[Gelphie] For Good

"Wish adoration swarmed like fireflies." whispered young Galinda at bedtime, cocooning herself in honeyed prayers. The plush doll's emerald gaze melted under moonlight, velvet lashes weaving silken threads of desire through her sunless slumber.

"You reign above the masses." intoned Glinda the Good, her scepter of glacial blue piercing her spine. Crystals hummed like enraged bees, pulverized oaths settling as leaden eggs in soldiers' eye sockets.

Sunlight speared the ribbed dome of the council chamber. Glinda lowered gaze, saw her left arm severed sharply by deep shadow. She turned her wrist tenderly, letting sunspots caress the ancient scar. In last sepulchral dreams, the decaying left hand clutched young girl's bedtime incantations. Rosy vocal cords desiccated into skeletal wind chimes, hollowing clatter resonating with corrupted yearnings.

Abruptly, Glinda rose, led guards scattering in silence. Breeze billowed her azure gown, unveiling fissures in the Emerald City's facade—cracks older than her reign. The void and horror left by the Great Oz, had been sutured under Glinda the Good's benevolence, past-time scar tissue smooth as porcelain. Please, behold her kingdom -- bile-yellow council halls, spleen-purple operas, lung-pink convent -- what colorful organs, pulsing in chromatic equilibrium. Moss of legal maxims oozed from ancient mortar, scaling clock towers inch by inch. Vermin crawled through decades, sticky limbs vibrating hymns to erosion. Only the Yellow Brick Road remained, still like a festering scar, a festering cicatrix oozing from Munchkinland to her jeweled heels.

Noonlight pinned Glinda's pupils, commanding obeisance. This was her achievement. No more rain or storm in Oz, no twisters to pluck houses from their roots; Flowers bloomed every vista, even the no-visiter grave of her beloved old friend. She squinted. In the quivering air, gales materialized—the golden road bloated into colorless blisters, rising, floating, suddenly bursting into viscous memories: Madame Morrible's tongue laying eggs in parliament, Oz's eyeballs sprouting in oak wine barrels, and that perennial green phantom from her dreams, dissolving in acid rain to become folds in her hemline.

The stillborn specter wailed. Glinda remembered—the Emerald City was but a mausoleum entombing true names murdered by glory.

She was happy. Couldn't be happier.

The mightiest incantation, self-inscribed by the Good Witch herself, hammered daily into marrow. When it began mattered not. When it might end mattered less.

"Miss Glinda."

Visions collapsed like card castles. The Good Witch turned with regal precision. "Dr.Dillamond."

The goat scholar approached, his beard a briar patch of neglect, moth-eaten robes reeking of decaying folios and regret. Tarnished gold thread peeked through filthy cuffs, but his monocle gleamed—a polished blade. Those oval pupils, watched sternly his student's porcelain mask with predator's patience.

"You rarely venture out, Miss." he said, pleasantries brittle as winter branches.

"'Cause the lovely weather." Glinda replied, city's prismatic light fracturing in her irises. She recalled her name-changing declaration before this very elder. What a pitiful act of adolescent pride, who knew how long had it been?

"Oz has lovely weather everyday." the historian retorted. His barbs cut deeper now—from xenophobic humanists, the "coward" Lion, to the simpering maids she'd sent to take care of him. Intentionally or not, professor's bad temper furthered Glinda's good name: BEHOLD, OUR KING, even such a bad-tempered old goat cares so much! Glinda the Good! Our beloved King!

"Then every dawn merits going out." Her finger tapped, where a goblet condensed from sunlight, with wine-dark tendrils creeping up her pale skin.

Dr. Dillamond stared at the floating glass, remained silence. Refracted artificial rainbows danced, mirroring the eternal aurora.

He wouldn't take it. She knew, so drained it alone.

"Where's the Grimmerie?"

The question rasped like rusted chains, sharper than his horns. But Glinda didn't answer. Her fingertips rubbing wine glass, while the streams of light from the Emerald City shattered into broken mirrors in her pupils.

Golden tresses sweep through Shiz University's halls,

Gillikin moths waltz 'neath constellations' bright balls—

Wingéd whispers blend with vassals' exultant drum,

Yet gossamer fetters bind each vibrant wing's hum.

The Grimmerie's spindle spins shades to hemline's design,

Saintly Witch bears a crown that bows necks serpentine—

Suspended mid-air, histories she spurned now entwine,

While chalices clink to Oz's false laughter divine.

"It cannot be elsewhere," he declared, each syllable exhaling the dust of bygone eras toward the ruler before him.

Glinda emerged from reverie, recognizing the cadence that once lectured on animal suffering in past - when her name was bound with hers, like the dormitory doorplates at Shiz, one neat while the other elegant and free-flowing. The memory tasted unexpectedly sweet.

"Yes." she smiled, meeting the professor's glacial gaze.

"You can't read it." he said, skeletal shadow scaled the crystal balustrade like marginalia curling in ancient chronicles, his decades had failed to soften his verdicts or her studenthood reflex to protest. He was always so sure of himself, as if he still stood in front of the podium pronouncing the death sentence on the paper, and she was still the student clutching a passing report card, brow and mouth wrinkled with unspoken aggrieved words. Decades may not have taught her to tolerate the scorns.

"Only those who comprehend the Grimmerie may wield it," Glinda intoned, crown inscriptions flaring solar coronation, "And no one could question my qualification."

They both knew whose hand had passed the book. Half a century of farewells had distilled their story into tavern tales, while finer sentiments petrified in silent chambers. Glinda kept the vows, never defended her actions, stepped on her reputation and life. But still, let them paint her as folkloric villain and cheer for her death... Those syllables still vibrated darker than any wicked.

"I am the rightful keeper, Dr.Dillamond." emphasised Glinda, as sunlight reforged her crown, illuminating each line of the ancient inscription and crowning her a second time before the dead old man. She, Glinda the Good, ruler of Oz for decades, guardian and voice of nature. No one could question her.

Such a repeated thought flashed quickly through Glinda's mind, which gave her a vague sense of the old man's intentions.

"Rightful?" The scholar snorted, horns held a cold glazed colour in the sunlight, "Back then you couldn't even copy the notes of the Chronicles of Oz."

"Glinda the Good! Our blessed King!"

Delighted calls came from below the citadel, causing Glinda to follow the sound and wave back, at those excited, jumping youngsters.

That's when pain pierced through her chest.

Sharp dagger pierced her body -- and it was no longer a metaphor. For a moment, Glinda smelled the musty scent of the Shiz University library, a green face hidden behind mountains of ancient books, and she stood there, served two glasses of fruit wine she'd smuggled in with naughty smile... Surfaced memories sweetened to a wistful stickiness. Also, there's the crackling of tongues of fire licking at the firewood - in harmony with the soft thud of dripping blood.

And Glinda's smile remained unbreakable.

"The storm comes," she said in a calm tone, not even looking at that the blood red bloomed into an off-colour rose on the pale blue satin.

"You shall recall -- water's benediction flows through me, wind's consecration hums in my breath, roots whisper their nurture through my veins. Each drop of my blood spills as Oz's elegy."

Behind her, clouds seethe like ink in storm's cauldron, thunder a strangled bassoon from earth's taut throat. Grimmerie's script swims her arteries, transcribing anguish to premonitory haze.

"These tears will salt the soil, breed wrath as tectonic as mountains -- None but I may draw my own ichor."

The elder withdrew his dagger, its edge crimson-stained, the emerald at its hilt blazing: "But it may show you whose doom you stride toward—tyrants always dress personal greed as divine decree."

Raindrops shattered against the crystal dome, spiderweb fissures spreading. Glinda touched Dr.Dillamond's furrowed cheek as if caressing a weathering monument: "You ever fear tragedy's recurrence, sir, yet forget history's greatest talent..."

Vines abruptly ensnared the old goat's wrist, dragging him into shadowed chambers: "...is devouring those who read it."

Dr.Dillamond shook off her hand irritably: "What connects Morrible and Senglar?"

"As you and I." Glinda ascended the throne, her train brushing tiles where phosphorescent moss bloomed. "Even your murderous impulses share resemblance," she added, gazing down at the historian. Be a student and the sovereign of Oz -- he'd taught her both roles.

"Morrible murdered Nessarose Thropp, preached human supremacy. You imprisoned her for this? Thus whitewashing your twelve puppet-regent years?" Dillamond challenged.

"Then my sins weigh heavy indeed." Her laughter tilted, posture slanted unlike "Glinda the Good". Her fingers tapped Munchkin rubies inlaid on armrests as crystal floors mirrored fractured skies -- a hundred wounds splitting heavens black. "Forgive me, Dr.Dillamond, was I not Morrible's molded 'Dumb Blonde'? How dare I compare myself to your prize pupil?"

Air congealed.

Glinda's smile widened. Who can say if she's been changed for the better?

"Pity those master-apprentice became jailed wretch and stray cur." She skipped the unspoken name like unintentionally.

Dillamond suddenly mounted the stairs, bringing mildew-stained paper musk. Golden threads slithered from his sleeve -- not embroidery but interlocked serpents, their jeweled eyes mirroring Glinda's pierced azure irises.

"You re-made the Grimmerie into new Ozian Code." The snakes hissed scarlet tongues. "Chains replaced by 'equal contracts,' tyranny gilded as natural law -- plagiarizing oppression! Sure you're Morrible's star pupil indeed."

Crystal fractures refracted a decades-past storm: drenched, kneeling in Emerald City's bell tower, blood pooling beneath the Grimmerie's wind-fluttered pages. Thorned vines emerged, clasping her hand. New moon night—dandelion seeds rode tempests to four lands, bearing the caged queen's gifts to voiceless animals.

"You claim I mirror her? Preposterous." Glinda twirled her nice golden locks. "Cutting rot purges poison. All I do serves Oz."

"Who says you're not the rot now?"

In dimness, the professor swayed like wind-whipped grass. Falling paper scraps released nostalgic herb-scented warmth.

"Behold your shadow." Dillamond hissed.

Glinda glanced sideways. Her elongated silhouette coagulated into dreadfully familiar contours—ones that should dwell in Emerald City's deepest darkest underground cell.

"Morrible!" Glinda sprang up, teeth gritted. She had sealed that room herself, yet here stood the scary phantom. That smile! Those bloodstained hands beneath black silk gloves! Just a moment, Glinda saw every animal slaughtering orders Morrible had so gently laid down. For twelve years she had lived under her puppet strings, trembling in shadowed dread, desperate to kill someone -- Morrible or herself. But the great Grimmerie had made her the embodiment of nature, burdened with the natural laws of birth, ageing, sickness and death, therefore symbiotic with nature in everything she says and does, and unable even to bring her twelve years of nightmares to an end.

Couldn't end.

Couldn't stop hating.

Couldn't hate.

Storm breached crystal dome. Rain traced Glinda's hair, cheeks, neck, soaking gown and heels. Just like when she first crowned, stood in sorrow and weakness, watching chained animals march toward Quadlingland under Senglar's rule . Golden contracts floated in artificial rain and wind, each signature bleeding hateful crimson.

"You're a qualified monarch, Glinda the Good." Dillamond bowed deeply, hand still clutching regicide dagger. Lightning illuminated silver steel, where bloodstains morphed into sudden thunder -- her hidden fury.

"...I await your 'but'." Glinda chilled down, smile deepened, emotions veiled.

"You've lost purpose." The historian pierced as ever. "Risking sorceries beyond mortal control -- that's Grimmerie's temptations, and those disasters had filled history's pages."

"Who taught me to wield history as blade?" Glinda countered, voice controlled. "You gave calf god-slaying dagger, then blame its growing horns?"

"Useless horns gore the calf." Dillamond retreated, cracks snaking beneath him. Clouded eyes behind monocle scanned historical fragments. "And the Grimmerie will become your noose, your highness."

Morrible's phantom suddenly tore from Glinda's shadow, dark skirts swept flooded floors, lunging at the old schola beneath the throne in an unavoidable stancer. He dropped the dagger, a piercing sound echoed through the palace, and shattered emeralds reflecting the fractured reflection of Oz in the torrential downpour.

"You really should hear new shoots breaking through the ground." Glinda said in a frosty voice, shards of emerald rising with the spell and flying through the blockade of torrential rain throughout the Emerald City, "Instead of clinging to rotting roots."

"So can you distinguish?" Dillamond seized her decaying left hand. "from crown's weight to the shackles' echo?"

The storm outside the castle clearly receded far away, highlighting the powerful magic of the Witch of Goodness. Glinda met her mentor's gaze, and finally asked: "...Your meaning?"

"Your highness, my meaning?" He repeated, deliberately shedding a smile from his words, "I mean—what a lovely weather today."

Echoes fading, the goat professor dissolved into fluttering papers. Pages swirled with shrieking gales and weeping rains through the hollow heart, until Glinda's sigh—weighted with twelve years' tempests—scattered them to ink-stained oblivion.

Glinda opened her eyes, to Emerald City's customary sunshine and lovely weather, just like the past decades. Her sudden laughter startled doves on windowsills.

Astonished guards exchanged doubts with their eyes, and finally sent one to knock:

"Your Majesty, your command?" He askes, his smile was gentle, and young hand pressed to his chest covered in cold scales.

Glinda touched her chest -- where nightmare-blood once bloomed -- now pulsing with living heart, and Grimmerie's lingering power. The Grimmerie that she left.

"Inform Belinda." She smiled, sunlight gilding her crown, "I'm going out to get some sun."