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Blown about by the bleeding, blusterish wind, Elphaba Thropp—the lone rogue—sought shelter in the nearest place she could find: The Cloister of Saint Glinda. Hmph… Even after all this time, my sweet? Are we foredestined to crosscriss paths everyplace we go? First my Guardian Angel, now my Patron Saint? Hmph. Good. I could do with the companyship. Though, you know I never believed in this sort of thing…
Her thin, dark lips twitched in wry amusementation. Despite her name, which was also religious in nature like Glinda's, Elphaba couldn't have had less of affinity for water if she tried.
Saint Aelphaba of the Waterfall… That is who I am named after. And yet look at me now. Driven indoors like a dog, like a belly-yellow coward, on the steps of a church… Her pride wrestled with her. To seek shelter here almost felt blasphemous, in her sacricilegious sort of way. But for her, water was death. Even if death was all she deserved, an execution through rainfall didn't seem fitting. So Elphaba forced herself to knock on the Cloister door. Heh. Saint Aelphaba lives and rises again… Up from the waterfall, out from the cave… And into the church of Saint…
Elphaba couldn't bring herself to even think the name, so she sighed, and averted her eyes from the stainedish-glass windows.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and Elphaba became a natural, daily part of life at the Cloister. She donned the uniformings of a Sister, green form concealed in long, black robes, dark tresses sometimes hidden beneath a habit. As the summer sun came through the chapel's stainedish-glass windows, Elphaba found herself transifixified on the one depicting Saint Glinda clad in pink, so pale her flowing dress sometimes looked white.
Heh, I wonder, would you like it, my sweet? She wears your favorite color, after all. Ah, but I can hear you complainerize now…
"Mmm, no, it's too washed out and sloshed out, Elphie. The dress looks as old as SHE is! If I was a saint, I would want to wear something a bit more colorous! I mean, I know, I get it, I get it, they're supposed to show humbility, be above Ozian and material goods. But still, I say, what's wrong with enjoying the gifts creation?" Like Elphaba herself, despite her saintly name, the Glinda she knew was not a very pious person.
Heh. What would you think of me now, my sweet? Everything I've become… Terrorist. Nun. Assassin. Mourner. And what was it all for? Nothing Elphaba ever did succeed. Nothing ever left any long-lasting impunctions or impacts. She was a drifter through life, aimless, listless.
Now I seek refuge with you again, 'neath the shadow of your wings… She imagined pure, white doveling wings sprouting from the saint's back, casting a black shadow across Elphaba, but the darkness was refreshing, a shield from the harsh and judgmenting light of day. She wondered if the saint would accept her, as her Glinda had. Or would the saint, as so many others in Elphaba's life, look at her like something sinful? Saint Glinda… What were you like…?
ooo
Bang! Bang! Bangbangbang!
The young lady bit her lip to keep from crying out. All around her, crossbolts flew. She prayed to whatever god or goddess would hear her.
Please let me live through this night! I don't want to die yet! Even though magic was foundational to Oz, there was always someone out there who would envy those with such natural ability. Lies and agendas twistled and bristled, and whatever story those in power had to tell in order to justify action against those with magical abilities was told.
Convenience explained why magic utilized by the reigning family was permissible, yet all others were treated as dangers and suspicions. Force and power ensured that any who tried to question the decree were silenced, magical or not. Of course, those who pledged fealty to the reigning family—the Monharts—were spared, permitted to practice magic. But those who defied, those who refused to bend the knee, were branded as practitioners of the dark arts, wicked magic, and had to be hunted out, and executed.
The young miss Glinda was one such example. Born G'lynda—sometimes spelled G'lynd'a, and localized as Glin'da—she hailed from the south, from Quadling country. She was a gangly girl, with knobbly knees, bleached blonde hair, and patchy pale skin. The most notably feature about her, however, was not visible: her innate, magical gift. She was far from the only child capable of learning the art, but she was certainly the rare child to be so adept at it at such a young age.
Of course, the girl who could make flowers grow even after a stubborn spring, or could make rocks dance around her home, or fly to rooftops while playing games with her friends, would be bound to catch the eye of the ambitious and envivicous. Sleazley politicians came out of the workwoods, offering promises of fame and fortune, should the child abandon her home and come with them. But she was never convinced. What did she need that she didn't already have?
Her enemies, however, refused to take a respectal refusal. They pushed and pushed and pushed, some of the more underhanded going as far as hiring mercenaries to hunt her down. Recognizing she was no longer safe at home, the young lady was indeed forced to leave, but she still refused to ally with any who tried to take advantagim of the situation. She ran alone, headed north, uncertain of her destination, but focused on avoiding bounty hunters.
Bang! Bang! Bangbangbang!
Glinda hissed through her teeth as she finally felt something graze her side. Adrenaline surged through her, and she pressed on faster through the leaves and trees and woodies, cursing every echoing step that lured the witch hunters closer to her.
She did not stop until she saw a lantrum flickering in the dark, swaying in the gentlish breeze. A stone structure stood behind it
Sanctuary? Glinda thought with a gasp, suddenly aware of how exhausted her lungs and legs were. Please, let them be kind… Swallowing her fear, nearly coughing, she knocked on the door as loud as she dared, collapsing against the rough wooden panels, throat burning like dragonfire.
The iron hinges crickled, and the kindly face of an old Boar met her. "Child! What can I do for you?" she asked.
"If I… promise not to use magic…" the girl panted, "may I… stay the night?"
For a moment, the Boar only looked at her, surprised, but then her beady eyes flicked over the girl's shoulder. Is she being chased? "Come in, doveling, come in. The Sisters of the Chapel of Saint Aelphaba of the Falls will look after you."
Mouthful of a name, thought Glinda hazily, legs trembling, but she cast the Boar a grateful smile. "Thank you, kind Sister."
"It is what Saint Aelphaba would want," the Boar replied firmly. "We do not believe magic is a sin. The determination of the judgementation of sin comes from what one does with that magic."
Glinda nodded. Yes, this would be a safe place for her to stay until she could move on… Aelphaba… My guardian angel, patron saint…
ooo
One day, Glinda would become a Saint in her own right, starting the Cloister Elphaba now called home. Elphaba reflected on Glinda's coming into saintlyhood. It was utterly accidental. She had not been born into the lifestyle, not a preacher's daughter the way Elphaba was. And arguably, Saint Glinda was not in it for the divine at all, precisely because of her background. She was there for the mortal. For those who needed a safe place to call home. Just as she herself once had, years and years and years ago… Whether or not Saint Glinda was truly religioulous at heart or not, she was still a good person. Good enough to ascend to saintlyhood.
Despite herself, a smile tugged at Elphaba's lips. Maybe that was what this was all for: doing good not necessarily with a particular goal in mind, but simply the alleviament suffering in the moment.
The sister that saved the future Saint Glinda that night hadn't been thinking about her soul, or Glinda's, simply that a girl needed rest and peace and protectation. That was Elphaba's own story with the Cloister of Saint Glinda. She was not turned away for her verdigris, or her rather sharp and blasphemous tongue.
I never thought… I'd call a place like this home… And yet life has always had a way of surprising me, twistling in ways I never could've predictated… Heh. Perhaps it is fitting, my sweet, that should any saint save me, it would be your namesake. I can only hope that with whatever life I have left, I can do at least one good deed, and maybe someday, it will serve you too. In whatever live, in whatever way, I would want to be your guardian angel, your patron saint, as you have been—and still are—mine.