(no subject)
Title: Recovery.
Bookverse
Hmm. Pg-13, I guess.
Summery; Elphaba and Tibbett in the Cloister of Saint Glinda.
Tibbett lay, thin limbs crumpled as if broken, shivering in his five blankets. Sister Saint Aelphaba hesitated to go nearer, inwardly surprised at her own conventionality and superstition. What he has is not a thing she can catch.
Thank whomever. Better he than I, she thinks, idly, watching him from the door. He shifts and a large section of skin falls off his emaciated shoulder. The tired, demanding kindness of the maunts has not really rubbed off on her, but then, empathy for humans had never really been amongst her skills. She played the holy role acceptably but the Unnamed God was no more in her heart than he was in the hearts of the unfortunate, ugly and sometimes dull girls that made up much of Cloister of Saint Glinda’s numbers.
Or whom she was one. The dullness had been creeping, but long years spent silently obeying seemed to have left her bereft of Thought. She does not miss it. Nor does she miss the outside world, or those in it she’d previously loved.
She’d certainly been fond enough of Tibbett, envying him some his high spirits and light-heartedness. He and Crope, indistinguishable. She didn’t feel anything looking at him now. Whatever had once been her heart was clearly long gone. She entered the cell-like room, settling in the corner.
And so she sat, rainbow illusions from the harsh western sunlight hitting her veil dancing at the edge of her vision. She tries to catch them with her eyes, but the rainbows bullfrog away. That always used to happen with Galinda’s carefully chosen jewels, too.
Her job, as assigned, is to sit and watch Tibbett die. Offer comfort, as can. So she waits.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His eyes have gone to shit, of course, but the placid and statuesque Maunt in the corner is Elphaba. He’s sure of it. Harsh Elphaba sitting there, a resting Angel of Death in her black veils. How appropriate. He’s pleased to see her, he’s surprised to realise. It has been awhile. But he is, or at least he is as pleased as this fucking stank diseased body lets him be anything. Mostly, these last few lonely and painful years, he’s just drifted along, muscles twisted by his bitterness, resentful taste always in his throat. Resent and the acrid taste of pills mixed with his own bile.
He resents most his total inability to see any good in the world as he sees it for the last time.
“Distract me, Elphaba”. His voice is hoarse, his vocal cords strings, but he is audible enough.
She does not respond. She gives the impression of having been sat there, silently, for many years. How many? When Crope still visited and could still look him in the eye, he’d once mentioned seeing Elphaba in the Emerald City. Many years ago, now, though. He himself hasn’t seen her since Shiz. He hates thinking of Shiz, when he had so long a future, almost the most of all. Only thoughts of Crope hurt more.
“Just smash my skull in dearie, there’s a good Maunt”. Elphaba makes no move but a catlike blink, still and superior. Bitch.
“Here, maunty maunty maunty” Nothing.
“Look, my leg is already falling off; just give it a good yank, if-you-please. It weighs me down and I so want to fly”.
“What is it you hope to achieve?” Her voice emerges strong, surprising him. He’d been wondering if he wasn’t imagining her.
“What I have done, a response. I burn for conversation.”
Elphaba regarded him coolly, as a hunter would caught prey, deciding how much bite the creature still holds.
“The weather has been fine, of late” the witchy creature responds.
Small, vicious smiles appear on both faces.
“I don’t believe, and certainly don’t hope, that I have many hours of conversation left in me. Therefore, Elphaba, the topics will be mine.”
She nods.
Then, a year ago, pale invalid Tibbett was carted to the Home for the Incurables. He wasn’t too far gone to recognize her even behind her veil and silences. Weak, unable to shit or piss without help, his skin failing in rags and parchment, he was better at life than she was. He selfishly required that she be an individual, and he addressed her by her name. He joked, he remembered stories, he criticized old friends for abandoning him, he noticed the differences in how she moved from day to day, how she thought. He reminded her that she did think. Under the scrutiny of his tired frame she was re-created, against her will, as an individual. Or nearly.
Page 227.
I am, frankly, amazed I wrote a fic that wasn't about Glinda but rereading to write the fic I wrote last night, that passage struck me and this came.
Bookverse
Hmm. Pg-13, I guess.
Summery; Elphaba and Tibbett in the Cloister of Saint Glinda.
Tibbett lay, thin limbs crumpled as if broken, shivering in his five blankets. Sister Saint Aelphaba hesitated to go nearer, inwardly surprised at her own conventionality and superstition. What he has is not a thing she can catch.
Thank whomever. Better he than I, she thinks, idly, watching him from the door. He shifts and a large section of skin falls off his emaciated shoulder. The tired, demanding kindness of the maunts has not really rubbed off on her, but then, empathy for humans had never really been amongst her skills. She played the holy role acceptably but the Unnamed God was no more in her heart than he was in the hearts of the unfortunate, ugly and sometimes dull girls that made up much of Cloister of Saint Glinda’s numbers.
Or whom she was one. The dullness had been creeping, but long years spent silently obeying seemed to have left her bereft of Thought. She does not miss it. Nor does she miss the outside world, or those in it she’d previously loved.
She’d certainly been fond enough of Tibbett, envying him some his high spirits and light-heartedness. He and Crope, indistinguishable. She didn’t feel anything looking at him now. Whatever had once been her heart was clearly long gone. She entered the cell-like room, settling in the corner.
And so she sat, rainbow illusions from the harsh western sunlight hitting her veil dancing at the edge of her vision. She tries to catch them with her eyes, but the rainbows bullfrog away. That always used to happen with Galinda’s carefully chosen jewels, too.
Her job, as assigned, is to sit and watch Tibbett die. Offer comfort, as can. So she waits.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His eyes have gone to shit, of course, but the placid and statuesque Maunt in the corner is Elphaba. He’s sure of it. Harsh Elphaba sitting there, a resting Angel of Death in her black veils. How appropriate. He’s pleased to see her, he’s surprised to realise. It has been awhile. But he is, or at least he is as pleased as this fucking stank diseased body lets him be anything. Mostly, these last few lonely and painful years, he’s just drifted along, muscles twisted by his bitterness, resentful taste always in his throat. Resent and the acrid taste of pills mixed with his own bile.
He resents most his total inability to see any good in the world as he sees it for the last time.
“Distract me, Elphaba”. His voice is hoarse, his vocal cords strings, but he is audible enough.
She does not respond. She gives the impression of having been sat there, silently, for many years. How many? When Crope still visited and could still look him in the eye, he’d once mentioned seeing Elphaba in the Emerald City. Many years ago, now, though. He himself hasn’t seen her since Shiz. He hates thinking of Shiz, when he had so long a future, almost the most of all. Only thoughts of Crope hurt more.
“Just smash my skull in dearie, there’s a good Maunt”. Elphaba makes no move but a catlike blink, still and superior. Bitch.
“Here, maunty maunty maunty” Nothing.
“Look, my leg is already falling off; just give it a good yank, if-you-please. It weighs me down and I so want to fly”.
“What is it you hope to achieve?” Her voice emerges strong, surprising him. He’d been wondering if he wasn’t imagining her.
“What I have done, a response. I burn for conversation.”
Elphaba regarded him coolly, as a hunter would caught prey, deciding how much bite the creature still holds.
“The weather has been fine, of late” the witchy creature responds.
Small, vicious smiles appear on both faces.
“I don’t believe, and certainly don’t hope, that I have many hours of conversation left in me. Therefore, Elphaba, the topics will be mine.”
She nods.
Then, a year ago, pale invalid Tibbett was carted to the Home for the Incurables. He wasn’t too far gone to recognize her even behind her veil and silences. Weak, unable to shit or piss without help, his skin failing in rags and parchment, he was better at life than she was. He selfishly required that she be an individual, and he addressed her by her name. He joked, he remembered stories, he criticized old friends for abandoning him, he noticed the differences in how she moved from day to day, how she thought. He reminded her that she did think. Under the scrutiny of his tired frame she was re-created, against her will, as an individual. Or nearly.
Page 227.
I am, frankly, amazed I wrote a fic that wasn't about Glinda but rereading to write the fic I wrote last night, that passage struck me and this came.