BOQ had faced witches, spooks, and winged monkeys, but somehow, leading Ryn to the palace gardens felt more terrifying than all of that. Each step toward the palace gardens felt like fighting against rusted joints, his mechanical frame betraying the very human fear beneath his tin surface. Thunder rumbled in the distance as they walked past the fountains where tiny emerald fish darted through crystal-clear pods, their scales catching what little light penetrated the gathering clouds.
The morning sun now struggled against the advancing black and purple storm clouds, occasional breaks in the gray casting his tin form in strange shadows that made him painfully aware of his metallic nature. Each time the light caught his surface, he couldn't help but wonder what Ryn saw—a man, or merely the hollow echo of one?
His fingers tapped nervously against his leg, creating a soft tinkling rhythm that seemed to count down the moments until he'd have to tell her everything. The green ribbon they'd shared still felt warm where her hand had touched it, though, of course, he knew that was impossible. His tin couldn't hold warmth, couldn't truly feel. Yet somehow, the memory of Ryn's touch lingered.
"Th-there's a quiet spot just ahead," he managed quietly, gesturing toward a secluded alcove where climbing roses swayed restlessly in the wind. The flowers reminded him painfully of the pink roses he'd once brought Glinda, but these blooms were different - wild and untamed, like the choice he was about to make. "By that—" His voice caught as Ryn moved closer. "That is, i-if you'd like to…"
Lurline help him, why couldn't he string two words together into a coherent sentence? He would have thought after years at Shiz he'd have mastered basic conversation. But something about Ryn made him feel like that stammering first year again—only now his nervousness manifested in squeaking joints and stuttering rather than blushing cheeks.
Ryn nodded, clutching herself as another gust of wind rippled through the garden. She had no coat or shawl to keep warm, and Boq felt a familiar phantom ache in his hollow chest—the desire to offer her warmth and comfort, coupled with the bitter knowledge that he couldn't. His tin frame would only make her colder.
"It's—it's like something from a dream," Ryn said softly, her voice coming low and tremulous. "I-I never imagined there could be a place like this here," she admitted, her words soft and wondering. She gave him a quick, nervous smile before gazing at her shoes. "I mean, not that we had anything quite so grand back in Munchkinland—not that I'm comparing! The palace gardens are much more—" She trailed off, biting her lip, her fingers plucking restlessly at her apron hem.
The wind tugged at her hair, loosening strands from her neat braids. Boq's fingers twitched with the insane desire to brush them back, but he curled his hands into fists instead. The scrape of metal against metal centered him and reminded him of what he was. What he wasn't.
He wanted desperately to freeze this moment—just them, the roses, and the strange half-light that made everything feel suspended between one breath and the next. But Glinda's words about Elphaba's flying monkeys kept echoing in his hollow chest, along with that horrible crone Mother Yackle's cryptic warnings about winter's teeth and breaking things.
Above them, dark storm clouds gathered like a bad omen, and a few heavy drops began to fall, making him flinch instinctively. How could he tell Ryn what lay ahead? How could he explain that just when something beautiful might be beginning between them, he was being called away, back to the Haunted Forest, back to Kiamo Ko, back into the darkness?
A distant flash of lightning illuminated the garden, and for a moment, Boq caught their reflection in one of the fountain pools—Ryn's warm, living presence beside his cold, metallic form. The contrast made his joints nearly lock up painfully.
"Ryn, I…" His words caught in his throat like rusty cogs as they reached the rose-covered alcove. A stone bench rested amid the blooms, shielded from the scattered raindrops by the arching canopy. He was pathetically relieved the bench offered protection from the rain that could make him rust, though he hated himself for thinking of his comfort at a moment like this. "There's—something I need to tell you about why Lady Glinda called for me this morning."
She turned to look at him then, her brown eyes wide with concern, and he noticed how the roses behind her matched the hints of copper in her chestnut brown hair perfectly. Of course they did. Everything beautiful seemed to echo her now, even as his mission threatened to pull him away.
The thunder growled closer, and Boq knew he was running out of time—in more ways than one. His hand curled tightly around the green ribbon they'd shared. The silk was delicate against his metal hands, continuously slipping through his fingers, like everything else about this fragile moment.
"Whatever it is," Ryn said, her voice dipping so softly it almost fell away. She glanced down, her lashes brushing her cheeks, then peeked up again, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She reached out as if to touch his arm, then hesitated, her hand hovering in the space between them like a question he didn't know how to answer. "You can tell me..."
The heart clock on his chest ticked louder, the sound echoing against his hollow frame. Tick. Tick. Tick. Like a countdown to the moment he'd have to watch that gentle concern in her eyes turn into something else. Understanding? Horror? Pity? He wasn't sure which would be worse.
"Elph—the Witch's flying monkeys," he began, his voice emerging as a hoarse whisper. "In the Vinkus a-at Kiamo Ko. They're—" He forced himself to meet her gaze, though every bolt and rivet in his body screamed at him to look away. "They're causing trouble. Hurting people. And Lady Glinda has asked me to…" The words stuck in his throat like corroded metal. "To deal with them."
Ryn's fingers froze mid-twist in her apron, her face draining of color so quickly that Boq instinctively reached for her, the heart clock pinned to his chest ticking louder with anxiety.
"The Vinkus? Near the Witch's castle?" Her voice cracked on the castle's name. "Oh Lurline, no, no..." She pressed her hands to her mouth, brown eyes wide with terror.
"Ryn? What is it?" The ticking of his external clock echoed off the garden walls, marking each second of her distress like a countdown. "What is it?"
"My father," she choked out, grabbing his tin arm with trembling fingers. "He's—he's traveling through there right now. He's on the trade route to Red Windmill, he should be passing Kiamo Ko any day now!" Her voice rose with panic. "Boq, if those creatures are attacking villages—" She couldn't finish the sentence, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
The ticking of his clock seemed to falter as he watched fear overtake her features. He'd thought telling her about his mission would be the hardest part but seeing her so frightened made his joints want to seize up entirely. His tin fingers carefully covered her hand where it clutched his arm, and for once, he wasn't thinking about whether it was uncomfortable for her or not.
"I'll find him," he soothed, though his voice shook. "I-I promise you that, Ryn. I won't let any harm come to your father."
Thunder boomed overhead, making her jump with a tiny squeak. A few heavy drops of rain broke through the rose canopy, sizzling against Boq's tin surface. Despite the threat of rust, he found himself more concerned with how she shivered in the cold.
"I—" Ryn's voice caught as she twisted her hands together. Her next words tumbled out in an anxious rush: "Please, could I—that is, would it be terribly forward if—if I came with you?" Her eyes went wide at her own daring, and she quickly added, color rising in her cheeks, "I know I'm not very brave, and I'd probably just be in the way, but he's my father, and I—" She drew in a shaky breath. "I want to help."
The heart clock pinned to Boq's chest skipped and stuttered. "Oh, Ryn." His voice caught, oil tears welling in his eyes before he could stop them. "Please don't ask me that. If anything happened to you out there..." His tin fingers curled into fists at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for her. "I couldn't bear it."
"But my father—"
"I know," he whispered, one machine oil tear escaping to trail down his tin cheek. "But the flying monkeys..." His hand went to the clock on his chest. "You haven't seen what they can do. What they've become without...her. They're dangerous."
"Then...then maybe they need someone to see what they are," Ryn suggested softly, taking a small step closer. Her hand lifted as if to brush away his tears, then hesitated. "The way I...the way I see you."
The simple words made his joints feel like they might melt. More tears fell, leaving dark trails down his tin face. "But Lady Glinda wants me to..."
"To...to kill them?" Ryn's voice was barely audible. She met his gaze, something warm and understanding in her brown eyes that made him freeze. "Is that what you want?"
"What I want doesn't matter," Boq said, his voice catching as he turned away. "I have to do what's right for Oz."
"Like the Witch did what was needed to you?" Ryn blurted, then immediately covered her mouth with both hands. "Oh! I-I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have—that was terrible of me, I just..." She wrung her hands. "Sometimes things aren't what they seem, are they?"
"No," Boq said softly, turning back to her. "You're...you're not wrong." He wiped at his tears with shaking tin fingers. "But that's exactly why you can't come. I couldn't bear it if..." He paused, suddenly aware of how his heart clock's ticking had grown louder. "That is—it wouldn't be safe."
"I know I'm not very brave," Ryn admitted, studying the roses beside them. "And we hardly know each other. But..." She gathered her courage to look up at him again, raindrops catching in her lashes. "But we know each other now, don't we? And sometimes it helps to have someone else see things differently. Even if they're just...just a girl who does hair."
The echo of their conversation from the salon made his heart clock falter. "You're more than that," he said softly, then froze at his boldness. "I-I mean..."
"Like you're more than tin?" she suggested, a shy smile touching her lips as the color rose in her face like dawn. She ducked her head, but not before Boq caught the warmth in her eyes that made his entire frame feel lighter somehow, despite the gathering storm.
Yackle's warnings resonated in his hollow frame—winter's bite, things breaking... Yet, looking at Ryn's determined face, Boq was reminded of how differently she saw him compared to Glinda's curt dismissal that morning. His heart clock faltered, ticking unevenly as he made his choice.
Finally, Boq spoke, his voice soft and wavering.
"Tomorrow at dawn," he said, the words creaking out like an old hinge giving way. "You'll need warm clothes and sturdy boots." His fingers fidgeted, scraping faint scratches into the metal as he hesitated. "But first—you have to promise me something."
"What is it?"
His eyes flickered toward hers, then away. "If things go wrong…if it gets too dangerous…promise me you'll run. Even if it means leaving me behind."
"I promise," Ryn said, though they both knew it wasn't the truth.
He exhaled shakily, relief mixed with doubt. "Good." Thunder cracked overhead, making them both jump. Boq's tin fingers clenched reflexively, the screech of metal against metal matching his anxiety. "We should—that is, you should get some rest. It's a long journey to Kiamo Ko, and the roads..." He trailed off, remembering his own perilous travels through Oz. "Well, they're not what they used to be."
Ryn nodded, but hesitated, her hands still finding purchase in fistfuls of her apron "Boq?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "Thank you. For letting me come. For—for understanding" about my father."
A drop of rain slid down his tin cheek, mixing with the remnants of his oil tears.
"Just remember your promise," he said softly, his clockwork heart ticking faster as she stepped closer to shelter from the rain. "If anything happens—"
"Nothing will happen," she interrupted with a flash of determination that surprised them both. Then, more quietly: "We'll find my father, and find a way to help the flying monkeys too." She gave him a tremulous smile. "After all, you're not just any tin man. You're one of the Four who helped save Oz."
The words hit him like a physical blow, memories flooding back in a rush. He turned away slightly, not wanting Ryn to see how deeply her words affected him. "That was...different."
A low rumble of thunder made Ryn flinch, the sudden lightning illuminating their faces. Their eyes met briefly, the storm echoing something fragile and unspoken between them. Both looked away. Boq cleared his throat, gesturing at the growing drizzle.
"We should get inside," he said, his voice tight with nervousness. "Before I rust."
Ryn offered a faint smile and took a step toward the palace. "Thank you," she murmured, "for letting me come. And for…for understanding."
He hesitated, then replied softly, almost to himself, "Thank you for seeing me." The words lingered in the damp air between them, deeper than either dared to acknowledge.
A drop landed on his shoulder with a telltale hiss, breaking the moment. Ryn's hand lifted instinctively to shield him, but she froze mid-gesture. Something in the garden had changed. The roses shrank back against their trellises as if in fear, and the wind carried a sour, ancient smell—like dusty grimoires and forgotten crypts. Even the rain felt wrong now, falling in an unnatural pattern that made Boq's tin skin crawl.
Then came the voice—thin, cracked like ancient parchment, and painfully familiar.
"Tick-tock goes the heart clock, counting down the hours," the voice sang in a discordant whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Boq's joints seized up with a metallic shriek. The oily smears she'd left on his chest plate still felt fresh, her warnings about the Scarecrow and winter's teeth echoing in his hollow frame.
"Not again," he choked out, his tin hands moving instinctively to shield Ryn. "Haven't you said enough?"
"Such pretty things you both are," the voice continued, "dressed up in flesh and tin, playing at the beginnings of love while winter's teeth grow sharp." A dry, rattling laugh filled the air. "But time has other plans for you, my dears. Oh yes, such different shapes you'll wear before the storm breaks..." The old crone emerged from the shadows, that terrible yellowed flesh and sulfurous eyes now fixed not on him, but on Ryn.
The sight of those gnarled fingers reaching toward Ryn made his heart clock stutter in terror. This was worse - so much worse - than when she had tormented him alone.
Ryn stiffened beside him, her grip tightening on his arm. "Boq," she whispered nervously, "who—who is that?"
"A tired old broad who knows what she knows, dearie," Yackle interrupted as Boq parted his lips to speak, the old crone leaning heavily against a crooked walking stick for support. Her sulfurous eyes fixed on Ryn, ignoring Boq entirely. "And what I know, my dear, is that your path is a peculiar one. So soft. So breakable." Her oily fingers wove through the air as if pulling invisible threads. "You think you're here by your choosing, don't you? That fate's hands aren't already weaving your tomorrow?"
She shuffled forward, her clouded eyes never leaving Ryn's face. "I see you running, pet. Running and falling and being remade." Her gnarled hand shot out suddenly, making Ryn jump as bony fingers pointed at her chest. "The shape of you now isn't the shape you'll keep. What breaks can be bound anew."
Ryn pressed herself against Boq's side, her heart hammering. "Please," she whispered, "I don't—"
"Hush now," Yackle crooned, circling them slowly. Her voice grew singsong, almost mocking. "Such a pretty thing you are. But pretty things change so strangely, don't they? The storm's coming for you, dearie. Coming to unmake what was and make what must be." She cackled, her fingers dancing in that strange weaving motion again. "When green fire burns and choices fall like autumn leaves, remember - sometimes survival wears a different face than the one we're born with."
She laughed, the sound like shattering glass tumbling down stairs. "Hearts are fickle things, girl. They beat the same in any form if love is strong enough."
Ryn's eyes widened, and she glanced at Boq in confusion, her face pale. "I...I don't understand. What—what are you talking about?"
But Yackle's gaze turned to Boq, sharp and knowing. "Such a gallant protector, a real tin soldier," she crooned mockingly. "But even gallantry has its limits, doesn't it, Tin Man? Some changes can't be undone. Some magic leaves marks that never fade." She tapped her walking stick against the ground three times, each strike making Ryn flinch. "Time's running out, running out, running out."
"That's enough. Leave her alone." Boq barked, his voice louder than he intended, words carrying a subtle mechanical undertone. His tin face was set in determined lines. "You've said your piece. Now go."
"Plain words aren't for old Mother Yackle, dearie," Yackle replied, her grin fading into something quieter, more solemn. Her voice dropped to a whisper that seemed to echo in their heads. "But mark me well, Tin Man. Her fate is bound to yours now. See that you don't lose her in the storm that's coming. This one has something far more to give." She leaned close to Ryn, who couldn't look away from those milky eyes. "And give you will, little one. Whether you want to or not."
Boq felt his face freeze and his anger swell, but before he could part his lips to speak, a deafening roar suddenly split the morning air, making the roses tremble on their vines and sending a shower of dewdrops cascading from their petals. Thunder rumbled low as Yackle's head snapped up, her twisted grin faltering for the first time.
Heavy footfalls approached, accompanied by the rustle of straw. Another roar split the heavy air, and Boq's tin body froze with recognition.
That sound—he knew it well. Moving quickly, he stepped protectively in front of Ryn, his arm extending to shield her as the echoes of the storm rolled through his hollow frame.
Relief washed through him as the Lion burst from the mist-shrouded path, his massive form a welcome sight. And behind him—Boq's tension eased—Scarecrow appeared, moving with that peculiar grace he'd always possessed. But the easy smile he'd grown used to was missing from his friend's sewn face, replaced by something far more serious.
"Now, what's all this?" Scarecrow drawled, though Boq caught the edge beneath his casual tone. "Here I am, looking all over for you, Tin Man, and instead I find—" his painted eyes narrowed slightly "—someone who ought to know better than to lurk in gardens frightening young ladies."
Lion's massive form pressed against Boq's side, creating a protective wall around Ryn. His growl echoed through Boq's tin body, matching the distant thunder. Boq wanted to step forward, to face Yackle himself, but something in the old crone's milky gaze kept him still, his metal limbs rigid.
"If it isn't the brainless wonder," Yackle cackled, though she took a step back as lightning flickered behind the clouds. "Still dancing through life, are we? Or should I say... stumbling?"
Boq watched something flicker across Scarecrow's face—too quick for him to interpret—before he gave that easy smile Boq knew so well.
"Well, you know me. Never was much good at standing still." His friend moved forward with that strange grace of his, positioning himself between them and Yackle. "Speaking of moving, though, I think it's time for you to do just that."
"Ah, such loyalty, straw man," Yackle's grin widened impossibly. "But tell me, Scarecrow—when the witch winds rise again, where will your loyalties lie then? With old friends or older promises?"
Boq's tin hands clenched at her words, the hollow sound barely audible beneath Lion's deepening growl. This wasn't how he'd wanted his goodbye to go.
"Now that's enough of that kind of talk. Be gone, or I'll call for the guards," Scarecrow said, then glanced back, his painted features softening. "Tin Man—I actually came to say goodbye before heading West. Didn't expect to find…this."
"The West calls to more than just you, dearie," Yackle crooned, her milky eyes fixed on Ryn. Boq shifted to block her view, his tin frame creaking with the movement. "Remember what old Yackle said, pet. The storm is coming, whether they shield you or not."
She began to shuffle backward into the shadows, her twisted form seeming to blur at the edges like ink running in rain. The darkness beneath the rose arbor reached for her like grasping fingers, and as it enveloped her, her final words lingered in the thunder-laden air: "Sleep tight, pretty little thing. Changes come whether we welcome them or not."
Once she was gone, Boq watched his friend's shoulders relax slightly, though something troubled remained in those painted eyes. He wanted to ask about the West, about those "older promises" Yackle had mentioned, but Scarecrow was already turning to Ryn with a gentler smile.
"Don't let her get to you," he said gently to Ryn, straw rustling as he adjusted his hat. "These mysterious types always did have a flair for the dramatic." Then those painted eyes met Boq's, warming with that familiar gleam of mischief that reminded Boq of a forgotten memory. "Though I must say, my friend, you do seem to find yourself in the most delightfully complicated situations these days." He glanced between them with a knowing smile that made his burlap face scrunch just so. "Not that I blame you in the slightest."
Boq felt Ryn's hand brush against his tin arm, and he felt his heart clock skip a tick as he was suddenly aware of how close she was standing. Even Lion seemed to be wearing something close to a smirk.
"We should get inside," Lion rumbled, though Boq caught the amused twitch of his whiskers. "Before our stuffed friend here gets any more ideas about playing matchmaker in the rain."
"I'm just saying," Scarecrow grinned, leaning casually against a rose pillar, "it's nice seeing someone make our tin friend here shine a little brighter." He tapped his own cloth temple. "Even I can see the way you light up when she's around, and I'm supposed to be the one without a brain."
Boq was sure that if he could still, he would have blushed. "I-I don't—that's not—I have to leave," he blurted out, desperate to change the subject. The words fell between them like lead weights, silencing Scarecrow's teasing. "Tomorrow at dawn. Lady Glinda has…has asked me to handle something. In the West."
Scarecrow went very still. "The West?" His voice had lost its playful edge. "What's happening in the West?"
"The flying monkeys," Boq said quietly. "They've…they're out of control. Taking children. The Winkies want them…" He couldn't finish the sentence.
Something flickered across the Scarecrow's painted features that Boq couldn't quite read.
"I see," Scarecrow said softly, adjusting his hat. "Well, what a coincidence. I'm heading West myself, though…" he paused, his voice taking on a distant quality, "my path takes me deeper into the mountains. Old business to attend to."
"You could come with me," Boq said hopefully, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "To help with the monkeys. And…" he hesitated, then admitted, "Ryn's coming too."
"She's coming with you?" Scarecrow's painted features shifted into something unreadable, his voice sharpening. "To Kiamo Ko?"
"My father's in danger," Ryn spoke up softly, her voice barely audible over the thunder. She twisted her hands together nervously. "He—he's been traveling the trade route to Red Windmill. When I got this position two weeks ago, I sent a letter to our village telling him the news. But two nights ago, a merchant caravan arrived with word that no one had seen his trading party since they passed through the Glikkus. And now with what you're saying about the flying monkeys near Kiamo Ko..." She ducked her head, but her voice grew stronger. "That's right where his route would take him. I-I know I won't be much help with the monkeys, but..." Her words trailed off as if embarrassed by her boldness in speaking up.
"The Haunted Forest is no place for—" Lion began gruffly, then caught himself, his expression softening as he looked at Ryn. "But then again, none of us were ready for our first journey West, were we?" He cast a meaningful look at Scarecrow.
"No," Scarecrow said, more firmly than Boq had ever heard him speak. Then, gentler, seeing Ryn's crestfallen expression: "My path lies elsewhere in the West. Places I need to…visit alone." He adjusted his hat, a strange urgency in his movements. "But Tin Man, those mountains and the Haunted Forest…" He seemed to struggle with his words. "Just…be careful. The West isn't as empty as people think."
Lion rumbled in agreement, his tail still lashing anxiously at the storm. "Those monkeys were bad enough when they had someone controlling them," he muttered. "Now..." He trailed off with a low growl that made Ryn jump.
Thunder cracked overhead again, sending another shower of heavy drops that made Boq flinch. Ryn noticed and without a word, stepped closer to him, trying to shield his tall tin frame with her tiny form. The gesture was futile—she was far too small to offer much protection—but something in his hollow chest warmed at her attempt.
"Sweet Lurline," Lion grumbled, shaking his mane as water sprayed everywhere. "I hate getting my fur wet." But his eyes kept darting between Boq and Ryn, his nostrils flaring as if catching the scent of coming trouble.
"Better wet than rusted," Scarecrow replied, but his painted features held that strange, knowing look that made Boq think of Yackle's words about princes hiding in straw. The way his friend watched Ryn suggested he knew more than he was saying about what waited in the West.
The group made their way through the rain to the shelter of the palace's marble halls, their footsteps echoing in strange harmony - his tin feet clanking, Lion's claws clicking, Scarecrow's soft rustling, and Ryn's gentle steps. As Lion shook out his mane, spraying water everywhere, Scarecrow drew Ryn aside.
"You know," he said quietly, his painted face thoughtful, "most people look at him and just see tin. But you..." He adjusted his hat, choosing his words carefully. "You see past that, don't you?"
"I-I just see him as he is," Ryn whispered, a faint ghost of a shy smile tugging at her lips. "That's not... that's not special."
"Isn't it?" Scarecrow's sewn smile held a hint of something deeper. "In my experience, really seeing someone - that's rarer than you'd think." His voice took on that strange distant quality again. "Especially in Oz."
"Thank you," Ryn whispered, her voice small but steady. "Both of you."
Scarecrow tipped his hat to her. "You're braver than you think, Miss Ryn." Something in his voice made Boq wonder what he wasn't saying. "Sometimes the greatest courage is just being there for someone who needs you."
"Oh! Speaking of people who need me—" Ryn's voice trailed off as her eyes suddenly went wide with horror, her hands flying to her mouth as the memory struck her. "Mrs. Thistledown! She—she was still waiting when I—" Her fingers twisted nervously in her skirt. "She'll think I'm so irresponsible, just running off like that! And all those ribbons—I should go," Ryn said quickly, stepping back. Her cheeks turned red as she nearly stumbled. "She'll be so upset, and I still need to pack, and…" Her words trailed off. Then she turned to Boq, her voice quiet and unsure. He leaned in to hear her. "I—I'll see you tomorrow?"
The way she said it - half statement, half question - made him nearly freeze.
"Dawn," Boq managed to say, his tin voice gentler than he'd thought possible. "At the eastern gate."
She nodded quickly, gave one last worried glance toward the salon, then hurried down the corridor, her footsteps quick and light against the marble floor. Boq watched her go, aware of Scarecrow and Lion exchanging knowing looks beside him.
"Well," Scarecrow said, breaking the silence as Ryn's footsteps faded, his painted smile not quite reaching his eyes, "I suppose this is goodbye for now." He placed a stuffed hand on Boq's tin shoulder, the gesture oddly formal. "Take care of yourself out there, friend. And her."
Lion stepped forward, his massive form blocking most of the hallway. "I'd come with you if I could," he rumbled, ears flattening. "But the newly vocal Animals here in the Emerald City need me. I can do the most good here helping them adjust." He glanced down the corridor where Ryn had disappeared, then back to Boq. "Watch over each other."
"Tin Man," Scarecrow said, his voice unusually serious. "Whatever you find in those mountains..." He paused, and Boq caught something almost familiar in those painted features - an echo of someone else's careful way of choosing words. "Remember that things aren't always what they appear."
The way he said it made Boq think of Yackle's cryptic words about straw that remembers green skin under moonlight.
Once, he would have dismissed such mysteries, too focused on following Glinda's orders. But now, with Ryn's fate somehow tangled with his...
Before Boq could ask what he meant, Scarecrow turned and strode away, his straw rustling softly. Lion gave him one last concerned look before following, leaving Boq alone in the emerald-tinted hallway as lightning flashed outside. The silence pressed against his tin frame like a physical weight, broken only by the steady ticking of his heart clock.
He found himself straining to hear the last echoes of Ryn's footsteps from earlier, wondering if she was truly prepared for what lay ahead. Yackle's warnings about storms and breaking things tangled with Scarecrow's cryptic words about the West, until his joints felt like they might seize up from the worry of it all.
Oil tears threatened to well up in his eyes as he remembered how easily she'd trusted him, how readily she'd agreed to follow him into danger. His tin fingers curled into fists at his sides, the metal scraping softly against metal.
If anything happened to her because of him...
Thunder cracked overhead, making the emerald walls shiver, and Boq forced himself to move.
Dawn would come whether he was ready or not, and there were preparations to be made if he hoped to keep her safe.
DAWN broke over the Emerald City in shades of pearl and silver. Yesterday's storm had left the air cool and crisp and clean, though wisps of mist still clung to the towers like gossamer veils. Boq stood at the eastern gate, watching the city slowly stir to life. A few early vendors wheeled their carts through the streets, and somewhere a bell tolled the hour. Each chime made his hollow chest dent—what if she'd changed her mind?
His tin fingers moved restlessly over his supplies for the hundredth time. Oil for his joints, his oil can, enough for several days' journey. A few tools in case he needed repairs. Provisions and camping supplies for Ryn's nights on the road. The travel papers Lady Glinda had sent with the morning guard were marked with her flowing signature in pink ink. He'd arrived far too early, unable to sit still in his apartment as the night crawled by. The waiting was worse than rusting.
Every few minutes, he found himself checking the path leading down from the palace. The mist played tricks on his vision, turning shadows into shapes that made his hopes rise and fall. A servant girl with a basket. A guard changing shifts. A stray cat slinking along the wall. But not Ryn.
What if she'd realized how dangerous this would be? What if someone had talked sense into her? What if—
The sound of quick, light footsteps jolted him out of his thoughts and made his heart clock stutter. A figure emerged from the mist and there she was—Ryn, wrapped in a thick brown traveling dress, her hair pulled back in a simple low ponytail that somehow made her look younger and braver all at once. She carried a satchel that seemed too heavy for her petite frame, and dark circles under her eyes hinted that she hadn't slept. But when she saw him waiting, her whole face lit up with a smile that sent a ripple through his hollow chest, like a pebble dropped in a still pond.
"You're here," she breathed, then immediately stammered, her fingers twisting in her satchel strap. "I-I mean, of course, you're here, where else would you be? I just—I—" She cut herself off with a small, embarrassed laugh, her cheeks flushing. "I'm not making any sense, am I?" she asked, her hands continuing their restless movement on the leather strap.
Watching her toy with her satchel strap, Boq felt Yackle's words echo through his hollow frame: "Such soft things may break in savage times." Ryn looked so fragile in the pearl-gray dawn, her small form practically swallowed by her traveling dress. What right did he have to let her come, knowing what the old crone had predicted? The memory of those sulfurous eyes made his joints want to lock up entirely: "The shape of you now isn't the shape you'll keep."
He forced the thought away as he focused on her again, on the way her nerves showed in the small movements of her hands.
"You're making perfect sense," Boq assured her softly, fighting the urge to reach out and steady her fidgeting hands. "I've been here since before dawn, wondering if you'd come."
Her eyes widened. "Really? But I thought—" She glanced down, twisting the strap of her satchel. "I was worried I might be late. I kept changing my mind about what to pack. Then unpacking. Then packing again." She gave a small, self-conscious laugh as she reached up to tuck a wisp of her bangs out of her eyes. "Mrs. Thistledown gave me some bread and cheese when I went to explain everything. She wasn't even angry about yesterday." Her voice grew soft. "She just hugged me and told me to be careful and—and to come back."
"That was kind of her," Boq said gently, watching how Ryn's eyes got a little misty at the memory.
"She's always been kind to me," Ryn murmured, then met his gaze with shy uncertainty. "Like you've been to me."
The simple words nearly made his eyes well up with fresh tears but he blinked them back. "I—that's not—" he started, then noticed how she tried to stifle a yawn behind her hand. "Did you get any sleep?"
"A little," she admitted, ducking her head, dark circles visible under her eyes. "The dawn seemed so far away. I tried to sleep, but I kept worrying I'd sleep too late and miss—" she caught herself, a flush creeping up her neck. "Miss the dawn. I just wanted to be sure I'd be here on time. Did...did you...?"
"I don't sleep," he reminded her gently.
"Oh!" Her blush deepened adorably. "Of course, I'm sorry, I didn't think—" She twisted her hands together. "It's just, everything about this feels like a dream anyway. A tin man and a girl from Munchkinland heading West to find flying monkeys and—" She ducked her head, embarrassed. "I-I sound ridiculous, don't I?"
"No," he said, his voice softer than he'd thought possible. "You sound brave."
She peeked up at him with such startled hope that his heart clock skipped again. He wanted desperately to offer to carry her pack, but the supplies he already carried were essential. The thought of rusting up and leaving her alone in the wilderness made his hollow chest ache.
Together they passed through the gates, their footsteps falling into an uneven rhythm - her soft steps and his metallic ones creating a strange sort of music against the cobblestones. The morning mist swirled around their ankles like a dance, and though the air held a lingering chill from the storm, Ryn stayed close to his side, as if his metal frame offered some kind of comfort despite its coldness.
Few citizens were about at this hour, but those who were stopped to stare at the odd pair - a tin man and a girl in traveling clothes, heading West. Ryn seemed to shrink under their gazes, unconsciously stepping even closer to him. Every time she did, his clockwork heart ticked just a little faster. The cobblestones gradually gave way to the Yellow Brick Road, stretching before them like a golden ribbon into the mist.
Boq noticed how Ryn kept near, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Whether from cold or nerves, he couldn't tell, but something protective stirred in his hollow chest at the sight. "Are you cold?" he asked softly, wishing not for the first time that he could generate warmth like a proper person.
"No! Well, maybe a little," she admitted with a small smile. "But I don't mind. It's…nice, walking with you. Even if you are made of tin."
Her words made his joints feel suddenly loose as if they might need oiling despite his thorough preparation.
"I—thank you," he managed, then added quickly, "For trusting me with this. With helping find your father." He parted his lips to say more, but before he could, something made him pause, some instinct he couldn't name. He glanced back over his shoulder at the city they were leaving.
There, in one of the palace's highest towers, a figure stood at the window. Lady Glinda's pale gown caught what little sunlight broke through the clouds, her autumn red curls unmistakable even at this distance. She raised one hand - whether in farewell or warning, Boq couldn't tell.
Time was, the mere sight of her would have made his heart race, if he still had one to race. But now, watching her distant figure in the window, all he felt was a hollow echo of what used to be. Instead, his awareness centered on Ryn beside him, who hadn't noticed Glinda at all. She simply waited, small but steady, occasionally stealing glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking. He turned back to the road ahead, where the dark silhouette of the Western mountains waited. The same mountains where Elphaba had died. Where her flying monkeys now ran wild. Where Ryn's father had vanished.
The Yellow Brick Road led them steadily West until the bright spires of the Emerald City disappeared into the morning mist behind them. Ahead lay their long journey to the Western mountains, where somewhere beyond, the Haunted Forest and its twisted trees waited. For now, the path wound through gentle countryside, though even these early scattered trees cast long shadows in the morning light.
Beside him, Ryn huddled closer, and he heard her shiver. Without thinking, he shifted slightly, trying to shield her with his metal frame. It wasn't much protection, but she gave him another one of those shy smiles that reverberated through his hollow chest, echoing like a soft note inside an empty tin.
"I'm glad you're with me," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rustling leaves. "I don't think I could be brave enough alone."
"You're braver than you know," he replied quietly. "But... I'm glad I'm with you too."
"Even if I slow you down?" Ryn asked, her voice small but determined. She hitched her satchel higher on her shoulder, trying to match his longer strides. "It's a long way to the Western mountains."
There was something both wonderful and terrible about her trust in him. She had no idea that Yackle's prophecy hung over her like a blade, that every step West might be bringing her closer to whatever transformation the old crone had foreseen.
"The storm is coming, whether they shield you or not," Yackle had said. The words echoed in his hollow chest: what good was his tin frame if he couldn't protect her from fate itself?
Realizing he'd been silent too long, Boq forced himself to focus on her question. "You couldn't slow me down," he said, his joints creaking as he gestured. "That is—I'm the one who has to stop for oiling. You're much more..." His tin hand caught what little light filtered through the branches. "...adaptable."
A tiny smile tugged at her lips. "Is that your way of saying I'm less likely to rust?"
"Well, you do have that advantage," he replied, surprised by his attempt at humor. Her soft laugh seemed to brighten even the gloomy forest path. Then, more seriously, "Though I suppose we each have things to worry about. You need rest and food and warmth, and I—" He tapped his oil can with one finger, creating a hollow ping. "Well."
"Then we'll just have to look after each other, won't we?" Ryn said softly, and something in her voice made his joints nearly lock up.
But Yackle's warnings crashed through his moment of joy like breaking glass:
"Her fate is bound to yours now." The old crone's words made his tin frame feel heavier than ever. What if binding their fates together was exactly what would lead to whatever terrible change awaited Ryn? His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the metal scraping softly.
"Give you will, little one. Whether you want to or not." What exactly would Ryn be forced to give? And to whom?
As they approached the first scattered trees that marked the beginning of their journey west, Boq didn't dare look back. He knew that somewhere ahead, past days of travel, the twisted branches of the Haunted Forest waited. But even these early woods made him think of claws, of "winter's teeth" that Yackle had promised would come for Ryn. His heart clock ticked faster as dappled shadows played across her face. How many different ways could a person's shape change? How many kinds of breaking were there?
Every rustle in the leaves made him imagine the flying monkeys that awaited them, that would tear at her like they had at Dorothy so long ago. Shaking off the visions, he tried to focus instead on the soft sound of Ryn's footsteps beside his, steady despite her fear, as they took their first steps under the canopy.