Alas...I have finally been able to update. Sorry for the haitus, but I'm opening a new show. I hope you'll read and review, as we're almost to the end. ;-)

Chapter 20

For a very long time, no one said anything. Mae's living room was once again filled with palpable, awkward silence. Some of them stared at Liir or Fiyero, others studied their hands or the floor.

Eventually, after an interminable amount of time, Mae spoke up, saying, "Well, I'm certain we all have things to do…and the question of Dorothy seems to have been answered, so…"

And with that, she headed towards the door. The others in the room followed, responding to the hint of a command in Mae's voice. Adrian helped a very pregnant Tessy up the stairs. Emily and Henry took Dorothy upstairs, as well, and Wilbur headed outside. Then, only Fiyero, Liir, and Elphaba remained. They studied each other for a long moment, none of them sure exactly what to say.

Finally, Elphaba said softly, "I…I know this is absolutely not the way either of you ever imagined meeting one another…and, I'm sorry…"

Liir looked shocked, to hear Elphaba make such an admission, or perhaps just to hear her express emotion.

Finally, Fiyero collected himself enough to speak. He crossed to the sofa, and sat across from his son, saying, "I'm certain, especially considering that Elphaba had to leap you out of Oz to be here, that this is not what you expected to happen today…"

Clearing his throat, Liir said, "Considering that I've spent the past few weeks fighting a war, a war that I didn't even understand, I have very little left in me with which to feel surprised."

Elphaba was struck by the wisdom with which he spoke. When they'd last interacted, almost two years previous, Liir had been whiny and indecisive. This young man before her was barely a shadow of that young boy.

She wrung her hands for a minute, and then said, "I've been nothing of a mother to you, Liir. I've never even admitted to birthing you. I never told you about…Fiyero. And…I'll admit, I'm not much better at nurturing, now. It escapes me, I suppose…"

Liir shrugged, "I understand. You never wanted a child. I ruined the affair. I see why you would resent me."

Elphaba felt a tug at her heart, "There was…a lot more going on then just a ruined affair."

Liir looked at her, his expression somewhere between wounded and angry.

Taking a deep breath, Fiyero spoke up, "Neither one of us behaved very well, Liir. We were both impulsive and careless. We're incredibly imperfect. Still…we claim you."

Liir gave a sad chuckle, "You don't need to claim me, when I'm nearly grown. I've fought a war, for Ozsakes."

"Against me," Elphaba added, "You fought a war against me…and, as much as I care about the cause of freedom in Oz…I suppose I don't blame you…for opposing me..."

She struggled, and Liir looked at his hands.

After another minute, he said, "I had no idea what I was fighting for. I've never known…what side I was supposed to be on…"

Elphaba rubbed her eyes, "I know…"

"There's no need agonizing. I'm raised, now. We can all walk away, if that's easier," Liir stated.

Elphaba gave him a quick look, and then wrung her hands again. She started to feel a bit of panic, and wasn't exactly sure why.

"I just," she started, "I mean, I know you don't need a mother, now. And I'm ill-suited, certainly, but…"

Elphaba rubbed her eyes again, and Fiyero could see her struggling. Noticing the trembling in her hands, he stood and crossed to her. Taking her hands, he looked into her conflicted, brown eyes. Then, he took her face in his hands and kissed her softly, saying, "Remember, this time, I'm here. Don't make yourself sick," Fiyero looked at her intently.

Knowing he was referring to her paroxysm, Elphaba took a breath. She felt better, touching him. After a moment, she glanced back at Liir. The hard indifference on his face was replaced with something between surprise and uncertainty. He stared at his parents, holding each other and, very slowly, he smiled in spite of himself.

In the guest quarters, Bert and Mary still lay in the bed together, almost oblivious to the world around them. Mary had tearstains on her face, and Bert carefully wiped away the tears when they fell.

After another minute, he finally said, "I've never seen you cry, Mary…"

Mary drew a long breath, "I know…I suppose the tears are because…you have to see me this way. Because I've turned out to be so horribly…imperfect."

"Mary," Bert said softly, "how could you ever think I wanted you to be perfect?"

"That's who I am, Bert. I am practically perfect. I choose what is prudent over what is frivolous. I put aside sentiment to focus on what needs to be done. I make wise choices. I give everything to my work. I do not need to be coddled."

"That's an awfully difficult way to live," Bert stated.

"But it's why you love me," Mary argued, "You love the perfection. You love the impossible fantasy of Mary Poppins."

Bert looked at her, and said, "That's not why I love you, Mary."

Mary scoffed, "You wouldn't love the reality of me, Bert."

Two more tears slid down her cheeks, and she started to raise her hand to wipe them away. Wincing in pain, she stopped.

Bert wiped the tears, and argued, "We've done this before, and yes, I do."

Giving him a harsh look, Mary said, "I'm an orphan, Bert. Or, at least, I'm abandoned. I have no grand beginnings. I may have a noble purpose, but I can never live up to what you've made of me in your head."

Watching her, and holding her, Bert said, "And where do you think I came from, Mary Mine? My parents are long gone, and I spent my childhood in the streets. I'm no perfect prize."

Mary shook her head, "Don't love me, Bert. Don't rationalize it. You're in love with a fantasy, and I will disappoint you."

Bert took a moment, and said, "We all disappoint each other, sometimes. That's the best part of love, when you recognize the flaws, and love someone anyway."

Mary looked up at him, studying him with watery, very blue eyes. She looked very vulnerable, as though her walls had been beaten down. After another moment, she said, "You're very wise, Bert. More so than I've given you credit for. I don't know how I've never appreciated that before…"

Bert smiled, and said, "I try, sometimes," he paused, "And I imagine that it must be a great burden, to be perfect all the time…"

There was another quiet moment, with both of them studying each other, and the weight of her perfection was evident in Mary's eyes.

Then, Bert asked carefully, "Mary Mine…may I kiss you?"

Mary's eyes were conflicted, but she nodded.

So Bert leaned in and kissed her mouth, very gently. Yet he lingered, hoping she could feel the pounding of his heart. When he pulled back, there were fresh tears on her face.

Wiping them again, he asked fearfully, "What's wrong?"

Sniffing, Mary admitted hoarsely, "We made love, Bert. I cannot deny it anymore. I was with you…I seduced you. And I wanted you…more than I've ever wanted anything. And I'm sorry, because I hurt you. You are my best friend, and I'm afraid I've ruined that, by trying to protect it."

"Mary," Bert argued, "you will always have my friendship. No matter what."

They looked at each other for a long moment, searching for more words.

Clearing her throat softly, Mary struggled as she went on, "And…I'd never been with a man...before you, Bert. I am the master of what I do. I am strong, unyielding, and I know how to lead, how to make others look at themselves and find their best. But…I've never let anyone touch me. Not that way. I've never been that…vulnerable."

Bert looked at her, and asked, "Because of the bruises?"

She nodded slightly.

After a time, Bert hesitantly posed the most difficult question, "Mary…I have to ask…did you intend to fall from the sky? Did you do that…because of me?"

She looked away, warring with her pride. Eventually, she said, "Yes, Bert."

"That's quite an emotional response," Bert observed, "for someone who doesn't allow sentiment to muddle her thinking."

Mary met his eyes again, and stated, "You've muddled my thinking, Bert. The moment I crawled into your bed, I became impossibly muddled."

Bert smiled just slightly, and kissed her softly once again.

Liir said very little to Elphaba over the next two days. He stayed, because he had very little choice, and the prospect of returning, alone, to war-torn Oz, was not appealing. However, he kept to himself, helping however he could and otherwise looking distant and thoughtful. Elphaba watched him, surprised at how he'd changed, and how he'd managed to grow up so effectively without her.

It wasn't until the third day that she realized Liir was talking to Fiyero. She caught them behind the barn, just off the room Mae and Wilbur had converted into a laboratory and workspace for her. Elphaba stared at them, half-pleased, half-dumbfounded, as she watched them talking. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but they seemed at ease with each other. It caused a twinge of jealousy, and another wave of regret, as Elphaba realized yet again how horrible a mother she'd been.

Fiyero had found her a few hours later, sitting in their bedroom and staring out at the setting sun. Crossing to her, he asked, "Something worrying you?"

Elphaba looked at him, her expression both hard and sad at the same time.

Fiyero sighed, "It's Liir, isn't it?"

Elphaba looked out the window, saying, "I saw you talking…"

Fiyero sat down across from her, "Isn't that a good thing? I think…we're connecting a little…"

Chewing her lip, Elphaba answered, "Yes, it is. But I'm afraid I've burnt the bridge between him and me. He can forgive you, because you didn't ignore and mistreat him."

Fiyero studied her, his dark eyes compassionate, and said, "He's a lot like you, Fae. He dwells on things. He's been abandoned and had to make his own life. You know, better than anyone, how hard that is…"

Elphaba looked at her hands, and did not disagree.

Fiyero leaned forward and took her hands in his, "This will take time. And, fortunately, that's something we have. We've got time, Fae. You've been fighting for Oz. Maybe, now, it's time to be still, and know your son."

"He hardly feels like my son," Elphaba whispered.

"I know," Fiyero agreed, "He's not an infant. He doesn't need to be fed and diapered. He's nearly a man. Look at him that way. Talk to him that way. Listen to him that way."

Elphaba met his eyes, knowing he was right. Then, she kissed him fiercely, because he was her rock, her safe place, and her shelter. She'd come back to rest in his arms, and he held her, as always.

The next two months felt like a slow progression for everyone on the Proctor farm. As summer washed over Amber Plains with warm breezes and sprouting grains, they all changed in their own ways. Tessy grew more round and heavy with pregnancy, and spent her days on Mae's porch, talking with Elphaba and shelling peas. Liir and Fiyero slowly built a bond, working side by side in the fields or in the barns. Elphaba went back and forth to Oz, helping Glinda heal a broken, yet recovering Oz. And Mary healed as well. With the help of Dorothy's touch, her body healed from impossible injury, and she grew stronger. She sat up and moved, working her limbs and joints. As she healed, she also talked.

Bert sat with her every day, telling her stories of good times they'd shared in London, to keep her spirits up. And in between his stories, Mary allowed herself to talk about her life. She often stared out the window, as though it would be difficult to look Bert in the eyes while she talked. It was still apparent that she was very uncomfortable being so exposed, but she talked.

Mary told of her childhood, as she'd explained it to Elphaba. She told how little she knew of her parents, and how Elphaba's explanation of what it meant to be a child of both worlds had been Mary's first hint at how she'd come to be. She talked about Sister Amelia, and how she'd been raised. On one particularly warm afternoon, when she'd finally been able to sit in a chair, Mary told Bert about discovering her magick, and leaping into Oz for the first time.

Bert listened, enraptured, for more than two months. He savored every moment, every word, as Mary unraveled the mystery of herself. Yet, somehow, with every revelation, she became more impossibly fascinating to him. And he knew, in his heart, it was because he loved her. Mary could tell him she'd spent her childhood milking cows or shoveling manure, and he would think it was amazing. She was amazing. She was strong, enduring, and wholly committed to leaving a mark on the world. In that way, she would always be practically perfect. Mary could weave good from bad, order from chaos, and hope from despair. That was as close to a perfect way of handling life as one could come, Bert believed.

So, he wasn't one bit surprised, when Tessy went into labor in late June, that Mary was there. She'd dressed herself in working clothes and pinned her hair in a functional knot. The others were shocked to see her on her feet, offering to help, but Bert expected nothing less of her. And neither did, Elphaba, it seemed. With a bit of a smirk, Elphaba shooed the others away, and she, Mae, and Mary set about helping Tessy give birth.

It was a long, arduous process, as was expected. The pains lasted most of the day and into the night, and the men took to waiting in the living room of Mae's house. They rested in shifts, in case one of them needed to set out to find the doctor. None of them wanted Adrian to have to leave, should anything go wrong. Things seemed to move normally, if slowly, however, and sometime in the wee hours, there was the faint cry of an infant.

Mae came out of the downstairs room where Tessy lay, and announced to a sleep deprived room of people that the baby was a boy.

"He's fine," she said softly, giving permission for all of them to get some real sleep.

The women helped clean up the mess of childbirth, and watched the baby until both he and his mother fell into a much needed sleep. Then, Mae offered to lay on the cot in the room while Mary and Elphaba freshened themselves up. There were no complaints, and both women went to their quarters.

Some time later, when Elphaba had changed her clothes and washed up, she went looking for Mary. Before she slept, herself, she wanted to make sure Mary had not overworked herself. Checking in the room off the kitchen where Mary still slept, Elphaba looked around. Something felt a bit off, and it took her a moment to realize what it was. The room was barren. The traces of Mary were gone, and Elphaba felt a twinge in her spirit.

Turning on her heel, she hurried through the kitchen and out the door onto the porch. Looking around, she scanned the yard and the road leading to the house. Then, knowing Mary, she ran into the yard and scanned the roof. Seeing nothing, she almost gave up. Acting on one last impulse, however, she went around to the other side of the house, where the sun was rising over the open fields to the east. There, facing the rising sun, stood Mary.

Elphaba approached quietly, and stopped a few feet away. Mary stood there, impeccably dressed, her shining hair twisted perfectly, her hat in place, with her umbrella and bag in her hand. Her eyes were closed, as though she were drawing energy from the brightening sky, or perhaps listening to the wind.

In the quiet, Elphaba asked, "Are you going?"

Mary startled, and turned. She looked at Elphaba, and said, "The winds changed."

Elphaba cocked an eyebrow, "Are you still using that excuse? To run away?"

"The wind does speak, Miss Elphaba, if you'd learn to listen."

"I thought we were past the formalities, Mary. We are friends, and I am Elphie, to you."

Mary looked at her, "Very well, Elphie."

Elphaba sighed, "Perhaps it's not the wind that's changed, this time. Perhaps it's you?"

Mary looked away.

There was another long pause, before Elphaba said, "You may not need Bert, Mary, but he needs you. As much as your strength comes from within…his comes from you."

Mary still didn't answer.

"We're a bit like reflections in a mirror, you and I," Elphaba went on, "I used to think Galinda was my opposite, the light to my darkness, if you will. But you…you are the east to my west. You are the steady, rising sun that forces the day to come, whether the world is ready or not. And I am the explosive, western sunset, bringing on the mystery of night. If nothing else, we make sense of one another."

Still looking away, Mary said, "That's beautifully poetic."

"I try," Elphaba replied.

Mary took a step forward, then, and Elphaba said, "Don't go, Mary. Not this time…"

As if she were struggling a little, Mary turned. Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew a piece of paper, and said, "I debated this, but I believe it would be wrong to go without it." Placing it in Elphaba's hand, she went on, "Please make sure Bert gets this. Please?"

Elphaba nodded, and looked down at the neatly folded note. When she looked up, Mary was gone, leaving only a rustling in the air, and the faint scent of starlight.

Three hours later, when Bert was awake, Elphaba was waiting for him on the porch. He had just washed up, and agreed to meet her there. Holding a cup of coffee, he took a seat in the chair next to her.

With a heavy heart, Elphaba handed him Mary's note. She watched as he set the cup down, and unfolded the crisp paper. His eyes scanned the scrawling script, and Elphaba saw his face fall.

After a moment, she asked softly, "What does it say?"

Swallowing hard, Bert handed her the note. It read:

There will never be another.

Till we meet again,

Mary

There was a very long, quiet moment when neither was sure what to say.

Finally, Elphaba said, "It's her way, Bert…"

Taking the paper back, Bert read it again, and said weakly, "She'll be back."

"How do you know?"

"Because," he replied, "she said 'Till we meet again'. That means…she will come back."

Elphaba tried to smile, for his sake, and Bert looked as though he were trying to convince himself.

Summer came, and summer went. The seasons changed and the grain was harvested. The baby grew fat on Tessy's milk, until he could sit up and gurgle. Liir started to work alongside Elphaba in her workspace, tending the animals and learning her skills. There was a calm between them, an understanding. Elphaba also went to Oz, watching the emerging leadership and the hope of a new nation. She was proud of Glinda, of the powerful woman she'd finally become. In Kansas, Dorothy grew taller, and started to leave childhood behind. She studied with Elphaba as well, at a different craft. Together, they made magick. And still, there was no Mary.

Bert watched for her, waited for her, and hoped for her. He drew her, imagined her, and missed her with every sunrise, every lonely night, and every quiet moment. He worked on the farm, drawing his usual contentment from working with his hands. Still, something was missing. Something was forever, missing.

Elphaba had tried to find her. She'd focused on her, and tried to leap to where she was. She was unsuccessful, however. Mary would not be followed. There were a few times that Elphaba felt she'd leapt to a place where Mary had just been. She'd sensed that hint of stardust. Mary herself, however, was always just out of reach.

So, after a year, Bert decided to go back to London. He packed his things, said his goodbyes, and had Elphaba take him back to his birthplace. It was time to move on, he decided. It was time to get back to what he knew. He needed to leave this place that was full of memories of he and Mary. He needed to leave the bed where they had made love, because the memory was starting to hurt. He needed to find his friends, his old haunts, and resign himself to who he was.

Without looking back, and with Mary's note in his coat pocket, Bert returned, full circle, to London. Elphaba left him in the park, his park, and he sat on his bench. He sat there, and he drew Mary. He drew her as she'd looked in Oz, standing strong, with her hair wild and free. He drew her curled in the bed, healing in sleep. He drew her in the chair, telling him stories in the soft light. He put the memories on paper, and tried to move forward. He tried to purge the past, with every charcoal stroke. Yet he felt stuck, still, suspended in an eternal limbo, holding foolishly to the words,

Till we meet again,

Mary.