Is there a soul beneath her skin?

Inspired by "Notre Dame De Paris," this line refers to Esmeralda.
For: Emily & Caitlin.
Disclaimer: Don't own it. Not even the amazing line up there that serves as a title.

Fiyero:

Today was the day Glinda had planned a press conference and it was raining outside. But not the kind of rain that could be passed off as a drizzle, or a slight fluke of the angels; it rained hard pounding notes that fell from the sky and landed just as heavily. His watch read twenty past nine. A letter sat on his ornate desk, an inkbottle and quill sitting ready. Next to the letter sat a stack of profiles, pale paper with spindly handwriting, all signed and confidentially delivered. He was supposed to be looking them over. But instead he meandered over to his bedside table and pulled from its depths, a leather bound book with the name Shiz University stamped on it. He opened it up and flipped through the pages, signed and weary with black and dark blue ink. Avaric, Shen-Shen, even Boq, his old roommate, had signed it. The back of the book had a page scrawled with a message that was as spindly as the hands that had written it.

Who cares about these things? In ten years, no – five, they will be buried beneath broadsides and candle sticks and smudged with dirt. No one will give a damn about them or who signed them. Nostalgia and mementos are as useless as propaganda. So why should I sign it? I suppose I’m being hypocritical now, aren’t I? Well, in ten years, I think you should look back and see if you even remember what these people look like.

Love, Elphaba Thropp

The “love” had been crossed off and replaced with Oz-speed and however faint it was now, after four and a half years, he could still see it. She was right on some accounts, for he could certainly still remember her face. The rumors that ran through the streets like wildfire had no effect on him. How stupid thoughts could be planted so quickly in the minds of even stupider people.

Water can melt her! They would scream throughout the streets the “accounts” of her terrorism.

Staring out the window, he became transfixed with the rain that continued to pour relentlessly from the heavens. They said water could melt her, her soul was so unclean. The Wizard of Oz’s own propaganda, that she had no soul whatsoever, how evil she was.

He knew the truth. But as he stared out the window, the rain became as indistinguishable as tears and the window blurry and hard to see; he began to wonder if it was true.

Did she have a soul beneath that vibrant green skin? Was it sitting, waiting, for someone compassionate to release it? Or would she wait forever, her soul a kindled flame, refusing to burn out and refusing to catch the wind. She was passionate, fiery, and outspoken, that was for certain. But without a soul, Elphaba would never be, it would kill her.