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She feels the wind thrashing in her hair as it blows wildly behind her. So desperate had she been to escape the confines of Danbury House after Galinda's confession, that she had absconded in the small hours, donning her riding habit at once without bothering to maintain the ruse by changing into the garments concealed behind the greenhouse.
She had been so overwrought with emotion, that she had been halfway to the stables before she had realized that her hair was unbraided. She had simply tucked it into her cloak once astride her favourite stallion. Her cloak was doing nothing to conceal it now, for it is a windy morning and she is riding at a punishing lick, endeavouring most uselessly to outrun her stormy emotions.
She simply cannot understand Galinda's perspective. How could she consent to be used in such an abhorrent manner? She had no need for Lord Tigelaar's wealth, she was significantly wealthy in her own right. She could find a suitor with a higher title. And while Lord Tigelaar was pleasing to the eye, with his sharp jaw, sandy curls and blue eyes, that was hardly a reason for Galinda to shackle herself to his deficient character. She has every advantage a woman can have in this society, and she is throwing it away for a handsome face.
Yes, she is furious with Galinda, but she is really quite furious with herself if she is being honest. For she had found herself charmed by Fiyero's honeyed words and willingness to spar with her in matters of the mind without reproach. She had been beginning to think him a suitable match for her most treasured person, and hearing him speak to his true nature had been something of a betrayal. She was better than this, she had seen some of the worst the world had to offer. She must have a keener eye and more cautious heart in the future.
Rounding a thicket of Quoxwood trees, she does not notice that she is in company before the fellow rider is upon her. Her immediate reaction is to wince, anticipating reproach as a lady riding astride, alone in the forest with her hair wild and loose. But her regret burns into fury when she hears the rider call out to her in a most irritatingly familiar voice.
“Lady Elphaba,” he calls out, and she hears a note of concern in his voice.
Fretting that I might speak against your perfect reputation, are you my lord, she thinks cruelly, as she attempts to urge her horse in a sharp about-turn. She has no intention of conversing with Lord Tigelaar. She would be quite relieved if she should never have to be apprised of his existence ever again.
Her speed delayed by her sharp turn, Lord Tigelaar catches up with her, wheeling his mount across her path with a reckless lack of courtesy to bar her progress. Her stallion stumbles to a halt, and she huffs her fury through her nostrils like a dragon. Meeting the lord’s eye, wondering if she could fell a man with a glance of rage alone, she grits out in a low but relatively steady voice:
“I don't mean to offend you with my un-genteel manners my lord, but I have no wish to be imprisoned for manslaughter today. So if you could move aside and let me pass, I would be much obliged.”
A flicker of alarm flashes across the lord's features, and close up, she notices that he does not look well. His usually perfectly arranged locks are in a disarray, his complexion is pallid and there are deep bruises under his eyes as though he has had an entirely sleepless night. It does not soften her ire.
“Elphaba,” he mutters, and she is surprised that his tone is quite desperate.
“Pray tell, what about our recent encounter has furnished you with the opinion that our slender acquaintance necessitates the use of our given names, Fiyero, or is it just your astonishing entitlement?”
She sees his eyes flash in irritation.
“Forgive me my lady, I did not intend to offend you, it was not my intent,” he grits out sarcastically, “but if you would take a moment to see sense…”
I must see sense? Her rage reaches a fever pitch.
“Then you must possess a spectacular gift for achieving the opposite of your intent, for I am offended—by your use of my name, your presence in this forest, and the very fibre of your being.”
She sees his eyes flash once more, but it no longer looks like anger. It almost looks like heat.
“Now,” she begins firmly, having to steel herself once again against the mercurial shifts of his temperament, “if you wouldn’t mind, let. me. pass.”
As she attempts to steer her mount around him, his expression changes once more to solemn concern.
“My lady, you have my apologies,” he murmurs, sounding sincere.
If her frustration was less incandescent, she might have been wrong-footed by his supplication. She ignores him, successfully evading his capture. As she is urging her horse past his, she grasps a tighter grip of her reins, preparing for a swift escape, when he calls out quite suddenly:
“My father died.”
So shocked is she by this unexpected utterance that she finds herself pulling her mount into a halt.
“I never talk on it. It was, ah, a trying time for my family to say the least.”
She is turned away from him, but she can hear the sorrow dripping from his every word.
“Why are you telling me this, my lord,” she questions, but her voice is gentler now.
“Because you think me a brute who cares only for a wife that can meet my standards,” he murmurs hoarsely, and for a moment she can believe that he is affected by her opinion of him.
“Is that not the case my lord?” she questions, “were you not speaking the truth last night?”
“It was the truth,” he confirms regretfully, “I will not marry for love, but it is not for the reason you are assuming.”
She awaits his explanation in silence.
“When my father died, I was broken, but my—my mother was as close to death as one can be without passing over. My youngest siblings were still infants and she could not rouse herself even for their sake. I found myself Lord and head of the family at nineteen. What I mean to say, is that I do not wish to ever feel that pain, nor do I wish to inflict it on another. So I will not marry for love, it is true, but that does not mean my future wife will not have my respect and my affection.”
She feels quite overwrought at his confession, and empathy blooms in her chest unbidden. For she knows loss having lost her own mother. Unwilling to face him with her own emotions on display, she simply murmurs:
“I am sorry my lord, that is a hard loss. And while I cannot claim to understand your mind, I can grasp some of your reasoning. But I beg of you to remember the plight of the young ladies you speak of so callously. You may have your struggles, but you still have all of the power in this. They are at the mercy of society's conventions, hoping to make a match that will give them a future.”
“You are right,” he offers softly, “my words were insensitive. I will not forget myself again.”
Nodding her assent, Elphaba is unsure why she adds, “You should know, Lady Galinda does not share my misgivings. She is, ah, still amenable to the match, loathed that I am to admit it. But she must exercise her own free will and I will not stand in her way. Just—” she hangs her head, her mind feels heavy with emotion. “Just do not hurt her, she doesn't deserve it.”
“You have my word that I mean the lady no harm,” he promises solemnly.
She nods silently, still turned away from him.
“Then I bid you good day my lord,” she offers simply, urging her horse forward.
She hears him call back “Good day, my lady,” as her mount takes off at a canter. She chances a glance back at him. His face is awash with an unreadable emotion. If she didn't know better, she would think it was longing. Indeed it appears something is haunting. His gaze seems to be anchored on her retreating form. He is vexing to be sure, and arrogant, but she can see now that even his privilege has not protected him from the cruelty of life.
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Fiyero POV
Watching the figure of Elphaba retreating astride her mount, he feels hollow, despite her reassurance that his courtship was not in jeopardy on account of his thoughtless words. He was so numb to the reality of his lot—to marry, to care for his family, to maintain the Tigelaar line—that he quite forgot at times, that this duty was in many ways more treacherous for the ladies. He had no intention of treating his future wife cruelly, but he knew many men who did. He must remember to have more grace.
He urges Feldspur to turn around, back in the direction of home. He doesn't much feel like riding any longer. He had been up half the night in Sarima's bed, and the rest of the night was spent in his cups. He feels weak with exhaustion. He should feel relieved that Lady Galinda's opinion of him is not tarnished, but it is clear that despite Lady Elphaba's words, she still thinks poorly of him. She would not even face him for much of their conversation.
It should not upset him, but he finds himself quite miserable, haunted by the flash of disappointment—was it hurt—during their altercation the previous night. He finds himself grateful for the business that will take him out of town for the next two weeks. It had previously been a thorn in his side, but he relishes the opportunity to escape the city and the duties of his courtship. He will resume so faithfully when he is back with a clearer mind.