Chapter Text
In the end, Glinda Upland lifts gracefully into the sky, the sun gleaming a gentle rainbow around her bubble. The ride is smooth, the palace she arrives at is opulent, and maids dust her off carefully, changing her out of her magnificent dress and dressing her in a soft silk nightgown. She sits down to a full feast of the best Oz can offer, looks over letters from adoring fans and listens to the maids gushing over how perfect she looks and how happy they are that the dark shadow of the Wicked Witch was finally lifted thanks to her heroism.
They speak about the meetings of the next few days, the ceremonies to officially swear her into power, the punishments sure to come down on the likes of Morrible and the disgraced Wizard. They, like everyone she meets, thank her profusely, awed by her magic and beauty and kindness.
Aren’t you just so happy , Glinda?
That’s what they ask her, and Glinda smiles her perfect, beautiful smile and assures them that she is, that’s she’s so happy, that this is all she ever wanted, her dreams coming true.
Forever, this is all she’s wanted. A beautiful life, a beautiful palace, people falling at her feet in adoration. She’s in charge now. Morrible’s in prison, where Glinda will make sure she stays, the Wizard is gone, and it’s on her now. It’s everything, all she’s ever wanted. It’s forever.
And at night, she sleeps in a grand, soft bed, and it is the coldest thing she has ever felt. And then, the dreams begin.
A whip of black hair, of green skin, of screams of pain, screams for her .
Of rope digging into his wrists, his agonized cries, begging, pleading, please no .
Of a puddle on the ground, a life dismissed, forgotten, unimportant.
Of a smudge of blood in a cornfield, a life revered and then dismissed, taken at the hands of the very people she has just sworn to protect.
Of two people who died, calling for her, alone.
They died alone.
Sometimes the dreams are softer, too. Sometimes it’s a giggle as the light turns out, a whispered promise of “see you tomorrow, best friend” and it feels warm, like love.
Sometimes she thinks of how Nessa used to squeal in laughter as someone would whip with her around a dance floor.
Or how Fiyero used to make it a competition to charm the librarian with the most pinched, angry look on their faces, to make everyone smile.
How Boq used to keep a small pen and paper in his pocket and tally the times that Glinda would come weeping into the quad because of something trivial like her favorite highlighter being discontinued, and when he got to 20, they would all go for a picnic to festivate. Glinda would roll her eyes but accept an invitation anyway, and they’d lie on the blanket and watch the sun set.
Those dreams, she thinks, are worse.
That life feels a million years behind her, that warmth replaced with a cold sterility, the love gone as soon as she wakes up, fighting to hold onto the embers of a dream that slips through her fingers every time.
And as soon as she opens her eyes, it’s replaced by empty-headed maids still speaking in hushed tones about the wickedness of the only real friend she’s ever had, the betrayal of the man who stood up for what she wouldn’t, the tragedy of a tin man and a witch so evil it’s like they were carved away on the inside.
It’s like a vice gripping her throat, a vice she has to smile through, a duty she has to perform to a people who stripped away everything she has ever cared about. Forever.
They died alone.
And it’s fitting, really, because wherever they are now - and Glinda refuses, refuses to think of an afterlife where the best person she ever knew doesn’t get every bit of the happiness she deserves - they have each other. She imagines them at that picnic, on that hill at sunset, her absence barely felt.
They died alone, and now, and forever, alone is all Glinda will ever be.
It just shows, when you’re wicked you’re left only
On your own