Memories jumble like old photographs: Sarima. His future. His past.


"Fiyero!"

He finds the ball first, chasing it down. Mother can wait.

"Where are you?"

There. He shoves his sticky bangs off his forehead and clutches the ball from the thorns. Proud, he grins as he jogs back. "Coming!"

She's outside, with his father, who is frowning at him. For a moment he regrets waiting, but he's gotten the ball. A girl is beside them, and what must be her parents. Her summer dress has poppies and bumblebees, and her pigtails have butterflies at the top. She's pretty, he thinks.

Everyone's staring at him.

He swipes at his messy hair, aware of the sweat dripping along his temples, but she smiles when she sees his ball.

"Fiyero, meet Sarima, your betrothed."

He frowns. "What's betrow?"

The adults smile, and he puckers his lips. How's he to know? It sounds like a stupid grown up word anyway.

"Hi."

"Hi." She walks up to him, but doesn't say more.

"Wanna play?" He holds out the ball even though he doesn't want to, and she smiles when she takes it. She runs off with it. Her toss sends it back to the thorny brush, and he dives after it.

He retrieves it and tosses it himself, high as he can, and catches it. Again. She frowns, and when he tosses it this time, she bumps him out of the way to catch it.

He runs after her, but he lets her have it again. He likes it when she smiles.


"Arg, I'll take ye sword!" Fiyero clambers across the catwalk and swings his own stick at his friend.

"Never!" Aruc ducks, and the momentum carries Fiyero into the wall. "Alright?"

He rolls his eyes. "We're fine. It's no higher than Mount Rijiks, and you climb that all the time."

"I'm not scared." Aruc stabs his stick forward, and Fiyero dodges. "You're scared."

"Your face is scared."

"Your mom's face is scared."

"You just insulted your queen." His friend's face pales, and Fiyero barks out a laugh. "Have at thee!" He snatches Aruc's stick, and the boy wavers. Fiyero snaps a hand out for balance, but Aruc clutches back the makeshift sword with a grin.

They parry. Fiyero's wonders if pirate ships sway like the center walk. He wishes he could be a pirate sometimes, free to do as he likes and answerable only to the sea.

"Don't you need to go meet that girl?"

"Nah." He ducks past Aruc in a daring maneuver. "She'll want to play house, or wedding, or some stupid girl nonsense."

Fiyero swings his stick in an arc, and Aruc catches it tightly. "Ha, you've got a girlfriend."

Fiyero wrinkles his nose. "Nuh uh!"

"You do!"

"Shut up!" He yanks the stick away, and Aruc teeters. For a heart-stopping moment, his feet slip, and then Fiyero pulls him back upright. "Fine," he pants. "I'm tired of playing pirates anyway."

They sit, feet dangling off the catwalk, and he tries not to think that Aruc might be right.


"Yes, Father?"

The king looks up, and sends the others away.

"You called for me?"

He points to the chair near the window, and Fiyero sits. His father watches him a moment. What he's looking for, Fiyero isn't certain, but he tries not to fidget either way.

"You have to be kinder to Sarima."

That's what this is about? Ugh, that girl. His petulance must show on his face because his father frowns.

"She's your responsibility."

He fists his hands at his side. "All I have are responsibilities."

The king narrows his eyes. "That's the way privilege works, son. If you're going to be the prince, you have to carry-"

"Carry the weight of our people with all our strength, for the duty and honor of our noble institution." Fiyero intones along. "Maybe I don't want to be the prince."

His father sighs. "I know, son. Sometimes I don't want to be the king. But we are who we are."

Fiyero looks at his hands to hide from the bald truth his father has laid before him.

"And Sarima is who she is. Have you thought maybe she feels as you do?"

Fiyero frowns at his knuckles. "No." He hasn't thought of how she might feel at all. Does no one care how he feels?

"And when she is the mother of your children, I doubt you'll want to think back on how you've treated her."

His face screws up at the thought of that, and his father chuckles.

"Have you not realized that is part of your duty? To provide an heir or two, not to mention grandbabies for your mother."

Babies? Gross.

His father sets a large hand on his shoulder, and though they don't speak, Fiyero thinks his father might understand after all.


"Come on." Fiyero flashes his best bedroom eyes. "We're going to get married someday anyway."

Sarima rolls her eyes.

He trails a hand over her arm. "Married, with a couple little ones running around."

She makes a face, but she doesn't brush him off. He twines their fingers. "You say that like I'm begging to have your babies."

"No, but," he slides closer. "I mean, we're going to, aren't we? So why not…you know."

She returns his kiss gently and pulls away. "I'm not exactly keen on having your babies right now, for sure."

He leans back and tries not to pout. What's the point in having a girlfriend if you don't get the perks? Aruc is convinced they're already having so much…perks…that he teases Fiyero mercilessly.

For once it would be nice if it were true.


"I can't believe you."

Fiyero pulls his hand out of What's-Her-Name's shirt and tries to look as innocent as possible. But Sarima turns on her heel and storms out.

A small piece of him wants to continue, feels he's done nothing wrong, that his responsibilities don't extend to never kissing another girl ever.

But he follows.

She's in front of the window, looking out, and he's struck with a sudden sense of rebellion.

Is it his fault that girls all want to be with a prince? That his being off limits makes them hot? He's just giving the masses what they want.

He's ready to tell her that when she turns. Her eyes are wet, but her tone is quiet. "Why?"

His answer tumbles out. "Because I'm an idiot."

She doesn't answer.

"Because I'm selfish."

She huffs.

"I'm sorry." And he finds that he means it. "Don't cry."

Her laugh is cold. "What did you think I would do when I found out? Pat you on the back?!"

He didn't think at all. It must show because she takes a step away.

"You," she bites her lip. "Your actions affect others, you know."

He hangs his head. "You're right. Can you forgive me?"

"I don't know." For a long moment they stand at a loss for words. Then she turns back to the window. "I mean, I have to, don't I?"

He sets his hands on her shoulders. The sudden rush of understanding makes him want to slap himself. She's as trapped as he, only she's not acting like a fool. "No." If she wants to be free, he'll find her a way. "But I hope you do."


"You didn't have to do all this."

He bumps her nose. "Of course I did. It's your birthday."

She'd done so much for him. He knows she's the one who helped him grow up, accept his responsibilities instead of fighting them so hard.

He pours the bubbly drink and passes her a glass. "To the most beautiful girl in Oz."

"Right," She scoffs and slides a finger over the poppies on her lap. "You're confusing me with my sister. She's the one who needs flattery and reassurance."

He slips an arm around her shoulders. "I know you don't need it. But you do deserve it." He presses a soft kiss to her crown.

She turns to him and leans up for a proper kiss. "Thank you. It's nice to get out of the palace."

"Of course." He kisses her again, grateful to have her as a partner in this. She brings out the best in him, despite knowing first hand all the worst.

She grips his shirt to pull him closer, and he deepens the kiss. Oz, she feels so good. Part of him can't help hoping that this will be the time they finally-

Cold! They jump back, and she's blushing, her glass empty in her hand. "Sorry! I don't know what happened."

Her hand is still twitching, and for a moment they both stare at it. Then they start laughing. He's sticky and wet, but filled with a weightless happiness that isn't touched by the failure.

"No worries." And for a brief moment, they believe that lie, happy to be young and free and in love.


"Don't look at me like that."

He can't stop. The words rattle in his head, "Twelve months, maybe fifteen."

She hides her fingers, and he knows they're twitching again. She's learned to hide it well. Her head looks natural where it rests on the cushions. Not at all like she just can't hold it up.

"I can't stand it when you pity me."

He brushes a hand to shift the hair from her face. "It's not pity. It's care. Not at all the same."

She sighs. He knows she hurts. What he would give to let her spend a day without hurting.

She tries to sit, and he moves to prop her up. A shaky hand reaches for her brush, and he knows she can't, but that he has to let her try.

Finally she gives up and passes him the brush. He combs it through her hair smoothly, glad to do at least this for her. She hums a song, and he finds the brush strokes have sunk into her rhythm. It soothes them both.

"When will we be married?" she asks softly.

Did she know? He finds either way he can't say. Can't make it real. Instead he presses a kiss to her temple. "When you're better."

A lie, but her feelings come first. She always comes first. Always.


The smell of cedar and poppies can't hide the aroma of death in the air. He draws a deep breath, uncertain if he can shoulder the responsibility set before him this time. How is he to face this?

Aruc meets him, and for once his easygoing friend is at a loss for words. He sets a hand on Fiyero's shoulder.

Fiyero looks to the ceiling. He isn't permitted the luxury to cry. He has to be strong. His grief is as private as a lion at the zoo, to be gawked at and cataloged, but not afforded space or mercy.

They enter the hall, and he watches Sarima's parents with an odd mix of sympathy and jealousy. At least her mother can wail for her loss.

Sarima.

What will he do without her? She's been his touchstone almost as long as he can remember. Run from her, to her or with her, she had always been the measure for him. Without her, he floats, lost.

But he can't be as uncharitable as to wish her back to life. Not with the pain that ghosted through her every movement. Not with the suffering he'd witnessed as he held her hand these years.

The officiator offers empty words of consolation. They wash over him, and he's never been more grateful to his father that at least he is permitted silence.


"It can't be her sister. The girl is too young." His parents' voices float to him through the wall, and he frowns.

"Not in a couple years. And if not her, the traditionalists will be up in arms."

"But if her, the Yunamata will certainly follow with threats. You remember what it took to approve Sarima, with their father who he is."

Slowly Fiyero realizes what they are discussing. He storms in, thunder in his eyes. "Really? She isn't even cold in the ground, and you're working out her replacement?"

They fall silent, and his mother reaches for him. He pulls away and glares at them both.

"We must," his father's voice is soft, but the weight is there. The weight of the crown. Of duty to country. Of the finality of death and the cruelty that life continues. "You know we must."

He slumps to a chair, suddenly too full of lead to move. "How can I?"

"Oh, my son." His mother comes to him, surrounds him, but he is numb. "I wish we could take the pain, but at least let us take the planning."

His eyes fall on his hands, and he wishes he had something to occupy him, too. "How soon?"

"Not now. We must find options, but you may have your time to mourn."

He snorts. As if there could be enough. As if forever would even let him begin.

"I know. It's unfair." She cards a hand through his hair, and memories of doing much the same for Sarima flood him until his cheeks feel wet. His tears, or his mother's? "But time dulls the ache, and when it's time, you'll find your heart can hold two loves. It has the room."


He stares into the rising sun, its brilliant colors heralding a new day.

Tomorrow he meets his new bride. His mother had been right. He finds the pain dull, his heart ready.

Still, sometimes he hears her voice in the wind, sees her smile in the poppies she so loved, feels her touch in the heat of the midday. What would she think of his moving on? Would she approve? Accept it as unavoidable? Would she hate him?

His duty demands he let her go, but he feels ready. Ready for the lingering grief to be replaced with a gentler nostalgia. She would always be the girl who helped him grow, but he has found a way without her still. He stands on his own, ready for a partner and not a crutch.

The smell of poppies in the wind brings a smile to his face, and he closes his eyes at the caress. Like a kiss from his first love giving him permission to make another.

Then he turns back, to responsibility and duty yes, but more to hope and the promise of a new day.


AN: For Bathtub Literature, who asked for a That Can Be Arranged POV companion, and my sweet little doggy, whose passing this morning is making me extremely empathetic to grief at the moment. I'm not quite ready to post the rest, but I hope you enjoy the prologue.