Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Charlie was grinning and couldn’t stop doing so.

From the now-free Emerald City, they’d gone to Munchkinland so fast it made Charlie dizzy. Dorothy was an important figure, both to the resistance and to Oz in general. No one wanted to have her around during the last clean-up of the Capital.

Dorothy hadn’t minded; there was a lot more in Oz to do. Even without the Wicked Witch’s Steward to cause problems, plenty were still loyal to her. The resistance were doing their best to spread news of her death, but that didn’t mean all would believe them. And even those that did might end up seeking revenge.

In short, it was a mess.

That didn’t stop Charlie grinning though. She sat behind Dorothy, close, arms wrapped around the woman’s middle and head on her shoulder, and they rode the Cowardly Lion backwards across the Yellow Brick Road.

“Do you normally travel by lion?” Charlie said, barely heard over the sound of the wind rushing past them, despite how close her lips were to Dorothy’s ear.

“Sometimes,” a chuckle, as she shouted back. “Fastest way to travel. That we have access to, at any rate. Remind me to take you to the dragons when things settle down.”

“Dragons?!” Charlie gave a squeak that was somewhere between fear and excitement.

She squeezed tighter for a moment as the Lion leapt over a rougher patch of ground. Dorothy waited until their movement was smoother, or at least as smooth as travel via running lion could get, before responding.

“Promised you adventure, didn’t I?” she said. “Never got a chance to ride them before.”

It was strange. Dorothy had been much cheerier since leaving the Emerald City. Actually, since before that; since she’d come back to Oz. Back on Earth, a place Charlie for some reason thought of as ‘the real world’ despite believing firmly in the dreamlike landscape around her, Dorothy had been, while not cold, bordering on bitter.

Now she was in Oz, she seemed to smile at most things. Smiles of relief, or nostalgia, of just simply joy: and smiles at Charlie. Those were her favourite.

“Munchkinland first?” Charlie said. Dorothy nodded.

Charlie was still buzzing. From coming to Oz, to all of this, it was hard not be overwhelmed. With the promise of all that was to come, as well… She was so very glad to have come to Oz.

She was visiting places she’d only heard of in stories; places that her childhood had almost centred around. Even if it was rather less child-friendly than she’d thought back then, even that couldn’t change how this felt.

The Lion eventually came to a bumpy stop on a small hill, just overlooking Munchkinland. Dorothy stepped off the beast and, a little more slowly, less used to riding, Charlie followed, unsteady on her feet.

Both approached the edge of the hill, looking over towards a small Munchkin village. There were only a few houses, most clearly built recently, and rushed. Bright colours charred and ruined; round holes formed glassless windows.

It seemed built around a central circle, an empty stretch of land with a statue that was about the size of a normal human. A woman, easily identifiable even from that distance, without seeing the plaque that lay near her feet. She was most likely tall to the Munchkins: a few of them were visible, about half the height of a human.

Still, Charlie’s eyes were drawn to that statue. She stood confidently, carved from grey stone. One arm lay by her side, the other was lifted in front of her torso, and held two shoes; those shoes were the only colour on the statue, painted red. It was younger, but still recognizably Dorothy.

“Back here, huh?” Dorothy said, turning back to the Lion.

“It seemed fitting,” the Lion spoke, his voice low, infinitely textured. “Glinda suggested it.”

“She’s still around then?” Dorothy said, almost disappointed. “Should’ve guessed. She bubble ahead, let them know we’re coming?”

The Lion nodded his great head, mane rippling. Dorothy reached forward, scratching its mane.

It was an oddly touching sight. Charlie remember what Dorothy had said, about who her three story companions had really been; three freedom fighters she’d met, who’d been transformed by the Wicked Witch. Even now the Witch was gone, it seemed that curse was lingering.

“I would be careful, were I you,” the Lion spoke, “There is much unrest.”

“Had noticed,” Dorothy said.

“Some centres about you. Many, even among those that opposed the Witch, are unhappy with human intervention in fey affairs,” the Lion said.

“You’re kidding, right?” Dorothy said, doubting he was. “She terrorized Oz for how long, and that’s what we get?”

The Lion growled; it seemed almost apologetic. Charlie approached, and took Dorothy’s hand; though she didn’t know Oz, she knew plenty about unjust rewards.

You could do anything, you could save the world from ravenous beasts from the dawn of time, and people would still complain. It was why she preferred quests. Swords and sorcery, dragons and damsels; though, Charlie reflected, she could do without more damsels. There was closure, there was a reward in fiction.

Sadly, this Oz wasn’t fiction.

“There is a rumour,” the Lion said, “That the Witch is in part from your world: part-human, part-Ozian. It is most likely untrue, but rumour has never needed truth. Humans are blamed entirely for our troubles.”

“That’s nonsense,” Charlie said, rolling her eyes and inhaling. “Half-breeds are one of the worst clichés; no way they can work. First you’d somehow need genetically compatible parents, which mean they’d have to be the same species, or close enough to it. Just looking the same on the surface wouldn’t cut it: Vulcans and humans almost do, but Vulcans have green blood and completely different biology. You know, Spock’s illogical,” she laughed at that, before hesitating at the silent response from the others.

Both Dorothy and the Lion were staring at her. She coughed, and laughed, slightly nervously. The Lion tilted his head, curiously; Dorothy was smiling as though amused.

“What?” Charlie said, defensive. “There are no computers here, no Harry Potter, no LARP, I have to geek out when I get the chance, ok?”

A pause. The Lion’s furry brow creased.

“What is a Spock?” he said.

Charlie’s eyes widened, in pity, and she opened her mouth to give a long, details response when Dorothy cut in, her voice clearly suppressing laughter.

“I expect that’s a long story,” she said, glancing at Charlie. The redhead fell silent and, after a moment, nodded. “Longer than you’ve got time for.”

“I expect you’re right,” the Lion spoke, facing Charlie with golden eyes. “I bid you farewell, then. May you enjoy your stay in Munchkinland, and may you stay safe.”

Dorothy nodded. She didn’t need to speak.

The Cowardly Lion paced backwards for a few steps, before turning around. His patchy, bronzed yet no less regal coat rippled, and he ran. Away, to wherever it was he would be staying or working.

Her friend having once more left her, Dorothy moved back to Charlie, and squeezed her hand. Together, they headed down to the small village. It was… odd. Charlie could certainly see how it had given rise to the one from the stories, full of bright colours and child-like guilds and groups, and diminutive, singing people.

There was the unmistakeable tang of reality, however. They’d been, if not at war, caught in the crossfire for decades, at least; however long it had been since Dorothy was last here. The bright rainbow of roofs were charred, most of the houses clearly haphazardly built (or repaired) from whatever was at hand. The waist-high Munchkins, far from the ever-smiling, chirrupy people Charlie had half-expected, were a slumping, world-weary people who seemed more at home with dirges than ding-dongs.

That wasn’t to say they didn’t try at happiness. Certainly, one man in the ragged remains of some official suit greeted them, and a woman in a tattered dress thanked them, and guided them to the room they’d been given.

Charlie noticed though, as soon as they were out of sight, the Munchkins slumped again, and lost their false smiles.

She doubted they could believe it. After all the time they’d lived in fear of the Wicked Witch and her armies, who’d be able to believe it was over at last?

Once they were in their given rooms, however, both Charlie and Dorothy relaxed. It wasn’t much, by any means: just because the war was over didn’t mean everyone would magically gain more resources. It was just one large space, with half of it dedicated to more practical concerns (a table, a shower), and the other half with a bunkbed, up against the wall.

For some reason, that sight made Charlie think quicker than she had in Oz, so far. She knew Dorothy wasn’t immediately comfortable with the (re?)-discovery of her preferences; indeed, after their relieved kisses in the Emerald City, they’d had little contact more intimate than handholding. Charlie was fine with that, no point in rushing Dorothy given the era she came from, but it did mean they’d be likely to use both of the bunkbeds.

As such, Charlie immediately ran forwards:

“I call dibs on the top bunk,” she said, doing her best to scramble up there before Dorothy could react. As she turned, to peer back down, Dorothy was chuckling.

“Did you come here for adventure or bunkbeds?” Dorothy said. She seemed amused. Charlie hesitated.

“Adventure,” she said, insistent. “Bunkbeds are good too. Consider it a reward for saving Oz.”

“Beat the Wicked Witch, get a bunkbed. That sort of thing?” Dorothy said.

She climbed up the bed’s ladder; not to slip into the bed Charlie had claimed, just to be able to talk without having her neck at an uncomfortable angle. Two feet on a rung, hands of the mattress; the endurance she’d picked up from hunting and travelling Oz meant she barely noticed the strain.

“Exactly,” Charlie said. “It’s how quests always work. Beat the big bad, get a prize. Or a princess, in some stories. Since neither of us are princesses to my knowledge, then the bunkbed must be our prize.”

“Interesting definition of prize,” Dorothy said, and smiled. “You do know it doesn’t work like, that, right?”

“Of course,” Charlie said, sighing softly. “Nice to think it would though. You’re the only one here who’s done this quest-stuff for real though. I’ve only done stories.”

“I’ll teach you how it works, then,” Dorothy said. A smirk; Charlie echoed the smile.

Before either spoke again, there was a knock at the door. Dorothy paused, on the verge of saying more. Then, sighing, slid down the ladder, and walked to the door. Charlie was in the process of getting off the bunkbed, when Dorothy opened the door.

Instead of anyone walking in, a moderately large sphere hovered in front of Dorothy’s head. There was some substance to it, something tangible in the centre; it wasn’t clear though. Most of it seemed to be composed of some wispy blur, some preternatural mist of red, of blue, and of all kinds of colours, not all of which with a name.

It moved into the room; Dorothy stepped back, her eyes never leaving it. Her posture was unreadable; there was some tension, some wariness as though she didn’t quite trust the orb. Then again, she also seemed somehow relaxed, as though she was convinced it would prove no danger.

Charlie’s feet hit the floor, just as the bubble expanded. The transition was indescribable: it spread, it grew rapidly, almost explosively. As soon as it reached a basic size and shape, though, the only thing to spread out any further was the odd wisp that surrounded the orb; and that dissipated quickly, leaving a human-sized shape. Just as quickly as it had appeared, details were filled in; shades, textures, movement, until a well-dressed woman stood there.

It took little more time than a blink. There was something disconcerting about the magic, though; it might just have been because it was new to her, but Charlie had to suppress a shiver.

It was, in a way, the scent of it. The fundamental feel; she’d experienced it just once before: when the Wicked Witch had thrown her across the room, back on Earth. When she’d been killed, apparently. The same magic.

“Greetings,” the woman spoke. “Oz thanks you for your return and aid, Dorothy. Our thanks are also due to you, stranger to our land.”

“Charlie,” she said, raising a hand almost shyly.

“Greetings Charlie,” the woman spoke. “I am Glinda, Good Witch of the South.”

“You’re kidding,” Charlie said, before she could stop herself. Her eyes widened; her jaw almost dropped. First the Cowardly Lion, now Glinda. And, of course, Dorothy. She wondered if she’d ever get used to it.

“I assure you, I am,” Glinda spoke, before turning back, almost curtly, to Dorothy.

At least that explained why her magic felt so familiar; fey witchcraft. Then again, it wasn’t exactly comforting, to have both the good and wicked witches to, apparently, use the same power. That was reality, she supposed. Less clear-cut than stories.

Glinda was beautiful though. She wore a dress perhaps better suited for a ball, with silk decorated with pearl, and diamond jewellery. Sunlight blonde hair was arranged in an almost stereotypically enchanting manner, yet even the cliché didn’t detract from the sight. A beatific smile, and a dress that certainly would belong in a story, or fairy-tale.

Past that, though, it was less pleasant. Her voice was kind, certainly, on the surface. It gave the impression of warmth, of caring, yet Charlie couldn’t bring herself to accept it. Glinda put Charlie in mind of an ice sculpture; beautiful from a distance, cold when you got close.

Maybe it was just an instinctive reaction to feeling that magic again. Still, it was hardly comforting.

“You are welcome in my Munchkinland for as long as you wish,” Glinda spoke, nodding to Dorothy. Was that unwillingness in her tone? “I ask you, stay. Sample the joys of Oz, rather than our wars. We will do the very best we can to make your stay enjoyable.”

Glinda held a wand in one hand. That too resembled a fairytale; a softly luminescent, ephemeral rod tipped with what looked like a crystal snowflake. Charlie supposed the snowflake was a beautiful enough emblem.

Still, it made her think of ice. Cold. Frozen.

A small flash travelled up the wand, from Glinda’s hand to the snowflake, and then out; and on the table, a meal appeared. It was recognizable, mostly; as though it had been recreated from a description of human food.

“Eat,” Glinda spoke, “Be merry. You have no need for worries here.”

And with the same sickening lurch as before, Glinda condensed to a bubble, and drifted out the still open door. The door shut behind her, touched by some unseen gust of air. Charlie couldn’t help but be reminded of the same green and black smoke the Wicked Witch had travelled with.

Fey witchcraft. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to it, not after her first experience.

The tension drained from Dorothy also, and the two of them sat by the table, and supplied food. It seemed Dorothy too was far from happy by the witch’s presence. Still, it seemed unlikely the self-proclaimed good witch would seek to hurt them, especially not with how easy it would be to catch her, and with how the means to kill a witch was well-known. They ate.

“Never could stand that bitch,” Dorothy remarked, as she began the meal. Charlie coughed; almost choked; “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, laughing now her throat and mouth were clear of food. “It’s just, you’re not exactly being kind to my childhood. She was always the good witch. The nice one.”

“And a huge bitch,” Dorothy completed the list. “You can’t tell me you don’t agree. I saw how you reacted.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, “Not… fun, being around her. She feels like the Wicked Witch.”

“Good and evil,” Dorothy said. “Not as clear cut as the stories. That’s what happened when a war gets turned into a kids’ book. Besides, she’s meant to be the Witch of the Quadlings. Since I killed the Witch of the East, she’s spread to the Munchkins. Wouldn’t be surprised to learn she’s taken over Gillikin country too.”

A pause. Charlie frowned, recalling what she could of the books. It had been quite a while since she’d read them.

Four Witches, of the North, South, East and West. Glinda was meant to be of the South, but here she was with the Munchkins, in the East; the Gillikins were in the North. That left just the Western Winkies, who’d been ruled over by the Wicked Witch and her steward, until recently.

And Glinda did seem to be the last Witch. Whether she was good or not, Charlie resolved to keep an eye out. This wasn’t as simple as a story: friendships and allegiances could change.

“Is there actually a Lollipop Guild?” Charlie said, remembering a titbit from the movie. That time, it was Dorothy who almost choked from laughter.

“They’ve been at war,” she said. “Amazingly, they didn’t have much use for lollipops.”

Charlie wasn’t especially surprised. Right from Dorothy herself, this Oz was very different.

“Disappointed?” Dorothy said again, tilting her head.

“No,” Charlie said. “I mean, it would be great if this was the same Oz I read about. Singing Munchkins and bright emerald. Even if it isn’t though, it’s still an adventure, right?”

“That it is,” a smile. Dorothy leant back, having finished her meal.

“Yeah,” Charlie said, finishing her own. “Whether it’s Lollipop Guilds or warriors and clerics or whoever they’ve got, it doesn’t change that. I’m happy.”

There wasn’t much more to say, after dinner. And, for obvious reasons, both of them were exhausted; the attack on the Steward was hardly relaxing. Fairly soon, each of them went to bed.

Charlie, eagerly, took the top bunk; Dorothy lay below her.

Laying there, with no sight save for the grey wall of the given accommodation, or the back of her eyelids; and no sound save for the rhythmic breathing of Dorothy, Charlie could almost forget she was in Oz, in the fairy realm. 

Chapter Text

 

It was her first real night’s sleep on anywhere other than Earth. Which really wasn’t a thought she ever expected to have. It made it harder to sleep, just the excitement of it.

She was in a story, on a quest. Ok, maybe it wasn’t exactly what she imagined, but that was the point of adventure. The surprise, the new experiences. Exploration, unexpectedness. That, she could savour.

Still, every time it felt like she was going to drift off, new thoughts, new ideas came to her. It was so tempting to just wake Dorothy and quiz her on everything Oz.

She’d mentioned dragons: what were they? Tiny little Discworld swamp dragons, or Smaug-wannabes with grand wings and fiery breath? And how much of Oz could manage serious magical feats? What had they done with it? Was it taught? Was there an Oz Hogwarts?

Trying to control her mad thoughts proved tricky, especially with her mind being already sleep-deprived. Somehow, they, she managed to drift off into a dream of an absurdly depicted Oz, with Cities of every conceivable precious stone, populated by everything from talking lions and tigers and bears, to talking dinosaurs and bacteria.

It was during a heated argument with one of her own white blood cells that Dorothy shook her awake. Charlie’s eyes blinked open.

Dorothy looked down. Her hair was wet; she’d already showered, then. She was smiling, anticipation writ in every feature. Charlie pulled herself up, until her head was level with Dorothy’s. The dark-haired hunter stood on the rungs of the ladder, practised.

“Morning,” Dorothy said. “You snore.”

“I do not,” Charlie said, still drowsy but alert enough to protest. Dorothy chuckled.

“Wicked Witch must be back then,” she said. “Sure sounded like it.” A teasing smile; Dorothy really did seem glad to be back in Oz.

“Oy,” Charlie protested, shifting under the sheets, ready to get up. “No fair, I don’t hiss.”

“True,” Dorothy said, slipping down the ladder, giving Charlie a chance to get down. “Maybe the Lion then.”

“Lion I can live with,” Charlie mumbled, “Like Aslan,” a giggle. “Gay Jesus.”

Dorothy tilted her head, disconcerted by Charlie’s apparent randomness. The redhead took a moment to recognize that expression.

“Sleepy,” Charlie said, in defence. “Don’t expect me to make sense. And pop culture. Aslan, Narnia, they’re books.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Dorothy still seemed just as amused. “Let’s hope Oz hasn’t changed as much as Earth.”

Charlie nodded, rubbing her eyes as she made her way over to the shower. The water, at least, should wake her up.

It was certainly something she’d have to get used to, waking up properly. In recent days, her unemployed schedule being dictated mostly by the habits of whatever monster she was hunting, sleep had been relatively hard to come by. Waking up alert would have been hard even without that.

Strange how the quest stories she was so fond of never mentioned that. She guessed she’d find out several more incongruities during her time in Oz.

Charlie hesitated as she reached the shower door. As close as she and Dorothy had been yesterday, they’d slept apart, and Charlie wasn’t entirely sure whether Dorothy would want to see her-

“I’ll wait outside,” Dorothy said, completely that thought.

20s/30s sensibilities, still, even if they were altered by her time in Oz.

A few minutes later, after a surprisingly warm shower, Charlie left their supplied room in the same clothes she’d worn the day before. That was something else to ask about: more practicalities. First though.

“Hey,” Charlie said, moving beside Dorothy.

The woman stood by the statue of herself. A stone plaque was on the ground, just by the statue’s feet: at its top, the word Dorothy was written in an untidy scrawl, mimicking handwriting. The rest seemed to be indecipherable runes; some kind of Ozian formal writing, Charlie supposed.

“Hi,” Dorothy said, taking Charlie’s hand, barely thinking about it; “Having fun yet Aslan?”

“More than you’d believe,” Charlie said, eyes wandering around the village.

Munchkins, magic; there was even a sigh with a bright yellow arrow, patterned as though it were made from bricks. The same runic script was beneath it; maybe it was the Ozian language? That was odd: it certainly sounded the same as English.

“Questions?” Dorothy said, making Charlie jump. “Don’t blame you, I was the same when I first got here.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, hesitating. “What’s with that writing? I thought they spoke English. Have they got universal translators, or babel fish, or… pop culture again, sorry. I’ll try and cut down.”

“I won’t ask,” Dorothy said, and chuckled. “Something to do with the fairy realm, everyone understands each other, at least in speech. I learnt a little of their writing before, about enough to make out this,” she gestured at the plaque. “Not much though.”

“And where’d they even get showers?” Charlie said, suddenly, the thought just coming to her. Dorothy shrugged.

“Probably in a tornado,” she said. “More than just humans come to Oz. If it falls into a vortex, there’s a chance something makes it here. They’ve learnt to salvage. Those showers common for you, then?”

“Oh, yeah,” Charlie said, forgetting Dorothy’s era wouldn’t have had much like the model in their room.

That was interesting, then. If things could come to Oz the same way as people, through tornados and the like, then who knew what other things Oz had? She’d expected an almost medieval level of technology when she’d come here, like most fantasy.

This place wasn’t Oz. It was hard not to think that; too many changes, from turning the war-torn realm’s struggles into children’s entertainment. It was so different, changed from what she’d expected. That wasn’t a disappointment though; far from it.

“You make a good statue,” Charlie said absently, after a moment.

It was an odd statue. Most such creations Charlie knew of, built to honour someone, tended to either be on a pedestal, or markedly larger than life. This one was about a normal human time; then again, she supposed, Munchkins would have to look up to see it.

It was designed well, at least. The detail in her face was surprising; made it easy to identify who it represented. A smile that creased her cheeks, and eyes that seemed almost to stare back. Even individual hairs could be made out, even if the statue wore it differently to how Dorothy currently did. Beautiful.

“I’ll assume that’s a compliment,” Dorothy said, and squeezed Charlie’s hand. “Personally I prefer being flesh and blood.”

“Oh, me too,” Charlie said, smiling across. “It looks good though.”

Dorothy shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “I can’t get over having books written about me, a statue’s a little less believable.”

“Embarrassed?”

“Maybe,” she said. “More taken aback, I suppose. Let’s see how you take it when you get a statue.”

Charlie laughed, quiet. She had a point. She’d barely gotten used to the fact she was actually in Oz, however many differences there were. Anything more unbelievable, she might not be able to handle it.

“What’s it say?” Charlie said, gesturing down at the plaque. Dorothy glanced down at the runes, then sighed.

“Really?” Dorothy said. Her expression went from self-consciousness, however, to a fond amusement as she met Charlie’s eyes.

Another thing to add to the list of how fantasy differed from reality, Charlie reflected. The people honoured as world-savers and grand heroes didn’t always seem to enjoy publicizing the fact. Maybe it was that humility that made them heroes.

“Fine,” Dorothy said, tone trying to downplay it. “Don’t remember enough to translate it exactly, but it’s something like: here stands Dorothy, saviour of Munchkinland and slayer of the Wicked Witch of the East.”

“That bit actually happened?” Charlie said. “I thought you said there wasn’t a house-fall?”

Dorothy laughed, looking up for a moment. She shrugged.

“It was an accident,” she said. “That much was accurate. When I came to Oz, I’d stowed away with my father. The transition’s not exactly a smooth one though, at least not without the key. We got separated, I went flying. Sheer luck, I crashed into the Wicked Witch of the East. Think of her as a less powerful version of the one you slippered. Landing didn’t kill her, just annoyed her. I was training to be a hunter though, back then, even if father wasn’t happy about it. Fought back, stabbed her with her own wand.”

That would do it, Charlie supposed. It took the Oz magic in the ruby slippers to kill the other Wicked Witch, no wonder a magic wand had done the same. Then again, if that witch was weaker, maybe just being impaled would have worked.

Charlie found herself smiling at that, though. Just the absurdity of a children’s book genuinely beginning with Dorothy in a life-or-death, bare-handed struggle for the opening. No wonder Baum had opted for dropping a house.

“Did you have a gingham dress?” Charlie said, momentarily curious. Dorothy blinked, then chuckled.

“Definitely not,” she said. “First thing you learn while hunting, don’t go out in skirts. Not the most practical things for fighting in: same reason I didn’t wear her shoes.”

Charlie smiled, glad to see Dorothy returned it, before her gaze returned to the statue. Even that didn’t have a dress on; if anything, the stone woman’s garb seemed closer to what Charlie wore, than the movie or book version.

She’d never really believed Dorothy would have had anything like that old dress on, though. Just imagining her in one could make her laugh.

“Did the Wicked Witch of the West have a broomstick?” Charlie said, thinking. “If she was the one that ended up back on Earth, doesn’t seem like she’d have much use for it.”

“She didn’t,” Dorothy said. “The whole ‘bring me the broomstick’ bit was less child-friendly. Think more sacrificial knife. Actually just had to kill her, but needed to bring back proof.”

“Oh,” Charlie said, blinking. She could see why Baum would have neglected to mention the knife.

And, she supposed, if it made more sense. If the Wizard/Baum had needed something of the Witch’s, a knife would have been of more use. Maybe he’d figured out how to killed the Wicked Witch: a sharp implement with Oz magic. That was unlikely, though. There were so many uses.

They stood where they were for a few minutes more, even with less to talk about. All the infinite questions Charlie had dried up, as soon as she had the chance to speak them; and besides, they seemed less important, now.

Even if her eyes left the statue, the landscape was beautiful. She’d had less time to focus on it, before, still buzzing from the Emerald City and meeting/riding the Cowardly Lion.

It was one of the few aspects of Oz that could have come from the book. Ignoring a few blots, perhaps old battle-sites or actions of the slain Witch of the East, specks of smoking black or barren ground where nothing grew and plants and insects seemed to swerve to avoid; ignoring all of that, it verged on picturesque.

Then again, a realm presided over by self-proclaimed Good Witches was bound to be more ideal than anything left to its own devices. When allowed to sprout, trees grew healthily and evenly; the sky was a clear, clear blue with only a few, stereotypically fluffy clouds.

It was pleasant to walk, to see more. Though Charlie had seen enough on her journey atop the Lion to know not all of Oz was as scenic, it was nice to know that some of the realm fitted her childhood imaginings.

When they’d departed from the base of the normal-sized Dorothy statue, they mostly just explored the village. Though most of those Dorothy knew were either dead or aged visibly (apparently the life expectancy of fey was around twice that of humans, save for Witches and similarly especially magical creatures who could border on immortal), she was able to recognize a few people, or a few families.

They would have departed the village, to try to explore the surroundings, but a young Munchkin caught up to them, instructed by Glinda. Apparently it wasn’t safe to leave the village, the Wicked Witch loyalists still loose, out there.

Disappointed, Charlie and Dorothy walked back to their room. Dorothy made her way to the lower bunk, preferring the softness of the bed as a seat; it was a luxury she hadn’t had much of, in Oz. Similarly weary, Charlie moved to sit beside her. Absently, Dorothy took her hand; held it over her lap.

“So,” Dorothy said, “Once we get out of this place, what’d you want to see?”

That was a thought. Most of the reason Charlie had come here, as well as a chance at a quest, was just the chance to experience magic. A real fantasy. Fulfilling the initial aim of her quest was terrifying, and amazing, and all kinds of things: aside from how Oz still wasn’t completely free, not with more loyalists out there, there was the simple fact Oz existed.

That was quest enough, for her. Walk the fairy realm and see all it had to offer.

“Dragons,” Charlie said, instantly. Less profound, maybe, but she couldn’t resist.

She knew something of dragons, in her studies as Woman-of-Letters and the titbits she’d picked up browsing the bunker. The ‘real’ dragons though disappointed her, somewhat. Humans who could summon flame; reality always disappointed.

She wanted to see the real thing: and it sounded like Oz had them.

Dorothy laughed.

“That all?” she said. “Just dragons?”

“No,” Charlie shook her head. “Everything. Just, everything. Deserts, cities, plains, whatever there is here. Good or bad.” Even the sight of the occupied Emerald City had filled her with wonder: even with the emerald itself long gone. “Everything from Mordor to Andelain.”

“Could take a while.”

“I don’t mind,” Charlie said, quickly. Dorothy chuckled.

“Didn’t think you would,” a smile. “So, dragons, and everything. That all?”

“For now,” Charlie said, before yawning. She blinked, finding it surprisingly hard to keep her eyes open.

Even if they hadn’t left the village, the day had been tiring. To say nothing of how comparatively little sleep she’d had the last night; new bed, new world…

Dorothy shifted, letting Charlie fall sideways onto her shoulder, head idly nestling there. A smile.

“Need to sleep?” Dorothy said, as Charlie pulled her feet up onto the bed, still resting on Dorothy. The redhead blinked, surprised by how weary she felt suddenly.

“Not yet,” Charlie murmured, “Still on the bottom bunk. This one’s yours.”

Despite her words, Charlie didn’t seem particularly keen on moving, instead leaning on Dorothy further, finding it harder to open her eyes. Chuckling, Dorothy shifted again, letting Charlie slowly, gently fall down to the bed. The redhead complained incoherently, still weary, making no effort to move.

A fond chuckle, and Dorothy pulled herself up onto the bed, until she lay behind Charlie. Close. She rolled onto her side, moving closer;

“This better?” she said.

Closeness was something to be craved: especially for both of them. One out of time, one far away from anything that could be considered home.

“Much,” Charlie conceded, tiredly shuffling back, into a waiting embrace. Dorothy chuckled, voice close to Charlie’s ear; the redhead’s sleepy mind caught up with her action, then, and she stiffened. “Sorry,” she said, a little anxious. This was something she didn’t want to mess up. “Is this... ok?”

That was something Dorothy liked. She wouldn’t lie and say she was completely comfortable with how things between them had gone; no one would be, from her time. Though she was considerably more open-minded from her time in Oz, that didn’t change how unexpected all this was.

But Charlie knew, and Charlie cared. That awareness, Dorothy prized.

“Feels it to me,” Dorothy said, soft. “Feel ok to you?”

“Definitely,” Charlie said, tension leaving her frame. Dorothy chuckled again, more from marvelling than amusement.

Soon, Dorothy’s eyes too drifted shut. Charlie listened, lost in the mesmerizing closeness of Dorothy’s breathing. Hypnotic. In the woman’s embrace, sleep found her much easier that night. It didn’t matter where she was, only that she trusted the arms that held her. 

Chapter Text

Dorothy awoke first the next day, but didn’t move at all, content to simply await Charlie’s awakening. This was something new to her, she had to admit; and she would savour every moment. Every first.

There had been disappointments on her return to Oz, without a doubt. Finding out the Scarecrow hadn’t survived the past years, for one. The Emerald City had been another; though it had always been at the centre of Oz, both spiritually and literally, it was far from enjoyable to see it overtaken. The loss of the emeralds also pained her; she’d been behind that. Her father the Wizard had only been introduced in trickery, choosing instead to give the inhabitants green goggles rather than change the city’s shade at all.

When he’d gone back to Earth, on several journeys she’d helped make the Emerald City live up to its name. Emeralds on each wall and, when they ran out of jewels, paint and plants. It might have been small in the grand scheme, but it was something she was proud of.

She’d journeyed Oz, both finding emerald mines, and negotiating for the gems. She wouldn’t have the grandest city in all Oz names for a lie. Of course the Witch’s steward had undone that.

Eventually, Charlie stirred. Dorothy shifted, to enable both of them to wake. They washed and dressed separately, in part from shyness. When that was done, though, neither wanted to leave the room.

They’d explored the village completely, the last day. It wasn’t huge. All there was left to do, was depart: and from the sound of it, Glinda wasn’t going to allow that. They sat together, once more, on the lower bunk.

“What actually happened?” Charlie spoke, breaking the silence. Dorothy glanced at her, curiously. “In Oz, the first time,” she said. “I mean, I’ve heard some of it, but never the whole story.”

“Everything?” Dorothy said. Well, it wasn’t like that had anything better to do.

“Mm,” Charlie said, lying down, leaving her head on Dorothy’s lap, interested. “There have been so many retellings of your story, you know. The books, the film, the plays. Then there was Wicked: the Witch of the West was really a goodie, and Glinda was just stuck-up.”

“I’d agree with half of that,” Dorothy chuckled.

A moment passed. Dorothy sighed, resting a hand on Charlie’s head, idly playing with her hair. She cast her mind back, trying to work out where to start.

“I’d say you already know most of it,” Dorothy said. “My father came to Oz, and I stowed way. When he left, I was stuck. Killed the Wicked Witch of the East, and took her shoes. They were silver, then. Made my way from Munchkinland to the Emerald City, where he’d be most likely to come back to. On my way, I met three freedom fighters. I waited in the City for a few days, by which time father figured out where I was, and came back.”

She paused, briefly. Charlie didn’t say a word, picturing it as best she could. The story was one she’d always been enchanted by; to hear how it really happened was just as magical.

“Probably should say a word on politics,” Dorothy said, “The Witches were at war. Good Witch of the North, Good Witch of the South and resident bitch, against the Wicked Witches of the West and East. They fought, and their quarters of Oz fought too. Father tricked his way to the top, but when pressed, he couldn’t actually do all that much. When I came along, I tipped the balance: killed the Witch of the East, leaving the Wicked Witch of the West outnumbered.”

Her voice changed, somewhat. She wasn’t used to telling her story, especially not like this. Most already knew it, in some fashion. The more she got lost in her memories, though, the easier it became.

“As soon as father came back,” she said, carrying on her narrative, “The Wicked Witch of the West cast a spell. As far as we know, she used the Key: it stopped anyone going out of Oz. Father trying to bring me back had just trapped us both there. That was when he sent me and my three friends to kill the Wicked Witch. She transformed the freedom fighters into the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion, and imprisoned me.”

A pause, there. After a few seconds, Dorothy hurried on; Charlie didn’t want to press for details. From what she’d seen of the Witch, imprisonment would have been hellish.

“I broke free,” Dorothy said, “Eventually. Not until after the shoes were stained red. I think the Witch planned it. When it looked like I killed her with water, she escaped to Earth: the spell keeping us in Oz faded without her presence. I guess that was meant to convince us she was dead. When I made it back to the Emerald City, with the trio, father had finished building a balloon. Witch loyalists stopped me getting on it, so he left alone.”

That detail, at least, matched the story she’d heard.

“And you clicked your heels three times, and went home,” Charlie said, happily. Dorothy chuckled.

“Not that simple,” she said. Her tone darkened: “Their only power was protective. The Good Witch of the North’s kiss kept me safe from most things out there, but not from another, more powerful Witch. The shoes were the only thing that kept me alive, and even they were stretched to their limit. No. Apparently they don’t work on homicidal human hunters though,” her tone lifted, thankfully, for that last sentence. “Probably don’t protect the wearer from things outside of the fairy realm. Only defensive, unless you jab them into someone’s face.”

Charlie chuckled; Dorothy stroked her hair, fondly. It was good to hear Dorothy more cheerful, again. The way her mood had dropped, just recalling her imprisonment, wasn’t something Charlie ever wanted to hear again.

“How’d you get home then?” Charlie said.

“Glinda,” Dorothy said, “Not at once, though. There was so much more I wanted to do in Oz, and besides, I was never all that happy with father. He probably tried to find me a few times after that, I was too young to care. Once I’d figured out how to survive, I loved it here. Eventually though, I made my way South. Past the Hammer-Head guerrillas, I found Glinda. She was the one who owned the Oz equivalent of the Key: open any door here, and reveal Earth. She was more than happy to send me home.”

At that, Charlie frowned. There was something there that made her think; she didn’t speak at once, though she did begin to wonder. If the real Glinda was as much of a bitch-witch as Dorothy thought, then…

“It was a little while later,” Dorothy said, “That we found out the Wicked Witch survived. She wanted to regroup her forces, regain control of what she could. Because of me, she was outnumbered: when she made it back to Oz, the first thing she did was a surprise attack. Captured and later killed the Good Witch of the North, evening the odds. You know the rest: I dragged her back to Earth, couldn’t kill her until you stabbed her with a heel. Nice one, by the way. If you want the rest of my Oz adventures, I think they’d take too long. Don’t you?”

There were fourteen books, Charlie reflected, to say nothing of any adventures she had that either weren’t adapted, or couldn’t be adapted. Dorothy was probably right.

Still, it was nice to know how things had really gone, even if tales of terrorism and torture were markedly less suited for children, Charlie hadn’t really expected her childhood memories to stay untarnished, not after seeing the Tin Man’s head.

“Glinda,” Charlie said, after a moment. Dorothy glanced down at her, frowning.

Charlie sat up then, straighter, reluctantly leaving Dorothy’s gentle caress of her hair. She spoke quickly, animatedly: even if there wasn’t much to hack in Oz, her mind could easily be applied to other things.

“The Lion said there were people in Oz who weren’t happy with us,” Charlie continued, “You know, don’t want humans to interfere with Oz. Prime Directive stuff. What about Glinda?”

“You think she’s one of them?” Dorothy’s voice was far from surprised. She’d been open enough about her feelings for the Witch.

“Fits, doesn’t it?” Charlie said, excitedly.

This part of questing, she loved. The twist: the time to tie seemingly unrelated events together, and find something important out. A jigsaw of information. She felt like Hermione. Even if this was comparatively small-scale, it was just as exhilarating as defeating the steward had been.

“First time you met her,” Charlie said, “She was happy to give you the boot, even after apparently ridding her of her two rivals. Now, we’ve stopped the last remnant of the Wicked Witch, and she suggested we stay here until it’s safe. Effectively, we’re prisoners.”

Dorothy nodded slowly.

Maybe Glinda was one of them: people against humans interfering in Ozian affairs. It was possible, more than possible given what she’d done. After all, Good Witch didn’t mean good to everyone; if she was, there’d never have been a war with Wickedness.

Wordless, Dorothy leant across, and kissed Charlie’s lips. Even still unused to this kind of relationship (both with a woman, and with someone from decades ahead of her time), and indeed relationships in general given how much time she’d spent among non-humans and non-humanoids in Oz, it felt like the right thing to do.

It lasted some seconds more than she’d intended, seduced by the feel of Charlie against her. Touch, scent, the sound of Charlie’s breathing. Her eyes drifted shut, briefly intoxicated.

When she withdrew, it took her a while longer to gather her thoughts again, watching the redhead smile. Silent moments passed: Dorothy watched Charlie, finding herself fascinated by every detail. Charlie’s eyes slowly opened; the redhead smiled, noting Dorothy’s gaze.

“I’m that awesome, then?” Charlie said, smiling a little self-consciously, eliciting a laugh.

“Don’t doubt it,” Dorothy said. “So, you wanted to see the world, huh?”

Charlie blinked at the change of topic. Still, she nodded: “Of course.”

“Just thinking,” Dorothy said, “I’d be happy to stick around here for a bit more; I like the Munchkins. I’d be even happier showing you Oz though. I’m pretty sure we’d get bored fast in just one village. Anyhow, I’m not a fan of being shoved aside.”

“So?” Charlie tilted her head, hopeful. Dorothy grinned, and Charlie couldn’t help but return it.

“If Glinda thinks she can keep us out the way, she’s got another thing coming.”

In almost identical motions, the two of them stood in unison. Now this was why Charlie had come to Oz; of course she was pleased with her quest, and freeing Oz from the Wicked Witch’s steward. That didn’t mean she couldn’t be just as, if not more, excited at the prospect of exploring the rest of Oz.

How much would be like the stories? How much would be different? For all she knew, she could be setting out to explore an utterly new environment.

And besides, she still had a quest. Even apart from Wicked Witch loyalists, she’d have to keep an eye out for Glinda. If the ‘Good’ Witch really was one of those against human involvement in fairy affairs, especially now she was the most powerful sorceress left in Oz, then she couldn’t necessarily be trusted.

Now that was a blow to her childhood conception of Oz.

They left their assigned room, with no more than the clothes they wore. They had nothing else: and even if they had, Dorothy had survived much time in a more hostile Oz with the same.

“We’re going on an adventure,” Charlie proclaimed, happily, as they wandered to the village border. “I feel like a hobbit.”

“A what?” Dorothy glanced back. Even her confused expression did nothing to dampen her smile.

“Uh-” Charlie hesitated, wondering how best to describe them. “How about a deal? You teach me about all this quest-stuff, I’ll teach you pop culture? And if we find that Key to Earth, I’ll pick you up a copy of Harry Potter. Deal?”

“Deal,” Dorothy laughed, “If you can find the Key. They’ve had seventy years to lose it. Loyalists probably hiding it somewhere.”

“That’ll be our first quest then,” Charlie said. “Find the Key, get you Harry Potter.”

“What about the dragons?”

“Them too,” Charlie said, and paused, thoughtful.

“Which first?” Dorothy said, playful. Charlie still hesitated.

Before she could respond either way, a familiar, small Munchkin guard approached them. He wore the blue common to most Munchkins, and moved at a surprisingly fast pace.

The two women slowed, to let him come nearer. They could run, and no doubt they’d be fast enough to escape, but there was no need to get on their bad side. In any case, it could be a last resort: Dorothy had insisted on talking, first. She knelt, to look at the Munchkin eye-to-eye.

“Dorothy,” the Munchkin spoke, a little out of breath. “It is still not safe, outside our borders. Lady Glinda says-”

“One thing,” Dorothy said. She’d had the speech yesterday. “Do you trust me?”

The Munchkin hesitated. Dorothy met his eyes.

“I killed the Wicked Witch of the East,” she said, “The first thing I did when I got here, remember? I know you wouldn’t forget that. Don’t you think I can take care of myself?”

No matter the prestige Glinda had, Dorothy had at least as much. Half responsible for liberating the Emerald City, the slayer of the Wicked Witch of the East, and in-part slayer of the Wicked Witch of the West, not to mention countless other achievements in her years visiting Oz.

The Munchkin knew that. He’d respect Dorothy as much as Glinda.

“I-” the guard hesitated.

“Glinda can be overprotective,” Dorothy said. It clearly wasn’t the word she wanted to use, but it seemed enough for the guards. “Don’t worry about it.”

Dorothy straightened, when the guard said nothing. She reached a hand back; Charlie took it, and together, slightly tentatively, they walked on. The guard said nothing, and did nothing to stop them.

Smiling, and together, Charlie and Dorothy left the Munchkin village. All of Oz lay before them.

Not the safest place, certainly. Hardly the worst; and whatever else it was, Oz would be an adventure. That, and Dorothy, was all Charlie needed.