What We Became
By waterfallsilverberry
THE castle room seemed to stretch endlessly before Dorothy, each shadow making her heart skip. Toto trembled in her arms as their footsteps echoed off the cold stone walls. The Wicked Witch's fortress felt nothing like the warm, welcoming Emerald City—here, everything was sharp angles and darkness, with windows that looked out onto a bleak mountain landscape where thunder growled in the distance.
She hadn't meant for any of this to happen. The house, Miss Gulch's bicycle, the silver slippers that now seemed to burn on her feet with each step—it had all spiraled so far beyond her control. And now, here she was, alone in this terrible place, having been separated from her friends. The thought of them made her chest ache. Where were they? Had the Witch's guards caught them?
A flash of green at the opposite end of the room made her freeze. There she stood—the Wicked Witch of the West, her black robes billowing in a wind Dorothy couldn't feel. The torchlight caught her features, and Dorothy couldn't help but notice how her green skin seemed to glow, making her look less like the cackling villain from the stories and more like something ancient and otherworldly—beautiful, in a strange, haunting way.
"Did you think you could just wander into my home uninvited?" The Witch's voice was soft but carried an edge that made Dorothy's spine tingle. "Like you wandered into Munchkinland, perhaps?" There was something in her tone—not just anger, but a deep, raw pain that made Dorothy's certainties waver.
"I-I never meant to..." Dorothy clutched Toto closer, his warm fur the only comfort in this cold place. "The house, it wasn't my fault. There was a storm, and—"
"A storm." The Witch moved closer, her dark eyes fixed on Dorothy's face with an intensity that made the girl want to look away—but she couldn't. "Yes, storms have a way of changing everything, don't they? Of picking things up and dropping them where they don't belong." Her words seemed heavy with meaning Dorothy couldn't quite grasp.
Dorothy backed away slowly but found herself against a wall, the rough stone cold through her thin dress. The silver slippers clinked softly against the floor, a musical sound that shouldn't have been ominous but somehow was. The Witch's gaze dropped to them, and Dorothy saw something flash across her face—not greed or anger, but a grief so profound it made her breath catch.
"Those slippers," the Witch said, her voice barely above a whisper now, "they were never meant for you. They were all I had left of her." For a moment, just a moment, the mask of wickedness slipped, and Dorothy saw something achingly human in the Witch's expression—loss, love, a pain so deep it had twisted into something terrible.
But before Dorothy could speak, could ask any of the questions suddenly flooding her mind, the Witch's face hardened again. She raised her hand, emerald rings glinting in the torchlight like captured stars. "Perhaps it's time you learned what it feels like to have everything you love torn away from you."
With a wave of her hand, a giant hourglass materialized, its red sand beginning to pour like blood through the glass. Dorothy felt herself being pushed backward by invisible hands, stumbling into a small room. Just before the heavy door slammed shut, she caught a glimpse of something that made her heart stutter—a worn book on a nearby table, open to a page filled with strange symbols that seemed to writhe and dance in the flickering light. Next to it sat a framed photograph, partially hidden beneath a black shawl. It showed two young women in school uniforms, their faces bright with laughter. One had golden hair that caught the sun. The other... the other was green.
The door crashed closed with awful finality. Through the thick wood, she heard the Witch's voice, softer now, almost regretful: "Your precious Scarecrow will be the first of your friends to go. I wonder if he'll scream when the flames take him?" There was something strange in how she said it—something personal that went beyond simple cruelty.
Time became liquid, measured only by the endless fall of red sand. Dorothy paced the small room like a caged animal, alternating between pounding on the door until her fists hurt and pressing her face against the window's iron bars.
"Oh, please!" she cried, her voice cracking. "Somebody help me!" But only the thunder answered, rolling across the mountains like mocking laughter. Just as the last grain fell, just as despair threatened to overwhelm her completely, she heard it—familiar voices calling her name, the sound of running feet, the clash of metal against metal. The door burst open with a crash that made her jump, and there they were—the Lion trembling but present, the Tin Man with his axe ready, and the Scarecrow... Dorothy noticed how he lingered in the doorway, his burlap hands gripping the wooden frame so tightly she could hear the straw crackle.
"Dorothy!" the Scarecrow called, his voice strange and strained. "We need to—"
But then the Witch was there, emerald skin gleaming like jade in the torchlight, her black robes swirling around her like storm clouds.
"How dare you!" she snarled, though Dorothy noticed her eyes kept darting to the Scarecrow, something unspoken passing between them—something that made Dorothy's earlier certainties crack like ice in spring. The Witch thrust her broom toward one of the burning torches, and flames erupted along its length, casting wild shadows on the walls. "Thought you could leave without saying goodbye? Why, I wouldn't hear of it. My little party's just beginning. The first to go will be—" the Witch began, advancing on the Scarecrow, but Dorothy saw how she hesitated, how her hand shook ever so slightly. What was that emotion in her eyes? Not hatred, not really, but something far more complex.
Dorothy acted on pure instinct when she saw the flames threatening her friend. There—a bucket of water, probably left by one of the castle's servants. She grabbed it, the metal handle cold against her palms. "No!" she cried. "Leave him alone!" The water arced through the air like liquid silver.
The scream that followed would haunt her nightmares forever.
The Witch's cry wasn't the cackle from stories meant to frighten children. It was primal, agonized—the sound of someone in unbearable pain. The water sizzled against her green skin like acid, and Dorothy watched in mounting horror as that skin began to bubble and dissolve, a sight her mind rejected even as her eyes recorded every terrible detail.
"What... what have you done?" The Witch's voice was barely recognizable now, raw with pain. Her long fingers clawed at her face as it began to melt like wax, her features distorting. "You cursed brat! Look what you've done!" The Witch's voice cracked as she began to sink, her black robes pooling around her like spilled ink. "I'm melting, melting... I'm melting! Melting! Oh, what a world! What a world! Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?"
Through her horror, Dorothy barely registered the reactions of her companions. The Lion had retreated to a corner, whimpering. But the Scarecrow... he had gone terrifyingly still, his burlap hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, his whole body rigid with what looked horribly like grief. And the Tin Man—who had been so determined to face the Witch—had frozen in place, his metal joints locked up completely as he watched her dissolve. The Witch's eyes found Dorothy's in those final moments—startlingly human eyes, filled not with evil but with agony and something else... something that looked terrifyingly like forgiveness. Her mouth opened in one last gasp, so soft Dorothy almost missed it: "Fiye...ro..."
The Scarecrow lunged forward with a strangled sound, his painted face twisted in anguish, but it was too late.
The Witch—no, Dorothy thought with sudden, sickening clarity, the woman—collapsed into a steaming puddle of black cloth and liquid. The awful sound of her dissolution echoed off the castle walls, mixing with the scent of burning cloth and something worse, something Dorothy's mind refused to process.
"I...I killed her," Dorothy whispered, her voice small and broken in the sudden silence. "I didn't... I never wanted..." She pressed her hands to her mouth, fighting back waves of nausea. The silver slippers on her feet felt like shackles now, weighted with the horror of what she'd done.
The castle erupted into celebration around them—the guards cheering, the winged monkeys swooping in joyous circles. But Dorothy couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't take her eyes off the place where the Witch had stood. She watched, barely breathing, as the Scarecrow moved forward with slow, careful steps. He gathered up the Witch's fallen hat, his movements gentle, almost reverent. When he thought no one was looking, she saw him tuck something else into his straw-filled sleeve—something that glinted like an emerald ring.
"We... we should go," the Scarecrow said finally, his voice rough and strange. "Now."
"But shouldn't we—" Dorothy began, looking at the heap of black cloth, remembering the photograph, the pain in those final moments.
"There's nothing left to do here," the Tin Man cut in, his words coming out hollow and forced. "Nothing at all."
As they hurried from the castle, Dorothy noticed how neither the Scarecrow nor the Tin Man would look at each other, how they kept their faces turned away from the spot where the Witch had... had died. It was almost as if they were hiding something—grief, perhaps? But that was impossible. They had all wanted the Witch defeated. Hadn't they?
The words of two winged monkeys she'd overheard earlier came back to her now, their strange, almost human voices filled with sorrow: "Miss Elphaba still mourns her," one had said. "First Miss Nessa, then Master Fiyero..."
The name "Elphaba" stuck in her mind as they fled the castle. It seemed too... ordinary for someone supposedly so wicked. Too human. Too real.
And who was Fiyero? Why had that name been the Witch's last word? Why had the Scarecrow moved with such gentle reverence as he gathered her possessions?
Dorothy shivered as they descended the winding stone staircase, each step taking them further from what had happened above. The silver slippers made a hollow sound against the steps, a quiet rhythm that seemed to echo the last syllables of the Witch's final word: Fi-ye-ro, Fi-ye-ro.
The castle's celebration faded behind them, but Dorothy couldn't shake the feeling that she was leaving something unfinished, some truth just beyond her grasp. She thought of the photograph—two young women laughing in the sun before everything had changed. She thought of the way the Witch's eyes had softened when she spoke of loss, of the strange gentleness in her voice when she'd threatened the Scarecrow.
"Dorothy?" The Tin Man's voice was gentle and concerned. "We need to keep moving."
She nodded, but as they stepped out into the cool night air, she cast one last look at the tower window where it had all happened. A strange green light seemed to linger there, like the afterimage of something too bright to look at directly.
The Scarecrow walked ahead of them, his straw-filled frame rigid with something that looked like grief. The Witch's hat was clutched in his burlap hands, and every so often his other hand would drift to his sleeve, where Dorothy knew the emerald ring was hidden.
Some stories, Dorothy realized as they made their way down the mountain path, didn't end with answers.
Some stories left you with questions that echoed long after the last page, like thunder rolling across distant hills—or like a name whispered with a witch's final breath.
THEY walked until the Witch's castle was just a dark shape against the storm-threatening sky. No one spoke. No one could. The weight of what had happened seemed to press down on them like the heavy clouds overhead. The mountain path stretched endlessly before them, its jagged edges and loose stones making every step a careful negotiation.
Dorothy's legs ached from hours of walking, and the thin soles of her shoes did little to protect her feet from the harsh terrain. Toto wriggled in her arms, his tiny whimpers a mirror of the unease that churned within her. The others were quiet. Too quiet. The Tin Man walked at her side, his joints squeaking faintly with each movement, his axe still clutched tightly in his metal hand. Behind them, the Lion trudged with his head low, his usual bluster replaced by a somber silence. And ahead, the Scarecrow moved stiffly, his burlap shoulders hunched as though against a cold wind only he could feel. Dorothy's mind raced, replaying the events at the castle over and over again.
The Witch's final moments echoed in her ears—the scream, the hiss of water against green skin, the terrible words that had sounded less like a curse and more like a plea: "Fiye...ro..."
The bile rose in her throat again, and she stumbled to the side of the path, barely making it to a patch of rough grass before retching violently.
"Dorothy!" the Tin Man cried, dropping to his knees beside her. His hollow voice wavered, his metal fingers hovering awkwardly near her shoulder. "Oh, my goodness, are you alright?"
Dorothy shook her head, unable to answer as another wave of nausea wracked her body.
The Lion, who had been trailing behind, let out a worried whimper. "Gee, Dorothy, you don't look so good. Shouldn't we—uh—sit a spell? Maybe a nice nap would fix ya right up?" His voice was shaky, his usual bravado nowhere to be found.
"I... I can't," she gasped, her voice trembling. "I can't keep going like this." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her whole body shaking.
The Scarecrow stopped but didn't turn around. "We don't have time to stop," he said, his voice flat and distant. "The Wizard's waiting and we've got what he asked for."
Dorothy wiped at her mouth with trembling hands, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. "I—I can't," she stammered. "I can't keep going like this."
The Tin Man hesitated, his polished face reflecting the faint light of dawn. "Dorothy, it's been a rough day for all of us," he said softly, his tone uncertain, "But you didn't have a choice. You did what had to be done, you know. She would have killed us all if you hadn't acted. You did the right thing."
Dorothy's head snapped up, her tear-filled eyes wide and pleading. "Don't say that, Tin Man! Please don't say that!" She pressed her hands to her face, the weight of her guilt threatening to crush her. "I didn't mean to kill her—I-I didn't even know it would happen! I just wanted to stop her!"
The Tin Man reached out, his movements stiff and hesitant, his metal fingers hovering near her shoulder as though unsure whether or not to offer comfort. Finally, he sighed, "Sometimes…the right thing feels like the wrong thing, Dorothy. But that doesn't mean it wasn't necessary. You shouldn't blame yourself. You were trying to save us. That Witch—she was a bad apple, through and through."
"She wasn't all bad!" Dorothy cried, the words spilling out before she could stop them. "She looked... she looked like she was hurting, like she—" Her voice broke, and she shook her head violently. "I didn't want to hurt her. I didn't!"
"Dorothy," the Lion said, his voice soft and uncertain. "Don't take it so hard. I mean, you heard what she said about burnin' the Scarecrow—she wasn't exactly a saint, ya know?"
"Enough!" the Scarecrow's voice cut through the conversation like a knife. He turned to face them, his painted features twisted into something angry and unfamiliar. "You think this is something to celebrate? You think she deserved to die?"
The Tin Man blinked, clearly taken aback. "Well... yes, I do. She tried to kill us, didn't she?"
The Scarecrow's burlap hands clenched into fists. "You don't understand," he said, his voice low and tight. "None of you do."
"Understand what?" Dorothy asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Scarecrow, please—if there's something you know, please tell us."
But the Scarecrow just shook his head, pulling his hat low over his face. "It doesn't matter now," he muttered. "She's gone."
"Hey, what's gotten into you?" the Lion asked, his tail twitching nervously. "I mean, we're all a little shook up, but you're actin' like—like—"
"Like I cared about her?" the Scarecrow snapped. His voice cracked, and he turned away sharply, his shoulders trembling.
The Tin Man stiffened and stepped forward, his axe clinking against the ground. "Now just a minute, Scarecrow. We all wanted her gone. Don't act like you didn't."
The Scarecrow spun around, his movements jerky and frantic. Dorothy flinched, lips agape in disbelief. Her dear friend's painted features were twisted in such a way that made the gentle and kind Scarecrow seem almost unrecognizable.
"Killing her wasn't 'necessary.' It was cruel."
The Tin Man stiffened, his grey eyes widened in disbelief. For a moment, he looked as though the Scarecrow had slapped him. "Cruel? She was a monster! She enslaved the Winkies, tortured those flying monkeys, and tried to kill us—more than once! What would you have done, Scarecrow? Asked her to apologize?"
"I don't expect you to understand," the Scarecrow shot back, his voice rising. "You don't know what she was to—" He cut himself off abruptly, turning away again. His hands trembled as he adjusted the brim of his hat.
Dorothy stepped forward, her heart pounding. "Scarecrow, please. If there's something you know—something about her—tell us."
He didn't answer. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
The Tin Man snorted, his frustration evident. "He's always been strange, but this is—"
"Stop it!" Dorothy snapped, surprising even herself. She turned to the Tin Man, her eyes blazing through her tears. "Can't you see he's hurting? We're all hurting!"
The Tin Man looked taken aback, his axe lowering slightly. "I didn't mean—"
But the Scarecrow raised a burlap hand and cut him off. He turned back toward the path, his head bowed. "We've wasted enough time," he murmured, his voice hollow. "Come along, Dorothy, if you're well enough. We need to keep moving."
As he started walking again, Dorothy noticed something glinting at the edge of his sleeve—a flash of green. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized what it was.
"Scarecrow," she called after him, her voice trembling. "Wait, please! What's that in your sleeve?"
The Scarecrow froze. Slowly, he turned to face her, his painted eyes dark with an emotion she couldn't name. "It's nothing," he said, his voice flat.
Dorothy took a step closer, her gaze fixed on the glint of emerald peeking out from the straw. "Please, Scarecrow," she said, her voice soft and pleading. "Tell me."
The Scarecrow hesitated, his hands trembling at his sides. Finally, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, he said, "It's all I've got left of her."
Dorothy stared at him, her mind reeling. "What do you mean? What was she to you?"
The Scarecrow didn't answer. Instead, he turned and walked away, his straw-filled frame hunched under the weight of something far heavier than anyone could see.
Dorothy watched him go, her heart aching with questions she couldn't yet ask. Behind her, the Tin Man sighed and placed a metal hand on her shoulder.
"Come on, Dorothy," he said softly. "The Wizard's waiting."
Dorothy nodded numbly, her eyes still on the Scarecrow's retreating figure. "Oh yes," she murmured. "The Wizard."
But even as she followed her friends down the path, her thoughts lingered on the Scarecrow—and the secrets he was keeping.
WEEKS had passed since their departure from the Witch's castle, each day blending into the next as they made their way back to the Emerald City. The jagged mountains behind them turned into green hills, and soon, they could see the city's sparkling emerald spires from far away.
Her silver shoes were almost worn out, but Dorothy hardly noticed anymore. The Scarecrow was quieter these days, walking alone a lot. The Tin Man seemed a bit brighter, cleaning his shiny metal body even more than usual, and even the Lion slowly seemed to be gaining more confidence in himself. At the very least, he wasn't jumping at every shadow that spooked him, which Dorothy supposed was an improvement.
As the sun set one evening, painting the sky in pink and orange, they heard the sounds of someone struggling on the path ahead of them. Up ahead on the path, a young woman was struggling with a big bag that kept trying to open and spill everything.
"Oh, come on," they heard her mutter to herself as she readjusted her grip for what Dorothy guessed had to be the hundredth time. "Just a few more miles, Nim, you can do this…oh!" A few books slipped free despite her efforts, and she barely caught them against her chest.
The Tin Man moved forward automatically to help her without waiting. "Please, let me help you," he said, his metal hands already reaching for her burden.
The young woman looked up, startled at the sound of his voice. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, but not with fear-rather with a sort of wondering surprise.
A blush crept along her cheeks as she met his gaze. Her bright yellow blouse peeked out from under a blue skirt, with a crisp white apron dusted from travel. A few careful stitches showed she took good care of her clothes.
"I... thank you, that's very kind, but I couldn't possibly... I mean..." she stammered, then bit her lip. "Though I suppose I'm not doing a very good job on my own, am I?"
There was something so genuine about her awkward rambling that Dorothy felt the knot in her chest loosen slightly. Even the Scarecrow seemed to relax a fraction as he watched the Tin Man carefully take her bag, handling it with a gentleness that belied his metal construction.
Dorothy watched them talk and couldn't help but smile a bit. It had been a long few weeks, and seeing someone new was kind of nice.
The young woman—she couldn't have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three—had a warmth about her that seemed to brighten the evening air. Her dark brown hair fell in soft waves past her shoulders, and though she kept tucking it behind her ear as she spoke, wayward strands would escape to frame her heart-shaped face.
There was something graceful about her despite her clumsiness with the bag, and her wide brown eyes and bright red lips gave her the look of a storybook heroine.
She said her name was Nim, and her clothes looked right for a long walk—sturdy but nice enough to fit right in with the folks of Oz.
"Are you headed to the Emerald City?" the Tin Man asked softly.
"Yes! Well, trying to, at least," Nim tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear, her smile self-deprecating. "Though at this rate, I might get there next year. I'm hoping to find work there—maybe as a seamstress or a royal personal attendant if they'll have me. Maybe even in the library. Sometimes I think I'm better with books than with people…" She trailed off, looking mortified. "And now I'm babbling to strangers. I do that when I'm nervous. Not that you make me nervous, I mean…oh my Oz…"
The Tin Man just smiled at her, and she seemed happy that he understood. He carefully picked up one of her papers that had dropped. "Allow me to help," he repeated.
"Thank you," she said, giving him a grateful look. "I'm not usually so... well, actually, I am usually this scattered," she laughed a little, then looked embarrassed again and fell silent and waited for the others to speak, perhaps in hopes of learning more about them.
They walked together for a while, the Tin Man carrying Nim's bag despite her protests. Dorothy noticed how he kept stealing glances at the young woman when he thought no one was looking, how his metal features seemed to soften whenever Nim laughed at one of his quiet comments. Even the Scarecrow's mood seemed to lift slightly as he watched their interaction, though his painted smile remained tinged with something like sadness.
When they reached the fork in the road where Nim's path diverged from theirs, the Tin Man hesitated. "The palace always needs good people," he said softly. "When you get there, tell them... tell them you know me. Once the Wizard learns we've brought him what he's asked of us...well, it might help."
Nim's eyes widened. "I... thank you. I don't even know your name, though."
"Boq," he said, then seemed to catch himself. "But most just call me the Tin Man now."
"Tin Man," Nim repeated, tilting her head slightly, crinkling her nose as she said his name. A small smile played on her lips. "Though... I think I like Boq better. It suits you somehow." Her cheeks flushed deeper as soon as the words left her mouth.
The Tin Man's metal features seemed to soften, and Dorothy could have sworn she heard a faint whirring from where his heart would be.
"I... I'd almost forgotten how that name could sound," he said quietly.
"Well, I hope... that is, maybe once I'm settled in the city..." Nim trailed off, fiddling with the edge of her apron.
"I'd like that," the Tin Man said softly, handing her bag back with careful hands. His fingers lingered for just a moment as she took it.
Dorothy watched their goodbye with a bittersweet ache in her chest. There was something about their awkward hope that made her think of home—of Kansas, of Aunt Em and Uncle Henry, of a life that seemed a lifetime ago.
The rest of their journey to the Emerald City passed in a blur of green spires and glittering streets. The Wizard's revelation, the hot air balloon, Glinda's arrival—it all seemed to happen too fast and too slow at once.
Before Dorothy knew it, she was standing in the square, the good witch's wand glinting in the sunlight as she revealed the secret that had been literally at Dorothy's feet all along.
The last thing Dorothy saw before the world began to spin was Glinda's gentle smile, her voice carrying the secret of the silver slippers that would take her home.
As Kansas rushed up to meet her, a thousand questions died unspoken on her lips - about the Scarecrow's emerald ring, about the photograph in the castle, about the name "Fiyero" that had been the Witch's final word.
Some mysteries, she would later realize, weren't meant to be solved. Some stories had endings that belonged to others.
THREE years passed beyond the borders of Oz, seasons turning like pages in a forgotten book. Far across the Deadly Desert, where its endless sands finally surrendered to the twilight forests of Ev, a different ending was taking shape.
Here, in the mysterious land where outcasts found refuge, magic still whispered through ancient trees. And if anyone had ventured deep enough into those misty woods, they might have glimpsed a flash of green skin or heard the rustle of straw against leaves - proof that some stories continue long after their supposed end.
The mushrooms only grew in the deepest parts of the Shadowlands, where the mists of Ev curl between ancient trees that had never known an ax's bite. They had found sanctuary here, Fiyero and Elphaba, in this forgotten corner of Ev where the shadows ran thick and the border between kingdoms blurred like watercolors.
Few Ozians dared to cross the Deadly Desert that separated Oz from Ev, and fewer still ventured into these twilight forests where magic hung heavy as morning dew.
The locals called it the Shadowlands—this stretch of Ev's western border where outcasts and wanderers could find refuge. They did not ask questions here. Everyone in the Shadowlands had something to hide, some story they'd rather forget. Even the trees seemed to keep their secrets, their branches weaving together to block prying eyes.
Elphaba moved carefully between the gnarled trunks, her basket half-full of the pale fungi that only appeared after autumn rains. Fiyero worried when she dared to venture this close to the border, but he understood. Unlike him, she still needed to eat.
They'd made a home here, of sorts—a small tumble-down cottage hidden in the perpetual twilight, where his straw stayed dry and her green skin didn't draw stares. Their new home admittedly wasn't much to look at, but Fiyero thought the place had character. Its old stone walls had supposedly stood strong for generations, even if the chimney leaned a little bit to one side these days. The blue front door, now faded like an old summer sky, creaked whenever it rained, and every spring the roof needed fixing.
She was just reaching for a particularly promising cluster of fungi when she heard it: a scream, high and startled, followed by the familiar sound of beating wings.
"Chistery," Elphaba muttered, abandoning her basket. He was supposed to stay near the cottage, but her animal friend had always had a mind of his own. The sound of running feet drew her forward, keeping to the shadows of the massive trees. She caught a glimpse of him through the gnarled branches—her faithful flying monkey swooping playfully through the canopy, clearly enjoying whatever mischief he'd caused. Then Elphaba saw what—or who—he'd frightened.
A young woman, a Munchkin, though tall for one of her kind, nearly reaching Elphaba's shoulder—with warm brown hair falling loose around her shoulders. A simple gold band caught the dim light on her right hand, gleaming softly against her skin. She was wearing what must have once been a fine emerald traveling dress, now trail-worn but still elegant, its practical cut suggesting it was made for long journeys rather than libraries. A weather-stained white scarf was tied at her throat, and her muddy sturdy brown boots showed signs of many miles. She was running blindly through the undergrowth, her basket spilling herbs as she fled from Chistery's aerial pursuit.
"Oh! Oh no, please!" she gasped, stumbling over roots and branches, the heel of her boot nearly catching on a hidden root and causing her to twist her ankle once. "Nice…nice monkey? With…with wings? Oh, my Oz…"
Elphaba should let her run. Should let her flee back to wherever she came from with a story about winged monsters in the Shadowlands. It would be safer that way. But something about her face, about the way she was trying to be polite even in her terror, made her pause. Elphaba watched as the young Munchkin woman tripped over a fallen log and landed hard, her basket flying from her grip. Chistery circled above her, chattering with what Elphaba recognized as concern rather than a threat, though this Munchkin didn't know the difference.
"Chistery," Elphaba called softly. "Enough."
The young woman froze at the sound of Elphaba's voice. Slowly, she turned her head, and she saw the young Munchkin woman's face drain of color as she spotted her among the trees. Her brown eyes went wide with recognition and fresh fear.
"You're…" she whispered hoarsely, pressing herself back against a tree trunk. "You're here. The Wi—the one they said was dead."
Elphaba stepped forward into a shaft of filtered sunlight, letting her see her clearly. No point in hiding what she was, she had already seen her. "Not dead," Elphaba said quietly. "Just exiled."
She swallowed hard, her throat working. Her slender fingers clutched at her green skirt, knuckles white with tension. But there was something else in her face now, beneath the fear—a flicker of…determination?
Chistery landed on a branch above her, tilting his head curiously. Unlike most, she didn't shriek again at his proximity, though the Munchkin did press herself more firmly against the tree.
"I…" Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath before trying again. "I-I've been looking for you."
The words hung in the misty air between them. Above her, Chistery made a soft, inquisitive sound and inched along his branch, clearly intrigued by this strange girl who smelled of Oz.
"Looking for me?" Elphaba kept her voice level, though her fingers twitched with protective magic. "Why?"
"Because of…" She glanced nervously up at Chistery, who was now hanging upside down to get a better look at her. A surprised giggle escaped her before she could stop it, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, mortified.
Chistery, encouraged by the sound, dropped from his branch to the ground near her feet. The Munchkin squeaked but didn't run, her fear warring visibly with curiosity as the monkey began gathering her spilled herbs.
"Oh!" she exclaimed softly. "You don't have to…I mean…thank you?"
Chistery presented her with a sprig of chamomile, his head tilted expectantly. When she gently took it, his face broke into a wide, pleased grin.
"He's actually quite sweet, isn't he?" she said wonderingly, then immediately looked alarmed, as if she'd forgotten whose flying monkey she was talking about.
Elphaba felt her lips twitch despite herself. "When he wants to be. Though he's supposed to be watching our home, not terrorizing travelers."
Chistery had the grace to look sheepish, scratching behind his ear.
"I'm Nim," the Munchkin girl blurted out, then blushed furiously, her cheeks turning pink. "I mean…I don't know if I should…that is…ugh, I'm babbling again, stupid me…" She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders though her hands still trembled. "I-I'm here because of Boq."
The name sent a familiar jolt through Elphaba. Chistery must have sensed her tension because he immediately scrambled back to her side, wings half-spread protectively.
"What about Boq?" Elphaba asked, her voice rougher than she intended, causing Nim to flinch, but to the Munchkin girl's credit, she didn't dare avert her gaze.
Nim wrung her hands together, but she didn't retreat. "He needs…that is, we both need…to understand what happened that day. With his heart. If…if he can be fixed…"
Elphaba's fingers curled at her sides, green knuckles whitening. The spell that had saved Boq's life—and cursed him—still haunted her dreams sometimes.
Elphaba stared at this brave young woman before her, this Nim who had somehow found her way to the Shadowlands of Ev seeking answers about Boq. Her throat felt tight as memories of that wretched day flooded back—Nessarose's desperate spell, Boq's failing heart, her hasty enchantment that saved his life but turned him to tin.
"Who…" Elphaba had to pause, gathering herself. "Who exactly is Boq to you?"
Nim's cheeks flushed pink again, but there was a gentle note of pride in the young Munchkin woman's voice when she answered. "He's my husband."
The words hit Elphaba like a stunning spell straight to the chest. She must have swayed because Chistery made a concerned chirp and steadied her with his wing.
"Your…husband?" she repeated slowly, hardly able to believe her ears. "But Boq, he's…"
"Made of tin?" Nim finished for her, and to Elphaba's astonishment, she smiled. "Yes. And the kindest, gentlest soul I've ever known."
Elphaba sank onto a fallen log, her legs suddenly unable to hold her. "You married him? Even though he's..." she gestured helplessly, unable to finish the sentence.
"Even though he's tin?" Nim's voice grew stronger, more certain. "I fell in love with his heart, not what it's made of. Though I guess that's why I'm here—to understand what happened to his real one."
Elphaba frowned. She watched her face carefully, searching for any sign of deception or madness. But all she saw was love—pure, simple, and true. "You know it was me?" she asked quietly. "That I'm the one who turned him to tin?"
Nim nodded, wringing her hands in her skirt. "He told me everything. About the Witch of the East's spell, how his heart began to shrink, how you saved his life the only way you could." She took a tentative step closer. "He doesn't blame you, you know. Neither do I. We just... we want to understand. And maybe..."
Elphaba's momentary spark of hope died as quickly as it had come. "He doesn't blame me?" She let out a harsh bark of laughter that made Nim flinch. "Don't lie to make me feel better. I know exactly how much he hates me for what I did."
Nim twisted her hands together, then straightened her shoulders. "You're right. He does blame you. He's carried that anger for months." She took a breath. "But I've been having these dreams—dreams of finding you here, alive. When they wouldn't stop, I went to see Old Mother Yackle, a Seer. She told me to follow the twilight path where the desert meets the forest."
"A Seer?" Elphaba scoffed, but something cold settled in her stomach. Seers were rare, their true predictions rarer still. "And you thought you'd just walk into the Shadowlands on the word of some crone?"
"I had to try," Nim said softly. "Because I believe you both deserve the chance to forgive each other."
"Forgive?" The word tasted bitter on her tongue. "You have no idea what happened that day. What I—"
"What you did to save his life?" Nim interrupted, then immediately looked startled at her own boldness.
Elphaba stared at her for a long moment, this strange mix of timidity and courage. Finally, she sighed, suddenly feeling very tired.
"Come on," she said, turning toward the path that led deeper into the woods. "I was planning to make soup, and you look half-starved from your journey. You might as well have some."
Chistery bounced excitedly at the mention of food, making Nim smile despite the tension.
"Thank you," she said quietly, falling into step beside her. "That's very kind."
"It's just soup," Elphaba muttered, but slowed her pace to match Nim's shorter stride. After a few steps, she couldn't help asking, "Where is he? Boq?"
Nim carefully stepped over a fallen branch. "He's waiting at the edge of the Shadowlands. He... he wasn't sure about crossing the border. But he's here." She glanced at her sideways. "He came because I asked him to trust me, even if he couldn't trust you yet."
The walk to the cottage was quiet, broken only by Chistery's occasional chattering as he swooped between the trees above them. As they rounded the final bed in the path, smoke curled from their crooked chimney, and Elphaba's steps faltered.
Fiyero was supposed to wait until she returned before lighting the hearth—he knew how nervous she got about him being anywhere near the fire. She pushed open the blue door to find chaos in their small one-room home.
Fiyero, her beloved scarecrow, was attempting to stir a pot while keeping his straw arms stretched as far from the flames as physically possible. He'd wrapped himself in one of her old cloaks as a makeshift shield, though it was dragging dangerously close to the hearth.
"Fiyero!" Elphaba snapped, making both him and Nim jump. "What in Ozma's name do you think you're doing? You were to wait!"
He turned, the painted smile on his face somehow managing to look sheepish. "I thought I'd surprise you with dinner?" The wooden spoon in his burlap hand dripped something that might have once been broth onto the floor. "Though I'm beginning to think this wasn't my best idea."
Behind her, Nim made a strange sound—something between a gasp and a giggle. The sound was so unexpected in the tension of the moment that Elphaba almost smiled herself—almost. Instead, she strode forward, snatching the spoon from Fiyero's cloth-wrapped hands.
"One spark," Elphaba said, her voice tight with concern, "and you'd go up like a festival bonfire. Back. Now."
"I was being careful," Fiyero protested, but she could see the relief in his movements as he retreated to the far corner. His straw rustled with each step, a sound that had become as familiar to her as her heartbeat.
"The cloak that's currently dragging in front of the fire?" Elphaba arched an eyebrow, rescuing the heavy fabric with quick hands. Her green fingers held the material carefully, checking for any singing along the edges.
When Nim's giggle escaped again, Elphaba turned to find the young woman watching them with wonder in her eyes. "I'm sorry," the Munchkin stammered, her cheeks flushing pink. "It's just... you're just so... normal."
The word hung in the air between them. Elphaba caught Fiyero's painted gaze across the room, seeing in it the same wry amusement she felt. Normal—a green-skinned witch and a talking scarecrow, hiding in the shadows of Ev, arguing about soup and fire safety. She turned back to the ruined pot if only to hide the slight softening of her expression.
"Normal might be stretching it," she muttered, already trying to determine if she could salvage whatever Fiyero had created. The contents looked suspiciously like swamp water. She began adding herbs, hoping to at least make it edible. "Though I suppose 'normal' is relative in Oz these days. Speaking of which..." She paused, her hands stilling over the pot. "We have more company coming. Eventually."
"Oh?" Fiyero's voice was light, but Elphaba could hear the concern beneath it. He settled himself even further from the fire, pressing against the far wall as if trying to become one with it.
"Not who I found," Elphaba said carefully, her fingers resuming their work with the herbs, though her movements were more mechanical now. "Who found us." She drew in a breath that seemed to catch in her chest. "Boq is at the border of the Shadowlands."
The silence that followed felt heavy enough to touch. Elphaba kept her eyes on the soup, but she could feel the weight of both Fiyero's and Nim's gazes on her back. The fire crackled in the hearth, and somewhere outside, Chistery's wings beat against the twilight air. She stirred the pot with more force than necessary, trying to ground herself in the simple task even as her mind raced with all the complications this new development would bring.
Elphaba finally turned from the pot, wiping her hands on her black skirts. The herbs had helped somewhat, though she suspected the soup would never be quite right. Not that it mattered now—her appetite had vanished at the thought of Boq waiting at the border.
"Forgive me. I should introduce you properly," she said, her voice carefully controlled as she gestured between her guests. "Fiyero, this is Nim. Boq's wife."
The last two words still felt strange on her tongue. She watched as Fiyero's painted features shifted in surprise, the burlap of his face crinkling slightly.
"Wife?" he repeated, taking a careful step forward. His straw rustled with the movement, and Elphaba noticed how Nim's eyes widened at the sound, though the Munchkin woman managed not to flinch. "I didn't know he had... that is..." He fumbled for words, which was so unlike him that Elphaba almost smiled despite herself.
"Yes, well, apparently tin men can find love too," Elphaba said and immediately regretted her sharp tone when she saw Nim's face fall slightly. She sighed, adding more gently, "Which I suppose shouldn't be surprising, given present company."
Fiyero's painted smile softened as he looked at her, and Elphaba felt her cheeks warm slightly. Even after all this time, the way he looked at her still made her heart skip.
"It's an honor to meet you," Nim said to Fiyero, her natural warmth seeming to overcome her initial shock. "I've heard so many stories about you, though everyone thought..." She trailed off, clearly unsure how to politely say they'd thought he was dead.
"That I was destroyed by the Wizard's forces?" Fiyero finished for her, his tone light despite the heavy subject. "Stories aren't always what they seem in Oz, are they? Sometimes the villains turn out to be heroes, and sometimes the scarecrows turn out to be princes."
"And sometimes," Elphaba added quietly, stirring the soup again to have something to do with her hands, "the monsters turn out to be just people trying their best to save the ones they love." She looked up to find Nim watching her intently. "Even if they make terrible mistakes along the way."
The fire popped loudly in the hearth, making Fiyero jump slightly and edge further away. Nim noticed, her expression turning curious.
"Is it very difficult?" she asked suddenly. "Being made of something so... different from what you were?" Her cheeks flushed as soon as the words left her mouth. "I'm sorry, that was forward of me. I just... Boq sometimes talks about..."
"About what it's like to be made of tin?" Fiyero finished gently. When Nim nodded, he continued, "It's... an adjustment. But you learn to adapt. To find new ways of being yourself." He glanced at Elphaba. "And it helps when you have someone who sees past what you're made of, to who you are."
Elphaba felt her throat tighten at his words. She turned back to the soup, blinking rapidly.
"Speaking of Boq," she said, her voice rougher than she intended, "we should probably discuss what we're going to do about him standing at our border."
Nim stepped forward, her hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles had gone white. "Please," she said, her voice soft but urgent. "We've come so far. He's been standing at that border for hours, working up the courage to cross it."
Elphaba's green hands stilled over the soup pot. "Courage?" She let out a bitter laugh. "The thing he blames me for stealing from him, along with his heart?"
"Elphaba," Fiyero said quietly from his corner, but she shook her head.
"No, let's be honest about what this is." Elphaba turned to face Nim fully. "Your husband hates me for what I did to him. He has every right to. I turned him into tin—"
"To save his life!" Nim burst out, then immediately covered her mouth with her hands, looking startled at her outburst.
The cottage fell silent except for the crackling of the fire. Even Chistery, who had been watching from his perch near the window, stopped his usual chattering.
"I..." Nim lowered her hands slowly, gathering her courage. "I know what happened that day. About the Witch of the East's spell, about his heart beginning to shrink. He told me everything. Yes, he's angry. Yes, he blames you. But he's also here." Her voice grew stronger. "He didn't have to come. He didn't have to listen when I told him about my dreams, about the Seer's words. But he did. Because somewhere, deep down, I think he wants to understand. To heal."
Elphaba stared at the young woman, seeing the same determination she'd shown in the forest. It was strange, she thought, how someone could seem so timid one moment and so fierce the next when fighting for what they believed in.
"And what if I don't want to heal?" Elphaba asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "What if I deserve his hatred?"
"Fae," Fiyero said, using the old nickname that always made her heart ache. "You don't."
"You didn't hear him screaming," Elphaba said, turning away from them both. "When his heart started shrinking. When I couldn't stop it, couldn't control the spell properly. You didn't see his face when he woke and realized what I'd done to him."
"No," Nim agreed softly. "But I've seen his face every day since I met him. I've watched him polish his tin carefully each morning, seen him help children retrieve kites from trees with his tall metal frame, felt the gentleness in his touch despite his metal hands." She took another step closer to Elphaba. "You gave him that chance. To live, to love, to be more than what your sister's spell would have made him."
The soup began to bubble over, and Elphaba moved it off the fire automatically, her movements automatic. "He's really out there?" she asked finally, not looking at either of them.
"At the edge of the Shadowlands," Nim confirmed. "Just past the twisted oak that marks the border. Please... just talk to him. That's all I'm asking."
Elphaba wrapped her arms around herself, turning away from Nim's pleading face. "No," she said firmly. "Some things are better left in the past. Some wounds shouldn't be reopened."
"Elphaba." Fiyero's voice was gentle as he moved away from his safe corner, despite the fire still crackling in the hearth. The sound of his straw rustling against the wooden floor made her close her eyes tightly.
"Don't," she warned, but he kept coming.
"Look at me," he said softly. When she didn't move, he added, "Please?"
Slowly, reluctantly, she turned. He stood closer than she'd expected, his painted face wearing that expression that always undid her—the one that somehow managed to show all his love for her despite being made of burlap and paint.
"You're the bravest person I know," he said, reaching up to touch her cheek with his cloth hand. "You faced down the Wizard himself. You defied gravity. You saved my life, even when it meant turning me into this." He gestured at his straw-filled body with his free hand. "And I've never once regretted what you did. Never once wished you'd chosen differently."
"That's different," Elphaba protested, but she found herself leaning into his touch despite herself. "You didn't hate me for it."
"No," he agreed. "But I could have. Instead, I chose to understand. To love you more for having the courage to save me, even if it meant changing me forever." His painted smile softened. "Maybe it's time to give Boq that same chance."
Elphaba closed her eyes again, feeling the rough texture of Fiyero's hand against her cheek. Behind them, she could hear Nim holding her breath, waiting. Even Chistery had gone still in his window perch.
"You think I should do this?" she asked quietly.
"I think," Fiyero said carefully, "that you'll never forgive yourself if you don't try."
She opened her eyes to find him watching her with that impossibly tender expression that still made her heart flip, even after all this time. Without thinking, she leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his burlap cheek. He smelled of straw and sunshine and home.
"Fine," she said finally, pulling back to see his painted smile widen. "Fine. Hang it all. I'll talk to him." She turned to Nim, who was watching them with tears in her eyes. "But I make no promises about how this will end."
"That's all I'm asking for," Nim said, relief clear in her voice. "Just a chance."
As Elphaba gathered her shawl and checked that the fire was properly banked, Nim began to pace the small cottage, her hands twisting in her apron.
"Oh dear, oh dear," she muttered, glancing out the window at the darkening sky. "He's going to be so cross with me for being gone this long. I told him I'd only be an hour at most, just to scout ahead, but then I got turned around in these woods—they all look the same, you know, all twisted and dark—and if Chistery hadn't found me..." She paused, looking at the flying monkey with a mixture of gratitude and lingering nervousness. "Though I suppose 'found' isn't quite the right word. 'Terrified' might be more accurate."
Chistery chittered what sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and Elphaba caught Fiyero hiding a smile behind his hand.
"He's probably polishing himself frantically," Nim continued, her words tumbling out faster. "He always does that when he's worried. Polishes until you can see yourself in his tin. Not that anyone needs to see themselves that clearly, I always tell him, but he insists it's soothing and—oh!" She stopped suddenly, eyes wide. "What if he's rusted? It's been hours, and there was that bit of mist earlier..."
"Nim," Elphaba interrupted, unable to help the slight softening of her voice. "Breathe."
"Sorry," Nim said, blushing. "I babble when I'm nervous. And when I'm not nervous. Actually, I just babble in general, which Boq says is charming, but I think he's just being kind because really, who wants to hear about every little thought that pops into my head? Like right now, I'm thinking about how I'm still talking and should probably stop and—"
"Definitely Boq's wife," Elphaba murmured to Fiyero, who chuckled softly.
"I heard that," Nim said, then clapped her hands over her mouth, looking mortified. "Oh! I didn't mean to... that is... oh dear."
"It's fine," Elphaba said, surprising herself with how much she meant it. There was something almost... endearing about Nim's nervous chatter. It reminded her of someone, though she couldn't quite place who. "And I'm sure Boq has enough oil with him. He always was prepared for everything."
"Except flying monkeys," Nim said with a small giggle, then immediately looked guilty for laughing. But Chistery just preened, clearly proud of the chaos he'd caused.
"Well," Fiyero said, carefully making his way to the door while staying well away from any stray sparks from the fire, "shall we go rescue the tin man from his worrying? Before he polishes himself quite literally into next week?"
Nim led them through the twilight forest, though 'led' might have been a generous term for her frequent stops, second-guesses, and nervous circling. Every few steps she would pause, twist her hands in her apron, and look around with increasing uncertainty.
"I'm sure it was this way," she muttered, then turned completely around. "Or was it... oh dear. The trees all look so different in this light. Or maybe they're the same trees? Do trees move in the Shadowlands? I wouldn't be surprised if they did, everything else seems magical here, though that's not very helpful right now and—"
"Nim," Elphaba interrupted, not unkindly. "You're going in circles."
"Oh!" Nim stopped abruptly, causing Fiyero to nearly stumble into her. "I'm so sorry! It's just... everything looked so different when I was running from Chistery, and now I can't quite remember..."
The flying monkey, who had been gliding silently above them, let out an amused chirp. Elphaba shot him a withering look.
"Don't you start," she warned. "This is partly your fault for chasing her in the first place."
Chistery had the grace to look sheepish, scratching behind his ear in a way that made Nim giggle despite her nervousness.
"The twisted oak," Fiyero reminded them gently. "You said that's where Boq was waiting, near the big twisted oak at the border?"
"Yes!" Nim brightened, then immediately dimmed again. "But there seem to be an awful lot of twisted trees here..."
"The border oak is different," Elphaba said, taking pity on her. "It's ancient magic, older than Oz itself. You'd know it if you saw it." She paused, considering. "Which direction did you come from when you first entered the Shadowlands?"
"Well..." Nim bit her lip, thinking. "The sun was in my eyes, so it must have been..." She turned slowly, pointing. "That way! Yes, because I remember thinking how the light made all the leaves look like they were made of gold, and Boq's tin sparkled so brightly I could hardly look at him, and—" She stopped, blushing. "Sorry. Babbling again."
"This way then," Elphaba said, trying to ignore the way her stomach tightened at the mention of Boq. She took the lead, her black dress sweeping over the forest floor as she moved purposefully through the trees. The sooner they did this, the sooner it would be over.
Behind her, she could hear Nim's hurried steps and nervous murmuring to Fiyero: "Do you think he's very angry? He does get cross when he's worried, though he tries to hide it by being extra polite, which honestly just makes it more obvious, and oh, I shouldn't have left him waiting so long..."
"I'm sure he'll just be glad you're safe," Fiyero assured her, his straw rustling as he walked.
Elphaba kept her eyes forward, but she could feel Fiyero's gaze on her back, steady and supportive. She took a deep breath of the twilight air, tasting the familiar magic of the Shadowlands—until suddenly it changed. The magic here was older, wilder. They were getting close.
"There," she said, pointing ahead to where a massive oak tree rose from the mists, its trunk twisted into impossible spirals that seemed to shift when you weren't looking directly at them. "The border oak."
And there, gleaming in the last rays of sunlight that managed to pierce the eternal twilight of the Shadowlands, stood a figure made of tin. The sight of him struck Elphaba like a physical blow. Boq stood rigidly beside the ancient oak, his tin body catching the fading light in a way that made him look like he was burning. He was polishing his arm with fierce concentration—just as Nim had predicted—though Elphaba suspected it was more from anxiety than any real need. His metal surface already gleamed mirror-bright in the twilight.
"Boq!" Nim called out, her voice wavering between relief and nervousness. "I'm here! I'm safe!"
The Tin Man's head snapped up, joints creaking slightly with the sudden movement. "Nim?" His voice was exactly as Elphaba remembered it—that peculiar metallic echo underlying his words. "Where have you been? I've been worried si—" He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of who accompanied his wife. The polishing cloth fell from his metal fingers. "You," he said, and that one word contained years of pain and anger. His tin features might have been frozen in their eternal expression, but Elphaba could hear the storm of emotions in his voice.
"Hello, Boq," she said quietly.
Nim hurried forward to her husband's side, her small hand resting on his metal arm. The contrast was striking—her warm flesh against his cool tin—but there was such natural intimacy in the gesture that Elphaba had to look away. Boq's attention snapped back to his wife, his protective instincts overtaking even his shock and anger. His tin hands moved quickly over Nim, checking for any signs of harm.
"You're covered in leaves," he fretted, carefully picking debris from her hair with his metal fingers. "And your dress is torn—how did your dress get torn? Did something happen? Are you hurt?" His voice took on that particular metallic whine that Elphaba remembered meant he was truly distressed. "I knew I shouldn't have let you go alone. These woods aren't safe, there could be anything in here, wild animals or—"
"Or flying monkeys?" Nim offered with a small, nervous laugh.
"Flying monkeys?" Boq's tin features might have been fixed, but somehow he managed to convey absolute horror. "Nim, did you encounter a—" He caught sight of Chistery perched in the twisted oak's branches and took a protective step in front of his wife. "Stay behind me!"
"Oh! No, dear, it's fine," Nim hurried to explain, touching his arm gently. "Chistery just gave me a little fright, that's all. He didn't hurt me. He actually helped me find my way when I got lost. Well, after he finished chasing me. But that was more playful than scary. Well, scary at first, but then playful. Sort of. I mean—"
"Lost?" Boq's voice went up an octave, making his joints creak. "You got lost? For three hours? In these woods? Alone?" Each question came out more distressed than the last as he continued his inspection of her for injuries. "Your boots are soaked through—did you step in something? Was there quicksand? There could be quicksand. And you're shivering! Here—" He turned and rummaged in Nim's satchel to pull out a worn green cape, the movement accompanied by a series of small metallic clinks.
"Boq, my love, really, I'm fine," Nim protested, but he was already wrapping the cloak around her shoulders, his tin fingers moving with surprising delicacy as he fastened it at her throat.
"You could have caught a cold," he continued, adjusting the fabric with obsessive precision. "Or worse. These woods are full of magic, dangerous magic. And your hair—did you run into branches? Were you running from something? Other than the flying monkey, I mean, which we will discuss later, by the way, because really, Nim, chased by a flying monkey..."
Elphaba watched this display with a mixture of emotions she couldn't quite name. The Boq she remembered had been earnest, yes, but never quite so... fussy. Then again, the Boq she remembered had been in love with Galinda, not this tall Munchkin woman who somehow seemed to both fluster and calm him at the same time.
"And there are scratches on your hands," Boq was saying now, holding Nim's small hands in his larger metal ones. "We should clean these. We have some antiseptic in your pack, Nim, my love. And bandages. And salve. And—"
"Of course you do," Nim said fondly, reaching up to touch his tin cheek. The gesture was so natural, so unthinking, that it made Elphaba's chest ache. "You're always prepared for everything."
"Except, apparently, for my wife wandering off alone into enchanted woods filled with flying monkeys," Boq grumbled, but his voice had lost its panicked edge. He covered her hand with his, holding it against his cheek for a moment. "Don't do that to me again. Please?"
"I won't," Nim promised softly. "Though technically, I didn't wander. I had a purpose. And I found her, just like I said I would."
The tender moment shattered. Boq's posture went rigid again as he turned back to face Elphaba, though he kept Nim's hand firmly in his. The moment of watching him fuss over his wife had almost made Elphaba forget why they were all here. Almost made her forget the years of pain between them. Almost.
The tenderness drained from Boq's tin features as he turned to face her fully, though there was something unmistakably gentle in the way he kept Nim's hand in his. Even in his anger, his movements remained careful, deliberate—as if he was eternally conscious of his metal strength. His joints creaked softly as he shifted, and the red heart clock the Wizard had given him ticked a bit faster, the sound barely audible in the twilight air.
"Miss Elphaba," he said, his voice carrying that familiar metallic timbre, but with an undertone of hurt rather than hatred. "You're really here." Despite everything, he still couldn't quite shake the ingrained politeness, even now. His free hand moved unconsciously to his chest, where his makeshift heart ticked away. "I—I think I need to sit down."
"Boq!" Nim steadied him as he sank rather stiffly onto a fallen log, his metal joints complaining at the movement. The sound of tin striking wood echoed in the twilight.
"Oh dear," he murmured, pulling out his oil can with trembling metal fingers. "My joints always lock up when I'm... when I'm..." He couldn't quite finish the sentence, but his eyes remained fixed on Elphaba as Nim helped him oil his knees.
"I know," Elphaba said quietly. "Emotions were always hard for you, even before..."
"Before you turned me to tin?" His voice quavered, more wounded than angry. "Before I had to seek out the Wizard for this heart that at least lets me feel something?" His words caught with a metallic hiccup, and to Elphaba's astonishment, she saw something that looked suspiciously like tears gathering in his eyes. "Oh dear, not now... Nim, my handkerchief? The waterproof one?"
Nim quickly produced a specially treated cloth from her bag, dabbing gently at his eyes before the tears could cause any rusting. The tender gesture made Elphaba's chest ache—this woman who had known him before the Wizard's gift, who had chosen him even when his chest was completely hollow.
"I'm sorry," Boq said, and for a moment Elphaba wasn't sure who he was apologizing to. "I'm not handling this very well, am I? It's just... seeing you here, after all this time..." He wrung his tin hands together, the metal softly chiming. "I had so many things I wanted to say if I ever saw you again, but now I can't seem to remember any of them."
"Would it help if I said I'm sorry?" Elphaba offered, taking a careful step forward. "Because I am, Boq. More than you could ever know."
He looked up at her, his tin features somehow managing to convey a lifetime of complicated emotions. "I want to hate you," he admitted, his voice small and confused. "I thought I did hate you, for years. But then Nim found me, before the Wizard gave me this heart, and she saw something in me worth loving. She made me see that even without a proper heart, I could still..." He placed his hand over his chest, where the heart clock ticked steadily. "I could still feel things. Real things. Deep things."
"Love," Elphaba said softly, glancing at Fiyero. "Even without a heart of flesh and blood."
"Yes." Boq's tin features softened as he looked at his wife. "And that made me wonder... what if you really were trying to save me that day? What if..." His voice hitched again, and Nim quickly dabbed at his eyes. "What if I've been blaming you all these months for giving me a chance to find this kind of love, even if it had to be... like this?"
The quiet admission hung in the twilight air between them. Elphaba felt Fiyero's straw hand slip into hers, anchoring her as memories of that terrible day threatened to overwhelm her.
"I didn't know what else to do," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Nessa's spell was killing you. Your heart was shrinking in your chest. I could feel it happening, could feel your life slipping away." Her hands trembled, and she felt Fiyero squeeze her fingers gently. "I had seconds to act. Seconds to choose between letting you die or..." She swallowed hard. "Or saving your life the only way I knew how."
"By turning me to tin?" Boq asked, his voice soft and clipped.
"By giving you a chance," she corrected softly. "Even if it wasn't the chance you wanted."
Boq was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the gentle ticking of his heart clock and Chistery's wings rustling in the branches above. Finally, he looked up at her with those colorless grey eyes that had always left her afflicted, even when he'd still been human.
"It wasn't the chance I wanted," he agreed. "But it was the chance that led me to Nim." He turned to his wife with such tenderness that Elphaba had to look away. "And she showed me that even a tin man could love before the Wizard gave me this heart."
"You did more than save his life," Nim said softly, her hand resting on Boq's metal one. "You gave him the chance to find his way to me."
Elphaba felt tears pricking at her eyes and blinked them back furiously. "I never meant to hurt you, Boq. Any of the things I did... they were never meant to cause pain."
"I think," Boq said carefully, his heart clock ticking a bit faster, "that maybe it's time we both stopped carrying the weight of that day." He stood somewhat stiffly, joints creaking slightly. "The past can't be changed, but perhaps... perhaps we can write a different future?"
"I'd like that," Elphaba whispered.
The sun was setting properly now, the eternal twilight of the Shadowlands deepening into true night. Nim looked up at the darkening sky and squeezed Boq's hand. "We should go," she said gently. "It's a long walk back to the border crossing."
Boq nodded, but Nim wasn't finished. She turned to Elphaba and Fiyero, her eyes bright with hope. "But perhaps... perhaps we could come back? In a week or so?" She glanced at her husband, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod. "I'd like to know you both better, and maybe..." She looked between Boq and Elphaba meaningfully. "Maybe with time, old wounds could heal?"
"We'd like that," Fiyero said warmly when Elphaba seemed too overcome to speak.
Before they left, Nim stretched up on her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to Boq's tin cheek. Despite his metal features, his expression somehow managed to convey complete adoration as he bent down to return the kiss properly, his the hands of his heart clock ticking a bit faster at the contact. There was such tenderness in the way his tin hands cradled her face that Elphaba had to look away, feeling like she was intruding on something private.
They watched as the couple made their way back through the twilight forest, his tin form gleaming occasionally between the trees, Nim's hand tucked securely in his, until they disappeared entirely. Only then did Elphaba allow herself to lean heavily against Fiyero, her face pressed into his shoulder.
"Are you alright?" he asked softly, his straw arms wrapping around her.
"I don't know," she admitted, her voice muffled against him. "I never thought... after all this time..."
"That forgiveness was possible?" His painted smile was gentle as he tilted her face up to his.
"That hope was," she whispered.
Fiyero brushed a tear from her green cheek with his cloth thumb. "My clever witch," he said fondly. "For someone so brilliant, you can be remarkably blind sometimes." When she looked confused, he continued, "Love transformed me from a thoughtless prince into a thinking scarecrow. It transformed Boq from a hollow tin man into someone capable of loving Nim, even before the Wizard's heart. And it transformed you from someone who thought she was wicked into someone who has always, always been wonderful."
"Flatterer," she muttered, but she was smiling now, even as more tears slipped down her cheeks.
"Only because it's true." He pressed his burlap lips to her forehead. "And now, thanks to Nim, we might have a chance at something we thought we'd lost forever."
"What's that?"
"A future with friends," he said simply. "A chance to be more than just hiding in the shadows."
Elphaba looked up at the stars now visible through the trees, at the eternal twilight that had been their sanctuary for so long.
"Maybe," she said softly, "it's time for both of us to step a little more into the light."
Fiyero cupped her face in his cloth hands, his burlap thumbs gently wiping away the last of her tears.
"We'll do it together," he whispered, and then he was kissing her, his painted lips soft against hers. She melted into him, breathing in his familiar scent of straw and sunshine, feeling the gentle rustle of his form against her. At that moment, it didn't matter that he was made of straw or that her skin was green—they were simply Fiyero and Elphaba, and they were home.
Above them, Chistery swooped through the branches, his wings stirring the eternal twilight of their sanctuary, as if the very air of the Shadowlands was sighing with the possibility of new beginnings.