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