A/N: So I guess I'm back to Wicked again. I have no idea how far this will go or if it will go at all, but it kind of came to me. In explanation, this is a typical "what if?" story, based around the premise "What if Elphaba had succeeded in assassinating Madame Morrible on Lurlinemas Eve in the City of Emeralds?"

by Fiyero Oberon


Through narrowed eyes she looks up at the building before her, tall and ominous in all its glory. Her vision is blurred though, and she is still groggy from the night before. As she slowly comes to her senses, a wave of iciness flows over her and the wind picks up. She sits up slowly, moaning as her cramps are soothed out.

The night had been passed lying on the ground among the patches of snow, which were now mingled with soot tossed out the windows from the upper apartments. Elphaba reaches out to pick up the hat that is lying beside her. Brushing off the dirty snow she pushes it firmly onto her head and clears her throat, which aches as it does whenever she feels guilty. Squinting her eyes to see better in the early morning light, she realizes that from one of the apartment windows, a flag hangs; a green flag with a blood-red cross. The flag of the Gale Force flies from her window.

She is suddenly awake and thrusting her way through the old apartment door, which nearly falls off its rusty hinges in her haste. She all but flies up the stairs, anxiety and fear pumping adrenaline through her veins. Her temple throbs, but she does not stop; not even when she trips over the carcass of a small, white cat. Malky.

The door to her loft is standing open, a long streak of blood smeared across the decaying wood. Her eyes burn already and she knows what she is going to find even before she enters. The floorboards creak with her weight and her hand flies to her face, wiping the hot tears away. A small hiss emerges as the wet burns her hand, but she does her best to ignore it as she pushes the door open.

She chokes back a sob as the room is revealed; the window has been shattered and the Gale Force flag is hanging outside; pools of dark blood spot the aged flooring. Before, an alter of candles had been set up for no one in particular, a sanctuary for Elphaba; now the melted wax is scattered about the floor, the candles lying on their sides and rolled into corners and crevices. Only one candle remains intact, its wick still lit.

The bed frightens her the most, for there is a body laying in it. The creaky metal frame lost a leg and sits now at a jaunty angle, tilting itself toward her; a white sheet, stained with crimson, lies over the form of a human body. Despite herself, Elphaba edges toward the cot, her breath growing husky and uneven as she steps closer, closer, closer.

She prays; Elphaba has never prayed in her life. Even back with Frexspar, when he prayed at home or at church she would dutifully close her eyes and bow her head and close her hands, and instantly begin thinking about something entirely unrelated. But now she prays, pleading with the Unnamed God or Lurline or whoever was out there that the body under the sheet is not that of Fiyero.

The wind howls violently through the window, seizing the door and slamming it shut. Elphaba looks up in alarm, but her attention does not last long.

Her hand slowly reaches out to pull back the sheet, but her knees buckle before she touches the blood-soaked linen and she collapses to the floor, her chest heaving in dry sobs. The fierce wind blows through the window, pulling the sheet down into Elphaba's lap. She grabs the sheet and her knuckles are white with the rigidity of her grip. She lifts her chin suddenly and screams as her eyes meet the dark eyes of Fiyero; his eyes are open wide, but he is dead. His shirt is torn open and several deep, wicked wounds mark his chest and stomach; a trickle of blood runs down his face.

Running to the window, Elphaba grabs the flag and begins pulling it in; glass fragments left in the window cut her arms but she ignores the pain, clenching her razor teeth on her tongue. She shreds the flag, tearing it into long strips of green-and-red silk. Tears of frustration roll down her cheeks, stinging her flesh like acid.

Sirens sound outside, reminding her of the previous night and its events; she only now remembers the acts that were performed last night. If only Frexspar knew… if only he knew of her crimes…

Elphaba has assassinated Madame Morrible.

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