To be fair, Elphaba knows well that her out-of-luck predicament is all her fault. The wet socks from her boots take in deep soil from deep within the Gillikin Forrest as she tries to come up with a plan after her rash decision to defy The Wizard and all who fall behind him. She supposes Glinda was right in her own way as she kept insisting on her to think about what she was doing. However, what Glinda asked of her was never a doubt in her mind. The doubt in her mind was now what she would do in the calm of her rash decision. She supposes the first step would be to scope out how deep she is in the mess that she created. So she continues to march through the forest with a squish under each step until she finds a small post that contains information from the Emerald City.
After a long while, she stumbles upon a hut. It seems to be a small supply store for the hidden habitants of the forest, and Elphaba sneaks as best as she can into the store, checking for any possibility of newspapers. As she looks through the small and broken-down store, she makes her way toward the small, desolate newspaper stand set up in a mess. With one final check over her shoulder to ensure she’s not being watched, she snatches one from the top. She quickly pushes it into her satchel without truly paying any attention to the headline until she makes her way out of the store and back into the depths of the forest.
When she finally gets deep enough to calm her nerves the best that they will be, she takes the newspaper out and flips it over to the front page. She reads the top first, which gives her the knowledge that it’s from the Daily Oz, a newspaper that, from her knowledge, works closely with the palace and The Wizard. However, as she reads the headline, her eyes furrow as she takes each word in. The title reads, “Glinda the Good! The One Match For The Wicked Witch?” as she looks further down, she is greeted with a black-and-white photo of The Wizard, Madame Morrible, lingering on steps behind Glinda in front of the palace. Elphaba lets out a huff of air that's the closest she’ll be able to get to a laugh. Her heart drops as she notices that the setup of the shot perfectly has The Wizard and Morrible behind Glinda’s shoulders as if they’re the two devils controlling Glinda’s thoughts. Even with the black and white print and the disorientation from bad ink, she’s able to tell that the smile on Glinda’s face is forced and does not meet her eyes. The ink is blurred, and the paper is thin, but even with these defects, the forced lines on Glinda's face are apparent.
She scrunches the newspaper up unwillingly with a slight gulp as she digests the words and sight. She supposes it’s the most logical conclusion that The Wizard and Morrible could have come up with in the short time they had to clear the country's worried thoughts of an angry green woman who now has the ability to fly. They were given the perfect platter to create a common enemy, and Elphaba left the ingredients for the perfect hero in a dusty attic and in tears, with the only person around to wipe her tears being the headmistress who led them to the entire breaking point.
She sighs one more time as she’s reminded of the state she left her roommate in again as she rips the page of the paper to only show the photo. Smiling lightly she rips The Wizard and Morrible out of the image as well. She takes one last look at the picture and is face to face with the broken and masked-up version of the blonde that she created. She quickly tucks the photo into her satchel and walks deeper into the forest
From her post far above the bustling streets, standing on top of a once-busy factory abandoned to ruin in the lower quarters of The Emerald City, Elphaba can see Glinda again. She is standing as still as possible as she takes in the blonde, her unruly hair whipped about by the wind. Her broom is upright at her side, and she holds it so tightly that her green knuckles are drained of color as she watches Glinda the Good work her own magic.
She’s effortlessly holding them spellbound, and even from her position above, Elphaba can feel the overwhelming pull of Glinda’s magic. Slowly, Elphaba comes to the stunning realization that this could be the one kind of magic capable of matching the unruliness of her own. She wonders if this was why Glinda had always been so captivated by her at Shiz, constantly drawn to Elphaba's uncontainable power while never seeing how potent her own brand of magic truly was. She’s quickly transformed out of their Shiz days as the wind carries the sounds of Glinda the Good’s voice, light and inviting. Elphaba thinks if anyone cares to look this far up, they would have the perfect image to fit both of the archetypes that have been cast on them. The Wicked Witch of The West glares down on all the patrons of The Emerald City as Glinda the Good walks hand in hand with them, giving them her devoted attention.
From the ground, Glinda is the picture of poise and perfection as she moves through the crowds, shaking hands and accepting the roses people thrust toward her. The scene is almost too much for Elphaba, who feels that Glinda's light shines painfully bright in contrast to her own assigned darkness. She tells herself she is a fool for still caring but cannot tear her eyes away. She fights against an overwhelming urge to swoop down like the storybook villain they paint her to be and steal Glinda away, to bolt back to a time where no one else existed or mattered, where her only thought was for Glinda and Glinda's only thought was of her. It gnaws at her—this helplessness, this feeling of permanency in their separation.
This permanency is only more exemplified as Elphaba watches Glinda put on her mask of Glinda the Good. It almost makes her laugh at how close the mask of Glinda the Good is to the Galinda she knew before The Ozdust. However, Glinda's mask has never been more perfect. She watches as Glinda charms and smiles and gives herself entirely to the crowd, to her admirers, to anyone and everyone, it seems, except to Elphaba. Had the mask always been this flawless? This all-consuming? This distant?
The mask Glinda wears now is so intricately crafted, so convincing, Elphaba wonders if she is the only one who remembers the person beneath it at all. But she is not blind to the truth. Glinda's mask is the version that needs public adornment now that she has no one to remove the mask with. The thought pierces her heart, and it takes everything for Elphaba not to swoop down, put Glinda on the back of her broom, and simply soar. She instead backs away and takes off on the broom alone.
The next time she comes face to face with Glinda the Good and the Wicked Witch of the West, it takes place in one of her rare times venturing into the city. The visit is meant to be brief, a quick stop for supplies, yet a mission gone sour leaves her at one of the safehouses tucked into the shadowy lower quarters. A bullet gouged into her side is being unceremoniously yanked out by the trembling hands of a young and inexperienced member. He's one of the many who have given up almost everything, just as she has, for the slim hope of working with this teetering corner of the resistance. The pain is white-hot, searing through her as the metal tears from her flesh, yet she clings to silence with an iron will. Not a gasp, not a hiss, not even a wince escapes her. Refuses to let this young man’s confidence be diminished. To show strain would be to diminish his worth in this fight, and that is one more thing she will not allow to be taken from her.
His work on tying off the wound is clumsy at best, yet she thanks him sincerely as she slides down from the table and fights the dizzying wave that washes over her. The shy smile he gives in return is enough to make it worth it. She reaches for her hat, her fingers just barely grazing the brim before a fresh throb of pain arcs through her side, leaving her clutching the edge of the table for support. She is weakened. Somehow frail and fragile despite everything. She pushes her way past the pain to adjust the hat on her head, just as she has so many times before. The action is almost a ritual, a reminder of who she is and who she was. She swings the cape over her shoulders, hops a little at the twinge, and makes her way to the back of the safe house. The boy who helped her loiters a few steps behind, hesitating just shy of shooing her out altogether. Together, they snake through the dim corridors to a quiet exit where the view stops her dead in her tracks.
She's greeted by two massive banners, the kind meant to strike fear and wonder in equal measure. They stretch across the wall, a spectacle of propaganda, with each boasting brash images of herself and Glinda. Opposing portraits, each more brash than the last, painting them as larger than life, as less than real. One is a vulgar vision of herself, every feature overblown to show the world something hideous. Her nose hooked and eyes wild, it turns her hat into something sinister. The hat she was gifted, the hat she was made to love, each line is an insult and she knows it. Her skin is an acid shade of green. It’s the kind of green meant to make her hate herself, to make the world hate her even more so. The caption beneath it glares, "The Wicked!" Its bold letters scream and rebuke. The second banner is a riot of pink, the same cartoonish style, but it captures Glinda with sickening generosity. The linework flatters her, makes everything about her lovely while Elphaba’s is warped and grotesque. It is almost beautiful. A tiara perched on her perfect blonde hair, a wand clenched daintily in her hand, all of the pulling qualities she had the last time she really did see her. The caption beneath it emulates the vast difference with, "The Good!"
Elphaba stares at it and realizes that something is wrong. She thinks this banner, like her own, gets it wrong, but she can't remember exactly how. She can't even place the ways in which it softens Glinda’s traits. She is too far gone into this role. She is too far from her past life as Elphaba Thropp. She thought if she even had Glinda in a different way, she was still in some messed up way a packaged deal with her. She sees now that even in the life they shared, she has nothing left of herself and even less of the one person that made sense to her. She has still lost Glinda. She is now face to face with the fact that she has not properly seen her in years. She allowed for even the one and only safe space she had in a person to be engulfed by everything else. She allowed for everything gentle to be taken. Disgustion washes over herself playing perfectly with the role she was cast into. Disgusted that this person is now taken from her. That Glinda is now Glinda the Good to her, just as she is to everyone else.
A small clear of the throat by the young man who had helped her pulls her from her thoughts. She blinks twice at him to re-encompass her to reality. He looks back at her with a purse of the lips as if he's questioning when she’ll be gone. She realizes now she has to get back to the fight she has been fighting since the day in the palace. She must return to her place as the Wicked Witch of the West.
The closest she has ever been to Glinda since that day in the palace is, once again, ironically enough, at the palace itself. She is hovering in the enveloping darkness on Glinda’s balcony, the shadows sliding with ease over the familiar green hue of her skin, where it stretches westward over The Emerald City. She knows, just as much as anyone, just as much as everyone, that one false move, one slip of attention, one step into the light, and it will be over. This is, without question, a suicide mission. The number one enemy in Oz. The Wicked Witch of the West twitching nervously on the balcony of their dear hero. With one ounce of sound that could alert every guard to shoot her down, to bring her crashing into the ground. She hasn't thought about why she is here, standing motionless in the dark, other than the fact that she needs to see the other girl, needs to see her, to know that she hasn't completely lost her to the role she’s played over these past few years, to see if Glinda is even still in there.
The green witch has a quick thought of how utterly bizarre it is to just be trying to get a glimpse of her old roommate, the girl who used to be her entire world. Standing in the shadows, her skin coloring blending with her hair and clothes until all but invisible. Her hand is pale against the night as it plays nervously with the handle of her broom. She struggles with the thousand emotions pouring over her and spilling over, and she quickly plays a hundred scenarios over in her head of how this could play out. How Glinda will look out the window with her big eyes and catch her in the dark, and how they will widen and widen and widen with shock as it rushes over her features. How she’ll throw open the doors in the moonlight and usher her quickly into the room. How Elphaba will do exactly as she says, as Glinda always says, and as she takes in the loss of five years. How she won't even be able to help herself, how she will scoop Glinda into her arms and melt into her body, the only place that she can melt without disappearing completely. The only place she feels safe. How Glinda would turn her face into her neck and set off the slightest laugh as relief overtakes her in waves, as it brushes against Elphaba’s skin causing her to pull her in even more. How Elphaba will let the first real smile break over her in five years, how it will tear her apart and bring her back together at the same time.
However, she's suddenly ripped from that thought as another one, a terrible one, a truer one, plays out entirely differently in her imagination. How Glinda will see her. How she’ll spot her in the shadows and instead of happiness, anger will draw her mouth tight and let her brow furrow deep. How she'll yank Elphaba in with violent arms and tear her with words and soft punches and swats. How they will fall into each other and Glinda will heave great sobs into her chest. How she will cry out for all the time Elphaba has left her alone and abandoned. How she left her after she made her promise she would never leave her alone again. How she’s trapped in this elaborate cover all because of her.
Elphaba shakes her head to break free from her suffocating thoughts and disappears further into the shadows, letting them ghost over her as she holds her breath and listens. She thinks she is alone and she only realizes then that Glinda, the real Glinda, is there in her blue nightgown. She’s hunched over the side of the bed, there without a light, and has her face buried helplessly in her hands. Elphaba takes the sight in and ponders what she should do, what she can do. She knows that Glinda’s Elphie would march in there, break through the doors, cast an arm around her shoulder, pull her in tight, pull her in close, and wait until Glinda pours out what's wrong. Elphaba has the realization wash over her, a tidal wave crashing down with the weight of the world, that she’s no longer Glinda’s Elphie.
This Elphaba has no right to even be here. She watches Glinda remain in her position for a few moments, frozen helpless in the ocean of time, truly understanding that they are both no longer the versions that belong to each other. Five years have torn them apart and wrung them out. They have been twisted and shoved and forced into the personas that belong to the public and all of Oz, to anyone but each other or themselves, to Glinda the Good and the Wicked Witch of the West. The despair wells in Elphaba and nearly drowns her, like a weight pulling her down, and she breaks from the shadows and flies off on her broom into the night.