Title: how wickedly the clock strikes
Author: Digimon Empress Yaten (de yaten)
Notes: Giftfic. Prompt: "no one mourns the wicked," with a request for something about the Org recruiting new Heartless. Crossover with Wicked: the Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West—bookverse, not musicalverse. Spoilers for the book, and this probably won't make much sense unless you've read it, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Reviews are welcome, especially if you favorite!
Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts, Wicked, or their characters. I don't claim to own them.
The Time Dragon clock chimes the midnight witching hour, and the silver-scaled eyelids whir backwards over black and empty dragon-eyes.
Something is coming, it says, something strange and something strong, and it is coming for our deadly little she-witch.
She is not dead.
The Time Dragon clock chimes the midnight witching hour, and the dwarf with missing teeth sees a swarm of black ant-monsters squirming across the Vinkus.
Something is coming, it says again, something worse and something wretched, and it is coming for our darling little she-witch.
She is not dead.
The Time Dragon clock chimes the midnight witching hour, and the man in the nightfall coat crumbles the dwarf into nothing-dust with a wave of his hand.
Something is coming, it says alone, something dark and something deadly, and it is coming for our desperate little she-witch.
She is not dead.
The man in the nightfall coat with moonlit eyes and dreamspun hair is swift and smooth, sliding into the dreams of a silly little farm girl like cool water down her parched throat.
The Witch, he says, is ever so wicked. She will kill you and your little dog too, if she gets a chance. She will slaughter your cowardly Lion and pick apart your straw-hearted Scarecrow, and your steadfast Tin Soldier will rust to brown in her deepest, darkest dungeon. But only—only if you let her.
She asks, but oh, what can I do?
He smiles, because they come easier in dreams, and whispers waterfall-kept secrets against her brown braided-pigtail.
She says she understands, truly she does, and she will keep his words close to her heart should she ever need them.
The man in the nightfall coat with moonlit eyes and dreamspun hair is swift and smooth, falling from a barren Kansas dream-sky into the stone walls of Kiamo Ko like rain streaming down a gutter.
--
The Witch's dreams are dark and on the edge of nonsense, as he knew they must be, but slight madness will not be enough, not nearly enough for what he has planned. He weaves a book-bound web around her still glowing emerald heart and asks close to her dreaming ear: What do you want? Though by what he means who.
A breathless sigh and he is someone else, dark and diamond-skinned, strolling into her flickering candle of a dream, every inch the actor's role.
Fiyero, she says, and the sharp disbelief almost wakes her from the sleep-spell, but his skin, his eyes, his stance is all the same and she has been holding out such strong hopes for such a long time. How, she asks, how are you here and oh, I suppose I should ask for forgiveness but if you are here then it is not really needed and --
Shhh, he croons, and winds a finger that is not his through her hair, coarse and wiry even in her dream world. He speaks only briefly, because she never sleeps for very long, and may jolt against her sharp-mattress bed before he can finish sewing lying little stitches into her ragged heart. He speaks of dungeons and daring escapes and disguises made of Straw and, Fae, he says, I am coming home.
He wakes her with a kiss and when long fingers rub against her lips, he knows the thread has taken to her heart, strong and tight. He will return with moonlight-glinting needles for a few nights after, to make sure they cannot be ripped free by silly things such as logic or bitterness.
--
The spyglass frames the Scarecrow scattering his chest across the ground, and she shrieks at the dream-Fiyero that has released her heart from sorrow and compressed it back even tighter without ever having once been a real boy.
The Time Dragon clock chimes the midnight witching hour, and the girl and Witch wind up and up the castle's tower-staircase.
Something has come, it says, something dreamed and something dead, and it has pained the heart of our despairing little she-witch.
She is not dead.
The Time Dragon clock chimes the midnight witching hour, and a baptismal fire is drowned in the burning waters thrown with a farm girl's tomboy arm.
Something has come, it says again, something wet and something wicked, and it has destroyed the heart of our dead little she-witch.
She is dead, dead and gone.
The Time Dragon clock chimes the midnight witching hour, and the man in the nightfall coat commands a blood-slick newborn green Shadow Witch to swoop down through Shiz and steal all the hearts of all the little academic hopefuls.
Something has come, it says alone, and
Elphaba lives.