"Papa, tell us a story!"
The voice of a young Irji was full of excitement and determination as he repeatedly tapped on his father's thick thigh. The young boy's older brother, Manek, leapt to his feet.
"Yes, Papa! The one about the Witch!" Manek shouted, pulling on the older man's long brown hair.
"Boys, boys, settle down. I will tell the Witch story if you behave yourselves," A thirty-seven year old Fiyero Tigelaar looked down at his two sons with a prideful gaze. "But where's your sister? Nor loves this story."
Irji looked around while Manek pleaded with his father. "Papa, she's heard it plenty of times! Just please tell us the story!"
Fiyero sighed, tired from the incessant stubborn chatter from the kids. "Fine, let us begin."
"It was long ago, in Munchkinland. A pastor's wife sat cooking breakfast…"
As the story progressed, the chilly tower room transformed into the humble house in the country then whirled into the magnificent ivy-covered stone walls of Shiz University. The children swore they could hear the class bell ringing and the students unceasingly gossipping about whatever there was to gossip about at Shiz.
Fiyero was a wonderful storyteller; his face conveyed every unspoken emotion, his hands waving through the air as he described the Witch's powerful spells. So well trained was he in the art of storytelling that his two young sons didn't notice the tiny crack in his speech as he dramatically performed the melting of the Witch.
Afterwards, the star-struck audience clapped for their father, still in wonder as if they hadn't had heard this story before that day.
Irji climbed into his father's lap. "Papa, was she really green?" He asked, his eyes wide.
"Green as the grass on the fields," Fiyero answered, smiling weakly.
Manek, on the other hand, scoffed at his brother's question. "Irji, don't think like a monkey. That story isn't true. It's just an urban myth that Papa made up."
Fiyero certainly could not help but laugh at this. Manek sounded so matter-of-fact. In his mind, there was no green witch only because he could not see her. Irji, meanwhile, loved to believe in the unseeable. The father opened his mouth to respond to both of the boys: of course the Witch was real.
But how would he, himself, explain to his children why he knew so much about her life? He couldn't tell them that he, Fiyero Tigelaar, had loved and been loved in return by Elphaba Thropp. He couldn't speak to his kids about the passionate nights they had shared, making love under the thin sheets as the moon stared lovingly down at them from above.
Most certainly, Fiyero could not admit to Manek and Irji (nor himself for that matter) that he had been the one to cause her demise. If only he had tried a bit harder, if only he had taken her hand when she had offered it to him.
"It's too late for that now," He whispered out loud.
Manek stared at his father in confusion. "Too late for what?" He asked.
Fiyero shook his head, trying to banish Elphaba Thropp from his mind. "Nothing, kiddo. Get washed up for dinner. Your mother will have my head on a silver platter if we're late to supper for the third time this week," He ordered, kissing each boy on the head before letting them leave the attic.
Fiyero sighed as he spoke about Sarima. She was a dutiful wife indeed, but inattentive to him and inexperienced in bed. That was the shame of having married a young child, he supposed. With a groan, Fiyero stood up and crossed over to the window.
Elphaba had taken over his mind, something that happened more often than not these days. He could still see her: the soft green skin, those piercing eyes that seemed to glint with an unspoken malice as she explained her vendetta against the Wizard of Oz, and her nose. Elphaba always hated her nose, Fiyero remembered. She always thought it too large, too "in the way", but the prince would never miss an opportunity to tell her that it gave him for places for him to kiss.
"Brainless," Fiyero whispered as he felt a tear make its way down his cheek.
Why in Lurline's name was he crying? Elphaba was gone, presumed dead. She had to be dead, after that explosion.
And it's your fault, his conscience whispered to him.
He was about to fight back, about to try to convince himself that it wasn't his fault, but it was.
Of course it was. He should have taken her away, explained that this mission of hers wasn't important and she would be safe at his home in the Vinkus.
Elphaba refused, of course, and Fiyero hated her for it.
"I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!" Fiyero screamed at the top of his lungs, his fist flying out and shattering the glass in front of him.
The impact clearly shook him and he fell back onto the floor, clutching his bleeding knuckles with a resigned and tired sigh.
"I love you, Elphaba. I have always loved you."
"Fiyero?"
Sarima stood at the door, worriedly wringing her hands.
"Yes, darling?" Fiyero managed a smile for her sake.
"I heard you shouting and the glass breaking. You are alright, aren't you?" She contemplated helping him.
"Fine, dear. Go have dinner. I'll be awhile," He watched her leave and he turned back to the broken window. In a moment of creative vulnerability, Fiyero compared the shattered window to his broken life.
The one woman that he had ever loved was gone. There was no more adventure, no more adrenaline like when he would sneak into her home in the dead of the night. All that was left were three children who loved him for the sake of him being their father and a wife who had six sisters and despised him for cheating.
Oh, Sarima knew. She made it clear that she knew. She only stayed with him because she would be shunned in the village if she left.
That made Fiyero feel even guiltier, if that was even possible.
Shaking his head, he turned before he spotted a piece of parchment lying intertwined with the bloodied shards of glass. He painstakingly picked it up and almost had a heart attack at the sight of the familiar curved handwriting.
Elphaba's calligraphy was staring him in the face. Come to me, it said.
