THE wind howled at Boq's companions and himself like a living thing, its icy fingers worming through cracks in tin, cloth, and courage alike. Each gust of wind rattled Boq's tin frame, the sound echoing in his hollow chest where his heart used to be—a cruel reminder of what Elphaba's magic had taken from him. Once a simple Munchkin in love with Glinda, he was now trapped in this tin prison, doomed to carry the weight of her spell wherever he went.
Somewhere up ahead, Dorothy pressed on, her blue and white checked gingham dress snapping against her legs, her threadbare dress offering no protection against the storm that was nearly upon them. She cradled her little dog Toto tightly, her hands trembling against his fur from the cold. From here, Boq couldn't quite tell if she was shaking from cold or fear. It stirred something in him—a flicker of concern, maybe. Or an echo of what concern should feel like. His chest gave no answers, hollow as it was.
The Wizard's ultimatum was as relentless as the wind: Bring me the broomstick of the Witch of the West, and I will grant you your requests.
Not a promise—he was too clever for that—but a lure they had no choice but to chase. Elphaba's power was woven from the Grimmerie, and the Wizard undoubtedly wanted her broomstick as proof of her death, and Boq knew the Wizard would not grant their requests without them.
Dorothy's silver slippers gleamed dully in the rain, each step through the muck sending faint pulses of their magic rippling outward.
Beside him, the Scarecrow let out a yelp as his foot caught a root. He pitched forward into the mud with a sickening splat, limbs askew.
"Gracious!" Boq called out, his voice ringing out metallically in the storm. "Do try to keep your stuffing on the inside, my friend."
He waved a straw-filled hand, trying and failing to brush the mud off his face. "Oh, don't mind me, Tin Man," he huffed. "I'm just embracing the landscape. Thought I'd see if I can grow roots." With an undignified squelch, the Scarecrow freed himself from the muck. "Not to rush anyone," he called back, voice muffled, "but if this rain keeps up, I'll be swimming out of here instead!"
The Lion, trudging alongside Boq, looked every bit as miserable. His mane hung flat and sodden, clinging to his face. "Roots sound better than this muck," he stammered, his teeth chattering violently. "I'd—p-p-probably dig myself under the mud if it meant getting out of this blasted c-c-cold."
"Keep moving," Boq quietly urged them both, his joints protesting with every step. "The faster we find a place to spend the night, the faster we can stop worrying about growing moss."
Dorothy turned briefly, her dark hair plastered to her face. Even with the storm whipping around them, Boq could see her worry as clear as day. "Oh, Tin Man," she said worriedly, her voice rising against the wind, "what about you? You're going to rust so dreadfully out here if we don't find someplace soon!"
Boq shrugged—or tried to, but the movement made his right shoulder creak ominously.
"Oh, d-don't worry about me, Dorothy," he said, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'll be fine."
The lie that left his lips rang hollow in more ways than one, but Dorothy didn't press him. Still, his fingers tapped against his tin thigh, an old nervous habit he hadn't managed to lose even in this new, lifeless body.
"Look!" the Scarecrow called, the sound of his friend's voice pulling Boq from his worry. Boq turned to see their companion pointing a straw finger toward the gloom. "A cottage! It's empty!"
Relief surged through Boq as he followed Scarecrow's gaze. Sure enough, a lopsided structure emerged from the storm, its sagging roof heavy with ivy and rain.
"Not quite the Emerald City," Boq muttered, "but it'll do. Hurry, let's get inside before we all freeze solid—or rot and rust, in some cases. Come on!" The door resisted as Boq pushed it open when they reached the cottage, its hinges groaning loudly in protest. The sound reminded him uncomfortably of his joints, which were growing stiffer by the minute. Inside, the air was stale and thick with dust, cobwebs hanging like ghostly curtains from the cottage's rafters. "Charming," Boq murmured dryly, brushing away a stray web clinging to his arm. "But at least it's dry."
Dorothy offered a weary smile as she stepped inside, Toto clutched close. "Thank you, Tin Man."
"Don't mention it," Boq replied, already dragging a battered chair that had seen better days toward the hearth. It wobbled precariously as he set it down. "I'd say it's the least I can do, but that's beginning to feel like my motto these days."
The others busied themselves arranging what little comfort they could from the dilapidated space. As Boq lit a fire in the hearth that sputtered to life, its warmth began to push back the cold, and he found his gaze drifting to Dorothy. She sat cross-legged by the flames, her hair drying in dark waves. The light from the fire softened her face, but her eyes held an exhaustion that no child should ever carry.
Boq awkwardly cleared his throat—a metallic-sounding rasp that made Dorothy look up. "You should sleep," he said softly, gesturing to the pile of worn woolen blankets the Lion had dragged out of a corner. "Another long day tomorrow, and you'll need to keep up your strength."
Dorothy hesitated. "What about you, Tin Man? Don't you need rest?"
"Me?" Boq gave a hollow laugh, tapping his chest with a tin finger. "I'm not much for counting sheep these days, I'm afraid. Short a heart and all that. But don't worry, Dorothy—I'll keep these two sleepy heads in line while you sleep," he said, gesturing with a wave of his hand to the Scarecrow and Lion.
She smiled but it seemed a little off, like a crooked oil can. "I think you're selling yourself short, Tin Man. There's more to you than meets the eye. You're more than just tin. You're my friend."
Her words echoed strangely inside him. Boq turned to look out the window at the now-raging storm outside, unsure of how to respond.
Behind them, the Lion snored by the crackling fire, and the Scarecrow's straw continuously rustled as his stuffed friend tried to make himself comfortable. Dorothy eventually drifted off too, but he remained by his post, pondering what she'd said. Boq tapped his chest again, hearing only emptiness. No heart, no real feelings. Yet something ached inside, a phantom pain he couldn't name.
Perhaps Dorothy was right. Perhaps there was more to caring than just a beating heart. The dancing firelight cast strange shadows on the wooden walls of the cottage. Dorothy murmured in her sleep, her silver shoes glinting. Boq didn't need a heart to feel the weight of his silent vow to protect her from Elphaba, whatever the cost of it to him.
The storm battered the little cottage, but Boq stood firm, unmoving. Tin might rust, but it didn't easily break. He'd make sure of that. He kept watch over his sleeping companions, the shadows dancing strangely in the flickering firelight, but he paid them no mind, his thoughts turned inward. As the long night stretched on, a soft sound drew his attention—Dorothy stirring restlessly, muttering in her sleep. Boq moved closer, alarmed, tin joints creaking, watching her face contort in distress as she was surely dreaming of the storm that had brought her to Oz.
"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...when you were still human?"
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 of it 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 murmured, his voice quiet as the crackling fire, "what else is a heartless fellow to do with his sleepless nights? Though, between you and me, I'm beginning to think that having a heart and feeling things aren't always the same."
He turned back to the door, settling into his vigil as Dorothy's breathing softened, each rise and fall a melody of peace. Outside, the storm still raged, its fury hammering against the fragile cottage, but it felt different now. Smaller, perhaps. Distant. Friendship had a way of quieting even the loudest tempests.
Boq's fingers brushed against his chest, his metal hand tapping a faint rhythm that echoed in the stillness. It almost sounded like a heartbeat. Not quite, but close enough to spark a thought: perhaps being hollow wasn't the same as being empty. Perhaps the heart he sought wasn't a thing the Wizard could grant, but something that had been forming all along—in quiet gestures, unspoken promises, and the warmth of a kind word shared in the dark.
The thought settled inside him, a quiet comfort that made his joints creak a little less as he shifted. Tin wasn't supposed to feel, and yet, in that moment, he swore he did.
The fire's glow softened, its shadows curling along the walls like whispers of forgotten dreams. As Boq stood watch over Dorothy and her companions, the storm outside seemed to fade into the background, less a threat and more a reminder of what they had endured together.
A tin man. A guardian. Perhaps even a friend.
And as the night deepened, Boq's hollow chest didn't feel quite so empty anymore.
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.
"What a mess we're in," Boq muttered, his eyes drawn 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 secret.
The Scarecrow's eyes opened. "Mm? Did you say something, Tin Man?"
Boq straightened, joints creaking. "N-no, nothing! Just…just an old memory playing tricks." But he couldn't look away. Memories rushed back—Elphaba before she was the Witch, burning with fierce brilliance. And Fiyero, who had everything he'd wanted—Glinda's love, courage, the freedom to choose his path. Until magic had reshaped him, reshaped them both.
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 stirred, her small form curling tighter against the chill. Toto shifted closer, pressing his warm, trembling body to hers in a silent gesture of protection. The silver slippers shimmered faintly in the dying firelight, their magic sparking like distant starlight across the dusty cottage floor, fragile and otherworldly. Boq leaned forward, the sound of his creaking joints a faint, mournful melody in the stillness. His metal hand hovered near Dorothy, trembling slightly as if even now, it might feel the warmth radiating from her skin. But he couldn't touch her—not without risking a chill reminder of what he'd lost. Instead, he lingered, the words tumbling out in a voice both steady and fragile, metallic yet achingly sincere.
"I'll keep you safe, Dorothy," he murmured, the vow reverberating through his hollow chest like a bell's toll. "I promise."
He let his hand fall, curling it into a fist against his thigh, his gaze lingering on the girl and her tiny dog. She didn't stir again, her breathing soft and even, a sound so simple and alive that it made his hollow chest ache with the ghost of a heartbeat. 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.