I own nothing except a copy of Wicked and the laptop upon which this lovely little snippet was typed. Wicked and all its bits and bobs are property of Gregory Maguire, from whose novel the first bit of this was taken. If offense is taken, this will be removed, and I offer my sincerest apologies.


And Hell To Pay

Liir gave a blow by blow recounting. "They're swooping down, they look like a genie or something, all flying in a big clump with a straggly tail. The travelers see them coming. Yes! Yes! The Scarecrow is taking straw out of his chest and leggings, and covering the Lion and Dorothy, and there's a little dog, too. So the bees can't get through the straw, and the Scarecrow is all in pieces on the ground.

The Scarecrow is all in pieces on the ground

No. It couldn't be.

The Scarecrow is all in pieces on the ground

She snatched the glass from Liir and peered out eastward.

It was true. In the place where the Scarecrow once stood, there was a pile of empty clothes, with straw littered all over the ground, nothing more, no lover returning, no hero to come and save her from this wretched tower, from herself, from what she had become.

Something in her shattered, but what it was, she could not be sure.

Her heart roared like a wind, dashing all her foolish hopes to pieces.

The part of her that was once Elphaba Thropp, once Fabala-Elphie-Fae attempted to flee into the gathering darkness of despair that threatened to engulf her, but something about those words made her remember. Made her remember things she would much rather forget: Fiyero.

The Scarecrow is all in pieces on the ground

Yes. He had been all in pieces on the ground: his blood coated the floor of the place that had once been her home, and that had become a hell that haunted her dreams.

She stood at the window, wringing her hands: the Witch, out of nerves and agitation, and Elphaba, in a vain attempt to rid herself of the memory of his blood on her hands, of the harsh contrast of red on green.

She thought of Liir, for whom she had shown not even an ounce of motherly affection, and who seemed more than willing to leave her to rot if it allowed him to win himself into Dorothy's good graces. Her son, Nanny had said, and more importantly Fiyero's son. Liir served as her last link to the man who had died for loving her, for making her feel like something more than a tool, a means to an end, a pawn on a chessboard, for making her worth something.

But none of that mattered now. That life was gone, it had died that night all those years ago, and Fiyero's beloved Fae-Fae had died as well. She would not tell Liir of her suspicions, she decided then, it would serve neither of them any purpose. The woman who should have been his mother no longer existed, and the shell that stood in her placeā€¦this Witch, would not be around much longer either.

She turned away from the window, and caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the looking glass that hung upon the wall, grimacing at what she saw there: it was the Witch's face, not hers, thin and worn, with a fell light in her eyes. And with that revelation, Elphaba Thropp was no more; fading away to contemplate the miseries and failings of her life, the Witch alone remained.

The Witch cast one last look out of the window before striding from the tower. So Dorothy thought she could just waltz right up to Kiamo Ko and kill her, did she? Well, even if her demise was inevitable, not that she cared, She would have done with this troublesome farmgirl before the end. She would claim what was rightfully hers.

Come what may and Hell to pay.


Not my favorite, but my muse held me hostage until I got this idea in print. I don't think I expressed my ideas particularly well, but at least it's done. Constructive Criticism appreciated, it's been a very long while since I've done something like this, and I place myself at the mercy of you, the reader.