THE wind howled like a living thing, each gust sending tremors through Boq's metal frame, the sound echoing hollowly in his chest where a heart should be. He watched Dorothy ahead of him, her thin gingham dress offering little protection against the savage cold. She clutched Toto to her chest, and even from where he stood, he could see them both trembling.
The sight stirred something in his empty cavity—an echo of what might have been concern, if he still had the capacity for such feelings.
The Wizard's words echoed in his mind just as they did in Dorothy's: Bring me the Witch's broomstick, and I will grant your requests. He watched the girl's silver slippers catch what little light remained, their strange magic pulsing with each step she took through the thick mud.
Ahead of him, the Scarecrow took a spectacular tumble, his straw-stuffed limbs splaying in all directions. Boq couldn't help but call out, his voice carrying its usual metallic timbre, "Goodness gracious, are you trying to become one with the landscape, my stuffed friend?"
The Scarecrow extracted himself from the mud with an undignified squelch. "Not to rush anyone," he called back, voice muffled, "but if I get any wetter, I think I'll sprout mushrooms—or worse, start to mold!"
The Lion shuffled alongside, his once-magnificent mane now a pitiful, waterlogged mess. "I d-d-don't care where we go," he stammered through chattering teeth, "just s-somewhere dry! Well, I'll be—I think my entire supply of bravery has f-frozen solid."
"Keep moving," Boq urged them forward, trying to maintain a steady tone despite feeling his joints beginning to stiffen. "We're not out of this yet, and I'd hate to rust before we reach shelter."
He attempted a chuckle, though it came out more like grinding gears—part genuine amusement, part growing anxiety about his deteriorating condition.
Dorothy turned back, her face lined with worry. "Tin Man, are you going to be okay? You'll rust something dreadful if we don't find shelter soon!"
He paused, tilting his head in consideration. "Well," he stammered, feeling his joints protest with each movement, "a little water never hurt a man of my caliber. I've weathered worse!"
The lie felt as hollow as his chest, but he couldn't bear to add to her burdens. His fingers drummed against his side—an old habit from when he was flesh and blood, now translated into a metallic rhythm that betrayed his growing unease.
"Indeed," he muttered, "before I become less a tin man and more a tin statue."
The Lion's enthusiastic nodding caught his eye. "I-I'll take shelter anywhere," he declared, "even if it's full of g-g-ghosts!"
"Ghosts?" Boq forced another chuckle, the sound grating against his metal throat. "I'm more concerned about mold than specters. Our Scarecrow friend looks about ready to become a mushroom farm."
The Scarecrow shot him a disapproving look as he plucked at his sodden shoulder. "Not helping," he grumbled.
Boq scanned the horizon in front of him and suddenly detected something in the gloom. "There," he announced, pointing into the darkness. "A cottage. Let's make camp here tonight!" The structure gradually emerged from the shadows—a decrepit cottage more ivy than building, its roof sagging beneath years of neglect. "Not exactly the Emerald City," he observed dryly, "but beggars can't be choosers. We're hardly in a position to be particular about our accommodations."
The door protested loudly as he pushed it open, its hinges crying out in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of his own joints. The interior revealed itself gradually—thick with dust and cobwebs, telling a story of long abandonment.
"Hurry, get inside, before either of you get more soaked than you already are," he murmured, sweeping his arm in an exaggerated gesture, "Welcome to our palace for the night. I'd offer refreshments, but I'm afraid the hospitality is a bit rusty." The joke fell from his lips before he could stop it—humor had always been his defense against discomfort, even before the transformation. He busied himself arranging broken furniture near the hearth, trying to be useful despite his growing stiffness. "Gracious," he muttered, "these chairs have seen better days. But they'll keep us warm—and keep me from rusting, which is always a bonus."
As the fire came to life, its warmth pushing back the shadows, Boq found himself watching Dorothy. The flames cast dancing shadows across her face, highlighting both her youth and her determination.
He hesitated, unsure if she'd even want to hear about the man he used to be. But something about the way she looked at him—curious, kind—made the words spill out.
"You know," he said after a pause, "it's strange. Sometimes I wonder if I'd even recognize the man I used to be."
Her curiosity was evident. "What do you mean?"
He thought for a moment before speaking, his joints creaking slightly as he shifted, "I wasn't always this shiny collection of metal parts. Once, I was—remarkably unremarkable. A young man with more enthusiasm than sense." The words kept coming, and he found himself telling them everything—about love and magic, about transformation and loss. About being Boq, before he became the Tin Man. Dorothy's small hand came to rest on his metal arm, and though he couldn't feel its warmth, the gesture touched something deep within his hollow frame. "Love and magic—they'll flip your world faster than a rusty joint can seize up." He tapped his chest again, a self-deprecating gesture. "And here I am—proof positive that matters of the heart are best left to those with actual hearts."
Dorothy smiled gently, her eyes reflecting the firelight. "Maybe," she said softly, "but having a heart isn't the only way to care for someone, Tin Man."
Her words hung in the air, warm and reassuring, but they left Boq uneasy. Caring without a heart felt like a contradiction, an impossibility that only deepened the ache of his hollow chest. He glanced away, his gaze settling on the Scarecrow, who was busily picking cobwebs off his hat, and the Lion, curled as close to the fire as he dared, his wet mane steaming faintly.
Boq awkwardly cleared his throat—a sound like metal scraping on metal—and stood up with some effort, his joints protesting. "I'll keep watch," he announced, gesturing toward the window. "The storm may deter most creatures, but I'd rather not take any chances."
"You should rest," Dorothy urged. "You've been walking as long as we have. Even if you don't get tired the same way, you still need to take care of yourself."
Boq gave a small wave, dismissing her concern, though it warmed him a little. "I don't sleep, Dorothy," he said with a faint smile. "Not something I can do anymore. Besides, I like keeping busy."
He walked to the window, his steps echoing in the quiet room. The storm roared outside, lightning briefly lighting up the drenched world. The steady patter of rain on the roof felt oddly soothing, a faint reminder of quieter times. As he stood there, his thoughts drifted back to Dorothy's words—You're more than just tin. You're my friend. They shouldn't have meant so much, but they did. He thought about the life he'd left behind, the promises he hadn't kept, and the love he hadn't been able to protect.
Love. The word was a ghost in his mind, as much a part of him as the rust that threatened to claim his joints. Behind him, the others spoke quietly, their voices blending with the crackling of the fire. Dorothy's soft laughter rose occasionally, bright and warm, and Boq found himself drawn to it despite himself. It reminded him of the days when he had been alive—not just functioning, but truly alive, with blood pumping and a heart that felt both joy and pain.
What would she say if she knew the truth about him? About the curse that had turned him into this unfeeling shell of a man? Would she pity him, or worse, fear him?
He reached up and tapped his chest again, the sound ringing out in the stillness. Hollow. Empty. A tin echo of what had once been.
"Tin Man?" Dorothy's voice broke through his thoughts. He turned to see her standing a few feet away, her figure silhouetted against the firelight. "Are you... alright?"
He hesitated, the lie ready on his tongue, but something in her earnest expression stopped him. "I'm fine," he said, his voice softer than usual. "Just... remembering."
Dorothy opened her mouth, then closed it again, twisting her hands in her lap. Boq recognized that look—she wanted to ask something but was afraid of the answer. His joints squeaked as he moved, filling the quiet between them.
"You want to ask me something, I can see it," he stammered awkwardly, trying to keep his voice light despite its metallic ring, "go ahead and ask, Dorothy. Whatever it is, I promise I won't rust from telling you. Though I might need an extra drop of oil to get the words out!"
She smiled at his joke, but her eyes stayed serious. "I just... do you ever wish you hadn't become..." She waved her hand at his tin body.
"Oh! Well," he said, his voice catching with a grinding sound. The question hit something in his empty chest, like a wrench knocking against his insides. He turned back to the window, watching the rain run down the glass. "I don't...I never, that's quite a question," he said, trying to gather his thoughts. "W-wishes are like rust, you see—let them sit too long, and before you know it, you can't move at all."
Behind them, the Scarecrow snored softly, his straw rustling. The Lion's tail twitched in his sleep, and Boq couldn't help adding, "My word, they do make sleeping look easy, don't they?" "Sometimes," he went on, his voice quieter, "being made of tin isn't so bad. No heart to break, no fear to feel. Just empty spaces and joints that need—" He cleared his throat with a sound like grinding gears, "—a bit of oil now and then." He tapped his chest, a habit he couldn't break. "But then someone like you shows kindness to a tin fellow like me, and I remember what it was like to feel... everything."
Dorothy stepped closer, her reflection appearing next to his in the wet window. She looked so young, but her eyes held such wisdom. Lurline help him, he wanted to tell her more—about the curse, about his past, about everything. But he couldn't bear to make her sad with such a story.
Instead, he stood straighter, his joints squeaking like rusty gate hinges. "But gracious, that's enough deep thinking for one night. You should sleep—tomorrow's walk won't wait for tired feet, and I'd hate to see you stumble because you stayed up talking to a chatty tin man."
She stayed a moment longer, and he could see more questions in her eyes. But she just nodded, squeezed his metal arm, and went back to her spot by the fire. He couldn't feel the warmth of her touch—tin doesn't work that way—but something moved in his hollow chest all the same. He went back to watching out the window, keeping guard over their strange little family.
The storm kept on, but inside, the fire burned bright, making shadows dance on the walls. Maybe Dorothy was right—you don't need a heart to care about people. Being empty just means there's more room to hold their light. Who knew a tin man could think such things?
As the night deepened and the storm outside worsened, Boq maintained his vigil by the door. His gaze kept returning to Dorothy's silver slippers, their strange magic seeming to pulse in rhythm with the storm outside. Despite everything—his tin body, his missing heart, the impossible task ahead—he felt something stirring in his empty chest. Not quite hope, perhaps, but something close to it.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but as he watched over his sleeping companions, he realized something: maybe being hollow wasn't the same as being empty after all. A muffled whimper drew Boq's attention from his contemplation of the storm. Through the cottage's grimy windows, he watched ribbons of lightning illuminate the countryside in harsh, stuttering flashes. Each burst of light cast strange shadows through the room, making his metal frame throw dark, angular shapes against the walls.
Dorothy stirred restlessly in her sleep, her face contorted in distress. Even Toto sensed her unease, pressing closer against her side with a concerned whine that seemed to echo in the hollow spaces of Boq's chest.
"No... Aunt Em... Uncle Henry..." she murmured, her silver slippers flickering with an anxious light that pulsed in time with her distress. "The house... it's coming... the wind..."
Boq moved closer, his joints protesting softly in the darkness. The sound reminded him of the cottage's door—a thought that might have made him smile, if his face was still made of flesh instead of tin.
He hesitated, metal fingers hovering uncertainly over her shoulder. In moments like these, he felt the absence of his heart most keenly. How does one offer comfort with hands that can't feel warmth, with a chest that can't hold emotion?
"Dorothy?" he called gently, his voice barely above a whisper. The name emerged as a soft grinding of gears, gentler than his usual tone. Even after all this time, it amazed him how his voice could still carry the shadows of feeling, like echoes in an empty hall.
She jolted awake with a gasp, eyes wide and disoriented. Her hand clutched at the worn gingham of her dress.
"The tornado—" she began, then blinked, taking in her surroundings. Recognition slowly dawned in her eyes. "Oh... Tin Man? I thought—I was back—"
"Just a dream," he assured her, attempting to make his metallic tone as soothing as possible. His fingers unconsciously drummed against his leg, that old nervous habit from his human days creating a soft tinkling rhythm in the quiet room. "Though I imagine it wasn't a pleasant one. Sometimes I think storms have a way of stirring up memories we'd rather leave settled."
Dorothy sat up slowly, drawing her knees to her chest. The firelight caught the tears in her eyes, making them sparkle almost as brightly as her enchanted slippers. The Scarecrow shifted in his sleep nearby, mumbling something about crow-proof farming techniques, while Lion's gentle snores rumbled like distant thunder.
"I was back in Kansas," she whispered, her voice trembling like a leaf in the wind outside. "Watching the storm come. But this time... this time I couldn't find Toto in time, and Aunt Em and Uncle Henry..." She trailed off, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. "They were calling for me, but the wind was so loud, and the house was already lifting, and I couldn't—I couldn't reach them—"
Her words dissolved into quiet sobs. Toto whined again, licking her hand, and Boq felt a peculiar tightness in his chest where his heart should be. It was a sensation he'd become familiar with since meeting Dorothy—this phantom ache, this echo of feeling that shouldn't be possible without the proper organs for it.
"You know," he said, settling beside her with a soft creak, "I may not have a heart anymore, but I remember what it's like to fear losing someone you love." He tapped his hollow chest, the sound echoing faintly. "Even without a heart, the memories still linger—like a song in an empty room. The music fades, but the room remembers."
Dorothy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, looking up at him with a mixture of curiosity and lingering fear. "Do you ever wish you could go back?" she asked softly. "To before you were... changed? When you were just Boq?"
The question caught him off guard, making his gears stutter momentarily. He'd been thinking about his past more frequently lately, but hearing Dorothy speak his old name made something shift inside him, like a key turning in a long-frozen lock.
"Sometimes," he said, watching the firelight flicker on his tin fingers, "I miss the simple things—warmth from the sun, grass under my feet, or feeling my heart race." He paused, his tin face still. "But then I think about the path that led me here, and I wonder if this is where I was always meant to be."
"What do you mean?" Dorothy asked, her nightmare temporarily forgotten in her curiosity.
Boq shifted, the quiet creak of his tin joints filling the space. "Well, if I hadn't become the Tin Man, I wouldn't be here now, would I? Couldn't be helping a brave girl like you find her way home." His voice softened. "Though I have to admit, it'd be nice to give you a proper hug without worrying about rust or sharp edges. Being made of tin has its drawbacks."
Dorothy let out a small laugh, bright against the storm outside. "You're perfect just as you are," she said, patting his arm with a soft metallic ping that seemed to echo through him. "Heart or no heart, sometimes I think you feel more deeply than anyone I've ever met."
"Now that," Boq said with a warm chuckle, "is the kind of thing that would make me blush—if I had any circulation left to do it. But I suppose a tin man has to keep some dignity. Rusting from rain is one thing. Rusting from embarrassment? That'd be a tragedy."
Dorothy's smile widened, though her eyes remained thoughtful. "When we get to the Emerald City, and the Wizard gives you your heart..." she began, then hesitated. "Will you remember? Being the Tin Man, I mean. Being my friend?"
The question stirred something in Boq's hollow chest, a feeling so strong it almost felt like an actual heartbeat.
"Oh, Dorothy," he said gently, "some things go beyond hearts and flesh and tin. Friendship leaves marks no magic can erase." He tapped his metal chest. "Look at me—I'm not the man I used to be, but I still care about a girl and her dog. I still feel… something, even without a heart to do it."
A particularly loud crack of thunder made Dorothy jump, and Toto burrowed closer to her side. The Lion mumbled something about "weather-proof courage" in his sleep, while the Scarecrow shifted, dropping a small handful of straw.
"Anyways, you should try to get some more rest," Boq suggested gently. "Tomorrow's journey won't be any easier, but at least you'll face it with friends at your side. One stuffed with straw, one requiring regular oiling, and one who's working on his courage—but friends nonetheless."
As Dorothy settled back down, Toto curling protectively against her, she murmured, "Thank you for watching over us, Tin Man. For being here."
"Well," Boq responded softly, "what else is a heartless fellow to do with his sleepless nights? Though between you and me, I'm beginning to suspect that having a heart and feeling things might not be quite the same thing after all."
He resumed his vigil by the door, listening to Dorothy's breathing even out into peaceful sleep. The storm continued its assault outside, but it seemed less threatening now, its fury diminished by the simple comfort of friendship and understanding. Boq found himself wondering what the Wizard would make of all this—of a tin man who felt without a heart, of a girl whose kindness could make even metal seem warm.
His fingers absently tapped against his chest, creating a rhythm that almost seemed like a heartbeat. Perhaps, he thought, watching the silver slippers' magic pulse gently as Dorothy slept, being hollow wasn't the same as being empty after all. And maybe—just maybe—the heart he was seeking had been forming all along, not in the empty cavity of his chest, but in the quiet moments like these, built from friendship and sacrifice and the simple act of caring.
The thought made his gears turn a little smoother, his joints feel a little less stiff. As the night wore on, Boq kept his watch, a tin man standing guard over dreams, his hollow chest somehow feeling fuller with each passing hour.
THE fire had burned low, its flames reduced to a soft, flickering whisper that cast dancing shadows across the cottage's weathered walls. Dorothy had long since fallen asleep, her small body curled protectively around Toto, her breathing a gentle rhythm that seemed to push back against the storm's lingering fury.
Boq sat motionless, his metallic fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern against his leg.
"Well," he muttered, mostly to himself, "what a mess we've found ourselves in." His gaze kept drifting back to the Scarecrow. There was something about the way he moved, the way his button eyes reflected the firelight, that stirred something deep in Boq's hollow chest—a memory, a flicker of something he couldn't name. "Fiyero," he whispered, the name slipping out like a long-lost secret.
The Scarecrow's eyes opened slowly. "Did you say something?"
Boq straightened, his tin joints creaking. "Oh, n-nothing," he stammered. "Just an old memory playing tricks on me." But he couldn't look away. The memories rushed in, sharp and clear. He remembered Elphaba—before she became the Witch, before the world twisted her. She'd been fierce and brilliant, her eyes full of fire, burning with a passion that couldn't be contained. And Fiyero—brave, handsome, charming Fiyero. The man who had everything Boq had ever wanted. Love. Courage. The ability to choose his path. Until he didn't. Until magic and desperation and a love so profound it could remake the world took everything away. Boq's metallic fingers drummed against his chest—the hollow space where his heart used to beat. He looked at Dorothy, sleeping so peacefully. She didn't understand the true nature of the magic that surrounded her. Those silver shoes—they were more than just protection. They were a promise. A threat. A magic so old and deep it could remake entire worlds.
The Lion stirred in his sleep, whimpering softly. Boq leaned forward, his tinny voice gentle. "There now," he whispered, "even the bravest souls have their moments."
Dorothy shifted in her sleep, Toto nestling closer. The silver shoes caught what little firelight remained, sending tiny sparks of magic dancing across the cottage floor.
Boq leaned forward, his joints whispering with the movement. He reached out, not quite touching Dorothy. "I'll keep you safe, Dorothy," he whispered, his voice a curious blend of mechanical precision and heartfelt emotion. "I promise." Outside, the storm continued. But inside the cottage, there was something stronger than wind or rain. Something that magic—even the most powerful magic—could never truly destroy. Hope. Loyalty. A promise. And in the darkness, surrounded by his sleeping companions, Boq stood watch.
A tin man. A guardian. A heart waiting to be remembered.