Tin Soldier's Vow

by waterfallsilverberry

After Elphaba's death, Boq, now the Tin Man, struggles with a dangerous mission from Glinda while finding unexpected comfort in Ryn, a young Munchkin woman. As secrets about Elphaba's death come to light, Boq must confront his transformation and discover what it truly means to have a heart.

9. Threads of Truth

THE next several hours were, to put it lightly, trying for Boq. The night didn't end for him. It never did. Tin didn't sleep. Tin didn't dream. Tin just…waited. Boq sat in silence for what felt like hours but, the sun looked to have not risen any further. The morning light filtering through Kiamo Ko's windows caught on Boq's tin frame, casting fragmented reflections across the stone walls. He hadn't moved from his vigil at Ryn's bedside, his joints stiff and aching from staying still so long. His heart clock ticked steadily, marking each moment as Ryn slept, her fabric hand still clutching his metal one.

When footsteps approached the chamber, Boq tensed instinctively. But it was only Fiyero, his straw-stuffed form moving with that impossible grace as he gingerly entered the room, careful not to make much noise and risk waking Ryn.

"How is she?" Fiyero asked softly, painted features creasing with concern as he noticed Ryn's partially detached arm.

Boq swallowed, his tin fingers tightening where they rested on the blanket. "She's…" His voice hitched, scraping against something raw. "The seam just…came apart when she…" He trailed off, unable to say it. The way she had panicked. The stuffing spilling out, like open wounds that couldn't bleed.

Fiyero inched closer for a better look, studying the loose threads with knowing eyes. "I've had to stitch myself up more times than I can count, Tin. Comes with the territory when you're held together with charm and twine."

The words sent a ripple through Boq's chest, his heart clock faltering in its steady rhythm. Of course, Fiyero would know how to fix this. How to fix her. He was made of straw and burlap, after all. Just like Ryn was now made of fabric and thread.

Pip stirred at the movement, lifting his head from where he'd been curled protectively against Ryn's side. The moment he saw Fiyero reaching for Ryn's damaged arm, the little monkey let out a fierce screech that made Boq's joints lock as he startled. Pip lunged, tiny teeth bared, good wing flared wide. With his injured wing in Ryn's makeshift sling, he looked like an angry dustmop with fangs and claws.

Fiyero barely had time to blink before Pip was on him, a flurry of fur and claws. He staggered back, straw arms flailing. "What the—? Okay, okay! Tin, call off your flying dustmop before he—yep, there go the buttons."

Pip had latched onto his tunic, yanking at the fastenings, his good wing buffeting Fiyero's face. He ducked, twisting away, trying to shield himself without actually fighting back. "Tin! A little help, please?!"

Boq lurched forward, but before he could intervene, a small, drowsy voice cut through the commotion.

"B-Boq?"

His joints locked for an entirely different reason. Ryn. She was awake.

Her stitched fingers tightened around his tin ones, her grip unexpectedly warm despite the fabric. For a moment, she just looked at him—really looked at him, as if making sure he was real. Then, as if realizing herself, she quickly glanced away, though she didn't let go.

Boq barely had time to process the way the red device on his chest faltered in its steady ticking before Ryn shifted, trying to push herself upright. The moment she did, a sharp tremor went through her arms, the stitches along her joints pulling tight. She sucked in a breath, her body swaying slightly.

"Easy," Boq murmured, instinctively pressing a steadying hand against her back. "You shouldn't—Ryn, don't push yourself too much."

But Ryn barely seemed to hear him. Her wide, mismatched eyes had landed on Pip—on the furious ball of fur attacking Fiyero.

"Oh no—Pip, stop! Stop, he's not—he's trying to help! Please don't bite him!" She tried to move again, this time more urgently, but the moment she swung her legs over the bed, her knee buckled. Her limbs, still unfamiliar and unsteady, didn't respond the way she expected, seams pulling taut in protest.

Boq caught her before she could collapse entirely. "Ryn, please—just... be careful," he pleaded, his voice tight with worry. "You're still adjusting."

For a moment, he lingered, his tin fingers tangled with her fabric ones, before reluctantly pulling away. Then he turned and strode forward to pry Pip from Fiyero's chest. The little monkey squirmed in his grasp, still chittering furiously, his tiny claws scrabbling against metal.

"Now that's enough of that, Pip," Boq murmured, his voice low and steady—the way Ryn had spoken to him in the forest. "Look—Fiyero won't hurt her."

Boq held him carefully, cradling the tiny creature with the same gentleness Ryn had once shown. His heart clock ticked steadily, the rhythmic sound filling the quiet. Slowly, Pip's struggles faded, his frantic energy giving way to something uncertain, something tired. His small body sagged slightly in Boq's hands, though his golden eyes remained fixed on Ryn, watching, wary.

Fiyero exhaled and brushed some stray straw back into place, looking more amused than offended. "Thanks, Tin." He turned to Pip, voice light. "And you—I get it. Protecting your own and all that. Good instincts. But see?" He rummaged in his pockets and, to Boq's surprise, produced a tiny sewing kit—complete with needles, an assortment of thread colors, and even a thimble. "I'm only here to mend."

Pip eyed the sewing supplies warily, his angry chittering fading to a few muttered squeaks. Satisfied, Boq carried him back to Ryn, whose stitched features softened at his gentle handling of her tiny protector. Pip immediately abandoned his attack, scrambling back to her side. She stroked his fur with her good hand, her movements still clumsy as she struggled to adjust to her new fabric fingers. She nearly dropped him once.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Pip! I—I'm not quite used to…well…" Her gaze flickered to Boq, then away, then back again. A small, hesitant smile tugged at the stitches of her lips. "He's a friend to us, Pip. Like Boq is." The last part came out in almost a whisper.

Something stirred in Boq's hollow chest at the way she said his name—not pain, exactly, but a phantom sensation that echoed what warmth might feel like, filling the emptiness where his heart had once been. Despite his tin form, the emotion felt real, substantial. Surely, he was imagining the warmth in her voice.

Fiyero, still kneeling nearby, let out a breath and shook his head, studying Ryn properly in the morning light for the first time. "Lurline, Ryn…" His voice was softer than Boq expected as his eyes made a quick scan of Ryn—absent of its usual teasing lilt. He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before trying again. "I'm so sorry."

Ryn blinked. "For what?"

"For…for this." He gestured vaguely at her—at the stitches, at the fabric limbs where flesh and bone should have been. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

Ryn hesitated, then shook her head. "It wasn't supposed to happen at all."

Fiyero let out something that was almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Yes, that's…that's true." He sat back, studying her, then forced a smile that didn't quite reach his painted eyes. "Well. This is not how I pictured our next conversation going."

Ryn swallowed, glancing away. "Neither did I."

A beat of silence passed before Fiyero straightened, forcing his usual air of effortlessness back into place. "Alright. Enough brooding. Let's see about that arm of yours."

Keeping a respectful distance, he pulled up a nearby chair, mindful of Pip's watchful gaze as the little monkey bristled at his every move. Fiyero picked up a silver needle from the sewing kit, turning it between his fingers so the morning light caught its edge.

"You're probably wondering about this," he remarked casually, speaking more to Boq as he glanced up to look at him rather than Ryn. Only when Boq gave a nod did Fiyero continue with a smirk. "Let's just say after Lion accidentally redesigned my arm into a two-piece ensemble the night we met him, Dorothy gave me a crash course in the fine art of self-maintenance."

Boq watched as Fiyero threaded the needle with a practiced ease that made his tin fingers feel even clumsier.

"Now I never leave anywhere without it." Fiyero patted the sewing kit with a smirk. "Fashion emergencies wait for no scarecrow." His expression softened as he looked at Ryn's dismembered arm. "These stitches need to be neat and strong. I've learned a few tricks that might help. Would you like to try fixing it yourself?"

Ryn nodded, though Boq noticed the slight tremble in her movements. Her fabric fingers tightened around Boq's tin hand with her good arm, and he found himself unconsciously rubbing his thumb over her knuckles in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. She leaned into his touch—just slightly—but enough to make his heart clock stutter.

Pip, however, was having none of it. The moment Fiyero leaned in to demonstrate the first stitch, Pip let out an indignant chitter and tried to scramble free from Boq's hold, desperate to return to Ryn's lap. Boq caught him mid-lunge, scooping him up before he could interfere.

"Oh no you don't," Boq muttered, holding the little monkey securely against his chest. "You can sit with her after she's done."

Pip's response was immediate and fierce. He let out a furious squeak, his tiny claws scrabbling against Boq's tin arms. His feet drummed against the metal in protest, the commotion drawing both Fiyero and Ryn's attention to the unfolding chaos.

Boq tightened his grip instinctively, adjusting his hold as the little monkey writhed. "Pip, calm down," he sighed, his voice gentle despite the struggle. "I promise—he's not going to hurt her."

The words only seemed to enrage Pip further. He twisted like a furious, winged eel, his movements growing more frantic by the second. One clawed foot connected with Boq's chest plate, the clang reverberating through the room.

Ryn cast them a nervous glance, her concentration wavering. "Boq...?"

"He's—he's fine," Boq stammered as Pip's tiny fingers hooked into the seam of his elbow joint. "Just…very dedicated."

Without looking up from his demonstration, Fiyero scoffed. "I don't know, Tin. Pretty sure you're about five seconds away from losing that arm."

Boq grimaced, shifting Pip carefully in his grasp. "Not helping." From where he struggled with Pip, he could see Ryn watching Fiyero's movements intently. Her fabric fingers hovered over her torn sleeve, trembling slightly.

Fiyero smirked but kept his focus on the task. "You two done over there?" he quipped, glancing briefly at Boq's predicament. Then, as if the commotion didn't exist, he guided the needle through the fabric. "Here, like this. See how the thread catches?"

"I..." Ryn's voice was soft as she traced the pattern with her fingertips. "The tension's different than I remember." She hesitated, then added, "From making dolls, I mean. When I was younger." Her voice dropped even lower, and Boq's heart clock stuttered as her hand drifted to the black stitches marking her neck, and her face. "Though I never thought I'd be..."

"You'll get used to it." Something in Fiyero's tone made Boq glance his way. The scarecrow's usual flippancy had softened into something else entirely. "Here, let me show you this binding stitch. You'll need to know it."

The moment Fiyero leaned in to guide her hands, Pip launched a fresh assault. With a triumphant screech, he wrapped his good wing around Boq's wrist, redoubling his bid for freedom.

"I said you can go back when Fiyero's finished! You're not helping, Pip." He held the monkey at arm's length, trying to keep those determined claws away from his joints. Every scrape of Pip's claws against his tin surface echoed through his hollow form. The little monkey's tail flicked as he let out another piercing cry. Through the commotion, he heard Ryn's soft laugh, the sound making his heart clock skip.

"You could always let him go," Fiyero offered.

Boq shot him a deadpan look. "After you finish." He continued his struggle with Pip as Ryn worked with Fiyero on her stitches. Between keeping the squirming monkey contained, he found his attention drawn to her. She kept glancing his way, and when their eyes met, she quickly looked down at her hands, her stitched cheeks darkening. His tin fingers clenched.

"There," Fiyero announced, sitting back with satisfaction. "Try it now."

Before Boq could properly loosen his grip, Pip launched himself free with a victorious screech, landing squarely on Ryn's shoulder. The little monkey pressed against her, fixing Boq with what he could only interpret as an indignant glare. Boq sighed.

Fiyero smirked. "Well, that was dramatic." Fiyero shot an amused glance at Boq, his straw-stuffed shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "And here I thought you'd be better at handling small, excitable creatures by now, Tin."

Boq huffed, running his fingers over the faint scuff marks Pip had left on his arms. "You'd think so. He's deceptively strong for something so small."

Ryn smiled shyly at their banter, but her expression shifted to quiet wonder as she tested her newly reattached arm, the fabric bending smoothly at the elbow.

"It—it feels right again," she murmured, touching the fresh stitches with careful fingers. Then, to Boq's surprise, she reached out and carefully touched his chest plate with her mended hand, right over his heart clock. "Thank you, Boq, for…for staying with me all night. It was very kind of you."

His whole frame tensed suddenly at the unexpected contact, hyper-aware of the gentle pressure of her fabric hand on his chest. "I-I…o-of course, I…." He stammered, flustered by her closeness, by the way, her fingers made quiet tapping sounds against his chest plate that seemed to echo his skipping heart clock.

Pip, still perched on Ryn's shoulder, crept down her arm, sniffing curiously at the repaired seam. After a moment of inspection, he chirped approvingly and patted the black stitches with one tiny hand.

Then, to everyone's surprise, he turned to Fiyero and offered him a small, partially squished berry he must have found in Ryn's bag sometime during the night.

Fiyero accepted the peace offering with grave dignity, plucking the berry delicately between two gloved fingers. "An excellent vintage," he said solemnly. "Aged approximately…oh, three hours at the bottom of a travel bag. Lovely bouquet." He gave Pip a small bow of appreciation. "I accept your generous offering, noble sir, and vow to be worthy of your trust."

Pip chittered approvingly before curling up in Ryn's lap once more, tucking himself against her as if he belonged there. Boq, watching them, felt a strange tightness in his empty tin frame. Ryn looked more at ease now, stroking Pip's fur absentmindedly, her newly mended hand steady and sure. Fiyero, still perched nearby, wore that same easy expression, like this was just another morning in the castle rather than the aftermath of something terrible.

It was a strange thing—to have spent the entire night at Ryn's side, to have watched over her, held her hand, felt her wake up—and yet, at this moment, he felt like an outsider looking in. His tin fingers curled slightly at his sides.

"I-I should let you rest," he managed, at last, trying to pull away.

But Ryn's fingers tightened around his.

"Oh no, please! You're not…I mean…would you maybe—" She stumbled over the words, her fingers twisting together nervously before she finally managed, "Stay? Please?" She ducked her head, clearly embarrassed by her eagerness. "I-I don't want to be left alone right now and it's just…everything feels less frightening when you're here with me."

Oil tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them, blurring his vision. He blinked rapidly, determined not to let them fall, not to let Ryn see him like this.

Slowly, he sank back into his chair, unable to deny her. His movements were careful as if the wrong shift might somehow undo the fragile trust between them.

Then he felt it—the soft, rhythmic tapping of her fingers against his chest plate. Absentminded. Gentle. Like she didn't even realize she was doing it. Each tiny tap sent an echo through his hollow frame, syncing with the uneven ticking of his heart clock, falling into rhythm with it in a way that shouldn't have made sense. Shouldn't have made him feel so…alive.

Pip, satisfied that all was well, curled up in Ryn's lap with a contented chirp. Ryn continued to flex her newly reattached arm carefully, testing the neat black stitches. Fiyero watched her movements with approval.

Fiyero watched as Ryn tested her arm, his straw-filled frame perfectly still as he nodded in approval. "Perfect work there, Scraps."

"Scraps?" Ryn echoed, her stitched brow furrowing. Her free hand drifted to one of the black stitches at her wrist, tracing the pattern there with an absent, nervous motion. "I…is that what I am now?"

Fiyero shrugged, his painted smile easy but carrying a gentleness beneath the casual gesture. "A nickname. For those of us remade by witch's magic." He adjusted a loose bit of straw in his shoulder with practiced nonchalance. "Sometimes it helps—having a new name, a new way to think of yourself. Makes things feel a little less…" He gestured vaguely. "Like a bad dream you haven't woken up from."

Ryn hesitated, her fabric fingers twitching with unspoken thoughts.

"I tried out Scarecrow for a while," he continued, taking Ryn's silence as his cue to continue, tipping his hat with a flourish. "Took the edge off until I felt like being Fiyero again." Then, catching the uncertainty in her stitched features, he added lightly, "But you don't have to take it if you don't want to. I won't start embroidering it on your things just yet."

"N-no, it's..." Ryn fumbled, her hands tangling together in that now-familiar nervous gesture. "It's just strange, thinking of myself as...well, as anything other than just Ryn." She attempted a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Though I suppose I'm not exactly 'just Ryn' anymore, am I?"

Fiyero moved to the window with fluid grace, his painted face turned toward the golden morning light that stretched long shadows across the castle walls. The casual ease in his posture seemed practiced now, a careful mask that didn't quite hide the quiet weight in his voice.

"None of us are," he murmured. "Magic doesn't just change our bodies. It changes how the world looks at us. How we look at ourselves." His fingers brushed over the stitching on his wrist in an unconscious echo of Ryn's earlier gesture.

Boq's heart clock ticked faster, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. There was something too knowing in Fiyero's voice, something that made Boq's tin joints want to creak with understanding.

"Elphaba did the best she could," Fiyero said at last, turning back toward them. His painted features had lost their usual mischief, replaced by something more solemn. "Which is part of why I came up here this morning."

Pip lifted his head from where he'd been dozing in Ryn's lap, his small eyes sharp and alert as they fixed on Fiyero, sensing the shift in mood.

Boq straightened, the motion accompanied by the soft scrape of tin. "What do you mean?"

Fiyero hesitated, his straw-filled hands lacing together in a gesture that mirrored Ryn's nervous habit so precisely that Boq felt a strange jolt of recognition. Perhaps all of them—all the ones remade by magic—carried these little echoes of each other, these shared fragments of their new selves.

"I did want to help with your arm, Ryn," he admitted. "But..." His painted eyes flicked toward the door, betraying a tension his casual posture tried to hide. "Elphaba sent me up here to find Boq. She needs to speak with us. About what happened in the forest."

"The flying monkeys?" Ryn's fabric fingers tightened around Boq's tin ones, the gesture both seeking and offering comfort.

"Yes." Fiyero's voice dropped, carrying a weight that seemed to dim the morning light. "And it can't wait. She needs to see us. Alone."

Boq's heart clock wobbled precariously on its pin, the sound sharp in the sudden silence. "N-now?" he stammered. "But Ryn's only just learning to—" He gestured helplessly at her newly mended arm, his tin joints whispering their reluctance.

"Oh! I'll be...I mean, you don't have to worry about me, Boq..." Ryn started, then stumbled over her own words, her fabric hands finding the familiar comfort of her dress hem. She drew in a steadying breath and tried again, her voice softer but no less uncertain. "I-I'll be alright. Pip will stay with me, won't you, little guy?"

Pip puffed up his tiny chest where he perched on her shoulder, every inch the devoted guardian. He cast one final suspicious glance at Fiyero before turning to pat Ryn's stitched cheek with a gentle, protective hand.

"And I should probably rest anyway..." she added, twirling a lock of her hair between fabric fingers. "Though I'm not very good at sitting still...oh, that probably wasn't reassuring, was it?"

Boq hesitated, his tin fingers clenching. "Are you sure? After everything that's happened—your arm—"

"Oh! Yes, I'm..." Ryn began with forced brightness that immediately dimmed. "Well, maybe not fine exactly, but..." She gave a small, self-conscious laugh that caught in her throat as she gestured vaguely at herself. "I suppose I'm as fine as a p-patchwork girl can be? Oh dear, that came out wrong..." Her fabric hands twisted together, flustered energy making the stitches at her wrists pull taut. "What I mean is... you should go. Really. I'll just be here, trying very hard not to... um... come apart at the seams?" Horror bloomed across her stitched features at her own words. "Oh no, that was terrible timing for a joke, wasn't it? I'm sorry, I tend to babble when I'm nervous and now I'm doing it again and—"

Boq's heart clock ached at the effort in her voice. The way she was trying so hard to make light of something impossible.

But Fiyero was already moving toward the door with deliberate casualness, his shoulders rolling as if to shed the weight of the moment.

"We shouldn't keep her waiting, Boq," Fiyero said lightly, though an unmistakable edge lurked beneath his carefree tone. "You know how she gets when people keep her waiting."

Boq hesitated. Every joint in his tin body felt too stiff, too unwilling. "I-I'll be back soon," he promised, forcing himself to stand. "If you need anything—if the stitches start to—"

"Boq," Ryn said softly, then blinked as if surprised by the steadiness in her voice. She looked up at him, her stitched features softening into a shy smile that sent his heart clock into an uneven rhythm. "I'll be right here."

Pip chose that moment to spring from her shoulder to Boq's in a graceful arc, delivering an affectionate headbutt to his tin cheek before returning to his post at Ryn's side. His message couldn't have been clearer: she would be protected.

Boq swallowed hard against the emotion building in his hollow metal form.

"Come on, old friend," Fiyero called from the doorway, his familiar grin back in place—though his painted eyes held too much understanding. "The sooner we go, the sooner you can come rushing back."

Boq followed Fiyero into the corridor, each reluctant step accompanied by the unpleasant sound of tin clanking against the stone. Behind them, Ryn's voice drifted out - soft, sweet, uncertain as she murmured something to Pip - and something in that sound made his vacant tin shell of a body resonate with an unfamiliar warmth. It was only then, watching Fiyero's back, that Boq noticed the change. The scarecrow's usual fluid grace had hardened into something more brittle. His painted features, normally alive with mischief, had settled into sharp, serious lines.

"Fiyero?" Boq's voice caught like a rusted hinge. "What's going on?"

Fiyero didn't answer immediately. Instead, he led them deeper into the winding corridor, the distance from Ryn's room growing with each echoing footstep. Boq's heavy tin stride created a strange duet with the whispered rustle of Fiyero's straw-filled frame against stone.

"You care about her." Fiyero broke the uncomfortable silence, his painted face unreadable in the shadows. "For Ryn."

Boq froze mid-step with a sharp metallic screech, nearly stumbling. "I-I don't—"

Fiyero turned, and the look in his painted eyes was so knowing that Boq's heart clock skipped several beats. Boq's tin fingers curled into loose fists.

"Is it that obvious?" Boq admitted, the words barely more than a whisper.

"Only to someone who knows what it's like," Fiyero said, something raw threading through his voice. "To care about someone you think you shouldn't." His features softened, his voice quieter. "To care about someone who's been changed."

Boq's fingers clenched harder, metal scraping against metal. The sound made Fiyero wince, but Boq barely noticed. "You mean the Wit—Elphaba." The name felt heavy in his throat, rusted with old resentment and newer understanding. "You loved her even before… before she changed you?"

"I loved her because she saw me as more than what I appeared to be." Fiyero's fingers found a loose piece of straw in his shoulder, adjusting it with the kind of nervous energy Boq was only now learning to recognize. "The way Ryn sees you."

"She shouldn't." The words escaped like air from a punctured bellows, raw and unbidden. "Not now that she's... that I let her become—"

"You didn't let anything happen," Fiyero cut in, his voice sharp as scissors. All trace of his usual lightness had vanished like morning mist. "The flying monkeys attacked because—" He stopped abruptly, painted eyes scanning the empty corridor.

"Because what?" Boq stepped closer, tin frame tense. "Fiyero, what aren't you telling me?"

Fiyero hesitated. His painted features hardened into rigid lines. "It's about Chistery. The other monkeys… they're not listening to him anymore. There's been a split among them. The ones who attacked you…" His voice dropped lower, heavy with implication. "They're following someone else now. Someone who—"

A shadow swept over them, and both men tensed like marionettes whose strings had been suddenly pulled taut. But it was only a cloud passing across the sun, its shape fracturing through the castle's narrow windows into strange, broken patterns.

Fiyero exhaled, deliberately rolling his shoulders to shed some of the tension. "We should keep moving. Chistery will explain everything."

As they climbed higher into the castle's winding passages, Boq found his gaze drawn repeatedly back toward Ryn's room. His heart clock ticked out an anxious rhythm at the thought of her there—changed, vulnerable, alone. Yet something in Fiyero's urgency scared him more deeply than he wanted to admit.

"She'll be alright," Fiyero murmured, catching Boq's backward glance. "Pip may be small, but he's a fierce little fellow when it comes to protecting the people he cares about." A ghost of his familiar smirk flickered across his painted features. "Rather like a certain tin man I know."

Boq huffed, but the words settled strangely in his chest, pressing against something he couldn't—or wouldn't—name. Before he could respond, they reached the door to Elphaba's tower room. Fiyero's gloved hand hovered over the handle, hesitating.

"Boq," he said softly, without turning, "whatever happens in there... just remember. None of us are what we once were." He looked down at his straw-filled hands, flexing them with a rustling sound that seemed too loud in the silence. "But maybe... maybe that's not always a bad thing."

Fiyero pushed open the heavy wooden door, its ancient hinges groaning in protest. As they stepped inside, Boq found Elphaba pacing the length of her tower room, her black skirts swishing against the stone floor with each agitated step. She barely seemed to register their entrance, lost in whatever dark thoughts plagued her.

Chistery perched nearby on a weathered wooden stand, his wings tucked close, his intelligent eyes following her movements with evident concern.

The sight stopped Boq in his tracks. He'd never seen the Witch—Elphaba—like this before, her usual commanding presence fractured by what seemed like…guilt. Her green hands twisted together as she muttered under her breath, words he couldn't quite catch.

"Tell them," she commanded, her voice sharp as a blade honed too thin. "Tell them what you told me. About what my…what my death has wrought and set in motion."

Chistery's wings rustled as he shifted uncomfortably. "The others…not listen now. Follow Malak instead," he managed, his words slow and deliberate, as if language itself were failing him. "Not listen to Chistery anymore."

"Malak?" The name caught like rust in Boq's throat.

Elphaba's lip curled. "Of course. Pack animals, the lot of them. Give them a leader who grunts the loudest, and they'll follow him straight into the abyss."

"Malak young. Strong. Smart." Chistery's features darkened, wings twitching with agitation. "Hate humans, he does. Tell others Chistery weak. Say helping humans make Chistery forget…forget what humans do to us." His words grew more frantic as his distress mounted. "Say we never trust humans. Never."

Boq's heart clock ticked faster as understanding dawned. "That's why they attacked Ryn last night? Because they saw her as a threat?"

"See girl with little one," Chistery struggled to explain, his voice rough with regret. "Malak say…say she hurt him. Say all humans hurt." His wings rustled with agitation. "Your Pip…Pip special case. Parents leave him in the Forest. Too small, too weak, they say. Wing not work right, let Forest have him." Chistery's gnarled fingers twisted together. "But girl—Ryn—she help him. Make wing better. Take Pip in, give food, give warm." His eyes darkened. "Malak say helping weak ones make us weak. Say Pip should have…" He struggled with the words, his voice breaking. "Should have died in Forest. Natural way, he say. But Malak not understand. Kindness not weakness. Attack not..." He gestured frantically, searching for the right words. "Not accident. Message. For Chistery. For all who help humans. Who help weak ones."

"A message?" The words escaped Boq in a metallic whisper, barely audible over the frantic ticking in his chest. Each tick echoed through his hollow frame like a hammer strike—too fast, too loud—a mechanical heart racing with fear. His tin fingers curled and uncurled at his sides, joints creaking with the tension. "She nearly died," he whispered. "And not just her—there have been other attacks. Glinda sent me here because people are being hunted." He swallowed hard, tin throat rasping. "Children—" His voice cracked, a sound like metal striking metal. "Two children are dead because of these 'messages.'"

The words fell into the tower's shadows like lead, heavy and final. In the silence that followed, Boq's heart clock seemed to tick even louder, each sound an accusation. Even Elphaba, sharp-tongued as ever, had nothing to say.

Then, softly—"More bad," Chistery rasped. His gnarled finger pointed to the window, to the far-off peaks of the Great Kells. "Have man. Take him on the road. By Red Windmill. Keep in caves. High caves. Where Great Kells touch the sky."

Boq's tin surface went still, his heart clock freezing mid-tick. The words "Red Windmill" seemed to echo in his chest, ringing against his hollow surface.

Ryn's voice floated back to him, clear as a bell toll in winter: My father, he trades along that route. He should have been back by now...

His tin hands jerked with a sharp metallic sound, clenching and unclenching with a quiet symphony of metallic scrapes—the only outward sign of his obvious distress.

"No," he whispered, the word nearly lost beneath the relentless ticking in his chest. His voice trembled like a bell still vibrating from a blow. "No, it can't be—"

"Boq?" Fiyero's voice carried the gentle caution of someone approaching a cracked mirror, afraid the wrong word might shatter it completely.

Boq forced his joints to move, though they felt rusted solid. His whole body felt heavy, weighted down with something no amount of oil could fix. "Ryn's father," he managed, his tin throat clicking as the words scraped out like rust. "She's been looking for him. He disappeared along that route. Right when the attacks started." The realization settled over him like a layer of frost, cold and suffocating. He turned sharply to Chistery. His voice was raw. "The trader—describe him."

Chistery hesitated, his dark eyes pools of ancient sorrow. "Hair like storm clouds. Eyes-glass with copper fix." His fingers traced small circles around his eyes in demonstration. "Bag full of metal things. Tick-tick-tick."

Boq's heart clock stuttered. A single, jarring misstep in its steady rhythm sent a shudder through his entire frame. His tin fingers rattled against his palm, the sound hollow and loud in the silence. "A trader with spectacles. Mechanical things." It hit him like an anvil to the chest. "When did they take him?"

Chistery's wings rustled softly. "When leaves turn gold."

The answer barely reached him through the frantic ticking of his heart clock. The timing fit too perfectly. Too perfectly.

A cold, terrible understanding pressed down on his tin body like an unbearable weight.

Ryn had followed him here—hoping to find her father. Hoping for answers.

Instead, she'd been attacked. Remade.

And all the while, her father remained a prisoner. Trapped in some dark, terrible place.

Boq took a sharp, needless step toward the door. "We have to tell her." He pivoted on stiff joints, metal screeching as he turned.

"Wait."

Elphaba's voice cracked like a whip, freezing him mid-step. Something in her tone made his tin limbs lock in place, metal going rigid.

"Chistery," she said, her voice dropping to something dangerous and soft. "Tell him the rest. About what Malak plans."

Chistery's wings rustled like autumn leaves, his shoulders drawing inward. "Malak use father as...as trap, Tin Man," he said, his fractured speech growing more urgent with each word. "Want humans come with sharp-things, killing things. Want show others he right. Show humans only know fight." His dark eyes met Boq's, swimming with desperate worry. "Wait for them come. Want them come."

Boq felt something inside him knock loose. A terrible, metallic ache that had nothing to do with rust.

"It's a trap," Fiyero said quietly, stating the horrible obvious.

"Yes." Chistery nodded, his wings twitching with visible unease. "And if Ryn learns where her father is..."

"She'll try to save him," Boq finished, his metal body aching with an emptiness that had nothing to do with being hollow. "No matter the cost."

Elphaba's voice softened, just slightly, like the edge of a blade wrapped in silk. "Just as you would have rushed into danger once," she murmured. "For Glinda."

The words struck something deep on the very surface of his tin skin. Something raw and painful, something no amount of oil could smooth away. He had, hadn't he? He would have burned the world to cinders for Glinda once. Thought it made him noble. Thought it meant something true. But now—

When he tried to picture her face, it felt distant. Like a painting left too long in the sun. Instead, all he could see was Ryn. Her brave, stitched-together hands, working with such gentle precision. The way she tapped against his chest plate as if expecting—hoping—to find something real inside. The way she trusted him. Completely. Without hesitation.

And now, that trust would shatter. Because she would not walk away from this.

Boq swallowed hard, the sound metallic and sharp. "What do we do?" he asked. His voice sounded lost. Hollow.

He hated it. Hated that it should have been stronger, more certain—should have rung with the conviction of steel.

"We change the rules," Elphaba snapped, her temper flaring as her gaze flicked between Chistery, Fiyero, and Boq, her mind already racing three steps ahead. "I'm tired of playing their game." She looked up at him, and for a moment Boq saw not the Wicked Witch, but simply a woman who understood all too well the cost of protecting those you loved. "But first, you need to decide something, Boq."

"What?"

"How much faith do you have in her, Boq?" Elphaba asked quietly, fixing him with a knowing look. "Enough to give her the truth, or just enough to think she needs protecting from it? Because if you tell her, you can't hedge. You have to trust she'll make the right choice. Even if it ruins both of you."

Boq stared out the tower window. Out toward the distant peaks of the Great Kells. He imagined Ryn's father—alone, waiting. And then he thought of her. How she had asked him to stay. How she had held onto him. How she had said everything felt less frightening when he was near. His heart clock ticked steadily now. A quiet, measured rhythm of resolve.

"I'll tell her," he said. No more secrets. He looked at each of them in turn—Elphaba, Fiyero, Chistery. Their faces were set in quiet understanding. "She deserves to know everything."

"Wait," Fiyero said suddenly. "What about Ryn's father? Who's going to rescue him? Those caves in the Great Kells..." He shuddered, straw rustling. "The monkeys have made them their fortress. No ordinary person could get through."

Thunder rumbled outside. Boq's metal fingers drummed against his chest plate. A hollow, familiar sound. This was why Glinda had sent him. His tin body wouldn't break. Wouldn't bleed. Wouldn't feel the cold, or the wind, or the clawing hands of the monkeys in the dark. He was the only choice.

Elphaba's expression darkened. "Not me," she murmured, her voice tight with frustration. "All of Oz must continue to believe I'm dead. And even if that weren't the case…" Her eyes flickered toward the storm-dark window, slender green fingers tracing absent patterns in the air. "I haven't got a broom anymore, have I?"

Boq froze, knowing where the Witch was headed. "Don't…"

She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh, don't act surprised, Boq. That brat Dorothy had to take what was left of it, didn't she? To make sure the Wizard and all of Oz believed I was gone for good. Neat little ending, that." She folded her arms. "So no broom, no easy exit. Seems I'm stuck."

Boq's jaw tensed. "We had to take it."

Fiyero sighed. "You know we did."

Elphaba turned, her dark eyes narrowing. "Oh, I know." Her voice was smooth, cold—controlled in a way that was almost worse than if she had shouted. "You had to take it. You had to stand there while I let her melt me. You had to bring back a scrap of my existence, just enough for the Wizard to mount on his wall like a prized kill." She stepped forward, slow and deliberate, each word honed to a blade's edge. "Tell me, Fiyero, Boq—how many people cheered when you returned? How many glasses were raised in toast? Did they laugh? Did they celebrate the Wicked Witch's downfall while you stood there, nodding along?" She tilted her head, gaze cutting straight through them. "Tell me—when exactly did it start to feel like a victory?"

"I'll go," Boq said. His voice was calm, quiet—but there was no hesitation. "Fiyero and I know these mountains well enough, and the monkeys can't hurt me. This is what I came here to do in the first place, before…" His gaze flickered toward the door as visions of Ryn in her newly stitched form flashed in front of his mind's eye, refusing to part from his thoughts.

"I'm coming with you," Fiyero added, adjusting some straw in his shoulder. "Two of us will have a better chance."

Boq nodded, already planning their route through the mountains in his mind. But Fiyero wasn't finished.

"Boq." His voice was careful now, painted features drawn in concern. "Have you considered how Ryn might feel about that? Being left behind while we rescue her father?"

The question hit Boq like a physical blow. His heart clock stuttered. "I don't know how her father will react," he admitted, at last, the words scraping raw against his tin throat. "He's being held captive by flying monkeys. And now he'll find his daughter transformed by witch's magic..." His hands lifted helplessly, gesturing at their strange gathering—a tin man, a scarecrow, a witch.

Elphaba's voice was quiet. Steady. "The same way she's handling it," she said. "One stitch at a time."

Boq's heart clock ticked faster. Her words landed like a stone in water, sending ripples through him. But before he could say anything, thunder rumbled again over the Great Kells, a low, distant warning.

"We should tell Dulcey what's happening," Fiyero said finally, breaking the tense silence that had settled between them. "She'll want to know why our new guest's father is being held in the mountains. And maybe..." He glanced at Chistery. "Maybe she'll have some thoughts on how to deal with Malak without bloodshed. Bears tend to have wisdom about such things."

"Yes," Chistery agreed, wings rustling. "Bear-lady smart. Maybe help find a way."

As the others prepared to leave, Boq turned to Elphaba. His tin fingers flexed nervously at his sides. "There's something else." He swallowed hard. "While we're gone... will you watch over her? Keep her safe?"

Elphaba's expression shifted—not quite soft, but something close. "For someone without a heart, Boq, you do fret like an old woman." She turned toward the window, watching the storm clouds churn over the Great Kells. "Your patchwork girl has already endured more than most. Perhaps it's time you stop wringing your tin hands and trust she won't unravel at the first tug. But yes. I'll look after her."

As Fiyero and Chistery headed out, Boq found himself lingering. Elphaba had returned to her restless pacing, but there was something different about it now—less frantic, more weighed down by old regrets. "Wait," he called. It surprised him as much as it surprised her.

She stopped, turning to face him. Her dark eyes were wary. For a moment, they simply looked at each other—the witch and the tin man, separated by years of blame, fear, and mistakes.

His metal joints creaked softly as he shifted his weight. "I… I understand now," he said finally. His voice was soft but steady. "What happened that night. Why you turned me to tin."

Elphaba went very still. "Do you?"

Boq's heart clock ticked, steady, and deliberate. "My heart was shrinking." He let the words settle, heavy between them. "I-I was dying." Each mechanical beat echoed the truth built into his frame. A reminder. Of what she had done. Of what she had to do. "You didn't have a choice."

Elphaba's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "There's always a choice, Boq. Just rarely a good one." She crossed her arms, glancing toward the rain-heavy clouds gathering outside. "Sometimes, every option is terrible, and all you can do is pick the one that leaves the fewest bodies. Even if they despise you for it." Her voice was cool, but something flickered behind her eyes, too quick to name.

Boq swallowed. "I… I did hate you." He said it quietly. No venom, no anger. Just truth. His tin fingers flexed, remembering how it felt to wake up in this metal body. To realize what he had become. "For so long, I thought you'd cursed me. Punished me for hurting Nessa." He thought of Ryn. Her stitched fingers working with gentle precision. The way she was learning to move, to adapt. "Now I understand." His heart clock ticked, slow and steady. "Sometimes the only way to save someone is to change them." A pause. "Even if they don't understand why." He swallowed hard.

Elphaba inhaled slowly, her fingers twitching at her sides. She looked as though she wanted to say something—something sharp, deflecting—but didn't.

"Boq—"

"Thank you." His voice caught. Oil tears welled in his eyes, dark streaks trailing down his metal face. He didn't try to wipe them away.

For a moment—just a moment—he thought he saw something shining in Elphaba's eyes too. But then she turned. Too quickly. When she spoke again, her voice was composed, her usual sharpness returning. "Enough sentiment, Boq, it's always made my skin crawl," she muttered. "Go. Tell her." Then, with the barest quirk of her lips, "And try not to fall apart on the way."

Boq exhaled a weak laugh, but there was warmth behind it. Elphaba's expression shifted at hearing his laugh—not quite soft, but something close.

Behind him, he heard Elphaba muttering something about "sentimental tin men" and "stubborn scarecrows," but there was an undercurrent of fondness in her voice that hadn't been there before. Perhaps that was what forgiveness sounded like – not grand declarations or dramatic gestures, but small moments of understanding, ticking away like the steady rhythm of a mechanical heart.

Thunder rolled again across the mountains, closer now. The storm was moving in, and somewhere in those peaks, Ryn's father was waiting. Boq's heart clock ticked steadily as he turned to leave, each step heavy with purpose. He had a truth to tell, a rescue to attempt, and somehow, impossibly, he felt more human now than he had in years.

Now, he just had to find the strength to tell Ryn the truth and hope she could be as understanding of what he was about to do.

Boq's footsteps slowed as he approached Ryn's door, his heart clock's steady ticking faltering at the sound of her voice drifting through the heavy wood.

She was talking to Pip, her voice barely a whisper in the storm-darkened hallway. Thunder rolled in the distance, a low growl that seemed to echo her unease.

"She's the Wicked Witch of the West, Pip," she murmured. "The stories I've heard about her say she's a monster." The word caught in her throat. "Then why did she save me?"

Boq tensed outside the door, his metallic joints squeaking softly in protest.

Pip let out a small questioning chirp, and he heard Ryn sigh.

"I don't know," she admitted. "She...she brought me back. I was... gone. But she stitched me together." Her voice wavered, but there was no bitterness in it—only quiet wonder. "Maybe the stories got it wrong. Maybe there's more to her than that."

Pip made a soft noise of encouragement, and Ryn let out a small, tremulous laugh.

"What will I even tell my father, if...if I see him again?" Her words were soft but steady. "That I should be dead, but I'm not? That the Wicked Witch saved me?" There was a pause, then: "That I'm different now, but maybe...maybe that's not such a terrible thing?"

Boq's heart clock faltered, its rhythm thrown into disarray. The storm rumbled again, shaking the castle walls.

"At least I'm not alone in this," Ryn murmured, and this time there was unmistakable warmth in her voice. "I have all of you—you and Boq and even Fiyero. People who understand."

Pip chirped again, teasing this time, and Ryn huffed a small laugh—shaky, but real. "I know, I know," she murmured. "Maybe I'm stronger than I thought. Maybe we all are."

Boq's tin fingers hovered over the door handle, his heart clock settling into a steady rhythm. Had she meant him? The thought sent an unfamiliar warmth through his hollow frame. He wanted to be someone she could count on—someone worthy of that quiet faith in her voice. He closed his eyes for half a second, then pushed open the door. His heart clock ticked steadily now, each beat a reminder of what he had to do. No more secrets. The truth might be difficult, but Ryn deserved nothing less. And perhaps, just perhaps, facing it together would make them both stronger.

Bob did not dare let himself look back.