The Land of What-Might-Have-Been

by Straightjacketed

After spending so many years wishing that things had been different, what happens when, halfway through their final meeting, Elphaba and Glinda find themselves unexpectedly plunged into the worst of all possible worlds? AU.

42. The Things We Find In The Shadows

A/N: Aaaaargle. Dead on my feet here, ladies and gents; I've had to chainsaw this one in half to avoid smooshing the topics too close together, but there you go. This is going to be another talky setup chapter, and there'll be more than a few secrets being unveiled. Not all of them, though... BWAHAHAHAHAAH.

Calliax: Truth be told, I'm not a huge fan of the Fiyeraba pairing either. In fact, it's one of the many reasons why "The Shattering Of Oz" ended up being more focussed on Elphie and Glinda's friendship rather than the love between Elphaba and Fiyero. However, I have to approach this particular story from that relationship angle because that's just how it went at the end of the musical, while I'd like to see Elphaba and Glinda end up together, I don't want to make use of the tropes that would make it possible right off the bat, more specifically, the dreaded "Murder The Hypotenuse" and "Ron The Death-Eater." Quite apart from the fact that I couldn't realistically pull off the second trope without turning the whole thing into a farce, killing off Fiyero would just be throwing salt in Elphaba's wounds. I've at least got to allow her to come to terms with the fact that she actually saved Fiyero (basically one of the points really needed to snap her out of her depressive spiral) before some kind of drastic shakeup for the relationship can take place and a Gelphie can be engineered. Thanks again for your review!

Nami Swannn: Thanks as always for the short-but-sweet reviews, and I hope this latest chapter continues to impress.

CJ: I love your overall reviews! I'm glad you liked the descriptions - especially considering how much fun I have writing them - and I'm glad you enjoy the humour: as dark as the story can get, it's always important to include just a little bit of comedy to stop the darkness from consuming the narrative and making it totally unreadable. I look forward to reading more of your reviews, and I hope you find this latest chapter up to standard.

Anyway, without further ado: the latest chapter. Read, review and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Wicked does not, cannot, and will not belong to me. Likewise, the characters Smith and Tinker, Tik-Tok and Ku-Klip the Tinsmith are all creations of L Frank Baum.

---

The next ten minutes were a veritable procession of hugs, kisses, and spates of delirious laughter as Elphaba went about reacquainting herself with Fiyero, venting almost every emotion she'd experienced in the last few days in a barrage of excited shouts, screams, expletives, queries, and (on the rare moment her spirits dipped) apologies.

To the surprise of all present, it was Glinda who had to play the killjoy for a change and gently drag Elphaba back to reality once the ten minutes were over and done with. Eventually, once the mood had calmed and Glinda had taken the opportunity to enact a few vicious hugs of her own on Fiyero, it was officially storytime: Elphaba and Glinda provided Fiyero with all the pertinent information on the Deviant Nations, Unbridled Radiance, the war, No-Man's Land, the Hellion, Loamlark, the many and varied dimensional counterparts, what the two of them had been up to over the last few days, and so on and so forth. Once that was done, Fiyero and a nearly-conscious Boq explained how they'd arrived in this reality, detailing their long, rambling journeys across the borders of Unbridled Radiance and through the desolation of No-Man's Land – and, of course, the rather bizarre assistance they'd acquired along the way.

"Who are you calling bizarre?" Coil hissed indignantly, prodding Boq's supine body with the very tip of his tail. "You're the one who's changed ssssssubstantially; I'm the sssssame reptile I was at the sssssstart of my career, just the tiniesssst bit bigger."

As Boq groaned testily and lapsed back into unconsciousness, his older counterpoint coughed politely for the giant snake's attention. "Speaking of careers and assistance, you never actually explained why you offered our metallic friend passage all the way to Loamlark – or, for that matter, why you bothered to stick around."

"I didn't lose my curiosity to Distortion, young man: I've been anxious to learn more about the other Elphaba I've heard so much about. Besides, battlefields offer rich possibilities for experimentation, as you well know… and I grow tired of the rancid game No-Man's Land has to offer. So, I thought the plump emissaries of Unbridled Radiance might offer more palatable meat – and thus, here I am with your Tin counterpart in tow."

"At least he got help," Fiyero grumbled. He eyed Marchfly's limbless figure with undisguised irritation. "Did you know I spent the last week in a Loamlark jailhouse all because of his militia?"

"You could also spare a complaint or two for Mr Branderstove," Kiln suggested. "As I recall, it was his mercenaries who were holding up the militia communiques by using the jailhouse as an informal torture chamber."

Branderstove rolled his eyes. "Oh please. If you're interested in leaving any more dents in my self-esteem, dear doctor, then I must warn you that you're never going to top the events of the Pottery."

"Just spreading the blame as widely as possible. Call me old-fashioned, but it's hardly fair to put it all on the unconscious… and speaking of which, I'd better get back to easing Chief Marchfly into wakefulness so we can get around to asking his opinion on the new limbs." He shot a wry grin in Fiyero's direction. "That way, you'll be able to discuss your grievances with him in person, right?"

Soon, the sounds of operation were echoing gently across the island, as Dr Corone went about readying possible replacement limbs from the small pile of corpses dredged from the lake, whilst Kiln did his best to revive their patient by carefully plucking Marchfly's nerves like a harp in the hopes of sparking a return to consciousness. But it wasn't until one of the three began to mumble at length about "specific transformations," that the idea that had been sitting at the back of Elphaba's head finally struck her.

"Other than grafting on new limbs," she began softly, "what are we supposed to do now? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to see everyone together again, but how are we going to get out of this cavern and back to Loamlark?"

Dr Coil wound himself into a spiral as he considered this. "I've seen most of this cavern in the last few hours," he said at last. "So far, I haven't found any passageways big enough for any of us to traverse – none above water at any rate."

"We could always try blasting our way out through a wall," Glinda offered.

Branderstove shook his head ponderously. "We'd be risking another cave-in."

"And even if we didn't bring the roof down on our heads, we still wouldn't know if we were tunnelling in the right direction," Vara pointed out.

"And we can't try teleportation either," said Elphaba with a sigh.

"Why not?"

"Elementary magical limitation: dematerialization, portal-conjuring and the art of the Sideways Step all require at least some knowledge of where you are in relation of where you want to go… and at present, I have no idea where the hell we are."

"What about the radio? Has anyone replied to the distress call yet?"

Now it was Captain Wolton's turn to sigh. "Still too much rock in the way: we can either find our way to a higher cavern, improvise a signal booster or give up on waiting for help altogether."

There was an awkward silence, as the survivors pondered this.

And in that silence, someone laughed.

It took a grand total of five seconds for them to realize that it hadn't come from one of the survivors, that the voice now chuckling quietly into the shadows belonged to a stranger; more worrying, however, was the fact that it seemed to echo from everywhere at once.

"Why wait?" said the omnipresent voice. "Help is already here."

Suddenly, everyone was on their feet and scanning the shadows for the source of the voice, to no avail: their meagre torches barely penetrated a few feet into the gloom, and even the all-encompassing glow of Elphaba's conjured witchlight revealed no sign of any intruder. Whoever or whatever he was, he obviously hadn't been clinging to the wall or dangling from the ceiling, and he certainly hadn't been hiding in the lake: the sound of splashing water would have easily given him away… assuming it was a him – there was a curiously androgynous quality to the voice.

"Where are you?" Branderstove thundered. "Identify yourself!"

The invisible intruder laughed again. "Look down."

As one, the survivors looked down, but there was still no sign of any intruder: indeed, as far as they could tell, the rough crags and gravel shoreline looked the same as they always had. And then, just as they were starting to wonder if the voice was intent on wasting as much time as humanly possible, Elphaba felt the ground beneath her feet tremble ever-so-slightly, just violently enough to knock over the radio. At first, she thought it might have been an earthquake, or at the very least a prelude to another cave-in, but as another tremor rippled across the island, Elphaba looked closer at the trembling crags, and realized that she was no longer standing on an inanimate object: the ground beneath her feet was actually moving up and down seemingly of its own accord, too regularly to be the result of an earth tremor, its motion virtually silent except for the yelps of surprise from the onlookers and the near-inaudible hissing sound from below. And as the ground rose upwards, it actually flexed and heaved in an almost organic movement, as if…

The island itself was breathing.

As one, the rocks and boulders that dotted the island all swivelled on the spot, each one focussing on a different survivor; as they did so, their rough surfaces slowly peeled back, dozens upon dozens of craggy eyelids opening wide to stare at the figures cowering amongst them. For five heart-stopping seconds, the survivors could do nothing but stare; for five heart-stopping seconds, a sea of luminous yellow eyes stared back at them.

Then, from somewhere beneath their feet, the intruder laughed louder than ever. "Nice to meet you," it said. "Do you like the island? It's not much, but crafting landscapes true to nature is one of the more challenging aspects of our art… but it certainly worked well enough."

For a moment or two, the survivors could only gibber. Eventually, Glinda managed to blurt out the words, "You're the island?"

"In a word, yes."

Branderstove glowered dubiously at the nearest eyeball. "This island's foundations extend all the way to the bottom of the lake – well over two hundred feet deep. Are you actually telling me that all of that rock and silt is-"

"Of course. Do you think it was an accident that you just happened to find a patch of dry land in the middle of the Loam River? Islands like this are scarcer than hen's teeth out here… and you couldn't be left on your own, not with the beasties of the deep on the prowl. While you've been gathering the survivors here, and Elphaba's been sorting out her personal problems, we've been patiently maintaining this little safety zone until all are present and ready for mission briefing. "

"But… but why?" Elphaba demanded. "What mission? Who are you? What do you want?"

"Let's just start with the basics, shall we?"

The "island" rumbled again, and one of the boulders at Elphaba's feet began to grow, suddenly mushrooming upwards into a rough facsimile of a human being: arms oozed away from its sides, its trunk divided into a pair of legs, and as a head loomed out of the pulsating mass of stone-turned-flesh, a face began to emerged on the crude granite skull. Almost as an afterthought, a familiar red-and-black uniform began to take shape around the half-formed body, but Elphaba already knew who this was: even half-finished, there was no mistaking that clerkish smile.

"You're obviously not the real Colonel Gloss, are you?" she said, trying not to let the irritation show.

"Of course not," said the figure. "According to the Mistress of Mirrors, the Colonel is currently on his way back to Loamlark and getting ready to serve as acting-commander of the Strangling Coils-"

"Goddammit," Branderstove muttered.

"–and thankfully oblivious to the fact that he's been the victim of identity theft ever since you arrived in town. Not exactly the safest disguise in the city, but it served its purpose well enough."

"Then this is the second time you've rescued us," said Glinda. "During the cave-in, you-"

"Yes."

Elphaba let out a low groan. "Don't tell me: you're another representative of the Amorphous League here to spy on me."

"He's more than that, Elphaba," said Kiln darkly. "He's obviously a senior member, probably one of the oldest they could spare for this mission, he's here as part of an arrangement with the Mistress of Mirrors."

If anything, the apparition's smirk grew even wider. "Very good, Doctor."

"Well, I'd be pretty stupid not to recognize one of the League's greybeards in action. Only the oldest and most powerful members of the League would be able to take on the shape of an entire landmass and retain it for so long. More to the point, if the Mistress and the League are taking this as seriously as I think they are, they wouldn't bother sending neophyte shapeshifters to keep an eye on Elphaba, not at a time like this: they'd want someone with combat experience, someone brave enough and patient enough to serve as an impromptu bodyguard, someone with at least some… knowledge of… how the target thinks…"

He trailed off, eyes slowly widening as he lapsed into silence. "…oh dear gods," he groaned, "It's you, isn't it?"

The shapeshifter laughed and clapped his hands in delight. "We were hoping you'd recognize us," he chortled, "and you didn't disappoint! So, do you want to make the introductions, or should we?"

"You go ahead: this has been your show from the very beginning, after all."

"Oh come on, you know better than anyone else that we wouldn't have gotten away with any of this without her say-so."

Elphaba's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked suspiciously.

"Absolutely nothing," said Kiln, without missing a beat.

Not-Gloss just laughed. "Suffice it to say that the Mistress of Mirrors has a vested interest in this conflict and you in particular, Miss Thropp. But we think it's time this little masquerade came to an end, don't you? Allow us to introduce ourselves…"

And in mid-sentence, the shapeshifter's head began to melt: all at once, his nose, mouth and eyes were trickling down the length of his suddenly-molten face in a dozen multi-coloured trails, his hair dissolving into blobs of flowing ink pouring down the back of his misshapen head, his brow sagging forward to erase the entire display like a tidal wave in slow motion. In a matter of seconds, Colonel Gloss's skull had vanished in a torrent of flesh-coloured slime, leaving only a bubbling stump where his head had been only a moment ago. Then, the shapeshifter's uniform dissolved into bare skin, his arms suddenly fusing with the torso as it dissolved into a shapeless ball of pulsating flesh: dozens upon dozens of faces oozed in and out of the fleshy sphere's flanks, hands and feet emerging from the protean chaos just long enough to grasp vaguely at empty air before dissolving back into liquid meat.

Then, without warning, the ball of writhing shapes parted into two distinct bodies: a pair of roughly-human torsos conjoined at the back, both of them female, both of them dressed in blue – each garment an exoskeleton of polished chitin shaped to resemble the bodice of a dress. On a newly-grown quartet of crablike legs, the apparition clattered into the light, and for the first time, Elphaba got a good look at the shapeshifter's faces.

"You're-"

The shapeshifter's two faces broke into near-identical grins of delight. "Shenshen-Pfannee," they said in perfect unison. "At your service. It's good to see you again, Elphaba: your bad temper and acid tongue was sorely missed." Their bodies swivelled in Glinda's direction, and their eyes lit up. "And you too, Glinda! You've no idea how much we've missed the old you: the Mentor's nowhere near as fun as you used to be!"

The creature lurched towards her, rapidly shrinking as it did so: by the time it had reached Glinda, the conjoined body had divided into a pair of colossal pythons, and the last of their previous shape was being sucked noisily into their tails – except of course for their upper bodies, which sprouted in miniature from the necks of the great serpents. The snakes were nowhere near Dr Coil's size thankfully, but it was still nothing short of nerve-wracking to watch them slithering towards Glinda, hugging her face with miniature human arms even as their enormous serpent bodies gently wound themselves around her in reptilian mimicry of the embrace.

"Do you remember the good old days?" the two hissed, once again in unison. "All those marvellous dresses we wore then, all the fashions we indulged and modelled? Don't you remember how much fun we had? The dances, the japes, the games of gossip, it all happened so many decades ago, and yet it must have only been yesterday to you! Our days at school, at Shiz, at the Ozdust – oh, the Ozdust!" The snake-women laughed and clapped their hands in synchronized glee, pausing only to kiss Glinda's forehead – once again in perfect unison.

For her part, Glinda could only gibber in confusion, before finally managing to mumble the words "Er, hello to you too. It's… it's been a long time…"

"But what are we like in your dimension? What are we like in this other Oz we've heard so much about? What are Shenshen and Pfannee like over there?"

Glinda coughed uncomfortably. "Erm. Well, you're… um… last I saw you – the you that I knew, the other you – you were just the same as you had been at Shiz. And… um, well I haven't seen either of them since then, not for several years now. Um, sorry."

"No need to be sorry: everything changes, just like we do. We're just happy to see you again."

"Um, me too. Could you please get off me now? You're squeezing a little too tightly."

The pythons swiftly disentangled themselves from Glinda's limbs and somersaulted backwards into the centre of the island, where they swiftly grew and intertwined into a conjoined body once again. "Apologies," Shenshen-Pfannee intoned. "Nostalgia, you see. It wasn't all good, we know, otherwise we wouldn't have joined the league at all. But still, all the fun we had together, you and us…"

"Would there be any point in asking how you… how you joined the League?"

"There might be. But if the Mistress of Mirrors was right, then the dream-memories will explain more than we can, and Dr Kiln can supply any information you can't find. He loves playing the storyteller, doesn't he? He used to be such a shy little Munchkin, and look how much he's grown since then..."

Kiln gently pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed like an exploding set of bellows. "I forgot just how much noise you could make," he grumbled.

At this point, Vara coughed politely for attention: she'd been quiet for a while now, but it seemed that the shapeshifter's bizarre display had stirred something in her. "At the risk of sounding rude, which one of you is Shenshen and which one's Pfannee?"

"We are both. Just because we have separate heads doesn't mean we have separate minds."

"But-"

"We are too enmeshed for separate identity, Ma'am. We are gestalt. We are one. Call us SP, if it helps, or PS if you feel like sending us a letter every now and again. But the name has little to do with the face: we've taken this form only to help smooth this transition… and partly out of nostalgia."

"Transition?" Elphaba echoed.

"Suffice it to say that Unbridled Radiance has decided to enact some of its more cataclysmic strategies ahead of schedule, and unfortunately, you and your associates are the only opposition that can be pitted against them at short notice – again. With the permission of the Mentor and the Mistress, we've been ordered to guide you aboveground – and more importantly, to your next objective. The exact objective… well, it'll take too long to explain and it'll make much more sense once we reach the surface anyway, but we'll say this much: t's going to be extremely dangerous, but it's also going to be your best chance of saving Loamlark, the northern front, maybe even the Nations as a whole. As we said, it'll all make sense once we're out of here: for now, all you need to do is follow our lead and follow our advice."

"And what advice is that, exactly?"

As if in answering, Shenshen-Pfannee's mouths twisted into dual replicas of the ingratiating smirk that had been the bane of Elphaba's university days.

"Follow the Yellow-Brick Road," was all they said.

Then they laughed, the cavern briefly echoing in the practiced titter that had once followed every witticism that had dropped from Glinda's lips.

A moment later, they were gone, their forms swiftly melting back into the barren rock of the island (their main body, Elphaba reflected absently). Then the island itself trembled once again, and before the stunned eyes of the onlooks, it began to grow, extending its northern beach steadily outwards into a long, winding road of hastily-gathered rocks and boulders twisting off into the distant shadows, a vast causeway wide enough to support even the likes of Branderstove and Dr Coil.

As an afterthought, the road flickered in the dim light, before turning a vivid shade of yellow that actually seemed to glow in the dim light of the surrounding cavern. And were those gold nuggets bordering the road, now?

Elphaba sighed deeply. "I can't even last a day without being led by the nose, can I?" she muttered wearily.

Kiln patted her shoulder. "If it's any comfort, we're all in the same boat for a change."

Why do I not believe you when you say that? Why do I get the feeling that you know more than you're letting on – again?!

"How quickly can you graft those new limbs?" she asked.

"Oh, it depends on how complex they'll be. Marchfly's only just woken up and we haven't even asked him for preferences yet, so it might be several hours - at least if he gives as much opposition as we think he will. Cooperation should cut down grafting time, but it'll still take a while."

"Can you patch him up while on the move?"

"If you give me a few minutes to rig up a stretcher, sure."

"Alright then, let's get going."

"And feel free to talk among yourselves!" SP advised. "It really is impossible to overemphasize the therapeutic benefits of conversation."

Glinda eyed the causeway dubiously. "So you're still an insatiablating gossip-hound, I take it?"

"Aw, you do remember us!"

---

Just getting the survivors to move was a trial in itself.

The first ten minutes of the attempted travel preparations were spent arguing whether or not to trust their apparent rescuer: Glinda, Vara, Kiln, Corone and Branderstove voted in favour of following the shapeshifter's path, while Coil, Arkady, Gerhardt and Wolton voted in favour of finding their own way out. Chief Marchfly abstained on the grounds of unconsciousness, while Elphaba abstained on the grounds that the vote was a pointless overindulgent waste of time (thereby matching all the criteria for a major election, SP had quipped). In the end, it became painfully apparent to all present that none of them had any choice in the matter: with no rafts, explosives, digging equipment or any other provisions, their only option was to follow the road the shapeshifter had built for them – or drown when the shapeshifter's "island" finally left for greener pastures.

Then, of course, there was Marchfly's sudden return to consciousness: once Corone had managed to rouse him, the militia chief immediately attempted a brisk return to hunting down the Empress – the key word being "attempted," for the whole thing ended up with him lying flat on his face, wriggling like a drunken caterpillar. Thankfully, this appeared to calm him down just enough for Kiln and Corone to explain the situation to him. As expected, he didn't take it well:

"God's balls," he'd raged. "We've lost our railroad, our profits, our peace of mind, our liberty; we've lost God only knows how many people to the last couple of air raids, we've lost Jonatim…" Here, Marchfly's voice almost cracked under the strain. "…I've lost my limbs, and now you want to start chipping away at our customs! Hell and damnation, couldn't you at least let me catch my breath before you start undermining our cultural heritage?"

"Chief, it's a basic limb transplant-"

"Oh for the love of God! Have none of you ever wondered why we were happy to stay up north? It wasn't all about fear, you know: we just wanted to stay as far away from the war as possible, and maybe – just maybe – start a new life for ourselves away from Unbridled Radiance. No more government-mandated surgery, no more regulations on personal appearance, no more flesh-sculpted aristocracy. Simple… or so we thought, right up until you people come along, asking to set up a Chapter Temple for the Irredeemables – exactly the kind of surgery-crazed nobles we'd been trying to get away from! Over and over again, the same requests to set up some institution or another, the same offers of enhanced revenue or new construction projects or a local College of Magic or healthcare benefits from all the mage-surgeons we'd have on our doorstep! And all we'd need to do would be to sign over our lives again – along with our town, our homes, our laws, our traditions – everything we'd worked so hard to build out here in the mountains snatched away in the blink of an eye-"

"You still haven't explained how this has anything to do with getting new arms and legs."

"That's how they tried to get us! "Just think of the healthcare benefits!" they said. "With mage-surgeons, you'll never have to worry about the injuries that can result from mining accidents, avalanches and frostbite! Lose a limb? Our mage-surgeons can just make you a new one!" And that's how it starts, that's how it always starts: you give the bastards just a tiny bit of leeway, and all of a sudden, they're in charge! You sign up for a replacement limb, and the next thing you know, you've got clockwork can-openers for arms and you've been branded an Irredeemable. You apply for a promotion, they tear your skin off, turn you into a living Doll and call you "Purified." It's the same tale wherever you are, Unbridled Radiance or the Deviant Nations – and I know that for a fact because about half of Loamlark's told me the story! In their home countries, they gave Unbridled Radiance the benefit of a doubt and the next thing they knew, they'd been annexed! Their leaders were Purified, their resources stolen, their very religion dismantled and forgotten – not even a footnote left!"

"But the Deviant Nations aren't-"

"Yes, yes, yes, you've told me again and again and again that the Deviant Nations are nothing like Unbridled Radiance. But you know what? At the end of the day, you're both obsessed with fleshcrafting, you've both set up your own homemade aristocracy of patchwork lunatics or lobotomized dolls, and you're both in thrall to the whims of some distant unpleasable empress! And before I hear any of the carefully-rehearsed rebuttals that were just about to come pissing out that lamprey-toothed sewer of yours, here's the clinching thing: both of you would have our every last independent tradition erased and drag us into the war!"

Kiln took a deep breath. "Okay," he admitted, "the whole dragging you into the war business is pretty valid – and maybe the bit about being obsessed with fleshcrafting – but you've got to at least acknowledge the fact that war participation was bound to happen sooner or later anyway. I mean, if you know as much about U.R.'s expansionism as you claim, then you at least have to admit that you would have found yourself opposing them in armed conflict sooner or later. I mean, I'm assuming you wouldn't surrender. But as for the bit about destroying your traditions, I swear we'd have absolutely nothing to gain from doing so-"

"Oh really? I've heard enough of the rumours about your Mentor, about how much she despises the worship of the Lost God!"

"Uh…" Kiln floundered for a moment, suddenly out of explanations. Elphaba couldn't blame him: after all, it wasn't as if he could just pretend that the Mentor didn't despise Loamlark and its beliefs; even if she hadn't hated them for their sudden turn towards secessionism, she certainly hated Loamlark for worshipping the Wizard, however unknowingly.

After several seconds of hemming and hawing, he finally turned to the surrounding audience, desperately signalling for help. In the end, Elphaba, long since sick and tired of listening to the argument skidding back and forth, threw up her hands and announced, "I think you're missing the point here, Marchfly: we can carry on all day about how the Mentor dislikes the Lost God, or how allying with us will see every single tradition you've built up over the last few decades ruined. But quite frankly, I am so past giving a damn about all of this, and I honest couldn't care less if Loamlark and all its people seceded completely and spent the next few generations quietly inbreeding themselves into extinction. Here and now, your traditions do not signify in any way, shape or form."

"Oh, bullshit they don't-"

"None of it matters, Marchfly. You can talk about the future of Loamlark's traditions until your tongue sprouts legs and scuttles out of your mouth like a centipede, and none of it will matter, because the survival of Loamlark's people is currently at stake. Now, do you want to go down in history as the man who stuck to his principles and did nothing while Loamlark was destroyed, while outsiders fought to save it? I mean, I can certainly understand why – Loamlark might be destroyed and all its people slaughtered, but at least you can say they never gave up on their traditions, right? You'll make sure those laws and customs are remembered by everyone who cares to read tragedy – before Unbridled Radiance burns the old libraries down, of course. You can even put a nice little brass plaque over the mass gave: "Here lie the people of Loamlark, outlived by their traditions." I'm sure it'll be a great comfort to them."

The rest of the survivors visibly fought the urge to wince; even Branderstove looked a bit taken aback. For his part, Marchfly's scowl deepened even further.

"Or, you can compromise. You can agree to be altered and help us save Loamlark: yes, you'll have to live with the fact that you've defied everything you've believed in, and yes, you'll have to live with the consequences of that. Maybe the townsfolk will reject you for being corrupted by the outside world, and you'll end up banished after everything you've done to help them. Or maybe they'll accept you and everything you'll stand for; maybe the next step will be the construction of a chapter temple for the Irredeemables, and this really will be the end of Loamlark's traditions. I don't know. But here's the thing: we need all the help we can get today, and if we succeed in this mission, we save the entire northern front: Loamlark and all its people will survive."

If Marchfly was in any way convinced, he didn't show it: he only stared back at the expectant survivors, brow furrowing deeper and deeper as the impasse continued.

Branderstove was the first to break the silence: "Maybe I should put this another way," he rumbled. "This is the only way you'll ever get the revenge you so desperately need: if you give up now, the Empress will be forever beyond your reach, and all the people killed in this invasion will stay unavenged. The crimes of Unbridled Radiance will go unpunished, and you'll spend the rest of days as a bitter, impotent old cripple, watching from the confines of a refugee camp as the Empress goes from victory to victory, wishing you could have brought justice down upon her when you had the chance."

"What makes you think I want revenge?" said Marchfly. His voice was soft, now, almost a whisper.

"The fact that you lost your limbs trying to avenge the death of your mayor; the fact that we found you trying to swim after her with a knife stuck between your teeth; the fact that you spend gods only know how many hours talking in your sleep about avenging all those killed in the invasion so far. "I will bring you justice," I believe were your exact words. So, how do you plan to do that without accepting the help of the redoubtable Dr Kiln?"

There was an awkward pause.

"Revenge is never as simple as you imagine it will be, Chief Marchfly: it's a long and horribly unglamorous journey uphill dotted with crushing frustrations and fleeting but glorious moments of triumph. More often than not, you need help to begin; believe me, I needed help just getting on my feet long enough to take that first step. You want revenge? We can give it to you. All you have to do is accept the fact that you can't take the first step on your own."

At long last, a sigh escaped Marchfly's lips. "You know," he said quietly, "It's been said that, from the moment the first stone was laid and the first of the new laws were enacted, Loamlark was intended as a sanctuary – not just for refugees from Unbridled Radiance, but for anyone who wanted to escape from the war. They said…" He blinked rapidly. "The founders said, "As long as Loamlark stands, no man or woman of this town need surrender their flesh to the whims of the great empires. Neither Purified nor Irredeemable will hold sway here, nor shall the horrors of the southerners' war. Henceforth, this city shall stand as a realm of peace." I know it sounds stupid, but I thought – I honestly thought we could make that little vow last forever…"

"Nothing lasts forever," said Branderstove. "Least of all principles."

There was a long silence, as the militia boss slowly considered his options; he couldn't meet their eyes now; he could only stare at the floor. "How long will it take?" he said at last.

"Minutes," Kiln replied. "We've actually been preparing the nerves of several possible limb replacements for some time now, so we're ready to perform field grafts; at the very most, it'll take about three quarters of an hour to finalize the nerve connections. All we need is your assent and decision. I'm afraid the selection on offer isn't quite as varied as the sort you'd find at the average Chapter-Temple: Corone and I aren't machine-proponents, unfortunately, so it's all organic – but rest assured, the replacement organs will be battle-ready."

"Fine. If my assent's really that important to you, then show me this little catalogue of yours and be done with it. Just one thing: if anyone asks, tell them this happened on the battlefield, right when the Empress opened fire on us for choice. If our traditions have to start falling to pieces on my watch, I'd at least like to pretend it didn't begin so damn quietly…"

After that, things proceeded in a fairly orderly fashion: while everyone else packed up the camp, Kiln and Corone went about arranging their own mobile operating theatre. It was a haphazard affair, consisting mainly of a large round gurney outfitted with an oversized array of scuttling millipede legs, but with Marchfly firmly strapped down and the two mage-surgeons effectively merged with the gurney's flanks, they at least had a semi-viable platform on which to work. Fortunately, Kiln and Corone weren't going to be using scalpels for this particular operation.

Once the gurney was finished, it was time to leave: Elphaba and Glinda took the lead, while Fiyero, Vara, Wolton and the Terror Twins held the middle, the mage-surgeons and their patient stayed in the back, and Dr Coil guarded the rear of the group. For good measure, he also guarded the still-unconscious Boq – now strapped to Coil's ponderous tail, fast asleep. As for Branderstove, the Leviathan had decided to save space for the rest of the group by taking another dip in the lake, resolving to follow the path of the causeway from the comfort of the waters.

"Besides," he added cheerily, "It's not everyday you encounter so much water so far from a real ocean. Why not take advantage?"

---

For the first eight minutes of the journey, the survivors were virtually silent but for the muttered incantations from Kiln and Corone, and the occasional splash from Branderstove. It wasn't too hard to guess why: most of them were beset with worries about the situation at hand – fears of being led into a trap, of being ambushed by some subterranean monster, or just being eavesdropped on by the resident shapeshifter – and the fact that the causeway beneath their feet was alive had hadn't helped much. And then there was the unearthly singing in the distance, the ever-present lamentation of the Mourning Hall growing steadily louder with every step they took, smothering conversation and flattening spirits from one end of the road to the next.

But in the end, the silence grew too much for one of the survivors, and conversation abruptly broke out among the crowd. From her position at the head of the group, Elphaba couldn't tell who it was; in the end, she was just grateful for the reprieve. Like the others, she found herself quickly embroiled in conversation – not with Glinda or Fiyero, as she would have expected, but with Branderstove, of all people.

"You said you needed help taking the first step," she began. "Actually, you've mentioned that several times, but you've never mentioned who it was who helped you – out of the lake, to be more specific? You told me that they gave you your exoskeleton and paying work, but-"

"They commonly went by the name of Smith and Tinker," said Branderstove quietly.

Elphaba's brow wrinkled. "The engineering team?" she murmured. A blizzard of old dossiers and documents fluttered through her memories, roughly-typed words on yellowing paper racing before her mind's eye: "an inventor and an artist," "highly innovative, incorporating both magic and mechanism," "proud citizens of Ev" "highly eccentric, difficult to acquire."

"Your other self was familiar with them, I take it?"

"Well, naturally: she was on the lookout for just about any kind of expertise available in those days. I'm pretty sure I remember seeing Smith and Tinker's names on a list of possible recruits for her Think Tank, apparently very highly recommended by the Pottery's engineering experts. She didn't have any luck contacting them, though, so she was forced to settle for Ku-Klip the Tinsmith. She even gave him the codename of "Tinkerage" as homage. But tell me, how did you meet the two?"

"They were testing a prototype submersible on the lake one day, and found me wallowing in the shallows… and my own self-pity. So, they decided to take me in – if only for the challenge my unique physiology presented. They crafted a magical-mechanical construct that would allow me to allow me to walk upright and survive extended periods away from the water, an exoskeleton that would support my frame and keep my tissues safely hydrated for days at a time. As payment, I stayed with them and rendered what little service I could: I kept their accounts in order, I did their taxes, I made sure they got the highest possible price for commissioned work…"

"And you occasionally cracked skulls for them," Elphaba finished.

"From time to time, yes. Violence was strange to me back then, even with my newfound strength, but I learned to employ it where necessary… and enjoy it if possible. On the whole, it wasn't a bad life. The sums kept my mind occupied, and the brute work kept my frustration under control. But all good things must come to an end: Mr Smith's gift for realism got the better of him, and he drowned in one of his own paintings; with nobody to rein in his curiosity, Mr Tinker employed his last and greatest invention and departed skywards."

"You mean… he finished the Ladder?"

"From what I saw, yes."

"You saw it?"

"Well, I caught glimpses of it every now and again. Tinker was always the more secretive of the two, but even he couldn't keep something like this in the shadows forever – not with my eyes, at any rate. I didn't see his initial tests, though, not until his first and only proper use of it, but…" He smiled faintly. "He always knew how to make an exit, that man. I'm surprised to hear you knew of it, though; I mean, I knew Alphaba was connected, but I didn't know her reach extended that far."

Elphaba shrugged. "From what I can tell, she'd always had imperial expansion on her mind, probably from the moment she came up with the Doctrine of Beauty, in fact. But what happened after Tinker left?"

"Well, I was left behind with all the blueprints and schematics - one of which happened to be a rather unique design for a fully-automated clockwork soldier."

"So that's where you got the Tik-Toks?"

"Let's just say that once I was able to find a buyer – which took much longer than you'd think, given the political climate – I was given a very reasonable percentage of the monthly profits. Enough to buy a few units of the product I'd helped onto the market, and fund the creation of the Strangling Coils… and when my meal-ticket died in the war, I took control of his factories and ended up as the sole producer of Tik-Toks in the kingdom – hence my auxiliaries."

"But until then, you were still busy legbreaking."

"What can I say? Shattering kneecaps is an easy way of satisfying desires what might never be satisfied. If nothing else, the sound of splintering bones is perfect for blotting out the thought of home and-" He paused, and put a hand over his mouth. "I didn't mean to say that out loud," he said quietly, and abruptly sank – first beneath the water, then into an embarrassed silence.

"What was that about?" Elphaba asked nobody in particular.

"Revenge, I'd imagine," Vara replied softly. "It does seem to be one of the few things that holds his interest these days."

"Apart from the continuous pursuit of wealth and opulence, of course?"

"Assuming it's real, of course. Revenge has a funny way of turning your entire life into window dressing for a vendetta: I've met other people who lost their homes and families to Unbridled Radiance, people who could have just started again but didn't; they wanted revenge so badly that they simply didn't have room in their lives for it – so they carved themselves hollow to make room."

"And you think Branderstove's been hollowed out? I'd have thought the hollowed-out type would be too dedicated to have fun, or even to pretend to have fun; maybe I'm reading him wrong, but his enjoyment seems pretty real when he's not obsessing over old grudges."

"Maybe it is. Maybe the fun and the greed are his way of staying sane, maybe they're all just an act. One way or the other, as much as he loves money and luxury, he loves revenge more. I can't blame him; I know how it feels. True, I'm nowhere near as old or accomplished as him, but I know what it's like to…" She hesitated, a look of profound confusion creeping across her blue-scaled face, as if she wasn't sure of what she was saying or why. "I know what it's like to lose something. And I know what it's like to go hollow. Might have stayed that way, too, if the Mentor hadn't drawn me back from the edge."

Elphaba bit her lip: she remembered the story of Vara's kidnapping (as if she could forget anything that had happened that night!) and how Harker had said that it wasn't his to tell, not in its complete form at any rate. Would Vara be willing to share the rest of the story with her? This almost certainly wasn't the time or the place for such a conversation, and even if they weren't heading through uncharted territory and facing the distinct possibility of certain death (again), it wasn't exactly a topic you could broach respectfully. How would Vara react to discovering that one of her deepest and most private secrets had been leaked – and by one of her closest friends, no less? No, this little discussion could wait until later. Much, much later.

And yet, to Elphaba's horror, she was already opening her mouth to speak; she could only watch, mortified, as her own voice whispered, "I know what happened to you, Vara; Harker told me most of it – I'm sorry."

For a moment, Vara could only stare in confusion, the scales around her eyes glittering eerily in the dim light. Then she began to laugh. "The bastard," she cackled. "He finally took my advice!"

Now it was Elphaba's turn to stare. "What?"

"I told him it wasn't a secret; he could tell anyone he liked, anyone in the world, but he never did until…" She sighed, her tone turning sombre. "He told you that on the night he died, didn't he."

"How did you-"

"Harker swore a great many oaths, Elphaba, most of them he set for himself, "for the sake of my soul and the world," he said. Reality got in the way, sadly: he wanted to never fire another shot, he wanted to devote his life to farming, he wanted to forget everything and forsake his life before the Irredeemables – he even went on a quest for one of the last Great Enchanters of Memory, all so he could have his past erased. Never could find him, though. But there was one oath he always kept: "Let my greatest secrets remain unspoken, and let no other hear them until my dying day." Harker always had an instinct for danger, believe me."

And a death wish, Elphaba thought gloomily.

"Well now," said Vara, "I suppose it's time for me to tell the rest of the story, then."

"What? No, no, no, that's not necessary at-"

"Please, it's no trouble to tell you what happened, if you really want to know. Like I said, it's not a secret, not really: I've told a few of the Irredeemables my story, as well as the Mentor herself; even Glinda knows a tiny bit of it. I made my peace with what happened a long time ago. If you want to know my story, then you're more than welcome to listen." She offered a bemused grin. "Besides, it's not as if there's anything left to do but talk, and I doubt either of us can think of anything else to talk about now, am I right?"

"… fair enough."

"So, let me guess: Harker would have told you everything right up to the point of my kidnapping and imprisonment, right?"

"Well, he didn't go into too many specifics, but he said that you were forcibly repatriated back to Unbridled Radiance… and that you were pregnant at the time."

"So I was. Three months along, to be specific. I was twenty-five, newly-married, and..." She paused. "I wasn't anyone extraordinary at the time; I was just another citizen of the border regions, just some girl, really. I was… well, I was lucky, but not unbelievably so: I did well in school, I got a job as a local alchemist's assistant, I saved up my pennies without really having much of a plan for what to do with them… and eventually, I met a boy from the other side of town, fell madly in love, got pregnant and married him. I thought that the story would be pretty simple after that: I'd seen the way it had went in dozens of other families all over town; the baby would be born, I'd raise it, I'd care for it, I'd shepherd it through school and work, and my husband and I would carry on saving our pennies for retirement and old age.

"And then the Repatriation Squad came along, a much bigger one than Loamlark got: they'd been running surveillance on us for days, picking out choice targets and waiting until local defences were at their most relaxed. They staged a distraction, called in an artillery strike on the most disposable areas of the town; then, while everyone else was trying to put out the fire, the abduction began. And when the local marshals cottoned on, it turned into a massacre."

She took a deep breath. She'd already been speaking quietly, but now her voice dropped to whisper as she continued: "We didn't have a militia and we didn't have Loamlark's walls, but we had the local marshals, a military barracks and even a basic Chapter Temple. It wasn't much against massed artillery and a Purified-led repatriation squad… but we didn't go quietly." She offered a sad little smile. "Well, at least I hope we didn't: I was inside for most of the fighting. My husband locked and barred the front door and had me hide in the attic while he stood guard with his dad's old hunting rifle – not that it did him any good."

"They killed him?"

"Not immediately. The Purified commanding officer just kicked the door in, shrugged off a couple of rounds to the chest, snapped the gun in half and dragged my husband away. I never saw him again."

That sad little smile again. "Quellan, he… he wasn't a hero by any means. He wasn't the sort of person who'd magically transform into an unstoppable warrior at a moment's notice, storm the gates of Exemplar, kill a thousand men in battle – nothing like that. But he was a good man: kind, gentle, always willing to listen, always ready to help. He wasn't the bravest man in the world, I'll admit: I saw his hands shaking when he loaded the rifle that night, saw him trembling as I hurried up the stairs; I'd seen him back down from barroom brawls, from fights at work, even from the few arguments he'd had with me… but that night, Quellan stood his ground. He never stopped resisting. A month later, they killed him for it: the Repatriation Authority designated him "low-priority, poor character, little potential for Purification," so when he was caught breaking out of his cell, the guards didn't have any qualms about cutting his throat and letting him bleed out in the gutter. I didn't hear about it until I broke into the records department and found the incident report… and according to security, he'd been heading towards my cell when they'd caught him."

She took a deep breath. "The others weren't so lucky. The kids who tried to break out were just beaten and sent back to their cells on a stricter drug regimen. As for top priority girls like me, we were prevented from escaping again in the most direct manner possible: they broke every bone in my hands, a mallet to the hand for each escape attempt; on the upside, they at least had the decency to keep me anaesthetized over the course of the punishment, but that's not much comfort when you're being spoon-fed your evening meal by the most condescending nurse in the country. I was considering a third try, but then the guards decided to make an example of one young mother who'd had the same idea by cutting off her hands and nailing them to the wall of the exercise yard; again, the amputation was completely painless, but it's not as if Unbridled Radiance needs to inflict physical pain to be cruel. By the time I worked up the nerve to try escaping again, security measures had been buffed up and even with my hands on the mend, I couldn't find a way out. In the end, I could only wait for the inevitable and wonder what they'd do to me next."

"What was it like? The imprisonment, I mean?"

"Borderline hedonistic," Vara deadpanned.

"Really?"

"Unbridled Radiance is a fan of gilded cages. Besides, it wasn't a prison – or at least they didn't use the term – it was a "Rehabilitation Centre For Recently-Repatriated Persons." We weren't imprisoned just for the sake of imprisonment: we were there to be converted into obedient citizens of Unbridled Radiance, and living in luxury was just part of the indoctrination process. The cells were luxury apartments, all thick carpets, big fluffy pillows, silk sheets, entertainment on demand, hot baths and five-star meals… and behind all that, bars on the window and thaumaturgically-sealed doors. And the entertainment was almost always propaganda, too, often so subtle that you didn't even realize you'd been cheering for Unbridled Radiance until you thought about it… and the chefs weren't too troubled about dosing the food if it looked like you were thinking too much. Some of the prisoners succumbed, some of them didn't; either way, you kept your head down and your mouth shut, and tried not to give in, promising yourself that you'd stay true to yourself no matter how invasive the indoctrination became, promising that they'd one day escape. I've talked to about a dozen other people lucky enough to escape the Repatriation Centres, and all of them – men, women and children – they all had that same mantra running through their heads day and night, all of them swore the same oath over and over again, because that was all we could do.

"And I had only two advantages over them: first, I'd be a mother soon; if I couldn't raise my baby in freedom, I'd at least be able to raise him in comfort. He'd be a happy child, if nothing else. At the very least, I thought, I'd be able to teach him just enough rebellion to keep him from being completely indoctrinated by our new home. And then there was the fact that I knew security would be relaxed in the months following the birth: I'd seen it happen to other mothers before, and I thought, if I timed my escape just right, I'd be able to break out completely unscathed. All throughout imprisonment and pregnancy, I thought of almost nothing but escape, of smuggling myself over the border to the Deviant Nations, of the new life I'd build for myself and the baby." She almost laughed. "I was still fantasizing of escape when my water finally broke.

"The birth was… well, luxury was part of the indoctrination process, and I'd almost convinced the guards I was a model prisoner by that stage, so they gave me as much anaesthesia as they could afford without endangering me or the baby. Somnolomancers kept me entranced and serene, while mage-surgeons ensured that the newest child of Unbridled Radiance entered the world without error. And…"

Another deep breath: this seemed to be the hardest part of the confession, for by now, Vara was clearly trying harder than ever to keep the smile on her face, and despite her best efforts her eyes were now shining with tears. "They let me hold the baby once," she said, her voice almost inaudible. "I remember that much. It was a boy, maybe a little smaller than most babies I'd seen delivered back in the village, but just an ordinary baby. My son. My beautiful son. My Nialan. I sang to him, his first lullaby, and then... and then one of the doctors took him away from me, told me they needed to examine him for potential infections, that they'd return him to his basinet once they were done; then, the resident somnolomancer put me to sleep. When I awoke, my son was nowhere to be found."

The smile was gone now. "Nobody would tell me where they'd taken him – most of the guards couldn't even look at me, let alone speak to me. But eventually, I kicked up enough of a fuss to get the warden's attention. I'd met her before, when I was about seven months along, and she'd been nothing but polite with me then – maybe even nice, assuming you could use that word to describe a woman who was just a few months away from willing Purification. But when I met her a second time… I could tell she hated me. She didn't even bother to hide it, either: she just stared down at me, utterly revolted. She couldn't even stand to be in the same room as me, I think. She kept her answers short, told me that my son had been formally removed from my custody and would never be returned to me. And when I begged to know my, I was told that I should know perfectly well, that I understood my crime well enough. So I begged. I pleaded with her to return Nialan, to let me hold my son again; I promised her everything I could possibly offer, I swore allegiance to the Radiant Empress over and over again, I told her I'd do anything to make amends for whatever I'd done wrong. The warden wasn't having any of that, though – she lashed out, hit me across the face. And I'll never forget what she said next: 'Good mothers don't breed Distortions'."

Vara bowed her head in sorrow. "Good mothers don't breed Distortions," she repeated wearily. "Nialan had been born disfigured - or least, that's how they put it. It was really just a mild case of skin discolouration: patches of blue on his back, on his legs and his arms. I hadn't even noticed them when I'd first held him, I'd been so exhausted, but when I finally managed to get hold of his medical records… it was ridiculous." And for the first time since she'd met her, the Irredeemable sounded angry: it was a particular kind of anger that Elphaba knew only too well, having heard the same tone in her voice all too often – a merging of frustration and disgust aimed at the world and its many hypocrisies.

"The deformities were miniscule," she carried on, only just managing to stop herself from shouting. "Most of them were smaller than the baby's fingertips! The biggest of them was about the size of my thumbnail! And it wasn't as if they were malignant, or life-threatening or even contagious: Nialan could have lived a perfectly normal life with those little patches of blue, without needing corrective surgery… or whatever they did to him in the end. But Nialan was a Distortion in the eyes of the Empress, so they took him away from me… and just like his father, I never saw him again."

"But you said you'd seen his records-"

"They redacted the final decision, Elphaba: too many unwanted children had ended up getting rescued by the Deviant Nations thanks to the paper trail, you see. So Unbridled Radiance kept the fate of future generations classified – apparently in Paragon's database, from what I've heard. Even once I broke out, I couldn't find where they'd sent him or what had happened to him. Of course, I know the standard procedure now: deformed children are to be surgically "corrected" by any means available, mundane or magical… and if the condition proves too resilient to correct, it's standard procedure to have the child euthanized "for their own good." For all I know, Nialan was dead before he saw his first birthday."

"But he could be still alive."

"Yes, he could be. Maybe they managed to sculpt him into the perfect child they wanted after all, and had him set up with a foster family; I don't know and I never found any evidence for either option. But I hope he lived; I hope they set him up with a foster family who cared more for their children than their social standing; I hope he's happy with his life in Unbridled Radiance, that he can do well without ending up being selected for Purification. I have to hope, because I couldn't find him, and I couldn't save him.

"That was the hardest part of breaking out: the act itself wasn't difficult; like I said, I'd distinguished myself as a model prisoner, and security was relaxed while I recuperated. Besides, it wasn't as if they were going to be keeping me there much longer: standard procedure for "unsuitable mothers" was sterilization followed by two years of hard labour – along with another dose of indoctrination just to prove I deserved everything they did to me. Believe it or not, the drastic change in status worked to my advantage: it meant that the guards gave me even less attention than before; they didn't want their reputations ruined by associating with me, even if it was only to monitor things like visits to the bathroom or the laundry. As soon as I was well enough to walk, I broke out at breakfast, killed a guard or ten, stole an airship and left with as much information as I could carry. I spent days flitting from one hiding place to another, trying to find some trace of Nialan in the paperwork I'd looted. In the end, I couldn't find any hint of where they'd taken my son, and searching for him meant heading blind into Unbridled Radiance with no clue where to look and no idea who to question. So, I did the only logical thing I could do: I went west, flew out over No-Man's Land and crossed the border into the Deviant Nations, hating myself every step of the way."

"And then you joined the Irredeemables?"

"Well, not instantly. I spent about a week being interviewed and tested by border security. By the end of it, even the Mentor was starting to take an interest. Once they were finished, they set me up with an apartment in Greenspectre and a halfway decent job, and sent me on my way; true, they offered me a return to my home village, but…"

Her face twisted, as if in reluctance, as if this was a more painful confession than the others before. "What was left for me there now that my family was dead?" she said at last. "How could I face all those mothers and fathers who'd lost their children to Unbridled Radiance, and say "I made it back, and they didn't." And of course, that thought haunted me all the way to Greenspectre: why was I free when so many others were still imprisoned? Needless to say, the first few months were hell. I'd been the proverbial country mouse all my life, and the city overwhelmed me very quickly: too much noise, too many people, too much work… and all the while, I still wanted to find my son – or at the very least, find some way of salving my conscience. I kept trying, even though I knew full well it was impossible, kept pestering military officials, spymasters, information brokers. I even tried to get in contact with the Mistress of Mirrors, if you can believe it. Of course, it all came to nothing."

By now, Vara's face was taking on the same slightly disbelieving cast as the Leviathan's had, as if she couldn't believe she was finally admitting this – as if whatever had loosened his lips was now doing the same to her.

"And that wasn't all that haunted me," she continued. "If it wasn't guilt over Nialan, it was anger. Endless, mind-corroding anger. I started going hollow: just like Branderstove, I wanted nothing more than to take revenge on those who'd stolen my life and my family from me; day after day, I could think of nothing but returning to the Rehabilitation Centre and killing every single guard and official I could find. Eventually, the anger grew and grew until I found myself blaming just about everyone in Unbridled Radiance for what had happened: by the end of it, I was finding every citizen complicit in the murders and kidnappings and deprivations, every innocent child to blame for what had been done to me. And for all the thought I put into plans for revenge and mass-murder, it was all pointless fantasy, just another way of deflecting my guilt. But the hate wasn't the worst part, believe it or not. More than once, my hope in the Deviant Nations faltered, and I actually considered… just flowing with the tide: sneaking back across the border, surrendering to Unbridled Radiance, letting them sear my womb barren and work me until my back broke – if only because it would spare me the heartbreak of being forced into it when we were finally defeated, if only because it would spare me the pain of seeing the same treatment inflicted upon thousands of other young mothers captured alongside me, if only because two years of hard labour would kill me long before Unbridled Radiance conquered my homeland.

"I won't lie: I came pretty close to madness in those first three months. But at the start of my fourth month in Greenspectre, I found out that one of my queries had gotten the attention of the Mentor: I said before she'd taken an interest in my case when I first arrived, and… for lack of a better term, she took me under her wing."

"No offence, but the Mentor's never exactly struck me as the maternal type."

"Well, leading the Deviant Nations doesn't exactly inspire the attitude, does it?" In spite of herself, Vara was smiling again, the exuberant grin once again stretching from ear to ear. "But… well, I'd revered her as a great leader and a saviour to our people, just like everyone else in the Deviant Nations, just like I do now; back then, though, she took a more personal interest. She said, "I know what it's like to lose a child. The wounds never truly heal, but it doesn't mean your life has to end." With the Mentor's encouragement, I found a way to get it all out of my head: I joined the Irredeemables, sought military training, worked part-time as an instructor for new recruits… and I exorcised the last of the guilt and grief in the only way I possibly could."

She indicated the scales on her face, each one shining vivid blue in the dull glow of the cavern. "In honour of Nialan," she said solemnly.

"And you never thought of revenge after that? You didn't-"

"-think of turning the next POW camp into a massacre? Catharsis and work did their part in driving those thoughts out of my head. Besides, it's not as if I was the only one who'd lost family to Unbridled Radiance: it's hard to feel sorry for yourself when you've met people who've suffered even worse thanks to the enemy, and even harder to think about retribution when you see that they've managed to move on with their lives. And that was the most important lesson I took away from basic training with the Irredeemables: the best form of revenge is the simple act of moving on. The moment their crime keeps you from living your life, they defeat you; if they can drive you to obsession and madness, it's as good a victory as killing you; if they can keep you from smiling, from taking any joy in this life, they win."

And this is how you move on? By downplaying everything that happened to you, by making light of your story, by insisting that everyone should know about it? Gods above, no wonder you were such good friends with Harker – the poor bastard needed a contrast in his life! He bottled everything up until it exploded and took his will to live with it; you try and keep everything as open as possible until you're laughing at your own tears. And what about the Mentor? She hasn't moved on – she's just reinvented herself as a heartless semi-delusional ends-justify-the-means harridan! When was the last time you had a chat with her about this "moving on" business? When was the last time you saw her crack a smile without looking as though she'd just swallowed a razor blade?

The saddest thing is, I get the feeling that you're actually one of the sanest people I've met in this world… and probably the sanest person in this cavern right now.

"…I-I think I may have said more than I meant," Vara admitted shakily. "I may… that bit about the aftermath, I… I didn't mean to say all that, but-"

By now, their conversation had left them dwindling towards the rear of the group, back where Kiln and Corone were still hard at work on Marchfly's limbs. But as Vara spoke, the semi-conscious militia chief laughed softly: "It's the caverns," he said. "They call it the Mourning Hall for a reason, you know: the lamentation isn't just a pretty song. The singing touches the brain in a funny way: listening to it long enough, you start to remember things, and if you're talking, it makes you admit to things you might have wanted to keep secret – but whatever you're remembering, whatever you're talking about, it's always about grief and loss. It loosens the valves on your sorrows, especially the ones you've never been able to quite admit to. I should know, I've said things in these caves I'd never had said out loud aboveground. Believe me, even if we hadn't lost so many people in the last few days, we'd still have a few people crying on the edge of the lake."

"You mean-"

"Don't fight it: it's a gift from the Lost God. "He gives us honesty so grief may not trouble our hearts," so the preachers say. If nothing else, it's a sign we still have His favour. His blessing still follows us to war…"

Elphaba blinked. "That… that conversation I had with Glinda a while ago," she began hesitantly. "How much of it was due to what I wanted to say, and-"

Vara patted her shoulder. "Hey, it's not as if you were brainwashed; it's not as if you said anything you didn't secretly want to say. And… well, I was a bit more open than I intended, but it's not as if I wasn't willing to tell you what you wanted to know."

"But how did the Hellion know all this?" said a voice from Elphaba's right; as it happened, Glinda had fallen into step beside her and was now listening with rapt attention.

Elphaba was already opening her mouth to say something suitably exasperated, but Vara beat her to it. "Relax," she soothed. "She already knows the most important part of the story. Like I said, it's not as if I want to keep this a secret: if you're still feeling uncomfortable, I can discuss the story with the rest of the group, just to make sure everyone knows it-"

"What? No! No, no, no, no, no, no, no! No. That will not be necessary. No. Thank you, but no."

"Oh come on, it's not as if the resident shapeshifter hasn't heard us talking about it. Good listening down there?" Vara idly kicked at the causeway beneath her feet. "Hear anything juicy?"

There was a rumble from below, and one of the boulders bordering the causeway muttered, "You know, we're not that much of a gossip-hound: we have some standards, strange as it seems, and if nothing else, we're very good at averting our ears. And erasing them altogether, believe it or not."

"Why? I said, it's not a secret: roughly half the Irredeemables back in Greenspectre know the story – the ones who attended my initiation, at any rate. If you want, I can repeat the story-"

Glinda coughed loudly. "I hate to interruptiate, but we're kind of missing the point here: the only reason I heard this story – or at least the most important part of it – was because the Hellion mentioned it during the attack on Greenspectre. The question is, how would she know?"

From somewhere to the left of the causeway, there was a muffled splash, barely audible over the steady procession of footsteps and the chorus of whispered voices currently dominating the chamber. But everyone heard the noise that followed: a low, bestial snarl, too distorted to be human, and far too enraged to be sane.

In the terrible silence that followed, Glinda whispered, "That wouldn't be you, by any chance, Mr Branderstove?"

"Absolutely not," said Branderstove, hurriedly clambering out of the water and onto the causeway.

The snarl echoed out across the lake once again.

"Iknow EVERYTHING, foolish spoiled little china doll," said the Hellion. "Everysecret you ever squirreled away, I see it written on your body, your FRAIL brittle china body. I read the stray thoughts, and I READ the memories tangled in the ether, and I see everything they call mad and magnificent."

Suddenly, everyone was on guard, a bevy of rifles, handguns, daggers, cannons and other hastily-gathered weapons all ready and aimed in the general direction of the Hellion's voice.

"They make sense, and they make NO sense," the Hellion continued, "But they never lie. Unlike YOU. I gave you back your doll, green girl! I gave youthat which you wanted,that which you pretended wasn't yours,I let YOU keep him all so you could find it in yourself to be more than just a thief and parasite and whore, but you disappoint me and all the dolls that mysweetlittle one would call brother and sister! Even after all the good I did you, you still won't give me back my sweet little doll!"

Somewhere in the distance, the phosphorescence of the cavern walls was joined by a new light source, a sickly purple glow oozing through the leaden air towards them. And just below the blossoming light, a skinless figure hovered in mid-air, bloody fingers threshing the lake as she ranted and raged… and with every word she spoke, the Hellion drew ever-so-slightly closer to the causeway.

"Give her back," she growled, tendrils of random magic coiling around her foremost arms. "Give her back. Give HER back. Give her back give her back give her back GIVE HER BACK GIVE HER BACK GIVE HER BACK GIVE HER BACK!"

"Oh dear," said Shenshen-Pfannee. "Time to go."

"What do we do?" Glinda whispered.

"Drop flat and hang on."

"What?"

"HUG THE FLOOR, NOW!"

Startled back into action, Glinda obediently dropped to the ground and hung on for dear life, Elphaba and the others swiftly following suit – Kiln and Corone pausing mid-operation to down tools and secure their patient. And no sooner had they done so, the ground beneath them began to slide forward; Elphaba peered over her shoulder just in time to see the road behind her slowly rising into the air with all the fluidity and speed of a cresting wave. A moment later, the entire causeway rolled up like a hosepipe on a reel, neatly pinning the survivors between two layers of ex-road, now cushioned just enough to contain them without actually hurting them; even Branderstove and Dr Coil found themselves suddenly caged in, the flesh of the shapeshifter around them softening and stretching to accommodate their colossal physiques.

Then, just as Elphaba was coming to terms with the sudden sense of claustrophobia, Shenshen-Pfannee took off at high speed. With the "reel" of causeway almost completely opaque it was just about impossible to tell what was going on, but if the stomach-turning forward tumble and the distorted screams from behind them were any indication, the shapeshifter was now rolling through the cavern at a breakneck pace with the Hellion in hot pursuit.

For two agonizing minutes, they rolled with her, tumbling blindly in an endless circle as they hurtled through the caves. Elphaba was dimly aware that Glinda had somehow managed to find her hand and was now clinging to it in much the same way that a shipwrecked sailor would cling to a life preserver; somewhere ahead of them (or perhaps behind them), she could just about catch the "shit-shit-shit-shitty-shit-poo" of Kiln's gibbering litany of expletives, almost drowned out by Chief Marchfly's delirious laughter and Corone's increasingly passive-aggressive attempts to calm their patient – in turn drowned out by the thunderous bellows of outrage from Branderstove. Elphaba did her best to pay attention to what was being said, if only because it kept her from thinking about what would happen if their guide crashed into something; she didn't much fancy clawing her way through ruptured shapeshifter, and even if she could blast her way out, she'd probably be too dizzy to fight off the Hellion.

On the upside, at least she was coping better than Branderstove's bodyguards: right now, Gerhardt sounded as though he was on the verge of losing his lunch, and judging by the retching sounds from next to him, Arkady already had.

Then, from somewhere just above her head, Shenshen-Pfannee announced, "Elphaba, I'm going to need your help for this next part: we've got a wall up ahead in one minute and counting; I can't break through it at my current density, I can't change shape without risking serious damage to you in there, and I can't slow down without the Hellion catching up. You're going to have to punch a hole through it."

"Oh sure, no problem," Elphaba gasped. "How the hell am I going to do that while I'm – whoa!"

Suddenly, Elphaba found herself outside, sitting in a tiny sidecar of cartilage and bone as it rippled into existence just outside the reel-shaped body: somehow, SP could keep this coffin-sized caboose level with the incoming wall even while the rest of their body went on spinning – an impressive feat and no doubt a testament to the ex-socialite's control over her powers, but one she couldn't afford to concentrate on right now.

Up ahead, the cavern wall loomed out of the darkness, well over fifty feet tall and just solid enough to be daunting. Elphaba ran through the quickest set of magical calculations she'd ever processed in her entire life, trying to gauge the strength of the wall: if she didn't hit it hard enough, SP and all her passengers would end up splattered all over it, but if she hit it too hard, she might end up triggering a fatal cave-in.

Unless of course…

Chanting a low series of incantations, Elphaba focussed all her magical strength into a devastating stream of heat and kinetic energy, and watched with baited breath as the spell seared across the rock wall, tracing four intersecting lines roughly in the shape of door. Please let it be three feet thick, she thought, let it be three feet thick and no more. And then, just as she was starting to wonder if she'd underdone it, her next spell slammed into the cutout: the patch of wall disintegrated instantly, leaving just enough space for SP and the sidecar to roll through.

And then, just as they passed through the open doorway, Elphaba swivelled around in the sidecar, took careful aim, and fired a single magical blast at the wall behind them.

Of course, SP didn't let her see what happened next: by the time the noise of the cave-in began, the sidecar was already sliding back inside the shapeshifter's body as Shenshen-Pfannee put on an extra burst of speed. But then, it wasn't as if she needed to see what happened next: the cacophony of falling rocks and collapsing walls were details enough – and the enraged roar of the Hellion was victory enough.

---

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For perhaps five more minutes, they hurtled on through the cavern: then, without warning, the constant splash of the lake below them abruptly fell silent.

Then, without warning, Shenshen-Pfannee's body opened, spilling its passengers out across solid ground at long last. Instantly, the falling figures were dazzled by a sudden surge of light, too intense to be native to the caves and missing the telltale flicker of magic that normally accompanied an illumination spell: this was daylight; wherever they were, they were close to the surface.

Elphaba landed heavily, all the breath knocked out of her, vision blurring and wavering as she struggled to adjust to stillness. It wasn't until she'd had a moment to work out where the hell she was that she realized that she'd landed right on top of Fiyero, who was looking pleasantly surprised by this particular turn of events. "Does it always go like this?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"All this guerrilla warfare/frontline combat business? Is it always like this?"

"You have no idea. Usually, I don't usually encounter this many showboating shapeshifters. Shenshen, you do know that I could have just followed you on the broomstick, right?"

By now, SP had discarded their wheel shape and was now settling into a roughly humanoid form – humanoid enough to offer a disinterested shrug.

"Fine. I'm glad we had this conversation." Elphaba groaned and hauled herself to her feet, surveying the scattered passengers around her. "Is everyone alright?"

By way of an answer, Glinda clambered upright with a strangled moan, her face now a sickly porridge-grey: shivering and rubber-legged, she tottered aimlessly in a circle for perhaps five seconds, before making a beeline to the water's edge – arriving just in time to throw up. Elphaba gently patted her back and held her upright until she'd finished. "Everyone else?"

Marchfly let out a whoop of sheer exhilaration, his newly-attached arms flexing with delight. "Let's do that again!" he roared.

"…would the sanity-inclined among us like to contribute?"

One by one, the others slowly reported in. Most of the group was dazed and hopelessly dizzied by their ordeal, but otherwise unharmed; the only exception was, of course, Boq, who hadn't woken up at any point during the frenzied chase.

"Take a few minutes to catch your breath," SP advised. "But not too long: we've reached our destination, and you're to need to move quickly if you're going to solve this next problem."

"And what problem would that be, exactly?"

Without saying a word, SP hurried ushered Elphaba across the subterranean beach, steadily climbing the embankment until she found herself standing at the very summit of the hills bordering the shoreline. Directly above them was a colossal hole cut in the cavern roof, easily wide enough to squeeze a decent-sized armoured transport through – and more than wide enough to let the daylight pour in upon the beach.

"Where is this?" Elphaba asked.

"Several miles north of Loamlark. More specifically, we've reached Unbridled Radiance's entry point into the tunnels."

"You mean-?"

A thunderous roar from overhead smothered Elphaba's reply; for a moment, she wondered if the Hellion had somehow found a shortcut aboveground.

Then she saw the gargantuan shape slowly creeping in from the left, casually eclipsing the sun as it went: it was too large to be the Hellion, too large to be anything other than an airship, and though it was difficult to recognize the exact shape at this distance and with so little of it in view at a time, Elphaba could clearly see the countless gun turrets dotting the hull like barnacles. And those sleek dart shapes clustered just beneath the ship's undercarriage could only be missiles – hundreds of them. But by far the most distinctive element of the craft slowly rumbling by was the glowing prism set into the ship's prow, clearly visible as it swivelled in mid-air: Elphaba didn't know what this odd jewel-like construction was, but she knew for a fact that its core was pulsing with destructive magic – of a kind more than equal to the task of disintegrating buildings.

"What the hell is this?" she asked nobody in particular.

"That is the flagship of Unbridled Radiance's invasion fleet, the greatest ship assembled at the beachhead since they first arrived here: the Harbinger of Perfection, they're calling it."

"A fleet?! They've got an entire flotilla of airships up there?"

"They've been doing almost nothing but building them since the ground invasion failed: you see, they couldn't get entire airships through the portal, so they set up their own easy-assembly manufactorium here on the beachhead. They've been churning out ship after ship, all in preparation for one massive strike on the cities of the Deviant Nations; worse still, with the border defences bypassed and enough numbers to escape the Leviathan's own fleet, they've got a clear run to Greenspectre from here unless someone raises an alarm."

"So this is why you brought us here? To stop an entire invasion fleet on our own?"

Shenshen-Pfannee sighed, both heads presenting identically-apologetic smiles. "Good luck."