In the end they had won.

All along he had practiced in self-deception, believing that he could endure. That whatever they could do to him he could take. They could not break him. He would not be defeated.

And surely Elphie, though grief-stricken, would be outraged. She would not rest until she found him. He knew his lover, did he not? She would not abandon him to this fate. It was only a matter of time...

Time wore on. The days grew short and chill and then hot again. Two, three, four times over. Still he clung foolishly to hope. Elphie was coming. She must be close. She would not leave him!

And then came that final morning. He defied his chief tormentor, in an act so blatantly contemptuous, that he had shocked himself. I will not talk, you cannot make me, it said in an astoundingly crude manner. This was irrefutable proof of that.

The boy, for he could hardly have been eighteen, had flown into a magnificent rage. Taking one of the irons out of the fire grate and and burning out his eyes.

The pain was worse than anything he had known previously. After five years they had finally bested him. For all that time, he remained silent, not giving information, nor so much as giving voice to the agony they provided. But that day his screams could be heard from the upper levels.

He had no name. He had stripped himself of that honor, in his shame and ruin. His stupid pride. And for all his loyalty and devotion, it seemed Elphie couldn't have cared less.

There was no hope. Never had been. Now he realized that.

And finally they released them. But by this point it was the worst thing they could have done. He would have resigned himself to languish further behind the prison walls. Now whereever he went or whatever he did, he would be little more than a burden. He was ruined now, and they knew it.


"I hate being on this side of Emerald City," Glinda said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

"It exists," Crope said, giving her a look. "Can't pretend it's not there." He was challenging her, in an uncharacteristic way.

"I can," she said, pointedly. She lifted her chin, looking even more stuck-up than usual, and put the fringe of her fur stole to her nose.

He grumbled to himself at the gesture.

A man was sitting in the alleyway beside them, looking utterly despondent. Crope stared at him, knowing he was being rude. But a thick scarf covered the man's eyes. Blind, Crope thought with a twinge of pity.

But Glinda was more than ready to go. She followed Crope's gaze. She curled her lip at the sight of him. "Lets go," she said impatiently.

The blind man turned his head at the sound of her voice.

"Oh no," she gasped. "Do you think he sees us," she said, glancing at Crope.

Her sensitivity amazed him. "Somehow, I doubt that." He approached the blind man, who apparently had heard him coming and shyed away. "I know who you are," Crope said, the second he realized, surprising himself.

No, the blind man thought. You knew who I was. I'm not him anymore. They destroyed that man in the prison. I have no name. I have no identity. I'm as ruined on the inside as on the out. He shook his head, vehemently.

Crope frowned. Or atleast, he imagined that's what happened. "It is you, Fiyero. I know I'm not mistaken," his old friend said.

"You're wrong. They killed Fiyero. He's dead. This is just what's left," the blind man tried to say but his voice was so thick from having lost his tongue that he doubted he was understood. That particular one was self-inflicted, the thing that had set them off and lead to his current state. He bowed his head in self-loathing, for once glad that he had been so maimed. This way he couldn't see the disapproving look Crope was giving him.

Crope remained silent for awhile. The blind man thought he had left. It was best. He prefered it that way. Leave him to die. He had no will anymore.

But then Crope spoke up. "They really brought you down. What happened? On second thought, if this is the result, I don't want to know." He grabbed hold of Fiyero's arm and tried to pull him up. "Here, I'll take you to the Unionist Chapel. They'll help you there."

The blind man refused, shrank back even more. "Leave me. Forget about me."

"You're not going to be another Tibbet. I won't be party to that again."

He relaxed. So that was it. Not for him. But for past sin. Some sort of penance for earlier failure. And so he allowed it.

"Oh come now, I'm all for charity but this is a bit much," Glinda could be heard saying.

Crope lost his patience. "Show some respect," he barked at her.

But even this small thing was a trial. For both men. At some point they had put him on a machine that stretched his limbs beyond their endurance. His knees had been pulled out and had not healed as they should. This made walking difficult and painful even. He resisted again, knowing how it must be for Crope. And he certainly wasn't worth the effort.

"Stop," Crope grunted.

"Don't," the blind man insisted.

"Not going to happen," was the reply.

"Lets just go," Glinda said, growing impatient.

Crope continued to ignore her as he helped his old friend into the back of the wagon and gave him a blanket. Fiyero pulled it around himself and leaned to one side, resting against some barrels.

Crope gave him one last look and pulled himself into the dickey box with a haughty looking Glinda beside him. He shook the reins and the horse began to move at a lazy pace.

She opened her mouth to say something but he cut her off. "Spare me, don't you know who that is?"

"It's a Winkie, but what's that to me?"

"It's Fiyero," he said sharply.

"Nonsense. I'm sure most of them have markings. Besides, he wouldn't let himself come to that, now would he?" But even as she spoke, she questioned herself.