Chapter 28

AN : Ugh! Does anyone know how to code/configure a strikethrough/delete in a fanfiction chapter? There are strikethrough/delete in this chapter, but I can't seem to get it to work no matter what. Dear readers, I will need you to use your imagine to translate all the text between (strikethrough) and (end of strikethrough) as strikethrough/deletion. A thousand apologies for this technical issue. Please let me know if anyone knows how to make it work. Thank you!

...I've received Galinda's short message on your safe passage. I hope that the journey is uneventful. So how's everything over there? Are you staying with Galinda or elsewhere? How's Galinda? Please send her my regards…

"A letter from the Yunamatas, Your Majesty." Trem came in, a thin, brown envelope in his hand.

Fiyero reached for his cup of coffee only to find it empty. So was the coffee pot. He wanted to let out a growl but was too tired to do so.

Instead, he hobbled to the door, pins and needles all over his legs, and called for a servant to get a fresh pot of coffee and grabbed the letter while waiting. He ripped out the letter and scanned through its contents. It had been months since he had last visited the tribe, and they were wondering if he would like to pay another visit.

He shoved the letter to Trem.

"Tell them I'm busy." He paused. "Send them my apologies."

The older man stayed silent for a few moments before he answered. "You may want to reconsider, Your Majesty. It may not be a formal invitation, but it is an invitation nonetheless. You have not visited them for some time, and your refusal to meet them could be misinterpreted as dislike. They will think that they have offended you somehow. The rest of the tribes will think that the Yunamatas have fallen out of favour."

Fiyero shook his head. No, he was not going to leave Kiamo Ko now. Elphaba had not denied him his daily visits so far, and he was afraid that whatever goodwill he had built up would go to waste if he broke the momentum. Goodwill that would be very difficult, or even impossible, to re-establish.

"Well, if that's the case, doesn't it mean that all the tribes have fallen out of favour?" Fiyero thought for a while. "Tell them that I will play host if they drop by, but I don't think that I will have the time to visit them until spring."

"It is tradition, Your Majesty, for the king to visit the tribes at their camps, to see them at their place of rest, to partake in their daily activities. Sometimes there are things that the tribes may find difficult to put down on paper, that are better discussed face-to-face after food and wine. There's no precedence for them to drop by."

"I guess it's time to break the tradition then."

The lines on Trem's forehead deepened. "It could be misconstrued as arrogance, Your Majesty. There has been some discontent between the Yunamatas and the Arjikis recently. The Yunamatas said that the Arjikis undercut their business. And news came yesterday that there was a brawl in the Emerald City between both tribes."

"Are there any injuries?" he asked immediately.

"Thankfully, there's none, except for a few scratches and bruised egos. But, Your Majesty, it's easy for anyone to look at this and interpret your inaction as favouring your own tribe."

Fiyero could feel a migraine coming on. Being interpreted as favouring his own tribe was the last thing he wanted to happen.

"Can you plan for something next month? I'll pay the Yunamatas a visit. I will move on to the rest of the tribes if the weather continues to hold." He shook his head. It would be cutting it too close. The winter weather was always unpredictable, and he could be stuck in one of their camps for weeks if a sudden blizzard swept through the grasslands.

"No, make that ten days." He would have ten more days with Elphaba before he left, and he would make full use of those evenings to regain her trust, to make her forgive him and accept him again.

He let out a sigh.

"Are you alright, Your Majesty?"

Fiyero waved away his concerns. "I'm fine. It's just a headache. Nothing that a strong cup of coffee can't fix."

"I could get Trelta to prepare some calming tea for you. And she's good in massag – "

"No." His answer was too fast, too harsh, and the older man flinched.

"I'm sorry," Fiyero apologised. "But the answer is no. I'm sorry if I have given her any false hopes, but moving forward, I'd like to have as little misunderstanding as possible. She's still here because my mother can't bear to part with her, nothing more."

"It's in our hearts to serve you, Your Majesty, in whatever way possible."

"You're serving me well, Trem, and she's a great help to my mother. But that will be all."

He could see the disappointment on the old man's face.

"She'll make someone very happy one day, but it won't be me."

The servant came in just then with a fresh pot of coffee, but Fiyero walked out without another word. He was sick of how everyone tried to be close to him because he was king. He was sick of how he had to please everyone because he was king.

…. I hope that you've not written because you're busy taking in the famous sights and eating the delectable Gillikinese cuisine and leaving you no time to write. Do tell me how you spend your days. Where did you go? Who did you meet? Has Galinda changed much after marriage? I remember there is this popular café at the junction of ….

The bottle in his hands was uncorked when he arrived, but it was more than half empty by the time dinner was ready.

He reached for the bottle again, but Elphaba put it out of his reach.

"Drinking will not solve your problems." She shifted the bottle to the sink, far away from him.

"It does make them look less daunting." He gave a bitter laugh. She looked at him, but looked away almost immediately, but not before she noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the worry lines on his face, and the way he hunched as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. She wanted to ask him what was bothering him; if it was something that she could help with. And then she remembered that she was one of his problems, and she shook her head.

"You'll solve them. You will," she said instead, as she turned to the stove and dished out the food. His footfalls were silent, but she could sense it when he stepped closer to her. His hand reached out for her and she spun around, the bowl of steaming soup between them, a talisman, blocking the hand that was just an arm's span from her. His eyes widened in surprise, the disappointment clear on his face, but he lowered his hand and took the plate from her instead, their fingers safe on opposite sides of the bowl.

They ate in silence.

She looked out to the living room, at the vase on the coffee table, the red of the roses that he had brought that evening and the blue of the vase bright against the surrounding shades of brown. She knew how much time he spent on her every day, picking out a different gift each time, staying for dinner. And how he could use put those time to better use – be it to spend more time on the tribe matters or to rest. She knew that she should tell him to stop coming, to stop wasting his precious time on her. She knew that he would protest. That it would hurt. But it would help.

She looked up, ready to speak, and realised that he was looking at her. She had no idea how long he had been observing her while she was deep in thoughts. She looked down and dipped her spoon into the soup.

"I'm going on a trip in ten days." He was looking at her when he said it, and he noticed how she looked up sharply, her spoon frozen in the air, the expression that flitted across her face and was gone almost immediately.

"There is some dissatisfaction among the tribes, and I'll be paying them a visit. It's high time for me to do so, anyway. I don't know when I'll be back. It could be two weeks if the weather is good. Or it could be longer." He hoped to see something on her face again, to prove that what he thought he had seen the first round was not a mistake. But her face was composed, smooth like a mask, revealing not even a sliver of emotion.

"Be safe." That was all she said.

… I just come back from the Thousand Year Grassland this morning. I know that you find hunting cruel, so I shan't go into details. I never expect to say this, but it feels good to be out there, sleeping under the stars, waking up to fresh air every day with a simple objective in mind. When I am hunting with them, I am not the king, but just another Arjiki hunting for his tribe, for tradition and food. I have to do as much, or even more than the others. There was no preferential treatment and that is so refreshing. I got the cloth that you've sent over. I didn't receive your letter though. It must have gotten lost somewhere. … Do you miss me? Because I miss you, more than you can imagine. I'll be going for a short trip next week for a fortnight but will remain in Kiamo Ko for the rest of summer, barring any unforeseen circumstances. There is so much work to clear after the hunt. So I'll be here whenever you decided to come back … I hope to hear from you soon. There's so much I want to tell you. I dreamt of you again last night. Please write soon. I'll write more next time. I got to go. Trem just came in – I'm late for my meeting with the elders.

"Yero, it's been a long time since we last have dinner together," his mother said.

"Mother." He looked out of the window. It was noon, but the dark clouds outside made it look like the night was falling. "Isn't lunch the same?"

"It's different," she grumbled. "Lunch is always so short." Well, she had pointed out the reason why he no longer joined her for dinner; he found it increasingly difficult to stay in her company for long. That, and the fact that he was at Elphaba's every evening for dinner.

A servant came in and put small servings of meat and vegetables on the table wordlessly. There was his favourite meat, and also his mother's favourite roasted potatoes with lotus roots. Her hand brushed against Fiyero's shoulder as she curtseyed slightly.

"Enjoy the food, Your Majesty," a soft voice spoke. Fiyero stiffened. He recognised that voice, but he kept his face straight.

"Will you serve, Trelta?" his mother asked.

"Why don't I do it, Mother?" he suggested. "My hands are still good for holding chopsticks." He stood up. "You may leave," he dismissed the girl without looking at her. Without waiting for a reply, Fiyero leaned over the table and put the food into her plate, followed by a luxurious drizzling of olive oil. He did not look up until he heard her leave the room and closed the door behind her.

They spoke little during lunch. The wind blew in, and the vegetables fluttered in the breeze, like little pale green animals trying to escape without success. It reminded him of Elphaba somehow.

"I heard that you've been giving Trem a hard time," Baxiana said.

Fiyero raised his brows. "Really? I thought it is the other way."

"Son, don't be flippant. You are not a child anymore. You are the king. Trem has served your father well, and he has been serving you well too."

"That I have to agree."

"Whatever he does or suggests is for the good of you and the tribe."

He nodded. His mother would never interfere directly with tribe business, but that did not mean that she would not attempt to interfere indirectly.

"Do you know that his grandfather is the blood brother of your great-grandfather? It was said that his grandfather came to your great-grandfather's rescue when he was attacked by a lion in the Thousand Year Grasslands. He nearly died, and his leg was so badly mauled he had to walk with a pair of crutches for the rest of his life. Your great-grandfather was very grateful of course. He would have died otherwise. He started to favour his family, rewarding him and getting him and his family involved in tribe business."

Fiyero nodded. He had heard of this story so many times before.

"Trelta is…"

"I don't want to talk about her, Mother."

"Why, son?"

"Would you like to have more of this?" He picked up another piece of lotus root with the common chopsticks. "This has always been your favourite dish."

His mother beamed, and the food kept her quiet for a while, but only for a while.

"Yero, you're not young anymore. If you are not interested in the girls from the other tribes, Trelta is a good – "

"Mother!"

"Hear me out. I don't usually meddle in your affairs, but it is high time someone tries to talk some sense into you. Trelta has told me what happened between the two of you…"

"Mother, nothing happened!"

"Trelta is young and pretty. There's nothing to fault about her lineage. Her mother has five other children – sons, and they are all grown up and have children of …"

"This is not a business transaction, Mother."

"This is more important than a business transaction. This is for the future of the tribe."

"Not my future?" He had to put his chopsticks down before his tight grip broke them into two. "So what I want is not important? Who I love is not important?"

"A king has to put the tribe as his top priority. You youngsters have no idea what love is. Love is not romance. Romance is not sustainable. Love is more than just attraction, gifts and pleasure. Love is two people who are compatible working towards a common goal. Love can be cultivated, if you put in the effort."

"It was never romance between Elphaba and me, Mother, not the young, naïve romance that you are accusing me of."

"I am not accusing you of anything, my son."

He paused. Perhaps he had gone too far.

"Maybe not." He met her halfway.

"By moving out, she has shown the tribe what she thinks of the arrangement between both of you. No matter what you say, she is not putting the tribe as a priority. She is not putting you as top priority. How can such a person be the king's wife?"

His hand went into the pocket of his coat and he took out a crumpled piece of paper and smoothed it on the table.

It was the list of potential brides for the Vinkun king.

"I'm going to ask Elphaba to move back to Kiamo Ko, Mother. I'll ask for her forgiveness. I'll beg for it if I have to."

"A king does not beg."

"I'm not her king. I'm her husband. I'm the man who has failed her."

He dropped the paper into the fireplace, watching it as the name list curled up as the fire consumed it and turned it into ash.

He heard his mother's soft sigh behind him.

"Your father shouldn't have sent you abroad to study. All this negative influence from people who claimed to be advanced and civilised, when the only thing they do is to put themselves above everything else."

Fiyero let out a huff and turned to face her. Perhaps his father really should not send him abroad to study. But what was done could no longer be undone.

"You can't expect your son to learn but not grow, Mother."

… are you trying to say something with all this silence? I know that I didn't talk much the days before you left, but I can explain everything. Not over a letter, but I'll explain when you're back. (strikethrough) Please come back soon. There's so much that I want to tell you.(end of strikethrough) I miss you. I miss talking to you every day, having you in my arms at night, your kisses, your smile, your touch. I even miss the way you frown and our little disagreements…

Time was moving far too slowly.

The aroma of her cooking filled the small space, but the green girl did not notice it. Her hand was stirring the soup, but her mind was not on her cooking. She knew that it was still early, but she turned to the door every time she thought she heard something over the sound of the sleet, hoping that he would somehow come early.

She let out a huff over her wistful thinking. Just a few days ago, she had hoped that he would leave her alone, that he would stop his daily visit, but now she would give anything to turn back time.

The sky rumbled ominously, and Elphaba gripped the ladle. She hated thunder.

As if in retaliation to her thoughts, the pattering of the rain grew louder. She stopped stirring the soup and looked out of the nearest window. Perhaps the rain would be so heavy that he would decide not to come.

It was less than a week before his departure to the Thousand Years Grasslands.

She recalled his words. That he did not know when he would come back. Her heart ached at the thought.

You fool, she chided herself.

The rain was so loud she almost did not hear the knocking at her door. But there was a rhythm that did not match the pounding of the ice and rain, and she found her mood lightening even as she rushed to the door.

He was soaked to the skin, rainwater dripping from his hair and coat even though he was holding an umbrella over his head.

"You're all wet."

She pulled him into the house and relieved him of his wet umbrella. Without another word, she went to the bedroom and took the first towel that she could find. She could have just passed him the towel, but her hands seemed to have a life of their own, pulling off his coat, unbuttoning his soggy shirt, drying his hair with the towel, wiping his cheeks, his jaw, with nothing in her mind except to get him dry as soon as possible. Her eyes followed the path of her hands, never meeting his, until she suddenly realised what she was doing. Her hand was on his chest, over his heart, and it seemed that the towel was not thick enough to stop her from feeling the beating of his heart. Her eyes flitted to his face, and she realised that he was looking at her intently, had been looking at her all this while. There were a thousand messages in his eyes, all with the same meaning. He reached for her hand, his thumb brushing against the inside of her wrist, sending a wave of shocks throughout her body.

She dropped the towel.

She hurried off in search of something for him to wear, her mind blank. But of course, there was nothing suitable for him – she was the sole occupant of this house all this while. She came back to the living room with the biggest sleeping robe that he could find, and found him standing next to the coffee table, his hands on a soggy paper bag that she did not recall seeing him bring in. He tore at the paper, revealing a small potted plant with bright red flowers with darker splotches near to the centre. A few of the leaves were bruised, and there was a chip at the base of the pot.

"Pansies," he said. "I got this for you. It'll brighten up the house in winter." He paused, not knowing what else to say. He had bought it a long time ago but had hesitated to bring it over, as if by bringing a live plant over he was showing that he had resigned to the fact that she was not going back to him anymore. But he would not be seeing her for a while, and he would like her to have something that would remind her of him every day.

She muttered her thanks.

He gobbled down the hot meal, glad that there was something warm to eat after the short walk in the cold weather.

Elphaba looked out of the window. The rain was so heavy that nothing could be seen outside.

"You should have stayed…" She tried to search for a suitable word. "Home."

He shook his head. "I promise that I will be here," he said, even though he knew that she had never asked for his promise; it was his promise to himself.

She had never asked him for anything, he suddenly realised. She had never asked for his attention when they were in Shiz, never asked for any commitment or promise when they were out. She had believed in him, trusted him, but what had she gotten in return?

Just then, a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, turning the whole room stark white. She froze for a moment, just for a moment, but it did not escape his notice.

A roar of thunder, and she stilled. Fiyero wondered how she had lived on her own in the past few months. Kiamo Ko did not have many thunderstorms; they happened more frequently in the grasslands, but they were not that rare either.

He looked out of the window when they had finished their meal, at the silvery void outside.

"I don't think it'll stop soon," he raised his voice slightly to be heard over the sound of the rain. He turned to look at Elphaba, and she was shaking her head.

"I'll wash the dishes. You should go back while you can. The queen mother will be worried about you. Trem will be looking for you – "

"They won't," he lied. "My clothes are not dry anyway. I'll catch my death if I go back in this rain." He played on her sympathy.

… when are you coming back? I miss you so much. Time passes so slowly without you. Are you angry with me?… (strikethrough) I know that I'm not the best husband. I know that I've let you down.… I guess I only have myself to blame if you decided not to come back. I hope that I'm wrong. Please tell me I'm wrong. I'm sorry.(end of strikethrough)

I love you.

The couch was not uncomfortable, but he could not fall asleep no matter how hard he tried. He looked at the ceiling, he stared at the beams, he tried to focus on the rhythm of the rain, but he remained awake. He sat up and took off the ill-fitting sleeping robe, hoping that he would be able to fall asleep without the tight clothing. It did not work. The rain had not let up, and he could still hear an occasional thunder, although they were much softer than before. He thought of Elphaba in the next room, his ears straining to pick up any sound of her tossing in her bed, any sound of her whimpering as she lived through yet another nightmare, but he heard nothing.

With a soft growl, he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and went to the door to her room. He pressed his ear against the door, but he could not hear anything. He knocked on the door softly so that he would not wake her up if she had fallen asleep.

There was no response.

He placed his hand on the doorknob. A slight twist, and the door swung open easily.

He did not expect to see her at the window seat.

Her knees were bent, her head resting against the rain-stained window as she looked up at the sky outside, a light in her hand. She was dressed in a sleeping gown that reached her ankles and her hair fell loosely down her back. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, and it lit up her face, the rainwater on the glass looking like tears on her green cheeks. For a moment, he wondered if the movement that he had seen was her trembling or if it just the shadows cast by bright light.

It was the first time he saw her trying to get close to the lighting and thunder. No, not the first time. He remembered the night when she flew back from Gillikin, when he found her in the balcony, in the rain. He wondered how many of her nights were spent like this, with a light in her hand to chase the ghosts away until she could not keep her eyes open anymore.

"Elphaba," he called her name softly as he crossed the room. She remained motionless, and he wondered what she was thinking, if her mind was somewhere. He called her name again, and she turned this time. The light dimmed, and it cast her face into shadows, but he could sense her looking at him.

"Come away from the window. You'll catch a cold," he said. She did not seem to understand, or maybe she was tired, and he placed his hand on her arm to nudge her gently. She shifted, like a child on the cusp of sleep, and pushed herself off the window seat wordlessly. Her bare legs landed on the floor, and the sudden movement caused his hand to slip to her waist. He knew that he should take a step back, he should remove his hand, but his fingers lingered where they were, and his limbs refused to move.

Another bolt of lightning, and he crushed her into his arms without a second thought, pressing her face into his chest with a hand at the back of her head to shield her from the rumble that he expected to follow. The thunder that came next was soft, softer than the pounding of his heart, and he felt foolish somehow.

He forced himself to unclench his fingers, to release her. She looked up, and then he was suddenly aware of the way her body was moulded to his, the heat from her body, her hand on his chest.

Her lips that were so close to his.

She raised her hand, fingers curled.

Fiyero wanted to hold her hand, to bring it to his cheek, to bring it to his lips, but he stilled, a thousand heartbeats of silence, and it seemed that it was the permission that she was waiting for.

She traced a line from his temple to his cheek, gentle and slow. A finger curled from the shell of his ear to the lobe to his jaw, as if she was trying to commit his face to memory before his departure. Her thumb moved along his jaw and her slender fingers fluttered to his lips.

She cupped his cheek, her warm hand like a cradle.

He held his breath, afraid that it would pull her out of trance if he so much as move.

Her hand moved to the back of his neck, brushing against his hair.

And then she tilted her head and closed the gap between them.

Her kisses were soft, tentative, as if it was the first time she kissed someone, anyone. She pulled him down to her, her lips parting, and he did not need to be told what to do. He pulled her to him again and kissed her back, and kissed her again, each kiss harder than the one before, rougher than the one before. His kisses seemed to rouse her from the deep, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, demanding more. Her hand slid down to his chest, her short nails tracing the outline of a diamond, raking his skin, and he wondered for a moment if it was actually a dream, if he was on the couch all this while, sleeping, dreaming about her, about them.

He lifted her and pushed her against the wall, his hand bunching up her skirt as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He deepened his kiss and then went to her neck, hearing her soft gasp as he sucked on her throat, as she dug her fingers into his skin.

He carried her to the bed that was only big enough for one before he continued. He kissed every one of her fingertips, every knuckle, her palms and the inside of her wrists, before he kissed her on her lips again. He kissed her until they were both breathless, until she was pulling him down to her, wanting him. He kissed every inch of her skin, touch her until she whimpered. Every touch was an apology, every kiss a declaration.

"Elphaba," he breathed her name. "Come back to me, my love." She did not answer, but silenced him with a bruising kiss, touching him, setting him on fire, until there was nothing left in his mind but her kisses and touch, until he could no longer remember what he wanted to say anymore.

(strikethrough) I hope you're happy.(end of strikethrough)

It seemed that he had just fallen asleep when he was woken up by her sudden movement.

She pushed his arm away and sat up on the bed.

"Elphaba?" he spoke her name, reaching out for her, wanting to feel her bare skin next to his again. She did not answer, and then the silence was broken by the sounds of loud raps on the door.

"Who's that?" he asked no one in particular. Elphaba tried to get out of the bed, but he pulled her back.

"I'll go," he offered as he pulled the blanket over her, covering her.

Elphaba called upon a light, and he made use of the dim light to make his way outside and find something to put on and lit a lamp. Behind him, he could hear the green girl putting on her clothes.

The knocking had not ceased by the time he went to the door. He fumbled with the lock, his fingers thick from sleep, and opened it just as the person outside switched from using his knuckles to his fist.

"Open the – " The man dropped his fist the moment he realised who had opened the door. It was Trem. Behind him were two male servants, the harsh lines on their faces magnified by the light from their lanterns. The sky was still dark. The men widened when they saw their king, wearing just a pair of pants with his hair dishevelled. Fiyero could hear Elphaba walking up behind him, and he could see Trem's eyes narrowed at the sight of the green girl. He reached behind him, searching for her fingers, but he only managed to brush against her fingertips before she pulled her hand away. He sighed inwardly.

"It's the middle of the night," Fiyero tried to sound as calm as possible. "This better be urgent."

It took Trem a few seconds before he could respond.

"Your Majesty, there has been a murder."

AN :

1) the passages in italics are excerpts from the letters written by Fiyero in the summer when Elphaba was away.

2) there are some things that may not make sense, but it will in the subsequent chapters.

3) Life has been crazy recently. Besides work, I have been busy packing as we are moving out to a temporary place while the contractors come in to fix to the floor. And then we will move back in. Me-time can't come sooner!