~Chapter 1~

:Oh, gods, everything hurts.:

I burn everywhere.

:Damn it, I'm wet! Stupid little girl! If I ever get my hands on her, I'll - :

As of that moment, I wasn't in the shape to get up and find anyone. My eyes couldn't see – it must've been the water that Dorothy girl hurled on me. Damn it, the water hurt more than the flames before it did! There was a pounding ache resounding throughout my head – probably from my wet hair. I fumed at the girl, that Dorothy Gale, who couldn't have been more than thirteen years old, who wore Nessarose's shoes, rightfully my shoes and she had the nerve to - ! Now if only the heat of my fury could burn the wet off me!

How many days had it been since that girl arrived? How long had I been lying senseless in a pile of wet-through clothing? I didn't want to move, it hurt so much, but if I laid there in that sodden heap of fabric any longer it would've hurt more than it already did. Putting Dorothy out of my head for a moment, I tried to stagger to my feet. It didn't work as I had planned. I slumped back to the floor, a soaking, pained, weak mess of what used to be human. I sure as hell didn't feel like one now. Gingerly, I tried to peel off my saturated clothing and slowly I slithered over to a dry patch of floor. As my vision fuzzily returned, I glanced down at my arms, and I saw that my skin hadn't been hit with the water as badly as I thought it had, judging by the level of pain I was in. Good, no permanent damage. At least that was some small comfort; I wouldn't be disfigured any more than how I've been since birth. Being green is bad enough; I don't know what I would've done if that water had caused any more mutilation than my "unique" emerald-ness.

:Well, I guess there is a good thing about always keeping myself swathed in so much fabric.: I thought dryly.

The exposed places that caught the worst of it were the backs of my hands and my forearms, which were stinging cruelly; everything else just burned softly from the water saturating my clothing. My arms had some vicious burns on them but nothing I wouldn't be able to put up with in the long run. I grabbed the post of my bed and slowly heaved myself to my feet. Using the bed, the walls, the bookshelves for support, I made my way to the trunk in which I kept my clothing. I threw on the first things I grabbed and collapsed back to my knees. I took an old fringed scarf from the trunk and was about to use it to towel my hair dry when I noticed the pattern on it; red roses on a black background. I stared it a good long moment and set it gently aside, reaching for another scarf or stray piece of cloth to use to soak up the wet in my hair. Once thoroughly dry and no longer in as much pain as before, but still weak as all hell, I picked up the red and black scarf and stared at it for a while, lost in thought.

"Fiyero," I sighed, fingering the roses. My expression softened as I brought it to my face and rubbed it against my cheek. Even that small motion brought pain, but it wasn't enough to distract me from that scarf. It still smelled of him, of spice and his sweat. I had missed it so badly . . . I folded the scarf gently and placed it on my bed. Levering myself off the floor, I dropped myself onto the bed, my chest heaving from intense soreness and exertion too soon after injury. Reaching gingerly up to the shelf near the bed I closed my fingers around a bottle of oil. Once it was in my grip I twisted off the top and poured some into my hands, rubbing it on the burns and blisters to soothe them. I remembered how years ago I used to lie on my bed and Fiyero would take some of the oil in his palms and massage it into my bare skin. He was always so gentle, my Fiyero. He treated me like a person, which was more than I could say for pretty much every other human being in Oz. To them I was a monster, to be avoided at all costs. To him I was precious, a love to last forever. And it would have, if it weren't for me. If I had refused to tell him about what I was partaking in on that fateful Lurlinemas Eve so many years ago, he'd still be alive. We'd still be in love. I miss him so much it hurts more than the water.

:Elphie, he's dead. Get over him.: I tell myself, but only halfheartedly. I had been telling myself that for years every time I thought of him.

I sighed, pushing Fiyero out of my thoughts. The pain of my memories of him hadn't lessened any in the years since he's been gone. I didn't need any more pain at the moment.

Memories subsiding, feelings of intense hatred for all of Oz surfaced. What I wouldn't give to be able to get up and give them all a screwing they'd never forget! Unfortunately, I wasn't even in good enough shape to sit up on my own at the moment. I sighed in aggravation, and went to run my fingers through my hair but once my arm slightly lifted itself off the mattress a bone-deep ache ran through it. I was never one to show much emotion at all, even when I was alone without another human being within about a mile of me, but this time I had been put through too much torture to keep it all inside. A colossal roar fought its way out of my throat and reverberated around my tower, resulting in a pounding headache behind my eyes and a very sore throat.

I don't know how long I had lain there, oblivious to all but the throbbing lancing through me, but soon enough I must have fallen into sleep as I woke up afterward in the middle of the night presumably days later. The moment I opened my eyes the tenderness took over.

:Oh, joy, what fresh hell will I experience through this?: I groused as the soreness flared up again, furious that I could do nothing to help myself or lessen the pain. Taking a situation such as being totally and completely helpless was never one of my strong points. I need to be up and doing something; I am not capable of just lying on my bed idly waiting for the pain in my limbs to subside, I haven't the patience for that. I could not just lie there for gods know how long to wait it out.

Frustrated beyond imaginable levels I growled softly and tried to heave myself upright. I bit my lip and hissed as I pulled myself into a sitting position. My muscles screamed in protest, begging to be left to rest, but my mind had other ideas. I was dead-set on regaining my mobility, whether my body liked it or not.

The next step was to maneuver myself across the room to the tower window. It was beyond me at the moment. I wanted to see just how much damage that Dorothy girl had inflicted on my home. Like it or not, this depressing fortress was my home. However, the table with my Grimmerie on it was closer than the window, only about half the distance. Perhaps there was a spell somewhere within the somewhat-comprehensible mass of pages that contained a magical solution to my inability to move myself around without regretting every step I took? Right then, I was willing to try anything with no regard to my ineptness at most things sorceric. I was desperate to get away from all this.

Sooner or later, after much swearing and fuming on my part, I had managed to get my little hatefully-colored green paws on the Grimmerie, and I was doing my best at feverishly turning pages while avoiding brushing them against my burns. There was no pain-killing spell to be found, but something else more valuable than that. That spell was my ticket to revenge.