hollowed out. Yet through the numbness, Elphaba’s eyes anchored her: twin pools of liquid fury and sorrow reflecting her own brokenness. *Survive*, that gaze screamed. *Endure*. The Wizard’s polished boots clicked past Elphaba’s crumpled form as he exited. Guards advanced with damp rags and iron pipes. Glinda closed her eyes, bracing for the blow.

Darkness swallowed her before the pipe struck. Her last conscious sensation wasn't pain—it was the ghost of Elphaba’s fingertips, stretching toward her across stained copper.

Chapter Text

Elphaba awoke drowning in velvet. Not water—thick, burgundy pile that scratched her cheek and smelled of mothballs and betrayal. The last thing she remembered was the pipe’s whistle before darkness swallowed Glinda’s crumpled form. Now, this suffocating softness. Chains were gone, replaced by stiff silk pajamas that chafed her raw wrists. Moonlight bled through barred windows onto Fiyero’s silhouette crouching nearby, his scarred hands hovering over a thrashing bundle of linen. "Glinda, shhh—it’s just a dream—" Fiyero’s whisper frayed at the edges as Glinda arched off the carpet, a choked scream tearing from her lips. Not a scream—a wet, gurgling rasp, like someone drowning in shallow water.

Fiyero gathered Glinda against his chest, her sweat-drenched nightgown clinging to feverish skin. "She’s burning up," he murmured, pressing a palm to her forehead. Elphaba crawled forward, chains gone but magic still a hollow ache in her bones. Glinda’s eyes snapped open—glassily bright, pupils blown wide with delirium. "Don’t—don’t touch the gears!" she slurred, clawing at Fiyero’s tunic. "The Dragon’s teeth—they’ll shred them—" Her words dissolved into whimpers, fingers scrabbling at phantom blades. Elphaba froze. The Clock of the Time Dragon. Her confession to Morrible. She had sold those poor Animals down the river. Guilt coiled thick and sour in her throat.

Elphaba snatched a silver water pitcher from a bedside table. With trembling hands, she poured frigid liquid onto a silk pillowcase, wringing it out before pressing the dripping fabric to Glinda’s neck. Glinda recoiled with a sharp gasp, eyes momentarily focusing. "Elphie?" she whispered, voice cracked and raw. Then recognition vanished like a snuffed candle. "The Wizard—his gloves—cold leather—" Her body convulsed, retching nothing but bile onto the velvet carpet as she curled into Fiyero’s arms. The water stain spread across her nightgown, translucent against sweat-slicked skin. Elphaba’s fingers brushed a livid bruise blooming beneath Glinda’s collarbone—the exact shape of a belt buckle—and fury ignited like phosphorus in her chest.

"Bath," Fiyero rasped, hoisting Glinda’s shuddering form. Her head lolled against his shoulder, damp blonde strands clinging to fever-flushed cheeks. Elphaba slid beneath Glinda’s other arm, the scent of antiseptic soap and stale roses clinging to the silk pajamas—a mockery of cleanliness. Glinda whimpered as they lifted her; every movement tugged at wounds hidden beneath thin fabric. Her bare feet dragged across the plush carpet, leaving faint streaks of copper residue from the tower floor still embedded in her soles.

The adjoining bathroom reeked of lemon oil and false purity. Moonlight sliced through barred windows onto a clawfoot tub, already brimming with lukewarm water—another of the Wizard’s calculated cruelties, offering comfort too shallow to cleanse. Elphaba’s knuckles whitened on the porcelain edge as Fiyero lowered Glinda into the water. She gasped, back arching as water touched branded flesh—then stilled, staring at her own trembling hands submerged like pale fish. Blood bloomed in cloudy swirls from her thighs.

Elphaba plunged her hands into the tepid water, scrubbing at Glinda’s branded hip with a rough washcloth. *Property of Oz.* The scar pulsed angry red beneath her touch. Glinda flinched but didn’t pull away, her vacant gaze fixed on the ceiling. "Cold," she whispered. "His gloves… always cold." Fiyero knelt beside the tub, cradling Glinda’s head as Elphaba worked—rinsing dirt, blood, and the phantom stench of preserved roses from her skin. The water darkened to rust.

"Do you know Elphie?" Glinda’s voice floated up, dreamy and distant. Her fingers brushed Elphaba’s wrist underwater—a feather-light caress. "Her skin’s like moonlight on a gorgeous forest." A delirious smile curved her cracked lips. "Pretty." Elphaba froze, the washcloth dripping crimson onto the tile. Glinda hadn’t recognized her since the tower. Not once. She’d screamed at Fiyero’s touch, flinched from shadows, yet now she traced the water-wrinkled green of Elphaba’s knuckles like treasured silk. "She’ll come," Glinda murmured, eyes drifting shut. "She promised… a balloon ride." Her thumb circled the jagged scar on Elphaba’s palm—a shrapnel wound from the Wizard’s first attack years ago. "Elphie’s brave. Not afraid of... anything."

Fiyero’s jaw tightened as he poured clean water over Glinda’s matted hair. "Rest, Glinda," he urged softly. But she shook her head, droplets flying, her fever-bright gaze fixed on Elphaba. "She kissed me once." The confession was a whisper, stolen by the dripping faucet. "Underneath the emerald city’s glittering lights." Her fingers tangled suddenly in Elphaba’s wet sleeve, pulling her closer. "Tell her… tell her I forgive the balloon." Her breath hitched, tears spilling—not for the Wizard, not for pain, but for a phantom kiss in a stolen moment Elphaba couldn’t recall.

Elphaba couldn’t breathe. Forgiveness? After she’d led Morrible to the Clock, after she’d failed? Glinda’s trembling hand pressed against her cheek. "You’re warm," she sighed. "Like she is." Then her eyes clouded again, searching Elphaba’s face without recognition. "Is Elphie hiding?" Panic edged her voice. "The Wizard has knives… for green things." She flailed, water sloshing bloody waves onto the floor, until Fiyero pinned her gently. Elphaba clutched the washcloth, knuckles bone-white. Every word carved deeper than Morrible’s blade—love offered blindly to the monster who’d doomed her.

Glinda stilled abruptly, head lolling back against the tub. Her lips moved silently—Elphaba leaned closer. "Find Elphie," Glinda breathed, eyelids fluttering. "Tell her… the bathwater’s pink." A tear tracked through grime on her temple. "Because she’s bleeding." Her hand slipped beneath the surface, fingers brushing the rust-colored swirls blooming from her own thighs. Then her eyes rolled back, consciousness fleeing as Fiyero caught her limp body. Elphaba stared at the crimson water. Pink. Glinda’s favorite color. Stained with their shared ruin. She plunged her hands back in, scrubbing furiously as if she could scour away the truth: Glinda’s love was a ghost haunting a stranger, while Elphaba drowned in the blood she’d spilled.

Fiyero lifted Glinda’s shuddering form from the tainted water. She hung boneless in his arms, skin slick and goosefleshed against the chill air. Rivulets of pink-tinged water traced the contours of her branded hip, the knife wound near her ribs, the darkening bruises shaped like fingerprints and buckles. Elphaba snatched a threadbare towel from a brass rack—thin as parchment, smelling faintly of lye—and draped it over Glinda’s trembling shoulders. Every movement felt like treason: drying the skin the Wizard had violated, wrapping the body he’d broken. Fiyero’s jaw clenched as he supported Glinda’s weight, his own scars—raised silver lines where chains had siphoned his strength—gleaming wetly in the moonlight.

Elphaba worked with clinical detachment, pulling faded cotton pajamas over Glinda’s limp limbs. The fabric snagged on scraped knees and raw wrists. When she lifted Glinda’s arm to thread it through a sleeve, the girl whimpered—a sound like tearing paper—and her fever-bright eyes blinked open. "Elphie?" Glinda whispered, pupils dilated and unfocused. Her fingers brushed Elphaba’s cheekbone. "You’re bleeding." Elphaba froze, realizing her own split knuckles had smeared green-tinged blood onto Glinda’s borrowed nightgown. "Shhh," Elphaba murmured, the lie ash in her mouth. "Just resting." She fastened the last button, her hands trembling. Fiyero carried Glinda to the bed, her damp hair spreading across the pillow like a tarnished halo.

They watched her curl onto her side, knees drawn to her chest—a protective posture shattered by tremors that rattled the bedframe. Fiyero sank onto the mattress edge, pressing a cool cloth to Glinda's forehead. Her breathing hitched, shallow and rapid, each gasp whistling past cracked lips.

"Did you see her eyes?" Fiyero’s voice was gravel scraping bone. "When he—" He broke off, fingers tightening on the damp rag. Elphaba stood frozen by the bureau, staring at her own bloodstained knuckles reflected in a tarnished mirror. "They looked through me. Like I was smoke." He turned abruptly, the accusation sharp as glass. "Why the Clock Tower? Of all places? Those Animals hid there because you promised sanctuary!"

Elphaba flinched as if struck. "Morrible was peeling skin from Glinda’s ribs." The words tasted like rust. "She screamed until her voice broke. What would you have done? Watched?"

"Yes!" Fiyero surged up, blocking her path to the bed. "Until we found another way! Those refugees trusted you—mothers, fledglings! The Wizard’s soldiers are tearing apart that tower right now!" His fist slammed the bedpost, making Glinda whimper. "You traded innocent lives for—"

"For hers!" Elphaba hissed, shoving him backward. Magic surged in her veins—weak, sputtering, but enough to flare violet in her eyes. "Every second of Glinda’s agony was acid in my lungs! I couldn’t breathe!" She gripped his tunic, green knuckles whitening. "Don’t speak to me of trust. I’d burn Oz to ash before I let them carve another scream from her throat." Fiyero recoiled, shock etching his face. Elphaba’s voice dropped to a raw whisper. "You think I don’t hear those fledglings crying in my dreams? But Glinda was here, Fiyero—bleeding, broken, begging—and I was powerless."

Fiyero’s anger faltered, replaced by haunted understanding. He glanced at Glinda’s trembling form. "And the cost?" he murmured, exhaustion dragging at his words. "Was shattering her faith worth it? She trusted you to save them. Now she’ll carry their deaths… and yours." Elphaba flinched. Her gaze swept over Glinda’s branded hip, the buckle-shaped bruises, the way her fingers clutched the pillow like drowning. "She’s already drowning," Fiyero pressed. "Because you drowned her in your guilt."

Elphaba slumped against the bureau, the fight draining from her. Moonlight caught the tear tracking through grime on her cheek—green and glistening. "You’re right," she rasped. The admission felt like swallowing shards. "I drowned her." Her eyes locked on Glinda’s fever-flushed face. "But I’d drown the world for her, Fiyero. Stars and storms and every damned soul in Oz." She swallowed hard, the truth tearing free: "Because I love her. Not as a friend. Not as a sister. As mine." Fiyero’s gaze widened, understanding dawning—the fierce protectiveness, the reckless betrayals. Elphaba’s knuckles whitened on the bureau’s edge. "And if that makes me a monster... so be it."

Outside, boots echoed in the corridor—heavy, rhythmic, advancing. Fiyero lunged for the door, pressing his ear to polished wood. "Guards," he hissed, his scarred hand tightening on the knob. "Two... maybe three." Elphaba’s hollow magic flared weakly, violet sparks sputtering at her fingertips. Too faint. Useless. She scanned the room: velvet drapes, a brass candlestick, Fiyero’s coiled stance. Glinda whimpered, curling tighter, her branded hip exposed beneath tangled silk. The footsteps halted. A key scraped in the lock—slow, deliberate, savoring their fear.

The door creaked open. Morrible stood framed in torchlight, her smile a knife-slash. "Dreaming of rebellion?" she purred, stepping inside. Her gaze swept over Glinda’s shivering form, the rumpled bed, Elphaba’s bloodied knuckles. "The Wizard requires... confirmation." She withdrew a vial—cloudy liquid swirling with flecks of copper. "Truth serum. For the lying witch." Two guards flanked her, spellforged batons humming. Morrible’s eyes glinted. "Resist, and we’ll take payment from your precious Glinda." She uncorked the vial. The stench of rotten apples filled the room.

Elphaba’s gaze flickered from Morrible’s vial to Glinda’s trembling form—a threadbare shield against agony. Every instinct screamed to fight, to unleash the storm buried in her marrow. But Glinda whimpered softly, her bruised eyelids fluttering as if sensing the threat, and Elphaba’s fists unclenched. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her hands, palms open and empty. The violet sparks at her fingertips died. “No tricks,” she rasped, her voice scraped raw. “Just… don’t touch her.” She met Morrible’s triumphant stare, her own eyes hollow as ash. This surrender wasn’t defeat; it was a blade drawn against herself to spare Glinda one more scar. 

Morrible chuckled, low and wet. “How docile the storm becomes.” She stepped closer, the vial glinting like a venomous tear. Elphaba didn’t flinch as Morrible’s fingers clamped her jaw, forcing it open. The serum hit her tongue—cold, cloying, tasting of spoiled honey and corroded gears. It slithered down her throat, a serpent coiling in her gut. Fiyero tensed, muscles coiled to spring, but Elphaba shook her head minutely. Stand down, her silence pleaded. The guards’ batons hummed louder, trained on Glinda’s exposed throat. Elphaba swallowed convulsively, the serum’s chill spreading through her veins like icewater. Already, the edges of her vision blurred. Truth would spill like entrails now. 

Morrible leaned in, her breath reeking of pickled rose petals. “Where,” she hissed, “is the Council of Birds hiding?” Elphaba’s lips parted—a gasp, not yet words. The serum dragged the answer upward, a fishhook in her mind. She fought, teeth grinding, sweat beading on her brow as images flashed: feathered shadows in the rafters of Shiz University’s abandoned observatory, fledglings nestled behind star charts. Betrayal scalded her tongue. She choked, green-tinged saliva dripping onto her pajamas. “The… the observatory,” she forced out, each syllable a shard of glass. Morrible’s smile widened. Behind her, Fiyero closed his eyes in despair. Elphaba’s gaze locked on Glinda—still lost in fever—and whispered the final poison: “Third spire. West window.” 

The confession hung in the air like gallows rope. Morrible patted Elphaba’s cheek. “See? Painless.” She signaled the guards. “Fetch them.” As boots stomped away, Elphaba sagged against Fiyero, the serum’s weight dragging her toward oblivion. Her final thought wasn’t of doomed fledglings or shattered trusts—it was of Glinda’s delirious whisper in the bloodied bathwater. Tell her… I forgive the balloon. Darkness rose, thick and velvet. But before it swallowed her, she gripped Fiyero’s wrist, her voice a thread of green fire: “When she wakes… tell her I’m sorry.” Then the world dissolved, leaving only the echo of Morrible’s laughter and Glinda’s ragged breath.

Chapter Text

Elphaba surfaced from velvet oblivion to the scent of fever-sweat and crushed roses. Moonlight sliced through barred windows, illuminating Fiyero hunched on a claw-footed chair—his silhouette carved from exhaustion, scars silvered by the pale glow.

Beside her, Glinda trembled under thin silk sheets, breath whistling through cracked lips. Elphaba’s hand moved of its own accord, brushing damp strands from Glinda’s temple. The contact sparked a memory: blood-swirled bathwater, delirious whispers about balloon rides, and forgiveness that felt like a knife between her ribs.

Fiyero’s voice cut through the stillness, gravel scraping stone. "She called for you. In her sleep." His eyes remained fixed on Glinda’s shivering form, the accusation unspoken but thick in the air. "Kept saying ‘don’t touch the gears.’ Like you were falling." Elphaba flinched, recalling the Clock Tower’s betrayal—the lie that doomed innocent Animals to Morrible’s mercy. Her fingers curled into the mattress, green knuckles stark against white linen. "I didn’t fall," she whispered. "I jumped." The admission tasted like copper and cowardice. "To silence her screams."

Moonlight caught the tear tracking down Fiyero’s cheek. "You love her." Not a question—a verdict. He finally turned, his gaze piercing the shadows between them. "Not as a shield or a duty. As her."

Elphaba’s breath hitched. She watched Glinda’s fingers clutch empty air, seeking a hand that wasn’t there. "Yes," she breathed, the word tearing free like shrapnel. "Enough to drown kingdoms. Enough to become the monster they paint me." Her thumb traced the brand on Glinda’s hip through the thin fabric—*Property of Oz*. "But love didn’t save her. It just made me reckless."

Fiyero leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Reckless?" A bitter laugh escaped him. "You think this is about recklessness?" He gestured to Glinda’s hollowed cheeks, the bruises blooming like rotten flowers across her collarbone. "This is about you seeing only her pain—blind to everything else." His voice dropped to a raw whisper. "Even the Animals hiding in that tower were just... background noise to your guilt." Elphaba recoiled as if struck. Outside, a shrill scream echoed—distant, avian—and Glinda whimpered in her sleep. Fiyero’s eyes hardened. "That reckless love? It’s a noose. And you’re hanging us all with it."

Elphaba stared at her own scarred hands. For once, the storm inside her went utterly still. "You’re right," she murmured, the admission landing like a stone in the silence. She lifted her gaze, meeting Fiyero’s exhausted eyes. "I tore your trust apart to quiet her screams. Forged lies that condemned innocents. For that—" She swallowed, the words scraping her throat raw. "—I am deeply sorry." Her fingers brushed Glinda’s fevered wrist—light as a moth’s wing. "But I won’t apologize for loving her." A fierce green fire ignited in her eyes.

"Even if it burns me alive."

The door crashed open before Fiyero could reply. Morrible filled the frame, torchlight glinting off the copper truth-serum vial in her hand. "Sentiments are touching," she sneered, stepping inside. Two guards flanked her, spellforged batons humming. Her gaze raked over Glinda’s trembling form before settling on Elphaba. "The Wizard requires your... perspective." She snapped her fingers. "Chain her." Guards surged forward, iron shackles gleaming. Elphaba didn’t fight—only tilted her head toward Glinda one last time. Endure, her silent scream echoed. Then cold metal clamped her wrists, yanking her toward the door as Glinda moaned softly in the tangled sheets.

The Wizard’s office smelled of polished mahogany and preserved lilies—a sickening counterpoint to the copper-stench clinging to Elphaba’s skin. Moonlight streamed through stained-glass windows depicting Ozma’s triumphs, casting kaleidoscopic shadows across the Wizard’s immaculate desk.

He stood with his back to her, gazing at a miniature emerald city model glowing under glass. "Ah, Elphaba," he murmured without turning. "So glad you accepted my invitation." His voice oozed false warmth. Behind her, guards secured her chains to iron floor rings. Morrible lingered by the door, serpent-still.

He finally pivoted, spectacles flashing. "Your little confession proved most enlightening." His polished boots clicked across marble as he approached, stopping inches from her shackled form. "Those feathered rebels in the observatory? Extinguished like candle flames." Elphaba’s breath hitched—images of fledglings crushed beneath armored boots flashing behind her eyes. The Wizard tutted softly. "Wasteful. But necessary." He lifted her chin with a gloved finger. "I have a better use for you, my dear." His smile widened, exposing too-white teeth. "Oz needs a symbol. Someone powerful... tragic... redeemed." His thumb brushed her jawline. "You’ll stand beside me. My protégé. Performing miracles I command."

Elphaba recoiled, chains clanking. "You think I’d ever—"

 
"Hush," he whispered, pressing a gloved finger to her lips. "Consider Glinda." His eyes drifted meaningfully toward the tower wing. "Every spell you cast for me? A stitch in her wounds. Every public smile? A sip of clean water for her parched throat." He leaned closer, his breath reeking of mint and malice. "Refuse... and Morrible resumes her artistry on Fiyero’s bones while Glinda watches." He straightened, adjusting his cuffs. "Choose wisely, Stormbringer. Will you be Oz’s salvation... or its kindling?" Behind him, the emerald city model pulsed like a poisoned heart.

Elphaba’s gaze flickered to Morrible’s coiled stance, then to the shadowed hallway where Glinda lay broken. The serum’s chill still lingered in her veins, but colder still was the truth: defiance meant their slow dismantling. Her jaw tightened. "Fine," she rasped, the word tasting of grave dirt. "But Glinda walks free. With Fiyero. Unharmed. Today." The Wizard’s smile was a scalpel.

"Eventually," he purred. With a nod, Morrible glided forward, withdrawing a slender chain from her robes—deceptively delicate, woven of silver filigree and set with a single, milky moonstone. "A symbol of your... allegiance," Morrible hissed, clasping it around Elphaba’s throat. The metal bit cold against her pulse point. For a heartbeat, it felt like ice. Then Morrible flicked her fingernail against the stone.

Agony detonated.

White-hot lightning seared through Elphaba’s nerves, locking her muscles in a rictus of silent torment. Her knees buckled, chains clanking as she crashed onto the marble, vision bleached white. Every nerve screamed—a thousand knives carving her bones from within. It lasted only three seconds. When it stopped, she lay gasping, saliva pooling green on polished stone, the moonstone humming faintly against her collarbone.

The Wizard crouched, fingertips brushing the necklace. "Such a practical reminder," he murmured. "Disobedience... hurts." Elphaba shuddered, the ghost-current still dancing in her teeth. 

Morrible hauled her upright by the chain. "Stand," she snapped.

Elphaba swayed, legs trembling as the world swam back into focus—blurred, pain-scorched. The Wizard’s smile widened. "Now, about your debut." He gestured to a gilded mirror. "Clean her up. Oz must see its redeemed witch." As guards unchained her wrists, Elphaba caught her reflection: wild-haired, hollow-eyed, the moonstone gleaming like a captured star against her green skin.

A guard shoved a damp cloth into her hands. She scrubbed blood and grime from her face, the water stinging split knuckles. Morrible watched, her thumb resting lightly on a copper button hidden in her sleeve.

A warning. 

They dressed her in emerald silk—high-necked to conceal the necklace, tailored to hide her shaking. With each tug of fabric, Elphaba pictured Glinda waking in a sunlit room, free of chains. The lie was a lifeline. As Morrible fastened the final clasp, her knuckles brushed the moonstone. Elphaba flinched, bracing for shock. None came. "Remember," Morrible whispered, her breath rotting roses. "The collar hears every whisper. Sees every glance." She smoothed Elphaba’s sleeve, her touch venomous. "Fail tonight’s performance... and we’ll let Glinda choose which of Fiyero’s fingers to sever first." Elphaba closed her eyes, the silk choking her.

Survival had become a tighter noose than defiance.

Chapter Text

The Emerald City's Grand Plaza shimmered like a poisoned jewel under noon sun. Morrible gripped Elphaba's elbow—fingernails digging through silk sleeves—as they ascended the stage draped in Ozian flags. Below, a sea of faces tilted upward: merchants clutching emerald pennants, farmers squinting through sweat, children perched on shoulders. All awaiting the spectacle.

"Citizens of Oz!" Morrible’s magically amplified voice boomed across the square, silencing murmurs. "Behold the Wicked Witch—redeemed!" She yanked Elphaba forward by the chain, forcing her spine straight. "Through the Wizard’s merciful wisdom..." A pause, dripping with theater. "...and Glinda the Good’s tireless compassion!"

Elphaba’s breath hitched. Glinda? Morrible’s lie hung in the air—thick and sweet as syrup. "Yes, our beloved Glinda!" Morrible gestured skyward, where a gilded cage hung suspended by wires. Inside, curled on velvet cushions, lay Glinda—doll-like in a spotless white gown, her vacant eyes reflecting clouds. Drugged. Dolled. A prop. "She knelt at this lost soul’s side," Morrible crooned, "whispering forgiveness until darkness surrendered to light!" The crowd sighed—a collective ache of reverence. Elphaba’s nails bit her palms. Glinda’s "compassion" was a fistful of broken teeth in the tower, not this sickening pantomime.

"Show them, dear." Morrible shoved a crystal wand into Elphaba’s hand. Perform or she bleeds, her eyes warned. Elphaba lifted the wand. Violet sparks fizzled—pathetic, controlled—as she "healed" a withered apple tree sapling onstage. The crowd gasped. She felt their awe like physical pressure, crushing her ribs. Every clap was a hammer on Glinda’s cage. Every cheer echoed Fiyero’s scream in some hidden cell. The sapling’s leaves unfurled, emerald-perfect. A lie grown from blood.

As applause swelled, Elphaba’s gaze locked on Glinda’s cage. A tremor shook the bars—so faint only green eyes saw it. Glinda’s fingers curled. Not vacant. Furious. Then her eyelids fluttered shut, the rebellion smothered beneath opiates. Morrible beamed, squeezing Elphaba’s arm until bones ground. "See how redemption blooms?" she purred into the microphone.

Morrible thrust Elphaba toward the podium’s edge, her voice honeyed poison amplified across the plaza: "Let Oz hear her gratitude!" The moonstone collar pulsed ice against Elphaba’s throat. Silence thickened as thousands leaned forward. She gripped the lectern, knuckles bleeding green through silk gloves.

Words congealed—ash and bile. "I..." Her voice cracked, raw as a wound. Morrible’s thumb brushed the hidden button on her sleeve. A phantom current sparked in Elphaba’s spine.

Elphaba inhaled ozone and lies. "The Wizard’s mercy..." She forced each syllable through clenched teeth, staring at Glinda’s cage. "...illuminates even the darkest soul." The collar hummed against her throat—a silent threat. She gripped the podium tighter, knuckles stretching the silk gloves thin. Listen, she screamed inwardly toward Morrible. Her eyes flickered deliberately to Glinda’s limp form, then to Morrible’s polished boots. "His mercy spared me..." Her voice hitched on the word, thick with irony. "...when others would have seen only... vermin." She spat the last word like poison, green-tinged spittle landing near Morrible’s heel. See it, Elphaba willed. See the venom in this performance.

Morrible’s smile remained plastered, but her knuckles whitened on the microphone stand. Elphaba pressed on, layering every sentence with double-edged praise. "His compassion," she enunciated, pitching her voice to carry over the murmuring crowd, "...is a balm for wounds others inflicted." She tilted her head subtly toward the tower where Fiyero rotted. "A balm... for the guilty." The crowd sighed, mistaking her choked tone for repentance. Only Morrible stiffened, her gaze sharp as shrapnel.

Elphaba leaned into the microphone, her whisper magically amplified to a carrying hiss. "We thrive... beneath his protective shadow." She lingered on "protective," letting it curdle in the air like spoiled milk. Her eyes locked onto Morrible’s, daring her to hear the truth beneath the treason. "A shadow... where screams sound like applause." Morrible’s hand twitched toward her sleeve button—the trigger for the collar’s agony—but paused. Recognition flickered in her eyes: the speech wasn’t flawed; it was a blade disguised as silk.

Applause erupted—deafening, ignorant waves crashing against the stage. Morrible seized Elphaba’s elbow, her grip vise-tight. "Charming," she purred through clenched teeth, waving graciously at the roaring crowd. She yanked Elphaba backward, away from the podium. "Your performance," she hissed, low enough to be swallowed by cheers, "will cost you."

The crowd’s frenzy faded into marble corridors as Morrible dragged Elphaba past grinning guards. Torchlight flickered off the moonstone collar, each gleam a reminder of the agony coiled beneath its milky surface. Morrible shoved her through the tower door, where Fiyero strained against restraints bolted to the wall. Glinda lay motionless on the bed, her white gown stark against crimson sheets. "Enjoy the encore," Morrible sneered, withdrawing a copper-tipped rod from her robes. She tapped the moonstone.

Lightning tore through Elphaba. She crumpled soundlessly, vertebrae locking, vision fracturing into shards of white-hot static. Three seconds stretched into eternity. When the torment ceased, she lay gasping on cold stone. Morrible nudged her limp form with a boot tip. "Tell Glinda," She whispered sweetly, "what you said."

Glinda stirred. A gasp escaped her—thin as moth wings—as her eyelids fluttered open. Moonlight carved Elphaba’s hunched silhouette against the tiles, the moonstone pulsing faintly at her throat. Recognition flickered—slow, drugged—then flared into horror as Morrible raised the rod again. "No—!" Glinda choked, scrambling upright, silk sheets pooling around her waist. Fiyero lunged sideways, shackles biting his wrists as he caught her waist, pinning her against the mattress edge. "Stop," he growled into her hair. "You’ll trigger it again."

Elphaba’s gaze snapped to Glinda—wide, terrified eyes meeting hers for the first time since the violet-lit wall. Raw panic ignited in Glinda’s face. She clawed at Fiyero’s restraining arm, fingernails scraping skin. "Let me go! She’s—"

"Look at her," Fiyero hissed, tightening his grip. Elphaba shook her head minutely—a desperate plea. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t give them the excuse. Glinda froze, trembling, her stare locked on Elphaba’s bruised jaw, the green sweat beading her temples. Morrible smiled. "Your witch confessed willingly, darling," she crooned, tapping the rod against her palm. "Betrayed every feathered soul in that spire for you. Tell her, Elphaba."

Elphaba pushed herself upright, swaying. The lie tasted like ground glass. "I told them... about the Observatory." Glinda’s breath hitched—a soft, shattered sound. Fiyero’s grip tightened. "Why?" Glinda whispered. Elphaba met her gaze, the truth burning behind her eyes. Because your screams were knives in my lungs. But aloud, she rasped only: "To save you."

Morrible chuckled. "Such devotion! Now..." She flicked the rod. Pain slammed Elphaba back to her knees. Above Glinda’s muffled sob, Morrible murmured: "Count the seconds, Fiyero. Each one... a gift from your witch’s silence."

Glinda twisted against Fiyero’s hold, tears streaking her cheeks. "Stop it! Please!" Her voice cracked, raw with remembered violation. Elphaba’s spine arched as electricity seared her nerves—silent, grinding. Five seconds. Six. When it ceased, she retched green bile onto the stones. Morrible nudged her shoulder with the rod. "Look at her," she commanded Elphaba. "See what your choices wrought." Glinda’s branded hip pressed against Fiyero’s arm, the silk gaping to reveal bruises like storm clouds. Elphaba’s fists clenched. I’d do it again, she thought savagely. A thousand times.

Fiyero’s voice cut through Glinda’s whimpers, low and lethal. "Enough, Morrible." He shifted, shielding Glinda’s body with his own. "You have what you want." Morrible’s smile sharpened. "Do I?" She traced the moonstone collar with her rod. "Your witch still hides truths." She leaned close to Elphaba’s ear. "Where is the Grimmerie really?" Elphaba froze. The ancient spellbook—hidden beneath Shiz’s boiler room, its location known only to her and one trusted Mole. Glinda’s fingernails dug into Fiyero’s forearm. "Don’t," Elphaba breathed. Elphaba closed her eyes. One truth she’d never sell.

Morrible sighed. "Pity." The rod tapped the collar. Agony exploded—white, blinding. Elphaba convulsed, a silent scream tearing her throat raw. Through the haze, she saw Glinda lunge forward, Fiyero barely restraining her. "Tell her!" Glinda shrieked. "Elphie, tell them!" The plea was a blade in Elphaba’s ribs.

Ten seconds.

Eleven.

Darkness swallowed the edges of her vision. Hold, she begged Glinda silently. Hold for me. As the current ceased, Morrible crouched, whispering: "Next time, darling... I’ll let Glinda count."

Straightening, Morrible snapped her fingers. Guards hauled Elphaba upright, chains rattling. "Enough theatrics," Morrible declared, her gaze slicing toward Glinda. "Rest, my dear. Tomorrow requires... poise." She smoothed her skirts, a viper coiling. "You’ll address the City. Describe how you tamed the witch." Glinda stiffened, terror flashing in her eyes. Morrible’s smile widened. "And announce your renewed engagement to Fiyero—proof of Oz’s unity." Fiyero’s knuckles whitened on Glinda’s arm. Morrible leaned closer, her breath frosting Glinda’s cheek. "Fail this performance..." Her eyes flicked to Elphaba’s collar. "...and she pays for every stutter."

Glinda’s gaze locked with Elphaba’s—a silent storm of defiance and despair. Fiyero’s voice rasped low: "We’ll do it."

Morrible chuckled. "Wise boy. Guards you can unchain them now." She swept toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "Sleep well, my turtledoves."

The lock clicked shut. Silence pooled, thick as blood. Glinda tore free from Fiyero’s grasp, scrambling across cold tiles to Elphaba’s side. Her trembling fingers brushed the moonstone collar—a silent question burning in her eyes. Elphaba flinched, shackles clanking. "Don’t," she whispered. "It’s wired to punish touch."

Fiyero knelt beside them, his scarred hands hovering over Elphaba’s chains. "The Grimmerie?" he murmured, eyes darting to the door. Elphaba nodded minutely. "Safe." Glinda’s breath hitched. "The Animals—" "Dead," Elphaba cut in, her voice raw. "Because I traded them." She watched Glinda’s face crumple—not with accusation, but with a grief so profound it hollowed her cheeks.

The silence thickened with unspoken blame, broken only by Glinda’s whisper: "You should have let me burn."

Elphaba recoiled as if branded. Glinda’s fingers tightened around the moonstone chain—not touching skin, but gripping the cold metal like a lifeline. "I meant it," she breathed, tears spilling. "When I said forgiveness. Even now." Her thumb brushed the collar’s filigree, avoiding the stone. Elphaba shuddered, bracing for shock. None came. The collar only hummed—a low, constant threat.

"Why?" Elphaba rasped. Glinda’s gaze held hers, fever-bright. "Because drowning in guilt with you... is sweeter than breathing without."

Fiyero’s hand clamped over Glinda’s wrist, wrenching her fingers from the chain. "Don’t," he warned. "They’re listening." He jerked his chin toward the moonstone. Elphaba’s eyes widened—she hadn’t considered surveillance. Footsteps echoed in the hall. Heavy. Approaching. Fiyero shoved Glinda toward the bed. "Convulsions," he hissed. "Now." Glinda’s body went limp, thrashing in a flawless imitation of electric torture, her whimpers slicing the air. Elphaba pressed her bleeding knuckles to her mouth, stifling a sob.

The door creaked open. A guard leered. "Quiet, witch-lover." He tossed a crust of bread onto the tiles. As the lock re-engaged, Glinda’s thrashing ceased. She crawled back, her trembling palm flat against the cold stone where Elphaba’s chains met floor. Blood seeped between tiles where Elphaba’s scrubbed knuckles had split anew. Glinda pressed her forehead to the stain. A silent vow. A promise written in salt and rust.

Fiyero’s calloused hands slid beneath Elphaba’s shoulders. "Up," he murmured, his voice thick. Glinda scrambled to support her legs. Together, they hauled Elphaba—a dead weight of shuddering exhaustion—toward the narrow bed. Her chains scraped grooves in the stone. Each step jarred her neck where the moonstone pulsed like frostbite. Glinda’s fingers brushed Elphaba’s wrist as they lowered her onto the thin mattress.

Electricity didn’t come. Only Glinda’s choked whisper: "I see you, Elphie. I see you." Elphaba’s eyes squeezed shut against the unbearable tenderness before allowing sleep to take her.

Fiyero crouched at the bedside, shackles forgotten in the dimness. His thumb traced the raw welt encircling Elphaba’s throat above the collar. "This changes nothing," he rasped to Glinda, who sat vigilantly upright, her spine rigid against the headboard, "I don't love you, not in the way that they want me too, but for Elphaba, for Elphaba I would do anything Glinda,"

Glinda's trembling hand covered his, pressing both their palms against Elphaba’s feverish shoulder. "And I," she breathed, her gaze never leaving Elphaba’s sweat-slicked face, "will wear your ring and recite vows in the Grand Plaza if it kept her heartbeat steady." In the silence, the moonstone's hum deepened—a predator’s purr.

Fiyero’s fingers stilled against Elphaba’s shoulder, the shackle chain pooling like liquid shadow between them. He met Glinda’s eyes across the narrow bed—the unspoken pact tightening like a noose. "They’ll parade us," he murmured, his voice gravel-scraped. "Hands clasped, vows exchanged under those emerald banners. A spectacle." Glinda’s thumb brushed Elphaba’s pulse point beneath the collar’s edge, a fragile rhythm against the moonstone’s chill. "They’ll expect… affection," she whispered. "Touches. Smiles." Her own branded hip throbbed beneath the silk gown—a cruel reminder of performances past. "Morrible will watch every glance."

Fiyero’s jaw clenched. He envisioned the stage: the Wizard’s benign smile, Morrible’s coiled vigilance behind velvet ropes. "We give them theater," he said flatly. "Your trembling bridegroom act." A bitter laugh escaped Glinda, sharp as broken glass. "And your adoring fiancé?" She pictured the lie—leaning into Fiyero’s shoulder, gazing up through tear-brightened eyes. Every gesture dissected. Every hesitation punished. Her gaze flickered to the collar. "They’ll use us to gut her." Fiyero nodded, dread coiling cold. "One misstep," he breathed. "One flinch when she screams…"

Glinda’s hand tightened over his. "Then we don’t flinch." She stared at Elphaba’s restless eyelids, the nightmares twisting beneath them. "We become stone."

Fiyero traced the chain linking his wrist-irons. "Stone cracks," he countered. He knew the cost—the way Oz’s adoration would suffocate, the forced kisses like poison.

Glinda lifted her chin, her voice a blade forged in the dark: "Then we bleed silently." Outside, dawn’s first emerald light crept beneath the door—a gilded cage door swinging open onto a stage drenched in lies

"They’ll want proof," he murmured, eyes fixed on the moonstone’s faint glow against Elphaba’s throat. "Proof the engagement… ignites." Glinda’s breath hitched. She knew what that meant—stolen kisses beneath archways, staged whispers caught by eager reporters. Public intimacy weaponized. Her stomach churned. "Hands," she whispered. "We can manage hands." Fiyero’s scarred knuckles brushed hers deliberately. A test. Her skin crawled, but she didn’t pull away. He nodded once. "Eyes too," he added grimly. "Look at me like you did… like you look at her."

Before Elphaba. Before everything shattered. Glinda swallowed hard. The memory—sun-drenched quad, Fiyero’s easy grin—felt like another lifetime’s corpse.

Fiyero leaned closer, shackles scraping stone. "Morrible will orchestrate moments." His voice dropped to a threadbare whisper. "A balcony embrace. Feeding each other grapes at state dinners." Disgust twisted Glinda’s lips. She imagined Morrible’s predatory gaze dissecting every forced gesture. "They’ll want declarations," she countered, colder now. "Vows renewed before the city." Fiyero’s jaw tightened. "I know." He pictured the plaza—Glinda trembling in white silk, reciting promises into microphones while Elphaba watched, collared, from the shadows.

"I love her Fiyero," Glinda whispered, the confession slicing through the silence like shattered crystal. Her trembling fingers hovered near Elphaba's collar, tracing its lethal silhouette in the air without touching metal. "Enough to swallow every lie they feed me."

Fiyero caught her wrist—not roughly, but with the urgency of shared damnation. "I know G, I love her too." His thumb pressed hard against her pulse point where Morrible’s spies would expect affection. "When I touch you tomorrow, don’t freeze. When I say I adore you, don’t vomit."

And Glinda’s choked laughter sounded more like a sob.