Greetings, people of cyberspace and beyond. The greatest author in the world has finally decided to grace the internet with his writing prowess. However, he changed his mind at the last second and couldn't make it, so you guys get me instead. I'm sorry…Anyways, this will be my first foray into the "Wicked" section of fan fiction. I have read both Maguire books several times, listen to the Broadway cast recording multiple times a day, and am currently planning an epic, cross-country road trip to go see the musical on Broadway this summer. Wow, this is a long authors note. I wonder if anybody is still reading this or if they all just skipped down to the story? Hello? Hello?

This story is a blending of book and musical. There's a clever little saying for that, but I can't remember it right now. I own nothing but the story idea and maybe some of the OC's. Unless somebody else has already thought of this. In which case, I apologize. Onwards!!

"The men are drunk and on the prowl. They've been riled up by that dragon of the magic clock, you know, and are looking for Frex to kill him. The clock said to." Wicked- Pg 18

The first thing Frex noticed was the smell. It was a horrible mix of rotten food and decaying earth, the classic signs of an almost abandoned root cellar. The light of the day had been reduced to nothing but a faint memory on the horizon, and Frex wished for nothing more than for this horrible day to be over.

He had lost. Plain and simple as that. He had battled with all his might against the infernal "pleasure faith" for the souls of Rush Margins, and lost. It was all because of that damn clock! It apparently took nothing more than a clever tic-tok beast and a few meager puppets to completely banish his parishioners into the ever burning flame and darkness, away from the greatness of the Unnamed God.

Over the course of 24 hours, Frex had abandoned his child-heavy wife, marched numerous miles over harsh territory, been unforgivably embarrassed by an infernal…machine, been beaten by his congregation with absolutely no remorse, and to top it all off, this widow expected him to hide like a scared little child in this…this filth?

Unforgivable!

Frex straightened up slightly at this final indignation. He was Brother Frexspar, seventh son of a seventh son! He was a unionist minister in the service of the Unnamed God, and descended from six ministers in a row! He had been beaten, bloodied, and bruised by his own church! But damn it all if he was going to spend the night cowering under a potato sack in this muck and grime while his beautiful Melena brought forth his first son into the world.

Without another word, Frex turned on his heel and began the long march back to Wend Hardings. When the widow turned around to usher the man into relative safety, all she saw was a glimpse of Frex disappearing into the gloom.

"Fool of a man!" the woman cried out. "You'll be dead and hanging before the morrow sun rises! Dead, you hear?!"

Her frantic shouts chilled Frex to his very core, and sent un-Godly shivers racing up and down his spine. But his mind was made up, and may the Unnamed God be with the man who stood between him and his beloved tonight.

Melena screamed into the night. So help her, she would murder that man for doing this to her. These were her last thoughts before finally accepting the beautiful darkness, and the relief it offered to her.

The cold was harsh and biting, his bruises already burning and screaming to stop, turning the normally pleasant walk into a forced march of pain and suffering. Gritting his teeth, Frex pressed ever onwards, determined not to let the fools that had formed into a drunken mob catch him or Melena on this darkest of nights.

Stopping for a moment by a twisted hawthorn tree, Frex leaned against the cool bark to catch his breath. His mind began to wander, going over the previous nights events in his head, going over his failure again and again and again…

Frex awoke with a start. He realized in a panic that he had drifted off while leaning against the tree, his body and mind completely spent. His head spinning, Frex tried to get up and hurry onwards, but realized that something was wrong. He couldn't move. He shouldn't have been that tired. Straining with all his willpower, Frex fought back from the brink of unconsciousness, forcing his senses to adjust to the gloom of the night.

He was tied up. Heavy rope had been bound around his hands and feet, and a gag shoved into his mouth. He was standing on some sort of platform…

With a heavy heart, Frex realized that he was back in Rush Margins. The mob had caught him. He heard murmuring and the occasional cough, but beyond that, the night was silent. The only light was provided by various torches held aloft by the drunken masses, causing an eerie glow to be cast upon the tied up minister.

"Hang him!"

The cry went out, slowly at first, then louder and louder as more of the mob picked up on the death chant.

"Hang him! Hang him! Hang him!"

Frex cried out for the last time in silent prayer. "By your holy and terrible power, may whatever grace and favor be given me be passed unto my child. Let them not suffer in this world as I have."

As a hooded man stepped forward, Frex's eyes landed upon the woman who had offered him shelter in the root cellar only hours earlier. Oh, what he would give to go back and accept that offer now!

The woman merely smiled and called out to him. Her voice seemed to carry above the crowds murderous chanting, as if it was intended only for the doomed man.

"I told you that you would hang by the morrow. And Old Mother Yackle is always right."

A sudden fall, a sharp crack, and a last cry of remorse, and Brother Frexspar was violently taken from this plane of existence.

At the same moment, Melena gave a final scream and a certain young green girl was brought forth into this cruel world. She cocked her head, as if listening to the screams of her parents, unhampered by distance, blend together for one last cry into the night.