The Prologue

A/N The first half of this one-shot is supposed to be the prologue of a multi-chap that I have decided not to write (thus the title). But I like the idea a lot, and so came up with a second half to make it complete. Not your typical fiyeraba (as usual), but I hope you like it.

You may find certain parts familiar. Those were taken (and slightly improvised) either from the book or the musical.

The multi-chap that I have been working on since March should be up in December; I have made a promise to myself to cut down on other internet activities to get this done =) (we'll see how long it lasts though :P)

"Are people born wicked? Or do they have wickedness thrust upon them? Are the wicked's lives lonely, and do they cry alone? And is it true that no one loves the wicked? Is it true that they will die alone?"

"Here's the story about the ending of a witch. She has a name, a name that her parents gave her when she was born. She has other names too, a nickname given by a friend, a code name given by the company that she kept. And the whole of Oz knew her by another name, a name that struck fear into everyone. But what's in a name anyway? For this story, I will call her the Wicked Witch, even though she was not really that wicked …"

It was late.

It was cold.

In the nearest town, the strangely named Red Windmill, a celebration was going on. Perhaps the townsfolk were celebrating a Vinkun festival, or perhaps they were just a happy-go-lucky lot who celebrated living through another day.

She turned slightly to her left and looked at the town below. They were quite a fair distance from Red Windmill, but sound had a way of travelling in wide, open spaces, and she could hear the singing, laughter and music quite distinctly. Most of the lights were turned off; most of the people had gone to bed, but in the town square, a few houses were brightly lit. The singing and dancing most probably came from these houses, taverns maybe.

"Is there a Vinkun festival today, Fiyero?" she asked as she buried her hands into the soil again, scooping another handful of dirt that she casted aside, not caring that the soil had scraped her skin raw and it had begun to bleed. She had chosen this spot because it was out of the way, and because of the view it offered – Kiamo Ko, the Arjiki stronghold that was once a water works, but now home to the Arjiki tribe when her people were not hunting in the Thousand Year Grasslands. Next to her, a figure lay on the ground. Under the dim crescent moonlight, he looked like he was sleeping. But if anyone took a closer look, they would notice the blood on him. The blood had dried by then, more dark brown and black than red, but from the quantity, it was not difficult to see that the injuries had been extensive. There were blows to his head, fracturing his skull. There were blows to his body and limbs, breaking his rib cage and bones. His face, the face of a handsome young man when he was alive, was not spared either. It would be hopeful to say that he did not suffer much before he died, but she knew otherwise; the Gale Force was well known for their brutality.

The woman started to sing a song as she continued to dig.

Hush baby, it's time to sleep

Sweet baby, it's time to sleep

The day is over, the night is here

It's time to close your blue eyes, dear

Hush baby, it's time to sleep

Sweet baby, it's time to sleep

The day is over, the night is here

It's time to sleep, sweet dreams, my dear.

It was a song that her mother had sung to her when she was a child, even though she never had blue eyes. It was a simple Munchkin lullaby, a song about having sweet dreams. Fiyero had gone to sleep, an eternal sleep, and she dared to say that there would be no dream.

She alternated between singing and humming, and did not stop even when her throat began to feel raw, not even when the tears began to fall and burned her skin. Behind, the sounds of the merrymaking ceased and soon the remaining lights in the town went out one by one.

It was nearly sunrise when the hole was finally ready. It was deep enough for its purpose, deep enough that she did not have to worry that some stray animal would dig up his body. She had brought a blanket, the blanket that they had used to cover themselves when they slept at her place, exhausted after a night of love making. And now, she wrapped the blanket around him, leaving his face exposed, before she pulled him gently into his grave.

She went in with him, her arms never leaving him. She touched his hair, which was matted with blood, and then his face. Fiyero. Her Fiyero. The only man who had seen all her flaws and still loved her with all his heart. She had no idea what she had done to deserve him. What had she done to deserve a man as sweet and loving as him, to receive his devotion right till the very end. But she knew what she had done to cause his death. Her stupidity, her stubbornness, her selfishness. She was supposed to be a witch ozdamnit, a witch with unprecedented sorcery powers, but what was the use when she could not move time and space and made him opened his eyes again?

"I'm sorry, Fiyero," she whispered as she caressed his hair again and kissed him on his bloodied lips. "I'm so sorry…" She held him close to her and rocked him as she let her tears fell again. The tears fell onto his tattoos on his skin and flowed into the soil below, disappearing from sight.

She filled up the grave with soil, handful after handful of soil. When she was almost done, she scattered the petals of a dozen flowers on top of his grave. She was not going to mark his grave. She had no idea if the Wizard would be crazy enough to send someone to desecrate his grave. Fiyero had suffered enough for her, and she did not want him to suffer even after his death. She had no idea, but when spring came, the whole area would be filled with a new species of flowers. The flowers were small, its blue petals the shape of diamond teardrops. The flowers bloomed in all seasons, even in the cold, harsh Vinkun winter, and the people would name it Arjiki's Tears.

The sun rose above the horizon, spilling golden rays across the land. The Witch looked at the loosened soil, at the place where her love had rested. She did not know of any prayers for the dead, and so she said this instead.

"Sleep well, my love."

And then she took her broom and flew off after one last look at his grave.

As she rose into the air, her tears began to fall again, blinding her vision. As she flew, she remembered a song that the Ozians sang about her.

And goodness knows

The Wicked's lives are lonely

Goodness knows

The Wicked die alone

It just shows when you're wicked

You're left only

On your own…

She had laughed when she first heard the song. She was on top of the world. They were planning something big that could topple the Wizard's regime. She had Fiyero, the man who behaved like a boy in his love for her. She was not alone.

But now, the song resonated in her head, mocking her. They were right. She was alone.

All alone.

Ahead, something sparkling caught her eye. It was a body of water, reflecting the morning sun. She had no idea which lake it was. It beckoned to her. It called to her. The surface shimmered like a million golden stars, like the way the moonlight shone on Fiyero's body when she lay on his chest, his arms wrapped around her. She steered her broom towards the lake without a second thought, and at the last moment, closed her eyes and thought of Fiyero.

The first thing she felt was the cold. The cold, followed by what felt like a million fires burning on her skin and inside her. The end, or what could be considered as the end for the Witch, came quick. But the water was also a lover, its icy cold embracing her as she sank deeper into the water, her hand still clutching her broom, her raven black hair floating all around her.

There was no fish in the water, but if there was any, they would notice that the temperature dropped drastically as tendrils of ice crystallized around the Witch. The cold spread throughout the water, until the whole body of water was nothing but ice, entombing the Witch inside.

"And there the Wicked Witch stayed for a good long time."

"And did she ever come out?"

"Not yet."

It was a roaring success.

The celebrities turned out in full force for the second consecutive day. The mayor had given a speech the day before during the opening ceremony, saying that the exhibition was 'an astonishing display of the riches from the period of the Wizard' and that he felt like he was 'transported a hundred years back in time'. He praised the team for their efforts, calling them the dream team of the year. The reviews that he read so far in the newspapers were favorable, calling Emerald : The Wonderful World of Oz 'the exhibition that you mustn't miss' and giving it five stars.

He had been involved in the planning for the exhibition since the beginning, every step of the way. For a few months, he had lived out of a luggage, travelling all over Oz to talk to private collectors, persuading them to loan their private collection to the exhibition. He vetted every single design and took part in every single discussion. He had turned the whole exhibition hall into a replica of the Wizard's Palace, decking it in the green and gold that the ex-ruler had so favoured. The high ceiling of the halls was decorated with emerald green drapes hanging from the ceiling, with gold-plated chains (the Wizard use real gold, of course) dangling crystal globes of lights. He was the one who suggested to line the floor with a yellow carpet of faux brick design, simulating the Yellow Brick Road, curving around the exhibits so that the visitors who followed the carpet would not miss a single exhibit. He had an uncanny knowledge of how each item should be placed, where it should be placed. His colleagues had laughed at his obsessiveness at the beginning, but began to respect his decisions once he had been proven time and again that he was right. One of them even joked that he must have come from that era. But he wanted everything to be perfect, to resemble the days during the Wizard's era. He wanted everything to be an exact replica of the past, even the Wanted posters of Ozian top terrorists, even though he knew beyond a doubt that one of them was wrong even during that time.

Each of the exhibits was clearly grouped and labelled. There was one hall for each of the Ozian states – Gillikin, Munchkinland, Quadling and the Vinkus, and a hall for the Emerald City. Last but not least, there was the hall for the Wizard's Palace, which housed a replica of the famous bronze head that had been in the Wizard's Throne Room. The bronze head had a sensor and would produce different special effects (ranging from flashing lights to smoke to shoots of flames) accompanied by a booming voice whenever someone stepped up to it. It was the most popular of the exhibition halls and shrieks and nervous laughter could be heard from that room throughout the day. Near to the exit was the merchandise booth, selling souvenirs such as T-shirts, mugs, miniature bronze heads and key chains. The most expensive souvenir was the limited edition Ozian coins used during the Wizard's era. It was not legal tender, but the coins with the currency etched on one side and the Wizard's likeness stamped on the other were so popular that they were sold out on the very first day.

Everything was perfect, if only he was allowed to go out and walk among the visitors to get a feel of the atmosphere.

He was allowed to go out yesterday. In fact, he had his own five minutes of fame, playing his violin in front of the visitors. The song that he had chosen was a popular Vinkun piece that the Vinkuns usually danced to during autumn solstice. The music was fast and catchy, and soon he had a group of visitors surrounding him, clapping to the beat. After that, a few visitors had chatted with him and two women had taken a photo with him. That was when Boss called him into the office and told him that he was not allowed to walk his grounds the next day.

"You're distracting the visitors! They are supposed to be looking at the exhibits, not gawking at your pretty face!"

He showed his boss his middle finger before he left his office.

And that was why he was in the security office on the second day, looking at the small TV screens that lined the wall, looking at the footages of the visitors, trying to gauge from their expressions what they thought of the exhibits and trying to lip-read their comments from the screens.

By evening time, he swore that he needed a pair of glasses.

"How did you guys manage to sit here day-in day-out and not get short-sighted?" he asked the pair of security guards on duty as he stood behind them, his hands on the back of their seats. The men chuckled.

"You are not supposed to scrutinize every single camera. Look at them randomly. Look at this." One of the security guards pointed at an old couple. "Too old to commit a crime." He pointed to another screen with a younger couple. "Look at them. I bet the girlfriend is here just to keep her boyfriend company. Look at how often she is checking her handphone. She's bored." The security guard pointed to another small screen showing a family with two rowdy kids. "This family, they may not steal, but the boys may break something. This one…"

His eyes grew big when he saw the woman captured by the security camera. His hands gripped the back of the seats.

"Wait."

"What?" the two guards chorused.

He pushed his way between the two guards so that he could be closer to the wall of screens. "Can you project this on the big screen?" He pointed to the small screen.

"Did she take something?" the second guard asked, but did as he was told, pressing a few buttons.

The vision appeared on the big screen, magnified.

She was alone. Her hair was straight and long, reaching almost to her waist. In the black and white screen, her hair was dark, but he was pretty sure that the actual hair colour would be black in real life. Raven black. She wore a dark colour cardigan and a pair of jeans with a pair of sensible flats. She was looking at the row of criminal posters that were pasted on a part of the wall, her arms folded, as if she was appraising an art piece. There were three different posters in that row. One of them was a murderer, the other an arsonist, and in the middle, a caricature of the Wicked Witch of the West, with a bold stroke of green paint across her face to emphasize her verdigris. The woman turned and moved to the next exhibit, and the camera managed to capture her features before she disappeared from the view.

He swore.

It was her.

The woman in his dreams. Those dreams that had been plaguing him for so many years. There were always about her. A woman with a sharp chin and a sharp nose softened by a pair of brown, sad eyes. She had beautiful skin, green like emerald, and black hair like the best Vinkun silk. The woman was younger in some of the dreams, with her hair plaited and her arms carrying some books or waving animatedly. In other dreams, she was older, living in a small room, cooking, or reading. There were other dreams too. Dreams of her sitting on the bed, naked under the blanket as she waited for his arrival. The feeling of his hands touching her body, making love to her. Dreams that were so vivid that he woke up gasping and disoriented, unable to differentiate between dream and reality.

He grabbed his walkie-talkie and ran out of the security office without another word.

"Hey, Boss told you to stay here!" one of the guards shouted after him.

He ran towards the exhibition halls. The room that she was in was the second last room, and he slowed down the moment he stepped into the room, trying to look as discreet as possible. A quick glance told him that she had left the room.

"Where did she go?" he spoke into the walkie-talkie.

"She left via the exit," came the static reply.

He swore again. Each exhibition hall had an exit that led to the outside. The exits were there for the visitors who did not want to visit all the exhibition halls and also to fulfill safety regulations. He quickly walked towards the exit and into the cold air outside. Within walking distance to the exit was a taxi stand, a bus-stop (with two buses leaving the bus bay) and an entrance to the nearest underground station. There were many people walking outside, but the woman was nowhere to be seen.

In this era, she did not need a broom to make a fast escape.

She never came back. He stayed in the security room every night after that, scanning every camera, but she never came back. The exhibition had been running for two months and would close by the end of the next week. There would be a one-month break after that. During the break, the staff would take turns to go on leave, to go on a holiday or to visit their families, while the rest would start to pack the exhibits into their respective boxes in preparation for the round-the-Oz tour that had been planned. The team would leave the Emerald City, and he would never meet her again.

The exhibition was closed every Monday, and on that day, he had gone back to the exhibition for a quick meeting in the morning. He had an appointment in the afternoon with a history professor at a University in the outskirts, in a place famed for its historical buildings.

It was lunch time when he entered the central train station. There were four platforms side by side, serving passengers who were going to different parts of the city. The platforms were crowded, filled with grandparents and students, working adults who made use of their lunch hour to run some errands, and the free-and-easy tourists who always liked to visit the Emerald City. He was on the platform waiting for his South-bound train when he saw her two platforms away, on the Eastward platform.

She was wearing a white blouse with black pants and boots. On one hand she was carrying a cup of iced lemon tea (he thought that he could see the slice of lemon floating in the yellow liquid), and on the other hand, a softcover file. There was an open book placed on top of the file; she was reading. Her long hair was tied up in a pony tail, and he was right; it was raven black and silky, just like in the dreams. The signboard above her indicated that her East-bound train was arriving in less than four minutes.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, and then waved his hands in the air. A few passengers around him stared but the passengers in the next platform went about their business; his voice did not carry over the platform.

He wished that he could somehow jump across the gap between the platforms. He needed extra long legs at the moment. Or maybe he should fly. Yes, that would be good.

Three minutes.

But he could not, and with the signboard counting down to two minutes before her train arrived, he pushed his way through the crowd, going for the stairs. Two minutes to reach the other platform. To reach her before she disappeared again.

The staircase stretched before him. There were suddenly a group of senior tourists making their way up, led by a tour guide waving a flag. The elderly moved slowly, their feet moving clumsily even when aided by their walking sticks and they took up the whole stairs. He squeezed between them carefully, mumbling his apologies, wasting precious seconds.

Two minutes.

He jumped when he was four steps from the bottom.

He sped across the concourse towards the other platform. There was a lift next to the staircase, its door closing. He skidded to a stop in front of the lift, and the door closed before he squeezed in. The passengers inside looked blankly at him as he jabbed the lift button. The lift went upwards. He took the stairs again, going up this time, taking two steps at a time.

One minute.

Above him, he could hear whoosh of the air as the train came into the station. The passengers on the platform gathered their things and entered the train doors, their shuffling informing him that he was too late. Too late.

He burst onto the platform just as the last of the passengers went into the train and the door began to close. He ran towards a closing door and, with a burst of energy, jumped into the train, narrowly missing being trapped by the door. He crashed onto the passenger who was closest to the door, sending her belongings everywhere. The cup in her hand dropped onto the floor, spilling the contents inside. The surrounding passengers shrunk back as they tried to avoid being dirtied by the drink.

Her file had fallen open and its contents fell out. Printouts, drawings and a namecard. She dropped to her knees, and he did the same half a second later, picking up her things. The book landed face down on the tea that was spreading on the floor, soaked and ruined. There was one last sheet of paper near to a hand pole, and he managed to take that, placing it on top of the other papers that he had picked up.

"I'm sorry," he said as he passed the stack of papers to her.

"It's OK," she mumbled to the stack of paper as she shoved them back into the file. He thought that she sounded slightly irritated.

He picked up the spilled cup of iced tea and passed it back to her. She dropped the cup again, surprised by the sudden heat when their fingers touched.

She looked up at him and her eyes widened.