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Galinda Upland, of the Upper Uplands, hailing from the Arduenna’s on her mother’s side and the Frotticans on the other, was quite odd. This, of course, was a statement that didn’t quite encapsulate the utter strangeness of the woman. Elphaba Thropp was certain nothing did, short of meeting the woman herself.
In her life as a governor’s thrown-aside daughter, she’d met only a handful of Gillikinese people. From behind the skirts of Nanny they had been an odd sight of enormous colourful cravats, enormous sleeves of embroidered patterns, and enormous mops of curled-blonde hair piled atop their heads. They had tittered in their lilting ways and swanned, much like swans did. A little Elphaba had found herself oddly entranced as such a peacock-ish display.
Considering the rumoured ways of the Frotticans it should have been predictable that Galinda was as— and more —strange than those memory-distant Gillikins.
For one, Galinda consistently greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks, hands rubbing against her shoulders to tug their bodies together. A strange custom that meant nothing of anything, as Elphaba had reminded herself many times, since Galinda had kissed half of Shiz’s population the same way— much to their collective delight.
It was simply an odd Gillikinese habit, like pomposity, like extravagance, or like textiles related obsessions. And true enough, ever since striking up their odd truce-become-friendship, she had been learning more and more about those stranger-than-strange people.
Though no one dares to bring it up quite so frankly until Fiyero Tigelaar one sunny afternoon.
“You Gillikinese are quite odd,” Fiyero says flat and frank, lounging back with an affected slouch. “I’ve never seen a country with so much… character.”
Galinda Upland shrugs airily from her place on the picnic blanket. Feet tucked demurely underneath her, dressed up in her ‘almost but-not-quite summer’ dress, whatever that meant. She was certainly a picture of floral elegance. The flower crown neatly braided into her golden hair was moreso a crown of her own loveliness, and in the sun she all but shone.
It was hard to look away from her, really, even with the heat and summer sun beating down on them. Oz only knew Elphaba was not as prone to photosynthesis as Galinda was, ironic as that seemed to be.
“You mean to say you’ve been to Gillikin?” Elphaba responds from her place opposite the pair and tucked under the parasol.
“Border counties, nothing so inland as you’re thinking. Certainly not Frottica.” Galinda pops a strawberry into his awaiting mouth, an easy hand-kiss given back in thanks to a jealous audience of two, “We went during that darling festival the bright-curls throw in Spring.”
Bright-curls, golden-rings, a dozen names for the Gillikinese, and all so oddly flattering besides. Certainly, better than Munchkin’s names of ‘halfling’ or ‘basket-basher.’
“Oh, love, the harvest? How lovely. How did you find it? What county did you see it in?” Galinda presses a hand to her cheek. “It’s simply marvellous, I miss it so. Oh, the smells, the food— you know, in the western counties they set off colour rockets? Or, oh, they call them fireworks over there. Absolutely marvellous things, truly—”
In dizzying turns she puffs and deflates between pride and homesickness. Elphaba almost wants to reach over and steady her by the shoulders, lest somehow she get washed away in her own dramatics.
Fiyero, of course, does it for her instead, and Elphaba smothers the confused twitch of her hand at the sight of them.
“I must have been the other side. Southron, perhaps,” He says. “It was a long time ago now.”
“A shame. You ought to see the way they explode within the air. Those things, they burst into bright colours and fade away like comets. Colour comets! It is a marvel.” An airy, delighted breath leaves Galinda. It sounds as sweet as she herself is, “The good witches create them with their alchemy, or so I hear, though Oz shouldn’t hear of that.”
“Who here would tell him?” Elphaba snorts and ignores her sister’s furrowed brow.
“Colour-comet witch-work,” Fiyero chuckles. “You bright-curls don’t know the meaning of restraint, do you?”
“Well why should we! It’s drab and demure from range to range, we ought to put some flair to things, I’ll say. You know for my sixteenth name-month—” Because of course, Galinda Upland needed an entire month to celebrate a single day, as if her birth were a saint’s second-coming, “Momsie commissioned a darling zendale. It was a marvellous thing, so many colours you’d go dizzy—”
And then in a dizzying motion quite like her words, Galinda bodily turns and lurches towards Elphaba. Stops just an inch into the shade of the parasol, her closeness an oddly peculiar intimacy.
Hands clutched to her book, Elphaba attempts not to recoil from the heat of her. The sun, surely, had baked her as one would a pie. Galinda had a healthy flush on her cheeks to attest.
“Oh Elphie,” She bubbles, and flutters her hands. “I simply must take you to see the masquerade next year.”
“Harvest, masquerade,” Elphaba cocks an eyebrow, “Do you have a day without any festivals?”
“You’re funny,” She says, low and with that delighted dimple in her cheek, “Of course, of course we do. But, please, Elphie, you have to come and see Gillikin in full festivities. It’s a far cry better than your drab and— oh, dull-of-closet Munchkinland.”
Boq sputters a defence to no avail, since nobody paid much of any attention to the boy. Elphaba almost winces in sympathy, until Galinda’s hand covers her own.
“I’ll take you on a barge around the canals, we can walk the Lover’s Fingers, and oh the dye-masters! They work out in the open air with colour all to see, and the soles of their feet are stained in the dyes— they’re shoeless to stamp colour into fabric you see, and their footsteps stain the ground. A thousand prints of each generation of artisans— Oh, Elphie, it’s simply enchantifying.”
Elphaba nods and thinks distantly that the most enchanting thing out of Gillikin was sat right in front of her. Holding her hands, looking far too earnest for what is simply an invitation she’ll forget about as quickly as the next day. It’ll surely imprint within Elphaba’s mind for weeks, but that was neither here nor there.
As the conversation drifts away from Galinda and onto Nessarose, it captures her. How apart the Gillikin country must be, and how peculiar it is to have produced such a woman as Galinda.
Galinda Upland was upset. That, of course, meant that everyone in a 5-kilometre radius also felt the affects of her downing mood. Elphaba Thropp, as someone in surprisingly close proximity to the woman, was feeling those effects more dearly than most.
That is to say, she was a stormcloud of pink on her side of the room. It was distracting Elphaba from reading. Though the sermons of a two generations dead preacher were hardly interesting, regardless of a Gillikin’s mood, it was harder than usual to get through it.
Which meant—
“What is it?” Elphaba sighs. Flips the book shut, since Galinda was sure to demand complete attention, “You’ve been all but raining over there. Who’s upset you?”
“Oh Elphie—” Galinda explodes, as if the words had been building behind her teeth for hours, which they most likely had, “I was having a darling little luncheon down by the canal with Shenshen and Milla when that awful Cavandish came over. Interrupted my meal, like some rude— rude thing! And then they tell me of some awfulocious rumours! It is so utterly distressing I did not even finish my meal. Oh, I just can’t stand for it—”
“Rumours? Oh, well I suppose someone has to care about that doltish nonsense.”
And of course, as strange and odd as Galinda Upland was, she cared rather-too-deeply of the stuff. It may be a Gillikin-Frottica thing, for all Elphaba knew, since it was said by all that those golden-curls spent dawn ‘til dusk nattering in their baked-brick town squares.
“Everyone cares about doltish nonsense, my dear Elphaba, and this doltish nonsense is truly nonsense indeed. Really, it’s awful to even—” A distressed toss of her curls, “How could they even say that about you?”
“Oh. It’s about me?”
Which wasn’t a surprise, really. There had been a thousand rumours about her, all of varying shapes, sizes and degrees. Of all things, the question of her genitals had people bizarrely, rather inappropriately fixated. Of her peculiar traits, even more fixation, though rather less invasive in nature.
Some of them Elphaba even enjoyed— to have the teeth of the shark also inferred the mannerisms of one, and that was rather flattering, in truth. The others she simply ignored or otherwise played into. It couldn’t take her by surprise to be thought of as wicked, after all, it had been the story of her entire life.
Galinda, who had frozen for a moment, spins about in a flurry of faux-feathers and fluster. “Well— I thought you’d— it’s not terrible, Elphaba, not life-ruining, this thing. Not entirely, no, but yes, it is— that’s to say—”
“I don’t care, Galinda.” Elphaba hums. Turns back to open up her book, since this was simply a tantrum and not an apocalypse of Galinda’s mood, as she had feared. “I’m sure you were appropriately vague and conciliatory back.”
A gasp. One of Galinda’s enraged ones. “Vague? Conciliatory? To that awful, bothersome Cavandish?! Elphaba Thropp, who do you take me for?”
A snort, and before she can hold her sharp tongue, “Someone who would rather capitulate than confront, I’d think.”
Silence— which meant Galinda was actually upset rather than pretending to be. Elphaba shuts her book again and worries for the integrity of its spine. Surely so much opening and closing was fraying the poor thing.
“Sorry. That was rude.”
“No, no.” Galinda says quietly. Looking over, there’s a peculiar furrow in her brows. “You’re… right.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” She says quickly, and wonders why she was leaping to soothe her ego. “Well, sometimes it can be. But for rumours like these? Hardly worth the effort.” Galinda still looked unconvinced, tapping her heels together in quiet contemplation. “Come now, if I attempted to fight back against every vile thing people said of me, I’d have no time to eat, sleep or do much of anything.”
“It’s not fair on you.” Galinda says, still quiet.
“Well, yes, but nothing ever is. It’s fine Galinda. Don’t let it plague you.”
“Hmp.”
“That sounds like you’re letting it plague you, my sweet.” Elphaba drawls.
It was just a little dear that her first, and closest, friend cared this much about silly, rude rumours of her person. No one else had ever cared to want to correct them.
Or rather, no one else ever cared. As if she were some grey-stone monolith, without thought or feeling or capability of response. Akin to some gargoyle, leering over the masses.
“If someone were to say this in Frottica,” Galinda blusters, and in another whirlwind of pink comes to stand over Elphaba. Hips knuckled, chest puffed, and only slightly scandalous to look at— was her nightgown always so short? “They would be called to defend their conviction with action.”
“How romantic.” Elphaba hums and misses the way Galinda’s knuckles tighten around her hips in favour of smirking, crooked, up at the woman. “If only we were in Frottica. Then you could be my fairy-knight against such vile rumours of the wicked vegetable of the west.”
“Don’t be rude!” A stutter. “And don’t be rude to yourself!”
“Don’t be so ridiculous, then.” Elphaba counters.
“It’s passion, not ridiculousness.”
“All that passion just looks like stress to me. It’ll make your hair fall out.”
A harrumph, a hair toss, and Galinda is stomping across the room again. At a distance, she looks less like a pink stormcloud and moreso a pink thunderstorm. At the very least, her upset was now annoyance, which was far easier to weather.
That it made her oddly handsome, her anger, was another thing entirely. Something Elphaba resolutely did not think too deeply on. She was a champion at not thinking around Galinda, in truth.
“My hair is not falling out.” Galinda huffs, “It’s thick and healthy, actually.”
With a laugh, Elphaba pushes the conversation from her mind.
“Galinda, you ought to eat.”
“I shan’t.” Galinda announces to the entire table, though only Fiyero seems to give a fig about her newest dramatics, “I’m on hunger strike.”
“You ate this morning.”
“I’m on a luncheon hunger strike.”
“…Is everything quite alright? Mentally, I mean.”
“I’m not barmy.” Galinda sniffs. “I am simply assaulted by awfuloicous memories, of which are prevent me eating. My stomach, therefore, is on a luncheon hunger strike.”
Elphaba places down her book, and peers over the rims of her glasses. At such a distance, Galinda was a little blurry. Enough she can’t make out the almost-hidden moles beneath her makeup, or the loose curls that had escaped her strict hairdo in the bustle of the day.
It matters little, however, since her scowl was vibrantly obvious.
“This isn’t about that Cavandish, is it?”
“Oh, Elphie, you always cut right to the heart of me. I shan’t hear even his name, don’t ever say it again! He doesn’t deserve even your tongue!”
“Not many deserve my tongue.” Elphaba snorts. “Who is this villain of yours anyway?”
To the unfortunate death of legibility, Galinda devolves into bubbling, gossping nonsense. It’s a charming flurry of waving hands and puffed out cheeks, a rising flush on her face as her own temper gets the better of her.
She’s half-blurry, from above the rim of Elphaba’s glasses. It turns the display from charming to hilarious, which is simply an added bonus. Once done with her expansive explanation— a fellow Gillikin from the other counties, rich in family name and not much more, and slighted by Elphaba in matters of intelligence a time ago that Elphaba herself can’t remember— Galinda deflates. Much like a puffed-up bird would.
Elphaba grins into the meat of her hand to hide it. “And now you have a blood feud with the man?”
“He is simply jealous of your incredible mind and wit, my dear Elphie. It’s positively awful of him, truly— I mean to spread such scandalous gossip out of his own inadequacy. Of course, not many eat up the fat tales of a Cavandish, true enough, but it’s bad enough to make me sick!”
“You care far more about this than me.” Elphaba says, to point out the profoundly obvious.
“Well— yes of course! You are my dearest of all companions, my lovely, my dear thing.” A flutter, which seems less-so bodily as it is some spiritual movement, before Galinda is clasping her hands within her own. “Why shouldn’t I be upset for you?”
“Because I myself don’t care?” At Galinda’s fluttering eyelashes, Elphaba sighs. Resolves to explain herself, if only that Galinda would just eat her lunch already. “Whatever people say about me can’t possibly lower their perception. I’m already muck on boots, my sweet. Why would rumours of— well of…?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Galinda says quickly. A little too quickly, truth be told, which was a sure-fire way of implying her fluster at the rumour. Curious. “What does matter is that he has offended you, and I cannot stomach it.”
Elphaba shakes her head and squeezes their intertwined fingers, “What will you do, talk him to death? It’s fine, Galinda, there’s no need for such dramatics.”
“I—” That furrow was back between her brows. A certain uncommon fire in her eyes, which was odd indeed, and a curious air of dawning realisation. “You know, he’s Gillikin.”
Elphaba raises an eyebrow. “As you have said.”
“Well then, he should certainly know better.” Galinda says, and finally, the matter drops as she finally begins to eat her lunch.
It happens on a Wednesday, as all strange things do.
In Elphaba Thropp’s humble opinion, which in the eyes of most of Oz is not so humble as it is completely worthless, Wednesdays were the one day of the week where odd things happened without fail. She was born on a Wednesday, afterall, defiant and green and quiet beneath the rain. They had met Turtleheart on a nondescript Wednesday morning. Fiyero Tigelaar had swaggered his way to Shiz on a Wednesday.
And, of course, Galinda Upland of the Upper Upland’s was having a duel, with real swords, in the middle of the courtyard, on a buggering Wednesday. Because of course.
The only reason she knew of this was that every single person on university grounds from the moment the sun had risen had, exclusively, been speaking about the up-and-coming duel.
Which had been nonsense, to her ears, at first. In what strange world did people duel at the Suicide Canal? Common-bunk gossip, surely, and not even one she could corroborate with Galinda, since the girl was missing since early morning.
It’s only after Crope and Tibbett come to her after second period, grinning— and wasn’t that ever a portent of bad luck —and tittering about Galinda’s declaration that she understands.
Galinda had challenged Cavandish to a duel. Like some fairy-knight in romantic tales. For her honour, of all non-existing things in the eyes of the public.
Elphaba Thropp, surely, wants to strangle the woman. Putting herself in danger, into a sword bloody duel, over rumours. Of all things. Rumours about her, of which there were at least several dozen at any one time.
What was she thinking?
There’s a sea of students crowding both ends of the canal bridge when Elphaba stomps her way over at the allotted time— of midday, with the sun high in the sky and the breeze bright against the speckled-blue river.
It’s hard to not notice Galinda then, resplendent in an entirely uncharacteristic doublet and breeches, a fine pair of riding boots on her feet. There was a cravat tight around her throat and even a bloody cape over one shoulder, and it was a wonder, truly, when she even packed such items of dress in her luggage.
A duelling uniform. What a positively boggling concept.
In her hand was an exquisitely detailed rapier, curling-lily patterns teased into the lines of fine silver that made up the guard. The blade, precise and glinting, was nearly as long as her head and torso. And somehow, despite it all, it fit in Galinda’s hand.
From her elbow, Tibbett lets out a wolf-whistle. “Who knew our darling Galinda owned a sword?”
“And who knew she would look good with one?” Crope hums.
Fiyero, who had finally managed to push his way through the crowds to them, chuckles. Loops both arms around the boys’ shoulders, and shoots a grin at Elphaba. “I, for one. We practice together on Sunday mornings, when she isn’t busy with her extra-curriculars. She’s rather good.”
“You and Galinda?”
“A Gillikin thing. Or—” A thoughtful tilt of his head, “A cultural thing of those Uppers of hers.”
“Bloody bright-curls.” Elphaba mutters. “She’s going to get herself poked full of holes. We ought to stop this nonsense—”
Her march toward Galinda is stopped by Fiyero’s warm and steady hand, curling around her bicep and tugging her from the thick of the crowd.
“It would be worse to stop now.” He says, voice low, “It’s a matter of pride— and she’s done this for your honour, my dear. It’s quite the loud proposition.”
“Proposition? It’ll do nothing but land her in the nurse’s office.” When the man’s face doesn’t change, Elphaba yanks her arm free of his grip to fold them across her chest. “Don’t tell me you’re going to allow your partner to do this?”
“Par—” Fiyero blanches. “Oh no.”
“What? What is oh no? Fiyero, don’t be dense, Galinda is—”
“—Not mine. My partner, I mean, which is how this whole thing has come about, really. Oh, stars above, you thought that we—?”
Perhaps this wasn’t the time for a revelation, since Galinda was currently climbing atop the wide-stone handrail of the canal bridge and breaking out into melodious speech that none of them can hear, so far out as they were. Though through measure of the crowd gasping and awing, it was certainly a good speech.
And perhaps Elphaba should be paying more attention to the glinting refractions coming off the two swords in front of them. But Fiyero was irritating her. Pretending to not be Galinda’s beau, when they clearly were so. And misplaced ire was far better than watching Galinda turn into human honeycomb curtesy of a rapier.
“You eat strawberries out of her fingers. You flirt. You— orbit, or whatever it is you two do.” A finger jabbed at his chest. “If that’s not being together then we are all blind and the world is upside down.”
“It’s a game, dear thing, nothing even remotely serious.” Fiyero sighs. Rubs at his brow and the blue-diamond tattooed there. “And this right now, for you, is rather serious. You know, because of the sharp edges.”
“The swords.” Elphaba huffs.
“Yes, the swords. Just ask her after she’s done loudly proclaiming her affections for you in front of the entire student body.”
For a brief, awful moment, Elphaba wonders if this was a dream. Or perhaps Fiyero had rifled through her things back at the Thropp Manor, somehow, and found her diary circa age eleven, wherein she had discovered the romance section of her family’s library and had filled her head with airy fantasies.
And then someone shouts, jostles into her back with pointy elbows, and Elphaba knows this is reality— where she is mean, green, and singular in every sense of the word. Not even Galinda Upland could change that fact.
“She’s not doing that.” She responds flatly.
“She’s got a green poppy pinned to her breast. Where does one get a green poppy, my dear Elphaba?”
And—
He wasn’t lying. There, tucked neatly in Galinda’s handsome attire of gold and blues, was a painted green poppy.
Artistic symbolism was hardly Elphaba’s favoured subject, of course. Galinda excelled far more in fields of creative expression, so perhaps some nuances had flown over her head. But a green poppy was hardly a nuance. It was moreso a slap in the face. A loud, perfumed, Galinda slap in the face.
“Oh, for Oz’s sake.” Elphaba bemoans and shoves her head in her hands so she can watch the duel through her fingers. “I hate these blonde, pompous fops.”
Galinda Upland wins, though the idea that it was in doubt was rather more distressing than Elphaba would entirely like to linger on. So, she doesn’t. Instead, she lingers on the simple fact that there is a crowd about them, staring and enraptured, and Galinda is—
Well, she’s—
Flushed with victory, grinning wide enough it’s dimpling, and is altogether a handsome sight of ruffled hair and tailored edges. The green-painted poppy sears something hot in her chest.
To be publicly defended in such a fashion is incomprehensible. Impossible. But then again, Galinda has always been someone entirely beyond. And this, well, it seemed entirely on track for their relationship.
That was to say, Elphaba caught up in the hurricane of her affections.
“You could have gotten hurt,” Elphaba blurts when they’re finally in speaking distance, apart from the crowds and simply standing and staring at each other.
Through sheer miracle, Elphaba does not wince at her own awkwardness. A terror that her tongue was only truly useful when it was sharp.
“I’ve been trained in swordplay since I was a little girl, my dear. And regardless, I would gladly get hurt for your sake—” A choke on some sudden thing in her throat, and Elphaba valiantly manages to swallow down that emotion. Galinda continues without notice, hands fluttering, “I— Well, I couldn’t stand my own inaction. You said it right, I can’t rightly complain without doing much of anything to fix the situation, and— Well I—”
“You’re wearing a green poppy.” Elphaba blurts. Again. As if she had not been raised by speaking creatures at all.
“Yes.” Galinda visually gulps. “Yes I… am.”
Was that confirmation? Surely a duel was meaning enough, but there’s a sick little voice in her head insisting that this was simply some grand prank. Some great joke on the green girl gargoyle, to prove her not-so immune to romance and laugh in the fact of it.
“Well. I don’t know much about Gillikin duels, but Fiyero said something mighty curious a moment ago, and—”
“Shall we have this conversation in private?” Galinda interrupts in a babble. “There’s only so much of my heart I like to bare to the public. Not that I dislike professing my adoration of you to the masses, of course, but this is— well it’s a dear thing, my tender feelings, and I’d rather—”
Prompted by something, madness perhaps since that seemed most appropriate in this bizarre turn of events, Elphaba presses a kiss to her cheek. Chaste and sweet, and flushing Galinda a charming shade of pink.
“My brave fairy-knight.” Elphaba murmurs. “You really did this for me?”
Galinda squeaks. Presses a hand to her cheek, swallows again with seemingly great effort before recovering her composure. There’s a dreamy quality to her, still, and Elphaba marvels.
How darling, how odd, that a simple kiss has the woman shaking more than a duel of swords ever had.
“Yes,” Galinda says breathily. “Yes. Always. I couldn’t— I couldn’t think of another way to make you aware of my feelings. So— and this is Frottican tradition, you see.”
“Well, then. Maybe you Gillikinese are right about some things.”
Galinda giggles, high and bell-like, and Elphaba wonders if perhaps she should change her outlook on those foppish Gillikin afterall.