Rewritten: A Wicked Fanfiction
Title: Rewritten
Rating: PG
Fandom: Musical.
Characters/Pairing: Elphaba/Fiyero Glinda/Boq
Disclaimer: The usual, with fries on the side. I don't own it.
Other: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4239062/1/Rewritten link to ff.net if anyone's interested
Author's Note: I will update monthly. Sometimes a week earlier or so, but usually once a month. -nod- I know it's a long time, but it gives me time to make sure I don't fall behind in writing my chapters (in which case everyone would have to wait even LONGER), and it gives my beta (THANK YOU NICOLE [fae2135] on ff.net) time to do her thang.
Summary: Six months after the 'death' of the Wicked Witch of the West, magic is beginning to unravel. The same magic that holds Scarecrows and Tin Men together.
Sleep was as elusive as ever. Once more it evaded Elphaba’s grasp as she stared blankly at the high arched ceiling, dark eyes wide and unblinking. Her mind was clouded with exhaustion; the very stone above her seemed to writhe and twist with a life of its own, churning about to the slow cadence of her fevered thoughts.
Fiyero had insisted they flee Oz, but Elphaba couldn’t bear to leave. After all, there was no place like home. Plus, life completely segregated from the only friend she had ever had was too much for Elphaba to even begin to fathom. At least here, she was in the same country. Elphaba missed the way Glinda spoke, how she would fill each syllable with vigor and life. The funny faces, the non-stop chatter, and the good natured sparring between the two of them were things she had taken for granted, even complained about, when they had been there. Now she was dreadfully sorry they were gone.
The green woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, suppressed a shiver, even beneath the thick layer of blankets piled atop her. The secret passages beneath the castle of Kiamo Ko, Fiyero’s ‘extra’ castle, were cold and damp, not at all ideal living quarters. Why was she there then? They were practical. Hundreds of feet above them, in the dungeon of the castle, a sizable museum was erected in celebration and remembrance of the passing of a certain Wicked Witch of the West… Elphaba’s own death. The very thought was both repulsive and hilarious to her, but honestly, who would ever look for a dead woman, much less directly below her own grave site? Even at this hour of the night, Elphaba could hear the pacing of a janitor, dutifully cleaning up after the masses of people that passed through every day.
People were so blind. The gullible population had allowed themselves to be deceived that a man, whom they themselves had set atop the throne, was some sort of deity. She herself had believed that. But in fact, the so-called ‘Wizard of Oz’ was nothing more than a con artist, a despicable piece of flesh who would be better off in a cage than on a throne.
A wave of shame flushed Elphaba’s smooth skin, soon followed by a sharp pang of regret which settled characteristically in her gut. The Wizard had crushed her dreams soundly. Not only had he betrayed her, but he had used her as a power source for his own sick devices. He was planning to destroy an entire race, a sentient race of Animals, who had inhabited the land as long as anyone could remember… and he had tried to get her to join him. Naturally though, when she had the gall to stand up to him, he had her reputation besmirched beyond recognition. In a matter of days, she had gone from a student of sorcery, attending one of the most prestigious schools of magic in the land of Oz, to a witch.
Sick at heart, Elphaba heaved off the downy coverlets. As she did on so many nights, she took to pacing the room. Her long black braid swayed gently with her gait. The tousled end of it brushed the small of her back, tickling even through the thick nightgown she wore. She silently padded back and forth, concentrating on nothing more significant than the gentle caress of the thick carpets beneath her bare feet. Perhaps after she had cleared her mind, sleep would come more easily. Every night she wondered the same, and every night thoughts continued to plague her.
She should have stayed in bed, but it was too late to return. Already the lingering body-heat would be sapped from her mattress, the linens returning to the ice-like state they had been in when she first slipped beneath them. Teeth starting to chatter, Elphaba turned her pacing in the general direction of the wardrobe. Throwing open the doors with an unexpected vehemence, Elphaba was confronted by a stark black array of dresses and cloaks. She had always worn such shades before because, as she had once so wryly announced ‘she clashed with everything’. Now, however, it was out of sheer necessity.
For one thing, most of her expeditions were carried out at night. Elphaba had lived an adventure, warring against the corrupt Wizard in as many ways as possible. One person could make so much of a difference, but without the support of the people, it hadn’t been enough. Every Animal she freed was only considered a rebel and insurrectionist, until the persecution against them was so bad that they almost wanted to stay in those cruel iron cages. Another reason, less well known, was that when Kiamo Ko had been given to Elphaba for her full use, Fiyero had also included the full use of anything there, including a large wardrobe full of fourteen different mourning dresses.
Fiyero’s aunt, according to him, was a woman in perpetual grief over the deaths of her husbands, who seemed to be continually passing away under dubious circumstances. She had apparently insisted on purchasing brand new mourning dresses for each one of their funerals, using a small portion of the large fortunes they conveniently left only to her. She would wear them to said funerals, then never touch them again, Fiyero had sworn. So, as Elphaba wasn’t exactly welcome in any of the local tailor shops, black mourning dresses it was.
Elphaba had always, as far as she knew, possessed a slight aversion to mirrors. Despite that, she had been unable to remove the full length one from inside of the wardrobe door for fear of damaging the beautiful wood. So, as she hurriedly rummaged through the large closet, she made every attempt to keep her focus off the reflection copying her every movement. She failed. The moment her dark eyes locked onto the mirror, she was fixated on it. Her gaze swept over her features, soon followed by her fingers, which deftly traced the contours of her sharply angled cheekbones and blunt square jaw.
She wasn’t conventionally ugly by any means, but neither was she ravishing. Elphaba seemed to be just short of beautiful by a combination of minute features, rather than one specific trait. She didn’t miss the mark by far, but she was just ‘a little too much’, of a few too many things. A little too tall, a little too…green. If a person remembered just one thing about meeting the girl, it would be that she was green. She wasn’t green as a seasick person might be, tinged with the hue in a sickly way, but rather, like a froggy ferny cabbage, she was unnaturally saturated with the color. Even her nail-beds were green, albeit a lighter shade. Reluctantly, Elphaba closed the door, black knitted shawl in hand. She tossed it carelessly around her shoulders, clutching it to herself as if it were the only thing holding her back from total destruction.
To put it simply, the former ‘Wicked Witch’ was bored out of her mind. She just wasn’t used to such a quiet existence. All her life she had been stared at, forced to deal with her obvious birth defect by using her wit and aptitude, or to make some other compensation. Every day was something new, some difference in day-to-day life. Now all she did was pace, and think. Maybe she just wasn’t made to settle down, at least not in some dark abyss like the underground of the castle. It was worse, now that Fiyero was out on errands.
Subconsciously, Elphaba stalked the halls like a wraith, ending up in the room her beau had chosen for his own. Why, she had yet to discover.
The carpet here was much thinner and coarser than the one in her own room. In fact, it was hardly better than the rushes covering the bare stone of the halls. The cold seeped through the soft flesh of her feet and into her very bones. But it wasn’t the temperature that sent a chill down her spine. This was the room in which she had condemned her love to life as a Scarecrow. A huge section of charred rug marred the already dreary room, standing as proof of her ill executed spell.
Messages scrawled in a furious glowing script shone from the stone like fire. Each clause served as a reminder of how she had nearly caved in to the condemnations of wickedness… nearly becoming wicked herself.
‘All helpful urges should be circumvented.’
How could she have thought such a thing?
‘Was I really seeking good, or just seeking attention?’
Elphaba cringed as each statement burned into her mind, casting doubt upon her already questionable motives.
‘Is that all good deeds are?’ They embodied all that was her past, and watching it rear its ugly head again was torment.
Why had Fiyero chosen this room, when the displays of her frailty and anger were so evident on every wall? Perhaps it was because her love for him was evident as well. She would have been willing to commit herself to all of this, if only to save his life. And so she had, nearly. Instead though, she left the task unfinished, and had damned him to a brainless, shunned existence down here with her for what could draw out to all eternity. Maybe, a small voice in her mind taunted, if you finished the job the first time…
Rating: PG
Fandom: Musical.
Characters/Pairing: Elphaba/Fiyero Glinda/Boq
Disclaimer: The usual, with fries on the side. I don't own it.
Other: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4239062/1/Rewritten link to ff.net if anyone's interested
Author's Note: I will update monthly. Sometimes a week earlier or so, but usually once a month. -nod- I know it's a long time, but it gives me time to make sure I don't fall behind in writing my chapters (in which case everyone would have to wait even LONGER), and it gives my beta (THANK YOU NICOLE [fae2135] on ff.net) time to do her thang.
Summary: Six months after the 'death' of the Wicked Witch of the West, magic is beginning to unravel. The same magic that holds Scarecrows and Tin Men together.
Sleep was as elusive as ever. Once more it evaded Elphaba’s grasp as she stared blankly at the high arched ceiling, dark eyes wide and unblinking. Her mind was clouded with exhaustion; the very stone above her seemed to writhe and twist with a life of its own, churning about to the slow cadence of her fevered thoughts.
Fiyero had insisted they flee Oz, but Elphaba couldn’t bear to leave. After all, there was no place like home. Plus, life completely segregated from the only friend she had ever had was too much for Elphaba to even begin to fathom. At least here, she was in the same country. Elphaba missed the way Glinda spoke, how she would fill each syllable with vigor and life. The funny faces, the non-stop chatter, and the good natured sparring between the two of them were things she had taken for granted, even complained about, when they had been there. Now she was dreadfully sorry they were gone.
The green woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, suppressed a shiver, even beneath the thick layer of blankets piled atop her. The secret passages beneath the castle of Kiamo Ko, Fiyero’s ‘extra’ castle, were cold and damp, not at all ideal living quarters. Why was she there then? They were practical. Hundreds of feet above them, in the dungeon of the castle, a sizable museum was erected in celebration and remembrance of the passing of a certain Wicked Witch of the West… Elphaba’s own death. The very thought was both repulsive and hilarious to her, but honestly, who would ever look for a dead woman, much less directly below her own grave site? Even at this hour of the night, Elphaba could hear the pacing of a janitor, dutifully cleaning up after the masses of people that passed through every day.
People were so blind. The gullible population had allowed themselves to be deceived that a man, whom they themselves had set atop the throne, was some sort of deity. She herself had believed that. But in fact, the so-called ‘Wizard of Oz’ was nothing more than a con artist, a despicable piece of flesh who would be better off in a cage than on a throne.
A wave of shame flushed Elphaba’s smooth skin, soon followed by a sharp pang of regret which settled characteristically in her gut. The Wizard had crushed her dreams soundly. Not only had he betrayed her, but he had used her as a power source for his own sick devices. He was planning to destroy an entire race, a sentient race of Animals, who had inhabited the land as long as anyone could remember… and he had tried to get her to join him. Naturally though, when she had the gall to stand up to him, he had her reputation besmirched beyond recognition. In a matter of days, she had gone from a student of sorcery, attending one of the most prestigious schools of magic in the land of Oz, to a witch.
Sick at heart, Elphaba heaved off the downy coverlets. As she did on so many nights, she took to pacing the room. Her long black braid swayed gently with her gait. The tousled end of it brushed the small of her back, tickling even through the thick nightgown she wore. She silently padded back and forth, concentrating on nothing more significant than the gentle caress of the thick carpets beneath her bare feet. Perhaps after she had cleared her mind, sleep would come more easily. Every night she wondered the same, and every night thoughts continued to plague her.
She should have stayed in bed, but it was too late to return. Already the lingering body-heat would be sapped from her mattress, the linens returning to the ice-like state they had been in when she first slipped beneath them. Teeth starting to chatter, Elphaba turned her pacing in the general direction of the wardrobe. Throwing open the doors with an unexpected vehemence, Elphaba was confronted by a stark black array of dresses and cloaks. She had always worn such shades before because, as she had once so wryly announced ‘she clashed with everything’. Now, however, it was out of sheer necessity.
For one thing, most of her expeditions were carried out at night. Elphaba had lived an adventure, warring against the corrupt Wizard in as many ways as possible. One person could make so much of a difference, but without the support of the people, it hadn’t been enough. Every Animal she freed was only considered a rebel and insurrectionist, until the persecution against them was so bad that they almost wanted to stay in those cruel iron cages. Another reason, less well known, was that when Kiamo Ko had been given to Elphaba for her full use, Fiyero had also included the full use of anything there, including a large wardrobe full of fourteen different mourning dresses.
Fiyero’s aunt, according to him, was a woman in perpetual grief over the deaths of her husbands, who seemed to be continually passing away under dubious circumstances. She had apparently insisted on purchasing brand new mourning dresses for each one of their funerals, using a small portion of the large fortunes they conveniently left only to her. She would wear them to said funerals, then never touch them again, Fiyero had sworn. So, as Elphaba wasn’t exactly welcome in any of the local tailor shops, black mourning dresses it was.
Elphaba had always, as far as she knew, possessed a slight aversion to mirrors. Despite that, she had been unable to remove the full length one from inside of the wardrobe door for fear of damaging the beautiful wood. So, as she hurriedly rummaged through the large closet, she made every attempt to keep her focus off the reflection copying her every movement. She failed. The moment her dark eyes locked onto the mirror, she was fixated on it. Her gaze swept over her features, soon followed by her fingers, which deftly traced the contours of her sharply angled cheekbones and blunt square jaw.
She wasn’t conventionally ugly by any means, but neither was she ravishing. Elphaba seemed to be just short of beautiful by a combination of minute features, rather than one specific trait. She didn’t miss the mark by far, but she was just ‘a little too much’, of a few too many things. A little too tall, a little too…green. If a person remembered just one thing about meeting the girl, it would be that she was green. She wasn’t green as a seasick person might be, tinged with the hue in a sickly way, but rather, like a froggy ferny cabbage, she was unnaturally saturated with the color. Even her nail-beds were green, albeit a lighter shade. Reluctantly, Elphaba closed the door, black knitted shawl in hand. She tossed it carelessly around her shoulders, clutching it to herself as if it were the only thing holding her back from total destruction.
To put it simply, the former ‘Wicked Witch’ was bored out of her mind. She just wasn’t used to such a quiet existence. All her life she had been stared at, forced to deal with her obvious birth defect by using her wit and aptitude, or to make some other compensation. Every day was something new, some difference in day-to-day life. Now all she did was pace, and think. Maybe she just wasn’t made to settle down, at least not in some dark abyss like the underground of the castle. It was worse, now that Fiyero was out on errands.
Subconsciously, Elphaba stalked the halls like a wraith, ending up in the room her beau had chosen for his own. Why, she had yet to discover.
The carpet here was much thinner and coarser than the one in her own room. In fact, it was hardly better than the rushes covering the bare stone of the halls. The cold seeped through the soft flesh of her feet and into her very bones. But it wasn’t the temperature that sent a chill down her spine. This was the room in which she had condemned her love to life as a Scarecrow. A huge section of charred rug marred the already dreary room, standing as proof of her ill executed spell.
Messages scrawled in a furious glowing script shone from the stone like fire. Each clause served as a reminder of how she had nearly caved in to the condemnations of wickedness… nearly becoming wicked herself.
‘All helpful urges should be circumvented.’
How could she have thought such a thing?
‘Was I really seeking good, or just seeking attention?’
Elphaba cringed as each statement burned into her mind, casting doubt upon her already questionable motives.
‘Is that all good deeds are?’ They embodied all that was her past, and watching it rear its ugly head again was torment.
Why had Fiyero chosen this room, when the displays of her frailty and anger were so evident on every wall? Perhaps it was because her love for him was evident as well. She would have been willing to commit herself to all of this, if only to save his life. And so she had, nearly. Instead though, she left the task unfinished, and had damned him to a brainless, shunned existence down here with her for what could draw out to all eternity. Maybe, a small voice in her mind taunted, if you finished the job the first time…