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.

44. Bittersweet Festivity

A/N: Sorry for the delay, ladies and gents. I'd intended to get this chapter finished much sooner, but life got in the way - life and a very mild breakdown of just about everything in it: the schedule broke down, the tech broke down, my health broke down, and my brain broke down. Putting aside all jokes about that happening years ago, I'm pretty sure my mood ended up affecting the tone of the chapter significantly; I hope it doesn't prove too jarring. I'll do my best to improve the schedule from hereon, and I hope you enjoy the chapter. And of course, thank you for everyone who reviewed and favourited and followed: you helped keep me sane over the last couple of weeks.

Navi Swannn - glad you liked the fight scene, and I'm immensely happy with your assessment of Glinda's badassery. She's got a lot of growing to do over the next few chapters, and of paramount importance is the issue of keeping the character true to her nature - and all her idiosyncrasies and insecurities therein - without making her into a millstone. Of course, the next challenge is to manage the same balancing act with the other characters.

CJ, as always, your reviews are awesome. I loved your examination of the world-building at work in this fanfic; I can only hope I continue to impress... and of course, your tolerance for long chapters and slow authors is much appreciated. Also, I agree with your study of the Mentor, and I pretty much had that response in mind: she's an extremely grey character as written, and with that in mind, I had to have her charge into the fray sooner or later; quite apart from the need to avoid portraying her as just another armchair general and the need to make her hard-won skills apparent, I also needed to make her devotion to her cause obvious to the point of self-sacrifice: the Mentor has done a lot of ethically-questionable things over the decades, and to be brutally honest, she'd probably end up facing a war crimes tribunal in our world; it'd be all too easy to let her slip into outright villain territory. However, the Mentor's darker acts are motivated not by selfishness or insanity, but desperation, battle-hardened cynicism, and her sincere belief in the necessity of her deeds - to the point that, if it means saving the Deviant Nations, she can and will hurl herself into the line of fire. As the dream-memories continue and the Mentor's evolution becomes more and more visible, we'll get to see her greatest triumphs and most deplorable acts... but that's a story for another day. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you once again!

Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter! Constructive criticism is always welcome, especially for all the typoes and continuity errors that creep in at four in the morning! Read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Wicked doesn't belong to me, nor does LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN

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Magic rippled across Greenspectre's skyline in coruscating waves of light and colour, first as green as the palace's borrowed façade, then lurid pink, metallic gold, a haze of ruby and carnelian, ending in a dazzling electric shade of blue; then, the magicians of the Chapter Temple would begin again with emerald green. Every now and again, the skies would clear for perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, just long enough for other entertainers to take to the air: fireworkers, pyromancers, and alchemists of every stripe bombarded the night skies with neon orange starbusts, vortexes of luminous purple vapour, and mile-long tongues of flame. The stolen airsloop, now stripped of weapons and graffitied virtually every colour of the rainbow, led a small fleet of revellers and musicians on an improvised regatta around the city, rocketing through the great canyons of skyscrapers and spiralling drunkenly across the horizon – closely supervised by a duo of security frigates. And perhaps most impressively of all, some of the city's most accomplished illusionists summoned a vast phantasmal patchwork of eidolons and chimeras, all of them engineered to re-enact the victory still being celebrated.

Elphaba had never seen such festivity in her entire life. Even the Emerald City's grand displays of pageantry and spectacle seemed dull compared to this. But then, Oz hadn't had much to celebrate over the course of the last twenty years: true, official days of celebration were planned and implemented all the time, but with no great triumphs to capture the passion of the Ozian citizenry, these celebrations had all been arranged for the sake of honouring the Wizard in one form or another.

Here and now, the people of Greenspectre were celebrating out of sheer relief, an entire city almost enraptured with sheer gratitude at having weathered the Vara had reported, they'd been under herculean pressure ever since the war had sprung back into motion, and with so much destruction visited on the city and its allies over the last week or two, the emotions of the populace had been just about ready to explode; needless to say, it had been the victory in the skies above them that had finally sparked the powderkeg, and now the citizenry was merrily exploding from one end of the city to another. So, with the Mentor's blessing and the watchful eye of the local police on hand, they'd allowed it – the street parties, the illusionists, the regatta, the gambling, the drunken foot-races, the runaway choirs and rogue orchestras, the mercenaries airdropping booze and chocolates from their airships, all of it, so long as it didn't get out of control.

But because the Mentor was still essentially Glinda, even she couldn't resist a bit of old-fashioned pomp and ceremony, and so the wild parties were joined by a few official ones – what few could be organized at short notice, at any rate. There'd been parades by the Irredeemables and the Regulars alike, masquerades and grand dances arranged in the ballrooms of the city, troupes of acrobats and aerialists dispatched to amaze the crowds, and even a few of the more ambitious fireworkers at work in the skies had been commissioned by the Mentor.

But the highlight of the evening – for Elphaba, at least – was undoubtedly the medals.

As it happened, Loamlark's defenders had been in line for commendations for quite some time, now; the afternoon's victory was all the excuse high command needed for an awards ceremony – the first of several, in fact, for most of the recipients were still making their way back from Loamlark and the other outlying regions. So, on the steps of Greenspectre palace, with an audience of thousands in an attendance, Elphaba, Glinda, Chistery, Kiln, Vara, Corone, Boq, Wolton, Marchfly and dozens of others had lined up to receive their dues from the Mentor herself; even Branderstove and Dr Coil found themselves the recipients of military honours – those that could be bestowed on non-citizens at any rate.

At the end of it, Elphaba left centre stage with her very first medal: the Flame of Audacity, awarded for fearlessness in the face of overwhelming odds; a vivid gold and scarlet badge carved in the shape of a roaring fire with the emblem of the Deviant Nations carved in its centre, the thing couldn't be much bigger than a postage stamp… and yet Elphaba couldn't help looking at it with astonishment. Even after everything that had happened over the last few days, she still found it hard to believe that she'd somehow ended up being worthy of one of the highest military honours in the land.

And even after all the realizations had sunk in, she still couldn't believe that she was standing before a crowd shouting her name in adoration. She was their hero now, and the realization of that fact had almost intoxicated her with mingled joy and amazement. They'd been cheering for her from the moment she'd arrived in the plaza to the moment she'd left the stage; even the Mentor had looked happy to see her, though that could have been her imagination.

The Mentor herself had been a spectacular sight; quite apart from the jagged pattern of fresh scars zig-zagging across her arms and face, her entrance alone had distinguished her from the other officials of the city. Elphaba seen how the crowds had reacted when the Mentor had arrived in the plaza: they'd cheered for her in much the same way they'd cheered for Elphaba, but they'd been far more reverent in their praises; from she'd seen, they'd been more awed than adoring. Indeed, as she'd left the plaza with Elphaba and the others in tow, many of the surrounding multitude had even knelt before her, as if in prayer.

The hero and the patron saint, Elphaba had mused deliriously. The Deviant Nations' favourite team. The Mentor and I.

Fortunately, the ceremony was over by that point, so nobody had minded the sight of Elphaba collapsing in a helpless fit of giggles. Nor did anyone mind the sight of the Deviant Nations' newest heroes meeting in a decidedly undignified fashion: hugging and kissing them in jubilation, Elphaba, Fiyero and Glinda had been almost giddy with victory, all three of them astonished and overjoyed to be alive. As Glinda had noted bemusedly, all of them looked a fright: quite apart from the freshly-healed wounds across her arms and back, most of Elphaba's clothes were little more than tattered rags, and her hair was horribly singed from where Stellham's fire spell had grazed it – another reason to be thankful for her hat. Glinda looked as if she'd been dragged through a hedge and dumped in a thornbush, to say nothing of the dried bloodstains and jagged tears marring her once-immaculate wargear; and as for Fiyero, he'd been battered and perforated so many times over the course of the battle, he'd still be leaking straw if not for the attentions of the palace tailors. And yet, none of them cared: they were alive, unharmed (for the most part), and they were victorious.

Elphaba was at a bit of a loss to explain what happened next or why. After all, she'd never been one for parties or grand celebrations, as Glinda could easily attest. Maybe it was victory-induced euphoria, maybe Glinda and Fiyero were more convincing as a team, but one way or another, Elphaba found herself agreeing to join them on a tour of Greenspectre's parties. After that, everything was a bit of a blur: she vaguely recalled being led on a mad dance around the city's bars and clubs, stopping every now and again among the street parties; along the way, she'd helped herself to a bowl of chocolate-soaked strawberries and washed it down with several goblets of deadly-sweet wine, each one as rich and fiery as molten gold. At some point after her seventh glass, she'd found herself kissing Fiyero passionately on the lips, demanding that they never part again – before doing the same to Glinda. A few hazy recollections suggested that she might have tried to introduce the Scarecrow to the Mentor, before Fiyero managed to talk her out of it on the airship flight over; on the same flight, Elphaba had left the ship ahead of schedule and taken to the skies on her own, drunkenly weaving in and out of the regatta before skidding to a halt in a courtyard below, where she'd found herself at yet another party. Then, with over twenty-five years of ingrained inhibitions smothered by victory and alcohol, Elphaba had succumbed to the entreaties of the crowd and put her magic on display, letting her power radiate from her in glittering beams of emerald light; for a time, she'd moved onto extravagant displays of transmutation, levitation, the binding of elementary forces – before the whole thing spiralled down into a thick, delirious fog.

Of course, Elphaba had been drinking on an empty stomach and running on fumes thanks to the afternoon's exertions, so it was no surprise to anyone when she finally started nodding off. It took several glasses of water, a special cleansing elixir from Kiln and a large coffee-flavoured milkshake to get Elphaba functional again, and by the time she'd regained consciousness, she was already being driven back to the palace for an informal banquet with the other heroes of the day.

By then, she was well and truly partied out, so the moment they'd arrived at the banquet, Elphaba had gathered a plate of food and sat down on the ballroom balcony to watch the panorama of ghostly images currently playing out across skies.

At that point, the illusionists were once replaying the events of the battle – as filtered through a thick sieve of rumours and embellishment. The bit about felling two dozen capital ships with a single wave of her hand was impressive but completely fictional; she definitely hadn't transformed an enemy frigate into a swarm of flesh-eating scarabs before unleashing it on the rest of the fleet; and the part about building a giant set of metal wings from the hulls of enemy airships and using them to duel the Harbinger Of Perfection was utter nonsense. That said, she had to admit that the illusory Elphaba was surprisingly accurate, not to mention flattering; they'd even captured the exact shade of her skin and the correct shape of her hat – though the idea of her hiding a friendly swarm of living shadows inside it was patently ridiculous.

There was a polite cough from somewhere behind her, followed by a thick plume of cigar smoke. Branderstove was standing behind her, resplendent in his improbably-tailored dress uniform; a physics-defying masterpiece of pitch-black silk, it somehow held the shape of an almost-ordinary suit without bursting at the seams under the onslaught of the Leviathan's colossal bulk. Less surprisingly, the uniform was studded with medals: from his right epaulette down, Rostov Branderstove was a small constellation of glittering metal stars.

"Enjoying the festivities?" the Leviathan rumbled.

"It'd be hard not to. And you?"

"Likewise; it's been a long time since I last sampled El Meurte Verde – a heady vintage, believe me."

"Where are the rest of the Strangling Coils?"

"Oh, here and there: you'll find quite a few of them on leave around the city, enjoying some well-deserved R&R. The others are still on duty at the borders; after all, someone's got to keep this country safe while it celebrates."

"You think the Empress will try anything?"

"Anything's possible… but I think she'll need a few days to catch her breath first."

"That makes two of us. I think I'm just about ready to spend the rest of my life asleep."

"My goodness, I didn't realize you were enjoying your victory that much. And here I thought you'd be ready and vigilant for the first sign of fire on the horizon."

Oh, here we go, Elphaba grumbled silently. He wants to make sure I'm still up for revenge on the Empress. More verbal power games and obfuscation. Out loud, she asked, "Don't you think we've earned an evening off?"

"Of course. I'd be a liar if I claimed to be an ascetic or an abstainer; you've seen my staterooms, after all. But the war is still officially at fever pitch, and there's no sign that it's started cooling down again; after tonight, it'll be business as usual for all of us. You in particular, I would imagine. We can't afford to bask in the limelight for too long, can we?"

Screw obfuscation.

"Look," Elphaba sighed, "If you think I've gone soft after one major victory and a medal, you need to rethink things. I haven't turned into a glory hound, I haven't started hogging the spotlight, and I definitely haven't decided to renege on our bargain. Even if she wasn't an active threat to just about every sane person in the world, even if she wasn't indirectly jeopardizing our chances of going back to Oz, the Empress still needs to pay for what she's done. If you think that earning a medal has magically transformed me into some kind of straight arrow and any minute now I'm just going to blurt out, 'Oh I have seen the light! I cannot sway from the will of-"

The Leviathan quivered with laughter. "Relax, Elphaba," he guffawed. "I was only teasing."

Why, oh why, do I not believe you?

"Besides, I know full well that vengeance and honours aren't mutually exclusive, as you can see." He tapped the newest of his medals – the Mark of Alliance – by way of explanation. "This wouldn't be the first time I've ended up earning awards and acclaim for pursuing revenge, believe me. I even earned a few medals from Unbridled Radiance during my last attempt at assassinating the Empress."

"So those weren't all stolen, then?"

Branderstove's gaze suddenly turned disapproving. "Don't mistake me for Colonel Gloss, Elphaba," he chided. "Stealing medals devalues them, cheapens them; without legitimacy, without any kind of story behind them, they're just pretty chunks of metal. That's fine by Gloss: he's always been a magpie at heart, and he doesn't much care for people or their stories. Me, I prefer to earn these sort of things. True, it means he's got the bigger collection by far, but I prefer a quality over quantity approach. You recall that I told Chief Marchfly that revenge was an unglamorous journey uphill dotted with brief triumphs? Earning medals like these is just one of those little triumphs."

"Even if you don't care about the cause?"

"My prerogative as an independent contractor, m'dear: I've lent a hand to several thousand causes over the last couple of decades, and believe me, I didn't care about a single one of them. It's just business… but the medals do help bolster the old self esteem; if nothing else, I get to feel like I'm not a total parasite for a little while before going back to business as usual. And I've also had the privilege of seeing the most extraordinary people and places in my time; hell, I've earned medals from nations that don't officially exist."

"How's that?"

"Well, from time to time, I've bumped into clients stranded in the middle of nowhere, with no idea how they got there, left with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the guns in their hands – all of them representatives of countries either uncharted or non-existent. We call them the Noplace Men. I'd call them liars, too, but there's been too many corroborating stories to dismiss the whole thing as a hoax. Still, they usually have something worth paying me with: equipment, supplies, drugs, maybe even a map to some oil well or mine they'd found out in the wilderness. Every now and again, they throw in a medal or two for services rendered. Take this one for example…"

Reaching up with a tentacle, he plucked one of the medals off his coat and held it out for Elphaba's inspection: a black cross with a silver border, its extremities fanning outwards like the branches of a tree. Though time had done its best to erase the finer details, the embossed image of a crown and the letter W were still visible on the medal's surface. "The Iron Cross, they called it," said Branderstove. "That one was a fairly simple affair: I rescued a battalion of men lost in No-Man's Land and struck up a partnership over the next couple of months – up until their colonel finally succumbed to one of the many, many things he'd contracted out there in the wastes. His last request was for me to take charge of his men and find some way to bring them home – or, at the very least, to give them a purpose and keep them from going completely mad."

"Very charitable of you to accept."

"Practicality was on my mind at the time. Back in those days, we called ourselves the Fighting Fish, and we were a much smaller outfit at the time, believe me: my little meal ticket was still slow in paying off – we were barely prosperous enough to maintain our one airship, let alone our ranks. Colonel Von Holstadt's men needed us, yes, but we needed them too. And in return for bolstering our army with his, Von Holstadt gave me this Iron Cross as a reward – and a badge of honorary officerhood. Funny thing: I still don't know if he was keeping it for some lucky lieutenant who didn't survive long enough to receive it… or if he sacrificed one of his own medals for little old me."

Another medal slid into view, this one a simple five-pointed gold star suspended from a length of red ribbon. "A bloody state of affairs behind that one," Branderstove mused. "The unit I got this from were in full mutiny by the time I found them – something about a dispute over provisions and discipline so far away from home. My men and I were able to tip the balance in favour of the loyalists, and once they'd finished executing the mutineers and deserters, they rewarded us with the choicest belongings of the deceased – which happened to include this medal." He smiled, briefly lost in memory. "Apparently, they didn't much like the former owner very much: they kept him alive long enough to see his reaction to the improvised awards ceremony they held – to see the look on his face when he saw his medal given to 'a more deserving hero of the union,' or words to that effect."

"But what happened to the rest of the unit?"

"Oh, once they realized there was no way home, they disbanded. Some of them bought up farms out in Awilex and grocery stores in Govierm, married their new neighbours, started families and vanished into the undergrowth of society. Others couldn't take civilian life, and joined us instead. Arkady was one of them, barely old enough to hold a gun at the time. He can still sing you the songs of the Motherland if you ask, but he's got precious little to say about his birthplace other than that."

The last medal plucked from the Leviathan's jacket was by far the most elaborate: a golden bird of prey stood watch over an eight-pointed star, whilst in front of the star's crimson rays sat two crossed shields, two crossed swords, and a pair of scarlet banners.

"The Order of the Golden Kite," said Branderstove solemnly. "Definitely one of the saddest stories I have to tell: we arrived just in time to save the commanding officer, but apparently no-one else. The poor man was quite beyond hope, told us he'd failed his mission, failed his men and failed his Emperor, brought shame on everything he'd held dear. So, he gave us everything he felt he didn't deserve anymore: his uniform, his medals, what little personal possessions he had, even his weapons – once he was finished using them. Then, he killed himself: sliced his belly open and bled out before anyone could stop him. Doubly tragic, it turned out he was wrong about failing his men: two hours later, we ran into a few survivors of his unit-"

"And they joined the Strangling Coils."

In spite of himself, Branderstove smiled. "That they did. The story changes, but the ending remains the same: whether it's the Medal of Honour, the Victoria Cross, the Blue Max, the Pewter Planet, or the Emperor's Will, it all ended in an unofficial award and a new division of men added to my army. And it'll be the same for you."

Oh dear, more comparisons. Elphaba rolled her eyes, and remarked, "With all due respect, I doubt we'll ever be that much alike. Quite apart from the fact that I'm not officially a mercenary and I don't have the option of travelling independently, some of us don't have private armies and airship fleets, so the probability of me earning a jacketload of medals and a regiment of followers isn't looking spectacular."

"From the smallest acorn, the mightiest oak grows," Branderstove intoned dismissively. "Would you have thought I'd have any chance of building myself a mercenary armada forty years ago? If you'd seen me back in the old days, trying to rebuild what I'd lost, scrawling out the weekly profits on toilet paper and sleeping in disused swimming pools, would you think 'yes, sir, that clapped-out old mutant's going places?' Of course not. Did you think Glinda would become the Great Mentor, the Iron Saint of the Deviant Nations? If you'd seen those blonde curls a-bouncing and heard that girlish titter, could you imagine a world leader? Of course not. But it happened all the same." He paused thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, if you'd shown me some dewy-eyed pariah-turned-prodigy with a hair-trigger temper and skin greener than the Emerald City, I'd have never imagined that she'd one day be the terror of Oz and the saviour of the Deviant Natio-"

"Alright, alright! I get it! You don't need to keep hammering the point home. Things change, I get it."

"Things have already started changing, Elphaba: you've got your first medal, yes – and I imagine you'll be in line for several more before this stage of the war is over. And you already have followers of your own, in case you hadn't noticed: Glinda, Chistery, the Scarecrow, to name but a few."

"No offence intended to any of them, but it's hardly an army, is it?"

"And yet, with their help, you managed to put an end to Unbridled Radiance's plans for invasion. Once again, Elphaba, acorns and oaks."

"Any more advice?"

"Of course – that's what I'm here for: bloodcurdling violence and sage counsel." Branderstove chuckled, his betentacled bulk quivering with mirth. "One last bit of advice for the evening, though: get some rest. After tonight, I imagine it'll be escalation time for both factions, and there'll be no telling when you'll next get a chance for a good night's sleep. And if you're still with me on our little revenge pact, you'll need to keep your wits about you. There's no telling when the Empress will next show her face."

"What makes you think she'll make an appearance on the battlefield again so soon? She's got wounds to lick, energies to replenish; she wants to spare as much of her magic as possible for miracles, so why waste more on another costly assault? More to the point, she wouldn't be attacking unprepared militiamen; she'd be attacking a battle-ready air force. Why wouldn't she just wait out the rest of the conflict and let the armies do the job for her until she's had time to recover?"

If anything, Branderstove's grin widened. "Because, Elphaba, if it was a simple matter of logical benefits and drawbacks, the Empress would never have led that surprise attack in the first place. You see, you've done something that only a rare and endangered few have ever achieved: you've pissed her off. You killed her champion, you matched her in one-on-one combat – if only for a moment – and forced her to retreat, you destroyed her beachhead, cut off her foothold in the Deviant Nations, defeated her armada, and if those last few radio transmissions from the front were any evidence, you've embarrassed her. You can bet every last penny in your paypacket that she'll be out for blood now – and it's our duty to ensure that the only blood she gets is her own."

"Duty or pleasure?"

"Whoever said they had to be exclusive? Bit like medals and revenge in that respect. Enjoy the party, Elphaba… and get some sleep soon. It's going to be a big day tomorrow, and the Empress recovers quicker than you – or the Mentor – can possibly imagine…"

Chortling, the Leviathan strode away, leaving Elphaba alone on the balcony. Leave it to Branderstove to spoil my good mood, she mused irritably. I swear, if I'm going to have to endure pointed reminders for every day I'm pledged to vengeance, this is going to end with me dying of boredom, or with Branderstove being turned into enough marinaded octopus to feed the entire palace for a month.

Suddenly remembering the plate of food she'd brought out, she glanced down – only to find that her dinner had long since gone cold.

Bastard.

Sighing, she reached for her glass of wine and drained it in a single gulp. Then, she waved a hand over the mass of stone-cold party food and sent a rippling beam of heat searing down across it. In a matter of seconds, the meal was piping hot once again – not bad, considering that she'd been using a combat spell. Admittedly, there were more efficient methods of reheating and cooking among the mundane spellbooks of Oz, but Elphaba had been too tired to bother with them.

At times like this, I really do love magic. One thing Branderstove can't spoil, that's for sure. He might rain on the parade, but he won't ruin this party…

---

"…and… an' that's… that's just the thing, y'see."

Glinda blinked. Who are you and how long have I been talking to you?

"That's the thing. That's the whole problem." The man gestured extravagantly, swaying and wobbling drunkenly as he struggled to keep his mug from slipping out of his over-muscled hands. "Loamlark. Me and Loamlark."

Oh, right. Chief Marchfly; I should have guessed by the arms. She wracked her memory, struggling to remember when he'd started talking to her, but no revelations occurred to her: for all she knew, the squat militiaman could have been here for most of the evening. Maybe he'd sat down next to her, maybe she'd sat down next to him; one way or the other, he'd started talking at her, quaffing gloomily from a mug of beer as he tried to explain his problems and ready another mug at the same time. But then, Glinda couldn't criticize: she'd had far too much to drink at this party alone for reasons that currently escaped her entirely, and the world around her was looking progressively friendlier by the minute, all confusion aside.

"Wha… what's the problem?" she asked, unsteadily.

By way of explanation, Marchfly put his mug down and flapped his arms disconsolately. "These. Only just got 'em an' people are already giving me funny looks! There's people from Loamlark here at the party, and they're scared!"

Right, right, the paranoia business – they think the Irredeemables are going to move in and take over the town. It's all flooding back now. Except… "How do you know they're scared?" she asked aloud.

"Well, they won't talk t'me! They just stand in corner, and talk 'mongst 'emselves, being scared of me! They won't even look at me, they're so scared!"

"Have you tried… have you tried to speak to them?"

"Well, they don't want to speak to me, so why should I speak to them?"

"How d'y'know they don't want to speak to you?"

"Because they're standing in a corner-"

"Talking amongst themselves and being scared of you," Glinda finished. Oh god, I've gotten myself caught in a conversation loop. "But why would they be scared of you? Apart from the arms, I mean. Y-you haven't spoken to them yet. Like y'said, they haven't even looked at you yet, so how are they scared of you if they haven't seen you?"

"Because I know," said Marchfly pointedly, tapping his nose in a knowing way – narrowly avoiding an accidental eye-gouge in the process. "I know," he repeated. "I know. I know. I know. I know, y'see. I know."

"…know what, exactly?"

"What I know. What they know. What everyone in Loamlark knows from the age of five: our traditions, our laws, our heritage, our religion… we've kept to ourselves up in the north for the sake of keeping 'em safe – we seceded because we thought it was the only way we'd preserve our ways and our people! And now, here I am, a walking talking living breathing violation of our customs. A Trojan Dromedary! A sign of the end."

"The end of what?"

"Of Loamlark, girl. The end of our traditions, our way of life, our religion. Y'see? The end of our sanctuary. All these years, we've been a haven for people who wanted an escape from both factions in this godawful war – besides, both sides hated us. Unbridled Radiance wants the Lost God wiped away and all our customs erased, to make us good little worshippers of the Empress. T'make us doll-faced monsters if we ever dare to be any more than that. An' on the other, the Deviant Nations… well, we know what they think of us – backwards hicks, country bumpkins, d'g'n'rate mining folk!" He took a deep breath. "Maybe they don't want the same thing as U.R. Maybe they don't want us all mage-surgeried away. Okay? I'll admit it. Maybe I was wrong. But that doesn't give them the right to water down our traditions to nothingness. And now that I've got these new arms, there's something else I've realized: we've already started losing. The people who don't see me as another one of the Mentor's servants – or a monster – they'll start speaking up. "Was it really such a horrible thing?" they'll say. "Maybe we can let those mage-surgeons in after all," they'll say. "Maybe we can rethink this whole secession business," they'll say. And that's how it'll begin. No matter who wins the war, we lose: our traditions, our customs, our identity – all down the drain. As it stands at the moment, Loamlark will become just another part of the Deviant Nations, people will leave for better jobs, new people show up and bring new customs, the old ways will slowly be watered down to meaningless rubbish before they're finally forgotten, and sooner or later, nobody will ever remember who we were before the war kicked down our doors."

"Maybe that'll happen anyway," said Glinda blearily. "No matter what you'll do, it'll happen. Issss..." She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her head for a pertinent explanation. "It's like sand. People are like sand. When they're not like onions, they're like sand: the more you try to cling to them, the easier they slip through your fingers. You can't stop losing them, no matter how hard you try; it all goes, sssssssssss, out of your grip." She held up a hand, vaguely miming the act of sand pouring out of a closed fist. "Ssssss. Just like that. But there's always more sand. Loamlark's… I saw the town, Marchfly. It's a warzone. There's a lot of people who probably don't want to stay there, and you can't keep them there."

"Well, obvi'sly! We don't have enough militiamen to keep the gates shut even if we had gates anymore."

"No! No, no, no, no, no! Sand, remember? If you force people to stay, if you ignore what they want, they'll start to hate you. And you know what, maybe they'll find a way out anyway and once they're gone, they'll give up on your traditiations for good. But here's the thing, here's the thing: if you… if you let them go, they'll take the old ways with 'em. True, you'll have to share space with all the other religions of the Deviant Nations and you'll no longer have supremacy over your own little corner of the world… but you'll have temples out here. Churches. Shrines. As long as Loamlark's gates stay open to the world, you can get the world to remember your ways and how important they were – and still are! Things'll change, but the Lost God will live on."

She had no idea where any of these ideas were coming from, but they sounded right: perhaps she'd overhead similar snippets of negotiation in long-forgotten conferences, perhaps she'd seen such matters discussed in the dream-memories of the Other Glinda – the Mentor's past. They sounded good, even though they probably wouldn't if she were sober. By rights, she should be more cautious, more delicate: this was a banquet, probably a diplomatic setting to boot; her many years of service to Morrible and the Wizard should have made ambassadorial tact an easy matter… but alcohol had loosened her tongue, swept away the tact and politesse that had made her so desirable as the Wizard's mouthpiece, and now she was saying things that she'd never dreamed of saying – things she wanted to say.

But if Glinda had gotten through to him, the militia chief didn't seem in the mood to show it; for about thirty seconds, he could only huff and sigh in drunken disappointment, before finally grumbling, "Maybe." He shook his head. "Maybe not. Maybe so. I don't know. But one thing's for sure, it won't be the way I remember it… and it won't be the way I hoped it could be. ThingizIrrr… thing is, I really, really, really thought it could last. I thought it could be like the stories: the little guy standing up to the big guy and winning, a tiny little town in the middle of nowhere holding two empires at bay. An intdomitter… and indominatormble… an indomitable little fortress that nobody could ever bring down. I thought we could last out the centuries that way… but now Jonatim-" He sniffled, and tried again. "But now the mayor's dead… and I'm an Irredeemable, and there's almost nobody left in charge. It's all going or gone, now."

"Nothing lasts forever, Marchfly. But wass that got t'do with people being scared of you?"

"I've seen the Deviant Nations, now; I know… well, I think I might have been wrong about Deviant Nations taking over everything… but they don't know, do they? They won't see me as me, anymore. They won't see Marchfly: they'll just see a Trojan Donkey. They'll just see another Irredeemable in Loamlark to convert them all. They'll see a monster."

"But how do you know they'll think that if they haven't even looked at you? For all you know, they don't even know you've been mage-surgeried. Why not walk up an' say hello?"

"But they'll stare at me!" Marchfly whined plaintively. "They'll hate me!"

"Do you know them?"

"Yes! I fought beside them! They were there in the Mourning Hall when the Empress attacked, killed Jonatim, ripped my limbs off – they barely got out in time, but-"

"Then why…" Glinda struggled to articulate, downing another glass of wine for added fortitude. "Why would they think any less of you? You fought by their side, you led them into battle, you bled for them, you lost your arms and legs for them! And if they still think you're a Trojan Pony, or they don't understand why you did what they did, remind them they wouldn't be alive if you hadn't made that choice. And if they don't get it, they're not worth talking to anyway! The people at this party don't represent everyone in Loamlark – they don't even represent everyone in the militia; if those guys over there don't get the picture, someone else will."

Marchfly thought for a moment. Then, he nodded, drained his mug and stood up from the table. "Y… you gotta point," he conceded. "Thanks. I gotta… I think it's time I talked to some people about something." And without another word, he shambled away, making a disorganized beeline towards the cloistered militiamen at the other end of the ballroom.

Suddenly finding herself alone at the table, Glinda poured herself another glass of wine… and with a thrill of despair, remembered why she'd been drinking in the first place.

With the wilder festivities over and done with, she'd spent most of the banquet chatting among the heroes of the day and trying to get used to the fact that she was now one of them – still hardly believing it even with her first medal pinned to her coat. There'd been some interesting topics of conversation here, from discussions of strategy to the remembered history of the Deviant Nations; true, it was invariably interrupted by the usual tedious parade of war stories and grisly anecdotes, but Glinda had been anxious to learn more about this strange world she was now a part of, so she'd settled in for a long conversation, listening carefully and asking questions.

Then the spotlight of conversation descended on Fiyero – more specifically, Fiyero and Elphaba. People had started asking questions about who they were, where they'd come from, how Fiyero had become the Scarecrow, how he'd ended up wandering from Unbridled Radiance to Loamlark in the first place, and a whole host of other questions that Glinda had been happy to answer to the best of her ability – without actually mentioning anything about parallel universes, divergent timelines, or Oz. Then, someone had mentioned that Fiyero and Elphaba seemed very close, and one of the bolder guests had asked Glinda if the two of them were in love.

At that point, Glinda had made her excuses and made a beeline for the bar.

Up until then, she'd been able to forget. True, it had taken an impressive feat of mental acrobatics, but Glinda had always been good at lying to herself, and the last few hours had been busy enough to drive all memory of her abortive marriage to Fiyero out of her head. For a while, she'd even been able to pretend that Fiyero's sudden reappearance hadn't stirred anything unpleasant in her. But that one offhand remark of "do you think they're in love?" had brought the whole thing crashing down.

Now, the memories of that time were back at the forefront of her mind, fresh as the day they were formed, every soul-rending moment memorialized in excruciating detail: the passionless kisses, the dance without joy, the growing doubts, the terrible sense of powerlessness… and then the discovery, the shock, the awful realization that Fiyero would never love her as he loved Elphaba, and the raw outpouring of grief and self-loathing that had followed. Everything she'd felt that day was back again, everything she'd left unresolved now returning with a vengeance. Worst of all was the hatred: for the briefest and most terrible of moments, she'd hated Fiyero – for lying to her, for betraying her, for abandoning her – and she'd hated Elphaba with an intensity verging on madness – for ruining the life she'd wanted, for stealing Fiyero away from her, for being better than Glinda the Good could ever dream of being. She'd even recalled-

Back in the present, Glinda swallowed bile and tried not to shudder at the awful, awful memory she'd dredged up.

She'd remembered a moment sometime after Fiyero had fled the palace: she'd been trying to sleep, to pretend that the last few hours hadn't happed, to imagine she wasn't alone in her apartment, to dream that Fiyero was asleep in bed next to her – and failing all the while because that familiar warmth by her side was gone, perhaps forever. And in that moment, she'd wanted to scream. In that moment, she'd wanted Elphaba there, so she could hurt her. She didn't know how she'd go about this, nor could she: there, alone in that desolate room, she could think of nothing but hurting Elphaba - making her feel as lonely and sorrowful as she did then - screaming in Elphaba's face: "WE WERE PERFECT! WE WERE PERFECT TOGETHER AND YOU RUINED IT!"

Then the guilt had flowed in. The memory had slipped away, her anger had faded, and in their place, Glinda's self-loathing blossomed. She was a horrible person; she knew that now – she'd known it ever since she'd started working for the Wizard, and it was only through a blend of wilful ignorance and all-too-real stupidity that she'd managed to keep the realization at bay. She was an incompetent, self-righteous, narcissistic little coward, and she'd deserved everything that had happened to her. The collapse of her marriage had been her fault all along: she'd clung so pathetically and so insistently to Fiyero, kept him close even when it became apparent he wasn't interested; she'd ignored, she'd dismissed, she'd wheedled and badgered, she'd cajoled and pressured, and in the end, he'd slipped right through her fingers and she had only herself to blame for never facing up to reality. And what she'd done afterwards – the betrayal of Elphie, Fiyero and Nessa! How could she hate Elphaba after all she'd done to help her? Why would she do something like that? Who could be so petty, so small-minded, so unaccountably vicious?

The kind of person who'd sacrifice friendship to become a glorified mouthpiece to a tyrant. The kind of person who has to look on while the man she obsessed over falls in love with a more deserving girl. The kind of person who is going to sit there and stay silent, because she deserves to suffer, and Elphaba deserves to be happy.

By then, she'd ordered a glass of wine. In hindsight, it was stupid of her: she knew she couldn't blot out her memories forever, and it wasn't as if Elphaba wouldn't notice it sooner or later. If anything, the sudden drunkenness had felt more like instinct than anything else. But after a few sips, it had seemed like a good idea to start forgetting, to the memory of those soul-crushing words out of her head; so, she'd downed the glass without a second thought.

Then another.

Then another.

By her fourth glass, she'd asked the waiter to leave the bottle behind. And after that, Marchfly had wandered up to her and started talking, which was how Glinda had once again ended up alone, drunk and wondering if she was even worthy of the few accolades she'd earned.

And then, back in the present, she heard the familiar sound of Elphaba's voice rising above the party's revelry. Almost on reflex, Glinda swivelled towards the source of the voice, almost tumbling out of her chair in the process. As expected, Elphaba was making her way across the ballroom with Fiyero by her side, closely followed by the Tin Man and Dr Kiln.

"Once we've found a way of getting rid of the Hellion and rescuing the Lion, sure," Elphaba was saying. "But it's going to take some time. I'm going to have to study the Grimmerie in depth, and if I can find a spell that actually has the desired effects-"

"What do you mean, if?" the Tin Man demanded. "Can't you just reverse the spell or whatever?"

"Magic doesn't work that way, Boq."

"Not even with the Grimmerie?"

"Especially with the Grimmerie. There's no such thing as a quick fix for magic: there's no instant reversal charm, no way of undoing what's been done, least of all with transfiguration. It's like building a wall: once the mortar's dried and the stones are in place, you can't reverse it; you can only modify it – or demolish it. If I want to make you and Fiyero human again, I have to find a spell in the Grimmerie that can do exactly that... and that won't be easy."

"Okay, well… what if the spells just wear off or-"

Elphaba sighed. "This isn't some spur-of-the-moment spell for air purification or voice amplification, Boq. This isn't some combat spell you can just launch and forget about. This is the Grimmerie we're talking about here: this is eldritch magic. By all appearances, the spells inscribed within the book are powerful enough to alter the mechanics of physical reality on a permanent basis, and when I say permanent, I mean it: to date, I haven't seen a single example of a Grimmerie transfiguration wearing off. Back in Oz, I saw preserved specimens of Grimmerie hex victims on display in Morrible's study, and the alterations to their bodies – paper bones, iron intestines, petrified eyeballs, or what have you – remain stable for centuries after their demise. And what Chistery and the other Flying Monkeys? They've had their wings for years, now – even longer in this universe; no sign of reversion there. And the Ruby Slippers? Wha-"

She paused, her expression suddenly even gloomier than ever; Nessa's death and the theft of the Ruby Slippers were still painful subjects of conversation, and Glinda could only cringe at the memory of her own involvement in the debacle.

At that point, Fiyero came to the rescue. "Why are we rushing through this?" he asked soothingly. "We're not exactly operating on a time limit, Elphaba; it's not like we're going to die if we can't undo these enchantments?"

"No, but-"

"Then why are we in such a hurry to get this done?"

"Because you keep getting damaged: rips, tears, fraying, hay spills, bullet holes, the list goes on and it's only getting worse."

"Oh, it's not so bad."

"Speak for yourself," the Tin Man grumbled. "I just spent half an hour having my torso panel-beaten back into shape."

"And we've still got those de-rusting treatments for your brain to think of," Dr Kiln chimed in. "Then, we've got to have you nickel-plated."

"Dear gods, don't remind me."

"The point is," Elphaba continued, "I want to make sure that the two of you don't end up getting killed thanks to my handiwork: I don't know half the details of these spells, and I don't know how much punishment your new bodies can handle before they cease to function altogether. I want to correct my mistakes and make the two of you whole again – and send us back to Oz as well, but we'll get to that later – and it occurs to me that the process of restoring you might just be easier if you haven't been effectively destroyed on the battlefield."

"What makes you think we'll be heading back into combat?"

Elphaba gave Fiyero a look that hovered somewhere between exasperation and affection. "I seem to recall you strolling merrily off into the line of fire a few short hours ago "with a smile on your face and a song in your heart," as the saying goes, and as funny as it mightbe in hindsight – the key word being might – I'd rather not have to endure that little heart attack all over again, Mr Reckless."

"Reckless?" Fiyero echoed, ever-so-innocently. "Who, me? I've no idea what you could possibly mean by that, Mrs Reckless." He blinked, suddenly realizing his mistake. "Miss Reckless," he amended hastily.

But Elphaba only smiled. "I wouldn't be so quick to correct myself if I were you, Fiyero. We've got a lot to catch up on, you and I…"

Now it was Fiyero's turn to smile. "Just for the sake of argument," he murmured, "how soon can we get to work on making me human again? Like I said, there's no rush, but well… catching up is important…"

"Soon. Believe me, soon."

And in that moment, Glinda rose from her seat and began a determined if remarkably unsteady march towards the smitten couple. Drunk as she was, she'd been paying attention to Marchfly's plight: just like him, there were things she'd left unsaid for far too long, things she'd avoided despite every niggling little voice at the back of her head reminding her that she was only delaying the inevitable. What she was about to say was no longer strictly optional. She couldn't afford to let this remain unspoken, and letting the truth slip out one passive-aggressive remark at a time wasn't going to help, either: she needed to confess this here and now, or go mad.

Of course, given that she was now well and truly smashed, getting her audience to understand this little confession could be a bit of a challenge.

At last, she shambled to a halt right in front of Elphaba; immediately, the happy couple fell silent as they took in the figure now struggling to remain upright before them. Glinda could only imagine what she looked like by this stage: bleary-eyed and barely conscious, her hair a bird's nest of tangled locks, what little makeup she'd had time to apply before the party now smeared across her face like a train wreck… About the only about her that didn't look like it belonged on a drunk was her magnificent wargear – which was, of course, still riddled with holes and smeared with blood. She'd have worn the mask for sake of her own confidence, but that was back in her room, and besides, it wouldn't have disguised the drunken staggering.

By then, Dr Kiln was already dragging the Tin Man away by the ear (why did the Tin Man get so odd around her, exactly?), leaving the three of them alone in their corner of the room. After a pause of almost fifteen seconds, Elphaba broke the silence: "Are you alright, Glinda?" she asked, gently.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. I…" Glinda swallowed, and took a deep breath: this was going to be the hardest part. "I just want you to know… I'm so happy for both of you!"

Lunging forward, she drew Fiyero and Elphaba into a clumsy but heartfelt hug. "Love you," she mumbled, coherency briefly dissolving. "Love y'both…"

"Glinda, a-"

"No! No, no, no – let me speak, just for a moment, please. I want you to know that I… I'm just so glad you ended up together in the end… and I wanna say just how sorry I am that I tried to ruin it for both of you." She paused for a moment, belatedly realizing she needed to elaborate on things. "I'm not angry at you anymore; I know everything that happened was my fault – I should have realized it a long time ago, but you are perfect for each other. Me and Fiyero… I just wasn't good enough…"

Fiyero's confused expression suddenly gave way to something not unlike horror. "Glinda, that's not true and you know it. I-"

"You don't have to lie to make me feel better, 'Yero. I know I was a waste of time through and through; I should have known you didn't really love me – not the way you love Elphie. But…" She took a deep breath. "But I accept it. I'm happy just being a friend to both of you… and I'm even happier seeing that you're together. You know why?"

Elphaba shook her head mutely, mingled confusion and concern written on every facet of her face.

"Because after all you've been through, you both deserve it. And you know what – you deserve even more: I'm going to throw you the biggest, the best wedding that ever was or will be!" Glinda exploded proudly. "You're going to be so perfect together, you deserve the best ceremony anyone could possibly think of! I'll design your dress myself, I'll arrange the flowers, I'll have the chapel decked in green and black silks from ceiling to floor! I'll finally get to do right by you by doing what I do best!"

"Uh, Glinda-"

"I'll even be one of the bridesmaids!"

"Glinda…"

"You'll be so happy together! And I'll be happy for you… and…" Glinda swallowed; suddenly, breathing seemed very difficult. "And you'll have a little house of your own together. But you'll visit mine, won't you? I'll have a little house of my own, and I'll live there all by myself and… you'll visit every now and again won't you?"

She'd wanted this to be a perfectly neutral question, but it sounded more like a plea than anything else. Her façade was cracking, and taking all her composure with it: her throat felt like it had been lined with broken glass, her heart was hammering out of control, her eyes watered and stung even as she tried to blink the tears away. "You'll see me some time, right? I just… I don't want to be alone, Elphie… and…"

She turned, slowly trailing off. She didn't want them to see her crying, didn't want to spoil the festivities: this celebration – and, in fact, everything that had happened today – was Elphaba's greatest triumph yet. What kind of friend would ruin such a victory with selfish tears? She'd said enough; it was time to go before she started raising unseemly questions.

But the moment she turned to leave, Glinda felt soft hands gently gripping her shoulders, drawing her back into the huddle. She tried to struggle free, but the happy couple refused to let go: Elphaba was already stronger and soberer than Glinda at the best of times, and though Fiyero's muscles were little more than straw and burlap, he still retained an impressive grip.

"You're not going to be alone, Glinda," Elphaba whispered.

"But-"

"No matter how hateful or stupid you think you are, you're not going to end up alone. You know why? Because, believe it or not, I know exactly how you feel right now: you're not alone on the self-loathing front, in case you've forgotten. More to the point, whatever you blame yourself for, there's blame to share: we've both made bad decisions, quite a few of them concurrently, and chances are we're going to make several thousand more before this war is over and done with. And the one that's almost certainly on your mind right now, I've already forgiven you-"

"But it wasn't a mistake! I told the Wizard deliberativately! I got Nessa-"

"No-you-didn't! I've told you this before: you didn't know what the Wizard would do, you were upset, you acted without think – the list goes on and on. And here's the thing, Glinda: it doesn't matter. It's behind us. You're alive, I'm alive, and Fiyero's alive. It's been a rough journey, and you and I have spent most of it regretting what we did or hating ourselves for what we couldn't do – and I know this for a fact because we've both listened to enough self-reproach by now. Lurline only knows you'd probably be listening to another stream of frustrations and self-loathing right now if the last few days had been different. But somehow, the three of us managed to emerge from this debacle alive and sane, right?"

In spite of herself, Glinda smiled. "Sane?" she echoed.

"Maybe not sober," Elphaba conceded. "You can't have everything, I suppose. But you see my point? We're all still here despite the catastrophe, and – unbelievably enough – we're all in this together. You're not going to be alone, Glinda: even if you never marry, even if that perfect somebody never comes along, you'll still have me."

"And me," Fiyero chimed in. "I might just have been the world's worst fiancé, but I can at least try to be a good friend."

Glinda didn't know how to respond to this; alcohol and fermented guilt had left her lagging several miles behind reality. She was dimly aware that the tears were now streaming down her face in droves, and that she was now trembling with mingled fear and grief and nervous energy, but other than that, she could have been anywhere. And yet, even she couldn't fail to recognize the thrill of relief that ran up her spine when Elphaba reached out and hugged her, Fiyero closely following suit.

"Oh, one more thing," Elphaba added quietly. "That business about the wedding? I'm expecting you to keep your word on that, Glin."

There was a five-second pause as the remark slowly trickled through the many layers of drunken bewilderment currently cocooning Glinda's brain.

Then, without warning, she was laughing.

She was laughing, and hugging Elphaba and Fiyero as tightly as they'd hugged her, and all but jumping for joy. She'd no idea why, of course – it wasn't as if all her problems had vanished in the space of a single conversation: she still had more than enough fears as yet unmentioned cluttering up her mind; there were still a plethora of problems lying in wait just beyond the horizon; and of course, she was still as drunk as the proverbial skunk.

And yet here and now, with Elphaba and Fiyero hugging her, she felt better than she had in months: the crushing weight of her failure had been lifted from her shoulders, and the self-doubt that had been plaguing her for the last few months had finally lost its grip, if only for a little while…

And best of all, Glinda could laugh again.

And so she did.

---

Dorothy hadn't been expecting festivities that day.

Then again, she hadn't been expecting much of anything: with Elphaba, Dr Kiln and Vara sent north and Glinda having presumably vanished northwards as well, Dorothy's schedule had been left distressingly open. True, she'd been given a few chores around the palace just to keep her occupied, along with regular appointments with another mage-surgeon to make sure that she was still on the mend, but with chores easily completed and appointments concluded all too soon, Dorothy had precious little to do except sit around and daydream.

Fortunately, the new regime of treatments had made this much easier: dream pills kept the nightmares at bay, potions taken with dinner soothed her nerves, and regular doses of healing salve gradually reduced the spider bites on her arms and legs to faint scars. Even her teeth were starting to look normal again. And though she could never truly be rid of her fear of the Hellion, Chistery had helped to lessen it a bit, if only because he'd kept her hidden from the rest of the palace through the worst of her fear. She'd recovered her trust in the Mentor and the rest of the palace staff (or most of it, at any rate) but Chistery was still the only one in palace she felt perfectly safe around. At one point in the last couple of days, she'd even felt safe enough to accompany the flying monkey out into the streets of Greenspectre on an errand or two – closely followed by an detachment of guards, of course.

And so it was that, exhausted after following Chistery halfway across the city and back on foot, Dorothy had staggered back to their apartment, sought out the nearest armchair, sat down, and promptly fell asleep.

She awoke to fireworks, the night sky lit every colour of the rainbow, a thousand tongues of flame rippling through the clouds and across the stars.

Once she'd realized that Greenspectre wasn't under attack again, it hadn't taken long to realize that this was obviously a celebration – for though Kansas had never seen this sort of festivity, her brief time in the Emerald City had broadened her horizons somewhat. Eventually, one of the maids told of Elphaba's great victory of the invasion fleet, and the citywide celebrations that had followed. So, with her curiosity thoroughly piqued, Dorothy ventured out of the apartment and downstairs into the bowels of the palace: here, among the banquet halls and ballrooms of the Mentor's citadel, the citywide party raged on in miniature.

Along with the informal banquet for the heroes of the day – too far beyond Dorothy's reach – several lesser celebrations had sprung up, some staged by the soldiers, some staged by the ambassadors and dignitaries. Whatever the case, the heart of the palace was as alive with celebrations as the rest of the city: here, dancers soared and pirouetted across the ballroom floors with impossible grace, illusionists decorated the ceilings with ghostly epics and phantasmal drama, and musicians of every stripe filled the air with sound beyond description – melodies from cultures that Dorothy had never even heard of, exotic and improbable instruments that defied imagination… and yet, among the unrecognizable and the indescribable, there were snatches of music that Dorothy couldn't help but find oddly familiar.

Following the sound, she drifted away from the larger ballrooms, away from the heroes' private celebration, away from the smaller gatherings, until she found herself on the edge of a large empty room: inside, a small crowd of black-uniformed figures were milling around, stacking crates and hauling equipment into place; they were a rough-looking lot, whoever they were, their faces layered with battle scars and tattoos, their belts clustered with weapons – probably the reason why they currently working under the watchful eyes of the palace guard.

However, one of the uniformed men had apparently decided to give stacking a miss and was now seated at a dust-shrouded piano in a corner of the room, playing the very music that had drawn Dorothy's attention. This time, the sense of familiarity was even stronger: she couldn't put a name to the songs issuing from the piano's cobwebbed innards, but every note played conjured memories – not of Oz, not anything she'd seen in this world, but of Kansas. Listening to the music, she remembered venturing out of the farm and heading into town, hearing the same exuberant piano tunes floating out of dimly-lit saloons and bars – places that Uncle Henry had been very careful to steer her away from, dark and gloomy places that held Dorothy's imagination for far too long for her own good.

Intrigued, Dorothy tiptoed closer – only for the music to abruptly shudder to a halt. A split-second later, the piano player was out of his seat and towering over her, his smile wide and his eyes alight with something like curiosity. "And who might you be?" he asked. "I don't recall allowing gatecrashers, not when our party hasn't even started yet."

Whoever he was, the piano player was obviously someone of importance, for his crisp red-and-black uniform was crowded with medals: from shoulder to waist, his jacket glittered with decorations and honours, every movement accompanied by the clatter and jingle of metal on metal. And just as well, for he hardly looked the part of a leader without them: except for his tattered left ear, he looked more like a small-town bank teller than anyone charged with leading this vicious-looking mob.

And then Dorothy saw the silver-handled knife in his hand, and suddenly all comforting certainties flew out the window.

Meanwhile, the piano player was still looking her up and down, still smiling that unearthly smile. "No gatecrashers," he said idly. "No guests… and definitely no intruders. I'd wonder if you were a spy, but you don't look the part of a child informant: too clumsy by far. Still, appearances can be deceiving." The knife gleamed as he tossed it from one hand to the next. "Tell me," he whispered, "if I were to peel your skin off inch by inch, would I find microphones?"

And then, just when Dorothy was about ready to turn tail and run for her life, one of the palace guards stepped into view and put a warning hand on the piano player's shoulder. "That's enough, Colonel Gloss," he said firmly. "Miss Gale is under the Mentor's protection."

"Of course," said Gloss cheerfully. "I wouldn't dare risk angering our host; Miss Gale is safe with us… for the time being. Who is she, by the way? Your withered saviour's granddaughter? A secret weapon? A trophy? Do tell, sergeant."

"Not your concern, Gloss. Basic etiquette for palace guests, remember?"

"Oh really? Then perhaps it's time I shared a little basic etiquette with you as well, sergeant." He leaned forward until he was almost nose to nose with the guard, and without dropping his smile, whispered, "Touch me again and I will make you eat your children." Easily shrugging out of the sergeant's grasp, he strode back to the piano and went back to playing as if nothing had happened.

Meanwhile, the guard-sergeant shuddered in distaste. "Come on," he muttered to Dorothy. "It's time you got out of here. Believe me, girl, you don't want any attention from this mob any longer than necessary."

"Who are they?" Dorothy asked, as they shuffled out the door.

"The Strangling Coils, girl – mercenaries. Scum, if you ask me. God only knows we'd be better off without them hanging around the palace, but their boss wants these ones quartered with him – bodyguards and best soldiers, or so I hear."

"But what are they doing with all the boxes?"

"Sorry, girl; even if it wasn't strictly classified, I don't know much about it. This lot found something out on the border and brought it back to the city, and whatever it is, the Mentor wants it stockpiled before they're allowed to go and party out in the city. That's all I know and all I'm at liberty to say."

"But where'd they come from? What they even doing in the palace in the first place?"

"Show of goodwill, I expect: they helped out in the last battle completely pro-bono, and so the Mentor's given a few of their elite an invitation to the party. As for they came from… well, they're from all over the place: some of them were chatting to the other guards a little while ago, and they mentioned homelands so far off the map I'm pretty sure they aren't even real. Odessa, Leipzig, Manchester, Glasgow, Nebraska, and…" His brow wrinkled. "What was that other name they mentioned? I swear they mentioned another place, it's on the tip of my tongue. Oh, that's right: Kansas!"

Dorothy didn't even realize she'd moved: one moment, she was standing outside the room, eyes widening as she realized what she'd just heard; the next, she was back inside once again, ducking under the guard's outstretched arms and frantically scanning the Strangling Coils for anyone who might have responded to the call. In that moment, her mind was all but blank: she didn't know the Kanas that had been mentioned was the same Kansas she knew so well, or if the whole thing was just a ghastly coincidence – after all, she hadn't recognized any of the places mentioned up until now – and to be brutally honest, she wasn't even certain of what she was going to do next. All that mattered was finding this sudden link to home.

She was hurrying across the room at a breakneck pace, calling out for anyone who might have come from Kansas and desperately trying to make herself heard over the din of conversation and piano music, when the man himself stepped out in front of her. Unable to slow down in time, Dorothy slammed into him at high speed, bouncing off the man's legs and crashing to the floor; dazed and winded, she clawed herself into a sitting position – only to find herself eye to eye with the Man from Kansas.

Like the other mercenaries, he was dressed in red and black, though his uniform looked more like the robes worn by the army magicians of the Deviant Nations. And like the others, his face was mostly scar tissue: next to the Mentor, this man had to be about the most horribly-scarred human being Dorothy had ever met. From the crown of his skull to his jawline, his skin was a livid, misshapen mass of burns, his features eerily softened and warped like melted candlewax; he had almost no ears to speak of, his lips had blistered and stretched into a permanent grimace of pain, and his nose had shrivelled to a batlike stump of cartilage. Limping, paunchy under the jacket of his uniform, and leaning heavily on an ironclad staff, he clearly wasn't in the best of health even without the burns… and yet, Dorothy couldn't help noticing the flicker of magic around the mercenary's age-gnarled hands; this man was nowhere near as feeble as he seemed.

"You're looking for Gaunt?" he asked quietly. His voice was low and hoarse, but even with the air still thick with music and conversation, Dorothy caught every single word he said.

For a moment, Dorothy could only stare. Then, she remembered herself, and offered a brisk nod.

The man offered a wearied salute. "Captain George Howard Gaunt, at your service. To anyone who doesn't like the name or the patter, it's Old Tallow-Face. Gaunt can leave that part up to you, though. By the way, are you comfortable down there, or do you feel like having this conversation on an upright basis?"

There was a pause, as two of the mercenaries – a gravel-faced duo by the names of Arkady and Gerhardt, known to everyone else as the Terror Twins – helped her to her feet. Then, Dorothy remembered that she'd been meaning to ask questions. "You're from Kansas, right?" she asked hesitantly.

"Born and raised. Is this going to take long? Old Gaunt has work to do."

Dorothy took a deep breath. "I just want to know – this is Kansas in America we're taking about, right?"

The old soldier's eyes narrowed sharply. "That's the one, yes. Question is, how do you know about it? There's precious few in the Deviant Nations who've even heard of the United States, let alone North America. What do you know of Kansas, girl?"

Dorothy floundered. Would he even believe her if she told him where she'd come from? Gaunt was looking more than a little upset by this line of questioning; would it be safer to lie to him, or would right through it? More to the point, was this the same Kansas at all? What if she'd been right all along and there'd been another Kansas to match the Other Oz?

Eventually, she settled on a white lie. "I… well, I've got this friend who… well, her parents came from Kansas, but they never told her what it was like. The two of us have been trying to find out more about Kansas, and I was just wondering if you could tell me just a little bit about-"

"It's gone," said Gaunt quietly.

"…I'm sorry?"

"Kansas is gone, child, gone and dead as Carthage and Troy and all the Kingdoms of the Just. What else is there to say about it?"

In that moment, Dorothy's heart hammered once behind her ribs, and then fell silent; perhaps it really had stopped, but right then and there, she couldn't tell. Shock had swept all competing thoughts out of her mind. The excitement she'd felt at finding some link to home was gone, replaced with a deathly creeping chill running down her spine and through her veins, freezing her motionless where she stood. And in the end, the only response that sprung to mind was a stunned, barely-audible mumble of "What."

There was a polite cough from somewhere to Dorothy's left, and Arkady murmured, "Easy on her, tovarisch; she's just a kid – she didn't know."

But Dorothy was still grappling with her disbelief. "What do you mean, gone?" she asked, voice rising ever-so-slightly. "How is it dead? What are you talking about? What do you mean?"

Gaunt sighed. "Kansas no longer exists, girl. The Great Devastation swept the land bare from north to south, and there's nothing left of it but ruins and ashes. Old Gaunt's sorry, but that's all he can say to you and your friend: Kansas is gone."

"…what?"

"Oh, come on, child. How do you think Gaunt got these burns?" He indicated the warped remains of his face. "The entire state of Kansas burned off the map, and took everything within a half a mile of its borders with it. Topeka, Emporia, Ottawa, every single damn town and city from one end of the state to the other – the flames devoured them all. The flames… and what came with them."

"But how?" Dorothy whispered, too shocked to raise her voice above the faintest murmur. "How did it happen? How… how did it even start?"

At this point, one of the Terror Twins stepped forward and put a hand on Gaunt's shoulder, as if trying to dissuade him from answering, but the old man waved him off. "Christ, Arkady, nobody's wanted to even believe our story, much less talk about it," he hissed. "You really think Gaunt would pass up an opportunity like this?"

"She's just a kid, Gaunt, she doesn't need to hear this-"

"Don't give me that, you Muscovite son-of-a-bitch. You'd do the same if you had the chance to tell your story without some know-it-all cartographer grumbling about tall tales and con artists. Besides, she wants to know; she said it herself. Who is Gaunt to deny those who want to know the tragedy?"

Arkady sighed, and then looked back at Dorothy. "Are you absolutely sure you want to hear this?" he asked softly. "It's not exactly pleasant, in case you hadn't guessed already."

Dorothy nodded anxiously.

"Bozhe moy. Very well then. Gaunt, you have the floor: try not to give her too many nightmares."

Nodding grimly, Gaunt sat down on one of the nearest crates with a grunt, clearly settling in for a long and unpleasant story. He waved a gnarled hand, and with a flourish of magic, another crate slid out of line for Dorothy to sit on; as his audience made themselves comfortable, he began in earnest – and it might have been her imagination, but Dorothy swore that the din of work and music actually dwindled away as the old man began to speak, leaving the room completely silent save for the tremulous whisper of Gaunt's voice.

"It began on the 24th of June, 1905," he began. "They called it the Great Devastation… and from what Gaunt saw and heard, it all started with the storms. Billowing clouds as red as blood, flashes of lightning bright enough to strike you blind, swarms of locusts that fed upon the cattle as readily as they fed upon the wheat, columns of flame a hundred stories high; it was those columns that started the first of the brushfires… but it was what happened afterwards that turned the chaos loose on the entire state. A door, they say: a door in the sky, opening just wide enough for the people below to see the splendour of Heaven, all the mighty hosts of angels armed and ready for war, and the face of God looking down on all the earth in anger and sorrow, so they say… then the door slammed shut as God forsook us all, and the Devil rose from the depths of the flames to claim the world as his rightful dominion… or so the preachers said. Gaunt saw… I…"

The old soldier's face contorted with something like pain. "I saw the door in the sky," he confessed. "I was in Wichita, miles away from the door, but I saw it. True, I didn't see the Devil or Heaven or God… but I doubt I would have seen any of it even if I'd been standing right beneath the door. I still believe in Him – strange as it seems – and I believe in His Forgiveness; I know for a fact that it wasn't His hand that wrought what I saw that night. I saw the sky peel back, like the page of a book slowly turning in the air. I saw light, brighter and more intense than anything I'd seen before. I saw shadows flitting across the light. Then, the light was gone and the world tore open: I… Gaunt saw a vortex – a huge twister, miles across, bearing down on the land below. Then there was a… tremendous explosion. Then, the fire was everywhere."

He paused, his face now a sickly grey. Hands trembling, he hastily drew a small drawstring bag and a small strip of paper from his belt, and began clumsily rolling a cigarette; lighting the crude dog-end with a conjured jet of flame, he took a long drag. Then another. It took three gasps of smoke before Gaunt was able to speak again, and several more before he was able to regain his composure.

"Gaunt was a soldier back in those days – a real soldier, not just a mercenary. Private George Gaunt. No medals. No glory. Just pluck. That's all they said I needed, really. We had a job to do that day: command sent us in to rescue as many civilians as we could before the fires reached them. At first, we thought it was because the local sheriffs didn't have the manpower to do it themselves… but it turned out there'd been reports of things at play in the flames. Things that ate people. Things that used to be people. Well, we didn't need the reports after our first expedition, not once we'd seen those monsters for ourselves. We saw things out in that inferno you wouldn't believe, girl: whole buildings dragged into the sky and flung across the horizon; windstorms that flayed people alive, swept their skin clean off like old rags and left them wandering naked and red from head to toe until they died; and smoke – great billowing clouds of gas that turned men into travesties of nature. Gaunt saw whole families swallowed by the fog, saw their bodies change as the clouds thinned: I saw babies aging to death in their mothers' arms, saw soldiers dissolving into swarms of rats, saw crowds of refugees growing and merging into great tangles of limbs – never any heads among them, just writhing, boneless arms and legs…"

Gaunt took an even deeper breath. "It was the fire that got us. Got us on the second expedition. Gaunt remembers the flames. Rifles melted, uniforms burnt off the bodies… Gaunt and a few others were barely crawling away, following a light in the opposite direction…then blackness. Nothing but void. Gaunt saw things that night, in the blackness between light and waking. Maybe it was just a dream, but – I – Gaunt-"

Once again, the old man's grasp of his own identity faltered. "I saw eyes," he whispered. "Ice-blue eyes in the darkness, cold as all the winters of this world and just as merciless. I don't know if it was a dream or not, but I know for a fact that I saw something staring back at me from the nothingness."

He blinked, and the moment had passed. "When Gaunt woke up, we were in No-Man's Land. We'd fallen through one of the wounds in the world, a portal leading from our world to this one – or at least, that's what Gaunt learned once we made it back to civilization and found magicians who could explain what we'd seen. But it wasn't until the hospital ships scraped us off the rocks that we found any sort of civilization… and it wasn't until I joined the Strangling Coils that I found any magicians… or learned my trade, for that matter. One way or the other, Gaunt never saw Kansas again. Never saw America again. Never saw my world ever again… but then again, it's not like Gaunt's alone on that front."

"What do you mean?"

"Kansas wasn't the only place to burn and vanish, girl. It's like that all over the world. Just ask anyone here." He indicated the crowd of mercenaries. "All of us Noplace Men got to see it happen again over the next four decades – sometimes more than once, if we were lucky."

Gerhardt sighed deeply. "Karlsbad," he remarked, by way of agreement. "Salzburg. My home in Leipzig."

"Tsaritsyn," said Arkady, his harsh features downcast and sorrowful. "Irkutsk. Sevastopol. In the end, it was the portal storms across Omsk that swallowed me and the rest of my battalion, vomited us up in No-Man's Land."

Some of the other mercenaries also chimed in, supplying the names of towns, cities and – in some cases – entire landscapes that had been devoured by the storms: Helsinki, Kyoto, Christchurch, Venice, Birmingham, Melbourne, Okinawa, Detroit, Algiers, Cuba, Brooklyn, even a forty-mile stretch of the Rocky Mountains – all of them swept away by the Great Devastation, all of them claiming the lives of millions in the process. The few survivors who hadn't been lucky enough to remain on Earth had found themselves in No-Man's Land, easy pickings for any of the monsters roaming the wastelands. A fortunate few ended up as fresh recruits for wandering armies like the Strangling Coils – just as Gaunt and the other Noplace people had.

"And none of us ever saw home again," said Gaunt. "Or what's left of home, at any rate: the Wounded World, they call it. The storms have finally stopped, or so they say, but by now the damage has already been done. Gaunt's talked to some of the more recent arrivals from America, and they say that Kansas has been declared a national Exclusion Zone: the entire state's been walled off with barbed wire and guard towers, and nobody's allowed in without gas masks and lead-lined clothes. From what they tell me, the Devastation ruined the soil and poisoned the water, turned the weather mad and unnatural: Gaunt's heard tell of gravity switching off, acid rivers pouring uphill, hailstorms of snakeflesh and deadly toxin, people changing shapes as they cross the land… and some even told me that the few survivors who weren't lucky enough to be evacuated from the site were imprisoned there; whatever the Devastation did to them, the government can't afford to let them past the fence."

He took a deep breath. "Nearly fifty years on, and the wounds of the world haven't healed. All those holes torn in the flesh of the earth, in the air and in space… and all the monsters that rule over them." He closed his eyes, briefly lost in thought. "Then again, it's not as if No-Man's Land is healing any quicker," he mused, a bitter smile gracing his withered face. He then turned to Dorothy with sudden curiosity in his eyes. "Who is this friend of yours, anyway? If her parents came from Kansas, then maybe Gaunt knew them; maybe they were one of the families we were evacuating when the portal swept down on us."

Dorothy shook her head. "It doesn't matter."

"Well, you went to all this trouble to ask Gaunt about it. It would matter, wouldn't it? Who is she?"

For a moment, she was lost for words. Then, the remains of the white lie dredged up an answer: "Dorothy Gale," she said quietly, and turned to leave – only for Gaunt's hand to clamp down on her shoulder and spin her around.

"Gaunt saw your face when he mentioned the eyes," he whispered hoarsely. "You've seen them too, haven't you?"

Mute with shock, Dorothy could only nod.

"Again. You've passed across worlds, haven't you? At some point in the past, you've crossed the bridge of ruin, or came so close to it you couldn't help but receive the signal – the frequency of nightmares. You've had the dreams, you've travelled between worlds. You're from my world too, aren't you?"

Dorothy nodded silently, too shell-shocked to clarify what version of his world she'd come from. Then, she found her voice, and asked, "But what are the Eyes In The Darkness? Why are they watching? Why do I keep seeing them? What are they?"

"Your guess is as good as Gaunt's, child. Only a handful of us Noplace Men have seen the Eyes In The Darkness, the Watcher In The Void. The more we know of it, the less of us there are… but we all agree on one thing: there's something out there in the spaces between worlds, trying to find a way inside. Some of us - the true clairvoyants among us - have actually heard it as well; they hear it pounding on the walls of reality, screaming to be let in... but for everyone else, it's the same eyes in the void - silent, demanding, always looking for a way in."

There was a pause, as Gaunt's cigarette self-combusted. Then, at last, he let go of her arm. "Take care of yourself, girl," he rasped. "The more you see those eyes, the more danger you're in – you and everyone close to you."

Dorothy almost laughed. "I'm being hunted by the Hellion!" she burst out. "I'm in a country at war; I'm living in a palace that's been bombed twice in the last week or so. How much more danger could I possibly be in?"

"Oh, there's worse things in the Spaces Beyond than bombs and guns and even Hellions. Maybe the Empress will be one of them one day, maybe the Hellion too, but first they've got to match what's already out there. Keep your eyes sharp, little girl: there's things worse than war out there. Old Gaunt knows true enough, and you're a long way from home…"

He drifted away, leaving Dorothy to totter out the door, heart once again hammering madly.

Once she was outside the door, she collapsed against the wall, struggling to regain her breath and trying desperately not to cry. How stupid she'd been! Why had she bothered looking for that link to Kansas in the first place? Had she been expecting a way home? Had she thought Gaunt might have a doorway back to Kansas hidden in his robe or something? And even if he had some map that could led her back across the path between worlds, well, it wouldn't have led to the Kansas she knew.

And that was another earth-shaker: there was another Kansas after all, linked to this world just as Oz had been linked to her Kansas. And just as this world was Oz at its worst, the Wounded World was Kansas – was everything in her world at its worst. A world in ruin, a world of ruins, a long list of places that Dorothy had only seen in newspapers and only heard of from teachers – of them destroyed. So many people dead, and nobody could explain why it had happened – except perhaps by the Wrath of God.

And…

There was another Dorothy, wasn't there? There had to be – otherwise, who had she been dreaming of? But it wasn't the case anymore, was it? Dorothy, Daydreamin' Dorothy as they'd called her, was…

Dorothy gasped for breath, and tried to follow the chain of thought to the end.

The other Dorothy was dead. It was the only thing that made sense: after all, how likely was it that she, Uncle Henry and Aunt Em had all gotten away safely when the entire state was on fire? No, the other Dorothy was dead, along with Toto, Uncle Henry, Aunt Em, and everyone else her other self had known. The farm and everyone who'd lived there had burned to ashes – and the only survivor had been the house itself, swept away into Oz as it became No-Man's Land.

Nobody in the Wounded World would ever remember that a family had once lived in that desolate wasteland except for the monsters now caged behind barbed wire; after all, it wasn't as if any of their neighbours had survived to tell their tale. It wasn't as if any of them mattered to the world outside Kansas: they were nobodies, simple farmers. The other Dorothy was dead, just one of over a million victims of the disaster that had wiped Kansas off the map.

1905, she thought furiously. He said it was June 1905 when the Great Devastation began. When I left Kansas, it was April 1899. I'm nine years old, getting closer to ten. So the other Dorothy would have been – what? – fifteen when she died. Did she live a happy life? Did she fall in love? Did she think of starting a family? Just how much of a life did she get to live before the Devastation ripped it away from her?

In the Wounded World, it's been forty years since then. If she'd lived, she might have had children. Forty years – god almighty, if she'd lived, she might have had grandkids by now. She… she…

She couldn't breathe.

It seemed so selfish to feel this way about herself, but – even though they'd never met, even though Dorothy had only dreamed her memories – it felt as though she'd just seen a friend die. And suddenly, the world seemed a much lonelier place than ever before. Could she go back to the dream-memories, knowing that the memories she was seeing belonged to the dead? Could she keep watching, knowing that sooner or later she was going to see the other Dorothy die?

And then there was the vision of the eyes – the Eyes In The Darkness – that the other Dorothy had seen looking down at her in her visions of Oz, the Eyes that she'd seen staring at her in her nightmares. Somehow, the knowledge that they were real enough to be seen by others only made that little unpleasant sight worse than ever before.

In that moment, the little bubble of calm she'd been holding steady for the last few days had burst and withered away. Now, that creeping anxiety was back, clawing at her spine – and somehow, even though she knew that nobody would give her away, that nothing could break through the walls – the threat of the Hellion seemed closer than ever before. And worst of all, there was that all-too-familiar fell of unexpressed grief: right then and there, she felt like crying – god only knew she was on the verge of crying, for her eyes were full of tears and her throat was constricting tighter and tighter until breathing was almost impossible – but she couldn't cry.

Inhaling deeply, she pushed off from the wall and forced herself into motion, hoping against hope that she could drive away her anxieties and sorrows by walking somewhere – anywhere – as long as it meant moving away from the ballroom-turned-storeroom, away from the mercenaries, away from what had just happened…

And in that moment, she turned a corner and walked almost facefirst into Vara.

"Good grief, Dorothy, I've been looking all over for you," she said. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Dorothy lied, blinking away tears. "I'm fine. I'm just… I've just been trying to figure out what's been going on. I mean, I know there's a party going on all over the city, but-"

"Actually, that's the reason why I was looking for you: some of the heroes of the day have been asking about you, and they were hoping you might join the festivities."

Dorothy had not been expecting this, to say the least. "They have?" she asked blankly. "Who?"

"Let's just say that the Scarecrow and the Tin Man were very interested to hear that you were staying at the palace, and-"

"They're here?" Dorothy's heart leapt. She hadn't seen her friends from Oz in so long, she'd almost forgotten how deeply she'd missed them.

"Of course. They're at the informal banquet – to which you've just received an equally informal invitation. Oh, one more thing before we get going: half an hour ago, one of the troop carriers returning from Loamlark discovered a stowaway on board. Of course, they couldn't bear to leave this particular interloper behind, so they let him stay for the journey back to Greenspectre palace… and it so happens that yours truly recognize the description of said stowaway. Dorothy, if you'd like to have a peek down the corridor-"

Dorothy had barely had a chance to glance around the corner, when a four-legged ball of matted black fur collided with her at high speed. Toppling backwards and crashing to the carpet, Dorothy awkwardly hauled herself into a sitting position, only for the ball of fur to leap into her lap and begin licking her face.

"TOTO!" she shrieked.

By way of reply, Toto barked in agreement and went on licking her face.

In that moment, Dorothy could only laugh through her tears. At long last, the dam had burst and she could cry again; and so she wept – half out of grief at everything she'd learned that evening - for her other self, for the other Kansas, for all of the Wounded World - half out of sheer relief.

She knew her fears weren't gone yet, not by a long shot: the war, the Hellion, the Eyes In The Darkness, and a whole host of other horrors were still out there, waiting to strike. And she knew that all her relief at being reunited couldn't wipe away the horror of what had happened to the other Kansas…

…but for now, with Toto by her side and her friends – old and new – waiting for her nearby, she could at least push her fear and grief into a dark corner at the back of her head, and forget.

For now.

---

A/N: And at long last, ladies and gents, we have an explanation for all the inexplicable earthly names that have been cropping up - as well as an explanation for my crappy attempts at Russian! I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope my attempts at fiddling with the timeline, misusing defunct medals and wiping major cities off the map hasn't proved too disastrous or offensive. Oh, and thanks fLET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN LET ME IN