Disclaimer: Being that this is called fanfiction, I do not own the characters or locale in question. Last sentence ganked from the text itself.

There is a purplish smog on the horizon, a dark dismal shade that reflects the rare melancholy of his gaze. He squats, cigar dangling petulantly from cupid-bow lips, and runs a hand through the murky creek water, relishing the gurgling blackness, with its premature chill, and how the ash he lets drop floats aimlessly out of sight, a grizzled funeral procession.

He exhales and shifts to stand, the straining pull on his knees an unwelcome reminder of his dwindling youth. Warmer seasons, boyish excursions, days better spent. It is a curse, this rollicking sentimentality.

"Avaric?"

Squinting up, the Margreave of Tenmeadows can almost make out the shadowy outline of his wife—a shape he finds less attractive with every passing day—perched awkwardly atop the steep incline. Glaring down at him, presumably.

Avaric bares his teeth, exaggerated canines glinting in the low light. "Yes?"

There is a long moment of loaded silence and then, begrudgingly: "You have a visitor."

Oh ho! he thinks, suppressing a throaty chuckle. And what a guest it must be, to have her in such a mood. For a moment, he almost wonders if it isn't Elphaba, come back for another round of gloom-and-doom.

But what he finds waiting for him in the parlor is not the reedy voice of discord. Rather, it is her busty counterpart, dressed to the nines in baby blues, and looking particularly—exceedingly—ravishing.

He licks his lips unconsciously and forces a stoic demeanor. "Glinda. What a surprise."

Her smile trades its beatific edge for one of solemn dignity. But her voice, like her curls, remains springy and gay. "You look well."

It is difficult, swallowing his dislike of pleasantries. "As do you." He gestures at once to a pair of wingchairs, angled to face each other. "Please, have a seat."

She sinks into one, profoundly grateful.

"Can I offer you a drink?"

"No, thank you."

He gives a careless roll of his shoulders. "Suit yourself."

Her hands fold over one another as she watches him pour a shot of some dusky brew. Perhaps it is their mutual heritage, but Glinda has always felt a sense of unspoken camaraderie between the two of them.

"Avaric," she murmurs, shedding all pretense. "There's something I need to ask you."

Wordlessly, he glances up.

"I've—I've been hearing some rather curious rumors."

"Rumors?" Avaric entices, wanting to know if his intuition will prove correct.

She takes a moment to compose herself. "It's… It's been said that you've had some…"

"Interesting dinner guests?" he meanly supplies.

Something like guilt shines in her eyes. "Yes."

"They are not completely unfounded," he admits, after a time, "these rumors."

Glinda's chin quavers with the weight of his implications.

"Of course, I might ask you to be… A little more specific."

His broad grin makes her uneasy, almost. But Avaric is nothing to fear, and she shows him as much, her regal posture seamlessly renewing, her strong jaw setting, thin lips pursing.

He laughs, full and hearty, and settles down across from her at last. "Fair enough. I have seen your Miss Elphaba. Two weeks to the date."

"Do you know—?"

"Where she was going? No. I can't keep small details in my mind, never could."