The responses on the previous chapter were truly wonderful; thank you to everyone who took the time to comment. It seems my apprehension about posting a different kind of story on here wasn't necessary based on the insightful reviews. To reward you, how about some more Fiyeraba interaction?

Fiyero had another nightmare, but this one was different, and in some ways worse than his usual ones. He was on the ground, surrounded by the regulation boots of the Gale Force, which were coated in the bloody mud and dust of the Corn Basket, but he somehow knew the blood wasn't his. And that was when he heard her voice, a cry in the darkness unlike any he had ever heard from her. It was a cry of absolute agony and despair, and he whipped around to find Elphaba, limp and ragged and hung in between the iron grips of two of the soldiers. She was crying – he had never seen her cry like this – her eyes as red as the blood that soaked her torch-lit skin and hair. And no matter how he tried, he couldn't reach out to touch her or her captives. He could only watch as she was continually struck by the same rifle butts that were meant for him and he could only listen as her shrieks of pain grew louder in the night.

His eyes opened and he sat up, taking in the details of his Shiz dorm room until his heart rate no longer sounded in his ringing ears and his skin didn't burn so much. Throwing his sheets from his clammy legs, he walked to the window and threw it open to suck in the fresh air from outside, which was so cold in his lungs and against his bare chest it both invigorated him and nearly sent him diving into his warm bed.

He spent enough sleepless nights here at Shiz to recognize that dawn was approaching. He sighed; it was to be another long, confusing day. He acted with confidence but he questioned every decision he made, whether it was about how he answered a question in class or what he should say to people, be it Elphaba and Galinda or some random stranger, afraid of any consequences for the future he wanted.

He tried to block out the lingering images of a dying Elphaba from his mind. His nightmare last night was particularly upsetting. His usual dreams of his own bludgeoning were a direct result of a decision he had made to spare Elphaba any physical harm, yet his mind rebelled against his heart and made him witness it in his dreams. Fiyero still felt agonized from it, and he tried to think of law lectures or discus or pigeons—anything that could help distract him from the visions of Elphaba dying that still looped in his imagination. By this time the minutiae of the nightmares usually began disappearing from his memory, but dreams like the one from which he had just awoken had a habit of staying with him longer, despite his fervent desire to be free of them or perhaps because of it.

He surely was misplacing his mind, for not only was he plagued by horrifying thoughts of Elphaba, his still-incoherent mind was telling him that Elphaba was curled up on one of the bluestone benches three stories below, the overhanging lamp above the walkway revealing her irregular breaths in the form of mist. But the longer he stared at the beautiful, messy raven head down below him, the calmer he felt, for Elphaba truly was there.

His back was kept warm by the old radiator in his room, but his front was being assaulted by the nippy night air; she must have been freezing. Suddenly determined, he dressed quickly, pulling a shirt over his head without even tucking it in to swiftly buttoned pants, slipping his boots on and grabbing two coats on his way out the door.

He could see her shivering as he approached her from behind. Courtesy dictated he could make a noise to inform her of his presence, and habit had him opening his mouth to say something witty, but he had only awoken five minutes prior and the wit wasn't there yet. So he simply walked around the bench and held out the extra coat for her to take.

If she was surprised she didn't act it. She simply looked up at him and, equally wordlessly, took the jacket and wrapped it around her folded, lanky body. She looked as bad as he felt, but he gave her the benefit of the doubt in the bad lighting of the predawn morning.

"I guess that whole 'handsome' thing takes some work," she said, giving him a quick once over.

He grunted, not wanting to really think about what direction his hair was going or what strange things his facial muscles were doing when he wasn't paying attention, and he dropped down on the bench inelegantly. A moment too late he realized that she said he was handsome, which would normally have been a great thing to call her out on.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"I was, but then I woke up," he said, marveling at how gross his voice sounded.

"That's normally how it goes," she quipped.

There was something off about her, but under the dim artificial glow Fiyero couldn't figure it out. She was slumped forward and curled up like a jackknife, neither of which was exactly unusual, and despite her general expressiveness he found it impossible to read her (which was definitely normal). Compared to the state she had been in his dream, she was positively perfect but Fiyero knew, without a doubt, that at that moment she was anything but.

Her eyes flittered through the fruit and shade trees of the expansive lawn in front of him, which were only visible to Fiyero because they were just extra dark masses in the blackness. Could she see more than he could? When they were in the forest together all those weeks ago (Had so much time really passed?), her senses were extremely keen, more so than his because of her time alone in the wilderness. But that was a different time and place. In some ways, it had been a completely different woman.

No, that wasn't really true at all, he realized. Either way, Elphaba had an ardent fire about her that drew him in like he was but a moth, covetous and inconsequential, even in the middle of the night when he could have been warm and safe elsewhere. Not to mention he thought she was breathtaking in such a setting, whether it was moonlight shining through colossal, ancient trees that was illuminating her features or just some crummy streetlight in the middle of campus with leaves rustling against each other in the distance.

He cleared his throat and tried that whole speaking thing again. "What about you? Why aren't you in bed? Or inside, for that matter?"

"I couldn't sleep," she admitted, sparing him a quick, guilty glance before her eyes fell down to her green hands, which were gray in the shadows. It was then he noticed the folded piece of parchment there, the corners of which were starting to curl and wear like her fingers had been worrying them. He looked at her questioningly, and when her dark irises locked on his, she stared at him tensely and stubbornly, but then she let out a startling puffing sigh like she was caving to an interrogation. "It's a letter from my father."

Fiyero frowned. He didn't know much about Frexspar Thropp, and what he did know he did not like. He knew that the man fiercely favored his youngest, weakest daughter, something both girls had confirmed in their own ways. Elphaba only mentioned it when discussing what was, in his mind, her rightful inheritance of Munchkinland's governance; she was brief and concise but there were so many layers to her words that it had Fiyero reeling for days, wondering about Elphaba's home life. Nessarose, on the other hand, was a walking (er, rolling), talking billboard for her father's affection. She wore her jeweled shoes with immeasurable pride and quoted her father on a weekly basis, usually in support of whatever ideal she had taken from him or some kind thing he had said in support of her at one point or another.

And then there was that story about the milkflowers. Anytime he remembered Nessa's telling of it, it was as though one of Elphaba's supernatural balls of fire rolled around in his gut.

In spite of his hatred, however, Frexspar the Asshole was still her parent, and her one and only at that. His frown deepened in concern. "Is something wrong? Is he sick?"

She seemed startled that he would ask that, but in the future from whence he came Frexspar had only a couple dozen months left to live. It wasn't an unreasonable assumption.

"No," she said quickly. "It's not like that at all."

It was too confusing a moment to know if he should be relieved, assuming the death was fated anyway. "Then what is it?"

"It seems so petty now." But she handed him the letter anyway and stared to the east, as if needing or willing the sun to rise, leaving him facing her loose, messy plat. He unfolded the paper. The lamp above them wasn't particularly bright, but it was enough to read the long, cursive writing that did not look too dissimilar to Elphaba's.

Elphaba,

Once again I seem to be put in a position to remind you about your purposes there at Shiz. You are there solely to care for Nessarose. Not only did you fail in that by not rooming with her as required, you seem to be forgetting your responsibilities with these useless endeavors of yours.

Every moment you waste aiding that Goat professor is another moment your sister suffers alone. If what you say is true, then not only are your efforts in vain once the limited funding for the research finally diminishes, but working with any Animal like you are will only make problems and life is already hard enough on your sister. Needless to say, you will not have my support, neither personally nor financially. Is it not enough that you are attending university in the first place? Be grateful, girl.

Most importantly, I abhor your pursuance of sorcery, of all studies! I will be writing to your Head to express my disappointment. You swore to me, and to your sister, when you agreed to accompany her to Shiz that your little outbursts would stop, and instead you are seeking to exploit them? It's unnatural and evil. Magic is sleight of hand of the devil and an affront to the way you were raised. It's easy to turn your nose up to the Unnamed God as you're doing when it was He who gave you one.

You're acting childish and your behavior is shameful. You will straighten up, mind your sister, and stop your foolishness. Remember your place, Elphaba, or I'll be forced to step in and remind you.

That was it. He turned it over, hoping for perhaps a postscript that held even a positive fragment of a sentence for the wonderful girl next to him, but there was nothing else.

"He didn't sign it," Fiyero muttered, feeling so sick from reading the letter that he wanted to vomit.

"He didn't need to," Elphaba said dully. Finally, she turned and met his gaze. Her chin was held high, as if in defiance of the words from her father, but she couldn't disguise the utter sadness in her eyes. "I thought he would be proud of me. I wanted him to see that Madame Morrible and Dr. Dillamond both see me as someone valuable, as someone who can make good in this world." She laughed, both bitterly and self-loathingly. "I don't know why I care so much. I should know better, shouldn't I? Yet still I try to please him. Sometimes I wonder what kind of response I would get from him if I signed my letters with Nessarose's name. No doubt it would be more supportive. But would it mean anything to me, finally having his approval, if it really was never intended for me?"

"There's only one way to find out," Fiyero suggested. Elphaba turned to him sternly, one of her thin eyebrows raised at him, but he wasn't discouraged. "If nothing else it could be a good laugh. 'Dear Father, I love sorcery and conical hats and I have midnight rendezvous on public benches with wild Winkies—'"

"Oh, enough," she groaned.

"I wasn't done," Fiyero said, before adding, "'—and I think you're a right git. Love your pet, Nessa.'"

He could tell his idea pleased her somewhat, but she didn't laugh; no doubt the contents of the letter were far too heavy on her heart to feel so frivolous. "Shouldn't it be enough that Nessarose is well?" she asked him crankily, suddenly springing to her feet and pacing in front of him. "That the head of the college herself has taken it upon herself to see that Nessarose is properly cared for? Whenever Morrible isn't available she leaves her nasty little tik-tok servant to tend to my sister, who assures me that despite being a vile little gadget it assists her well. Does it not matter to him that I am with her every day, morning and night, often being told not to fuss over her so much?"

"It should."

"And why am I even talking to you about this?" she asked, throwing her hands in the air wildly between her long strides. He opened his mouth to retort but realized he was too tired to take it personally, so instead he waited for her to calm down and for the mania to leave her eyes. When it did, Elphaba's attention settled on him, and her dark gaze bore into him with an unnerving intensity. "You never talk about your father."

He nodded slowly. "That's true."

"What is your relationship with him like?"

Fiyero didn't know how to answer. There was a reason he never really talked about his father and it was because he never really thought deeply about the man, and he knew that was mutual. Ever since he arrived back at Shiz, reevaluating his responsibilities to the Vinkus, he found himself wondering more and more. But old habits die hard it seemed, for the stressful train of thought was usually disrupted by some sort of internal self-protection he had developed over the years.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be prying."

"No, it's fine. I just don't know how what to say. We don't exactly chat much. Or at all, really."

"I'm sorry," she said, truly.

He tossed up a hand indifferently, as if to say "it is what it is", but she wasn't satisfied with that and wouldn't remove her stare. He felt as though if she kept at it, she might figure out how to look inside of him and he had more secrets than basic daddy issues he wasn't ready to share quite yet. So he scratched at his stubble and searched for words.

"I gave up on trying to make him proud years ago." Working to please his father never paid off when he was a boy. He was too distracted. Then, in all of Fiyero's rebellion in the fancy colleges he was expected to attend, he found the opposite behavior did not gain him the attention he wanted any better. Soon he stopped trying all together, and discovered that still the results did not change. "I don't recommend it as a course of action."

Even earning captaincy didn't really affect their relationship. Fiyero suspected the decision upset his parents more than anything, for he was devoting his attention to serving a part of Oz with which he should hold no loyalty. But he didn't do it for them, or for Glinda, or even for himself; he had done it for the fiery green woman in front of him.

That's when it occurred to him— this letter, Elphaba, her destiny: his presence in this time would not have greatly affected Elphaba's communication with her father so early in the semester, unless it was in regards to Nessarose's romantic life, which wasn't even referenced in the note. So he had to presume that Elphaba would have received probably this very letter the last time around and perhaps even would have sat on this very bench, contemplating it, and still pursued her dreams despite it.

"You don't plan on letting this stop you, do you?" It was phrased as a question, but his realization had him stating the words, knowing them to be absolutely true. Her lips upturned slightly at that and he felt a sense of relief that this moment of doubt would not hold her back. Her fire would not be smoldered so easily.

But was that a good thing? Should he even hope to stop history from repeating itself?

"No. One day Oz will be celebrating me, and when that day comes, he'll have no other option than to admit that I deserve it."

She stepped forward then, scattering her own misty breath with her slender body and the coat she whipped off of her shoulders to give back to him. "Thank you, Fiyero," she said, and he suspected she meant more than him sharing with her an outer coat. He reached out and pushed the green hand that clutched the collar away from him; her fingers were ice cold but his own seemed to erupt with an old, familiar heated current the moment it touched hers.

"Hold onto it," he said, wanting to allow his fingertips to linger on her knuckles, but he felt weighted down by too many thoughts and his hand fell clumsily from hers.

"I couldn't," she said, her voice too young and soft for someone who would become the poster girl for evil. She took it in both hands, running a thumb over the fine Gillikin-woven Vinkun wool like it was something she had rarely seen up close.

He stood up, taking the jacket from her and putting it around her shoulders. "I insist. I have more than I need." She pulled it around herself tighter and he smiled at how cute she seemed in his oversized garment. "Are you going to try to sleep before class?"

"Perhaps I might," she said. "Are you?"

"I don't think I could," he admitted, for too many reasons than he could mention. "Do you want me to walk you back?"

She glanced up to the building just a few hundred feet away and smirked cleverly. "Do you actually think anyone else is crazy enough to be awake at this hour? Crazy enough to bother me?"

"You mean other than me?" he asked with a lopsided grin and a shrug. "You never know."

She returned the expression. "Good night, Fiyero," she said, and as her dark form disappeared into the shadows, he continued to watch her until he saw her reappear under Crage's front light and into the dorms, telling himself it was because it was the gentlemanly thing to do.

The next day when she arrived in class, he was engrossed in composing a letter addressed to Kiamo Ko – on the slopes of Knobblehead Pike, the Great Kells of the Vinkus, specifically – and she didn't interrupt him when she sat down, but he peeked up to see her give him a supportive smile.

Dear Father,

I know that it has been a while since we've talked. I know I'm not the son you want me to be. I sometimes have thought that you haven't been enough of a father either. But regardless of any of that, I trust that you love me no matter my faults or perceived failures as I love you and I hope that one day you'll be able to respect and trust me as I do you.

In the past, I've acted selfishly, defiantly, aimlessly. It's reflected poorly on you as well as our country, and I want to apologize for it. I need you to know that I've changed. It is my purpose in writing this letter. I could understand your disbelief in such a statement, for it was only a short time ago that I had arrived at a new school after being kicked out of my old one, but it is the utter, understated truth that so much has happened since then that has influenced not only the person I am but also the one I want to be.

This will be the last school address from which you will receive any letters, and I promise none of which will involve a notice of expulsion. My antics stop here. A year from now I will walk the lawns outside of Ozma Towers here at Shiz to receive my diploma, and, as of a few weeks ago, the diploma will reflect a focus on Ozian law in preparation for my inheritance of the Arjiki throne.

Most important of all, I will make a difference along the way. I'm going to devote myself to the ones I love with everything I am. I'm going to change the future for the better, and I implore your counsel about how to best do so. Hopefully I'll finally be the kind of man that you can be proud of.

I love you Father. Take care and kiss Mother and the girls for me.

Your son,

Fiyero

He spent most of class staring at it, only stopping to write down notes when he heard the tap of Dr. Dillamond's pointer on the blackboard, meaning he was referencing a specific fact worth noting. He wondered if the letter was too dramatic or if it was overly sensitive. He pondered if he was being clear and eloquent enough. Most importantly, he hoped if it was believable.

Doubtful.

"Want someone to proofread that for you?" a voice cut in, distracting him from his thoughts. He looked up to see Elphaba pulling her bag over her shoulder, definitely appearing more tired than usual, and staring down at him.

"Oz no. I don't even think I want anyone to read it at all."

"You should send it anyway," she said meaningfully as she left.

So he did.