AN:
Okay, so death is a weird concept in the Land of Oz. L Frank Baum once wrote about it that: 'No disease of any sort was ever known among the Ozites, and so no one ever died unless he met with an accident that prevented him from living.' However, I'm going to totally disregard this (sorry Mr Baum) and have some character death in this that no one is going to like. Hell, even I don't like it. However, when listening to No Good Deed, the repeated line 'let him never die' means that, unless he's burned obviously, the Scarecrow/Fiyero cannot die. But, in my mind, Elphaba can. There's nothing to say she couldn't. Sorry guys! Don't hate me!
Twenty years after the end, Glinda the Good still rules all of Oz, and is beloved by everyone. Animals are once again free to teach in schools and to have respectable positions. No-one is segragated or treated with contempt. Oz is a land of harmony, since the mystical Dorothy came and went, in her path slaying the Wicked Witches. But, in a small cottage in a large forest, on the outskirts of the Oz Lands, one Wicked Witch lives freely. And dies freely too…
No spell Elphaba had ever known or read could reverse what she had done to Fiyero. Spells, as she had been told, were indeed irreversible. But, regardless of the hitch, Fiyero and his Fae lived happily together. Years went by all too fast and winters set in colder than they seemed to do before. Always careful with the fire, Elphaba had a habit of keeping it low. Today though, she was shivering. Noticing, Fiyero went to throw on another log:
'D-don't!' Elphaba stuttered, throwing out her hand. The log rose and crashed against the wall.
'Fae, you're freezing. One more log isn't going to do me any harm.'
'I'd rather not chance it,' she mumbled, burying her face underneath a blanket. Fiyero smiled and crawled over to her, easily, with all his years of practice, wrapping her tight in his arms. Automatically, Elphaba pushed her nose into his chest, clamping tighter about him and entwining her legs with his.
'See, now this is a much better way of keeping warm.' She said and he laughed again. His hands rubbed up and down her arms and legs, trying to stave off the cold he could not feel.
'Feel better?' he asked, and she sighed, affirmatively. Within minutes she was asleep, her hands still around him. Unable to sleep himself, he was content to watch the embers of the fire as they fizzled and died. In the darkness of their little old house, he could make out the green of her skin and the way the moonlight caught her raven curls. Mottled with grey, it was still impressive, sleek, shining and thick. He nuzzled his nose into her hair, breathing in the scent of lavender and Elphaba.
Life was not perfect, as he'd foolishly imagined as a boy. Nothing ever was. They weren't rich, but nor were they destitute. And his being a scarecrow meant that their relationship could never be what it was before. Though this frustrated them both at times, they were content in the fact that they could be together, far away from the pressures and prejudice of Oz.
In her sleep, Elphaba buried further into Fiyero. With one last wistful smile, he slid his arms from about her and, tentatively, saw about restoring the fire.
It was a year before it got her. Pneumonia. A common disease that should never have killed such an uncommon woman. But then again, when people think that water was the source of your demise, pneumonia sounded much more intelligent. That was how Elphaba had put it, jokingly one morning as she lay shivering in bed. She'd diagnosed herself of course, with all that bookish knowledge she possessed and all he could do was wait for the inevitable. He knew he could never die. What disease existed that took down straw and sacking? Unless he ever got too close to a bonfire, the chances were he'd be living forever. The prospect of forever without Elphaba left him dizzy, but he didn't tell her any of that.
It was only in those final moments, minutes before she left him, that, with tears running down her perfect face, she begged him for forgiveness. And he had answered:
'Fae, there's nothing to forgive. Nothing. You did the best you could, remember? You saved me, Fae. Without you, we wouldn't have had these years, these wonderful years that we've had. There's nothing to forgive. Nothing.'
Repeating himself, tears streaming down his own much less beautiful face, she had laid her hand to his cheek.
'You're still beautiful.' She'd whispered, hoarsely, and it took all he had not to break down and sob.
'You don't need to lie to me.' He'd answered, remembering their conversation all those years ago and smiling at the thought.
'It's not lying, is it? How does it go again?' she'd joked, wanting to hear him say it.
'It's looking at things - ' Finish it you brainless idiot, he'd told himself, finish it! 'In another way.'
However romantic their last goodbye, it didn't make her any less gone. He had buried, his beautiful, wonderful Fae, in amongst the flowers of the wood. A cross of sticks stood there to mark it. No more, no less. A simple place for a complex woman.
After the burial, Fiyero had taken one last trip away from their little house.
It was on an ordinary day, twenty-one years after the Wizard's 'leave of absence' , when Glinda the Good arrived in her apartments to find something waiting for her on her bed.
'Chistery!' she squealed, bringing the flying monkey bursting into the room.
'What is it, Miss Glinda?'
'It's – it's…oh, Oz. It's Elphie's hat.'
Glinda never knew where the hat had come from, who had put it there or how. But, somehow, with a sense she'd never known she had, she understood. Elphie would never have given up her hat. Elphie was gone. Now, it was really was all up to her.
I won't let you down, Elphie, she thought, looking out her window to the western sky. I promise.
Somewhere deep in an almost-Ozian forest, Fiyero the Scarecrow made a similar promise.
AN:
Okay so this was totally random and angsty and terribly sad but I just heard the line 'Let him never die' and thought how horrid that would be for him with Elphaba and this is what came about.