AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yes, yes, yes, yes, it has been nearly 9 MONTHS since I have updated this story. Short version: real life seriously got in the way. Just to let you all know why there was such an insane delay: I have changed jobs, I now work about 65+ hours per week at two jobs and have moved to a completely new state, and with such a change came the need to find a house. And that was a gargantuan task in itself. So now I'm happily settled with my roomies, my cats and my financially secure jobs, so now I can try to pick up the pen again. This chapter is short unfortunately and a little Wizard-centric as I try to build up the tension for the final scenes. My writer's block has been pretty awful lately, and I have written and re-written this many times in these past 9 months. During this hiatus however I must thank all of you who have continually left comments on this work. I smile each time I see one in my inbox, because it let's me know that this story is achieving what I want it to: to entertain!

If you are reading this now, regardless of wheither you've commented or not, I say thank you thank you thank you for reading/enjoying my work, and I promise to not disappoint with the conclusion of this piece (as some of you are dying to figure out who dies!). ;)

Enjoy! Oh, and any feedback of, course, is appreciated!

DISCLAIMER: Wicked is property of Gregory Maguire.

WARNING!: There are mentions of smoking and alcohol abuse to follow! I don't condone getting drunk on a regular basis, so please don't think that's what I'm trying to promote. If you're going to drink, do so in moderation!

The smoke twisted and writhed like a freshly beheaded snake as it wafted upwards from the Wizard's mouth. He brought the crudely hand rolled cigarette to his lips once more and inhaled deeply, the crisp smoke clawing the lining of his throat. It's rich menthol aftertaste however, was reward enough for the discomfort. His diaphragm quaked inside his body as he coughed loudly. Outside the rain fell in torrents, lightning occasionally lit the sky, illuminating each needle-like raindrop. Pinched tightly between his ashen thumb and pointer finger, the cigarette came to his lips once more.

His room was dimly lit, with a few melting candles strewn about. Their eerie glow danced and flitted across the sparse, crumbling archaic furniture. The old man lain upon an ornate four post bed that was flanked by an oak bedside table, atop which perched a ceramic carafe, precariously close to the tables edge. A smoldering fire cracked and moaned as it was slowly dying in the crumbling fireplace; over which hung a rather large painted portrait of a very, very old woman. Presented in intricate stroked of oil paint, silver gray hair was tied tightly back into a high ballerina bun. The woman wore a stone cold expression, the corners of her lips barely held up by nearly atrophied muscle. Beady eyes stared condescendingly from behind small wire spectacles perched upon the crook of her bent nose. The portrait was contained within an elaborate brass frame with a golden plate on the bottom with a single large word engraved on it. "MOTHER: 1850-1940".

The Wizard approached the large painting and addressed it, "Mother, I don't know what to do…I have searched the dreadful tower and cannot find that blasted book or the green hag anywhere! I know that harlot is still alive; I just know it! I can feel it as I can feel the blood of the life that you've given me flow through my very veins…but there's just one question. Where? Where do we look Mother? Where!?" He performed an angry pivot and walked briskly toward a small crystal decanter of 15-year Scotch whiskey on the nightstand flanking his bed. Immediately he ripped out the solid crystal stopper and brought the boxy shaped bottle to his lips and consumed the remaining liquor within, causing his throat burn even more. The coughs erupted from his chest again. The portrait looked at him disapprovingly. "Mother, I know you that don't like it, but…it keeps me calm." He brought the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled deeply, bringing about yet another wave of coughing. A wad of phlegm rocketed from his throat onto the floor, splattering silver rivulets of saliva across the cold stone. Wearily he snuffed the half-inch cigarette into the small table, the glow of the ashes lay dying slowly, and he sat on the edge of the bed and slumped over, rubbing his temples with his fingers. Age was starting to catch up with him, all seventy-five years of it.

A knock at the door.

"What is it?" growled the old man as he slowly placed his body on the bed. A short and portly man quietly entered the room. The Wizard scoffed. It was his henchman Tibbs, 'the damn stutterer'. Just the person the Wizard least hoped would come through that door. His speech was as pathetic as his short, pudgy exterior.

"J-J-Just the n-n-night watch sir. T-T-The men have ret-t-turned to their r-r-rooms from their sc-sc-scouting, b-b-but no s-s-signs of either G-Gl-Glinda or the Witch."

Fingertips dug into his temples once more. "Is there anything else you'd like to report? Perhaps something that would be of some use to me!"

He could sense the guard's hesitation from behind the door. "Uh, G-Guinness and B-B-Bailey have g-g-gone missing sir. N-N-No one's guarding the f-f-front doors. Shall we s-s-send out a search p-p-party? Reposition the g-g-g-guard perhaps?"

"God damned stutterer." Muttered the Wizard under his breath as he thought for a moment, all while still rubbing his temples with his weatherworn hands. "No Tibbs, I believe that won't be necessary. Those two oafs were useless anyway. Let them find their own way home."

Again, hesitation. "Al-Al-Alright sir. I-I-I'll be returning t-t-to my watch. J-J-Just give a y-y-yell if you n-n-need anything!" Tibbs quickly closed the heavy wooden door behind him.

Finally free of the nuisance, the elderly man produced a small bottle from under his pillow. Inside it swirled a jade fluid. The faded logo on it read in ornate script: Verte Absinthe Robette.

He cooed to the bottle. "My green goddess…my miracle elixir…help me find solace in my woes…I cannot rest until my thirst is slake."

The Wizard gently poured the liquid into an ornate stemmed shot glass that rested upon his nightstand. The virescent liquor neatly filled the bulbous bottom of the glass. Next he placed an elaborate silver absinthe spoon across the glass' rim, and atop this spoon he perched a single lump of white, crystalline sugar. He carefully used his bedside carafe to pour cold water over the sugar, it's runoff resulting in an opalescent louche. The absinthe was now a greenish-milky white. Once the cube was completely melted away, he removed the silver spoon and brought the glass to his lips. He could smell the tangy liquorish smell of the drink, and could feel the sweet, intoxicating burn of the alcohol in his sinuses. Swiftly, he tossed back the drink; the resulting sting comforting in its harsh reminder of reality. He silently prepared two more glasses, and downed each just as quickly as he did the first. The room seemed to swirl and blend into itself as he rested his head upon the pillow. He corked the bottle and gave it a light kiss. "Mon Fée Verte…my green fairy…" The Wizard cooed.

The two liquors swirled and combined like a tempest in his body. He began to experience what he'd like to call a lucid drunkenness, something that brought him great comfort. To the Wizard, his mind was never clearer, and more focused, despite how convoluted his immediate surroundings may have been. In the "Other Land" he had taken to drinking after long days of arduous work spent slaving away in the mills for dirt pay. Stories swapped over shot glasses and pints each night, gave him reason to wake up the next morning. In fact, all of Oz seemed to make more sense to him while intoxicated. The vibrant colors and sensations of the strange land converged as one direct and irrefutable truth when he was drunk. It was a comfort zone into which he could retreat. Laying upon his bed, he felt his lumpy feather mattress slowly rotating upon it's own axis. He gripped the edges in hopes that he would not fall off should it turn completely upside down. Drunken giggles escaped his lips as his stomach did somersaults within his gut…all while lying completely flat upon his back. "Mon Fée Verte…" he cried once more.

La Fée Verte had helped him many times before. She commiserated him during his exodus from the old country. She helped him make sense of this strange new land called Oz. She eased the resistances of a certain munchkinlander named Melena. La Fée Verte had only failed in enticing the fair Glinda. Glinda. Glinda. He nearly had her creamy supple frame in his grasp. The overpowering womanly scent of her body, electrified him to his core, awakening all of the carnal instincts he had once unleashed upon Melena. How he had yearned to touch, to feel Glinda writhe and squirm under his body. But why the damn Witch? Why was Glinda the Good helping the Wicked-fucking-Witch? It just didn't make any sense. Power-hungry Glinda the Good siding with the ostracized Wicked Witch of the West. The Wizard knew that he could've offered Glinda so much more. Think goddamn you, think! What is the connection between Glinda and the Witch?? His head sunk into his pillows like quicksand. A light belch accompanied the slumber that finally over took him.

Unbeknownst to the Wizard during his drunken lament, an incredibly shaken and terrified Glinda Arduenna of the Upper Uplands had infiltrated the Arjiki fortress. She scurried blindly through the darkness, being ever careful to avoid the occasional lights provided by sporadic candelabras. Her fingers grazed along the cold stonewalls that were lightly moist with the strong humidity of the blustery night air. In the dim light she could see the profiles of a few guards standing watch along the walls of the enormous entry foyer. Gargoyles perched atop the ledge of the second floor railings that ran across the top of the room. Their hungry eyes seemed to follow Glinda's every move. The faintest moisture made it appear as though the stone beasts were salivating. A chill raced through Glinda's spine.

'Y-Y-Y-Yes sir! S-S-So sorry to have d-d-d-disturbed you sir!"

A voice wavered from directly above her. She instantly pressed her body against the dank wall and attempted to slow her ragged breathing. Her heart echoed in her ears like a timpani in a deserted concert hall. That must be the Wizard's room, who else in this awful place would need a doting servant? Listening for the sound of a door closing, she was surprised to only hear the squeal of the door's rusty hinges, but no click. It's still open! She could now hear the lowly stuttering peon shuffle his feet dejectedly above her, and she took this as her chance to match each of the sounds of his steps. Glinda made it as far as the base of the staircase, but it was too bathed in candlelight for Glinda to climb it. Using a slight flick of her wand she conjured a small hand mirror and extended her arm as far as she could without crossing the precarious threshold of light. In the mirror's reflection she could see the guard pacing slowly back and forth outside the Wizard's room. Move damn you, move! Desperate for anything to catch the guard's attention, she trained her wand at the two massive entrance doors and rattled them, the resulting sound was nearly deafening.

"Whah wasssh dat!?" Came a drunken raspy voice from upstairs. The Wizard! The voice sounded imbued with thick phlegm.

Tibbs nervously stuttered back, "J-j-j-just the w-w-w-wind. Th-th-the d-d-door didn't c-c-close all the way."

"Sho jusht shut the damn door already you shtinking…shuttering …bashtard…!" The last words were now weak with fatigue and sleep.

The shuffling grew louder, and Glinda ducked into the shadows. As if she were diving underwater, Glinda drew in a breath deep into her lungs. The man slowly shuffled past her. The pressure in her chest mounted with each agonizing moment he had dragged his feet on the floor. Once he was mere inches from where she stood, he stopped and peered around the room. Pain seared through her lungs as she fought the urge to gasp for air. She could not allow her cover to be compromised. Tibbs took in the air in his nose as if he were a hound dog trying to pick up a scent. Eyes clenched shut like a vice Glinda tried hard not to focus on the screaming of her brain for oxygen. Finally accepting that nothing was awry the footman continued to make his way to the door. Quietly relishing in the opportunity to breathe again, Glinda pivoted and quickly pranced lightly up the great stone steps, creating nary a noise. Tibbs was none the wiser.

The Wizard's bedroom door was still slightly ajar when Glinda had finally reached it. She knew she only had about a minute to make her move before the Wizard's henchman would surely spot her. Pulling out the small conjured hand mirror once more, she angled it at the bottom edge of the door. In it's reflection she spied the Wizard laid sprawled like a fallen marionette puppet upon the mattress, with limbs hanging limply across the edges of the bed. Much of the room was still bathed in darkness, allowing ample cover for Glinda to sneak inside…that is if she could do it devoid of sound. Bang! The great stone doors of the stronghold had closed, and Glinda could hear the shh shh of the bumbling henchman's feet on the floor, faint enough for her to deduce he was still on the floor below, but growing ever louder as he neared the stairs. Unsure of what she should do, Glinda quickly dove into the shadows of the Wizard's room and immediately started to crawl across a beeline for the sanctuary of the underbelly of the old man's bed.

Above her, a corpse of a drunken man lie snoring, and a pool of spilled alcohol and ashes upon the floor no more than a foot away. Its acrid smell stung her nostrils, bringing with it a slight twinge of nausea. A single pallid arm lay swaying in air, no doubt a stray appendage of the Wizard, sleeping like a baby…a drunken baby... A light creaking noise snapped her out of her reverie as Tibbs had apparently reached his post once more and had pushed the bedchamber door closed.

Glinda swallowed hard at the click of the door's closing, inevitably trapping her inside the belly of the beast…

How to drink Absinthe (just to clear up confusion)

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