He admired her elegance in ordinary things; in bending to extinguish the reluctantly accepted Lurlinemas candles, in braiding with deft green hands her dark shining hair, in studying her lethal diagrams.
Treason herself lay in his arms, and was the only thing he knew to be real and true.
Two days after Lurlinemas, Fiyero watched the sky begin to lighten ever so slowly through the small slice of window left uncovered by Elphaba's curtains.
She stirred slightly against him. He loved the way they slept, completely entwined in one another. But in the early half-light, whispers of the past haunted him. Morrible's speech right after a dazed, sluggish Glinda had returned, alone, to Shiz…
A dangerous, twisted, creature…
Malformed in mind as well as body
Delusions and paranoia paired with terrifying, unnatural power…
And later. Witch. Terrorist. Murderess. Evil. He loathed himself for the very thought, but could it be true, any of it? Could those wonderful, wonderful, hands have killed? Those sweet lips taunted the dying? Those clear eyes looked on coldly at men struggling in the throes of death?
She moved, waking: she lifted her head from his chest to his shoulder, slender arms encircling him.
"What is it, Yero?" she asked drowsily. Even half-asleep, she could read him.
He gazed into her eyes, hazy with the vulnerability of sleep, and knew for certain that he held not Treason, not Terror, not Murder; he held in his arms Truth and Integrity, Beauty and Hope; the only remaining vestige of good in Oz, in a bony green package.
He kissed her deeply and forever vanquished his doubts.