AN: This sentiment of this story is built on my feeling of the characters' relationships, without any alteration to the existing canon. Spoiler alert--if you don't know how the show ends, in specific detail, this might not be the story to dabble with. I appreciate all readership and hope as ever that it's not a disappointment.

32, the Month of the Salamander, 22 Post Ozma

Fiyero grows worse. I can't bring him around. Some days he will not speak. Though he never sleeps, he will lie in bed like a sulking child, or as one waiting for death. Even now he never blames me.

I fear we are fading. Here, in this nothingness, we are not what we should be.

I think often of Glinda.


Glinda Upland squinted in the glow of an enchanted crystal. The words danced before her vision, and she had to rub her eyes as exhaustion tugged at them. She slept too little, she knew, spending late ours studying the text of the Grimmerie in hopeful determination to make sense of it. She feared to cast a spell in any uncertainty, having seen herself how powerful the effects of the book could be—and their irreversibility. Yet she had to try, however difficult, for Oz and Elphaba depended upon her. Still, as her fingers travelled over the worn leather of the binding, she could feel the tingle of Elphaba's skin as the resigned woman handed the tome over to Glinda's keeping. Handed over the welfare of Oz.

Glinda had foreseen the difficulty of her task, her future and legacy, but not how it would wear upon her soul. The death of Elphaba was not a year gone, and she found the weight of the loss only deepening as time passed onward. Elphaba knew of the greater good—she had lived and breathed and bled it. Glinda had no such inherent knowledge or passion in her. She had learned it—was learning it still—and she felt lost with no guide and no steadying, comforting hand. With a sigh, she closed the book and prepared to sleep a few restless hours before rising to her duties with the impending morn.