A/N: Last line from Wicked. Enjoy!

Sitting by the shores of Lake Chorge, she sees; it all exists at once.

There she is, thirty and exhausted and heartsore, but with somewhere she belongs, a place, however haunted, to return to; there is young Elphie, isolated and hopeful and nearing seventeen with her first real friends at her side; there is Liir, older than he is now, tired, on nearly the same journey that she is on now. There is that strange old man, lugging the Grimmerie; there is the Wizard, young and not yet powerful, taking off once again in his bloodred balloon for the Emerald City; there is young Fiyero, on his journey to Shiz.

And somewhere, yes, somewhere, there are the two of them, together, Fae and Yero, existing entwined for eternity in their hideaway, a nest of love and philosophy and discovery of each other and themselves. They thought themselves so old, so grown-up, and, in a way, they were, but they were so young, really. Barely more than children playing at adulthood and losing miserably.

It comforts her, though, to think that somewhere, somewhen, they are out there, all of them; their charmed circle, little Fabala, the dragon-girl, Melena and Turtle Heart and Fae and Yero, the doomed lovers, the girl-terrorist, and that, perhaps, after all, they can change things in some alternate pocket of time.

After all, nothing is written in the stars; not these stars, nor any others.