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Fiyero hated his Gale Force uniform. It was too stiff, the fabric too coarse, and that particular shade of green... it seemed to mock him.
He brushed some nonexistent dirt off the lapels of his jacket and sighed. The Emerald City sprawled around him, gleaming and orderly, but everywhere he looked, he saw lies. Signs proclaiming the wonderfulness of the Wizard; articles praising the latest unjust actions against the Animals right next to gossip columns dissecting pictures of Fiyero and Glinda, the “happiest couple in Oz”; pristine, pink, and polished banners of said Good Witch looking down at grotesque and cruel facsimiles of her.
He kept walking, shoulders stiff, steps echoing against the stone. Because he had to.
He had to endure all of it—the public displays, the reports, the role he was forcing himself to play—if it meant getting closer. Closer to finding her, to finally knowing if she was safe or even alive.
Still, the roles he played chaffed at him like a new pair of leather boots.The loyal officer, the obedient soldier. Every order he carried out, every patrol he led, every false claim he was forced to listen to—it all weighed on him. Oh, he did what he could to ease the little bit of conscience he still had left— warning Animals before their homes would be raided, shutting down conversations about the Wicked Witch in his presence— but it would never be enough. Not when there were some acts he couldn’t get out of, some targets he couldn’t help.
It was worth it, he had told himself. Anything would be worth it to keep the trail warm and to keep a chance alive. No matter how deeply he hated himself.
An unfamiliar voice called from behind him.
“Prince Fiyero!”
He turned to see a woman standing beside a flower cart, and his heart twisted at the sight of the orange and red poppies in her hand. For a moment, all he could see was green fingers curled around similar stem.
The woman held the bundle out to him. “Would you like some flowers for Miss Glinda?”
He almost winced at the reminder of the other weight on his soul— that other role he gave himself, of the perfect suitor.
Forcing his face into the kind smile the woman expected, he shook his head. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I’m working at the moment. I'd hate for the flowers to die before I could bring them to her. Perhaps I’ll stop by another time, maybe even bring her along?”
The woman’s eyes widened, hopeful. Naive. “Oh, that would be wonderful! Thank you so much, Your Highness!”
He gave her a nod and continued on his way, hoping that he hadn’t just lied again.
Ever since that fateful day when Elphaba flew out of the palace and their lives, everything had felt unsteady. His relationship with Glinda was no exception. He remembered her tearful face when he saw her for the first time since Elphaba left— sweet, bubbly Glinda had looked so fractured.
Yet shortly after, she disappeared into her work and something shifted between them. Elphaba’s absence left an ever-growing distance neither of them could bridge, and their every interaction felt more like a show for her adoring audience than anything real. He cared for her— alright, perhaps not in the way he should, but he still cared. Fiyero wanted to reach her, offer support and have hers in return, but they were both broken in ways that didn’t fit together anymore.
Perhaps they had never fit that well together in the first place. Not like him and…
“Captain Tigelaar!” Lieutenant Malen called, breath ragged. Had Fiyero been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t realized his second in command had been chasing him down?
He straightened his back. “Lieutenant, what is it?”
“We’ve got something,” Malen said. Fiyero’s blood pounded in his ears.
We’ve got something. We’ve got something.
“Reports of movement in The Pine Barrens.” The Lieutenant continued. “Could be—well, it might be worth your attention—”
“Gather a some men, tell them to be ready to leave in an hour” Fiyero said, voice low but firm. Malen nodded, and with a final “yes, sir”, left Fiyero standing alone on the sidewalk.
He glanced back to the flower stand, the poppies nestled neatly amongst the primroses and tulips, and for a moment, he let himself imagine her in the forest, alive and okay and so much closer than he had imagined. It was foolish to hope— there had been so many false leads in the past— but he couldn’t help but wonder if those flowers were a sign. If fate would finally look kindly on him.
Fiyero adjusted the strap of his gun, feeling the weight more as a burden than protection. The forest stretched around him, ancient and quiet. Every rustle of a branch or snap of a twig set his pulse racing. He kept walking, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth, ears straining.
There was something different about this lead. Apparently, a villager going on a walk had seen a woman in black flying overhead, heading in this direction— not too unique, paranoia has led to many a witch sighting that turned out to just be a bird. But this one… the location checks out. Some Animals, just three villages over, got the attention of the Gale Force after holding a demonstration against the Animal banns, and just so happened to disappear only a couple of days ago. Conveniently, minutes before a Gale Force troop arrived to take them in.
It had to be Elphaba.
She was somewhere in these woods, waiting. Possibly planning her next move. If Fiyero played his cards right, he could be seeing her again before nightfall.
He hastened his steps, stomach twisting in anticipation.
The entire trek, despite trying to focus on the path ahead of him, he couldn’t stop thinking of her. Of what she’d be like when he saw her again, of how she had been. His mind kept palming over old memories, worn from just how frequently he would visit them. The way her voice cut through the noise of a room even when no one was listening. Her eyes, bright and clever and oh so perceptive. The warmth of her skin against his.
A thud.
Fiyero’s head turned before his mind could catch up, only to see one of his men on the ground beside a large log.
“Are you alright?” He asked, trying not to sigh. He offered a hand and helped the soldier back to his feet.
“Yes, sir.” The man replied— more boy than anything. He was one of the newer recruits. Young and apparently foolish enough to not watch his steps in uneven terrain.
If only Fiyero had found an excuse to go on this mission alone. Thankfully, when they did find Elphaba, he didn’t expect too many problems from this group. If anything, they’ll probably faint at the sight of her and give the two of them ample time to make their escape.
Another sound—a snap of twigs, a whisper of movement—made his body stiffen and his pulse spike. His eyes darted to a narrow path tucked behind a clump of pines. Something moved there. It could be anything, but his heart leapt anyway.
He held his breath and reached for his gun. If it was her, it’d be best to be prepared in case any of his men decided to forget their fears and take action.
A fox darted from underbrush, tail flashing.
He let out a loose breath—tension easing, but not entirely— before urging himself and his men to press onward. Once again, he was accompanied with the sound of their boots on the leaf-strewn grown. They continued into the brush, until the trail split.
Continuing straight was a wider path, more worn with old prints and trampled foliage. To the right, another way narrowed, winding through a cluster of older trees whose roots twisted like veins through the soil. He could barely see what direction it went, but he knew without a doubt which way he needed to go.
“Captain,” Malen’s voice came from behind, hesitant. “Should we split up? Cover both trails?”
Fiyero glanced back. Malen, ever eager but ever cautious, clutched his gun with a white-knuckled grip; trying and failing not to let his concern show.
“Yes,” Fiyero said after a moment. “The three of you, take the northern trail. I’ll take west.”
Malen’s brow furrowed. “But, sir, then who would go with you? You’d be— ”
“I’ll be fine,” Fiyero interrupted, his voice firm, cutting off any doubt. “You forget, I have more experience with our target than any of you. Just keep your men moving, and shout if you find anything.”
“Yes, sir. If you insist.” Malen nodded, reluctant.
Fiyero knew none of them would argue with him— cowards that they were, they would want as much back up as possible if they did come face to face with so-called Wicked Witch. Without another word, they peeled off, disappearing into the trees. Fiyero stayed behind a moment, waiting for their steps to fade into silence. Satisfied they were gone, he turned back to the western path.
His every move was measured and precise, so as to not alert a stranger to his presence. He imagined her just ahead, slipping between the trees, always one step away, always careful not to be found. And yet, he pressed forward, driven by a stubborn certainty that she was there, that he was close.
Minutes blurred into what could have been hours. Time stretched and compressed in the forest. His eyes caught on small things—a depression in the moss, as if someone had knelt there recently; the slight discoloration of leaves underfoot; the faintest imprints on soft earth, suggesting movement. Someone had been here. Not long ago.
He stopped at a mound of earth partially hidden by overgrown ferns. A few fallen branches leaned against it, their leaves hanging down hap hazardously. It could have been the result of a bad storm, but something about it pulled at Fiyero. Someone had hidden something here, leaving traces for only the sharp-eyed to find.
A cautious step forward, hands brushing aside the plants, and he froze.
He was right.
A small tunnel, just big enough for a person to walk through if they crouch, sloping down into the ground. He stepped inside, careful to let the branches fall back in case any of his men decided to try to find him. It was dark, but a dim light beckoned him from only a few feet ahead, when the path turned. Dust fell delicately on his face as he carefully continued. The air smelled faintly of smoke and damp soil.
He turned to find a curtain of vines. Pushing past it and walking inside, his eyes adjusted to shadows and angles. It was a room. He found the source of the light— a beam of golden sun staggered in from a small opening on the far side. Except for the sound of the floorboards groaning under his weight, the room was silent.
Empty.
He tried to ignore the way the disappointment hollowed him. He should have known better than to expect anything else— Elphaba was good. She knew what she was doing. Oz, wasn’t it a good thing that she wasn’t reckless enough to be found?
He swallowed the growing lump in his throat. The frustration, the loss.
Despite the notable absence, there was something about this place. He ran a hand along the wall, tracing the smooth rock. There was care and life, once he looked hard enough: the chair pushed slightly off-center, a book left open and facedown, a cup resting on a shelf as if someone had been interrupted mid-thought.
Then he saw the desk.
It was simple, made of scarred wood and tucked into the corner. But it wasn’t the desk itself that drew him forward, that made the breath catch in his throat. There was a pile of papers on top, sprawled carelessly across the surface, covered in familiar cursive ink.
Letters.
Fiyero’s hand hesitated over them. Some of the letters were crumpled, tossed aside in frustration or second thoughts. Others were half-written; ink smearing in some places, as if the writer had pressed too hard; lines trailing off and crossed out like they paused to reread them before rewriting entirely. A few were carefully folded, finished but unsent.
He picked up the top one. The handwriting was neat, deliberate, and unmistakable. He recognized the slant and the small, precise loops in the letters. He could almost feel her presence in the ink.
Cool relief coursed through him like a balm, soothing a wound that had been left open since she first flew away.
She really was alive. And she had been here.
Of the folded letters, two were clearly addressed: one to Glinda, one to Nessa. He looked to the last one, tucked almost invisibly beneath the others. His curious fingers acted with a mind of their own, carefully pulling it out from the rest.
Fiyero froze.
To Yero
The air around him seemed to tighten. A low, quiet ache spread through his chest, heavy and profound. She wrote him a letter.
The thought was so strange that he forced himself to look around the room, try to steady himself. He clung to every hint of her. The book— he could recall the author was one she had admired back at Shiz; the half full cup of her favorite tea with steam still rising; the way a breeze stirred the wide-open curtain against the makeshift window, as if she had just left it.
She hadn’t been gone for long, he realized. His first true sign of her in two years of searching, and he might have only missed her by minutes.
He bit his cheek, the sharp sting pulling him from the pit that seemed to grow in his stomach. Maybe she’ll come back, or maybe he can find out where she went…
His eyes fell to the letter again.
He hovered, hesitating.
It was almost pitiful how woefully unprepared he was— all these plans of finding Elphaba and he here was, scared to read a letter. The idea of confronting the tide of longing, disbelief, and hope that pressed against his ribs, it paralyzed him. He could feel it all, waiting just beneath the surface.
Outside, the wind moved through the trees. A crow cawed somewhere beyond the hill. But here, in this quiet room, the world had narrowed to a single point. Fiyero sank to the floor, letting the letter rest in his palm. The weight of it was both crushing and delicate, a reward he wasn’t sure he had earned yet. He pressed his hand against it, memorizing its texture, the slight roughness of the paper.
He could feel her. He could feel that impossible gap between them, forged by distance and timing.
And there he was, suspended in the space between discovery and reckoning, caught in the ache of wanting more.
He opened the letter.
This is pointless, you’ll never read this.
I can’t imagine a world where I actually send any of these, but yours least of all. I don’t even know why I’m writing it. With the others, I had a reason. An excuse. But with you…
I suppose it’s because part of me needs to put these thoughts down, somewhere, anywhere, before they devour me whole.
So, since I can never tell you, I’ll tell pen and paper.
Fiyero paused, conflict warring in him.
If he were a moral man, he’d stop reading; he’d let her have her privacy and let himself move on with his life. But his morals had grown sparse and tattered since he began looking for her. Every time he donned the green and gold of the Gale Force uniform, every time he went on another mission in the hopes of getting a hair closer to her, he sacrificed something he could never get back— this was the clearest glimpse he’d gotten of Elphaba since that fateful day at the train station, and those instincts he honed wouldn’t allow him to let go.
Besides, reading her words… it was like she was in the room with him. He could nearly hear her voice— insistent yet soft, with the barest hint of a self-deprecation. She was a ghost made of ink and longing, haunting him from the margins.
This is certainly a waste of time. There’s so much I need to do, so much demands my focus. I’m constantly working to stay ahead of the Wizard and make whatever good I can in Oz, even no one will ever see it as such. Finding time to myself is nearly impossible, and yet when I do find it (like right now) I end up hating that time the most. It's when my heart and it’s naive dreams are hardest to escape.
I miss you, Fiyero.
Fiyero’s chest tightened, a raw twinge. It was a bittersweet relief to know she missed him, but he knew it couldn’t have been the same way he missed her— there were nights where he couldn’t sleep, unable to bare her starring role in his dreams and nightmares. And there were other nights when he craved those lies, needing to see her in some way and fearing the moment when he woke up and had to lose her all over again.
I know that I have no claim to you, that I shouldn’t miss you, but I do. Every day, every hour, there’s this… ache of not being near you. A younger me would’ve never believed it possible that some Vinkun prince could find his way so completely into my heart, yet here we are.
His breath caught in his throat, burning. Did she mean…
Time and loneliness had made him doubt so much in her absence— too often he’d wondered if she’d thought of him at all, or if he was clinging to a memory malformed with his own wants. But here, laid bare, were words he hadn’t imagined her ever saying even in his wildest dreaming.
He was struck with that familiar longing again. He needed her there, desperately. He yearned to fold her into his arms and watch the words pass her lips and whisper his own back.
But he had no choice but to settle for ink and parchment.
You have always been incredibly frustrating.
He brow shot up in surprise, along with the the corners of his mouth as he fought the urge to laugh.
Of course. Leave it to Elphaba to humble him even from afar.
At Shiz, I didn’t know what to make of you. You were flippant and arrogant, but never cruel— I didn’t know what to do with that. It wasn’t something I was used to. I’ll confess, I didn’t trust you at first, but the more time I spent around you…
Every so often, I would catch these glimpses of the person you really were, underneath it all. You'd try to hide it with that carefully feigned indifference and obnoxious charm, but it was there. The more I saw of that man, the more I wanted to see. I started to look forward to spending time with you. I would have never admitted it, even under duress, but I even liked arguing with you. Remember the first time you called me Fae?
Fiyero blinked, and that laugh finally slipped through. Fae. How could he forget? She was helping him study, and he had been pestering her about how unfair it was that Galinda could call her Elphie but she wouldn’t let him do the same.
“Why can’t you just call me Elphaba, like everyone else?” She had asked.
And he had opened his mouth in mock-hurt. “Are you saying you view me in the same category as everyone else? And here I thought we were friends.”
She had rolled her eyes at the time, but he didn’t let it go, insisting he’d come up with his own nickname. He recalled the way she huffed and scowled when he first called her Fae, claiming he was being completely irrational. But he also remembered the faint tinge to her cheeks.
Back then, every conversation with her felt like sparring. Talking to Elphaba would send a thrill through his veins— how alive she made him feel.
I thought it was so foolish then and I still do, but I won't lie. Another part of me secretly loved it. I loved that you cared enough to want to give me a (ridiculous) nickname, and I loved how invested you got in coming up with one— even if I’ll never understand why that was the one you decided on.
Mostly, I think I loved it because I loved you.
Fiyero’s fingers curled around the paper, nails biting into his palms. He couldn’t speak as the air in his lungs seemed to burn under his ribs.
She loved him.
His heart stuttered, thundering in disbelieving awe. Sure, he’d had hopes that he wasn’t alone in his feelings— late night wishes that in some world, some time, she might have felt the same, but he’d long assumed that distance, life, and sheer practicality kept those dreams far from reality.
I suppose we could blame that on the Lion Cub. Do you still think about that day?
Of course, Fiyero wanted to say. He could recall it with crystal clarity, how often he looked back on it—the magic pouring over the room, how the Lion wriggled in his arms as they ran, the soft press of Elphaba’s hand on his cheek. And his own heart, hammering, because for the first time in his life he felt he was frighteningly exposed and out of his own control. He had been terrified that those feelings he barely understood would undo him.
I do. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, no matter how much I should. Of course, I’ll always remember Dr. Dillamond being dragged away, and Dr. Nikidik’s awful cage— those memories fuel me. When I’ve been injured or the nights grow long and lonely and I wonder if I made the right choice, I think back to them to remind myself why I’m fighting.
No, what I should forget is what came after.
It was during that moment in the forest with you, when our hands touched and it was like everything else fell away, that I realized I loved you. For so long, I had tried to push my feelings down and ignore it, but suddenly it was there, blazing and wild and impossible.
His eyes burned. He hadn’t known. He'd been too preoccupied in own mind, with his own feelings.
For his entire life, he’d always maintained distance— he put on a mask and played the role of the popular prince with ease, never letting anyone see what lie behind it. Even himself. He’d thought that maybe, if he disconnected so thoroughly, he wouldn’t have to feel the sting of his unhappiness gnawing at him.
But that disconnect separated him from more than his own pain. When he fell in love with Elphaba, his descent was slow and discreet and he had been so detached that he missed every warning sign until it was too late. Until he had fallen so thoroughly, so completely, that there was no recovering.
It took her calling out his charade for him to see past those walls he had built. It was only when they were standing in a clearing— the light tumbling through the foliage as her fingers delicately caressed his temple, that overwhelming urge to lean in and close the feeble distance between them— that he realized just how far he had fallen.
The discovery was striking and blunt and alarmingly sudden. Back then, he had been so afraid of how much he loved her.
Now, years later, that love was his one guiding light. Fear was far from his heart— all he had space for was a quiet, relentless longing that no distance, no danger, no politics could erase.
And here she was, telling him she had felt the same.
I knew better than to act on it, and your quick exit was another reminder why. Maybe you had noticed my feelings and wanted to prevent an even more awkward situation. Maybe you were oblivious. It doesn’t matter in the end, because it would always end the same way.
I never needed you to tell me how you didn’t feel the same; I’m aware I’m not beautiful, sweet, pleasant, or anything someone might want. I know exactly who I am, and who I’m not. There’s no happy ending for me (something I’m painfully conscious of now), especially not one that includes you.
I’ve always accepted that I’d never be the one you chose.
Besides, back then, you were with Glinda— you still are, if my sources are correct— and I was Glinda’s friend. I am Glinda’s friend.
So, I tried to ignore my feelings. I tried to be content, to celebrate the fact that the two people I loved most found love with each other, but no matter what I did, my foolish heart didn’t seem to care.
Perhaps the Wizard isn’t entirely wrong about me. I have to be at least a little wicked for this, don’t I? For how badly I want you, despite knowing that, even ignoring the impossibility of it all, I could never have you without hurting one of the most important people in my life.
What kind of friend am I?
Fiyero closed his eyes, heart clenching as he pictured Elphaba sitting there alone at the desk, writing this. Every line she penned cut through him, and he wished more than anything that he could go back to that day, that clearing, and do exactly what he had wanted to do all those years ago. He would have kissed those doubts out of her mind.
It had never been about choice, and it never would be— Elphaba would always be it for him. It hurt to think that she didn’t know that, and it killed him to see her be was so quick to question herself and her feelings.
Whatever it says about me, I still carry the poppy you gave me at the train station. It was the first time anyone had given me a flower, and now, along with the note Glinda gave me, it’s one of the few connections I have to the life I left behind.
Sometimes, when I feel most alone, I take it out and I imagine what I would say to you if I saw you again.
There were too many things he wanted to say to her, too many confessions he had carried in silence. He imagined holding her hand again, speaking the words he hadn’t dared, words he had never been able to tell anyone else. He imagined tracing her hair, whispering her name into the spaces between her ribs, telling her she was loved, fiercely and utterly, and always.
I love you, Fiyero, and I’m afraid I always will.
I love your kindness and much you care, despite every effort to seem otherwise. I love that you never seem to hesitate— you’re always ready to jump into action (even if you shouldn’t). I love that you refuse to back down when I challenge you. I love how you can somehow make me smile even when I least expect it, and I love how when I’m with you, I almost forget what I am.
I never expected to fall in love; I didn’t think it was in the cards for me. But I have loved you in the quietest corners of my days, in the loneliest nights, and in every little moment when I should have forgotten you.
You’re so much more than anyone gives you credit for, yourself included. You’re a good man, one of the best I know. (And yes I’m aware that I haven’t known many good men, but I’ve seen enough of humanity’s worst to know it’s best.)
Guilt creeped into Fiyero’s chest, his throat. A good man. Would she think the same if she knew what he’d done? Everything he’d been complicit in in his quest to find her?
Maybe Fiyero could find himself content with not being a good man— he’d never cared to think himself one before, why should it bother him now? But these particular sins, working in the Gale Force… he sunk to a low he hadn’t considered possible before. Maybe Elphaba would forgive him, maybe it wouldn’t color her perception of him, but he wasn’t sure he could say the same for himself.
Perhaps worst of all is that he wouldn’t change anything. If this was the path that would lead him to Elphaba, he’d keep marching without hesitation.
I hope you’re living a good life, even if I can’t be there to see it. I often wonder about you in the Emerald City— if you’re finally happy. If you’ve grown to despise me like everyone else.
It might be better if you did, if not just to make these foolish ideas leave my head. And there’s no doubt that it would be safer for you if you hated me. I suppose that’s another reason to never tell you any of this.
It’s strange, whenever people described love, they describe it as a blessing or a miracle, but my love for you feels more like to a bomb waiting to go off. All it carried is the potential for destruction and hurt. Yet here I am, still clinging to it, confusing the heat from the blast with the warmth of a fireplace.
But since I won’t be sending this, and this is the closest I’ll get to speaking these thoughts, let me write it once more:
I love you, Fiyero Tigelaar. And if it ruins me, then I’ll gladly let it.
Fiyero’s elbows rest against his knees, and he let his head fall into his hands, hoping that the pressure would maybe quiet the thoughts racing as fast as his hammering pulse.
She had loved him.
She still loved him, but thought it was unrequited and doomed.
Tilting his head back up, he took another look at the letter. Otherwise unremarkable, if not for the writing scrawled on it that seemed to tilt his world on its axis. Every line, every word, every confession, was a thread tying her to him across all the impossibilities separating them. Her love shone through the page, fragile and unguarded. His eyes scanned the paper again and again, edges softening under the press of his fingers, taking in every detail, down to each place where the ink splotched. He read it until he could recite it from memory, like some prayer he didn’t even know he believed in until now.
Love,
Fae.
The signature burned into him. That nickname was further proof that he wasn’t the only one clinging to a time both of them ought to forget. The fact that she still held that small memory with her, that she thought it important enough to carry with her confessions…
Oz, he missed her.
The feeling wasn’t new, but getting this look into her current mind and hearing new thoughts from her transformed it into something more raw. More loud.
His eyes burned with unshed tears.
“Elphaba…” He let himself whisper her name into the quiet room, voice hoarse, broken. It had been so long since he’d spoken it; he could never say it in front of anyone but Glinda, and she’d been even more reluctant to speak of their old friend as of late. The name was a comforting relief on his lips, like a sip of water after weeks in the desert.
After the revelation of her writing, the room felt oddly small. The walls beared down on him. He pressed the paper tight to his chest, holding it when he couldn’t hold her. She had been living with all of this, alone, and he had had no idea. And she still was.
He would keep looking, he thought to himself. And he would never stop searching, not until she was found.
Except he didn’t even know where to begin. She’d vanished, the world had swallowed her whole, and the only proof he'd had that she’d been there at all was a handful of words holding him anchored to the floor.
Helplessness sunk under his skin. He wasn’t used to that feeling. He’d always been someone who could talk his way out of things, charm or stumble or joke until the problem blurred into something easier. But this? This was suffocating, solid, immovable.
He breathed out, slow and uneven, eyes closing.
He would find her.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not even this year—Oz, he hoped it would be this year— but sometime, somehow, he’d close that distance.
And he would tell her all of the things he dreamed of telling her. That he loved her. That he needed her. That she was all that was good in this world, and if thinking that put him in danger then so be it. He’d gone long enough without her to know that he would light the fuse himself if it meant he could see her one more time.
He folded the letter carefully, creasing it along the original lines exactly so it looked untouched. A lie he told the paper itself, though the words already branded him through. This letter was his only bridge to her. Both a torturous reminder of what he was missing and a comforting proof of what he was fighting for. He slid it into his coat, close to his heart where it belonged. Safe.
Forcing himself back to his feet, he turned to the other papers. Most of the ones on the desk were scraps, but each one was a piece of her. And each one was a risk. They felt heavier than they should when he gathered them in his hands, ink and parchment becoming something more dangerous than steel. He imagined the wrong eyes reading them, mouths curling with cruel laughter at her confessions, at her very heart.
He sorted through them quickly, careful to only briefly skim them for clues before adding them to a stack. He could already imagine Elphaba’s anger at him invading her privacy once today, he wouldn’t do it again.
As for the other two finished letters; there was no way he’d be able to discreetly give Nessa hers— if she’d even accept it. He’d heard the statements the new Governor of Munchkinland had made about her sister in the press. However Glinda’s, at least, could be delivered. He owed her that much. And Elphaba would want her words to reach their friend, that much was clear. But the rest—
He closed his fist tighter around the stack. No. Those would burn. He hated to erase them, but he couldn’t stand the thought of her laid bare for strangers. Her vulnerability wasn’t meant for anyone else. It wasn’t even meant for him.
His throat tightened at the thought. She technically hadn’t written the words in his letter for him to read— she said as much. They were meant to be lost, yet here he was carrying them like a lifeline. Hopefully she'd forgive him. It wasn't the worst of his crimes.
After sliding Glinda’s letter into one pocket, he placed the rest into another. His mind was already working through the logistics of it—when he could slip away, how to burn them without notice. Outwardly he’d carry on as usual. Inwardly, he was only ash and ache.
With a sharp breath he shook his head. Work. He had work.
As much as he wanted to stay in the hideout and keep searching for a crumb or direction to go in, it was a risk he shouldn’t take. His men would be expecting him to meet back up with them at the camp. If he didn’t show, they would be sure to go looking.
No, he would have to come back.
As he followed the path out the hidden entrance, it felt like every fibre of his being was yelling at him to stop. Stay. Even knowing he would return, every step away felt like a betrayal.
He kept walking.
When he returned to camp, his mask settled over himself easily enough; it always had. His men hardly looked up at his arrival, too busy cleaning weapons, patching boots, arguing over rations. No one seemed to question what took him so long. They trusted him to lead, trusted him not to ask more of them than he gave. None of them had to know his hands still itched for the feel of her letter, his thoughts circling back again and again to the shape of her words. He gave a few orders, just enough to keep them moving, then drifted toward the edge of camp.
Elphaba’s hideout wasn’t as far as he’d initially believed. They’d been close—too close—when he stumbled on it. And if he’d found it, someone else eventually could too.
That thought chilled him.
Once darkness had fully settled over the camp, and it was his turn for watch, he went back. He had a few hours before the next watch, and he planned on using them. The woods swallowed him in their silence, branches closing overhead, the air damp with the promise of rain. His boots sank into the earth, each step falling heavier until at last he stumbled on the mound of dirt and bushes that hid the opening.
He didn’t realize he had been hoping for something to be different, for a sign of her having returned while he’d been gone, until he tasted the bitter bite of disappointment when everything inside was exactly as he left it.
She wasn’t there. Of course she wasn’t. Still, his eyes scanned every corner like she might appear.
Instead he saw only what she’d left behind earlier: the same faint scuff of her boot in the dirt, the untouched hollow where she might have slept, the vivid impression of her in everything and nothing.
He moved through the space slowly, hiding anything that could lead back to her. Another loose scrap of paper, a stray thread, a mark carved into wooden table. He scattered the ashes of her fire further, rubbed away traces of her presence until even he would’ve doubted she’d ever been here. All the while, checking fruitlessly for the slightest clue as to where she might have gone.
The work steadied him, or maybe it gutted him— it was too hard to tell. Every piece he destroyed felt like tearing away the proof of her, but it also kept her safe. That mattered more.
When it was done, he stood in the middle room, hands on his hips, chest rising with rough breath. There was nothing left. No trail, no sign. Just him, alone with the hole she’d carved into him.
He touched his coat, fingers brushing over the pocket where her letter rested. Still there. Still safe.
It was ridiculous, maybe, to cling to that one piece of paper. But he couldn’t help it. That letter was theirs now, a delicate thread holding them together.
He recalled of her words again—the longing tucked between the lines, the hope she buried under her guilt, the way she thought herself foolish for loving him. Foolish, because she’d believed he couldn’t feel the same.
He closed his eyes, jaw clenching. Oz, if she only knew.
But she didn’t. She might never, until he found her again.
That truth burned through him hotter than the fire he’d soon set to her other letters. He couldn’t speak the words she deserved, couldn’t tell her she wasn’t alone. Unless…
He sat at the desk, searching through the draws to find some untouched paper and a pen, and began to write.
By the time he was done, he felt lighter. Somehow more sure.
He placed everything back, and scanned the room once more until he found the perfect spot— somewhere no one else would dare look. She might never return here, but he couldn’t help but try.
Tucking his letter away, he whispered one final time: “I’ll find you, Elphaba.”
A promise, a vow, a prayer. All of it wrapped into one.
He stepped back outside, tipping his head back and staring up through the lattice of branches. The moonlight reflected off of streaks of dark gray in the night sky, clouds gathering thick. It would rain soon. Wash everything clean. Good.
On his journey back through camp, and until the end of his watch, he kept his composure. If anyone looked, they would have seen their captain, unshaken and steady. But underneath, something simmered. A fragile hope glowed like an ember in his chest, small but impossible to extinguish.
He would carry her words until he could hear them from her lips. Until she heard his own.
No matter how long it took.