Disclaimer: Wicked and all its accompanying everythings are the creation and property of Gregory Maguire.

This wasn’t much of a change, because he’d been desperately worried ever since he’d kissed Elphaba goodbye and wandered back to his hotel room to seclude himself for Lurlinemas Eve. And worry. About her. About Oz. What would happen, and how would it happen, and would his Elphie come out of it unhurt?

He wanted, so badly, to follow her. To look out for her? No, he admitted to himself, Elphaba was self-sufficient. But out of curiosity, if nothing else…but no. She’d told him to stay and stay he would. She knew what she was doing.

He wouldn’t listen to her instructions about the bath, though. He had better things to do than sit in a bathtub and worry (not to mention that he would feel like a complete fool doing so). He could pace and worry, for example.

“Get a grip,” he told himself sternly. “Nothing will come of wearing a hole in the carpet thinking of everything bad that could possibly happen. Find something to do. Eat dinner; it’s Lurlinemas, for Lurline’s sake.” He didn’t keep much food in his room, not since he’d moved in with Elphaba. Cut that.

Damn her, telling him to stay away from crowds; the whole city was crowds.

Fiyero wandered to the window. The lit-up streets below were full of little people in costume and evening dress and rags. Respectively. Little ants running around on a big patch of moss. The Palace glittered in the distance: menacingly, Fiyero thought, like the eye of a crouching dragon. Was Elphaba there? Was the Wizard perhaps at this moment being set upon by the revolutionaries?

He couldn’t tell. Lurlinemas was a commotion in and of itself. He glanced at the clock: an hour past midnight. Elphaba had said he could come by eight the next morning. Seven hours to go. Subtract almost an hour to walk there, make that six. His average morning routine, stretched to the longest and laziest, could take almost an hour. Five hours. Preparing for sleep and trying and failing to do so. Four hours.

Would Elphaba so mind if he opened his window?

Maybe.

He realized that he had nothing to wear to bed—almost everything of his had made its way to Elphaba’s. He took off his clothes and folded them very neatly, making sure that the creases were precise and killing fifteen minutes.

There was no sound of abnormal activity from outside the window.

Had the hand on his clock just moved backward?

The next morning Fiyero awoke suddenly and completely rather early in the morning and realized that he’d managed, somehow, to fall asleep. He almost jumped out of bed before reminding himself of Elphaba’s time limit. He checked his clock—seven. Grinning, he threw on his clothes, washed quickly, and bounded out the door without stopping for breakfast (Elphaba would have food for him, and if the mission had been pulled off he’d take her out to celebrate).

Even in the early morning, the City on Lurlinemas day was a mass of parties and a few devout citizens heading to services. Nothing seemed changed, and he didn’t dare ask a civilian for fear of questioning. Elphaba would tell him.

Elphaba, Elphaba, it was all about Elphaba. He seemed to be relying on her for everything. So this was love. He swerved to avoid trampling a ragged man curled up in the middle of the sidewalk. He realized that this man looked familiar: He always slept here, and Fiyero always passed him on the way to Elphaba’s.

He walked on, around the corners, past building shells, barely aware where he was turning; the route had become first nature to him. Ducking around a pile of wood, he saw the corn exchange slide into his line of vision. Grinning, he changed from a walk to a run. So he’d be a few minutes early, so Elphie would kill him.

Something looked different, but he couldn’t tell from this far away. He couldn’t think of what it was; perhaps a shadow was hanging differently. But as he drew closer he saw that the door was hanging off its hinges. Oh, shit. He slammed open the door and bolted up the stairs, stairs with muddy, bloody bootprints of Gale Forcers.

They’d been thorough, Fiyero saw as he entered the little room. Everything was smashed; books were lying about the floor, their pages torn; clothes and food were strewn about; the bed had been stripped and thrown every which way; the shelves rested at a crazy tilt. The cat was lying in a little crushed heap next to the stove, its white fur scarlet. Fiyero felt a tiny pang, he’d grown to enjoy Elphaba’s pet. But more important was Elphaba herself, and he looked around the room frantically.

Had they taken her body? Please, no.

Then he saw her. She was a huddled mass in the corner, lying in a pool of something dark with her skirts were spread around her; in the dim light it looked as though she’d melted. “Elphaba!” he screamed, the sound coming out as a little gasp, and stumbled across the room to her.

“Yero,” she muttered, and as beaten as her face was somehow managed the tiniest smilet. “Thank goodness, you sweet, wonderful fool, you’re alright.”

He didn’t know where she was hurt. It looked like almost everywhere. “You’re not…oh, Fae, what happened? The Gale Force, wasn’t it?”

“They came in. Beat me. Thought they killed me, I guess. Close enough.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” His voice caught. “How did they know you were here?”

“Yero…was Malky. My little cat…fucking informer.”

Pity dwindled away. Fiyero still loathed the Gale Force for killing Malky, but now because he wanted to strangle that cat, and now. “How long ago did this happen?”

“Hours. Maybe eight. Gale Force got in. Surprised me.” She blinked away blood running into her eye. “Killed too, suppose. I love you.”

“You’re not dying,” he snapped, even though she looked dead already. Why had he wasted all this time talking? “But you need a doctor.”

“No.” She said with so forcefully he reared back. “Not safe. Take me to Saint Glinda. They know us. Use…Phantom.” She started to cough. Blood speckled Fiyero’s sleeve. “Name. I’m not part…anymore…failed…they won’t know.”

The maunts at Saint Glinda. Name of Phantom. Got it. “Alright. Alright. I’m taking you now. Try not to move or talk.” He eased her coat on and picked her up as gently as possible, but she still gasped.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes. If I die…keep going…love you.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“I—”

“Shh. Shh.” He kissed her forehead.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, he reflected as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He was supposed to carry his bride over the threshold into their home. And she was supposed to be married to him, and not bleeding all over him.

The streets were mostly deserted, which he was thankful for; the last thing he needed were curious people flocking over to see the spectacle of a green woman, of a Winkie, of his tattoos, of the blood, of everything under the bright, obliging sun. He didn’t want to think about the main parts of the Emerald City, though. It was Lurlinemas Day, and the streets would be packed with plutocrats and burghers and little people trying to be big people, all leaving services to head to oratorios and shopping and parties.

He glanced down at Elphaba; she’d fallen unconscious and her head was hanging back over his arm, bobbing like a toy boat in a bathtub. Fiyero stopped to shift her to a safer position, and as he did so glanced up the street. A cab was coming, and Fiyero had a sudden inspiration. Praying that he wasn’t doing any more damage, he put Elphaba down and supported her with an arm. She sagged against his shoulder as he motioned for the cab.

“The cab’s here, honey,” he said loudly enough for the cabby to hear. “I said, your ride is—is—” He shook her gently, and smiled apologetically up at the driver. “Flat-out drunk,” he explained. “I’ll just go with her. Could you take us to Saint Glinda’s Square, please?”

The cabby grunted as Fiyero hoisted Elphaba back into his arms and climbed into the cab. He poked at the horse, a sorry-looking old thing with an expression stating that it wanted nothing more than to go to its stall and eat some fresh hay. “Get ye, Glump,” the cabby said, and the horse trotted off.

Fiyero took the opportunity to look over Elphaba once more. She was still breathing, if raggedly. But so pale…that lovely, sensual emerald was now a color that might be used for baby clothes.

“Here,” snapped the cabby, who seemed in no better spirits than his horse. “It’ll be twenty.”

It was a grossly inflated price, designed for bargaining, but Fiyero didn’t have time to waste. He pulled out the first note he could find—it was a fifty that could end this workday early for Cabby and Glump—and handed it to the cab driver. “Keep the change thank you merry Lurlinemas,” he called over his shoulder as he moved as fast as he could toward the Cloister of Saint Glinda. There were many stairs, all the better to inconvenience women in long habits, but Fiyero dashed up them in record time and pounded on the door.

A serene silence ensued. Just as he was about to bang again, he heard footsteps moving door-ward and stepped back just in time. “A merry Lurlinemas to you, sir, and—oh!” The maunt stepped back in horror, making a holy sign.

Fiyero couldn’t believe this. “I would have thought that a woman of your standing would do better than to be frightened of odd-colored skin,” he snapped at her. A maunt was due more respect, he knew, but he didn’t have the patience. “Meanwhile, as we speak, she could well be dying. She told me to bring her here and use the name of Phantom. Does that mean anything to you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But of course, bring her in. I’ll get somebody to help you. I’m afraid we don’t have much in the way of comfortable furniture, though.”

Fiyero sank to the floor and wiped the blood away from the corner of Elphaba’s mouth. The last time they’d sat like this had been on a freezing winter’s night when it was too cold even to sleep. They’d pulled the blankets in front of the stove and huddled against each other for warmth; he leaning against the wall of the stove and Elphaba curled in his lap like a cat. She had chattered something about clothes making it worse and so they were both naked except for the winter coats that they were using as a sort of tent. Malky wandered over to sit on Fiyero’s feet like a furry hot water bottle. “I have central heating,” he’d slurred through lips that he was sure must be filled with ice. “We can go there.”

Elphaba had shaken her head. “Too dangerous for me. And I need you to stay here. I’m warm. I want it to stay that way.”

She was cold, Fiyero realized, not dead, but cold. He took his coat off and laid it over her as a second blanket, just as a trio of maunts swept into the room. One, a tall, portly woman, stooped to inspect the patient. “What happened?” she asked Fiyero. Her voice was brisk, but out of urgency.

“She was attacked,” he said. “The Gale Force.”

The women sucked in their breaths. “And they’re our protectors!” one whispered.

“No,” said the middle maunt, a Munchkin. “She’s one of Phantom’s.”

“Oh.”

“She’ll live. I think,” the tall maunt pronounced, and Fiyero finally let out his breath. “But we have to get her upstairs and to a bed. Would you mind—thank you. Up this way.” He followed her up the winding stair and through long twisting corridors to a large, reasonably well-lit room with rows of beds. “On the first empty one, now.”

The maunt clucked her tongue. “Interesting, the green. I hope I can get to the bottom of that. You, sir, you’re not needed here any more. I thank you.”

“I want to stay,” he said. “And she might be afraid when she wakes up; it’ll be good for her to have a friend she recognizes.”

“Stay, then,” the tall maunt said. “But you can’t be in here to disturb us. Sister Whatever-Your-Name-Is, take him to one of the lodging rooms for travellers and I’ll get back to him when I’m done.”

The other one nodded.

“And she’s allergic to water, so you know.”

“Allergic?”

Fiyero nodded. “She uses oil instead.”

The maunt shrugged. “Well, we’ll do that. Now go.”

Fiyero darted forward and pressed a quick kiss to Elphaba’s bruising forehead. “Evuka b’an, tkaim ani.” Stay with me, my love.

The maunts looked sideways at him; he shrugged and followed his escort out of the room.