All right. It was true, then, what she'd suspected. And it meant that everything- everything- was over.

What was she thinking? She couldn't carry a child. Couldn't. She wasn't ever going to be anyone's mother! What kind of trick had the universe decided to play on her, anyway?

She tries to picture it. She lies to Fiyero, tells him she needs a day, and lies on the rough wooden boards of the floor, staring up at the gritty ceiling, imagining. Imagining a baby in this grimy hellhole. Who would take care of it? What would she feed it? How would she earn money? No one would hire a disgraced green girl with shadowy origins and an unclaimed infant.

She pounds the floor beside her with her fist, tries to apply logic. She cannot have a child. Her own nature, her work, and society itself, which she disregards generally but in this event happens to serve her purposes, will not allow it. She can't-

She sits up, sinks her head into her temples, involuntarily forms claws of her hands and digs her nails into the skin of her forehead. She releases the pressure, cradles her face in her hands for a moment, rocking back and forth like an insane person on the floor.

She leaps up, paces.

She can't, so all right then, she will do something.

…

She has killed before. She has killed fully developed people, and this is just a tiny half-being. Not even.

So.

There are accidents, she remembers telling Fiyero. This is most certainly an accident. She can't help but enjoy the wordplay, fleetingly. A martyr who doesn't know its cause. A martyr who isn't a martyr. A child savior who will never be a child and who certainly can't save her.

The Lower Quarter.

She lets her feet guide her. A small storefront, a purple sign that stands out from the others: Apothecary: Herbs and Medicaments.

She goes in, a small tinkling of bells above her head accompanying her entrance. She stands hesitantly, ill at ease, in the miniscule entryway on a gaudy rug, nervously tangling her fingers and crossing her booted feet, until at long last an elderly woman emerges, and, without speaking, leads her into a back room. The old woman gestures to an odious, shabby, red fringed armchair and Elphaba seats herself gingerly, on the edge of the cushion, as if she doesn't want to plant herself too firmly in this place, doesn't want to leave traces of her presence.

"So, dearie," says the crone without prelude, "Got yourself into trouble, have you?"

If she had the energy, Elphaba would be shocked at the woman's foreknowledge, but she doesn't, and so she merely nods mutely, staring at her hands against her skirt. She incessantly jiggles her left foot, sending waves of motion scuttling up her leg. She doesn't even notice this on a conscious level, just stares at her hands and works her black skirt through them, then smooths it again anxiously, compulsively, until finally she feels required to speak.

"I-I can't," she chokes out at last. "I-I need some…what is it…pennyroyal? Please?" The old woman clucks her tongue and stares at the younger one across from her. Relents at last. Hands her a small vial of liquid.

"Here." There must be some hidden desperation in eyes. The woman's voice gets softer, she lays her hand over Elphaba's. "Put it in your tea, dear."

Elphaba yanks her hand away coldly, stands.

"How much?"

The woman names a price; low. Elphaba presses the few required coins into her wrinkled hands and forces herself to walk calmly back out into the vestibule, push the door open, and then she runs.

…

The tea doesn't taste like a poison. It merely tastes like tea. She drinks it unsweetened, as a tiny part of her self-punishment. It is bitter, but not poison. She wishes it would kill her too, but not really. Because then, what would be the point?

But if she believed in sin, this wouldn't be one. Because the real sin would be for her to bring a child into this world, a child who would in all likelihood be fatherless, poor child of a terrorist mother living in danger, living in hunger and cold. No. And if the child were fatherless, if Fiyero left as he will have to and went back to Sarima, how could she love his baby?

No. It's just impossible. It would be wrong to subject the child to that, she tells herself. She reprimands herself for calling it "the child." Because it's not, not anymore.

She drinks the last of the tea. Waits.

The woman said it might take awhile. For the blood. The…thing. She lies on the bedroll. Stares at the ceiling again. Pretends she doesn't want to cry.

But the blood never comes.

Other blood. Other blood instead. His blood. His blood for theirs. His blood for his child's. His blood for what she tried to do. The other things she has done. All of them.

And she forgets.

And she sleeps.

And when she wakes up, she doesn't try to remember. She stares at the clean white ceiling of her monastic cell and pushes it away.

A/N: The stuff Elphaba asks for is pennyroyal oil, which can be used to induce miscarriage. (Why I know this, I don't know, but I do. Why I know it's oil and why I know it's accurate- Wikipedia. It's a beautiful thing.) But Yackle- because that's who it is- gives her harmless stuff instead. Because she's a guardian demon, that's why.