AN: Alright, yes. Yet another unreasonably long wait and yet another split up chapter. In short, there is still one more installment in the epilogue, but only one. Scout's Honor. This is also the 'casualty list' chapter. In other words, the first part of the chapter includes brief summaries of the death-scenes that were cut from previous chapters because the story was already too long.
Anyways, you are all awesome for sticking with me through this whole thing. Only one more update to go!

Epilogue Part 1: Loss.

At first, Liir thought he was a ghost. He certainly felt like one and was as immaterial as such a spectre was often described. His misery and difficult memory fit with what tales he remembered as well. He remembered climbing the stone stairs, agony, and then a rumbling beneath him and then…nothing.

Well, not nothing. Next thing he knew he was floating. He found himself on the battlefield, seeing his mother rushing towards the crumbled tower and hearing screaming. The next thing he knew, he was in the infirmary staring at, well himself. He'd never looked worse, too. He could see why his Aunt was in such a state fussing over him, though he didn't ever recall the glamorous Good Witch of the North ever looking quite so beat up either, not even when she had fled her husband so long ago back in the Emerald City. Her Godson's spectre had barely recognised her at first. His mother, on the other hand, was another story. If it hadn't been for the fact that her face was grimy, her beautiful black hair a matted, scraggly mess and that she appeared almost catatonic, he would have thought that she had never looked younger.

Perhaps this was the moment that he died. Ghosts were supposed to do that, weren't they? Oh, he didn't know. Rhonaraye would... ...

Liir was unable to even complete the thought; it was as if the mere mention of her rubbed salt into some kind of painful wound. He staggered away from the notion and felt his mind clear a little before looking around again, taking in the sight of his godmother sobbingly trying to comfort his mother, no doubt making her feel worse if she was getting through to the green woman at all. Liir decided that he didn't want to see this. He walked out of the room—was walk the right word? Did ghosts walk? Did nearly-ghosts walk?

Whatever it was he did, he left the room.

He found himself in what looked like the morgue, or rather, the makeshift morgue. It seemed that people were actually bringing back bodies; something usually unfeasible or at the very least unwise during war. However, this wasn't exactly a normal end of a battle. It was rather safe to do some collecting of corpses when the enemy you had been fighting had to get rather creative just to hurt you. Just as Rhonaraye had said; blows missed by wide margins, shots did the same or else got stuck in the barrels of the guns they were fired out of (not that the guns were much use at the moment considering that most of them had been completely warped by the same spell that was causing the difficulties), and kicks grazed rather than impacted. It was all simply too much effort for the weary soldiers. The only ones still able to hurt one another were the turncoats, strangely enough. But there weren't really enough of them to continue a whole war and had been pulled apart by their comrades. The whole thing made some of the already war-weary individuals wonder why they had even started fighting.

Just as Liir…entered, a couple of hysterical munchkins blustered into the infirmary. Between the scratched-up young men they carried the body of a woman much larger than either munchkin on a stretcher. The bruised and battered corpse (for this individual was most certainly not alive with a dent in her head that size) wore a rather pretty goblin-made dress which was filthy and torn. Spread around the dusty shoulders was a mop of messy brown curls and on the woman's feet was a pair of impossibly still-glittering ruby slippers. It was upon this last observation that Liir realized with a twinge of pity that it was Dorothy.

According to the account of the munchkins (and then later Muhlama as she followed them in), the woman had been found beneath the ruins of the tower. Later still Annette would add her own account to the tale of Dorothy's demise; of how she had dragged the earth-woman out of the tower as per her friend's request. She was very candid about how she had wholly given up on her when they got out of the tower when the Brunette's whining had grated on her last frayed nerve and her struggling had nearly gotten both of them killed. Needless to say that Dorothy's incredible powers of inducing protective feelings had finally found their match. Annette had not been willing to die for the sake of her hysterics, no matter how founded or unfounded they might have been.

The matter of Dorothy's death, much like her life in Oz, would always be a controversial one. Her most adamant supporters would always insist that she had gotten over her hysterics (which were most assuredly induced by some form of dark magic that had clearly been bending her to Xorthion's will) and had been rushing back to heroically rescue the young mage when tragedy had struck and so cruelly slain her. Other, far less generous, speculations included that she had indeed been going back for the purpose of rescue—of the Mage Xorthion that is, still harboring under the delusion that he was going to send her back to Kansas; that she hadn't possessed enough sense to run away from the building when she had the chance or, far more likely in Liir's opinion, that she had simply been frightened and picked a rather poor hiding place. All in all though, few missed the irony of her departure from the realm of the living. She had entered this world by landing a house on the head of the ruby slippers' previous owner, and had left it when someone landed a tower on her head. Maybe she had finally returned to that Can-sas place after all, that was what Liir hoped for her sake. She'd seemed to think it was a better place for some reason and her life had not been a happy on in Oz, that was certain.

A few days later spectre-Liir would watch as someone removed the fabled slippers from Dorothy's feet, in spite protests from her most loyal fans that she should be interred with them. After a brief skirmish over the trifle a battered Glinda had stepped in and taken them. Since she had been the one to gift the earth-girl with the shoes in question all those years ago nobody argued with her. She gave them to Elphaba in private as the green woman sat by her son's bedside. What nobody but the two friends present would know was that the green woman looked at them for a long time in her hands. The shoes that started it all…Well, maybe not all of it, but they had certainly prompted enough problems. The Witch's thin fingers had dug into the red fabric and in one swift motion she got up and threw them into the fire with all her might, a yell of anguish and fury erupting from her lips as she did so. The two women had watched them burn silently as they hissed and sparked. The shoes didn't go down without a fight as the colour of the flames changed every few seconds as the magic impregnated within them struggled to prevent their destruction to no avail. Elphaba watched them burn silently at first, but after a few minutes she sank to her knees and covered her face with her hands and did not resist when her friend pulled her into a comforting hug.

What brought more of an ache to Liir's heart (figuratively speaking) than the stupid red shoes was the fate of the Bears of his adoptive, extended family. When someone had come looking for Candle to tell her of Liir's fate she had been sitting next to one of the slabs where one of the large Grizzlies lay. The quadling was clutching one of Dr. Akota's large paws in both of her hands, her expression indicating a grief too shocked for tears as she clutched the furry appendage which was attached to a badly burned, burly body lying lifeless on the metal table. He had apparently hurried out of the shelter to tend a badly wounded patient just as a missile had exploded next to him. It was so wrong. Someone that kind and that brave and that good shouldn't die so horribly. So futilely. The patient had died too.

Candle snapped out of her grieved trance when someone mentioned Liir's name. With a final, long, grieved look at her mentor she finally let out a sob and then limped off towards where Liir's body was. As she did so, she passed the spot where Muhlama was standing over the shaggy form of Ralimla, hanging her head in grief and guilt. The large Bear's ruff around her neck was matted with red where she had taken a bullet for the reckless Princess. Correction, now she was Queen of her small tribe with her father stabbed through the heart by a Goblin sword which was why the Bear had been so determined to keep the white Tigress alive. The Cat's father was lying next to Ralimla with his paws clutched regally over the stab wound that had killed him. As the spectre exited the complex and continued to wander he found more deaths to add to the list, including some rather unexpected victims.

Had the spectre not felt so numb he would have been devastated to see that some had not so much as survived the evacuation. Some of the old had simply been too old for such a rushed, harrowing journey and some had been too sick. Among this number was Doctor Dillamond. The old Goat had laid down for some sleep while the group rested and then had failed to respond to Zach's summons for him to wake up. A peaceful passing. The poor little Mule, though. He was so young and so heartbroken…and the worst was still to reach his ears.

For some reason he found himself in a cell next. The door to this cell opened and two burly guards marched into the room dragging a howling, wailing prisoner between them. The man being dragged was clearly being very difficult even though he was not struggling against anyone in particular. When he tossed his head back with a nonsensical plea for death or some sort Liir recognised the pale, chiseled features and bright golden eyes that were somewhat distorted behind the well of tears. His guards didn't heed him and shoved him into the cell, closing the door behind them. They stood there for a few minutes, apparently trying to hurt him but found themselves unable to. Just as the spell dictated, their blows went wide, their kicks tripped them up or barely glanced the prisoner. They were apparently able to manhandle as long as they didn't endanger the life of their prisoner (which meant that convenient strangulation was out of the picture) but were otherwise hand-tied in this instance. With growls of frustration the pair stormed out, slamming the door behind them and locking it. Xorthion didn't try to escape. He just kept slamming the stone floor with his hand,, howling the same disjointed phrases.

The Spectre-Liir 'sat down' opposite the mage and watched him. For hours he rammed his body against the bars, the walls, the floor. The spectre sensed that he wasn't trying to escape, though. He just seemed to want the physical pain to numb the emotional agony. It wouldn't work, though. It never did. It didn't bring her back either. After a night of this Xorthion, the man sometimes known as Tristan, seemed to have exhausted himself and huddled into a corner. For days he neither slept nor ate. He alternated between his tantrums and a mild catatonia. By the end of the week he was a wreck. As such, the guards became lax. One day he accepted his glass of water and smashed it on the floor. Before the burly guards could stop him he had seized a piece of glass and sliced through his wrists at which point the large men did manage to tackle him and wrench it out of his hand as they called for a medic. The prisoner was sedated and restrained to his bed in the infirmary.

Liir 'left' around that point. He was tired of this and wandered away from those he knew completely. He didn't want to see how they had suffered, how they were suffering. He saw a great deal as he ghosted aimlessly through Oz. He saw a great deal but put little effort into understanding it in his shock. He saw what was left of the farms that had once boasted the title 'Breadbasket of Oz'; he saw a waterfall where a Saint was supposed to have retreated into years and years ago, cutting herself off from the world. Liir couldn't help but feel that she'd had the right of it when she did so. He saw a little boy being ordered around by an old hag of a woman and cuffed over the side of the head. The boy turned at one point and seemed to look at him, almost as though he could see the shadow of a spectre drifting past, but then the old woman had barked at him and he continued with his chores and Liir continued drifting. After that he saw some more carnage and finally some more beauty. He saw that the flower Xorthion had created appeared to be a hearty one, for there were odd patches of it here and there which seemed to be surviving even the most brutal of droughts and bouts of carnage. After a while, though, he didn't know where he was.

He was lost. That was the best way to put it. He had been lost like this before, long ago. But he'd had something to keep him, well, tethered so he supposed he couldn't have been quite lost like this before for that tie was gone now. It was gone and it hurt to even think about it. He didn't know how long he was gone and after a while it was difficult to even tell where he was going. He just wanted to go…somewhere. He wanted to follow wherever that tether had gone; he felt that would be a much nicer place but…something was keeping him from doing that. Every once in a while he heard these wafting notes of such beautiful music.

He decided, after a while—he didn't know how long—that perhaps he wasn't dead after all. No, no he wasn't dead. He couldn't be. He was far too stuck to be a ghost. He kept being called back. It wasn't a good explanation for a theory but he just knew somewhere, somehow, that he wasn't dead. After a time he even found that he recognised places he found himself shadowing.

No, no he definitely wasn't dead. He started hearing his own breathing in the back of his mind, feeling a faint sensation of discomfort but also of warmth, of touch. The closer he got to the music the closer he got to these sensations and the dimmer his vision became. Finally his vision faded to black completely in exchange for the return of the rest of his senses, his hearing taking up most of his attention as the music wafted into his ears.

He was also aware of pain. His whole body hurt. He couldn't stifle the groan that escaped his lips. It seemed to have an immediate effect on the people around him for he heard low voices and chairs scuffing against the floor. These sounds were muted, distant, almost as though he was hearing them from the bottom of a well. The hand that gently held one of his tightened its grip and the sounds grew louder, clearer, sharper. The music stopped and someone touched his face. He winced but this time forced himself to peel back his eyelids.

At first all he saw was light. It was too bright and forced him to shut his eyes again as people continued to talk around him.

"He's awake…" he heard his mother breath, "Glinda! Glinda he's waking up!"

"Where's Fiyero?" Glinda asked her friend. Her question would go unanswered for at that point Liir tried to open his eyes again.

His vision was blurry, but clearing. He could see his mother's green face standing over him, her long black hair swinging over her shoulder and brushing against his ear. Next to her was Glinda, still sporting a bandage on her raw but obviously healing cheekbone. They looked over to the side as someone stood up; Liir followed suit and saw Candle gripping her dominigan in one hand, her fingers bandaged and bleeding from playing for so long. His eyes met hers and he somehow managed to force his aching face to stretch into a smile

"We should…really…stop meeting like this." He croaked. A tear rolled down her cheek as she laughed once and knelt down at his bedside to gently kiss him.

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When he wasn't with direct company, that is, if someone wasn't speaking to him and asking for his full attention, Liir put up no pretext. Candle's music had brought him out of his coma, induced in part (and certainly prolonged by) the shock and emotional wound of his twin's death but it did not mean that his time spent wandering around Oz as that not-ghost had helped him adjust to the throbbing chasm in his psyche left by his dead sibling. In some ways it was even more painful than his physical injuries, which had taken advantage of his hiatus from his body to start healing. Frequently he would have bouts where he was dangerously close to catatonic, staring off into space for hours at a time. He wasn't interested in getting better, no matter which area of healing was in question. He made an effort with his family and Candle, but it wasn't whole hearted: more for their benefit than anything else, really.

He had missed the funerals. All of them. Most had happened whilst he'd been unconscious: Dr. Dillamond, Ralimla, Dr. Akota, even Muhlama's father had been laid to rest before he had awoken. Dorothy's ceremony had been only a day or so after he had come out of his 2-week coma. There was only one left now.

Rhonaraye would have hated what they were planning for her: a big, state funeral full of pomp and circumstance. Her brother had already heard what some of the events were planned for. It was disgusting. He could see it now; people who had been openly contemptuous of her parading around in their finest black muslin mourning outfits wailing into their silk handkerchiefs about how they had lost such a dear friend. There would be speeches given by people who would swear they had been her closest confidante who in reality wouldn't be able to tell you what she liked to eat for lunch, let alone her deepest desires. Her name would be plastered everywhere, all sorts of nonsense would be spread until no one would remember whether she'd _(insert something in here)_. Within a few decades no one would recognise fact from fiction and within a couple of centuries scholars would start questioning whether or not she had ever even existed or if she was just another piece of folklore. She would become a symbol, a metaphor, used to explain away college theses everywhere and talked about with the air of awe-inspired myth. It was everything the redhead had feared.

Had he truly made an effort, Liir would have easily been able to attend the ceremony. The press would have loved it, undoubtedly. The grieving, "crippled", grievously injured brother making a scene or— perhaps even better!— being 'a strong, but silent pillar of strength' or some other shit like that. He might have managed to walk with a cane or a crutch, perhaps, had he been very determined. He certainly could have had someone wheel him in on a chair like the one his aunt had used decades ago, before her death, if he'd wanted to. He didn't want to, though. It was bad enough that his sister's corpse was being made a spectacle of when the last thing she would have wanted was to be paraded around, in life or death. Her desire had been to die in her sleep and either be cremated or elsewise buried in a small ceremony with only those who had truly known her, though even in life she had known that might not be feasible, considering her unwanted fame as a Mage.

There were other reasons aside from moral outrage (which if he was honest was probably exaggerated right now, not that he felt like being honest with himself) as to why he didn't want to go. His injuries were an excuse; they were healing. What he wouldn't admit to himself, however, was that somewhere deep down he felt that going to Rhonaraye's funeral, seeing her body, hearing people talk about her in the past tense and watching her disappear into the ground, would mean that she was dead. Somehow, if he didn't go, she wouldn't have to be gone forever. He wouldn't have to accept it.

His parents went, of course. That was what he had been told by his mother. He hadn't seen his father yet. According to what he could get out of Glinda not many people had; he'd taken a leaf out of his lover's book and started hiding away in towers by himself. Elphaba kept sending the monkeys in to check that he hadn't done anything…rash. She herself didn't seem to be eager to intrude. The green woman feared that if she did, it would start a conversation that she couldn't handle at the moment. She'd lost so much, they all had, and she didn't know if she could bear losing Fiyero (again) too at this point.

The other person Liir hadn't seen anything of was Zach. According to Glinda, the Mule was avoiding all company save for the dog, Killyjoy, who never left his side these days. Liir was torn about Zach, about whether or not he wanted to see him. He had a feeling that the Mule blamed him and Liir didn't necessarily think him incorrect. He didn't want to have to face his guilt. All Liir wanted to do was wallow in his shame and let the world do what it would to itself. Unfortunately, there were a few who weren't willing to do this.

Candle was one. She had argued with him over the funeral.

"Funerals aren't for the dead, Liir!" she had snapped an hour before it was scheduled to start when he had voiced his distaste for this hypocrisy and cited how much his twin would have despised it. Liir had been shocked by this outburst and could only stare at her as his mouth opened and closed with no sound coming out. The Nurse had gotten to her feet angrily and started to pick up her bag

"I thought you would have at least gone for your parents' sake if not your own." The Quadling had grumbled in mingled irritation and disappointment as she strode out the door. Liir had sat there in shock and indignation for a few moments before resentment started to bubble up inside him. What did she know? None of them understood, none of them. The only one who would have was gone, and she was the reason he felt this way. He turned over in his bed and feigned sleep so that he wouldn't be disturbed. It wasn't long before pretence became reality.

By the time he woke up it was over. He didn't want to talk to anyone, which worked quite well since no one came by except for his grandparents who dropped by for a brief visit. Even then he was spared having to do too much talking as the monarchs were still too busy reeling from the double whammy they had received in discovering simultaneously that the granddaughter they had barely known was gone and the son they thought long dead still lived. They weren't sure whether to be bereaved or ecstatic. Neither choice would really have made much difference though. Either way they maintained their courtly stoic expressions as best as they could. They also redundantly passed on the information that their son was not handling the loss well before they had to return to the Vinkus. As if anyone needed to be told that Fiyero wasn't handling it well. Then again, what could be considered 'handling it well' for someone who had just lost the daughter they had loved and raised for nearly 23 years?

Had Doctor Akota not been six feet under, he might have coaxed Liir more effectively into rehab-based exercises to regain his mobility more quickly. As it was, with Candle angry at him, no one tried to pull him out of his stupor for days. Liir lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling. Sometimes he ate what they brought him and sometimes he didn't. His mother made her visits, but they were largely silent. No one disturbed him for days. When someone eventually did though, she shocked everyone—with both her identity and her actions.

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Annette stormed into the infirmary and held up an abrupt, silencing hand to anyone who tried to stop her as she charged into Liir's room and unceremoniously grabbed fistfuls of the blankets that covered him and wrenched them off with one great heave.

"Annette! What in Lurline's name—"

"Get up!" she snapped

"What in the seven hells are you doing?" he demanded indignantly

"What any other member of your family would do if they weren't otherwise occupied!" The former blonde snapped. "Now get up!"

"No." Liir said stubbornly. "I can't."

"More like won't!" Annette said shortly as she seized the untouched crutches from the corner of the room and thrust them at him.

"So what if is 'won't'?" he shot back. "You have no idea what this feels like!"

"Well maybe I don't!" his ex yelled at him sharply "Maybe no one does and blah, blah, blah. But you know what Liir? You're not the only one who's suffering right now!"

"I know that!" He exclaimed indignantly

"Then start acting like it!" Annette snarled as she leaned in towards him aggressively, her fists digging into the mattress "You're not the only one who lost someone, Liir! How dare you pull that stunt last week? You were awake, you could have parked your behind in a Kumbrica-cursed wheelchair if you'd needed to, which I don't think you did or do by the way! So where the hell were you?" her anger puzzled Liir, but his bitter resentment of her lecture overpowered any curiosity as to her behaviour and he turned his head away with an expression of dark disgust

"She would have hated the circus they made of her. All those people with their black muslin wailing into their silk handkerchiefs and going on and on when they either didn't know her or openly scorned her! Even now they're talking behind her back about the spell she did, but they're oh so happy to shed a tear for a camera. It was revolting, she would have hated it! She never wanted any of that—"

"She's dead, Liir!" Annette snapped, taking him aback with the harshness of her statement and tone. She was the first person to use "the 'd' word" with him in regards to Rhonaraye, and she did so unflinchingly, almost aggressively. She straightened and crossed her arms over her chest, her expression hard. "She's dead and not in a position to give a Kumbrica-cursed rat's ass about what they do with her body. Funerals are for the living Liir, and do you really think she'd want this?" she swept her hand dismissively to indicate his general state. The young man looked away angrily.

"You don't know what she'd want." He growled bitterly, though he was starting to lose some of the vehemence with which he had started this argument. Annette ignored him and continued her barrage.

"I know that if she were here she'd be doing exactly what I'm doing except that she'd have done it days ago!" His ex barked. Liir had nothing to say to this. He of all people knew that it was true. His sister wouldn't have allowed him to sit and sulk for so long (no matter how hypocritical her criticisms would be) and in all honesty her 'wake-up call' would have been just as blunt as the one he was receiving right now, perhaps even harsher. She had been capable of downright cruelty if she felt the situation called for it. He wasn't able to linger on this train of thought for long as his high-school girlfriend continued to lay into him.

"How do you think your family felt when you left them to deal with that 'circus', huh? What about Candle, did you think of her? She had to go through Akota's burial on her own whilst worrying about you in your coma and you know how much she loved that Bear! Now she's had to go through another ceremony trying to look after other people who don't really feel like company at the moment. And what about your parents? They just lost one of their children and you, their sole remaining offspring, is acting like they've done something to him. And you know what? If you were paying attention to anyone other than yourself you would see that they really don't need that kind of fuel for the hellish implosion that their relationship is hurtling towards!"

"You think I don't ca—"

"And what. About. Zach?" Annette snarled. Her words this time (while still harsh and unyielding) were slow and measured with distinct pauses to ensure they hit home. Liir didn't say anything but his body language answered for him, really. Had it been a member of his family they might have been able to interpret his reaction perfectly, as it was Annette only got it half right, noting the discomfort and tension. She re-crossed her arms over her chest.

"That's right. Haven't thought about him, have you? The kid your sister left behind. She left Killyjoy with him you know. The stupid dog won't leave Zach's side now and they're both shut up in his room. Lurline knows what some heartless brat said to him but he is refusing to go to school and doesn't want to see anyone. He's even barricaded the door! And before you say it, he apparently picked some stuff up from her growing up, because he had the mind to take food with him so that his stomach won't be dragging him out of there any time soon. Now, what are you going to do about it?"

For a long time Liir said nothing. Annette had not been entirely correct. He had thought about the Mule. He had just been too guilt-ridden to try and face the child. It wasn't something he was proud of, but at the moment, he feared Zach. He feared facing up to his own inadequacies, his failure to save Rhonaraye. He looked up at Annette, his eyes silently pleading with her. Her gaze was hard and unyielding.

To look away from it he took stock of her hairstyle. She had cut it since he had last seen her. Lurline, when had that been? Three weeks before the battle? Yes, it was at their last party. Back then her hair had been a vivid green with the streak of blue and went down to her back. Now it was almost more radical and eccentric: most of it was now brown and had been shaped into a sleek helmet that followed her jawline. Liir suspected that this may indeed be her natural hair colour. The exception was one longer strand that went down one side of her face to shoulder level. This streak was the same shade of blue that it had been for the last 7 years and the one aspect of her hairstyle that had not changed in that time period. He wrung his hands slightly in reflection on the crutch that she had shoved into his hands mere seconds earlier.

Annette watched him as he thought this over. She did not help him as he slowly took a firmer grip on his mobility aid and planted in the floor, hoisting himself up with a groan. Only when he stood did she step to his side and help him take a step forward. He walked all the way to the door to his room and out to the hospital hallway. There she pulled one of the wheeled chairs out for him to sit in. He sank into it, feeling (with a slight burn of embarrassment) like an old man with his crutch and his chair and his muscles trembling with exertion from those few steps. Annette wheeled him out of the wing with the resounding, fast-paced clicks of her heels echoing around them.

They travelled through the building in silence for a while, people parting for them if they started to head towards a group. These individuals' conversations came to a halt when they heard the whirring of the chair's wheels and the clicks of Annette's shoes. They watched them come and go in a way that might have made Liir uncomfortable if he'd had the energy to care. As it was, he didn't. Instead he thought about all those funerals he had missed. Most of them hadn't been his fault, considering he'd been in a coma, but the one he had just shirked had been his choice and it was this instance where his absence had been the most shameful. His ex was right.

"Who gave it?" he asked suddenly while they walked through a currently deserted corridor. It was the first time that he had even registered that he was, for lack of a better word, home: in the Emerald Palace. He supposed that somewhere he knew that he had to have been in the E.C, but hadn't given it much thought.

"Who gave what?" Annette asked

"The Eulogy." He replied. Again there was silence for a while. It was several seconds before she responded.

"The main one?' she enquired. He nodded, aware that there would have been multiple speeches at such a state event. There was a pause before she responded.

"I did."

The answer both surprised and pleased him.

"What did you say?" he asked her, curious. He couldn't see her but he knew that she shrugged.

"A lot of things." Annette said finally "I told the story of how we met, hated each other on the spot until forced to see a different side of one another. I told a couple of other short anecdotes…then I told them about the last time I saw her, about how she saved my life. I told them that she wasn't fearless, but that she was brave and that there was a difference. A big difference,"

Liir nodded.

"What else?" he asked her quietly.

"I said…I said that I didn't know her nearly as well I would have liked. That while I was a friend, I didn't know whether she would consider me a close friend but that I did know this; she wasn't someone to cross. She was the fiercest friend that I had ever encountered, that she zealously guarded what she loved and that she could be ruthless when she wanted to. What did I say? Right, that "She was the kind of person who, if you crossed her, would quite comfortably watch you crash and burn…but the also the kind of person who would save you from the flames if you asked her to."

Liir put his hands out and placed them on the wheels of his chair to slow its motion and turned around to face Annette.

"Thank you," he said simply. In one speech she had done her best to carry out her former roommate's wishes: to be remembered as the person, not the magic. The architect smiled at him thinly before continuing their walk down the long hallway on their way to see Zach.

It was well past time for the healing to begin.


Okay, so there is the first part of the epilogue. It was very Liir-heavy, yes, but rest assured, we will be seeing more of Elphaba, Fiyero and Glinda in the next chapter, along with Zach, Candle and Tristan/Xorthion. I will do my best to get it finished and posted as soon as I can! As usual, please review!

Now for my Anonymous Reviewer:

FriFro: *Chuckles* yes I'm still here and I'm sorry it has been such a wait, particularly when you aren't even getting the full ending! And also, yes. I killed off my O.C. To be honest, she was slated to go from day one. One of my earliest inspirations for this story oh-so-long-ago was the bit with Fiyero finding her body on the battlefield. And I would never get bored of reviews! I just love it that you stuck around for the whole thing for this! Unfortunately, I am one of the few people left it seems among my age group who doesn't have facebook, so I can't add you. If I could, however, I would!