Howl's Moving Castle Fan Fiction ❯ Of Angels, Demons, And Wickedness ❯ Act I: The Wicked - In Which the Wicked Clings to the Memory of a Promise ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: All characters in “Howl's Moving Castle” and brief references to “Deep Secret”/“The Merlin Conspiracy” belong to Diana Wynne Jones. “WICKED: The Musical” belongs to Stephen Schwartz. “WICKED: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West” (of which this fic is somewhat loosely inspired from) is penned by Gregory Maguire. Janet and the Fairie Queen are from the ballad of “Tam Lin”. All other verse and prose not directly related to those above is a figment of my very strange imagination.

 

October 13, 2005

 

Of Angels, Demons, and Wickedness

By Ina-chan

 

ACT I.In which the wicked clingsto thememory ofa promise

 

 

“Good news! She's dead!

The Witch of the West is dead!

The wickedest witch there ever was

The enemy of all of us here in Oz is dead!

Good news! Good news!”

 

Townspeople of Oz

(“No One Mourns the Wicked” from “Wicked”)

 

 

In the moments just before dawn, the sun would hang above the vast horizon of crumbly yellow-grey sand of the Waste with dramatic flair. Then it would set magnificently like a flamboyant diva, bidding her admirers adieu. If someone would dare sit long enough on the rocks to witness this fascinating show, he would see the sun's orange rays stretch out over the depressing landscape, turning it into a mysterious valley of gold. But at the same time, the shadows of night would begin to reach on the ground out like greedy phantom fingers, as if to hide a precious treasure from unscrupulous eyes. The evening sky emphasized the sun's light show of pinks, orange, and gold as she went to sleep, as if to distract whoever it may be who chose to sit in the waste and witness this spectacular show so that its shadows would be able to do its work unhindered.

 

At that particular moment, however, there was a pair of eyes watching the sun, the evening sky, and the shadows of the night's amusing antics. But the owner of those eyes did not look entertained at the very least. She gazed out the window from one of the grotesquely shaped turrets of a chimney pot fortress. If there was, indeed, an unfortunate soul with the misfortune of finding himself lost in the Waste… and if that poor soul were to find himself by the Witch's fortress to fix his eyes up that tower at that particular moment… then he would have been rewarded by a vision of loveliness that would rival the haunting beauty of the infamous Lady Rapunzel. The lady's long hair flowed freely about her in a graceful mass of silken ebony. The dark locks contrasted beautifully with her porcelain complexion. Her grey eyes held a solemn expression, as if to complete the haunting image of a tragic heroine imprisoned with a desolate tower.

 

In all fairness, these words used to describe the Witch of the Waste were truths… or at least half-truths. One of the advantages of forging a contract with a demon was the fact that as long as that contract was in place, one was blessed with the gift of immortality and powers limited only by the bearer's imagination. Needless to say, the Witch definitely used her imagination! Though in the recent years, she mostly used her power with wearing countless beautiful faces. Very few people had seen the faces she had worn more than once.

 

But also… in all fairness, while the Witch also had a reputable sense of vanity, the practice of wearing these different masks originated out of necessity. If people were to know what the Witch of the Waste looked like when she travelled outside her realm, she would not be able to go anywhere without the Royal Guards hot in pursuit.

 

Thus, she continued to change her beautiful features according to how it suited her mood. Right then, the Witch decided that she was feeling a twinge of emotion similar to melancholy, thus poignant image of a tragic heroine gazing out introspectively at the sunset seemed very befitting.

 

Despite the various unexpected setbacks that fell on her way, the Witch was relatively content. Everything was still falling neatly into place. This was the last sunset, and after the following sunrise it would be midsummer's day. The plan she had carefully weaved was quickly coming at hand. Soon, her Angel will come. Her vigil will end, then, she will finally attain her innermost desire. It was really just a matter of time.

 

A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, amused as she remembered a private joke.

 

It had been a long, arduous, and costly search… her journey. She had been travelling for so long and crossed paths with so many people. Friends and enemies, friends who became enemies, a number of false hopes and false angels… At one point, she had almost given up. That was until an opportunity for revenge revealed itself to be more a blessing in disguise.

 

Now that the end of the journey seemed to be beyond the horizon, a puzzling emotion started to wash over her. For the longest time, she always believed that once this triumphant moment was finally at hand, she would remember how it felt to be “happy”. Instead, she only felt the twinge of passive anticipation beneath a listless sea of numbness. Like a tired old woman, patiently waiting for a sense of relief.

 

Then again, what else was there to be expected? Despite her youthful appearance, she really was an old woman, after all. She was a tired old woman who had been travelling on a long and winding path for a very long time. Her journey had gone on for so long that she had already forgotten many things.

 

She'd already forgotten the many names and many faces of friends and enemies, and friends who became enemies, who had long passed on and left her behind. The landscapes that once looked familiar had been changed by the ravaging hands of time and had been long blurred in her memory. Even her own face… her own name… she'd already forgotten it a long time ago. She'd worn so many faces and become so many people, it really was just a matter a time that she would forget what she hid and discarded a long time ago. All that remained was “The Witch”. And then, thanks to the hand of her last false Angel, who conspired to help banish her to the barren landscape of the Waste, “The Witch of the Waste” was born.

 

She detested her fate but embraced her new identity nonetheless. Her new name brought about an air of infamy that she secretly enjoyed. They feared her. They acknowledged the greatness of her power with their fear. Even deep in the Waste, she sensed their fear.

 

The fears of her enemies, bequeathed to their children and their children's children, sang out and echoed to her the clearest. They, who kept a deep secret which had been long forgotten by many people because of the ravages of time. The Witch, however, held on to the memory of that secret like a drowning woman. Her hate kept her afloat, and her righteous anger nudged her to continue on with her journey. And the memory of a very important promise soothed her aches like a balm.

 

Then again, even though there were people who believed that the Witch of the Waste was not always wicked, there was no question on the claim that the Witch had always been a little mad.

 

However, none of that mattered any longer. Her journey was almost over. After all the years of waiting patiently, she found her true Angel.

 

 

/“Did you not hear? Do you not know?/

 

 

Her Angel was finally bringing what she longed for, what she planned for, and what she plotted for.

 

/The heavens have parted. The witch hunt has started./

 

 

Her greatest wish… her utmost desire.

 

 

/The Magid is guilty of treason and murder./

 

Oh, how her Angel resisted for so long with such useless, futile, pointless defiance. Her Angel promised a long time ago. And her Angel always kept promises.

 

 

/Run until you can run no further.”/

 

No. She will do no such thing. They can try to drive her out, exile her, or even attempt to take away her life. But they won't succeed. Her Angel told her to wait…Her Angel made a promise… Her Angel's fiery piercing green eyes that burned through her soul, the low emotionless whisper that etched every word spoken into her memory…

 

/“When this is all over, I'llcome backtoyou tofinish this.Mayit be a day, a year, a hundred years, a thousand years…I promise I will come back. Sowait…”/