Disclaimer: I don't own Wicked, nor the characters.

The sky bled tears the day he left.

The sun sat heavily above the horizon as his boots crunched on the gravel road. The burlap sack that held his few belongings swung sloppily at his side, tethered by the firm and unyielding grasp of his rough and callused fingers.

The horizon was on fire, air static with the screams that funneled from the burning sister city. Those who were, until recently, sitting idly on their shabby porches turned away to hide behind crooked screened doors. Gaunt and dirty faces squatting on the streets disappeared into the shadows.

The dirt road lay abandoned and silent except for the solitary sound of his boots scraping on gravel, an unshaven man picking through a garbage can, and the terrified screams that swarmed from the neighboring metropolis.

Fiyero paused, wiping the sweat and grime from his dark eyes. He could smell it now: the death and the fear. The stench of burning flesh and structures filled the air, pushing all life from its path.

Covering his nose with his shirt, he tried to block the roaring sound of terror that pressed in on his ears. A great cloud of smoke and ash rose to the west, and the sun dipped its toes into the blood of the dying. The screaming continued, the audible sound of destroyed homes and families; cries and howling nourished by the gentle hand of the Rapture.

The heavens were raw. The sun ducked below the horizon, and night swept his arms around the emblazoned city. Building by burning building, the roaring screams turned to static, then to whispering, and finally ceased altogether into thick, devastating silence.

Fiyero did his best to ignore the fading sounds of terror as he carried himself from their death to his destiny.

A/n: Thank you very kindly for reading. I will have the next chapter up shortly.