Chapter Text
Elphaba’s fingers tightened around the crumpled edge of her itinerary, the inked list of tasks glaring up at her like a sentence to a lifetime of servitude. The paper was stiff, crisp from fresh printing, but she had half a mind to tear it into confetti and scatter it across the concrete steps of the Emerald City Grand Library.
This was it. The last straw. She was going to quit.
Her breath left her in a depressing exhale as she tilted her head back, staring up at the grand archway of the library’s entrance. The words carved into the gleaming stone loomed over her like a silent observer of her struggles: Urbem latericium invenit, smaragdos reliquit. He found a city of bricks and left behind a city of emeralds.
A gift, they called it. A project of the Wizard’s benevolence, a monument to knowledge and progress. The public saw towering stained-glass windows casting fractured rainbows across polished floors, emerald-green columns stretching to the high-domed ceiling, and rows upon rows of gleaming bookshelves lined with neatly curated volumes. The grandeur of it all left any who passed through its halls breathless.
But Elphaba didn’t work up here, in the gilded halls of academia. No, she spent her days below, where the Wizard’s generosity had never quite reached.
The moment she had stepped into the national archives years ago, she had realized the job wasn’t the honor she had envisioned. The library’s public floors were pristine, tended to by diligent librarians and patrolled by ever-watchful city guards. But the archives—the true heart of the city's recorded history—had been left to rot in the shadows.
She still remembered the smell that had greeted her upon arrival: damp paper, dust thick enough to choke on, and the unmistakable staleness of decay. Rows of sagging shelves barely held themselves together, their wood darkened and splintering from neglect. Books, some centuries old, lay discarded in crates, stacked haphazardly in dim corners like forgotten relics. The only lighting came from flickering lamps leftover from the original construction, their bulbs either burnt out or shattered during the looting that had ravaged the archives long before the Wizard’s rise to power.
And her boss? He didn’t care.
The Head Archivist of Oz spent more time basking in the importance of his title than actually earning it. He slouched through government meetings with a smug grin, then spent his evenings drinking with other so-called elites, leaving her and a handful of overworked employees to rebuild the archives from the ground up.
The funding was abysmal, stretched thinner than parchment, because every extra coin lined his pockets instead. And as for her own paycheck? If she held it up to the light just right, she could probably see straight through it.
Yet, despite it all, she had persisted. That paycheck wasn’t going to get bigger if she slacked off.
Slowly, painstakingly, she had restored the archives—section by section, shelf by shelf. She had spent years carving order into the rotting halls, salvaging manuscripts, and logging artifacts into a system that she had to build herself. And, finally, she had risen high enough in rank to bypass her boss’s interference, securing funding without his signature.
The downside?
She had inherited even more of his work.
Now, she sat through his meetings, filled out his reports, and even stamped paperwork with the signature he had so graciously given her in the form of an inked stamp. On paper, he was the Head Archivist. In reality, she was the one keeping the archives from crumbling into oblivion.
And today, he had handed her a task that might just convince her to quit.
Her latest assignment was a logistical nightmare—moving hundreds of boxes of rediscovered books from one of the tallest towers in the Emerald Palace storage rooms down to the archive’s basement.
Most of them could be transferred with the library’s moving team. But the monumental task of going through each box before the team could take them, since they were oftentimes classified materials, only someone with high-level clearance could handle them. Which left a grand total of three people for the job.
Unfortunately, both Fiyero and Boq—the only other archivists with the required clearance—were unavailable. Fiyero was off tending to a family emergency in Kiamo Ko, and Boq was on a well-earned vacation. That left Elphaba. Alone.
She had been at this for two days now, using a rickety cart to shuttle the boxes back and forth when organizing. When she had first unlocked the storage room door, she had expected a manageable workload. Instead, she had been met with a nightmare.
The room was filled to the ceiling.
Stacks of wooden crates loomed over her like tombstones, packed so tightly together that maneuvering between them was nearly impossible. The sheer number of them had stolen her breath, but only for a moment—then, against all odds, her shock had given way to awe.
For years, she had believed most of the archives' collection had been stolen or destroyed. Yet here they were, preserved in secrecy, hidden away in a forgotten tower.
But wonder had quickly given way to the crushing weight of reality.
Each box was heavy, packed with tomes that had not seen the light of day in decades. Even with the cart, moving them was grueling, and every so often she would end up with a box she would have to carry herself. Every trip down to the archives’ basement felt like another nail driven into her already weary body. Sweat clung to her skin, her fingers ached from gripping wooden edges, and her muscles burned with each climb up and down the tower’s winding staircase.
And she wasn’t even halfway done.
Elphaba sucked in a calming breath and adjusted her grip on the itinerary. The paper crinkled in protest.
She needed this job. The money, pitiful as it was, kept her afloat. But as she stared at the never-ending list of tasks, she couldn’t shake the bitter truth gnawing at the back of her mind.
She was essentially the true Head Archivist of Oz.
She just wasn’t getting paid for it.
Elphaba trudged up the winding tower stairs once again, each step sending a dull throb through her aching feet. The weight of exhaustion clung to her like weighted blocks, her muscles protesting every movement. By now, she had lost count of how many times she had climbed these steps in the past two days, but the rhythmic thud of the stone beneath her boots was all too familiar.
At the top, she shoved open the heavy wooden storage doors, propping them open to let in the stale, dust-laden air of the chamber. The towering stacks of crates greeted her in silent lines, rows upon rows of wooden containers stretching toward the arched ceiling. Some bore neatly inked labels, their contents already sorted into sections, but too many remained unmarked—mysteries waiting to be unraveled.
She sighed, rolling her shoulders. It wasn’t enough that she had to move them. She had to decipher them first.
Setting to work, she pried open one of the unmarked crates, the rusted nails groaning in protest. Beneath layers of protective cloth, she found more books—old ones, their bindings cracked with age, their pages fragile. As she sifted through them, a realization settled over her like a slow-moving shadow.
Magic.
The crate was filled with books on magic—some innocent, detailing classical misdirection tricks used by illusionists, others far more potent. Several bore the insignia of long-closed sorcery academies, their pages filled with teachings from an era before the Wizard’s reign.
Her fingers skimmed over the ancient lettering, the ink faded yet still clear enough to read. Books like these had long since vanished from public access.
The Wizard ensured that magic remained in his control, hoarding power by restricting who could wield it. Children born with talent were taken under his watchful eye, molded into weapons for his private forces. For anyone else, magic was off-limits.
And yet, here these books were, buried in the forgotten corners of the Emerald Palace.
Elphaba’s lips pressed into a thin line. She knew the censorship that strangled the Grand Library of Oz better than anyone—after all, she had built the system that tracked and logged every book under its roof. Every restricted text was marked, its existence cataloged and monitored.
But there were loopholes.
If a book never made it into the system, it didn’t exist. And if it didn’t exist, no one would miss it.
Her fingers lingered on the spine of a particularly worn volume, the temptation curling through her like a slow-burning ember. She could slip it into her bag now, take it home, and no one would ever know.
A dangerous thought. One she had entertained before.
With a quiet exhale, she sealed the crate, ensuring the lid was secure before dragging it across the floor. The wood groaned under the weight as she hefted it onto her cart, the impact jolting through her arms when it landed with a heavy thud. The force of it made her misstep, her footing slipping momentarily before she steadied herself.
She moved to the next crate—then paused.
A sound. A creak, distinct from the usual symphony of shifting weight and old wood settling. This one was different. Hollow.
Her brow furrowed.
Elphaba was used to strange noises—the archives below were riddled with whispers of the past, with wood that moaned under its own age. But this? This had weight.
Kneeling, she ran her fingers over the floorboards, searching for the source of the noise. Her face lighting up in triumph momentarily as she found it—a single plank, slightly misaligned, lacking the nails that secured the others.
She dug her nails into the edges, prying it loose. The wood resisted at first, then gave way with a quiet groan, revealing a hidden compartment beneath.
Nestled inside, a single book rested in the darkness.
It was bound in dark brown leather, its cover worn but unblemished, as though time had touched it but never truly claimed it. No title, no script on the outside to indicate what it contained inside.
The moment her fingers brushed against it, she pulled her hand away, she could have sworn that it had warmed beneath her touch.
Sliding her hand into the compartment, she felt around for anything else—scraps of parchment, another object, a clue as to why this had been hidden—but found nothing. Just the book. Just this one, strange, unmarked book.
Hesitating for only a moment, she pulled it free.
The instant she did, the pages fluttered open on their own, flipping rapidly as though unseen hands were guiding them. Her eyes widened as the ink itself began to shift, golden script dancing across the parchment like liquid light. The letters wove themselves into sentences, then unraveled, morphing into unreadable symbols before reforming into structured text once more.
It was alive.
Or something close to it.
Elphaba’s grip tightened as she struggled to decipher the shifting words, the language slipping between the familiar and the unknown too quickly for her to grasp. She had seen countless books—cataloged endless tomes of magic, history, science—but never anything like this.
An artifact like this didn’t belong in storage. It didn’t belong forgotten in a hidden compartment beneath the floorboards. It meant something.
And yet—
The weight of unease coiled in her gut, whispering of consequences. Whatever this book was, it would bring trouble. She could feel it in her bones.
She should put it back. Seal the floorboard, walk away, pretend she had never seen it.
But the hunger for knowledge—the insatiable need to understand—burned hotter than her caution. She needed to decipher the book regardless of the danger it presented.
Before she could change her mind, she slipped the book into her bag. The leather was still warm against her side, like a secret pressed close to her heart.
With a steadying breath, she loaded another crate onto her cart and turned back toward the archives, the hidden book nestled safely in her possession.
She told herself she would only study it.
She told herself she wouldn’t regret this.
Unloading the final crate of the night, Elphaba shoved it into place with a grunt, the dull scrape of wood against stone echoing in the near-empty archive. The weight of the long day settled deep in her muscles, stiff and unyielding as she trudged toward her desk. She all but collapsed into the chair, letting its worn leather cushions absorb her exhaustion.
She rolled her shoulders, working out the persistent knot between her blades, before reaching to untie the scarf securing her hair. Strands of black tumbled free, a few sticking to her damp forehead. Peeling off her gloves, she flexed her fingers, wincing as she noted the raw patches where the leather had rubbed her skin over the hours of hauling boxes.
At least she was making progress. What had once been an insurmountable wall of storage was now reduced to a few stacks along the back wall. Another day, maybe two, and she’d be finished.
Not that it meant her workload would lessen. The true beast waited for her on her desk—an ever-growing tower of paperwork, a tangible representation of just how much her boss refused to do himself. The stack was at least a foot tall now, documents spilling over the edges in messy disarray.
She really needed to hire a secretary, but that meant fighting with the boss. And everytime she fought with the boss he cut off a little bit of her paycheck. Just thinking about his smarmy face made her grip on her armchair turn white knuckled.
Slowly releasing her grip, she shook out the digits of her hand to prevent cramping. She was starting to get old, aches and pains in her joints despite only being thirty five. Selecting her favorite pen from her pen holder, she started on the pile. The faster she got through the paperwork, the faster she could go home.
Transfers to other libraries. Another—artifact loan approvals. The next—a personal request for an absurd wedding venue, because apparently, nothing said romance like a library filled with government-classified books.
Her lip curled. She’d told them before—documents needed to go into the labeled trays. The entire system was meant to make her job easier, but clearly, no one had the sense to follow it.
The steady rustling of papers was the only sound in the empty office as she carved through the pile, her writing hand moving in a steady rhythm. The strain in her fingers built into a dull ache, but she kept going, determined to finish before exhaustion won out.
She just wanted to go home and crawl into bed. Preferably sleep a good solid ten hours without receiving a work call, having to go to the office, or dealing with whatever emergency her team managed to come up with.
Little by little she whittled the pile down, until only a small stack of letters remained. Most of them requests for funding or inquiries about rare texts. Her fingers paused over one particular envelope. The handwriting was immediately recognizable.
Curling, bold strokes. Ink pressed too firmly into the parchment, as though the writer had been impatient, or annoyed.
Elphaba Thropp!
The opening alone had her biting back a smirk.
If you’re reading this at your desk again, shame on you. You need to find a better work life balance. Leave that soul sucking job or report him to HR. Whichever one works with bureaucracy faster.
This is my reminder that you have lunch with father and I at one on Thursday. Do not be late, and tell your boss that he can go *bleep* himself and *bleep**bleep* just to be sure!
With love,
Nessarose
P.S.
I will lock your apartment's library doors and steal the keys if you don’t show up.
Elphaba snorted. It was a very Nessarose kind of threat—direct, mildly annoying, and absolutely something she’d follow through on. The mental image of returning home to find her books under lock and key was enough to make her set the letter aside with a resigned shake of her head as she leaned back in her chair
That time of the month again. The dreaded family luncheon.
She could already picture the scene—the polished restaurant, her father seated across from her with that unreadable expression he always wore. Nessarose, poised and effortless in her command of conversation, alternating between affectionate scolding and political maneuvering.
The esteemed Third Thropp descending, Nessarose the Eminence of Munchkinland. Or better well known as the Witch of the East to her opponents.
Her sister had carved quite the career for herself after Elphaba turned down the inheritance in favor of her current job. Looking back on it, she probably would be less stressed if she became the Eminence of Munchkinland.
Their monthly get-togethers at first had required Nessarose sending her secretary to annoy her enough to show up, but lately she's been getting there on her own. Her father was getting on in his age and he usually brought along Turtle Heart, who was enough of a reason for her to show up.
Frex wasn’t the greatest father, he never quite liked her after finding out her mother had her because of an affair. But when Turtle Heart came along, and the death of her mother, there was some peace within the household. His retirement mellowed out his prejudice and blatant favoritism for Nessarose.
Packing her stuff into her bag, she felt the hidden book's solidness through the thin pocket she had placed it in. Reminding her of her latest acquisition. Smiling softly at it, she grabbed the keys off the key ring and began to lock up.
Door by door she closed the archives, popping her head in different sections to check in on the other archivists. Some were still working, hunched over books with tired eyes, others curled up in corners, dozing against piles of parchment.
She didn’t fault them, she had slept in the archive several times herself. Sometimes it was just easier than dragging herself home, sleeping a meager amount of hours, and then being right back where she started.
Eventually exiting the building to be greeted by the dim glow of street lamps and darkened skies, she checked her watch, it was well after midnight and she would have to be back in the office around seven. Which meant she had five hours of sleep to catch up on.
Slipping through the city streets, Elphaba kept to the narrow alleys and quiet corners, skirting past the worst of the drunken revelers spilling out of taverns. The air was thick with the scent of stale beer and roasting sweet potatoes from a nearby vendor, mingling with the lung curdling tang of smoke from street lanterns. She moved quickly, choosing paths that wouldn’t get her mugged—routes she knew like the back of her hand, ones that had served her well on nights she worked too late.
By the time she reached her apartment, the weight of exhaustion pressed heavily on her shoulders. Her fingers fumbled with the key, barely managing to fit it into the lock before shoving the door open. Kicking off her shoes with a graceless thud, she didn’t bother with ceremony, dragging herself through her nightly routine—half-heartedly scrubbing at her face, tossing her coat onto a chair instead of hanging it, and changing into something loose and comfortable.
Just as she was about to collapse into bed, she hesitated.
Her bag.
Backtracking, she pulled the mystery book from its confines, holding it up in the dim candlelight. Its dark leather binding gleamed faintly, and despite the cool air that had settled in her apartment, the book remained warm in her hands.
She waited.
As if sensing her unspoken command, the book sprang to life.
It lifted from her hands in a smooth, deliberate motion, floating toward her bed as though it had every intention of making itself comfortable for the night. Elphaba raised a brow, watching as it gave a small, almost insistent nudge in the direction of her pillows.
“Really?” she muttered.
The Grimmorie nudged her again.
Scratching her head, she sighed. Fine. She wouldn’t question the oddity that was a sentient book with the apparent manners of a nursemaid. If it was encouraging her to sleep, she wasn’t going to argue. Climbing under the covers, she let out a quiet groan as her spine slowly decompressed, the relief of lying down washing over her in waves.
For a moment, blissful silence settled over the room.
Then she opened her eyes—only to find the book floating inches from her face.
She flinched back, pulse skipping, but the Grimmorie simply hovered there, waiting, its pages flipping open with purpose. The golden letters on the first page glowed softly, illuminating the bold title in the dark.
Grimmorie.
Elphaba frowned. “Is that your title?”
The book’s pages fluttered in response, the parchment rustling like wind through dry leaves. The movement struck her as oddly… dog-like. A wagging tail in paper form.
Taking that as a yes, her intrigue only heightened. “And what are you, exactly?”
At her words, the Grimmorie flipped through its pages, finally settling on a detailed illustration.
A group of robed figures stood in a perfect circle, their hands outstretched toward the floating book. A ring of light encircled them, radiating outward like ripples in a pond.
Elphaba barely had time to absorb the image before it shifted.
The scene twisted, darkening—the once-unified circle now fractured as the figures turned on each other, weapons raised, robes flaring with violent motion. The book, the very one floating before her now, hovered above the fight as blood stained the ground beneath it.
Then another shift.
A lone figure, barely visible beneath their hood, fled the battlefield. The Grimmorie was clenched tightly in their grasp, their robes billowing as they ran. Behind them, the others tore into one another, the once-revered gathering descending into full-scale war.
The last image came abruptly—dark floorboards, pried open by shaking hands. The book was shoved beneath the wood, hidden away as the room above was consumed by shadow.
Elphaba stared, her thoughts churning.
It had been worshiped once. Revered. But something had gone terribly wrong. Had it been greed? Corruption? Fear? Whatever the cause, the book had become an object of bloodshed, powerful enough that one had risked everything to steal it away—only to bury it, ensuring no one would ever find it again.
And now, she had it.
Her stomach twisted.
This was, without a doubt, the most dangerous artifact she had ever come across in her years as an archivist.
She was at a crossroads.
Should she keep it? Hide it in her personal collection and make sure no one ever discovered its existence? Or should she return it—bury it back beneath the floorboards, erase its presence from history before it could cause more harm?
As if sensing her thoughts, the Grimmorie snapped shut with an audible thud .
Then, with surprising speed, it shot toward her bookshelf, slipping into an open space as if it had always belonged there.
Elphaba blinked at the book’s sudden display of attitude.
“Oh, I see,” she muttered dryly. “You don’t like that idea.”
No response.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, she exhaled slowly. Just what she needed—a sentient, tantrum -throwing book with a mind of its own, one that might very well have been at the center of an ancient war.
She groaned, flipping her pillow over her face.
This was a problem for another day.
Tomorrow, she still had a full workload to get through. She’d deal with the Grimmorie when she had time.