Note: Ah. Here I am. In the middle of exam season, procrastinating and writing a story. I'm such a success, aren't I? Anyways, I just wanted to explore the relationship between Frex and Elphaba, bookverse, for a moment. After all, I find he was much more accommodating to her than portrayed in the musical. Anyway.

Disclaimer: Though this may greatly surprise you, I don't own Wicked. Nuh uh. Way unexpected, eh?

Green had always been Frex's favourite colour. When he was a boy, just a young Munchkin in the land of gargantuan proportion, he wouldn't have anything any other way. He loved the scenery of farmland: the fields of billowing, tall grasses in their emerald hue, the deep sea green of the tree leaves and pine needles at the forest edge.

His cloaks always required a hint, if not a bold statement, of olive. His mother always complained that her son clashed terribly, but he insisted that everything must be green.

He dreamt of someday travelling to the Emerald City, what with its grand images of the colour Frex had been so engrossed in. The Emerald City became his heart's desire: an entire city shrouded in the magnificence and dignity the colour portrayed. He heard of the colossal palaces, the majestic structures, the endless gardens and the traditional lime dyed clothing still worn of specific days.

Frex had been mesmerized by the stories of the city; as travellers passed commonly among the area he resided. It was custom for people to come and go in the modest abode his father afforded; they were never unfamiliar in Munchkinland, and, of course, needed a place to stay.

The multitude of handsome Gillikin businessmen, strangely charming Vinkus traders, and odd Quadling backpackers who tried to give gifts in thanks for their inclusion in the residence had soon been more interesting than uncomfortable to Frex. He developed a knack for weeding out every single tale – the truth and the less-than-truth - of the marvellous city.

But his aspirations to become a minister overpowered his foolish boyhood fantasies as he grew into adulthood, and he soon abandoned those thoughts. His old obsession was suppressed, or muffled, though he did love to incorporate such a rich colour in his attire or belongings. And as life progressed, he had become a hard worker in his field, preaching as intensely and sincerely as his disposition would allow him.

And then he'd met Melena. A vision. A beauty. A goddess of her own accord: not only beautiful, but possessing a certain wit, and cunning that captured his heart. A knot would form in his chest whenever the lady would come around – if you could call her a lady at all. She was an unruly, young thing, and very intent on being won over by Frex.

Every trait of the woman was new to him, as though she were a magician, or a sorceress. She would pull surprise out of surprise from her magic hat, leaving Frex falling to his feet. He'd quickly established that he needed the woman as his wife, no matter how untame she was. She didn't disagree, proclaiming that her intentions all along were, indeed, to become his.

Just like that? It was that easy? Frex remembered thinking, as he'd readied himself for a battle of some sort, though he didn't know of what nature. He'd expected other suitors, or at least a disagreement from his darling Melena.

Instead, she had slipped her delicate, bony fingers into his hands, a smile playing on the edge of her lips, insisting with all her soul that marriage was what she'd wanted. She had been so full of youth and ignorance, that although Frex wanted badly to wed her, he felt it was established all too quickly.

And obstacle to pass through, much to Frex's relief, was Melena's father, the Eminent Thropp. A hard-nosed, world-weary man, he was already aging upon Frex's arrival into his life. His hair was graying and upon his face were imprinted frown lines.

"I don't expect you to be able to humble my daughter," he stated since the beginning, "even I have failed to subdue her wily spirit."

"With all due respect, sir, you needn't worry. Though it sounds idealistic, our love is capable of overcoming the darkest of hours."

"Oh?" The Eminent Thropp replied, and smirk on his face. It was a look that would be genetic, that Melena was more than capable of imitating, "What dark hours do you speak of? You have known one another for a considerable time, yes, but I neither see nor hear of any squabbles or battles overcome."

"With all due respect, sir-"

"There is nothing to worry about, dear boy. I love my daughter very much, despite her raging disobedience. Whatever will bring her happiness, I will support, even if it is marrying you, and so you have my blessing. What I mean to tell you is that she is somewhat of an unfinished song: running amok, purposeless, as it were. Her ridiculousness will never be drained from her… so caution yourself."

The Eminent Thropp laid a large, steady hand on Frex's shoulder, his wedding band shining gold in the sunlight. Encrusted upon the outline was the meek twinkling of many tiny emerald jewels.

- - -

To say he was flustered at the notion of a baby was an understatement. Frex rarely found himself in the company of infants, and therefore knew not the obligatory leadership he was to claim. His father had been easy going, but strict with corporal punishment, and Frex couldn't decipher, or thought to know how he would become a good father.
He'd held and blessed babies as a minister, but nothing more. When he'd told Melena of his fears, she laughed at him, as usual. She reassured him that he would know what to do – and they would, of course, hire assistance.

Frex was absent for the majority of the past year, and he and Melena would share their time in almost any hour they were together, though he had his doubts. Mathematics was never an aptitude, but the time added up from when Melena was said to be due.

There was, however, a great many causes that required tending, leaving very little time for him to contemplate, nor care for, the baby's paternity. Many modern unionists were altering the faith greatly, and many Ozians, in general, were skeptical of the faith altogether. He figured he would have to trust his spectacle of a wife until the storm blew over.

The Time Dragon Clock made this task especially difficult, brewing danger for both Frex and Melena the day the baby was expected. Frex sometimes still felt the way his heart had thumped against his chest, threatening to break through the skin and run away. In a panic, he sought out his labouring wife with grave results.

When he laid eyes upon the baby, a multitude of images flew past his eyes. It made him so dizzy, and he could barely comprehend where he was, or what was happening.

He saw the green of the grasses back at his comfortable abode in the Munchkin farmlands. He saw the billowing of his very first cloak; the way it shone in that special tint that excited him so. There were the pine needles that stuck to his clothes when he'd rolled down hills or trudge along the forest. He remembered the way the notion Emerald city would dance in his head as a tall, blonde Gillikin man told him stories by the fire.

He saw his wife dancing at their wedding; the way he'd thought his love for her was like a sorceress's spell. The way it (and she) was like magic. He began to feel drunk on the memories and visualizations, hearing his mother complain about grass stains. He heard his child self answer that if the stains were green, they were welcome to him. He recalled the sting of the wooden spoon on his backside.

He saw the Time Dragon Clock's hands as they moved from a minute to, to midnight. He saw the mob following swift on his feet; and, for a moment, an out of body experience…

He was running from the mob, but it was not him. It was not him, and it was not his fear. Frex reasoned that if he had just died at birth, all this trouble wouldn't exist. The chest heaved as he held the skirts of his frock up to aid him in his quest for freedom. His frock? He was wearing a frock…

And then his eyes focused back on the baby.

Frex owned not another article of green again.

I decided the entire story was too long for one chapter, and that anyone reading would become very frustrated or bored. "Cree," you would say to me, utterly flustered, "must you insist upon sucking with your chapter distribution?"
"No," I would answer, "Because this conversation does not exist, via my splitting of this story into two chapters. And the fact that I'm also having an imaginary conversation with a reader who is nonexistent plays a role."
The next one is a long one, just so you're warned.