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The night in the forest was an unforgiving mirror of his soul: a dark vastness, plunged into a silence that brought no peace, but rather a painful expectation, as if the air itself were holding its breath. Sitting on that fallen tree trunk, whose upturned roots seemed to mimic his own state of desolation, Fiyero closed his eyes. He allowed the external darkness to merge with the internal, letting himself be swept away by the violent current of memories from Shiz.
He could see everything with a clarity that physically hurt him, a level of detail that time did not dare erase. He saw the autumn sunlight, pale and dusty, filtering through the high library windows, landing exactly upon the emerald hue of her skin. He remembered the rhythmic, almost hypnotic sound of the turning pages of the grimoire, and 그hat small nervous tic—the way she bit her lower lip, absorbed, when a complex spell demanded more than her relentless logic could offer. Back then, love wasn't a choice, but a dangerous secret he locked deep in his chest. He feared the volcanic intensity of what he felt might frighten her or, even more agonizingly, that the cruel world of Oz would never be worthy of the fierce purity she carried.
In his mind, he traced the afternoons that fate had stolen from them. He imagined them skipping History of Magic classes to walk by the lake, where the wind swayed the reeds in a gentle rhythm. He saw his fingers brushing hers, until he finally gathered the courage—the courage that had failed him so many times—to interlock them firmly. He saw her smile. Not the defensive, sarcastic mask she wore as armor against the world, but the real smile, the one that lit up her face, the one she reserved only for him.
In the oppressive silence of the woods, the loneliness became unbearable, and he began to speak. His voice was a hoarse whisper, as if the words were prayers addressed to a goddess who had abandoned him, or as if she were right there, camouflaged among the shadows and dry leaves, listening to the erratic beating of his heart.
"You know, Fae..." He corrected himself mid-breath, using the secret nickname that burned in his throat. "I would spend a thousand years pretending to be this vapid prince, dancing at empty balls and laughing at witless jokes, just to have five more minutes with you in that library. I would say everything that cowardice kept silent. I’d tell you that the green of your skin is the most beautiful color Oz has ever seen, because it isn't just a color... it’s the color of wild life, of a strength that does not bow."
He paused, feeling the heat of tears pooling. In his mind, he saw her reaction: 그hat skeptical, sarcastic arch of an eyebrow, followed by the shy, disarmed shimmer in her gaze that only he knew how to provoke.
"If I had been man enough in Shiz, if I hadn't been so afraid of being who I truly was, we would be far from here. We’d be at Kiamo Ko, watching the sunset over the Winkie country. I wouldn’t give you jewels, gold, or fake crowns, Fae... I would give you peace. I’d give you mornings where your first thought wasn’t combat, where you didn't have to fight anyone. It would be just the two of us and all the love of the world."
He reached out a trembling hand toward the cold mist rising from the ground, almost swearing he could feel the residual heat of her skin against his.
"Why did you run away like that? Why did you leave me behind in the middle of this theater of lies and starched uniforms?" He squeezed his eyes shut. "I would trade every Lurlinemas holiday, every royal banquet, and all the prestige for a single stolen kiss in those dusty hallways. Just let me see you one more time... Just so I can look into your eyes and tell you that, since Shiz, there has never been anyone but you. There has never been another soul that made mine feel alive."
The mist seemed to thicken around him, taking on contours that defied the logic of that lonely forest. For a moment, the scent that never left his mind replaced the smell of damp earth. She wasn't there, but the projection of his memory was so vivid that the air seemed to vibrate. In the silence, her voice echoed—not in his ears, but inside his ribcage, with that dry, intelligent tone that always disarmed him.
"Peace, Fiyero? You were always a terrible liar, even when you were trying to convince yourself."
Fiyero froze. He didn't dare turn around, fearing the movement would dissipate the illusion.
"I’m not lying," he replied to the darkness. "I would give anything to take this weight off your shoulders. So that you wouldn't have to carry all of Oz in your hands."
"And what would I be without my weight?" her voice countered, tinged with a melancholy sarcasm. "A circus curiosity? A porcelain doll in the hallways of Kiamo Ko? You fell in love with the girl who took on the world, Fiyero. If you gave me peace, I wouldn’t be who I am."
"I fell in love with you," he insisted, his voice thick with emotion. "For the way you look at the Animals, for your courage that makes me feel like a coward. I just wanted the world to stop hurting you. I wanted to be your shield, not the Captain of the Guard hunting you down."
There was a long silence, where only the snapping of twigs existed. Then, he felt—or imagined he felt—the brush of a black cape against his boot.
"You already are my shield," her voice softened. "Every time you pretend to believe the Wizard’s lies to give me time to escape... every time you wear that uniform you hate to protect me from the shadows. That isn't a farce, Fiyero. It’s the loudest sacrifice I’ve ever seen."
"Then why won't you take me with you?" he implored, closing his eyes tight. "Take me out of this theater. I don't want to be a hero of Oz; I just want to be the man who holds your hand when the rest of the world closes its doors."
"Because one of us needs to stand in the sun so the other can survive in the shadows," she whispered, and this time the voice seemed to come from behind his shoulder, almost a warm breath on his neck. "Don’t ask me to take you into the darkness. Stay where I can see you. Be my proof that Shiz was real, and not just the delusion of a girl who only wanted to be understood."
Fiyero spun his body around quickly, reaching out into the void. His fingers grasped only the freezing air and particles of mist. There was no one there.
"Elphaba..."
The name died on his lips. His horse snorted in the distance, impatient, and the biting cold of dawn announced the cruel end of the daydream. Fiyero stood up with effort, feeling the oppressive weight of the armor and the responsibilities that now acted like a shroud over his shoulders. The carefree boy from Shiz had been lost somewhere between her departure and his own surrender to duty. However, the man who loved her remained there, whole and shattered, bleeding in silence as he mounted his horse to gallop back to the gilded farce of the palace.
He was alone, but the weight in his chest had changed shape: it was no longer just pain; it was a promise. He had a plan. One last gamble to have her, finally, in his arms.
***
The transition from the forest to the cobblestone streets of the Emerald City was like a plunge into freezing water. The sacred silence of the woods gave way to the metallic clinking of armor and the excessive glare of green lights that never dimmed. Fiyero felt every muscle in his face harden, molding into that mask of aristocratic boredom he had learned to wear like a second skin.
As he crossed the palace gates, the scent of peonies and expensive talcum powder announced her presence before his eyes even found her.
"Fiyero! For Oz, where have you been?" Glinda appeared like a ghost, floating down the marble corridor. Her smile was perfect, symmetrical, trained for the masses; but there was a glint of genuine anxiety deep in her pupils. She approached, adjusting the collar of his uniform with gloved hands. "You smell like moss and... horses!"
"A night patrol, Glinda. Just ensuring the roads remain... safe," he replied, his voice more monotonous than he intended.
"Safe? Goodness, that’s what the guards are for, Fiyero. You are the Captain, not a border scout," she chirped, but her fingers hesitated on the fabric. She tilted her head, studying him with that sharp intelligence that sometimes emerged beneath layers of frivolity. "You have that look again. The look of someone who is miles away… Is something bothering you, dear?"
Fiyero felt his heart bolt. For a second, the image of Elphaba in the library almost escaped through his eyes.
"It’s just exhaustion, Glinda. Oz has been... restless," he deflected, forcing the half-smile he knew disarmed her. "What did I miss? Some new decree on the allowed height of party hats or the correct shade of green?"
Glinda laughed, a crystalline sound that echoed through the empty hall. She walked with him down the corridor, her arm linked in his—a perfect image of union that, to Fiyero, felt as heavy as a pair of golden shackles.
"The Wizard wants to see us at breakfast. He wants to discuss the next steps for the two of us," Glinda lowered her tone, as if sharing a secret. "Our wedding."
"Ha!" Fiyero exclaimed, and the excitement in his voice sounded like a performance worthy of the stages of Shiz. "That was exactly what I was thinking about while I was riding! The Wizard’s request came at the perfect time. It’s high time we gave the people the spectacle they desire, don’t you think?"
Glinda stopped abruptly. Her face lit up in a smile of pure happiness.
"Are you serious?" Her eyes sparkled.
"And why wouldn't I be?" He sustained the lie with a steady gaze, while the plan of betrayal took shape in his mind. "Wasn't that what we agreed? If a wedding is what will make you happy, let it happen now. Let it be as soon as possible!"
"Oh, Fiyero! Finally!" She embraced him urgently, pressing her lips to his for a moment that felt like an eternity of guilt. She soon pulled away, regaining her composure: "But you can’t give such important news looking like that. Go take a bath and change. I’ll be waiting for you in the main room to announce this wonder to the Wizard and Madame Morrible."
"I'll meet you there, then." He kissed her hand and walked away, his mind working tirelessly.
As he walked toward his quarters, every step of his heavy boots seemed to echo the last sentence Elphaba’s memory had spoken to him in the forest. He was the loud sacrifice; and if it had to be that way, let it be a complete sacrifice.
Breakfast with the Wizard would not be a meal. It would be the next act in that theater of shadows where Fiyero was, simultaneously, the jailer of his own desires and the prisoner of his own honor.