The cost of being Good

Glinda 'the Good'; a name afforded the beauty of Oz, the now Queen of Emerald City. It was a persona that she had lived for so long now, she couldn't even recall when it was created, or really even how. The people of Oz, specifically of Emerald City and Quadling Country where she had reigned previous to her occupation of the throne of Oz, looked on her with fondness and respect. To them, she was not just GOOD; she was the epitome of the word. Her words dripped like honey from her perfectly formed, cherry red lips. She moved with elegance and grace, her sculpted body never making a misstep or stumble, for that would not be in the character of the Good Witch. Everything about her, from her flawlessly braided blonde hair down to the dazzle of her sparkling boots told a tale of perfection, of grace and goodness and purity. It was her image, her persona. It was who she had been, who she was and who she would be.

Glinda had a secret, however. It was in the darkest reaches of her mind, somewhere that she kept hidden always that no one would even dare to expect was contained in such a clean and proper Queen. She would never admit it, but sometimes when she was alone in her chamber, when she was away from prying eyes and ears and content that no one was witness, she lost the Good that was what defined her. Only here would she let her guard down and honestly admit to herself that being so Good for so long was exhausting and all she wanted was to not be Good for one second. Here she would let herself forget about her land, forget about her subjects, forget about her need for Goodness. In these dark hours, late into the night, she would let her hair become disheveled, losing the tight braids that were typical as it flowed messily about her face. The brightness of her colorful, queenly gowns were too much in these hours. She would let them fall from her figured body, thrown into a corner as she would don only the harshest, darkest attire that would show her as she meant herself to be, seen by no one.

Here, in these hours, she could be the dark Queen that was lingering inside, deep deep inside where no one knew here as she knew herself. She would sit on a thrown magically suspended; an act that she would never have used her magic for in public. Her eyes would burn red hot with power as she imagined her subjects cowering before her, tending to her every fancy. She would accept their servitude and revel in her good fortune as the malevolent Queen of Oz. She sat proud on her throne, the cut of her dark attire leaving little to be imagined as her male servants, tempted to steal glances of her sinister beauty would not dare for fear of repercussion.

At the end of the night, after letting her mind indulge this dark fantasy, she would drift to sleep, her imposing gown of sinister royalty hidden securely in the back of her closet, the silkiness of the sheets caressing her bare skin.

As morning would dawn, her servants would tend to her dressing, never knowing that beneath the exterior, their Good Queen, the benevolent Witch of the South, was anything but. It was these moments that would remain the glimmer in her eye, a faraway persona that could only exist in that corner of her mind that was to never see the light of day. This is how she lived, with this glimmer gnawing at her from behind, threatening to reveal itself. This would never happen, though, for she could not, would not allow it. She was the Good Witch and Good she would remain...until sunset and she was alone again.

This was the cost of being Good.

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