The warmth of his eyes. The warmth of his smile. The warmth of his hands. The warmth of his heart.

She missed them. They were how she had told him she loved him best. There were other ways to be sure, but none so deep and deep-heart-welled as this. Elphaba knew she was no poet. For all her cleverness and her sharp tongue, she would never uphold that vain pretense. There was little she could do to do justice to such a thing as love in words. Leave that to the masters and the troubadours.

Her fingers trembled for a moment, they like the last of fall's slender leaves resisting a force as willful and unseen autumn's breath. They moved by no sentient will of her own, but by the memory of him unforgettably seared bone deep, the love of him willingly branded soul deep.

The Witch gave a soft, wry breath of laughter. A soul. She had always doubted that she had a soul. But he had made her uncertain of her certainty in her own futile hollowness. He had made her begin to feel deeply – more deeply than she ever had for anything or anyone in her life. Or at least more deeply than she had allowed herself to ever feel before. But his presence had made something beautiful take root somewhere in the labyrinth that was her being. He had made it so, damn him, and it (whatever it was) had shaken her. He had, she realized. He had grown within her. He had taken root quietly, becoming a part of her in some inexplicable way so that now she felt surely, damn him again for shattering her hollow confidence, that she would be still whole and strong but somehow less if he left her. And she knew she did not ever want to feel less again, for with him it was as if her vision cleared, the grime on the mirror cleared away and she could see everything that she might ever be. And what she saw was wonderful. He lit her beautifully in a way she never knew she needed – she gave shade and tone to his brightness. And without him – without him, she'd be…what? A little darker.

She stood before the mirror again, its warped surface showing her everything she didn't want to see anymore. Everything that betrayed the presence of her Achilles' Heel. Everything that showed she felt. She forced herself to look with a shuddering breath of resignation. Her gaze into the mirror was defeat and triumph at once. A fallen Amazon goddess stared back at her as she studied the mirror's depths. Her reddened eyes still brilliantly glassy with unshed tears (gods! Did she still have tears left to shed?) glimmered back at her, her thick lashes still wet, her cheeks flushed, damp, stinging. And her wild hair loose – which she knew but would rarely admit to herself, she left down for him.

And now he knew she was not perfect. She smiled at that thought. The smile was a bitter one. It was a wonder he had ever had the notion at all. But then, that was part of his charm and she would never have him any other way.

And Elphaba could not help but wonder – did he still love her as he had before? Could he? After all she'd said. All she'd done.

He was distant in a strange way – different. More somber.

And she missed her smiling diamond prince who'd feel, who'd be without inhibition.

He'd held her once, not so long ago, his warm hands curling about her slight waist, fingers flickering up her back with all the quiet intensity and effect of fire, and she'd seen it in his eyes – she'd seen it come back, felt it in his touch. And then it was gone again and she longed for it back. Ached for it, thirsted for it in a way she had for nothing else. She thought she saw a glimmer of that selfsame wanting in his own eyes, a spark and ember and reflection of her own, and that alone gave her hope.

In the mirror as in a dream she saw him again, his face like the sun, his dark eyes bright with love, with spirit – with the man she knew. His strong arms wrapped about her, welcome soft and steadfast and sure. They warmed her to her bones and she could hear his heart beat and in that instant felt home again. She shivered with longing, with love, with something deeper and wiser than purely passion at his touch and stretched against him like a cat.

::Don't lie to yourself, Elphaba, you fool. He'll never see you so again.::

And the ghost of him faded silently away and dark Melancholy slipped quietly and morosely back in into the room before the door could shut behind him. Hello, old friend. The Witch sighed.

Turning from her lonely glass twin with a shudder, she bit her lip, flushing the coral pinkish bronze with worry. Maybe it was her fault. For not explaining, for not preparing. All she knew was that she wanted him back, wanted him to love her with all the tenderness, all the sincerity, all the intensity, all the passion he ever had.

The Witch turned to the suddenly to the mirror again, leaning on its cool surface, pressing her fingertips to it. Her half whispered words left small puffs of fog on the mirror's cool surface, were barely breathed aloud; as if perhaps by voicing them so softly she would not hope so much for the nearly impossible.

"Let me come back, Fiyero. Please. I miss you. I need you. Yero my hero…come back…."