Title: Final Kiss
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Note: Yeah, this is a story.
Final Kiss
It did not take long for the new wax and oil to wear off in the rain that followed Dorothy's departure. The forest grew in, the trail grew less visible, and the joints, weighed down by tears and blood, grew together. The vines crept along the edges of his feet until they grew more bold and twisted their way around his calves, his things, his neck. He could not turn his head, and his eyes are rusted open with only a thin coat of the red reaction casting a rose tint to the world he could see. At first, he didn't notice, but as the days and weeks slid by him, his eyes began to follow the path of the turns in the bark of the tree in front of him. The dark drown spirals grew deeper into the wood, and the edges of circles sharpened at the base only to curve in at the top. The first year passed, and the Tin Woodsman grew frightened of the dark and the ever changing heart that came with it on the tree in front of him. No knife was placed against the tree, but the heart had appeared none the less as each night passed.
The second year passed, and the soft curves that usually appeared in his name vanished into sharp, pointed corners as the invisible hand carved his name inside the heart. His voice had rusted shut inside his throat long ago after his screaming had worn away the thin metal of his makeshift vocal cords.
The third year passed, and the name that appeared under his came as no surprise. It was no easier, though, to stare at the five letter nickname day in and day out as the intangible hand carved it into the wood. He'd given up trying to turn his head when the second 's' had shown up, but he had stopped when he realized that she was done. His gaze was forever fixed upon his punishment, and there was nothing more to do. Her voice echoed in his head.
"…Perfect—just like you..."
It was when he focused his gaze on the tree beside the one marred by his name and a heart that he began to try and force his prison to move. A thin curl of wood had peeled away in the night to reveal the beginnings of a heart. The Tin Woodsman tried to scream, tried to turn way, and he could do neither. In his effort, a bolt at his lips pulled free from the rust and he let out a shriek. Something cold pressed against his lips, and his eyes barely caught the sight of dark hair and pale skin as he breathed in the scent of lavender before the woman was gone. He tried to scream, but his lips were rusted together.
By the end of the fourth year he stopped trying to move.