Son Of A Witch, Liir/Trism, homecoming Part 1
Liir could not say what he felt for the green infant, or if he felt anything at all. For the first time in his life he felt that he understood Elphaba (could he finally call her his mother) and how she had never been able to bring herself to touch him or look at him.
Still, he was not her. He would not be her. He took the tiny creature into the deserted farmhouse. He warmed it by the fire, and nursed it on goat’s milk. He forced himself to hold the child though he did not give it a name and could not think of it as his child.
The strange infant seemed to thrive though the same could not be said of Liir. Cut off from the world, he felt that he was fading away. Again he thought of Elphaba and for the child’s sake fought to stay connected.
From Candle he had learned that there was magic in music and so he sang to the child. He sang the hymns he had heard in the Mauntery when he was a boy, the folk songs of Vinkus, the bawdy anthems of the Home Guard. Sometimes he would even hum a crude approximation of Candle’s music.
It seemed to help. He thought he felt something for the infant. He no longer thought of the child as “it” but as “her”, though he still could not give her a name.
One evening Liir was sitting with the infant beside the fire. As usual, he sang her to sleep and when he looked up he saw he was not alone. A young man stood before him in the bedraggled remains of a military uniform. Rough with travel and hardship but blond and handsome.
“I hope I haven’t startled you, ma’am.” The solider said. Liir understood his confusion. He had grown so thin and in his black dressing gown, his long dark hair loose, the babe in his arms it was easy to mistake him for a woman. As for the solider, he was somehow familiar. Yes, once upon a time he had been very important. Liir searched his memory and found a name.
“Trism,” he said. “You’ve come back.”
“Liir, is that you…” Trism asked
“That child…” the Trism said. “Is it hers?”
“Who?” Liir muttered vaguely. “Elphaba’s?”
“That Quadling girl’s, Candle’s.”
“No, Candle didn’t want her. I guess that makes her mine. It hardly seems right, Candle put so much into making child and I don’t even remember my part. Yet somehow I’ve ended up with her.”
“What’s the matter with you Liir,” Trism asked. “You don’t seem yourself.”
“I don’t think I ever was myself, not really.”
Trism came closer, peered at the babe.
“She’s green.” He said. “The Witch really was your mother.”
“She was never my mother, but yes I am her son.”
Liir rose, laid the child in her cradle.
“What do you call her?” Trism asked continuing to hover over the child.
“Nothing. All the names I think of, Elphaba, Nor, even Dorothy belong to other people. She deserves her own name but I can’t think of one.”
“Emerald,” Trism said simply. “Little Emmy.”
“Why did you come back here, Trism?”
“I took care of Cherrystone but there are a hundred others like him. Shell holds a grudge, he’ll come after you. You need to leave this place. You’re not safe here. Emerald isn’t safe.”
Liir heard, but the words meant nothing to him.
He thought of Elphaba, how she had faded away into legend even as she lived. He didn’t want to do that, he wanted to remain anchored to life if only for Emerald’s sake.