Disclaimer: I do not own Wicked.

No Son of Mine – No One Mourns the Wicked

"She always liked you more than me," Liir complained to the Monkey, unable to stop his expression from souring. As much as he liked to pretend that he was indifferent to the Witch and that her changeable moods had not affected him, in truth he was like a dog begging at the table: scrounging for any shred of affection she was willing to toss his way.

"I think she liked everyone more than me," he added stonily, "except maybe Manek and the Sisters."

The Monkey shrugged, his old wings twitching at the movement. "Liked me," Chistery agreed. "Loved you."

Liir scoffed, grimacing in reply. "I see you're still having difficulties with your homonyms," he stated blandly, recalling the way Chistery repeated strings of similar sounding words as he came to terms with language. "The word is 'loathed', Chistery, and I don't even think I garnered that much from her – that would require her actually acknowledging some sort of emotion. I was nothing. Just some random orphan that got dumped on her by the maunts. A condition on her passage to Vinkus. She had no choice but to take me with her."

Chistery shook his head, and gave Liir a sceptical look. Liir understood exactly what Chistery wasn't saying, the words taunting him cruelly: 'Nobody could make Elphaba do anything she didn't want to do. If you believe that, then you didn't know her at all.'

"I didn't. Not really," Liir answered to the unspoken remark. "And that makes me more the fool, loving her as I did and expecting her to feel the slightest inclination towards me in return. Even if it does turn out in the end that Elphaba," he said this awkwardly, not used to referring to the Witch by her given name, "was my mother and Fiyero my father, there was nothing obliging her to love me."

Chistery looked almost sympathetic, dropping a hand on Liir's shoulder in a gesture that was remarkably human. "You just not see it," he argued. "She refused . . . not want to see it . . . she worry about you. Always checked on you. Always loved you."

Liir just smiled at him painfully. "She would be proud to see you now," he told the Monkey. "Lies are probably the ultimate proof of sentience. You lie as well as any man I know."

"And you are as stubborn as Mule I know," Chistery countered, considering that proof in itself of Liir's relation to the witch. "Why do you refuse to accept truth?"

Liir shook his head. "I may not have known her, but I know what she was not.

"But thank you, Chistery, for caring enough to lie to me," he said as he stood, stretching his legs for a moment. "I should see Nanny before I go."

"She sleeping now," Chistery told him, reluctantly dropping the subject of Elphaba and any possible regard she might have felt. "You should leave her. She be better later – this might be last time you see her."

Liir doubted that would be the case – Nanny was already so old, she'd likely outlive them all. "I suppose I can sleep myself," he suggested all the same, his voice tired and worn. "Wake me when she's ready for me."

He turned slowly and was on his way. He trudged along, first making his way towards the room he had occasionally shared with Nor, then changing his mind at the last moment and heading towards the Witch's tower instead. The talk with Chistery had opened old wounds and dredged up old feelings of longing and loneliness – of wishing for comfort from the one person he knew was incapable of providing it.

He couldn't remember grieving for Elphaba; he had hardly given himself the chance. His life has been so full of quests and missions over the past few years that there wasn't the time to simply stop and think about what had happened – to think about how much he missed her even though she was hardly around most of the time. The slightest glance from her had been worth more than any other interaction he'd been privy to.

The starving dog analogy felt almost painfully appropriate.

Standing inside the room was at first a strangely alien feeling. He had spent much of his youth on the other side of the door longing for admission into her little secluded world – into her life – or at least at the bottom of the stairs working up the courage to move as close as she would allow him. Now she was gone, and the room seemed empty and bland without her presence. There was no reason to want to be in the tower without Elphaba to fill the space.

He glanced around the room, his eyes falling on the various objects he associated with his witchy guardian. There were books – lots of books – and dark pieces of cloth strewn over open windows. There was a table set up with the various tools of her research and little pots of herbs and oils for her spells. There was a single chair sat near the door and a pile of straw covered by a blanket that had probably served as a bed, although he knew she rarely slept. There was a closet against one side hanging open to reveal her tiny stock of clothing.

He moved slowly around the room, pawing over every item and feeling stupidly sentimental. He had to laugh at himself, scorning his own sentiment. He had stupidly attached himself to Elphaba and now he was attaching himself to her things in a sad attempt to ease the sense of loss. None of it really meant anything to him. He had no memories associated with any of it, no reason to consider it so dearly, and yet every item tugged at his heartstrings. It was all just junk, but it was her junk and it was all that was left of her.

Liir stopped at the cupboard, tears stinging his eyes as he looked at the dresses that hung there. He pulled one free of its hanger and laid it down on the makeshift bed, before laying down beside it and resting his head on the bosom as he had longed to do in his youth. He took a deep breath through his nose, recognizing the scent that still clung to the fabrics after nearly seven years. Thick tears fell silently down his cheeks, soaking the dark brocade. It had been so long since he had let himself think of her, and it all crashed down upon him painfully, tearing itself to the forefront of his mind.

He breathed in deeply once again, nuzzling into the fabric and thinking back to the journey to Kiamo Ko when she had allowed him to lay his head on her shoulder as he slept. The scent of her that lingered in the room settled him to a degree, giving him enough calm to close his eyes, and dream.

A young novice stood alone in the chapel, carefully lighting candles for the service. She daydreamed as she worked, the menial task occupying very little of her thoughts. She dreamed of being stolen away from the chapel of Saint Glinda by some King of Thieves and being surrounded by jewels as he tried to convince her to be his queen. She thought of all her friends whose parents had not sent them away to become a maunt and jealously wondered if Salvo would keep his promise to wait for her escape.

She thought of everything and nothing, but her wandering thoughts were halted as she heard a strangled sob echo through the chapel.

"Who's there?" she called cautiously, holding out a candle to light the space around her.

Another cry sounded and the novice walked cautiously towards a small alcove where an altar was set up in tribute of their patron saint. She gasped at what she saw. A green figure was crouched in front of the altar, but for once the colour of this woman's skin was not the thing that had the audience gaping in surprise.

"I –I . . . stay right there," she told the woman, her eyes widening at the sight of so much blood staining woman's hands, face, and clothing. "I'll get Sister Doctor."

"Mother Superior!" she cried as she ran through the mauntuary. "There's a woman in the chapel. I think she's dying. There was so much blood."

The Superior Maunt moved quickly, collecting both Sister Doctor and Sister Apothecary on her way. Like the young novice, the three of them were shocked at the amount of blood on the woman, and the two medical maunts rushed forward to wipe it away. On closer inspection, they found dried blood caked onto her clothes and in her hair, but the only wounds they could find were the two rivulets cut down the sides of her face. There was no other source, but there was so much blood, and it was not her own.

"Child, stop," the Superior Maunt commanded of the crying woman. She could see the source of the wounds was self-inflicted – her own tears were burning into her skin and causing her more pain. "You'll only hurt yourself more."

"Let me be," the woman sobbed loudly. "I hardly feel it." She sobbed even louder and the maunts doubted her words. How could someone cry like that if they didn't feel any pain? The sounds she was making were so haunting and distressing that it seemed as though they could feel the pain themselves.

"Yero," she muttered in her sobs. "Oh, Yero my hero."

"She's manic," Sister Doctor diagnosed. "You should give her something to subdue her," she suggested to Sister Apothecary. "She's not going to let us treat her in this state."

Sister Apothecary looked to the Superior Maunt for confirmation and the woman nodded. The sister disappeared momentarily, returning with a syringe of milky coloured liquid, which she injected into the green skinned woman. She started for a moment, a silent scream on her lips, before suddenly flopping down to the ground unconscious.

"What did you give her?" Sister Doctor asked out of curiosity.

"Milkweed."

"Isn't that dangerous?" asked the young novice who had watched the whole scene with great interest.

The two sisters looked at Mother Superior for a moment but said nothing. Eventually the Superior Maunt spoke, looking evenly at the young novice as she spoke in a calm tone. "Miss Theresa, I think the time has come for you depart from this place," the maunt suggested. "You have made such progress, but I think there is nothing more that we can do for you at Saint Glinda's."

"I-I guess," the young novice, Theresa, replied. "Wh-what will happen to he-"

"She will be looked after," the maunt replied. "No need to turn your mind to it, Miss Theresa," she added. Somehow there was a threatening chill to the words – it seemed more a demand than a suggestion – and Theresa could do nothing but nod her head in assent.

"Very well," the Superior Maunt agreed. "I'll have someone pack your things. I hope the Unnamed God treats you well, Miss Theresa."

As the three maunts walked away, taking the comatose body of the green woman with them, Theresa couldn't help but feel as though her silence had been bought. And although she felt bad for whatever would become of this woman, she realized that nothing was too high a price for freedom.

Not even her conscience.

~ to be continued ~

So this is one of those things that have been sitting on my computer for awhile. The intention was for it to cover the events of Elphaba's pregnancy, but I never managed to get beyond the second chapter, so I will simply have to accept that this fic wants to be a two-shot and leave it at that.

Let me know what you think.