Disclaimer: Elphaba and Glinda (as characterized in this story) belong to L. Frank Baum and Gregory Maguire. Fiyero is the creation of the latter. Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Lion, the Tin Man, Toto, and the Wizard belong to the former. Uncle Henry, Aunt Em, Hickory, Zeke, Hunk, and Miss Gulch are the property of MGM. Any characters beyond that are mine, though that might not end up meaning much.
Notes:
First off—this contains MAJOR SPOILERS for the musical, and probably the novel as well. At least one ending surprise is given away. In short, no crying to me afterward if you read this and then are disappointed because you found out more than you wanted to know.
This is technically a Musicalverse/MGM Film crossover, but in the grand tradition of Wickfic it also contains certain details and background info from the Maguire novel. There are also shadings of Baum's The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Elphaba, Glinda, et all are based off the musical's characterizations, more specifically as played by Stephanie J. Block and Katie Adams. Dorothy is based off Judy Garland in the film.
The song is from a deleted scene in the film in which Dorothy and the gang return to the Emerald City after having done in the Witch of the West. The timeline is set after Glinda meets with the Wizard and Madame Morrible, but before "No One Mourns the Wicked."
Love Thine Enemy
Chapter 1
It had been going on for hours. It showed no signs of stopping. Who wanted to cut short a national holiday? Not the citizens of the Emerald City, dancing in the streets. Not the shopkeepers, money rolling into their coffers. Not the barkeeps, selling pint after pint of green-dyed ale.
The celebration of the Witch of the West's death had begun as a triumphal entry parade for the witch-slayers, marching them up to the gates of the Wizard's palace amid songs and cheers. Though all were the city's champions, it was the smallest and seemingly meekest among them—the girl, Dorothy--whom they most revered. Her feet didn't touch the ground from the time the crowd was upon her. They swept her along in their arms—loving and careful for all their haste and excitement—while all the time other hands reached up to touch her shining slippers, the edge of her pinafore, her hair ribbons. Whether this was an act of near-worship or the desire to somehow vicariously claim a part of the triumph over the monstrous Wicked Witch was difficult to discern.
Either way, the girl's eyes had been stark open to the whites-- overwhelmed if not horrified altogether.
Now, even though the dazed young heroine and her companions had long since entered and left the chambers, the celebration had waxed and not waned in its intensity. Most of the citizens had gone back to their homes, but those who did not more than made up for their numbers. The parade spiraled out of control—as mob scenes are wont to do—into the most perverse funeral service that Oz had ever seen. The citizens who had bayed for the Witch's blood were now drunk on it, drunk on the ale, drunk on their own misdirected sense of battle victory, drunk on the power of the crowd. Everywhere buckets of water were thrown; everywhere the wet recipients sank laughing to the ground. Some writhed there on the streets, grotesque. Puppet plays were held in hastily-construed booths, all depicting in melodramatic—even crude—fashion the death of the Witch. Effigies burned in countless places.
And these, thought Glinda the Good, are the ones whose love I sold myself for.
She watched from far above, on the balcony of the lavish suite of rooms she kept for her stays in the Emerald City. From there she could not see the near-rabid ugliness of those gleeful faces, though she could see enough. It was as close as she trusted herself, and yet she wished she could be anywhere else in Oz or out of it… at cold Kiamo Ko, even, with its pathetic little puddle of what was left of her best friend. There she would be allowed to mourn, at least. Up until now she had not been able to slip away to be alone with her grief-- not with so many happy and eager citizens pressing against her with their questions and with their rejoicing that she was expected to share. Not with so many new responsibilities she now shouldered, and with so much to do.
That was fitting, she thought, because she had not earned the right to give in to her mourning-- that comfort, that release. This was her penance, to smile at the death of her friend. This was her punishment-- for Elphaba, and for dear Fiyero, whose death was unsung, out in some lonely sun-blasted field. (People always said that the wicked died alone, but the good did, too). She'd watched the people cry out against the so-called Witch of West so many times without a word…until it was too late. She'd had her reasons, to be sure, but she no longer cared. She deserved this.
I deserve this.
She looked at the roiling clot of people below her-- humanity at its finest.
We deserve each other.
Besides, she reminded herself, she had to practice: to smile, and to wave, and to shut up. All her years of experience meant nothing now, with the two people she loved most in the world killed, one tragedy treading on the heel of another. It was one thing not to let them see her cry; Elphie had managed it for her whole life, hadn't she? It was another to smile, and to laugh, and to sing. She'd managed for Nessarose's death—that pitiful little body, crushed; it still made her eyes want to fill when she let herself think about it. She'd done more than manage; to her shame she'd begun the very song that now rang out for the second and last Thropp sister dead.1
Hail, hail the witch is dead!
Which old witch? —the Wicked Witch!
Hail, hail the Wicked Witch is dead!
The singing was loud and raucous, slurred and off-key. Verses blurred together. At least the Munchkinlanders had shown some restraint with their celebrating, and when Glinda was honest and very objective with herself she could understand their cause for joy a little. (It was still a death, a life lost). Nessa, much as she'd cared for her, had been an oppressive dictator, even if her cause was not power but the loneliness of an unrequited love. The means were different, the end the same. At least, Glinda thought, she had done something, though she herself had it not in her heart to condemn her for it. What had Fiyero done, besides try to defend the woman he loved? And what had Elphaba done, besides tell the truth no one wanted to hear? What had she done besides being the noblest and most courageous person the citizens of Oz would see? Besides being different? There was the matter of Dorothy, yes, but they'd hated Elphaba far before that hapless girl had ever dropped down through the swirling winds in her farmhouse.
Summon up and sing—and ring the bells out!Ding-dong, the merry-oh,
Sing it high! Sing it low!
Let them know the Wicked Witch is dead!
A flash, and Glinda could see in her mind's eye the younger versions of Elphaba and herself, curled up companionably in the bench seat of their train compartment on that fateful trip to the Emerald City. She could recall the way the sunlight had streamed in through the windowpanes, flooding over the paneled walls and dark patterned carpets of the close room. It had seemed such a reflection of the bright future they'd been sure lay just before them. There was Elphaba, more real than a memory…
-------------------
Elphaba sat with feet tucked under, her face completely relaxed and happy—a rare enough sight. Then again, she was more than half-asleep, and had been mumbling almost dreamily about the future for the space of the past few minutes.
"And then you'll see, Galinda. I swear someday there'll be a celebration in all of Oz, just for us."
A mere two weeks before Glinda's rejoinder would have been-- 'of course!' Galinda Upland was simply made for parades, and balls, and celebrations of every kind—and if they were all for her, all the better. Naturally. Instead she smiled, but a little sadly, and didn't bother to correct the name. Honestly, she had begun to wonder if she should just swallow her pride, let the change go and hope everyone forgot about it in short order. The business with Fiyero of late had made her uncharacteristically gloomy-- but gloomy in the most positively dramatic way, and she was inclined to pout and sulk prettily at the smallest provocation.
"For you, maybe. I'm only here because you felt sorry for me, remember?" It was overdone, and both of them knew it. Still, below the surface, the words stung, because parts of them had parts of truth. It was Elphie who had been summoned by the Wizard, and Glinda would not have taken that away from her for anything in the world. No one could have been more deserving (and even if she hadn't been, Glinda still would not have wished it away from her). She could not admit to jealousy, because that would mean some kind of negative feeling towards Elphaba, and she had none. It was more a… disappointment with herself, a disappointment with the real world, somehow-- the end of what must have been some kind of life-long delusion. It had never occurred to her before Elphaba ran in with the news of her invitation that she would ever be left out of any good thing. Elphaba would work with the Wizard and have the wonderful life that came with it because she was talented and powerful and brilliant and many other worthy traits, and Galinda would have the same for the same reason she'd always had everything-- because she was Galinda.
It was an ugly feeling exposed, and Glinda did not like ugliness. She was feeling and experiencing so many different things since going to Shiz, and she did not like a good number of them, either.
Elphaba's mouth quirked, as if forgiving her friend's theatrics. Her eyes met Glinda's, open all the way for a moment before slipping closed again.
"That's not true."
Then her head dropped down and lolled forward. Her sleeping body seemed uncertain of exactly where it wanted to go, and swayed first toward the far wall, then rather alarmingly toward the open air and eventually, the floor.
"Oh, no you don't!" scolded Glinda, catching her and tugging her backward again. Even in sleep, Elphaba was dead stubborn, and it was not an easy task. With much rearranging she got Elphaba's head leaning comfortably on her shoulder and the rest of her reclining on the seat. Comfortable for Elphie, at any rate—Glinda was far from. Elphaba's chin was digging right into her collarbone, for one thing, and for another, Glinda just knew her arm, sandwiched between them, was going to be hopelessly and thoroughly squashed by the time they even reached the halfway marker. Still, she could hardly have her Elphie dropping off to sleep on her feet at the Wizard's palace, could she? Oh, no—that just would not do. She sighed at the realization of her own unselfishness, feeling a little better at her sacrifices on the altar of great friendship. Her hand reached up along the seat top and pulled down the light throw blanket that lay there. She draped it carefully around her sleeping friend, though in truth it was warm enough in the small compartment. It made her feel maternal…sisterly…something protective. Capable and strong, like Elphaba, who would never admit to needing taking care of.
"Well, you do now," she said, as if finishing her thoughts out loud. "You need your beauty sleep, you know. Girls who are going to have celebrations all over Oz—just for them—need to look their best."
She decided she liked this new protective side of herself. In the earlier days of their friendship, she'd fussed over Elphie, but more as a project, almost a plaything. She'd been like the prized dolly in her collection—her favorite, because she was the most unique— but still a dolly, that she could dress up and paint and practice hairstyles on.
This was different. At least there was one new feeling that she liked. She managed to get her pinned arm free and then put both of them around her friend's shoulders. Elphaba was dead to the world.
Glinda decided right then and there that she would continue it, whether or not Elphaba acted like she needed it or not. Life might be hard, she was beginning to worry, even with all your dreams fulfilled. What were two best friends to do but look after one another?
She hugged Elphie a little tighter, ready to defend her against anything. Elphie slept on.
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Glinda came back to herself, away from the memories of happier days. There was no sunlight here. Instead, torchlight flickered in from below, illuminating a room full of tokens of false love. Elaborate flower arrangements spilled over every flat surface in her suite, most on the vanity table she now stood before. Were the flowers sent to congratulate her on her engagement, or on the death of her "enemy" witch?2
"Defend her?" she scoffed at herself, vitriol dripping. "Fine job you made of it."
Ding-dong, the Witch is dead!
Which old witch?—the Wicked Witch!
Hail, hail, the Wicked Witch is dead!
Ha-ha-ha, ho-ho-ho and a couple of tra-la-las!
Ha-ha-ha, ho-ho-ho in the merry old land of Oz!
"You'll see, Galinda…"She saw. This celebration was not what doomed Elphaba had had in mind.
We're off to see the Wizard, the Wonderful Wizard of Oz!
Let him know the Wicked Witch is dead!
The Wizard… Glinda thought of the former ruler as she'd just left him, clutching that green bottle, clutching his heart. A sentimental man, always longed to be a father— who'd all unknowing sent for the murder of his one and only child. He was broken; a powerful ruler (if only powerful at manipulation) for years shattered in mere moments. Elphaba had brought him down at last but would never know it. He'd never be right again, and Glinda, with all her new hardness of heart, did not care.
Tra-la-las, indeed.
What was worse—that he'd sent a little girl to kill a witch he thought was dangerous, or that he'd sent a girl with a mob following to kill a witch he knew was not? What Glinda could not understand was why he'd done it. Only weeks before he'd tried to defend her life from what he'd thought was a threatening Fiyero, even exposing his real identity in the process. He'd certainly admired her. "She has such pluck, such… individuality. That counts for everything, where I come from," he would say, or too many times to count—"if only we could bring her back, if only…" No one would have believed it, but their mutual feelings for Elphaba had been a point of commonality between herself and the Wizard. "I feel a bond with her, Glinda—it's very strange. I know her, and I don't know why." She could have sworn, once, that he'd even loved her.
He'd just loved his image and power more.
With that, Glinda burst into tears.
Commonality.
Ding-dong, the Witch is dead!Which old witch? —the Wicked Witch!
Hail, Hail, the Wicked Witch is dead!"Stop, stop," she whimpered, and then her voice rose, harsh and ugly. Her vocal chords, unused to such demands, scraped roughly, painfully. "STOP IT!"
The crowd rose to meet the challenge, reaching a fever pitch.
SHE'S GONE WHERE THE GOBLINS GO!BELOW,
BELOW,
BELOW—YO-HO!
It became too much. They won. She lost. Glinda suddenly retched —whether from the perversity of the singing or from the sight of her own painted face in the vanity mirror. She hunched over, fierce pain erupting, and tried to purge herself. But she hadn't eaten since Elphaba died, and there was nothing to give. Folding in on herself, she shook with sickness and spent energy, before hating her own weakness and staggering angrily upright again. Fingers tore at her jeweled tiara—clawing, grasping—and it ripped free, taking blonde hair with it. As soon as it was in her hand, she flung it, sending it skittering over the vanity dresser's top. Jars of powder and rouge and glitter crashed down, coming apart on the polished green floor. Glass amphorae of the finest perfume smashed open, bleeding out their precious contents. One small vase of flowers teetered for a moment before tumbling off the edge, taking another, larger one with it. Petals scattered, red against green. A sweep of Glinda's arm sent the remainder of their fellows to join them. Water pooled and puddled.
The mirror, with the hated truths it confronted her with so joyously, was her next target. A hand wouldn't do. Glinda took up her wand and swung it at the glass with all her strength. Ridiculous thought. The wand, more decorative than effectual, broke on impact—shattered. The sum of her strength only sent a little flurry of papers from a nearby table swirling to the ground. She followed them-- sinking, collapsing in a heap of blue ruffles and tears. They weren't the dainty, ladylike sniffles her mother had so carefully taught her—tears that could be worked for the proper effect ("especially with gentlemen, Galinda, remember that"). She sobbed, and then she choked on them, drowning.
The sounds of her misery were deafening, and so it was that she didn't hear the hesitant arrival of three pairs of feet.
One pair stopped, uncertain. The other two trotted along, no compunction in the world, up to the side of the Good Witch of the North. The owner of the feet, obviously disturbed by her violent grief, opened its head… and began to yap loudly.
Glinda cracked open one watery eye and saw, blurred almost to nonrecognition, a small, dark terrier. She knew who it was, and she knew who was with him. Her head jerked around over her shoulder as she remained hunkered near the ground—looking for all the world like a steel-trapped animal—hurt and wild and angry and in more pain than was imaginable.
The girl, Dorothy, stood in shock.
"East and West. Come to add another notch to your compass?" came a bitter voice.
Glinda lips turned up, not prettily. It seemed she could almost hear the voice of her dead friend in her mind, adding biting commentary to this most interesting of situations—a situation that went to prove that life did indeed have a sense of humor.
Then she realized that the voice hadn't been Elphaba's. It was her own, and out loud.
Glinda stared; Dorothy shrank.
Toto, unperturbed, began to gnaw at the bruised flowers on the ground.
1 This is both true and untrue of the MGM film. Glinda does indeed begin the song "Ding Dong, The Witch Is Dead" with her phrase "let the joyous news be spread, the wicked old witch at last is dead." However, she does not sing along.
2 It may seem like I've made a timeline error here. Yes, there was a gap between the engagement party/Fiyero's "death" and Elphaba's melting—really, however long it took Dorothy and Co. to get to the Emerald City and then to Kiamo Ko. However, the general populace probably was not aware of Fiyero's death. That's hardly something the Wizard would want getting out until a suitable story could be formulated. Therefore, Glinda could have still been getting flowers.