alcohol, mirror, surrender, salt, sugar, control
Title: Drinking Alone
Fandoms: Wicked (the novel) crossover with Camelot (the musical)
Pairing: Elphaba/Guenevere, and hints of Elphaba/Glinda
Rating: Oh, PG? 13? It's not much.
A/N: seriously I am on crack for even thinking of this. Set in the Mauntery of Wicked, screwing with the timelines enough to place Guenevere in the care of those holy sisters.
Challenges and word counts:
#74 (alcohol) - 121 words
#79 (mirror) - 125 words
#78 (surrender) - 175 words
#73 (salt) - 245 words
#72 (sugar) - 200 words
#77 (control) - 200 words
I hope I have done this correctly...this is my first time posting here so I'm a little (read: totally) clueless. Basically it's one story made of six connecting drabbles, one for each challenge/word as above :) And they sort of loop around, too. And there's shifting POV's. Anyway. Onwards fic!
1/
She came here for chastity and solitude, which does not explain why she is waking up in an unfamiliar bed, with no clothing to speak of save for a loop of red yarn knotted in with her hair.
Guenevere suspects that that probably doesn’t count.
Across the room, the strange green woman is digging around the grate, attempting to coax a few dulling embers back to life with a charred poker and the remnants of their wine. Hunched over, her casual black shift is thrown haphazardly across her back, leaving her arms bare to the chill morning air.
Guenevere would ask her back into the bed, but she can’t fully remember how either of them got there in the first place.
2/
Elphaba has not spoken in four years, yet the sudden arrival of the exiled queen startles a sound out of her neglected larynx.
“Glinda.”
But is it not Glinda, she realises with an ache as at last the shabby veil is lifted. The figure and build are the same, the hair spun from the same gold, but the face shows neither familiarity nor recognition.
Yet when Elphaba closes her eyes, the voice is no one but Glinda’s. She breathes in its lilt and melody as the newcomer explains her story, listening with intent until the twists of the tale force her eyes open, and she drinks in the queen’s pain.
All traces of Glinda have disappeared; it is as though she is reflecting upon herself.
3/
“I love both,” Guenevere whispers; not because she is under any vow of silence herself, but because the green woman looks as though she can hear even the barest of thoughts. “I never knew it possible to love two people, equally, yet in such different capacities.”
“It’s possible,” the green woman replies in a low voice, her tone strangled. Guenevere cannot help but stare at her companion as she fidgets, as though she is both desperate to say something, yet anxious to hold it in. She is not a maunt, but there ends the extent of Guenevere’s knowledge.
Until now.
“I loved someone that it was impossible for me to love.” Guenevere holds her breath, as though even the slightest puff of air will over-power the words just spoken. “So I left her, because I thought it would be easier.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No.” A spindly green arm pulls the blanket higher about their shoulders and Guenevere does not pull away, though prudence is telling her that she should, and fast. “Not in the slightest.”
4/
“Both risked their lives to save mine - I would be risking theirs to return, but how can I stay away?”
Elphaba cradles the queen to her, relishing in the human contact that she’s never before admitted to missing.
“Don’t ask me how,” she replies, more bitterly than intended, and Guenevere feels a pang of guilt as she recalls the distant confession of the murdered prince, the lover who will never be seen again. All her worries seem ridiculously inconsequential in comparison and she gently changes the subject, not wishing to chafe more salt into the still-gaping wounds.
“You’re more like them than I,” is all she says. “You gave up your own happiness for her safety. I wish I could be so noble.”
“But I couldn’t give it up for his.” The green woman pulls away abruptly, and there is a dull clink as she extracts a dusty bottle from behind the drapes. She uncorks it easily, then gives a dry laugh. “I have no glasses, as I have never before needed any. Some nights, a woman just needs to drink alone.”
“A fallen queen has no claim on a receptacle.” Guenevere takes the bottle, rubbing its lip lightly before tipping her head back and downing a most unladylike mouthful. “And some nights she, too, requires only to drink alone.” She passes the bottle back to the green woman, who, for the first time, offers her a genuine smile.
“Then let’s drink alone together.”
5/
In the darkness, she once more looks like Glinda, light curls blending into creamy shoulders as the nightgown slowly slides off. She even tastes the same as Glinda, although that may be the wine, which continues to sweeten with age.
The bottle lies discarded on the hearth now, the last mouthful lolling neglected in its neck, threatening to spill out but never quite making that final leap.
“Tell me more about Glinda,” the queen breathes in the split second before Elphaba’s mouth once more covers her own.
Eyelids lowered, Elphaba tells her. She spells out Glinda with her fingertips across the queen’s torso, feeling a lump rise in her throat as the soft moans begin to come quicker and louder. With the palms of her hands, she paints Glinda’s figure, becoming increasingly choked when the ensuing whimper is the wrong pitch.
It is when the sweet wine on the queen’s lips begins to taste syrupy that Elphaba can take no more. With a cry of her own, she rolls away from the unfamiliar body, folding herself up into a jagged ball. When the queen tries to touch her, she responds only with a wracking sob, though her eyes remain dry.
6/
Eventually Guenevere falls asleep, huddled on the opposite side of the bed, and Elphaba turns over to face her. There is something to be said for solitude, silence and chastity, but as she reaches out to stroke the other woman’s cheek, she can’t help but admit that comfort and company are perhaps also, on occasion, required in order to exist.
Elphaba kisses Guenevere in soft apology, at the last second unable to curl up against her. She is not Glinda, and bares only a fleeting resemblance to her, as much as this hurts to admit. In this vast mauntery, with all its connecting confessionals, there will never be a place for Elphaba to atone.
“You can have one but not the other - but at least you can have one,” Elphaba murmurs against Guenevere’s cheek. “It’s a difficult decision, but you need not stay here in agony for the rest of your days. You are not I.”
She kisses her again, before rolling out of the bed and crawling over to the dying fire. She can already predict the intensity with which Guenevere’s hangover will attack, but at least she can prevent the queen from suffering in the freezing cold.
Fandoms: Wicked (the novel) crossover with Camelot (the musical)
Pairing: Elphaba/Guenevere, and hints of Elphaba/Glinda
Rating: Oh, PG? 13? It's not much.
A/N: seriously I am on crack for even thinking of this. Set in the Mauntery of Wicked, screwing with the timelines enough to place Guenevere in the care of those holy sisters.
Challenges and word counts:
#74 (alcohol) - 121 words
#79 (mirror) - 125 words
#78 (surrender) - 175 words
#73 (salt) - 245 words
#72 (sugar) - 200 words
#77 (control) - 200 words
I hope I have done this correctly...this is my first time posting here so I'm a little (read: totally) clueless. Basically it's one story made of six connecting drabbles, one for each challenge/word as above :) And they sort of loop around, too. And there's shifting POV's. Anyway. Onwards fic!
1/
She came here for chastity and solitude, which does not explain why she is waking up in an unfamiliar bed, with no clothing to speak of save for a loop of red yarn knotted in with her hair.
Guenevere suspects that that probably doesn’t count.
Across the room, the strange green woman is digging around the grate, attempting to coax a few dulling embers back to life with a charred poker and the remnants of their wine. Hunched over, her casual black shift is thrown haphazardly across her back, leaving her arms bare to the chill morning air.
Guenevere would ask her back into the bed, but she can’t fully remember how either of them got there in the first place.
2/
Elphaba has not spoken in four years, yet the sudden arrival of the exiled queen startles a sound out of her neglected larynx.
“Glinda.”
But is it not Glinda, she realises with an ache as at last the shabby veil is lifted. The figure and build are the same, the hair spun from the same gold, but the face shows neither familiarity nor recognition.
Yet when Elphaba closes her eyes, the voice is no one but Glinda’s. She breathes in its lilt and melody as the newcomer explains her story, listening with intent until the twists of the tale force her eyes open, and she drinks in the queen’s pain.
All traces of Glinda have disappeared; it is as though she is reflecting upon herself.
3/
“I love both,” Guenevere whispers; not because she is under any vow of silence herself, but because the green woman looks as though she can hear even the barest of thoughts. “I never knew it possible to love two people, equally, yet in such different capacities.”
“It’s possible,” the green woman replies in a low voice, her tone strangled. Guenevere cannot help but stare at her companion as she fidgets, as though she is both desperate to say something, yet anxious to hold it in. She is not a maunt, but there ends the extent of Guenevere’s knowledge.
Until now.
“I loved someone that it was impossible for me to love.” Guenevere holds her breath, as though even the slightest puff of air will over-power the words just spoken. “So I left her, because I thought it would be easier.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No.” A spindly green arm pulls the blanket higher about their shoulders and Guenevere does not pull away, though prudence is telling her that she should, and fast. “Not in the slightest.”
4/
“Both risked their lives to save mine - I would be risking theirs to return, but how can I stay away?”
Elphaba cradles the queen to her, relishing in the human contact that she’s never before admitted to missing.
“Don’t ask me how,” she replies, more bitterly than intended, and Guenevere feels a pang of guilt as she recalls the distant confession of the murdered prince, the lover who will never be seen again. All her worries seem ridiculously inconsequential in comparison and she gently changes the subject, not wishing to chafe more salt into the still-gaping wounds.
“You’re more like them than I,” is all she says. “You gave up your own happiness for her safety. I wish I could be so noble.”
“But I couldn’t give it up for his.” The green woman pulls away abruptly, and there is a dull clink as she extracts a dusty bottle from behind the drapes. She uncorks it easily, then gives a dry laugh. “I have no glasses, as I have never before needed any. Some nights, a woman just needs to drink alone.”
“A fallen queen has no claim on a receptacle.” Guenevere takes the bottle, rubbing its lip lightly before tipping her head back and downing a most unladylike mouthful. “And some nights she, too, requires only to drink alone.” She passes the bottle back to the green woman, who, for the first time, offers her a genuine smile.
“Then let’s drink alone together.”
5/
In the darkness, she once more looks like Glinda, light curls blending into creamy shoulders as the nightgown slowly slides off. She even tastes the same as Glinda, although that may be the wine, which continues to sweeten with age.
The bottle lies discarded on the hearth now, the last mouthful lolling neglected in its neck, threatening to spill out but never quite making that final leap.
“Tell me more about Glinda,” the queen breathes in the split second before Elphaba’s mouth once more covers her own.
Eyelids lowered, Elphaba tells her. She spells out Glinda with her fingertips across the queen’s torso, feeling a lump rise in her throat as the soft moans begin to come quicker and louder. With the palms of her hands, she paints Glinda’s figure, becoming increasingly choked when the ensuing whimper is the wrong pitch.
It is when the sweet wine on the queen’s lips begins to taste syrupy that Elphaba can take no more. With a cry of her own, she rolls away from the unfamiliar body, folding herself up into a jagged ball. When the queen tries to touch her, she responds only with a wracking sob, though her eyes remain dry.
6/
Eventually Guenevere falls asleep, huddled on the opposite side of the bed, and Elphaba turns over to face her. There is something to be said for solitude, silence and chastity, but as she reaches out to stroke the other woman’s cheek, she can’t help but admit that comfort and company are perhaps also, on occasion, required in order to exist.
Elphaba kisses Guenevere in soft apology, at the last second unable to curl up against her. She is not Glinda, and bares only a fleeting resemblance to her, as much as this hurts to admit. In this vast mauntery, with all its connecting confessionals, there will never be a place for Elphaba to atone.
“You can have one but not the other - but at least you can have one,” Elphaba murmurs against Guenevere’s cheek. “It’s a difficult decision, but you need not stay here in agony for the rest of your days. You are not I.”
She kisses her again, before rolling out of the bed and crawling over to the dying fire. She can already predict the intensity with which Guenevere’s hangover will attack, but at least she can prevent the queen from suffering in the freezing cold.