Summary: The witch shrieked, in panic, in disbelief. That even now the world should twist so, offending her once again: Elphaba, who had endured Sarima's refusal to forgive, no begged, by a gibbering child for the same mercy always denied her?
"The witch shrieked, in panic, in disbelief. That even now the world should twist so, offending her once again: Elphaba, who had endured Sarima's refusal to forgive, no begged by a gibbering child for the same mercy always denied her? How could you forgive such a thing out of your own hollowness?"
And like unto it, Fiyero had asked her for love, the same love she had always been denied. Of course, he was offering love in return, but how futile was that love- that lust. She had loved him, but had she truly felt the way she ought for a man that denied his guilt vengeance, for her 'love'? No. No she had not. Here was this girl, her meek face in the light of her burning broom, asking her sorry forgiveness, a sorry remnant of the love that she had so given, or what she had been granted to give.
Emotion was only a factory for the witch. She gave as much hate as she received in her life. As much love had been given to her, she would give. All her love had been taken, by her lover- by her Fiyero. When he died, he took all of her love with him. So it was now that one girl was asking for love she did not have to give- that love being compassion.
How attractive it was- the glow of her fiery broom. Had she, in her last moments- become an arsonist? It so seemed. Might the glow of this glittery fire be near gorgeous on the driest, plainest cotton in all of the Vinkus? Slowly she lowered her broom with a wicked smile, her will burning inside like the fire on her broomstick. It shook and then a straw of hay from the sweeper fluttered down to the tinder-ous dress.
It was kind, how fast the dress climbed up her skirt, and up her leg, burning her skin in the first degree. And what a nice addition to the deal of flame was it that Dorothy quickened the process with a shock of water, flooding her and engulfing her in a painful death. The small child's vain baptism was a rebuke for the Witch. It was vain rebuke for the witch's vain sins. Her sin of love, and hate and of normality. She was a bold child, taking difference in such literal and liberal terms, so she might be what she is- evil, because of the evil she had so received. Life for the witch was an eye for an eye, and wickedness for such wickedness she had received.
'Oh, will this nightmare never end?!' Dorthy, Page 402