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Chapter Text

"Nothing beside remains. Round the decay / Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare / The long and level sands stretch far away" - Ozymandias, by Percy Shelley

On the Eve of the End-of-Summer-Harvest-Fest Ball, Prince Fiyero Tigelaar woke and sat up with wide eyes, before staring at his hands. He had fingers, real ones, beneath yellow gloves. With a strange slowness, he lifted the fabric off his hands and rubbed at the exposed, human skin beneath. 

His mother grabbed for his jacket pocket, finding a flask hidden in his chest pocket with ease. “Darling, not again,” she warned after taking a whiff. 

He stared at his parents oddly, and, even odder, asked, “Why is there no straw?”

Sighing resignedly, his father handed him a tin container of water. “Sometimes son,” he said in his ‘Emperor’ voice, “I think you’ll be lucky to sit on the Vinkun throne one day. It would take the world ending for you to learn to be serious.”

Fiyero looked at his bare fingers and the skin on hands and his eyes widened. 

Dorothy is a good girl, a sweet girl, even, Fiyero thought with a harsh bite to his words. He took an angry sip of water and frowned deeply, not even noticing the circle of Emerald City performers dazzling the rest of the Court. I should have known. How could he? Why did the water work? It didn’t make any sense/ was it enchanted? Who would have the power? Why? Dorothy should have… “I should have known,” he muttered to himself. 

The outdoor pavilion of the Castle of Lurline was magnificent, and bountiful garden displays lifted up with intricate statues of old kings and queens that stood lofty, beautiful, out of reach. Dazzling dancers twirled magically transforming ribbons as the greatest musicians in all of Oz played a scoring melody. The various nobilities of the four Countries of Oz sat in their finest in a magnificent display of overindulgence and overabundance, jewelry and fashion on audacious display. The Great Queen of Oz, Ozma, sat perched upon an elegant chair, with her young daughter of the same name beside her. The year of her daughter’s entry to court was a prominent one. 

Fiyero sat, his arms and legs spread in a way which would have appeared relaxed, if not for the constant twitching of his right leg. He could feel how furrowed his own brow was, but couldn’t help it. Dorothy, you were supposed to go for the chains. Melt her? KILL her, Dorothy?! Where did you find a bucket? Why why why did the water burn her?

On his right, Prince Keerio leaned in and gossiped, “They say she’s going to be even worse on the Court this year.”

It was Dorothy’s fault, no it wasn’t, it was Fiyero’s fault, maybe he had never been a master of social manipulation, maybe he’d just been handsome and rich- worthless, brainless… his mind spun with endless, delirious replays of the horrible scene. The look of surprise on Elphaba’s face when the water came, the horrible burning smell in the air, who had fetched that water? Was it Boq?

A hand rudely shoved at Fiyero’s shoulder and he turned to meet Prince Keerio’s dark green eyes. “This is serious,” the third son of King Cheerioben whispered harshly, “how are we supposed to sneak off to the clubs, or woo ladies into the gardens if The Ozmaziness herself is watching us like a sentry Hawk?”

Fiyero blinked at him twice. Not for the first time, he wondered how real this was? Had his grief truly touched the Grimmerie to bring him this… wait, what was this ? “Huh?”

“C’mon, Fiyero, tell me you have an austadeous plan.” 

“Sh,” Fiyero cautioned. He heard a murmur of agreement from the gentleman on his other side. He knew when this was, it was the beginning of his second summer at Court when Princess Ozma made her debut. He’d had one and a half years of college, bouncing between seven schools and programs, lovers and fine alcohols. It would be two more years until he enrolled at Shiz, as did Glinda- Galinda? and his Elphaba. 

If this was real, Elphaba was alive out there somewhere. Not yet the Wicked Witch of the West. Just a young woman living in Munchkinland, Munchkin Country. With an address Fiyero could not remember, but could probably find, but would never to be able to explain why.  “This has to be real,” Fiyero whispered to himself so softly he couldn’t even hear it. He needed her alive. As long as she was alive- As if bursting from a lake of water and taking in air, something in Fiyero sparked back. Perhaps Elphaba had made a failsafe if she died, perhaps she’d bonded to the Grimmerie and it bonded to him, perhaps there was some power in true love like the stories said, it didn’t matter as much as the fact she was out there. Somewhere. 

Then he paused. He knew where Elphaba Thropp was. Fiyero took an appreciative glance at the man beside him. Prince Keerio was four years his senior, and a scalywag and a rake as described by the Queen Oziness herself; thankfully for him, he had handsome dark features, soulful green eyes, and a sturdy build that, although he was the sole member of the royal family to inherit the countries well-known short stature, meant he had never been one to sit out during sports. He was well-liked by the male population of Oz, surely, and the woman who happened to be his latest muse was always a happy girl indeed. He’d also been Fiyero’s good friend for well on five years (until he’d defected to join the Wicked Witch), but only two to Keerio’s recollection. 

The performers stopped and bowed, and Fiyero clapped along with the rest of Oz while continuing to look at Keerio. 

“You should be taking this more seriously, Fiyero,”  Keerio said, oddly sounding like Fiyero’s father when he did. “Didn’t you write saying you planned to go for the triplets this year?”

Been there, done that, Fiyero thought with a curl of his nose. All of that time, what an utter waste. So much had occurred right under his nose. “Munchkin Country, how is it?” Around them, some of the nobility had begun getting up to socialize though others still continued to sit. It was anticipated that dinner would be served in an hour, giving them all that much time to walk the mere fifty paces to their tables. Quite sourly, Fiyero imaged the nobilities in all their finery and audeceousitious hats attempting a walk down the Yellow Brick Road. He liked to imagine a few in particular, who had quite a lot of things to say about the Witch of the West in the press, falling flat and breaking their perfect little noses. 

“Fine. The bad girls are all in Winkie Country, as always, you lucky cad,” Keerio said, leaning back on his chair and sighing. “If you mine metals in caves so much, how are all Vinkun so tan?”

Fiyero looked at his friend with a frown. Is this what passed for conversation among Ozian elite ? Is this why our minds are numb? He had no interest in discussing stereotypes on the human population of his country. “Is all well with the governmanships?”

“Yes?”

“And the Animals?” 

“Fiy, Fiy,” Keerio leaned forward with a conspiratorial smirk. “You’re not changing the subject to avoid talking about the little miss Ozma? Of course, she is beautiful, but that is a one-way ticket on the trainway road to second fiddle for life.”

Snorting, Fiyero leaned back in his chair and stroked his hair. “It’s railway,” he corrected. He felt smug, the way he always did the few times in his life he had the chance to correct anyone. The emotion felt real. This place felt real. Keerio seemed like Keerio and… wait, what was he implying? Fiyero straightened up. “I will not be courting Ozma. She’s far too young, and besides,” he said strictly, “I’m done with all that.”

“With girls?” Keerio asked skeptically. 

With everything , Fiyero thought. With the ignorance, the callowness, with standing aside when he could stand for something, from the empty-headedness, from that no-good fraud of a ‘Wizard’. “I’m done with chasing empty thrills and hollow conquests, this shallow court,” Fiyero grumbled, ignoring his fellow man’s slowly growing expression of shock, “if the girl I’m going to marry is out there, I have a long way to go to deserve her.”

Two hours later, a wave of rumor had passed through the Court and only finally emerged from the outside. Fiyero could hardly blame them; he’d been a bit loud. He had to control his tongue, had to actually think but that was hard enough to do when he wasn’t in the swankiest most excluvicious party in town. And he had been the main attraction for dinner. His old friends had even stormed up to him in a panicked flank, terrified he’d taken a vow of sobriety and celibacy that he’d had to awkwardly skirt around denying in front of his own mother. A declaration against shallowness? From a Tigelaar?

Grabbing at the fabric on his chest, feeling his real, non-straw heartbeat, Fiyero took long gasps. He’d hid himself behind a pillar, far from the main hub of action and well covered in the dark. A few sole, wilting candlebulbs staved away the complete darkness as Fiyero breathed. 

One of the Quadling sorceresses leaned in to hear the gossip of a Bear, then brought the queen’s ear to her mouth to share. Fiyero, distracted and sat between his parents, was occupied trying not to imagine what the soft curls of spinach on his salad plate looked like when compared to a certain green girl’s anatomy. “How curious,” Queen Ozma said, and conversation around them stilled mid-sentence to absorbify the words of their queen, “Prince Fiyero has vowed to better himself for true love?”

His mother had to elbow him in the stomach to help him recover from his shock and reply. He had only spoken to Queen Ozma twice in the original time, first when she congratulated him on his appointment of Captain of the Wizard’s Guard, and second when she congratulated him on his engagement to Glinda. “Queen Ozma,” Fiyero said. Then his poor empty head went blank. 

He breathed hard and fast, almost wheezing. His panicked gasps sounding not unlike Elphaba’s laughter. “It’s fine,” Fiyero muttered to himself, “it’s fine.” He didn’t know what he had done. The ramifications of it all. Had Fiyero ruined everything before it began or stumbled brainlessly to some hereto unforseen path? 

Had this always been the intent of the magic when it sent him back here? How did magic work anyway? 

“I’m curious, Prince Fiyero of Winkie Country, how do you plan to achieve this?” Queen Ozma asked, and the entire court leaned in to listen. 

“Well, uh, Queen Ozma, I, my queen of course, all respects,” Fiyero said carefully, “uh, I suppose a young prince should be intelligent, strong, and wise.”

“Curious, Prince Fiyero of Winkie Country, how do you plan to grow wiser? Do you think the wizard could help you?”

Fiyero spoke without thinking. “I don’t need the wizard’s help. It’d be more use to read philosophy books and travel Oz.” Shoveling manure would be more use than that man, he thought to himself sourly. 

“Even if the wizard could make you perfect in a clock-tik?”

“I’d rather do it myself,” Fiyero said, and tried to control his scoff at the idea of the wizard doing anything so magical. “Maybe then I’d finally learn something.”

A few courtiers chuckled at that, and Father laughed hard enough it was a blow for Fiyero’s ego to hear. At that, the Queen moved on to another person but her interest in Fiyero was not done for the night. 

His legs shaking, Fiyero looked at the ground and debated sitting on it. It was then he heard the clack of hundreds of jewels along a stone floor. As Queen Ozma emerged from the shadows, so did two guards in emerald who stood in wait with spears.

Fiyero had been on the wrong end of those spears before. Reflexively, he held up his hands. 

Queen Ozma smiled at him, and gestured to a bench. She sat down, her clothing masterfully resplendent from any angle. 

Fiyero continued to lean on the pillar across from her. He tried to play it off; wasn’t sure it was reading that well. “To what do I owe such a… visit?” 

“I’ve never thought much of you, Prince Fiyero of Winkie Country,” Queen Ozma said softly, in a voice that somehow still demanded attention. “Besides the prestige of your birth, and the handsomeness of your face, you were quite indistinguishable from many a young man in my Court. Yet, today you are the most unexpected wallflower.”

“You think I’m handsome?” Fiyero asked without thinking. But the Queen chuckled, so Fiyero relaxed. Queen Ozma gestured again to the bench, and this time Fiyero did not ignore it. He sat down beside her, and from their alcove they could see lights and shadows of the other nobility in Oz, music just so muffled as to be barely distinguishable. He wondered if she sat in places like this often, observing the Court. Then, ruminating on the question as best he could and deeming it safe enough, Fiyero asked. 

“I do,” Queen Ozma said quietly. “Who is she?”

Elphaba. “Who?”

“The young woman for whom Fiyero Tigelaar must change his ways.”

Fiyero coughed, and looked out at the court to avoid the Queen’s eyes. “I haven’t met her yet,” he said, and couldn’t help himself to add, “but I know she’s like nobody else in all of Oz.”

By the third chime of the Time-Dragon after the turn of the midnight hour (Fiyero found the whole thing rather creepy), Fiyero was ready to collapse. He’d tucked himself against his mother’s side, excused by keeping her company but truly because his legs were shaking. It felt as if he had walked the Yellow Brick Road, and survived a fireball, and watched his love break and die, and those straw-like streaks of blond in his hair seemed so ironic -

The two of them finally descended the steps of their carriage, and Fiyero took up an entire side without asking. He threw himself down, yanked off his jacket and tucked it under his head, and only a second after could already feel sleep coming to get him. 

It was interrupted by his father, ruddy-cheeked and glowing with excitement, shaking Fiyero awake. “My son!” He crowed, and continued to shake Fiyero like he was a ragdoll until Fiyero’s mother pulled him off. “The Queen has requested your help to chaperone Princess Ozma in Court!” 

Fiyero blinked. “What?”

“She called you charming, Fiyero! Charming!”

He only cared if one girl in Oz thought he was charming, and she was far off in Munchkin Country with no idea who he was. (Well, probably some idea.) 

“An entire year in Emerald City,” Fiyero’s mother swooned. “And some time off from your studies may do you well.”

“You’ve clearly been doing some thinking-"

“Only natural for a boy your age..."

“Even if the Widdicomb College incident was rather extreme.”

“If this is the end result how can we argue? A year in Emerald City, my boy, chauffeuring her young Oziness herself!” 

Emerald City. Great Merciful Oz, Fiyero hated that place. He gave his parents his best interpretation of a smile, then dropped his head face first into a pillow. Somehow, he resisted the urge to scream. 

Fiyero spent a large portion of the trip back home observing the road, winding and flat. There would be bursts of untamed ground then they’d pass a contingent of workers not far away. Preparing for brick-laying. He wondered how long this operation was. The first four roads completed by the end of the year, the rest of the routes in two. It seemed… impatient. 

He’d done a lot of thinking, while his parents slept off their hangovers. It was possible Fiyero had made no mistakes at all, and what he’d changed last night at the ball was always meant by the Gimmerie to occur. Perhaps he’d thrown himself into an unfamiliar tornado with no direction. Regardless, he needed to plan. 

If he was going to protect Elphaba and help her save the animals from the Wizard, Fiyero needed a significant amount of political power. He had come to Elphaba that night with no power, nothing but his own two hands and his heart; she had accepted him anyway. How much more use would he be if he’d made any use whatsoever of his title and birth? If Fiyero introduced Elphaba’s name to Oz as his love, they would have to react differently than her introduction as the vile Wicked Witch. And if not? 

Fiyero would find a way to give her sanctuary in the West. Vinkun Emperors had held tight grips over their regimes before; and soon Fiyero would have the future rightful ruler of Oz calling him a friend.

It occurred to him, as he watched his parents blissfully sleep, that they and nobody else in all of Oz could have any idea he was preparing for war. Fiyero doubted even Elphaba would believe the Wizard was a fraud if he told her with no evidence. 

To keep up appearances, Fiyero danced and sang his way to the train station as he departed for his year in Emerald City. The people of Babel laughed at his antics, as he sweetly carooned while riding the uppity-down platforms from one terrace level to another. It felt right to be high up in the sky, on level with the birds, even as the road ahead lead him back down to the dirt. 

With a jaunty grin, Fiyero tossed a ruby to a goat running a bakery stall in one of the main squares, trading for a delicious croissant. “You should get some for Mother,” Fiyero encouraged his father; he enticed a young cotillion of schoolboys and girls to make their merry way to class with a skip (he felt Elphaba would be especially proud of him for that one), and kept checking in on Feldspur at his side, who’d chosen to accompany him but had never ridden on the train before. After all, unless they were traveling to a Court occasion, before now Fiyero had rarely left Winkie Country. ( He’d forgotten that, had to remember to pretend to be more nervous. ) It seemed a charming send off by all accounts. Some of the young women in town had gathered on a bridge to toss flowers at him, which Fiyero caught a few, clutched to his heart, and blew them all a kiss. Fiyero’s father’s laughter at that still boomed in his ears five strikes of a clock-tik away. 

It was a cruel joke for Fiyero to be the one sent back to make right. He hadn’t the brains of Glinda, the power of Elphaba, the tenacity of Boq, or the desperation of Dorothy. There was much he felt he should remember that he couldn’t, so much he wanted to do that he didn’t know how to do. He felt as if he was walking down a long, dark, and winding road all alone. 

Princess Ozma moved into her own private home in a penthouse upper three floors of a building called the Emerald Jewel. She had a hairstylist, a clothes stylist, a shoe stylist, two chefs, four ladies-maids, and also Fiyero in a private suite. 

Navigating the requirements of Queen Ozma and Princess Ozma, especially in the way they often opposed each other, proved well within Fiyero’s social maneuvering skills. (Regardless of the blow his ego had taken after he’d failed to predict Dorothy, there were some things his parents had taught him well. ) Queen Ozma wanted Princess Ozma to be safe, Princess Ozma wanted to live . After confirming Fiyero was truly off the menu, the princess was drawn to every bad decision the Court had to offer - Fiyero didn’t discourage her to any, just pointed out flaws in character or annoying habits when one gentleman was truly distasteful, and steered her back toward young people of her own age. In all honesty, the young princess had far more fun in groups of young ladies, chattering on about hobbies, men, fashion predictions, and all manner of social gossip. For some reason Prince Fiyero was a welcome addition to such gatherings. While a part of him enjoyed numerous batted eyes and ‘subtle’ touches on his arms, there was a limit. He took a hint from Elphaba, and sometimes, to everyone’s shock and intrigue, Fiyero brought a book to a party. It was quite an effective shield, at times. Other times it brought too much attention.

“How can a book have so much of your attention?”

“Philosophy in Lawmaking? My dear, this book is hardly more captivating than you. Alas, ruling a quarter of Oz one day comes with certain obligations.”

“Oh, Fiyero, I think you’re already starting to become wise. Do you think you’ll be ready for that special girl soon?”

Emerald City was filled with wonder and innovation, endless parties and scrumptious food, and Fiyero endured a month of it with no distraction before he needed a break. Needed to exude the terrible, fearful energy inside him. He needed a reason to be away from the shallowness of nobility. 

Fiyero needed to stop having nightmares of being surrounded by armed men, and learn how to save his own Oz-damned life before he was turned to straw again. 

Training with the guard, as it had the first time, was strict and difficult. Regimen and physical prowess ruled, and Fiyero flocked to the mindless work with relief. When he stood before a training course, or followed motions with a sword, he could focus only on the present moment. 

It helped that this time of his life had changed. His next year of college was called off, for the time being, his mornings spent with the guard, afternoons attempting to read and better himself, and evenings with the princess. The first time in his life he’d been wilding away, days bleeding into one another in blissed out hazes; even if Fiyero had wanted to retread old ground he wouldn’t have been able to remember it. There was indeed much he didn’t remember. 

Wasted years, but was this any better?

Most evenings, when the Princess’ coalition was finally winding down to the end of their festivities, Fiyero cast his eyes out to the east. 

He spent much of his time thinking about Elphaba. So much so that he missed an entire rivalry going on right under his nose. 

Five months into his routine, Fiyero arrived early in the morning out the training grounds to see his instructor standing pale-faced and confused out at the fence beyond the dirt mound. There was one large dirt section, then a segment of training dummies ( dummies made of straw, which Fiyero slashed and shot with dread and glee in equal measure, staring snarls into stitched faces that only smiled back). The whole compound was against the outer wall of the Great Guard Station, with three walls on the sides but the fourth stretching out into a field of poppies. 

In that area, seventeen people dressed in official court servant finery prepared a series of stands. 

“I thought the tournament was next week,” Fiyero said. 

“Change of plans, by orders of the Pumpkin Family,” Instructor Willim said oddly. “Some members of the Court are curious about this batch of recruits.”

“Huh,” Fiyero said thoughtfully. The Pumpkins… that was a Winkie family, weren’t they? From one of the smaller prosperous Vinkun tribes. Not a noble family but a rich one, quite like the Upper Upperlands. “The whole Court?”

“They say the Princess might be in attendance.”

“Huh,” Fiyero said again unhelpfully. He thought for awhile. “You should probably bring in some of your best men too, don’t want our esteemed royalty to think all their troops are as sloppy as Trainee Ponley.”

“Right,” Instructor Willim said, “right, right, good idea.”

Fiyero learned from the princess later that Jack Pumpkin, the oldest and heir of the Pumpkin family fortune of Pumpkin pumpkins, was quite smitten over the Aberant daughters (triple) of a Quadling Country sorceress of political renown. All three of whom were apparently quite incapable of talking about the men at court without bringing Fiyero’s name into the mix. Apparently, Jack believed that Fiyero should be more ashamed to roll about in the mud like some commoner and once all of Court saw him do so, he’d lose his luster and shine. 

Thoughtlessly, Fiyero had ignored the crowd to celebrate his own achievement. He had spent months in training practice testing his mettle against boys whose hands still shook to hold a sword. When a young man with tanned Winkie Country skin stood up and demanded Prince Fiyero test his mettle against the might of a true Emerald City guard, Fiyero beamed. “How about three?” He offered instead.

It was still far less than the goal of seven, and not enough to conquer his nightmares, but three guardsmen lay at his feet eventually.

Fiyero flung off his helmet and chestplate, grabbing a rag of water from one of his fellow recruits and rubbed at the sweat pooling from his brow and chest. Sounds of cheer and celebration rang from behind him, sounds he’d long since grown to despise. He couldn’t enjoy the same praise of those who’d cheer Elphaba’s demise, but he still turned around and flashed them a cheeky smile as if he did.

Prince Fiyero of Winkie Country’s year in Emerald City ended in a two day long farewell festival, as the city mourned both his and Princess Ozma’s departure and yet celebrated Fiyero’s official appointment as Lieutenant with the city guard. He’d appeared on the front page of the weekly newspaper seventeen times out of forty issues, from smiling rakishly at a camera behind Princess Ozma, to wearing his guard uniform and helping repair a crack in a bridge, or (in a surprising best-selling addition) sitting on a bench at the training field, a sword resting between his legs, his shirt untucked and almost fully unbuttoned while his eyes looked far away from the camera toward the field of poppies. 

He had no idea when the picture was taken, but unfortunately was all too aware of its existence. There were posters, Fiyero was almost certain, but sellers tended to hide such items when he was around. 

It was astonishing what one year of simple responsibility could do to a reputation. Prince Fiyero had gone from one of the many senseless princes and princesses in Oz taking their turns in society pages and scandal columns to a known name (at least, one in vogue); and he had no dispersions that despite all of his efforts, the photos and gossip had done the most of it. Jack Pumpkin’s one sided revenge against him had resurfaced twice and fizzled out each time, Fiyero needing to do absolutely nothing to stop it. There was a lot of power in deciding a thing was beneath his attention. 

Which he could use to his benefit when something came up that was worth his attention. Especially when he had the Princess’s ear to ask. 

“I can’t help but notice the construction.”

“My dear, you are quite observant! I admire you, but it’s an annoying trait in a chaperone.”

“Perhaps it’s just my nature. I can’t help but be curious about… who’s behind the curtain, so to speak.”

“What a gas, Prince Fiyero, as always. Of course I’ll explain. I’m sure so many people already know, but the Wonderful Wizard was speaking to my mother not long ago…”

The festival roared to a head as Fiyero danced through the crowd, entertaining and flattering as he could. He still did love a party, loved the energy of a space being so alive it nearly had a heartbeat. It reminded him he was alive. He had blood, hair, non-replaceable organs and everything . The Princess grabbed his hand and pulled him up onto the stage, a familiar and friendly gesture to all who could see, as Fiyero was set in front of a microphone before the herd of humans and Animals alike gathered around him. It was her party, most assuredly, her colors decorating the walls, sky, and clothing, but Fiyero had remained in sight all night. He’d always been able to get a crowd to dance, but for once, they were waiting to hear him speak. 

“My dear Ozians, of Oz, and Ozmas and Ozess, and the rest,” Fiyero said sweetly, his voice ringing out amongst the noise-making machines of the Emerald City, “after spending all this time in this most beloved city, why a thought occurred to me quite naturally. Every citizen of Oz should have this chance, which is why Queen Ozma in her wisdom has appointed me a new task. One I take on quite humbly .”

He couldn’t help but glance to his left, where his mother and father were seated. They seemed proud. Fiyero only hoped they’d remain so when all was done. 

“I am honored, and ecstatic, to introduce to you a grand and spectacular innovation, a grand idea of the Wizard,” the crowd erupted in applause by that and he had to wait, “entrusted to the Queen-“ he paused again, “and most humbly introduced by to all of you.” And he winked, adding in, “Fiyero Tigelaar, if you didn’t know. I had a say in the color.” There was a third applause. They all adored him, the way crowds love any entertainer. It didn’t matter that his cheer was less enthusiastic than the ones before. What mattered was people had heard his name said together with the Queen and Wizard. They saw him with the Princess. Then they’d start to see him.

Prince Fiyero wondered if he even remembered how to be charming, or if he was now destined to be so forever simply because the Queen said so. Was this truly the best he could do to live up to his potential? Would blind popularity help at all when tides turned from fickle propaganda? 

The Yellow Brick Road was presented as a good thing, during a celebration, and Fiyero heralded it as the beginning of a new era that connected all of Oz. He wondered if it had been announced differently, perhaps presented to Court and ruminated over, people would have asked more questions. Who was building it? The Animals. How was it funded? Reducing programs to Animals and offering temporary road-building work instead. Why was it being built? Fiyero had no way to confirm it, but he was certain it was another import from the Wizard’s home world. Like cages. 

Sometimes Fiyero wondered if he lost his mind. If every step was taking him three steps behind. All he could do was stay on the path he’d begun and hope he’d chosen the right direction. 

He would journey down the Yellow Brick Road four times, beginning in Gillikin and ending in Munchkin Country. Each time bringing along a troop of performers from Emerald City, and several carriages of supplies. 

Publicly, he wanted to prove the walk was possible, ensure the safety of all future travelers, and ambassadorize for Emerald City. It wasn’t as if Emerald City needed more attention, but that wasn’t who was on show. Fiyero was the star attraction, and he would remain so. If all of Oz adored him, surely they’d follow him against the Wizard? If not all, at least his own people? Perhaps, if all of Oz adored him so, there would be no need to fight at all?

He just didn’t trust the fickle minds of the general public. Fiyero had much more faith in his experience with the guard, learning how to fight, to train soldiers, and command. If Elphaba or Glinda were with him, they’d likely urge him to be more optimistic, but hoping something simply didn’t make it occur. 

A few days after his return to Winkie Country, Fiyero began to receive letters. Many, many letters. In Emerald City, his mail had been sorted and brought to him by the building staff (even the first time around, Fiyero had had staff to sort it all). Two entire members of staff had to be hired at Vetred Ko just to handle the new influx, which Fiyero was informed of by his father at dinner one day. The Emperor, as he boasted to a few of the Vinkun chiefs, seemed as if he was ready to burst with pride.

At first, Fiyero’d been tempted to sort them himself, but soon the monumental workload became quite apparent. All of Emerald City appeared to miss him, regardless if he’d spoken to them or not, if not half of Oz; Fiyero was rather confident they had enough information to perform a census of the young human population with the extent of it all.

Fiyero had assumed limiting his forwarded mail to only members and households of state, both noble and elected, would keep it manageable. Unfortunately, it appeared not. Sorting through and reading his mail required almost two hours of his morning a day. He supposed even Elphaba would let him off the hook for bookreading when he had this much homework. Besides, he had to prioritize any potential political gains. Did a random Quadling Duke’s daughter want an autographed photo? Fine, and he’d invite her on the Yellow Brick Road while he was at it. He’d invite all of them. 

Prince Keerio and the rest of his old partying friends were quite enthralled by the idea of Fiyero “spending a year playing nice just to throw the biggest, longest party in Oz”. Fiyero, a little worried about attendance for his event, did nothing to dissuade their notions. Princess Ozma was in a fight with her mother due to her being unable to attend, and would be sending a royal photo-taker to document the experience. As for his best and truest friends, none of them had ever even met him yet and Fiyero had no idea what was going on in their lives. 

He was even a little curious about Boq, even if he didn’t care for him much anymore. 

“The Clock of the Time Dragon waits for no one, no matter their secrets,” Fiyero’s mother warned as she stood at his bedroom door, “even princes.”

“I know,” Fiyero told her. “I promise I won’t be late.” He returned to his packing with a frown. 

Perhaps it was the men of the Guard who caused Fiyero to think about Boq. Thanks to a few years more experience then the rest, Fiyero had slipped into the role of a star student ( it had always been so much easier the second time ); and the other recruits tended to look at him in awe. Part of Fiyero saw them the same way he used to see Boq, harmless and a little pitably, like he might imagine a younger brother; the rest of him saw their uniforms and imagined their muskets in his face aimed to fire.

Actually, still no different from Boq. Fiyero need just trade the musket for an axe and a bucked of water.

He lifted his head to see his mother was still lingering in the door. “Is something wrong?” 

She shook her head, but continued to look at him. Empress Baxiana was already dressed in her finery, ready to accompany Fiyero to the station. Her hair was blonde and streaked with white, elegantly done up on her head with braids, her eyes swelling up with an odd emotion. “You’ve grown up so much this last year,” she said cryptically. 

Fiyero didn’t know how to tell her he’d secretly aged several years, and that he was preparing himself for war. There would be no way to say what he needed to be believed and understood. He loved his parents, the both of them, dearly, but while he’d certainly not inherited his nihilistic streak from them, his ambivalence and shallowness he most certainly had. Fiyero’s parents were from the most powerful and rich tribes in Winkie Country, both destined to a life of eternal luxury, and whom by chance happened to be born very, very beautiful. Struggle was not a concept they understood.

“Mother,” Fiyero said softly, “come sit on my bed.”

“As long as I won’t interrupt,” she said, and with a bounce in her step crossed her son’s room with grace and sat on his enormous, yellow-magnifiweave sheets. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

He’d explained this to her before. Fiyero held back a sigh; he knew his mother hadn’t forgotten, she just wanted him to tell her again. Since he was a child, she’d ‘forgotten’ their favorite memories and asked him to retell them again and again. It was just that- that- Elphaba would say it, you spineless, brainless…“Normally, mother, this is flattering, but don’t you think after these few months you’re tired of listening to me talk?” Fiyero asked. Then he winced. 

Mother’s almost impossibly big, blue eyes widened. “I haven’t been that bad,” she said. It seemed the idea truly took her aback, as she lifted a hand to her chest. “Oh, perhaps a little so. But, Fiyero -!” Mother collapsed herself across his bed and a smile gleamed over her face. “You, have just been-"

“You had me tell the story of that training day debacle to the Taniro Family twice,” Fiyero reminded her sharply. “ Twi- don’t even try to lie, twice. Samira was laughing at me the whole time.”

Mother pouted. Fiyero wondered if other people’s mother’s behaved this muchly… well, maybe Glin-Galinda’s mother did. “Can I help it, my dear? People want to know about all the hubbub and hooblydoo on you in the press.” She grabbed one of his pillows and hugged it to her jeweled chest. “You’re blossoming like a rosebud, Fiy Fiy.”

Fiyero looked at her confused. He then returned to packing his uniform. 

“Tell me it again,” his mother insisted. 

“Well, Mother,” Fiyero said, and for the sake of a good farewell swallowed any of his resentment and half his pride, “as you know-" he wagged his finger at her with a smile, “it is written into the rules of the Emerald City Guard that each member must care for and clean their own uniform and materials. And I will not be said I didn’t come by my role honestly by having a housekeeper do it.” He paused for a moment, imagining Elphaba correcting him. “Or as honestly as I could manage it, as I doubt fresh recruits are normally made First Lieutenants.”

His mother made a ‘who me?’ gesture and batted her eyes innocently. 

“But at least I’ll have a Captain in my squad who’ll outrank me on the assignment. Also, it’s not as if I’ll get lost,” he reminded. 

“Are you sure?”

“Mother, the whole point is that all the roads lead to one place,” Fiyero said swiftly. He paused. Breathe, she’s my mother and I love her. 

“But there’s four roads.”

Fiyero calmly looked at his mother. “Mother, the roads do not even intersect yet.”

Her face lit up with joy. “My boy, you did learn something at college!” 

That stung. Fiyero was sure smarter now. He could only hope. He doubted cramming his mind with the odd books helped, and he didn’t know if suffering brought intelligence, or maybe he’d switched off his brain during his childhood… or maybe he’d grown up, just a tiny bit, into his own age. He hoped it wasn’t the last one. That sounded pathetic. “I’ll probably want to go back to school after the tour,” Fiyero said. His mother expressed her praises, mentioning her own experience in the Royal Vinkun Academy as Fiyero ignored her. He closed the trunk, leaving the sword on the side. His mother hadn’t noticed it at all it seemed until he picked it up to sling over his shoulder. 

“A real sword,” Mother said and clapped. She paused, thoughtfully, and asked, “But what if you cut yourself with it?”

Fiyero already had. Numerous times. He’d also been pierced through, numerous times, though he’d only felt the first few. “I won’t,” he promised her. 

She sighed, and leaned back against one of the pillows. Fiyero, now with the trunk and sword in hand, attempted to gesture for her to leave. “Oh, Fiyero, a lot is riding on this, you know,” his mother cautioned, in a way Fiyero felt should be taken seriously. 

He reached down and kissed her hand. “It will be fine,” he said, looking earnestly in her eyes. “I am going on a walkabout to see all of Oz, bringing merriment as I go, what’s more princely than that?”

“It could be dangerous,” she cautioned. 

“Probably. I have a question for you,” Fiyero said, and continued without waiting for a reply, “What would you do if I met a girl and she wasn’t quite what you had in mind for me?”

“I’m sure a girl you love will be flawless just like you.”

Fiyero stiffened. “There’s no such thing as- love is unexplainable! It could be anyone! What if she was a fish? Mother? What if I fell in love with a fish?”

“A fish, Fiy Fiy?”

“Or someone, someone I thought was beautiful and no one else did?”

“Darling, you’re you,” Mother said with a gleaming white smile, “don’t say such things. I know when you find that girl you’ve been dreaming so romantically about that she’ll be absolutely perfect in every way.”

Fiyero was saved from strangling his stuttering brain into forming a reply by his father barging into the room demanding to know the hold up. At least Fiyero could prove, for once, it was not just his fault. His father didn’t stay mad. It took a whisper in his ear and suddenly the man, too, was sitting on Fiyero’s bed asking if it was true Fiyero would go back to college. 

“How- yes, Shiz, next year,” Fiyero said, his bafflement growing every moment. His parents had not always been this obsessifying. “I know you said going to Shiz would be a punishment, it is because it’s not a party school. No. Father, for the last time I did not get anyone pregnant!” He reached forward and grabbed both of their arms. 

“Fiyero!” His mother admonished. 

“If I am to be a capable Lieutenant, much less Emperor, than I should be perfectly capable of getting the two of you to a train on time!” Fiyero demanded. He pushed, and shoved them out of his room, and after that they actually did step in line. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my son?” Father joked and Fiyero’s eye twitched. It was getting old. 

There used to be longer stretches of silence, that’s what Fiyero realized had changed. Merciful Oz, his status as a celebrity had affected his own parents. 

“I think my grandfather did a sojourn of Oz in his youth,” Father was saying. He had a bright smile on his face, his hair brushed back and styled to a nice effect. Both of his parents had dressed up well for the occasion of seeing Fiyero off on his journey. 

“That must be where he gets it from!” Mother said cheerily. “And, you know, the swordsman in him is all Arjiki blood.”

“There’s a reason I am the Emperor.” Fiyero’s father said smugly. 

Lifting his head up from its resting place, Fiyero scoffed and reminded him playfully, “You’ve never even touched a sword, Father.”

With a cheeky wink, that reminded Fiyero of a mirror, his father reached over to Fiyero’s side of the carriage and touched the handle of the sword that was resting against his legs. “Look at that. Now I have.”

Fiyero couldn’t help but chuckle. “Fine, fine, I get it all from ancient bloodlines and noble princes, but I’m doing this to show all of Oz that I’m just a person like them. Someone who walks the Yellow Brick Road.” Liar, Fiyero scolded himself. Maybe his parents would be less… this if he informed them of what he was trying to do. But how would he even say ‘the Wizard is a fraud’ and be believed?

“What if you get lost?” Fiyero’s father worried. 

“I can’t- there’s only one road so far and two directions; and before you ask, yes there are technically four roads but they don’t intersect, and yes I remember what the word means from college.” Fiyero felt a bit like Elphaba in that moment. And in a stroke of epiphany, he thought he might be able to use knowledge of the future to actually be charming. It was something else to think about, at least, besides the reaction to look forward to when his parents realized he also carried a musket. He decided to change the subject. It was also his last day to ask a question that weighed on his mind. “I read something in a book in Emerald City.”

“You know dear, if you did get a girl in the family way-"

Fiyero pinched his nose and sighed. “Father, Mother, I was only curious, but I read that in older times when men in Arjiki tribe came of age they’d be granted a Hawk egg to care for.”

They both stared at him blankly. 

“I just, honestly I can’t make heads or tails of it, obviously we don’t do it anymore,” Fiyero said. “We weren’t… stealing eggs?”

“Oh, sweet Oz, darling is that what you think?” Mother said with a chuckle. “My dear no, why, the Vinkus and bird tribes of Winkie Country were always close. No,” she snapped her fingers as she thought, “it was because the two chiefs were supposed to be inseparable from birth. We were always ahead of the curve. Probably before the rest of Oz too,” she added smugly. 

Fiyero waited a moment. Then asked the inevitable follow up question, “And when did that end?” 

“Fiyero!” His mother scolded, “Such an unpleasant thing to think about. Not now, surely.”

“Quite unpleasant.” Father agreed. 

“Sometimes,” Fiyero said seriously, “unpleasant things are important to discuss. You told me to be serious, remember?”

Mother sighed, then met Father’s eyes. For a moment, they communicated wordlessly together in a way that often frustrated Fiyero growing up, and then they both sighed together. “Fiyero, it’s not something one likes to think about.”

Fiyero tried to quell the tension in his shoulders. “Mother, then how do you keep an eye on the problem?” 

“My dear, Fiyero, well, the Hawks left when the trouble with Animals talking began,” Mother said sourly. “My own Quilby, too.”

“And how’s that progressing?”

Father slapped his knee. “Let’s talk about something pleasant.”

“If you can’t even talk about it how can you…” Fiyero began to say, but swallowed it down. His parents did not react to shouting. He sat up, leaning forward on the bench, willing his gestures to soften, and regarded them carefully. “I just have one thing to say.”

They looked apprehensive, but agreed. 

“I think the three of us can agree that last year you couldn’t have trusted me with a rock,” he joked, giving them both a pleasant, nostalgic smile. 

They relaxed. Good, Fiyero thought. He could still do this, the Dorothy incident aside, Fiyero was a master of the social game. “But you always treat your clothes so nicely,” Mother reminisced. “Even when roughhousing. My vain boy.”

“Well I did destroy that garish all yellow outfit you made me wear when I was a child,” Fiyero reminded her. His parents both laughed. “Now, though, I think I’ve proven myself capable of a little responsibility.”

Father nodded. “Queen Ozma herself saw something in you, my boy.”

“Exactly. So, Mother, Father, I was interested in… taking something out of your hands.” 

“No crown until grandchildren,” Mother told him sternly. 

Fiyero took a breath. “I would like to take the Animal problem out of your hands,” he said. Neither of them seemed quite certain at that, so he kept talking. “It turns out I work best when I just… plunge myself right into it. Why not tackle on a problem, especially this one? I can give it my full attention while you focus on matters easier to think about. It will prepare me for more responsibility, don’t you think?”

“Are you sure, dear?” Mother asked him, but looked at his father. 

“It would be quite a relief to stop thinking about it.” Fiyero’s father muttered softly. 

“You’ll let us know if it becomes too much? There’s no looking foolish in backing out.”

Fiyero smiled. “Of course. I appreciate you trusting me.”

“I’ll tell Minister Mombi to report to you now,” Father said with a smile. “We’re so proud of you, son.”

There were four green trains in Oz, each departing from a foremost city in their Country and arriving in Emerald City. While convenient for travel and supply delivery, their reach certainly did not par with the Yellow Brick Road (and, as Fiyero had realized while on the run, the Road was far more anonymous). The railway into Winkie Country was both the longest and the shortest. 

To arrive in Babel City, the crown jewel of the Vinkun Empire and home of the famous multi-level terrace gardens, the trail had to circle around two mountain passes and through a lesser used pathway across the Dark Forest Valley. It did not venture far through the actual vast landscape of Winkie Country, only just into the start of the mountainous region. The rest of the land was often traversed through boats in rivers that snaked between mountain passes, treacherous winding roads along cliffsided, or deep dark passages into mazes of cavernous trail, all of which was quite a problem for a train indeed. 

Defense had always been a strongpoint, among the Vinkus. Fiyero was grateful for that. 

The Yellow Brick Road detoured a few times from the railway, but after an hour through the forest the paths did meet and continue perpendicular together. Fiyero watched the road fly by with a morose expression. He was curled up in a rounded window, in one of the supply cars. All around him were Animal passengers of the larger kind, the ground laced with straw. A few stalls, whose height was nearly laughably small, provided some privacy but little comfort. 

There were six passengers besides himself. A trio of Voles, who kept to their stall and had hung up a sheet as well. Murmured whispers were often heard, but huddled to a stop if any of the others drew near. Fiyero was almost certain they were playing cards. There was a Cow to his left, who looked to be from the Quadling Region, a young Bear that was still quite large compared to Fiyero, and a Cat. Neither of those talked, either to each other or Fiyero. Through the window, the Yellow Brick Road weaved across the landscape. It was interrupted still in a few places, where the rushed work had yet to be finished, but it all would be done in time for Fiyero’s feet to christen the place. 

A black snot brushed against Fiyero’s shoulder, and a smile whisked across his face. “I’m not moping, Feldspur.” Lifting a hand upward, Fiyero patted his friend’s forehead. 

There was a tingle on his forehead. He looked out at the road. Then it itched .

Fiyero looked up. There was hay on his head. He flinched. Then scowled, and rubbing his hands over his head (destroying his hairstyle quite thoroughly) and scrubbed the offending parts away. “I told you to stop that,” he hissed angrily.

Feldspur whinnied, amused, and pushed Fiyero’s shoulder with his nose. “You are going to wrinkle that handsome face of yours all the ladies love so much,” his friend joked. 

Rolling his eyes, Fiyero sighed and relaxed. He leaned against the rounded frame of the window. He sighed.  “I hope you understand what you’ve agreed to, old friend,” Fiyero said as Feldspur pressed his nose into the palm of Fiyero’s open hand. 

Feldspur snorted. 

“Gross,” Fiyero said. He wiped his hands on his pants. He spent much more time with Feldspur lately; and quite frankly Fiyero was pretty certain even in the first time they’d had quite a positive friendship. Last time, though, Fiyero had been ignorant of certain indignities his friend was exposed to. The Horse had taken to being much more expressive, which often meant he was often a dick at the most annoying moments. 

More gentle now, Feldspur rested his head on Fiyero’s shoulder. “I am right where I want to be,” his friend said simply. His eyes too seemed transfixed on the winding road outside the window. 

Fiyero was grateful Feldspur spoke, though now he understood that even Animals who couldn’t still had understanding. He knew Toto had. That little dog had comprehended plenty, regardless of whether he spoke or not. He’d even barked a storm up at the Wizard and exposed him, and Fiyero was grateful. Toto had risked life and limb to save Dorothy, just as the Lion had, and Boq, which Fiyero was conflicted over. 

Why had the water worked? His mind turned back to that question again and again. 

It had smelled odd. It hadn’t been there before. Boq had spoken to the Wizard and Morrible in private. Fiyero had jumped to the Grimmerie for help…

It hadn’t worked. He wasn’t magic. So he’d run into the fire . He wasn’t going to let them march her along the road, display her body like a trophy, cheering at her corpse- he grabbed her, and held her, and he ran into the burning while Dorothy-

Like always, Fiyero caught his breath and flung the thought out of his mind. He couldn’t, he couldn’t think about it. Needed to push it down, push it away, until the next time there was a sword in his hand and Fiyero could swing at someone and imagine bashing in Boq’s stupid, tin, head. 

Chapter Text

“In their defense,” Fiyero said amicably to the counterpart-in-uniform beside him, “I’ve had much more experience riding four-leggers then most. I mean, we gather up two random recruits from each country, just makes sense most aren’t used to this. I do think they should really just… have figured it out by this point I- uh, they, they’ve got heart! That’s important, I’ve been told.”

Fiyero’s uniform, and those of the eight new recruits entrusted to his command, was green for Emerald City. There was a formal one, (with the stuffiest, scratchiest collar Fiyero had ever worn despite once wearing a coat with actual diamonds in the lace and metal wire trim) but also a riding uniform. The pants were sleek, the trim cut and fine, and unlike the rest of his men, Fiyero had sprung for a tailor and brought his own boots. It was in his best interest for the plan to be vain, so Fiyero allowed it for himself. They were very nice boots.

He had to represent the Vinkun Empire well enough that people were proud to have him do it. It was the only way to make them follow him. As Glinda often said, ‘There was no power quite like being popular’. She would know; she’d known Oscar Diggs better than he had. 

Behind him, two of his men were riding on two Animals that had come along for the journey. One another Horse, a chestnut and spotted mare named River the Rain Lily, and the other a young Elk named Pinzo Faylor. Pinzo spoke, and often had a joke or two to say, but had been ordered by the captain to keep it to a minimum. He still sniggered though, especially as the unprepared and proud men of the Emerald City Guard rubbed their sore bottoms and caterwauled into the carriages after their ‘turn’ riding. 

Captain Cherrystone grunted, and watched Fiyero’s men with annoyance. 

The man’s uniform was grey, with some accents of red, green, purple, and yellow, denoting him as a member of the Queen’s Guard. An altogether more elite section of the Ozian Guard in every way. A stern man, he had quite a number of wrinkles on his face, had a limp that seemed permanent on his left, and a large, bountiful and bushy curled moustache that swooped up to connect to mutton chops by his ears. He looked altogether as serious as his personality. Cherrystone had two of his own men with him, all with elite trained Horses that rarely spoke but tended to be curt when they did, and all were dressed in gray and quite stern in every possible aspect of mannerism and appearance. They were good at helping Fiyero maintain order, reminding the misbehaving young men of how they were supposed to act. 

There were songbirds twiddling in the distance. It was a nice day. “You hate them a bit, don’t you?” Captain Cherrystone asked sportively. 

Fiyero jumped in surprise, and looked at the man with wide eyes. “Wh- I don’t hate anyone,” he lied, smiling with all of his teeth. 

“That’s good,” Cherrystone said firmly; he seemed to ignore Fiyero’s words entirely. The severe captain frowned at the recruits who were still struggling to get on their compatriot on a Horse, one complaining loudly about having to leave the carriage to walk the rest of the way. “They’re lazy layabouts. If we didn’t make them do something they’d do nothing about. Keep a tight eye on them.”

“Ah,” Fiyero said with a nod. Another one of Cherrystone’s many lectures on leadership. They were only a few days to the start of their first journey in Gillikin and there had already been well over ten. 

“You can keep up that charming act as long as it works,” Cherrystone said, leaning forward, “but sometimes one needs to use the crop, if you know what I mean?”

Fiyero didn’t. He just stared at the man blankly. 

The Captain, apparently taking that as agreement, nodded. “You should pay attention to those guests of yours while we’re paused. They’re getting antsy.”

Fiyero didn’t want to say anything that might spur on an additional odd bit of advice, so took that as his excuse to make his leave. He had been quite surprised to learn Cherrystone was the commanding officer in charge of him. Babysitting Fiyero seemed like too simple a task for a man who would soon be a General. 

There were two carriages he’d brought, one for supplies and a resting place for his men between bouts of walking, another for the photo-taker and the reporter, and any travelers who might need a break from the walk as well. There were some cushioned seats, and a few bunks around storage. (It was far more luxurious accommodations than Fiyero’d had the first time he’d woggled his unsettled straw legs down the road.) There were three additional carriages in their caravan, one for the performers and their supplies, and the last, which was magnificently large, was Prince Keerio’s. 

He made his way to that monstrosity now, giving a greeting to the Moose and pair of Elks who transported it as he passed by. Feldspur also gave them all an approving nod. There were times Fiyero wondered if Feldspur enjoyed his own element of prestige among Animal folks. Was he considered a charming stallion? Fiyero hadn’t dared to ask. 

Round windows, which opened via overcomplicated mechanical wheels and gears, were cast open and a hazy smoke pouring out of a decadently decorated blue and pink painted carriage. A bit muffled, Fiyero could hear some musical stylings, which sounded like some of the performers, and uproarious laughter. The two story monstrosity was testing the Yellow Brick Road to its limit, and Fiyero wondered from inside if people would even know the difference between this and an Emerald City gambling den. 

He slid from Feldspur’s saddle with practiced ease, marched up to the ochre door of Keerio’s carriage, and knocked. 

A young woman with brown hair styled a foot above her head in green ribbons answered the door. She swayed a bit on her feet, blinked at Fiyero, and said sweetly, “Hey, Prince Soldier.”

“Prince Sold- that’s a new one. Anyway, Elibetta,” Fiyero greeted. “Would you kindly mind grabbing Keerio for me?”

“Sure,” Elibetta said cheerily. “Last I saw him… you know I think he’s still in Tezi’s skirt! I’ll check!”

She shut the door. After taking a moment to sigh to himself, Fiyero waited. He looked over at his men. One of the Quadling’s had finally managed to get in a saddle. Truly Emerald City’s finest, Fiyero thought sourly. 

The door opened with a burst of smokey haze, and Prince Keerio stepped into light. His clothing was disheveled, and his hair all over his face, and he seemed drunk and quite pleased with himself. 

Fiyero envied him. His own days of bliss were a far off memory now, far longer than anyone even knew. (He wasn’t sure he’d recommend love to anyone.) “Just checking in,” he said with a plastered pleasant smile. “Comfortable?”

Keerio chuckled and leaned on the doorway. “Come inside, you’ve been good for too long. No one will mind if you take a break. Not even good ol’ Empress Baxiana, I’m nearly certain.”

“The party hasn’t even started yet, Prince Keerio,” Fiyero reminded him, biting back bark to keep his tone playful. 

“Ugh, you sound like my father.”

“Don’t make me sympathize with Cheeriobed,” Fiyero teased. “You can’t wait a few days?”

Keerio winked. “I hate waiting.”

“Me too,” Fiyero agreed. The thought made him want to sigh again. A year to Shiz. One year. He had to make use of it… but one damned more year?!

Unfortunately, Keerio had taught Fiyero plenty of tricks regarding the social game; he picked up on Fiyero’s change in tone immediately. “Oh?” He teased. “Were the gossip columns right? Is this all just a ploy for you to search Oz for that special girl?”

Fiyero frowned. “Maybe there is something to ‘being serious’ every once in a tik-tok,” he said sourly. 

“The party’s already started in the carriage,” Keerio enticed. 

“Just keep your pants on when you’re in public.” Fiyero gritted his teeth. This isn’t helping, he thought as he turned to leave. A bright bulb flashed in his face. “It hasn’t started yet!” He shouted. 

Miss Viffy was an Emerald City reporter who had written a few glowing articles on the Princess’ journey through Oz, as well as some scandalocious news on fashion trends (and certain families inability to keep up with them). She was nosy, clever, and despite a short stature and skinny frame, carried a presence of self-assurance that grated Fiyero like he was a block of seasoning spice. She wore giant green-shaded glasses with three long, swirling spikes coming off of it and was hard to miss, especially as her presence tended to cause Fiyero temporary blindness. 

“Of course, Prince Fiyero,” she said, flashing shiny white teeth nearly as bright as the bulb on her picture-taker. She held a silver umbrella against the light with one hand as her foot kicked out as one of the three legs of the picture-taker for a better angle. “Can I get one of you smiling?”

He shoved past her, walking stiffly back toward his men to yell at them to get moving. 

Fiyero stood on the Yellow Brick Road inside a shantily constructed hexagon, holding a sword. He breathed steady, easily, into his very-real (not straw) lungs as he observed the four men in front of him. There was one from each Country in Oz, each skilled but new to fighting. They weren’t pushovers though, like the men Fiyero had trained with before. They held their weapons in front of themselves, prepared and ready at any moment to strike. 

His eyes trained on every movement. Every twitch of their noses, every breeze that lifted a hair, Fiyero observed. 

One of them raised his arm to prepare for a strike, and Fiyero jumped to counter him. He’d barely raised his hand when Fiyero’s came down, knocking the weapon down with excessive force. A second man came up then, and Fiyero pushed the first aside to contend with the new body in his field. His left foot held the stance, his right arm moved quickly; he would not hesitate, he would not be taken again . The third and fourth rushed him, Fiyero ducked, swung a hit toward a knee in sight. With his left hand swinging blows, he defended one attacker and occupied the other’s sword with his own. 

Men stepped backward, Fiyero pushed forward. He kept them off balance, knocking any of them back that got to close until an opening presented. Maybe one of the men failed to cover the other quickly enough. Maybe someone couldn’t stand. Fiyero’s sword came down harshly on them all, the blade dull but his force still hard enough to cut. 

Four men down. Not quite seven. Not enough to survive. Not yet. 

His once picture-perfect hair spilled over his forehead with sweat. His uniform was wrinkled, covered in dust and dirt from his many rolls or knocks to the floor, and possibly a bit of blood along the collar from one particular hit. He worried how wild he looked, how dangerous, he had an anger surging inside his chest like a whirlwind of fire- but the Gillikin crowd burst to applause anyway. Uproar. Joyousness. The photograph-taker snapped in tandem with the slapping hands of its mechanical dials in tune with clapping hands.

With all that fuss out of the way, the only slightly still inebriated band began their tune, having waited in preparation. They’d play two songs, then Captain Cherrystone would give a speech about travel requirements for the road, and the jugglers and stiltwalkers and puppeteers would join the band to put on their Emerald City show. 

Fiyero was done until morning. Then, he’d lead the dance and procession, gleefully calling the watching crowd to cheer and the volunteers to ease on down the road. And he’d only have to do it thirty-nine more times. Why? He wondered hopelessly to himself. What a stupid plan, turning myself into a clown to-

“You want ice?” One of Fiyero’s men asked perceptively as Fiyero marched by him. 

Fiyero stopped and considered his aches and bruises. His bowlegged, scarecrow-like limp. “That would…” that would be nice. “Ritley, yes? From Quadling Country? You sure? The men are done for the day.”

The man in question fit well into his uniform, he seemed strong. Fiyero had wanted to fight him, only he’d had his men draw lots to see who joined him in the ring. Still, there would be exhibition demonstrations in every town. Many chances. Now though, this man smiled. 

Fiyero wasn’t sure if he remembered the specific guards who’d jumped at the opportunity to end his life. That moment was difficult, coming to him in flashes, first pain and then none of it. All he did remember was that he’d recognized them at the time; one had been a man he’d trained with, but there was no mercy in his eyes. They never hesitated. Their grips were biting; the ropes tightened to hurt. Who would grant mercy to a man who’s turned his back on Goodness to chase after the Wicked? There’d been jealousy there. Fiyero, the man who’d had everything, who’d had Glinda in his bed and a crown waiting for his head, prestige as Captain of the Guard, and the ear of the Wizard himself and spat on all that others would be grateful for? If there had been pleasure as his former soldiers beat him and strapped him to the pillar, Fiyero could hardly blame them for the narrative they’d been told. No matter how it had felt at the time. How the feeling still lingered in him. Fickle crowds were vicious things. In the present moment, Fiyero did his best to smile back. He succeeded partially. It didn’t seem to matter. 

“‘S no trouble, sir,” Ritley said. Then he leaned forward, in a closeness to Fiyero’s face that put him on edge, and added, “That was my brother in the ring. Snotty brat. Serves him right to get a little smacked around. Even if I think you got the worst of it that round.”

Fiyero blinked. “Once again, I’m so pleased to have no siblings,” he said dryly. 

Ritley laughed. He promised a bath would be ready soon. 

Fiyero nodded, and turned his head for a moment in the direction of the noise. The musicians continued to play their trills to thrill the crowd. Yes, he didn’t remember the men who’d ended his life, but he remembered the one who gave the order. In Munchkinland, and Kiamo Ko. Fiyero would never forget the general’s stupid nose-to-ear moustache-chops and how pissed he’d been that it would be the last thing he saw before he died. 

Cherrystone saw Fiyero’s eye and gave him a nod with a twitch of a smile. At least when he'd been the Scarecrow, hiding his identity and traveling down the road with his enemies, he hadn't needed to sleep. It was difficult to find peace with the company Fiyero was keeping. He waved back to Cherrystone and gave him as friendly a look back as he could.

The first celebration in Gillikin Country went quite well. Two more travelers (both young men) had signed up to join the caravan and travel to Emerald City with them on the maiden (publicized) voyage down the Yellow Brick road. Fiyero was sure over time more would come, especially as they grew closer to Emerald City and the journey was less harrowing. He also wondered who truly could claim to fame to be the first to walk the length of the Yellow Brick Road, the bricklaying Animals who made it, or Fiyero, who did so in another lifetime both long ago and before the present. 

At the next town, Fiyero’s men drew lots again. Two of the same men from the first bout made exaggerated gasps of horror as they drew the short sticks once more. Their compatriots sniggered at their misfortune and applauded their own luck. Fiyero let it go. They weren’t the worst of young men, by any measure, and Fiyero doubted he’d been much different his first time ( He hadn’t spoken much then, didn’t sing or dance. A mindless, brainless, spineless soldier. ‘I signed up to find the Witch’, Fiyero would say when asked, because it was true. They did have that in common. The other men would nod, and their eyes grow hard and cold and he felt sick. Then days went on. Searches continued. Fiyero continued.) They were, at least, taking Fiyero’s leadership in stride - despite his age and well-known gap in college education. The men spent the night by a large campfire, and Fiyero listened from a distance as they talked about the Road, and their lives back home. 

Overtime, he managed to swing with less of his strength and his men came out of the ring with slightly less nasty bruises. Fiyero started to move more fluidly, like a dance, reacting in the fight from a place of muscle memory rather than the pounding beat in his chest. He supposed he was softening to them. A walk down the Yellow Brick Road tended to do that with companions. 

There were a few minor incidents. One of Fiyero’s men was chased through a forest by a Walking Tree after going to relieve himself. Fiyero and Feldspur stalled it with a flaming torch while the caravan rushed to get on their way. Fiyero wasn’t sure who was more afraid of the fire in that incident, the Walking Tree or himself, but his hand kept steady regardless. It only shook when he was finally able to let it go. Another time, Prince Keerio got in a terrible argument with a Loon who wouldn’t allow his carriage to travel under a bridge. Keerio grew furious, the Loon’s round body expanded menacingly, and Fiyero was forced to throw himself between them and negotiate before anyone exploded. And many, many times, the traveling Ozians would take a detour off the trail and get lost forcing Fiyero and Feldspur to track them down and bring them back. 

As Gillikin Country was the most developed by rail, therefore it had taken the least amount of time to take the carriage to the last stop on the Road. Fiyero had only planned one night long stay in a town. It certainly made the most sense to stay in Up Town, after all, it was the tallest town in all of Oz. High up on the mountain, where umbrellas had to point downward to catch the rain, meaning their caravan would be well due for a rest after climbing to that great height. 

After a few nights out of a stable, Feldspur’s hair was long and frazzled. It whipped across the air as he came to a stop over the latest hill, the two of them looking down at the landscape below. “What a view,” Fiyero said thoughtfully. 

“Even higher than the Vinkus,” Feldspur admired with him. There was awe in his voice as he turned his head to view the landscape. 

One of the nine Ozians who had come on the journey came to look as well, and before long the caravan had stopped for a picnic and enjoying the sight. The rest of the road to Up Town was visible now, and the sight truly was one to behold. For once, Viffy seemed to have forgotten about him as she snapped pictures of the distant castle-town and their resting travelers. 

Fiyero, though, had something else in mind for Up Town. 

He tapped his shoes against Feldspur’s side, one of their signals, and his friend turned them around. Trotting over to Cherrystone, Fiyero gave the man a nod. “I’ll go on ahead and secure places for us to stay for the night.”

“Very well, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Captain?”

Cherrystone smiled at him. It was the same smile he’d given in another lifetime when he’d watched the Scarecrow drag Elphaba’s body into the fire. “Find me a room with a bath,” the man said jovially.

Fiyero waved a few farewells, but didn’t bother to stop and speak to anyone lest Viffy catch wind and demand a farewell photo session. As they left, his feet tapped a nervous beat in the straps of the saddle and Feldspur’s energy soon caught on with Fiyero’s own. Their solo journey down the Yellow Brick Road began with a trot, but Feldspur shouted and picked up speed fast. 

Clinging to the Horse’s reins, clenching his legs together tightly and urging his friend forward, Fiyero howled as cold, mountain wind stung at his eyes and teeth. He knew his friend adored to run like this, the wind at their backs and the world in front of them. When Feldspur galloped, Fiyero almost felt like he was flying. Below, the Yellow Brick Road raced past them, one brick after another inconsequential as their eyes focused on the prize ahead. Feldspur bellowed in kind to Fiyero’s voice as the rhythm of his body surged them onward. 

Feldspur was trembling when they arrived. Fiyero assessed himself and realized there were long patches of sweat all over his clothing. It was quite visible. 

“Miserable Oz,” he breathed, his own hands shaking in the reins. “Look at us. Fashion disasters in Up Town. They’re going to kick us out.”

Apparently too tired to talk, Feldspur just whinnied in agreement. 

With sore, sore legs, Fiyero slid off the saddle. He only deftly managed to avoid getting one of his boots stuck. Grimacing, Fiyero opened one of the packs on the side and pulled out a long cloak that he threw over his shoulders. It would do at least to cover up the worst of his appearance at this time.

Fiyero ended up walking forward with Feldspur only a few steps, before giving up and throwing himself back on the saddle. This time, he didn’t bother grabbing the reins, one arm wrapping around his friend’s neck to steady himself instead. “Ugh,” Fiyero groaned. 

Feldspur walked slowly forward. 

Fiyero had managed to find a hotel room with a private bath for the Captain and he took no small pleasure using it himself before the man arrived. He changed into the clothes he’d brought along for the journey, a tan tunic tucked into a simple navy breeches. It was, Fiyero supposed, almost like a disguise. 

What was the disguise supposed to be? Normal Ozian as opposed to a Fiyero? What did that make Fiyero? Was he not normal because he was a Prince, or because he was a scarecrow? Both hardly seemed normal. 

With a cloak over his shoulders, Fiyero dodged some hay thrown at him by Felspur as he bid his friend farewell in the four-legged creature section of the accommodations. He kept it short, as Feldspur was having his hair braided by a young, lemur stablehand and said he was very comfortable.

Alone, Fiyero pulled the hood over his head, and guided his weary legs toward the center of town. There were already some signs that they were preparing for the caravan’s arrival. A stage had been set up on one side of the square, and a hexagonal fighting platform which was slightly raised from the ground as well.

Two people were climbing ladders, while a few others held long braided chains of flowers, ribbons, and sparkling things they were currently hanging about. The group of people seemed young, Fiyero’s age or a bit younger, most wearing school uniforms, and Fiyero looked at them carefully before concluding something important. None of them were quite the right shade of blonde. His weary feet compelled him to sit on one of the benches in the town square. If it wouldn’t have been supremely rude, he would have taken off his boots and rubbed his aching toes then and there. Alas, Fiyero had to make do with being a boring-dresser. He was actually quite enjoying the anonymity that quiet, social shunning had to offer.

The Up Town Main Square was a stunning place. It was large, with four corners, one a restaurant, another a hat store, the third a garden pavillion where the snootiest of dressers appeared to enjoy looking down at the rest, and the fourth opened up into a large market street full of shops. He sat in silence on his own for awhile, watching the decorators prepare for his arrival. 

Each city and town in Oz had to elect a party planner for his arrival (any excuse for a party after all, this was Oz); some of them drew lots, others held bidding wars, and some asked Fiyero to choose. In Up Town, there had originally been a design contest planned by the foremost party planning fashionistas; it had taken a few very careful and subtle moves until the mayor declared it was a fantastic idea to allow various schools in Up Town to compete with their designs instead. Galinda’s school (Upper Crust’s Master Finishing School for Young Women) had delivered a truly stunning display, which was a relief to Fiyero who would have crowned them the winners anyway. 

If there was any shame to be had for inventing a fake contest with a predetermined winner, Fiyero simply didn’t have the mind to care. 

He stayed so long in the square, watching, that the student decorating crew had began to pack up their things. Fiyero noticed a seller at the market begin to pack up as well, and he reluctantly stood up. He was slightly less exhausted now. If Galinda wasn’t even going to show up, Fiyero could satisfy his curiosity. What sort of things did they have for sale in Up Town anyway?

The answer was quite a lot of beautiful, useless things. There were watches that ran backwards, hats that required complete stillness to stay on with so many pins they were liable to stab the wearer, boots a person could never walk in, and fabrics so fine they fell away at even the slightest touch like delicate insect wings. Fiyero was captivated by all of it. He was utterly obsessed by a bookseller who had the most luxuracious display of colored glass, jewel, and petrified flower book covers; yet when Fiyero opened it up it was filled with writing that made no sense at all. Made up words next to scribbled lines that almost looked like letters, with chapter headings of numbers out of order. “A scribbldybook, for decoration,” the seller informed him, “isn’t it pretty?”

Fiyero couldn’t decide if he liked or hated it. He bought a green one, sticking it in his satchel. Then, as the seller man was starting to lean in to look closer beneath Fiyero’s hood, he turned around. That was when he saw something. 

No, it was someone. Someone very, very pink.

In this crowded street, many of the market stalls were tucked into the front of shops, with little regard to any order besides to keep a path open for the property owner. Fiyero spotted the pink from inside a window. He had to dodge an Ostrich woman wearing a hat dangling long colorful beads all over the place to cross the street, but in a few deft paces he entered the shop. 

A bell dinged, and an old gentleman at the very far back of the shop grunted in greeting. He had his feet up on a desk, and his eyes half closed. 

This shop seemed to be the identical clone of four others Fiyero had already glanced through curiously. There were bins full of party supplies sorted into what must have been fifty colors piled up along a wall to such heights a ladder was needed to reach the top. Other items were placed on shelves, which had been so carefully wedged as in to fill as much product as possible, and Fiyero had no idea if any of those women in the large ballgown-like skirts could even walk in a store like this. 

He squeezed behind a shelf to his left, turned a corner, and there was a young woman kneeling by a shelf. A large box of supplies was at her feet while she was looking for something in another box on the lower shelf. Her hair was short and perfectly curled, and she was wearing the same uniform as the others but it was a startling, bubblegum pink color instead. 

Galinda Upperland of the Upper Upperlands, I presume? Fiyero thought, but didn’t say out loud. In fact, he suddenly realized he had not planned at all for a thing to say. He needed to introduce himself. That was… so odd; Glinda had been his constant companion for so many years. There had been no one else in his life who even came close to understanding Fiyero; none of them could, when the rest of Oz called Elphaba wicked. He’d wondered if in the night, as they’d spoken in hushed, concerned whispers on the fate of their friend, Glinda had realized Fiyero was a bit more additionally… attached to Elphaba than he should have been. (Perhaps it was hard for her to see. There were many times he’d certainly wondered the same about Glinda.)

“I told you it would only be a moment longer, Shenshen,” Galinda said in a sing-song voice, and sounded quite annoyed. “If I could just get this box-"

Fiyero, not sure if he was moving slowly due to exhaustion or nerves, knelt down to reach beneath the shelf. It was stuck on something, but a hard tug was enough to set it loose. The box slid out, their hands pulling it to a stop between them. 

Galinda met his eyes, and then hers widened considerably. 

As Fiyero looked at her, he realized he had forgotten just how pretty she was. How perfectly Ozian and put-together; even in shock her jaw slacked delicately, her pink lips plumped and lucious matching the expertly placed eyeshadow over her soft brown eyes. No wonder his parents had had no objections, even though she was technically a common girl (and having the Wizard declare her Good had certainly helped gain his mother’s approval). Those bright brown eyes of hers looked downward in a panic and Fiyero followed them. 

There were paper fans inside the box, some round, some flat and on a stick. A few had designs like the Ozian flag and other such notable symbology, a fairly normal party decoration. On others, though, there appeared to be a print of Fiyero’s face. “Those were supposed to be a surprise,” Galinda said in a rushed tone.

Fiyero tilted an eyebrow. “If you squint, it almost looks like me,” he joked, “is that Captain Cherrystone?”

“Who?” Galinda asked breathlessly. 

Fiyero took a small bit of pleasure in that. “Nevermind,” he said, and stood to his feet. Galinda did the same, following his movement with an almost ghostly precision. “It’s my fault for arriving early, terribly rude.”

“It’s not rude at all!” Galinda assured him. “And you’re- welcome to Up Town!” She clapped her hands in glee. 

“Thank you, though I’m trying not to announce it. I’m dressed for travel.” Fiyero pulled his hood down more over his face. “Don’t want the fashion police to kick me out.”

“They never do that, just frown disappointingly from a distance,” she informed him, “but it’s still terrifying.” Galinda looked at him calculatingly. Up and down, in a way that reminded Fiyero of… well, Glinda. “I… I’m Galinda Up… welcome to Up Town, of the Upper Uplands,” she said, quieter. “Are you-“ Searching eyes glanced quickly around herself. “Looking for party supplies?” 

That was a good question. What was his excuse for being here? Fiyero had walked right up and opened conversation with Galinda and hadn’t even considered an explanation why. Sure, it would be easiest (and most charming) to just flatter her suspicions away, but Fiyero had mindlessly flattered his way down that road before. His version of the Yellow Brick Road didn’t lead to Emerald City, but it would always lead to Elphaba. 

“I was looking for a present…” Fiyero decided. “Touristy… travel gifts.”

“Oh, for your family?” 

Fiyero, who was going to claim the ‘fake gift’ he was looking for was for Feldspur, realized that made much more sense. “Wanted to bring them something from each trip. This is the only overnight stop off the road in Gillikin, so…”

“I can help!” Galinda announced, and in her excitement her foot kicked at the box by her feet. “Oh, right, I do need to…” she looked from the box, to Fiyero, then nervously at the door. “Oh, I’m in quite a pickle.”

Fiyero, knowing she what she was about to do, leaned against one of the shelves and crossed his arms. “Oh, are you?” He asked, amused. 

“Oh, yes,” Galinda said. A smirk crossed her face for only a moment before wide-eyed sincerity returned. “I have no idea where my friend has run off to, and I need to get this box to the Main Square.”

“You should probably hurry too,” Fiyero teased. “They were packing up, last I saw.”

“What a confusifying pickle! And I’m just not strong enough to carry it all the way on my own.” Galinda said with an odd waggle of her eyebrows. Fiyero didn’t know what that motion meant, and that intrigued him. 

Taking his cue, and feeling a bit playful, Fiyero bowed. “Allow me,” he said. “Both of them?”

“Yes, please.”

He’d been worried Galinda wouldn’t feel like… Glinda. Maybe that was why Fiyero had demanded to visit Gillikin before Munchkin, avoiding his reunion with Elphaba as long as possible. (Too long to wait.) What if all the differences were too much? But Galinda was herself, younger and far more naive than Fiyero remembered, her shoulders loose and without the droop of years of terrible responsibility. It was a reunion and not a reunion. 

She still did have her magic Galinda ways of cheering him up. It was rare to find a person able to do that. The first time around, Fiyero had assumed that must have meant they were perfect together.

Fiyero carried the boxes over to the Main Square, Galinda guiding him through the street and keeping to her promise not to announce his presence. Following her advice, Fiyero kept the hood over his head and simply left the boxes on a table by the fountain, ignoring the students while Galinda checked in. 

Left to his own devices with a box of paper fans with his face on it and a collection of party supplies, Fiyero was fortunate enough to find Soof branded perma-chalk. He’d drawn Cherrystone moustaches on about four of the signs by the time Galinda was on his way back. Feeling not unlike a naughty schoolchild, Fiyero tucked the defaced ones back in the box and pretended to have been interested in a set of yellow ribbons. 

“Don’t worry,” Galinda whispered. She had a smug look on her face. “No one knows you’re here.”

“Thank you,” Fiyero nodded. 

“Pish posh, please,” Galinda said with a pleasant trill to her voice, “it was the least I could do for you carrying all of that for me.” She tossed her hair. 

Fiyero gave her a smile that was a bit of a grimace. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have an attraction to her. In truth he doubted anyone in Oz would say Galinda wasn’t utterly beausomifying, and he had so many positive memories too. But Glinda, for all her faults, hadn’t deserved to love a man who lived every day packed to leave her at a moment’s notice. The guilt that swallowed him up every day had been crushing. She was a curve in the road that was tempting, yes, but Fiyero knew any walk that route would be painful for them both. 

“So,” he changed the subject, “any interest yourself?”

“In?” Galinda asked, looking deeply into his face. 

Fiyero grinned in what he hoped was a friendly way. “Walking the Yellow Brick Road?”

Galinda blinked. “Oh! Right, well, walking huh?”

“There are carriages for passengers to take a break, and Prince Keerio did insist on bringing his own monstrosity of a traveling suite so I can assure amusements, just not how tasteful they will be,” Fiyero joked. 

“I have always wanted to see the Emerald City,” Galinda said, but sounded apprehensive. “You must have stories.”

Fiyero, needing something to do with his hands, fiddled around glancing through a few of the boxes of supplies. He pretended the streamers, fans, and ribbon wands were interesting. “Not everyone goes that far, a few just walk with us a few towns over. Thankfully, in Gillikin we crosscut with the railway on many occasions.”

“I’ll…” Galinda said. “I’ll spread the word!” She said cheerily. Then grabbed Fiyero’s arm. It must have been an impulse gesture. Galinda dropped his arm immediately and looked embarrassed. She coughed. “Well, I, perhaps tomorrow when everyone else on your team is arriving I could… take you shopping?” 

“For what?” Fiyero asked her. 

She gave him an odd look. “Tourist gifts, for your family?”

“Right, of course,” Fiyero said, feeling his cheeks beginning to flush. 

“Is that alright?”

On instinct, Fiyero almost said ‘It’s a date’. The words came so close to leaving his mouth, it was obvious he was about to say something. Galinda had clearly noticed. Back-peddling sharply, Fiyero said, “Perhaps you can bring some friends?” 

Galinda’s too-perfect smile dropped slightly. “Do you think?” 

“Sure,” Fiyero said blankly. “More people to, uh, talk to about the road?”

“Right, of course. The road,” Galinda said with a squint. “Well, I guess I should meet back up with them and… invite them along.”

“That’d be great!” Fiyero said, sounding too enthusiastic. He toned his voice down as they confirmed a time and place to meet, then wondered if that was too somber. It wasn’t as if Fiyero was using his meeting with Galinda as a test run for Elphaba, he wanted her back in his life as a friend, even if she never did grow to the same political position as she did the first time… but if things did go wrong, at least it wasn’t with Elphaba. 

Cursed Oz, he could be so cruel. Galinda did not deserve him. 

Fiyero finished his breakfast up with gusto, savoring last bite of the fresh herbed bread with a long drink of now-cold tea. 

From their place on the balcony, they could see the caravan below. The travelers had arrived an hour or so ago, the Captain and Keerio’s caravan moving to the hotel while the rest prepared for the evening. Fiyero smiled at Galinda and the crowd of girls around him sighed. “So,” he said, and two of the girls leaned forward to listen, “whats new in Up Town?” Then added, “Glinda?” 

Galinda gave him a tight smile. The kind that was very controlled. “Oh me? Galinda?” 

Pretending to be embarrassed, Fiyero gave his apologies. Galinda, pretending very much not to care, assured him it was fine. There was an underlying tension in their interactions, which Fiyero wasn’t sure the other girls noticed. 

“You must have been distracted when I introduced myself,” Galinda said lightly. 

“It had been quite a long day of riding.” Fiyero looked at the crowd of girls apprehensively. Most of them were much younger than him or Galinda, likely from a youth school affiliated with her own. They would be the worst kind of buffer. Point to Galinda. “It was a pleasure to meet you ladies, but Miss Galinda did promise to take me shopping,” he dismissed the rest with words of apologies, sent affirmations on his displeasure to leave them in all directions, and a kiss on the hand to the last four girls, who shoved their hands in his face one after another. 

“I guess it’s just us,” Galinda said, her eyes dark as a shark. 

“Guess so.” Fiyero acknowledged defeat. 

Galinda was wearing a very pretty pink dress, which was not unlike the first time Fiyero saw her, or the many times after that. Her hair flounced pleasantly off her shoulders, and her surprisingly big eyes blinked cutely. She was so utterly beautiful. It seemed a crime not to flirt with her, and Fiyero was most certainly the guilty party. 

There was a fine line between charming and flirting, and Fiyero was certainly not the best at distinguishing it. He worried it had much more to do with the reception and his reputation than anything he did or said.

“Did you really fight off three men in front of the Princess?” Galinda wondered aloud. She was pretending to have interest in a series of candles and perfumery items she’d claimed were ‘so rare and exclusive they’re not sold anywhere else’.

Fiyero, also with no interest, was also trying to pretend he did, and was taking cues from her. She pointed at something. He pointed at something else. If they both looked strange, at least they were strange together. He picked up one with a series of ingredients that did include ‘essense of wearing your favorite shoe’ and ‘the spark of inspiration’. “It was only an exhibition match,” he corrected. 

“And you’re going to do it again tonight?” 

“Four,” Fiyero said. “I wanted to keep training on the road.” He weighed the heavy cost of the item against the weight of the impression he’d leave Galinda with if he didn’t seem to be seriously into Up Town culture, then remembered he truly didn’t care about money anyways. “I’ll get this for my mother,” Fiyero decided. 

Galinda, pretending to look at the candle as an excuse, touched his hand. “I bet she’ll love it,” she encouraged. “A gift fit for royalty!” 

After purchasing the candle and an upside-down umbrella that was certainly going to be no use outside of Up Town, Galinda announced it was up to her to ensure the visiting diplomat was fed. She ‘just happened’ to know a ‘perfectly discreet’ place nearby. Fiyero agreed, because he had no reason not to. He had his own trump card. Once the two of them entered into a friendly, easy conversation Fiyero would say ‘It’s so nice to finally talk to a girl without her flirting with me’ and maybe throw in some woes about being a male celebrity. If his charm stuck, then he’d bring up Shiz and they could plan to meet up at school. It could be easy, if all went well. He could hope. 

They arrived at the purple and pink striped building, were escorted in quickly due to Galinda’s reservation, and sat in a luxurious, curtained-off tea room with plush, beaded pillows, of a romantic nature. A single candle, smelling most enchantingly like a desert morning over Vinkus, burned brightly in the center. 

“I hope you don’t mind it’s a little- flooncy,” Galinda said, putting on a show of being sheepish. Her delicate fingers placed her napkin on her lap. “It's one of the few places on the Upper Upper Level that has any privacy.”

Fiyero tsked his teeth and smiled appreciatively. “Oh, of course,” he said, dripping ‘understanding’ with every syllable. “Making friendly acquaintances throughout Oz is the entire point of this expedition.”

Galinda smiled and squinted as she did. She was not pleased. “I, for one, feel so honored you wanted to spend the day with me,” she said brightly. “I can’t help but wonder… was there anything about me that made you…?” As her voice trailed off, so did a solitary finger tracing a line around the edge of her cup. She knew her angles well. 

“Well, if I am to be truly honest,” Fiyero said slowly. He kept as much charm, and naïveté on his face as he could. “When I turned the corner of that shop and saw you on the floor with those boxes, I thought-“ He paused. 

Galinda leaned in. “Is it embarrassing?”

Fiyero shrugged, then chuckled. “The thing is, Galinda, I saw you and thought ‘how is this tiny girl going to carry these large boxes?’”

Galinda’s eyes squinted harder. 

“Turns out the answer was ‘me’, so yes, it was quite embarrassing.” He looked up and around at their cozy little tea spot, listening to the muffled voices of the other patrons from their curtained off section, and generally just avoided Galinda’s face. 

After a pause, he heard her say, “What a lark,” in a tone that barely managed to portray positivity. Somehow, Fiyero managed to avoid wincing. This was… delicate, and strange. To meet a woman as a stranger when they had lived together for years, had been his companion through training, and his encouragement on his hunt for Elphaba; a woman he’d been engaged to, regardless of his lack of choice in the matter. This woman in front of him was different. Younger, without any of the foreknowledge that Fiyero had. In a way though, he felt different too. As if this could have been them in another lifetime, meeting after decades apart to reminisce on what could have been. Fiyero had changed so much he was barely certain what he was anymore. And of that question, endless philosophy books had once again been of no help. Fiyero was beginning to wonder if ‘wisdom’ was a word Ozians had made up to sound smart. 

He’d been silent for too long, Fiyero realized with a start. Galinda was sulking. The atmosphere had become awkward. 

He picked up the menu and pretended to look. What did he know about Galinda that would help them start a conversation? A normal, completely regular one that would segway into college plans. School? “Your school was the one that won the contest?” Fiyero asked. Right after, he could have slapped himself for the poor choice. He knew that already and he knew she knew he knew it. 

Galinda smiled and nodded. 

“Uh, great work.”

She nodded again. “They have nice sandwiches here.”

“I do have an exhibition match in a few hours, anything light?”

Galinda recommended a salad. It was perfectly banal. 

It reminded Fiyero of those times when he thought he had a lead on Elphaba. Days leading up to the hunt he’d withdraw, knowing that if all went well he’d never return. He couldn’t risk losing the access of the Wizard’s resources that Glinda gave him, so he never broke it off with her, just kept lying and lying and backing away and coming back to her to lie again, but the worst part about it was the possibility she would understand. That he was hurting her for nothing. Fiyero was just too much of a coward to have ever risked it. “I live on a mountain city myself, with levels,” Fiyero told her, trying to keep his voice light. “Not as segmented though, many more tiers. We do so love our gardens.”

“The City of Babel,” Galinda recited. “I’ve studied it in school.”

“I suppose with this new Yellow Brick Road you may find yourself there one day,” Fiyero said automatically. Then he winced. 

“The sales pitch again, huh?” Galinda’s tone was sharp. She raised her eyebrow. 

Fiyero’s eye twitched and he rubbed it as he leaned back in his chair. Why did he think he could outsmart Galinda, he’d never done it before! “Yep, that is… that’s the pitch.”

“Exotic destinations…”

“Friends to make along the way?” Fiyero finished the quote. He felt rather small. “I am- I am sorry.” 

Galinda must have felt some pity on him in the moment, and chuckled. “It’s just? Enough about the road already?” She said light-heartedly.

“Believe me, no one is sicker of this blasted road then I am,” Fiyero groaned. With a strange impulse, he was compelled to be deceptively honest, “I have actually walked it before and it was a terrible experience for the most part. I had apples thrown at me.” And a ball of fire. And I was torn apart. And I was outsmarted and outplayed by a child and died wretchedly twice.

“Oh, great Oz,” Galinda said breezily, joking, “Prince Fiyero secretly doesn’t like the road. Call the papers.”

“Don’t actually tell anyone I said that,” Fiyero said, playfully begging with his hands and not in a small way, actually begging. 

“Said what?” Galinda asked innocently, batting her eyes.

“The truth is,” Fiyero began to say, just when the curtain opened and the food arrived. He mimed ‘one second’ comically at Galinda, which earned him a flounce of her hair. It gave him a few more moments to formulate the perfect lie, one that was partially true. Alas, Fiyero was quite practiced at this. “After everything last year, I think I’ve forgotten how to have normal conversation. I doubt know if you’ve figured this out yet, but royals are all a bit mad.”

“Clearly,” Galinda said playfully. She picked up her utensils with astounding precision. 

“Right, so, I just want to explain something so we’re on the same page.” Fiyero said, starting to eat. He’d always been good at timing his bites properly during lulls in conversation, and all the exercise and training he was putting himself through had him unable to resist any food in front of him. “I was a judge on that whole… contest.”

“I remember,” Galinda said. She sipped her water. “Some of the girls wanted to put a giant gold statue of you in the design to pander to you. I told them it was tacky.”

Fiyero’s eyes widened. “You were right,” he agreed. He took a bite, and his thoughts expanded on that tangent horrifyingly. Oz’s damned heart, he’d have had to vote for them anyway. If it wasn’t for Galinda, Fiyero would have to be the guy who voted to make a gold statue of himself . Thank merciful , sweet, fairy Oz he wasn’t. “You have no idea how grateful I am about that.” He hoped he didn’t sound half as sincere as he felt. 

“So?” Galinda reminded him to continue. 

“I remember your name from the list of winners,” Fiyero said, “Lead Designer, Galinda Upland, early acceptance to Shiz University.” 

Galinda looked curious. It gave Fiyero a bit of hope. “I suppose my name was first on the list. It was my project.”

Fiyero set down his fork and paused eating for a moment. “I actually recently got my approval for the same year. After, you know, I finish with all of this,” he gestured inanely in what he assumed was the direction of his caravan. “Which would be the same year as you, apparently.” 

Galinda’s mouth dropped prettily in realization. “We’ll be in school together? I had no idea you were going!”

“Well, I thought I’d give them plenty of notice to wager all the pros and cons considering my educational history,” Fiyero said honestly, “but apparently the decision was quicker than I thought. So, is this more like normal conversation?” 

Galinda thought for a moment, rubbing her chin performatively. “It was getting there, but you lost it in the end, I’m afraid,” she scolded playfully. 

Fiyero snapped his fingers and made an exaggerated gesture of defeat. He started to eat again, and Galinda smiled at him. 

Somewhere in the restaurant, the music changed to something slow and romantic. Galinda made a silly face at that, scrunching up her nose and shaking her head. “Prince Fiyero at Shiz University, that’s going to be quite the fuss,” Galinda said excitedly. “Why Shiz?”

Fiyero shrugged. “It’s a well-known serious school,” he said, which was an explanation that worked well for his parents but not a peer. “Besides, it has a sailing team, and a lot of riding trails according to the brochures for my friend and I, and their private suites are quite luxurious. What about you?”

“I’m going to school for Sorcery,” Galinda jumped slightly in her chair with excitement. 

Widening his eyes, and leaning back, Fiyero hoped he looked surprised and impressed. “No fooling?”

Galinda nodded briskly. “Shiz is, of course, the only school with a course in sorcery taught by Madam Morrible. The Weather Witch of the North? She’s from Gillikin Country too, you know, just like me.”

She was so excited, Fiyero was grinning at her before he even realized he was. “I’ll bet, I’m sure you have people asking you to show you a spell all the time,” he said. 

“I sure do,” Galinda batted her eyes. There was a few seconds of pause, until she gestured with her hand and coughed ‘go on’ under her breath. 

“Would you like to demonstrate your magic, Galinda?” Fiyero obliged. 

Galinda scoffed. “Oh, I,” she sighed, “couldn’t possibly- well if you insist… ” Her hands reached eagerly into her pink, fuzzy satchel, searching with manic energy. “I just need to find a compass-“ She looked. Then her nose scrunched. A little bit more looking and then she stopped. Frowned. Slapped her bag in defeat. With dropping shoulders and a sheepish expression, Galinda admitted, “I’m out of compasses.”

“That’s a shame,” Fiyero said nicely, “I was…” He paused, then took a look in his own bag. It didn’t take long before he found the small lieutenant travel bag he’d been issued, and took it out. “I actually do have a compass.”

Clapping with excitement, Galinda took it from his hands. She ran her fingers over the top of it once, then set it on the table. “Now, remember, do not interrupt me, any loss of concentration during a spell could be catastrophtasterous,” Galinda warned seriously. Fiyero dutifully nodded. With that done, she began to chant. Three simple words of nonsense, over and over. Every gesture of her hands was practiced and sharp, thumbs in, out, pointing, then down. 

Nothing seemed to be happening from the outside, and it was taking quite a while, but one moment Fiyero felt a tingle on his skin. It was like a breeze, but felt as if he was wearing a cloak to buffet the weather. He may not have even felt it if he hadn’t been so present in the moment. 

Galinda continued to chant. Fiyero coughed. “Why don’t you see if it worked?” He suggested. 

The barest hint of a blush crossed her cheeks. “Normally it takes, uh, a bit longer,” she confessed. She picked up the compass, opening it and jumping in her chair as if she’d been startled. “I did it!” Galinda said triumphantly, and passed the compass over to Fiyero. 

The silver metal had remained unchanged, as had the Emerald City Guard logo etched with obsidian in the back. Turning it over, Fiyero considered the face. It was then he noticed that East and West had been reversed; West was on the left side of North instead of the right where it should be. Fiyero leaned back, curious, when he saw the arrow move. He lifted it to the side, and turned it slightly to confirm his suspicions. 

“Is the arrow spinning? Normally it spins,” Galinda asked brightly. 

“It’s pointing to you actually,” Fiyero said thoughtlessly. 

Galinda’s face flushed. “Oh, that hasn’t… I mean, that has happened before. Common side effect. Nothing to do with my concentration. Wh- what do you think? A confused compass!”

Fiyero looked at it. “I… ah, well, magic is very impressive,” he told her seriously. “And this is most certainly a confused compass.” As nicely as he could manage, Fiyero followed up, “Do you think you could reverse it? I’m sort of in the midst of a… long voyage that requires navigation?” 

Galinda blinked at him. 

“I know there are only four roads, just people have a tendency to wander off and I have to go find them. So it would be best if I had… an unconfused compass?”

Galinda continued to blink. 

“Right. ‘Course not.” He pinched his nose. Why can Witches never reverse spells? Fiyero wondered despairingly. You’d think a person with enough brains to learn magic would consider what happens next. 

“Oh, gosh,” Galinda said quietly. 

Fiyero rubbed his eyes. “It’s fine,” he assured her. “The road is mostly finished.”

“I wasn’t thinking-“

“There’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure…”

Galinda bit her lip. “Although,” she said, “I’m still trapped in Up Town for a year. As long as I am north the compass will work like normal?”

Fiyero considered it for a moment and realized she was right. Or, it sounded mostly right. But Up Town was the centermost, northernmost and highest point in Oz, so it seemed like it was to him. “Oh, then that’s fine then. I just have to remember the east and west bit.” He might just write on it, otherwise with his brain Fiyero was liable to forget. 

“I am sorry,” Galinda told him. 

He chuckled. “It’s one of a kind now! Isn’t that what’s all the vogue in Up Town, you said? The rarest and most audacious?”

She smiled, and her shoulders weren’t tense anymore. 

“Plus, when you’re some famous witch, having a compass that always points to you may be useful,” Fiyero considered. 

Sipping her tea, Galinda smiled pleasantly. “Oh, stop you .”

He put the Galinda-compass back in his bag with the rest of his things. “Galinda the Pink, they’ll call you,” Fiyero boasted with a smile, “I bet my word on it.”

“Well,” Galinda said, waggling her finger. “School first. What about you? What are you studying?” Fiyero blinked. What was he studying… he… wait, what had he studied the first time?! “You picked a school without picking a subject?”

“I forgot,” Fiyero said, which was a horrible excuse. 

Galinda seemed like she might be amused, or clocking onto the fact Fiyero was strange. “What did you study at your other schools?”

It was the complete and honest truth that, “I was honestly so out of my mind half the time, I can’t even remember.”

Galinda chuckled. “It’s a good thing you have a year to choose,” she told him. “I’d offer to send you a brochure or two and some advice, but I can’t exactly address a letter to Fiyero of the Yellow Brick Road, can I?”

“My responses will take awhile, but you could send it to my post box in Emerald City,” Fiyero told her, “I can write to them here to let them know to filter your mail through.”

Galinda smiled, which became a smirk after a moment. “You have people who filter your mail.”

“You have no idea how much I still get,” Fiyero admitted, perhaps a bit too familiar and conversational. He hoped Galinda just believed he was an eccentric man. This was, after all, her first impression of him. 

She placed a hand over her heart and nodded gravely. “It’s so hard being popular,” Galinda empathized, blinking her big brown eyes fetchingly. 

The conversation flowed easier after that, until eventually there started to be a good number of scraping chairs and an increased volume in noise. Galinda poked her head out of the curtain to ask a neighboring table what it was about. After a bit of a hassle, and a hoozit or two, they were informed by an excited person that the Prince’s show was going to start soon. 

Fiyero absorbed that information for several seconds before panic set in. He jumped to his feet. “Damned Oz,” he muttered, scrambling for his things. 

“Oo, language,” Galinda scolded. He rushed to the door, but Galinda grabbed his arm. “Wait! You have to take me with you,” she told him, “if I don’t go with you, I’ll never go get through the crowds to get a good seat!”

He considered it for a moment, then grabbed her hand. They were off. 

Galinda called out to the waitress to put it on her family’s tab, and the two of them scrambled out of the restaurant. As Fiyero looked down the disorienting, prim, and identical streets of Up Town, completely lost and reminded he now had a useless compass, Galinda tugged him along the way. Eventually, following the flow of the crowd, Fiyero and Galinda pushed, swerved, and ran through to their destination almost like a dance. 

He arrived breathless, but invigorated, with Galinda wheezing at his side to a closed off portion of the east Market Square walkplace. Three of his men stood guard, the lucky ones, and had been huddled in the corner not paying attention at all. 

Fiyero cleared his throat, and they jumped to attention with reddening faces. “You,” he said, pointing to the one on the left, “tell the band to play one more song, but I’m on my way. You ,” he pointed at another, “this is my future classmate Galinda Upland.”

“Of the Upper Uplands,” Galinda interrupted breathlessly, one hand pressed to her side. 

“I promised her a good seat. Find her one and some water. And you,” he pointed at the last one, “the word guard is on your uniform, act like it.”

Galinda, patting down her hair, leaned over and whispered, “So serious.”

“That’s what everyone kept telling me to be,” Fiyero muttered. 

He took a breath in, then another out. Slowly. His eyes closed shut, his frowning mouth twitching upward. Everything was fine, Fiyero told himself, you like this. You wanted this. You need to do this.

He turned in a sharp about face and stepped through a curtain. 

The Market Square, previously beautifully decorated, was now filled with Up Town residents from the top to bottom. Children were sat up on rooftops, young folk were leaning on top of the fountain and on the storefront overhang. There wasn’t an empty seat in the house, and they all were clapping for him. Waiting for Fiyero to play the part they expected of him. Fiyero walked toward the stage, where the megaphone was waiting beside the band. As he did, he saw that Galinda had been given a seat next to a flutist on the stage, and was smiling brightly and waving as if she belonged there. He picked up the megaphone from the conductor, and what must have been well over a hundred people grew quiet and waited for him to speak. 

“My friends in Up Town,” he said, “I am Fiyero Tigelaar of Winkie Country, and before I begin any of my regularly scheduled pitch tonight, I must apologize for my tardiness.” He sighed, in a way that he knew made his hair bounce nicely on his face, and smiled sheepishly. “I was shopping.”

The citizens of Up Town laughed and cheered.

This was much easier than any interaction one on one. Fiyero kept his energy light, spicing in a few local riffs to play to the audience, his movements animated and voice smooth, extolling the wonders one can expect to see along the Yellow Brick Road, and also the benefits it would have regarding supply distribution (“I know, boring, but it’s my duty-full job to tell you all.”) And then, prepared, practiced, and as peppy as he could, Fiyero cued up the band and encouraged all the folks in Up Town to ease on down the Yellow Brick Road themselves. It was a jitterbug curse he’d seemingly placed on himself. Doomed to spend a lifetime dancing on yellow brick and singing about doing it. It was one thing to do so to cheer up a lonely and lost child, this felt more like clowning.

He had a short break after that, while Captain Cherrystone’s men and the Horses they rode performed a series of mounted drills. Fiyero washed his face with some water, took off his stuffy vest, and waited for his cue. 

As he had many times before, he walked toward the hexagon after his men, waving at the crowd. With a flourish, he unsheathed his sword and waved it to the crowd so it would gleam in the air. It was a dull blade, and in a few moments Fiyero and the men had protective padding on their chests and necks, and a small piece of wood on the tips of their weapons, but the crowd didn’t mind the lack of danger. Or, didn’t right now. In Fiyero’s opinion, a crowd could grow bloodthirsty quick. 

They fell into step as they had many times before already. Fiyero had grown more used to it, done better at quelling the feeling in his chest, remembering the way a fight could be a dance. 

“Fiyero!” Glinda screamed from behind him. 

His body stilled. A bead of sweat dripped from his forehead. 

The man in a green uniform stepped forward on his right, brandishing his sword not unlike a musket-bayonet, and Fiyero charged with a yell. His arm swept their weapons away as he charged his shoulder into the first man, knocking him to the ground. Giving the next not a second to prepare, Fiyero ducked and rolled, turning his body around quickly. 

This guard projected all his movements with his shoulders, Fiyero countered a swing with his own, but continued the force of motion downward. He stepped back and dodged as the man fell forward.

He saw a world of green. Fiyero grabbed a wrist, slammed his shoulder into a body, and his foot into a neck. Someone came up at him from the side and he turned, one foot following the other as he side-stepped around the oncoming man. 

“Fiyero,” Glinda screamed. 

Fiyero’s eyes darted around the field, searching for more. 

“In all of Oz-“ Captain Cherrystone’s voice boomed from the megaphone, with the same glee in his voice as he’d once called for Fiyero’s immediate execution, “at least give the men a chance, Prince Fiyero!” He called out, and the crowd laughed and cheered in uproarious astonishment. 

He was sitting on a bench behind the curtain, a cold compress pressed against his neck. The shaking in his chest was mostly under control, it was easier now that the party had moved on to the locals’ scheduled series of events. Fiyero could step aside as the crowd wowed themselves with their own fashion shows and cake decorating contests. 

Away from the crowd, Fiyero was able to relax, so when the curtain opened, and a woman in pink stepped through, he wasn’t sure whether to tense back up or be at ease.  Galinda gave him a grin from a few steps away, looking him up and down. “You are good,” she said, amused. 

He had a sense of deja vu, but couldn’t place it. “I am tired,” Fiyero corrected. 

With a small skip in her step, Galinda took a seat next to him on the bench. Behind them, the crowd clapped for something, and the announcer continued a muddled refrain. “Is that why you ended the fight so quickly? Those men looked so startled.”

Fiyero snorted, and shrugged. “Did you have a nice time?”

“Oh, absolutely, I was on stage. Everyone was so jealous-ified. I'm going to get questions about today for weeks,” Galinda said peppily. “So what does Prince Charming do after a fight?”

He groaned. “Please, don’t call me that.”

“It’s a lovely name!” Galinda defended, adding seriously, “There are far worse things to be called.”

Fiyero was well aware. “I just… think about how sore I am, how much I want a nap, and how lucky Feldspur is he doesn’t have to do any of this.”

“Feldspur?” 

“My best friend,” Fiyero explained thoughtlessly. “He’s having a spa day in the hotel stable right now, lucky cad.”

Galinda looked at him curiously, her wide eyes blinking. “A spa day? In a stable?” She repeated. 

“Right, well, Feldspur is a Horse.”

“Your best friend is a Horse?” 

Fiyero shrugged.

She seemed perplexed by that, her eyes looking at Fiyero like she was putting a puzzle together. “You forgot to give me your address,” she told him.

“Address?” 

“For your mail?”

Fiyero snapped his finger. “Right,” he realized, and began to look around for a piece of paper. 

Galinda, with a role of her eyes and a smile, handed him one. “Of course, if I’m going to all the trouble of helping you pick your courses, it’s only polite to write back.”

Fiyero grinned. “Thanks, Galinda.”

“You’re welcome- Fiyero. I guess I’ll see you at school.” She batted her eyes. 

“If the Yellow Brick Road doesn’t kill me first,” Fiyero joked. 

Chapter Text

"The most celebrated / are the rehabilitated" - Oscar Diggs, Wonderful; Wicked  

“Hey!” Fiyero snapped, pointing his finger up at two men in uniform sitting atop a large boulder. “You’re on watch, act like it. This is still dragon country.”

The rock was a little out from where the rest of the caravan was winding down. His other guards were guiding the carriages into place for the night, as the Ozian citizens set up their tents and chatter had begun. It was a gentle night, this point in the Yellow Brick Road was between two sightseeing points, a small section with a few rocks and trees in a large swatch of agricultural land. As it was only the start of the season, the ground was mostly parallel lines of dirt with small green patches just beginning to bud through. 

The two men scrambled to attention. The first had just lazily dropped his spyglass to his lap to chatter to his companion; his hand swung so rapidly to bring it back to his face that he overestimated. Greatly.

As Fiyero watched, his own soldier whacked himself in the eye with his own hand, and fell off a rock. 

Fiyero sighed. He pinched his nose. Beside him, from about Fiyero’s midsection, he heard Prince Keerio’s unmistakable snicker. “Don’t even-" Fiyero started to say, but trailed off as he realized it was useless. He watched with his hands on his hips as the upright soldier helped his fellow man back up. “Eyes. Sky,” Fiyero repeated the command. 

The two men replied with a quick, “Yes, sir.” Then scrambled into position. 

“I never thought I’d see the day Fiyero Tigelaar was a bossyboots.” Keerio shook his head in disbelief. He chuckled, loudly. 

Fiyero ‘tsk’ed with his teeth. “Not in front of the men,” he muttered. With two fingers, he pushed Keerio gently on the shoulder to move them forward. 

His old friend obeyed with swagger. 

(Maybe he had become a bossyboots. Was that a good trait for an Emperor?)

Moving away from the camp, they followed along a well-worn dirt path through the farming field. The rock was still well within sight, but out of earshot, when Keerio started chuckling again. “With you out of uniform, they didn’t even see you coming. Did you see that look on his face? Ha!”

Fiyero frowned as he looked down at his friend. Their trip down the Yellow Brick Road hadn’t changed the older prince much at all; especially as Keerio had spent the majority of his time in a luxurious traveling hotel room gambling, drinking, and enjoying pleasures of the flesh, while Fiyero had waded through rivers, muddy plains, replaced carriage wheels, and recently negotiated a particularly worrisome hostage situation with one of the Ozian citizens involving a Cottabus. It had taken Fiyero nearly two hours to force the curious creature to accept ‘I don’t know’ as technically an answer, and even then he’d been forced to answer fifty questions before the outrageously curious thing was finally satisfied with it’s knowledge of ‘what this new yellow stuff on the ground is anyway’. Fiyero had also been left confounded by his confused Galinda-compass, aggravated by Cherrystone’s slow paced lessons in military command, and his muscles were beginning to ache. With every step he took, the soreness of his feet reminded him he had three more journeys to go. Oh, he was jealous of Keerio. 

It was making him feel quite a bit of sympathy for Toto and the Lion, in hindsight. They hadn’t had magic shoes or a magic body to prevent from feeling the harsh strain of the road’s long and winding path. For one half a second, a part of him reminisced about the benefits of being straw. 

“You’ve always been so unpredictable, Fiy,” Keerio said fondly. His hand slapped Fiyero’s side playfully. “Whenever something gets your attention, or some one , they’ve got it. Never seen a man be so dedicated to having a good time. It’s why I like hanging out with you.”

“You know me, just… dancing through life’s paths,” Fiyero said distractedly. He frowned at his already well-worn, dark riding boots. Why did I agree to this? He wondered sourly. An extra half of the hour full of walking to reach Keerio’s stupid establishment was all well and good for the Munchkin Prince after he’d been sitting all day in his marvelous carriage. Fiyero’s blisters would have blisters after these months. He was going to be hideous.

“More like marching through life.”

With a weary groan, Fiyero cracked his back and arms as they walked. “I am too sore for this.”

“That’s your own Oz-damned fault.” Keerio tutted. His tone sounded friendly, but his mouth frowned as he said, “You organized a personal tour of over forty cities in Oz so you could get in a fight in each one. You wake up first to exercise as if this whole trip isn’t an exercise, then spend four hours running drills with your men every morning, then that time doing I-don’t-know-what with Captain Moustache…”

“I asked him to tutor me in military strategy and operations planning,” Fiyero interrupted to explain. 

“I-" Keerio sputtered for a moment. “What?”

“Uh, right now it’s mostly supply distribution. How to procure and distribute for troops, what’s needed, that sort of thing,” Fiyero explained, trying to gesture and sound like he didn’t care about it at all. He hoped his tone said ‘I’m just doing my part as a Lieutenant’ and not ‘I’m studying because I may go to war against the Wizard of Oz one day’. As scandalocious as Keerio was, his friend was not a blasphemer. 

There was a hand on the satchel at his waist, and Fiyero jumped and grabbed it. Keerio though, had seemingly felt what he needed and his jaw dropped. “You brought a book?”

“It’s just in my bag,” Fiyero defended. 

There was genuine concern in Keerio’s eyes. “Fiy, if you tell me you are planning to read in the tavern, I am calling for a Witch, there’s something wrong with you, you cannot have seriously-"

Fiyero groaned and pinched his nose. “It is just in my bag, Keerio, this is just my travel bag with my things in it. It has money too, unless you were planning to travel back in time three decades and pay with a song.”

“I thought you finished reading books last year!” Keerio said, crossing his arms as he walked. He scowled furiously. “How much can there even be to learn about philosophy?”

He’d personally begun to feel like the task was impossible. The more he read the more questions he had. “Look, Keerio, there’s a lot. I am not turning into a bookworm, believe me I’ve tried to; I haven’t even finished one of the books I took on this trip anyway,” Fiyero confessed. 

It didn’t help. Keerio was just additionally flabbergasted Fiyero had brought more than one. 

By the time they arrived at Glass Cat’s Tavern, an apparently famous, remote party spot Keerio had visited twice before, Fiyero had been told off for all matters of self improvement. “You’re giving us fellow princes a bad name, you know,” Keerio scolded with a wag of his finger. “My mother keeps asking when I’m going to get over this phase.”

Fiyero ducked under a particularly low hanging sign over the front gate. The establishment was large, and set up along a very small pond to quite a charming affect. There were a number of outdoor tables with lacy colored umbrellas providing shade, and cozy, plush seating on a patio. For a random early evening in the mid-week in the middle of nowhere, there were a scattered few parties of Ozian folk of many kinds. The outdoor tables appeared most occupied. He quite liked the cat-shaped glass lamps, with their charming technicolors sparkling with fireless light. “How do they have electricals this far from Emerald City?” Fiyero wondered. 

Uncuriously, Keerio shrugged. He continued his train of thought as they entered, and spoke to a friendly Rabbit hostess. “'Fiyero got over it in two years, Keer',” his friend mocked, very clearly imitating his mother to Fiyero’s ears. “He’s getting himself together to get a wife. When was the last time you tried to improve yourself? It’s endless! You were all the women-folk talked about then you had to go and pick up a musket, and now no one shuts up. How’s a prince to enjoy himself?”

Their Rabbit hostess’ ears perked up at Fiyero’s name. She guided them over to a table on the patio, far removed from other customers. It was quite nicely decorated, like a rustic tea party. “I am sorry. If that counts for anything,” Fiyero told his friend sincerely. 

Keerio grabbed a pillow for his chair then sat up, still scowling at Fiyero but a bit deflated. 

The hostess passed them menus, and Fiyero read her nametag. “Thank you, Mopsy.” She grinned brightly at him, and gave a small curtsy as she walked away. When Fiyero turned back to look at his friend, Keerio was rolling his eyes. “What?” Fiyero asked. 

“This is what I’m talking about. She didn’t even notice me, and I’ve been here before.” Keerio shook his head. “It used to be an Ozian prince meant something, then you Vinkun muddled it up calling all your little mini-chiefs prince and princess, and now you’ve set the standard way too high. Suddenly it’s ‘Oh, you’re a prince? Do you know Prince Charming?’”

Fiyero raised an eyebrow. “It cannot possibly be that bad. I haven’t even done anything yet.”

In a voice so quiet Fiyero suspected he wasn’t meant to hear it, Keerio muttered, “Any standard is too high.”

There was a scrambling shout from the building. Fiyero looked at it oddly before the noises calmed down. After that it was peaceful. Glass chimes singing tunes as they swirled in the wind. The sun was starting to set properly, deep crimson skies falling down over the glassy pond in view. “This is a nice place,” he said approvingly. 

“It’ll be even nicer when they start bringing over the drinks.”

Fiyero shook his head immediately. “No.”

“How are you serious-?!”

“I am not going to be hungover and unprepared in front of the Guard,” Fiyero said thoughtlessly. 

“Unprepared?” Keerio repeated incredulously. “Prepared for what? Do you think they’re going to attack you in the middle of the night?”

Fiyero flinched. He met Keerio’s eyes and felt very uncomfortable. “Wh- no ,” he said with a scoff that was half a cough as well, “N, no. Of course not.”

“What do you even have to be nervous about?” 

The question caught Fiyero off guard. Their hostess arrived, bringing some complimentary bread and dip and water. Quickly, before Fiyero could object, Keerio added in a drink order. Mopsy jumped with such excitement at the idea, and promised to make their drinks personally, and after that it seemed rude to refuse. He took a bite of the bread, chewed, swallowed, then remembered his train of thought. “What do you mean ‘what do I have to be nervous about’ ? You of all people should know how much responsibility I have.”

Keerio gave Fiyero a look of complete and utter confusion; his eyes blinking and jaw dropped, eyebrows furrowed into heavy dark wrinkles. “Great Oz, Fiyero, what happened to never trying and never looking foolish?”

Fiyero leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I won’t deny I’ve changed, Keerio.” His friend snorted. “I am trying to change, just for the better. If I’m doing what’s right it doesn’t matter how I look doing it.”

“Are you happy?”

“I…” Fiyero paused. No, he didn’t feel happy right now. Worried. Tired. Angry. Still very, very angry. “There is happiness in doing the right thing,” he decided to say after a moment. He might have sounded too stern. Keerio nodded at that, and sat silently for a long while. 

“You do remember you don’t have any siblings?” His friend asked him eventually. “And the Vinkun tribes don’t exactly do that whole ‘succession by combat’ thing anymore?”

“Yes, I remember. And it wasn’t like we were scrambling around fighting each other, that was a whole engagement tradition. We weren’t savages ; the tribes are as diverse as every other Country…”

“Let’s not harp on the past,” Keerio interrupted. “Our drinks have arrived.”

The drinks had, indeed, arrived. 

Fiyero’s hand clenched Keerio’s shoulder tight. His eyes were clenched shut, body tense and shaking slightly with relief. Giving him a hearty pat, Keerio pushed upwards to urge Fiyero to his feet. “Up you pop, now wash your face,” his friend scolded like a nanny. 

“Merciful Oz.” Groaning, Fiyero grabbed both sides of the sink to steady himself. 

“You’re telling me.” Keerio chuckled as he busied himself doing something else in the bathroom. Fiyero was too busy glaring at his own reflection. “After four drinks? Have you eaten anything besides that bread today?”

Fiyero groaned. He’d remembered to eat. Definitely. He’d assigned that one guard… the one who always brought him ice, Ritley, to bring him breakfast hadn’t he? So he must have. Shaking his head slightly, Fiyero turned on the faucet and washed his hands for a moment before splashing his face. Wet tips of his hair dripped down over his forehead, as small rivulets seeped down the trails below his eyes and down his cheekbones. It dripped onto the glass sink in a steady flow at first and then slower and slower. Two of his fingers reached up to his hair. They held a straw-like patch of blond and tugged harshly.

“Hurry up,” Keerio said cheerily with a pat on Fiyero’s lower back. “That hostess turned waitress is probably waiting for an autograph.”

Fiyero jumped slightly, and dropped his hand. Quickly, he gargled some water, spit it out, and washed his face with a towel. “We’re going back to camp.”

“ Not until you get something real to eat,” Keerio argued. Which did, actually, sound reasonable. 

Fiyero sighed and admitted defeat on that point. He opened the door of the bathroom and walked into the wall, accidentally stepping right in the way of someone else. 

They bumped into each other. The person gave a muffled, feminine “Oof,” while Fiyero was left perplexed as it had been very soft.

The inside of the tavern was wood, but with shelves of various glass tchotchkes lining the walks and multicolor paintings, curtains, and rugs. It was a very colorful place, so the person in front of Fiyero didn’t stand out much at all colorwise. She was a bit shorter than him, but her hair was made up of many, many layers of orange yarn which made her seem taller. Her simple dress was stitched up with hundreds of patches of fabric of various colored threads; a kaleidoscope of hues, stripes, polka dots, and patterns. The very same quilt-like pattern of fabric of her dress also applied to her skin. From head to toe, even down to her shoes, she was fabric. Her eyes were made of fabric as well, but so detailed it was a marvel of seamstressing to behold, her nose just a bump on her face, and her mouth was made of a particularly fine looking patch of red cotton velvet. The woman in front of him was not human, Animal, or any creature of Oz. She was a Living Thing.

It occurred to Fiyero that their accidental knock into each other had been so light because if she didn’t have skin then she likely didn’t have other human organs either. She was stuffed, not with straw like he’d been, but cotton, perhaps? 

“Excuse me,” she said gently. With a tip of her head and a curtsy, she stepped past him to continue her way down the hallway. 

Fiyero turned to watch her leave, his mind puzzling. 

“C’mon, best not to linger,” Keerio said. He pushed on Fiyero’s jacket but he didn’t move. “Goodness knows that Witches only get creative when someone really deserves it.”

Sharply, Fiyero turned. “You don’t know that.”

“I, well sure-“

“There could be any reason,” Fiyero defended. He frowned at his friend. “Maybe the Witch cared about her and it was the only way? Maybe there’s a completely different explanation. It could be no one’s fault!”

Keerio looked admonished for a moment and then glared. “You don’t know that either.”

Fiyero turned and looked where the girl had gone off to. “Maybe I should ask,” he wondered aloud. 

At that, his friend scoffed. “You need to eat.” 

“Then order me food this time,” Fiyero said, and took a step forward on instinct. He hesitated but… it felt right. “I’ll meet you back at the table.”

It would be easier not to turn around to see whatever confused look Keerio had on his face, so he didn’t. (Sometimes it was better to just take the easier way out.) Fiyero took a few brisk steps forward, still a bit unsteady on his feet but feeling ever better by the moment, and then he reached the end of the hall and turned a corner. 

He only had a glimpse of the back of a dress taking the next turn to the left. Fiyero jumped forward. He almost started to run, before common sense reminded him how odd that would be. He settled for moving briskly. 

Which, in a tight hallway above a quiet night in a remote tavern, was still quite noticeable. He turned the corner and the fabric-made woman was standing in front of a door. Her face though, was turned to look at him. Fiyero stared back at her.

The woman gave him another small curtsy. “The way downstairs is the other direction.”

“That’s a good direction,” Fiyero said thoughtlessly, “of course the other way is good too I’d suppose.”

“I suppose,” the woman agreed. Her right cheek was red, with a fabric that looked splotched with ink; her left cheek had a fabric made of green polka dots, it gave the appearance of freckles. 

He continued to stare at her for several long seconds. “I… My name is S- Fiyero,” he said. 

“I know.”

He swallowed, heavily, and wondered what he was doing. “What’s your name?”

“I only tell my name to close friends,” the woman said, which made sense to him. He’d gone by a pseudonym too, though of course he’d been recently executed by the state. Something in him greatly doubted the same for her. “People call me the Patchwork Girl. You can tell your friend I’m cursed.”

He blinked. “Wh-"

“I’m not,” Patchwork Girl said with a sigh. “No one ever believes it anymore.”

Fiyero frowned. “I do.”

She gave him a smile, her sewn mouth tilting upward pleasantly. “Thank you,” Patchwork Girl told him with a nod of her head. 

“I’ve… met someone like you before. He wasn’t cursed either.”

Patchwork Girl paused for a moment, and seemed to think. It didn’t seem hard for her. She gave Fiyero an odd look, and then stepped forward. A gloved hand was placed in front of him. “Well met, Fiyero.”

He took her hand and shook it gently, taking care not to squeeze her cotton too harshly. (Cherrystone had shaken his hand, ‘Good Fortune, Witchhunter!’ he’d announced, gripping it tightly. Fiyero’d pulled his hand away, starting at the crushed and bent glove with with eyes. “Ouch?” He’d wondered aloud. At his side, perceptive little Dorothy had promised to find him some new straw to fix him up. She was so thoughtful that way.) 

“Can I ask you a question?” Patchwork Girl asked, her marvelous eyes looking right into his own. Tiny, impossible magic-stitched irises blinking slowly. 

Fiyero nodded, distracted. His eyes hadn’t looked so real, did they? He’d only seen glimpses, in ponds primarily, and some mirrors in Emerald City - Fiyero had not been so detailed a being, at least from what he could recall. His nose had been a triangle. 

“Is it nice being a prince?” 

Being a prince? His head was lost in thoughts of the Scarecrow, Fiyero had to wrench his mind back to whatever semblance of order he could. “I… not all of the time,” he confessed. “It can be, though.”

Patchwork Girl nodded. She gave him a smile. “This is a nice place to be, if your friend ever needs somewhere to go,” she told him seriously as she continued to look in his eyes. “Can I ask something else?”

Fiyero felt something from the magic inside him; as he’d felt when Galinda’s magic had brushed him. There was a call from deep inside, a voice crying his name. 

He jumped up. 

Patchwork Girl lifted her hand from his shoulder. 

With wide eyes, Fiyero blinked and looked around where he was. They were in a room that appeared to be somewhere in the inn. An office, apparently, a desk by a window overlooking the grounds, bookshelves piled with more glass figurines and artwork. There was a brilliant glass chandelier that hung so low in the room Fiyero would have to walk around it, which only paled in wonder to a life-size marbleized rainbow, glass cat figurine perched on a stool by a bookshelf. The left wall was filled up with photographs, and a giant sign above simply had the word ‘BANNED’ in capital letters. In front of that was an old, very plush couch that he must have just been sitting on, because Patchwork Girl was there. 

She raised her hands up in a gesture of peace. “It’s alright, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Done what?” Fiyero demanded. 

Patchwork Girl crossed her arms. “I can’t do it again, you’ll faint and get mad at me even morer!” 

He took a deep breath. His head was swimming, and Fiyero was more than a bit confused. Did I faint? He was certainly woozy, and felt as if he’d just woken up from a sleep he didn’t remember taking. 

“I thought your eyes were supposed to be blue,” she said. 

Fiyero blinked at her. “My eyes…” he said, slowly, looking down at his hands. He had flesh, fingernails, hair, he did, he did, “are blue.”

Patchwork Girl put a hand to her chin and thought for a moment. “They do not look blue to me. So I must find a mirror,” she said curiously. 

A horrible, sinking feeling dripped from the top of Fiyero’s head to his toes, grounding him. I just saw my face in the mirror in the lavatory, didn’t I? I must have looked… I must remember- 

“I found it!” Patchwork Girl said, and held a round woman’s hand mirror in one of her gloves. She carefully skirted around the low-hanging chandelier to hand it to Fiyero. He grasped it eagerly, and she leaned forward. “Yes, most certainly brown.”

“Blue,” Fiyero said with a sigh of relief. He looked up at his own eyes and smiled. These were most certainly still his eyes, the ones that looked just like his father. 

“Didn’t you hear me?”

There was a loud scoff from around the bookshelf. As Fiyero turned, the beautiful glass cat figurine sat up with a stretch. Its mouth opened, revealing a cascade of detailed glasswork and rows of intricately sculpted teeth. “It appears you need a final vote,” the Glass Cat crooned, languidly hopping down from the stool. 

Shaking his head to clear his amazement, Fiyero assumed, “I take it this is your fine establishment?”

The Glass Cat nodded delicately. “Is it to your taste, Prince Fiyero?” 

“It’s lovely here, thank you.” Politely, Fiyero gave her a short bow of respect. 

“I have many friends who stay here,” the Glass Cat said. Her head glanced behind, toward the BANNED wall. “And many ex-friends who don’t.”

Unable to stop himself from checking again, Fiyero looked at his eyes in the mirror. They were still blue, no matter the lighting, or if he squinted. Patchwork Girl is probably just confused , or sees color wrong, he thought, which didn’t make him that enthusiastic for a second opinion from a crystalline Cat. Obediently though, he stepped forward and leaned his head down so the Cat could take a look. 

Fiyero’s gaze turned to the wall. There was a large list of banned citizens of Oz, so much so that he supposed this establishment must have been running for a long time. There were pictures of citizens of Oz from Vinkun to Munchkins, men in fancy dress and women who looked like outlaws, Animals of all kinds and shapes, but he only saw one Living Thing. There was a picture on the wall, each corner partially covered by another. Half of it was obscured by a photograph of a very drunk looking Ox; but Fiyero could see a little strange porcelain doll who appeared in the middle of a conversation. “What did she do?” He wondered aloud. 

The Glass Cat gave herself a shake, then pushed up on her hind legs to put a paw on Fiyero’s shoulder. She examined at his face closely. “I didn’t like the company she kept.” Her words were quiet. Tense. He had the sense he was pushing his luck and stayed quiet. “I have the definitive answer on the prince’s eye color. Once I judge, it is final, all must agree.” She sat back down and puffed up her chest. 

Fiyero raised an eyebrow, amused. “Let’s have it then, oh great Cat landlord of Oz.”

She gave him a smile. “His eyes are a brownish yellow,” the Glass Cat announced, which wiped the smile off Fiyero’s face. “Very strange eyes, for a human. Very strange. Not swirly. Stripey.”

“I thought so too,” Patchwork Girl said dreamily, “I asked if there was straw in his eyes and he fainted.”

He took a deep breath. Very slowly, and carefully, Fiyero sat down on the couch. It was a very comfortable couch. 

It doesn’t mean anything, he reminded himself, they are both rainbow colored beings… maybe that means they know colors less for… somehow… Why phrase it like that? “‘t’s fine,” he muttered. Fiyero turned his head to look at the Glass Cat. Behind her, his eye was drawn once again to the photo of the porcelain doll, but from this angle he could see more of what had been covered. There was a face on the photo. And a man. 

He reached out for the photo and took it off the wall. Thoughts of permission didn’t cross his mind. Only simple-minded, discourteous wonderment. Had this really just happened? Have I actually stumbled on -

“She was a friend of mine,” Glass Cat said with a scornful sniffle. “Helped me get this place too. Then one day she’s high and mightily with the Wizard his- self and can’t spare a moment to extend his grandociousness with her most deserving, most beautiful feline friend? Oh, the Electric and Plumb-of-Things is nice of course, but she thought she was too good to see me. Me. The nerve of the poor old Thing.”

Fiyero held up the photo and pointed to the man. “Do you know who he is?” He asked, his fingers trembling. 

“Oh yes, what a rude, rude man. That rascal friend of hers owes me five thousand coins on credit.” Glass Cat scrunched up her nose like she smelled something disgusting. It was, due to the way her glass body caught light as she turned, very beautiful. “I can’t remember his name. I don’t care to. It’ll say on the back.”

For a moment, Fiyero almost told them. He turned it over, but didn’t read out loud. If she’d forgotten, it would be safer for her not to know. Better if he drew as little attention to this find as possible, which would be close to impossible. “Wh… I’m actually- I’m looking for this man.”

Patchwork Girl leaned in curiously. “I thought you were looking for a wife.”

“I’m not… that’s different, he is, uh, he’s a criminal. W- wanted in Winkie Country.” Fiyero explained half heartedly. “How long ago was he here?”

“Decades ago,” Glass Cat said. She sounded a bit mournful. “Haven’t seen him since the China Doll broke. I do miss her. Poor old thing.”

Fiyero expressed his condolences, as best he could. His hand held the photograph in his pocket as a lifeline. Glass Cat was perceptive enough to see it. 

After giving her a photo and a short quote review for her to put on her menus and advertisements, Fiyero left the private office with his hand inside his bag. He’d slipped the photograph into his pocket, admiring the forthought of the cat to include the note on the back. The date, two-and-eight years ago, and a note: O. Diggs and China Doll, banned for overdue bar tab and cheating at cards, fine: 8,742 g(Gillikin Standard '04). Just holding this felt like a crime. (For all Fiyero knew, it likely was.)

It was proof that Oscar Diggs may not have lived so clean of a life in Oz as he’d claimed. Fiyero’s head was spinning with thoughts. How much other evidence of Oscar Diggs could there be? This ‘China Doll’ had been a friend and companion of his? Glass Cat had said she’d been broken, did that mean dead? For having been a Living Thing himself, Fiyero wasn’t exactly sure how the others of that kind lived their day to day lives in Oz. 

He did have proof a man named Oscar Diggs existed in Oz. It was something. Finding the photo might in fact be the most important thing Fiyero had done in over a year and he’d stumbled into it just as he’d stumbled through everything.

“You look like you just saw a Phanfasm,” Keerio said with a whistle. “What did rag girl say?”

Fiyero’s hand clutched his satchel tightly. “Huh?” He asked. 

Keerio raised a dark eyebrow at him and frowned. “Lord, look at you. Eat, now, or I’ll feel like a bad influence.”

“You are a bad influence.” Fiyero forced himself to take a breath. He sat down at the table, only then noticing food had already been brought out. There was quite an abundance of it, and an additional two baskets of bread. There was, also, more wine. Food did sound very nice. Fiyero had quite a lot to think about and it would certainly be easier to do so with a full stomach and a night of sleep. He wasn’t sure if he was trembling from exhaustion, excitement or fear. 

“What color are my eyes?” Fiyero asked. 

Keerio didn’t even look at him. “Blue.”

Fiyero grimaced. “Keer, just, can you give it a look?”

“Why? Having second thoughts on that girl of your dreams?”

“Hilarious. Just indulge me? Please?”  

Keerio gave Fiyero a roll of his eyes, but leaned forward on the table. He took a few seconds to look at Fiyero’s face. “Your eyes are still blue.”

Fiyero breathed a sigh of relief. Picking up a fork, he started to eat. 

“I don’t actually mind,” Keerio said curiously. “Most people never ask me about colors, considering I’m colorblind.”

He dropped his fork to rub his eye in exasperation. Right, he had entirely forgotten that. The colorblind prince of Munchkin Country, for whom dyes and textiles and flowers made up the majority of their exports. It was ironic. Keerio often joked about it to his father’s dismay. “Not.. with blue though?”

“No, you’re good. Still can see my Munchkin blue. Probably." 

"Of course." Fiyero nodded solemnly. Fantastic. Another non-definitive answer.He h

"It's green that people tell me I have trouble with."

Fiyero's eye twitched. He rubbed his arms. "Green?" What a peculiar color I have no particular attachment to. His mind raced. He had no idea if Horses could see blue, and Feldspur would probably be the only other person he could ask. No matter how concerned he was Fiyero did not want to find out the reputation he’d get for walking up to people and demanding they stare in his eyes. Straw had been the word Patchwork Girl had used exactly. Straw in his eyes. Why could she and the Glass Cat see it and he couldn’t?

He wasn’t just seeing what he wanted to see, right? He hadn’t secretly been a scarecrow this entire time and-

“Did you just pinch yourself?” Keerio asked with alarm. 

Fiyero froze. “No?”

The munchkin prince frowned and glared at Fiyero. He looked quite a lot like his mother in that moment. “Eat , for the love of Oz, man.” He sounded exasperated.

Fiyero obliged. When he ate, the food was filling. There was a tired ache in his body. As they left the tavern, the air was chill and sent goosepimples down Fiyero’s arms. He was alive. He was still a Real person. He had to be.

Before they arrived in Emerald City, Fiyero was left with one more frustration to rage over internally. The last stretch of the Yellow Brick Road in Gillikin was… interesting to say the least. The road veered wildly off course, taking an abrupt left turn for no reason before wiggling its back back nearly to the start. A detour of nearly a quarter mile without purpose. 

“It must be a test of our faithfulness,” said one of the few Ozian citizens who’d been there from the beginning. 

“It’s stylish,” Viffy offered. 

“The Wizard works in mysterious ways,” the Moose agreed with a nod, which had lots of agreement around the caravan as others repeated that sentiment. 

What a joke. Leaning over his friend’s neck from the saddle, Fiyero whispered sourly into Feldspur’s twitching ear. “Or the Wizard sneezed while marking the maps and not one lazy person in construction thought to question it. I’d bet my kingdom on it,” he grumbled. "Probably didn't even use a ruler. Why it's so windy and stupid."

Feldspur hid his laughter behind a whinny and a cough. 

As they continued onward down the pointless curve of the Yellow Brick Road, Fiyero leaned farther and farther toward his friend. Eventually, burying his face against Feldspur’s dark hair. His friend kept them moving as Fiyero held himself together as best he could. The last thing he needed was the photo-taker catching him scowling at the name of the Wizard. 

“I bet this is meant to teach us a lesson! About following orders, perhaps.”

“Of course not, this is a meditation symbol we’re walking on.”

“Something on the ground here must be secretly treacherous! Don’t step off the path!” 

As Fiyero was ready for this stretch to be over, the coiling whispers of despair inside him reminded him that there were three more walks to go. He would have a month worth of mail waiting at the hotel. He hadn’t had a bath in two weeks. Feldspur’s hair was scratchy and dry and really itching his nose. This was such a ridiculous venture, a public parade with the perception of responsibility. Forcing the world to accept a brand new image of him, so he could wiggle power out from his parents hands and use it to fight back against the one person in Oz everyone else loved. Am I an awful son? Fiyero wondered. What are they all going to think of me when the curtain falls?

“I’ve never seen the Emerald City either,” Feldspur said. There was a slight hiccup in his step, likely on purpose, and Fiyero jumped in the saddle. He blinked, coming more awake to himself. The Yellow Brick Road continued stupidly on, but at least now they were turning back to the right direction. His friend turned his head to meet Fiyero’s eyes with his own for a moment. “I would like to see Wizomania.”

Fiyero grimaced. “I think I’ll take the opportunity to avoid crowds. You should bring Pinzo when we get there, he’d probably love it.”

Feldspur gave a satisfied hum. “He’s probably your best recruit.”

“I am not arguing on that," Fiyero agreed.

“You know what else I’m excited for?” 

Fiyero yawned, lifting his arms up in the air and stretching. A quick glance around showed everything was still in order. Guards were flanking and watching the sides, the caravan was running smoothly, and the citizens walking were preoccupied with their gossiping excitement for being nearly at the end of the journey. He hoped that meant they were done wandering off trail. “What else are you excited for, Felds?”

“That quite enterprising reporter has taken quite a few pictures in my direction. I think I must have come across quite dashing, especially in the incident with the Walking Tree. You must’ve looked quite foolish though,” Feldspur teased. 

“Well, it was terrifying. I was flinging fire around.” He pat his friends strong neck comfortingly. “If Viffy was working the photo-taker after I’d ordered everyone to run we will be having words.”

Feldspur sniggered. “Don’t you dare! What about me?” 

“Oh,” Fiyero teased, leaning forward on the saddle, “so we should sacrifice a fair maiden’s life for your vanity?”

“For the sake of art, perhaps,” Feldspur quipped back. 

He laughed, which felt nice. As he looked down on his friend, he appreciated quite a lot of things. Feldspur’s dedication to him, the fact he was saving Fiyero from walking the majority of this trip, his friend’s sense of humor; Fiyero wouldn’t know what to do with himself if Feldspur one day ceased to be able to speak. “Thank you for coming,” Fiyero said quietly. 

Feldspur snorted. “Where would Prince Charming be without his faithful Stallion?” 

It took Fiyero four hours to disentangle himself from the celebration. The arrival of the Gillikin Country caravan came with much fanfare. Four citizens had journeyed the entire way along with the guards, performers, and Keerio’s carriage, and by the end the total was nearing sixty; Emerald City showed out in style, never a place to avoid an excuse for a party, with a ticker-tape parade, wailing singings and cacophanous bands, stilt-walkers and performers of all kinds dancing the street. Songs praising the Wizard, extolling the virtues of the King and Queen of Gillikin Country and the Lurline Dynasty, and others played seamlessly one after another, including an outstandingly enthusiastic performance titled ‘Welcome Back, Prince Fiyero!’ where his weary body was forcibly dragged in to dance an outrageous amount of verses. 

Despite Fiyero having had plans to rest immediately, Feldspur had already left, seen Wizomania, flirted with a number of four-legged mares, had his hair braided and styled with green ribbon, and eaten his fair share of fermented apples before they ran into each other again. Fiyero still having not freed himself from the madness. Thankfully, he did not have to beg long before Feldspur dutifully assisted in his escape. 

The hotel where they were staying was built primarily for four-leggers, with a few of the ministables augmented to accommodate other traveling companions as well. It was well on the outskirts of Emerald City, far from the party scene in one of the working districts. A perfect place to completely avoid contact with any other human being for as long as possible. 

Fiyero greeted the shabby little building as if it was his bedroom back home, and was asleep seconds after collapsing into the lofted bed. 

He woke up briefly to Feldspur’s teeth tugging on the bottom of his boots. In a sleepy haze, Fiyero did his best to help his friend help him by fidgeting. The strength to even open his eyes eluded him. He returned to sleep the moment the boots were off as a blanket slipped over his shoulders. 

There was a frantic knocking that woke him. He rolled over and flung the blanket over his ears to muffle the noise. It worked slightly, but that incessant tapping continued, and Fiyero got the impression he’d tried this solution multiple times before he’d woken up enough to remember. 

With a huff and a scowl not unlike a pouting child, Fiyero disentangled his head from a mess of wrapped up blankets and pillows. He sat up with a groan. His body still hurt, but that was nothing to say for the pounding in his head. Fiyero had barely even had anything to drink the day before, dodging bubbling cocktails and colorful beers as deftly as he side stepped a riposte on the exhibition grounds. With blearily blinking eyes, Fiyero looked around the room and wondered how easily he could kill whatever was interrupting his sleep. 

The room was rather large and open. There was plenty of empty space to accommodate the fact one or more occupants was expected to be Horse-sized. Fiyero was on a bed on the raised platform, which also contained a table and two chairs; below was a kitchen with various cooking tools for humans, along with a trough. Feldspur was sleeping with his body down, on a pile of hay on the ground area of the suite.

The knocking continued, loud, frantic, and harsh. With each pound on the large door, Feldspur’s ears twitched yet he didn’t wake. While his mind was of the matter to cease the noise immediately, Fiyero’s body was still half asleep. His first attempt out of bed had him rolling to the side, getting his top half caught in the blanket, and flailing to the floor in a certified, un-prince-ly pile of linen. “Why,” Fiyero whispered to himself as the knocking continued. “Why,” he said again, as he finally pulled himself to his feet. Why, why, why, refrained in his head as slowly made his way down the stairs toward the door. 

Fiyero flung open the human-sized door cutout in the much larger, horse-sized door, ready to give whoever was behind it a piece of his mind. 

A man pushed his way through the open door. He was frantic, short, and potbellied, wearing the uniform of an Emerald City senior mail supplier. In his arms he held two gigantic bags filled to the brim, and with his legs he kicked a third bag in. Chaos, that was all Fiyero could think. Behind the man was a bleary, kaleidoscope of faces and colors that his just-waking eyes couldn’t even comprehend. The panicked man stepped through and slammed the door shut, just as a scream began. 

It was a scream like Fiyero had heard before. When he was on a stage. This scream came out of the simple, early morning energy, with so much energy and the loudness seemed like a cruel joke. The door had been shut, but the scream magnified from one voice to another. 

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” the man was saying. He dropped one of the bags. A split opened up in the side, and a myriad of letters and packages of various sizes spilled out in frumpled disarray. “One of them got me, I fought them off, yes yes, thank you, all the mail should be accounted for, sir.”

Fiyero met Feldspur’s blinking, sleepy eyes with his own. His friend’s eyes were huge and blinking slowly with confusion, as if he wasn’t certain if he was still dreaming. Fiyero was no better. The noises outside were muffled but incessant.

“I’ve still got it, I’ve still got it, I do, I have it…” the man continued to mutter. His hands were tapping his pockets with repeated slaps, until he hit the seam of his jacket. For a moment, his ceaseless narration paused with relief. He continued again soon after. Whatever boundless energy possessed the man barely gave him a moment’s respite. He took a letter from his jacket pocket, throwing it in Fiyero’s hand with much aplomb. He bowed like a bird, his whole body forward and then upward, and continued to bow repeatedly as he backed toward the door. The mail carrier took a moment to himself, whispering a prayer to Oz. The scream began again when the door opened, but faded quickly as the man stepped out. 

Fiyero and Feldspur were left with three huge bags of mail and some unknown terrors just beyond their hotel. 

“I may have mentioned to a mare or two where we were staying last night. It’s a bit hazy,” Feldspur confessed sleepily. 

The two pieces of information didn’t connect in Fiyero’s mind. He looked at the letter that had been hand-delivered, seeing the royal Lurline seal. “Huh?” Fiyero said unintelligently. 

“I’m starving,” Feldspur said, which was not at all clarifying. He shakingly got to his feet and whinnied with annoyance. Wanting to avoid watching the Horse eat hay and not explain why he kept leaving the area when Feldspur did, Fiyero took the letter into the human lavatory. In there, the noises outside were almost indistinguishable. It was cramped, or at least seemed that was to Fiyero who was used to luxurious human suites, but miles better than using a shovel and dirt on the road. A large tree blocked most of the sunlight from the window but it was still enough to see without lighting a candle. 

To the Crown Prince of the Vinkun throne, Heir of the Arjiki Tribe of the West, and Lieutenant of the Emerald City guard, Fiyero Tigelaar,

Bountiful news for your eyes! The Great Royal family of Lurline is satisfied with your continued efforts on their behalf for Oz’s benefit. Due to your initiative, and in recognition of the additional responsibilities of your unique life station…

Fiyero paused reading. He looked at his eyes in the lavatory mirror. Still blue, he thought with relief. 

...a royal page has been assigned to you as an assistant in lieu of a second lieutenant. The royal page has been personally selected for you by the Great Princess Ozma herself, with hopes this will be a mutually beneficial experience. 

Please anticipate his arrival…

Fiyero raised his head up from the letter and sighed. “No,” he muttered. This was not exactly something, or someone, he could refuse. And he couldn’t play difficult and send the page back either if Princess Ozma had personally chosen him. Of course, he would receive a gift unloading more responsibility onto him, as if Fiyero needed anything else keeping him up at night. “It’s fine, it’ll be fine, just someone else to take orders,” Fiyero told himself. 

It was an interesting letter. Fiyero hadn’t received much official Royal mail himself, a congratulations when he’d joined Court officially, generic invitations here and there to a Ball or theatrical frolic, his congratulations and medals on his graduation of the guard and appointment to Lieutenant (and while technically his communication with Princess Ozma counted those cordial letters were never stamped as officially sealed documents of Royal Mail). Perhaps he was just used to the text being more… flowery. And the… paper was normally less coarse. Fiyero wasn’t sure why his mind was lingering on this, just wasting time, he supposed. The wax seal was correct, the five-colored ribbon tied in sequence, and the signatures in order based on Fiyero’s recollection. He would know better than most about forgeries. A childhood skill in replicating signatures for detention slips and permission forms had been surprisingly useful when he started playing two sides of a war. There didn’t seem to be any official issue with the letter. He was getting paranoid about a lack of adjectives now. Oz, what was wrong with him.

There was a loud bang on the lavatory door, which had a distinctive sharpness Fiyero knew well. It was the sound of a hoof (attached to very strong legs) knocking once. “Alright?” Feldspur’s voice asked through the door. 

“I’m getting a page,” Fiyero announced. He looked around the lavatory to see if there was anything he could use to make it seem like he’d needed to use it. He turned on the faucet. Then stared at the water as it poured. 

“What’s a page?”

He turned off the faucet and opened the door. Feldspur was close. The great blue Horse was leaning slightly on the wall, looking a little green about the face, for lack of a better word. “They’re uh, like royal guards around the palace. Queen’s Guard but… they mostly just stand around,” Fiyero said. “You okay?”

Feldspur nodded and stomped his hoof. He grimaced. “I could use something more substantial to eat.” Following his friend’s gaze, they both looked nervously at the door. “Any chance the page can bring lunch?”

With another quick look at the letter, Fiyero confirmed, “Well, he is coming today but I’m not sure how we’ll get notice. Or he’ll… get through… I’m going to need to open the door.” He sighed deeply. 

“Or we could simply stay in the hotel and see if they ever get tired. Though Winkie Country would be quite disappointed their prince missed their own leg of the journey,” Feldspur said. He stepped forward and tapped his nose on Fiyero’s shoulder. 

Of course he phrased it like that, Fiyero thought grimly. Right. Brainless, not a coward. “It’s fine, maybe there’s a compromise-ish solution to this.” He took a few nervous steps forward. 

“Maybe you should change.”

Fiyero looked down at his clothes. It was clearly apparent he’d slept in his guard uniform, sans shoes, and they were wrinkled to an ancient degree and not at all the clean from weeks on the road. 

“And a shave,” Feldspur added jovially. 

Fiyero cracked his weary back with a groan. “Thanks,” he grumbled. 

“What else are friends for?”

“I’m not even in the Queen’s Guard,” Fiyero said gruffly, rubbing soap off his chin. “They know that right? It’s not as if all of these bloody military options are interchangeable. All I know about those prissy little pages is they get so sanctimonious about their white robes. Oh, the fairies forbid a poor man trips while holding wine once. ”

“Or three times,” Feldspur quipped. 

“Or three times. I'll admit that but I stand that one of those was Duke Uto's fault. But Felds, you would have thought I’d assassinated the Queen with all the fuss those pages made. I hadn’t even known the ghostie shadows even spoke before that. Creepy little hangers 'about.” He wasn’t sure if the loud grumbling he was hearing was his own or Feldspur’s stomach. It was hard to tell over the sound of his own complaining. “This is ridiculous. They hate me. How am I supposed to train one?”

Feldspur, who had stuck his head in the open door, paused and thought for a moment. “He is a royal guard, correct?”

“Yes?” Fiyero wasn’t sure where the Horse was going with this. 

“And you are royal and a guard, which I presume would make you qualified. Princess Ozma certainly believes so.”

“That’s… ridiculous.” As he rubbed a towel over his face and neck the skin felt raw. It was a nice feeling. “Princess Ozma is still basically a child,” Fiyero contradicted with conviction. 

Feldspur turned his head to squint one of his eyes disapprovingly. “I suppose… you know her best.”

He set the towel down and looked at his friend. “Alright, you great lump. I’m off to the door while you get to sit and nurse your sorry hangover.” Feldspur snorted at him, so Fiyero added petulantly, “Donkey’s ass.”

There was a playful look in Feldspur’s eyes as he stepped back. Fiyero walked out the door with toes curled inside his boots. “Tough little human?” Feldspur said. 

Fiyero jumped backwards, almost avoiding a gentle tackle from his friend. Alas, there wasn’t much room to move and his friend was big even for a Horse. It was quite like a gentle shove. Feldspur knocking him over and then lightly leaning, pinning Fiyero to the wall with just enough force to hold him there. 

“Ha!”

Rolling his eyes, Fiyero raised his hand and tapped on Feldspur’s shoulder. “I give. I never said I was stronger than a Horse,” he protested. 

“And you never will.” Feldspur’s mouth curled smugly as he leaned up, freeing Fiyero from the wall. 

After a roll of his shoulders, and a few more exchanged snarky comments with his friend, Fiyero was ready to open the door. Whether he was ready for what awaited on the other side was another thing.

He opened the human-sized door in the wall, sticking his boot a few inches behind. There were loud titters from the crowd that quieted down as the door opened. Carefully, Fiyero let his face come into view. It turned out there were flavors of fame, because the taste of fame for being royal and engaged to the Good Witch sure tasted different than being the infamous Traitor of Oz who broke her heart to bed the Wicked, and if he would describe what he saw when he opened the door well… it tasted like nothing at all. Not the absence of a thing, but the absence itself. These people looked hungry. It was a whole new thing. A secret, third thing that Fiyero had always known about but had never been magnified to such a degree before. 

It was both a surprise and aggravation to see, amongst a crowd of young (mostly female) Emerald City citizens dressed in fabulocious finery, a few older gentlemen with huffy faces and stern governess-looking women. Fiyero wasn’t sure this was the type of behavior a chaperone should be condoning. Perhaps forty or so young people turned their faces to his, eyes widening beneath various viridescent hats, convoluted eyeglasses, and gaudy facial cosmetics. Amid their clothing were other curious objects, signs, bags, whirly dirlys, and other items that blended into visual noise.

“Is there any possibility all you folks are lost?” Fiyero asked hopefully. 

Oh, they knew exactly where they were. The confusication was all Fiyero’s. Through the rabble of speech that came upon him like a wave, he was asked of his length of stay in Emerald City (“Uh, leaving next morning,” he’d said, which caused two girls to burst into tears. It was a lie, they were planning to leave in the late afternoon, but maybe that would clear some of the rabble by then.), what products he used for his hair (“You should ask my mother.”), if he had difficulty finding shirts due to the size of his arms (“What? Why would I? I have a tailor.”) , whether or not he’d perform a wink for them, if people in Winkie Country were better at winking in general, whether or not he had special relationships with the men of the guard, did he have a special wink with the men of the guard, and a significant how-do-you-do questioning facts about his preferences on everything from color, to women’s fashion, to soup, (“Eh, blue? I don’t… you all look fine, truly it does not matter if I… Did, did you bring soup? Oh- you don’t have to go. Get some. Please don’t- I… is there any chance the lot of you can move away… from the… you’re coming closer. Right.”) 

Holding his finger up to his face, and while repeating “One moment” over and over, Fiyero very carefully shut the door. He breathed in relief in tandem with a chorus of muffled disappointment. That had been pointless. I should have known better, Fiyero thought to himself, and he could have kicked himself for having ever thought for a moment an Ozian crowd could have been reasoned with. 

Scowling, his hands on his hips, Fiyero lifted his head to the ceiling and groaned deeply. “I hate the Emerald City.”

“That’s a shame,” Feldspur chuckled hard enough to whinny, “it certainly lo-oves you.”

“That’s unfortunately the plan,” Fiyero muttered. Now what? Someone at the door had chosen to start knocking, as if Fiyero had simply forgotten to leave it open. He put his hands on his ears. For a few moments, Fiyero thought about how utterly annoying his life was becoming. Then, like trying to catch straw in the wind, he forced his mind to focus. “We need food, and I need to find Mombi’s letter.”

“And rest,” Feldspur added. 

Fiyero considered the ridiculous pile of mail. “I think I’ve figured out what to do with the page.”

The Horse stopped a hoof approvingly. “Ah, delegation, the way of Emperors. And how will you get out and get the page in?” 

Fiyero thought for a moment. He rubbed his hand on his newly shaved chin, scowling, when the idea came to him. He snapped his fingers. “I’ll get out the same way I got out of Peachberry Castle when Keerio threw that disastrously vogue-ified pleasure carnival,” Fiyero said with a smirk, “an undignified crawl out a lavatory window in disguise.”

Feldspur hiccupped from a chuckle, stomped his hoof, and seemed caught up in the memory. “Oh! Was that at Bridgeport University or Ozma Towers? Ha! I can’t remember!”

“Neither can I,” Fiyero admitted with a smile. It had been so many years ago.

Chapter Text

Fiyero held a bag of Horse feed carefully on his right shoulder. It was slightly less comfortable this way, especially with the low-slung bag of groceries digging into his other shoulder, but the position obscured his face completely where the top of his hood didn’t. Casually, he walked up to a very distraught man in the street. 

On this entirely unassuming, likely rarely-visited place on the outskirts of Emerald City, there was a small crowd around the entrance of a homely hotel. They seemed much less intimidating from this angle. Though Fiyero still wished they’d found anything better to do with their time than bother him while he needed to rest. (Were the attractions in Emerald City not enough for the locals? Wasn’t it enough he made it through all horrible eight verses of their ‘Welcome Back Prince Fiyero’ song?)

He took a large bite of the mostly finished apple in his hand. There was a particular relish that came with sinking his teeth in an apple. Watching little Dorothy eat as if she’d never tasted anything so delicious, half-starved and weary from wherever she had come from, as Fiyero had slowly realized he would never eat again. Never drink again. Never feel touch the same. No tiredness. No aches. No pain and no feeling . No apples needed for a scarecrow.

Some of the juice dribbled down his chin deliciously. Fiyero caught it with his tongue and took another bite. 

The young man beside him stamped his foot. “Do you mind? You’re eating loudly, sir, and I need to think. I’m on official business.” He certainly looked official. Conspicuously official. Fiyero had never seen page robes anywhere outside the palace before at Court events. The white and gray robes, with its textured silver and gold brocade vestments, looked a little silly in broad daylight. Especially Emerald City and with the massive traveler’s backpack over the page’s shoulders. 

Fiyero wondered if the page had had any citizens try to tip him for a song. 

“Oo, thinking, huh?” Fiyero whispered with interest. He turned slightly to look at the crowd, but not enough where they could see his face. “What abouts?”

“I need to get inside that place,” the man said with gritted teeth. It was odd, that while they hadn’t met before Fiyero still got the impression that his wasn’t a face that often looked angry. He was a very short person, the top of his dirty-blond head barely reaching the start of Fiyero’s shoulder. Like many of the esteemed servants of the Royal Family of Oz, he had charming hair curled about the shoulders and waifish features, almost certainly a drop of distant fairy blood in his veins. He might be a little older than he looked in years, but that didn’t mean he was any more mature. 

Ugh, Fiyero hoped the princess hadn’t just signed him up for more family chaperoning. He took another bite of his apple. 

“Sir,” the young man said, pinching his nose and closing his eyes. “Do. You. Mind?”

“Well,” Fiyero said, chewing loudly, “all of them want to get in that place too. What makes you so special?”

“I am not like them!” The young man said, and began sputtering, as if Fiyero had hit some nerve. 

This was getting ridiculous. “It’s Tesarious, right?”

“Huh?” Finally, he looked up at Fiyero. For a moment nothing happened, then his eyes widened and jaw dropped. “Oh!”

“Sh,” Fiyero reminded swiftly. The young man jumped to attention, like a good royal page. He was seconds before saluting too when Fiyero shot him an angry enough look the young man finally got the picture. “Don’t act odd. Just stand around, look a little dejected and kick your feet, then meet me around back in a few minutes. Got it?” He nodded. “Now, there’s something else you need to do that’s of foremost importance.”

With owl-like eyes looking up at him, the young man nodded solemnly. 

“Do not tell Feldspur there are apples in my bag. They’re mine. Nod if you understand.”

“Er,” after a long, slow blink, the page nodded again. He was leaning his upper body backward, still looking wide-eyed and perplexed. Fiyero gave him a wink. The page flinched. 

What a weird guy, Fiyero thought. He took another bite of the apple, the sour fruit juicing beneath his teeth exquisitely. There was a slight skip in his step as he walked off.

“Uh, are you stuck, sir?” 

The words came from somewhere around Fiyero’s posterior, which was currently on the outside of the window. His upper half was leaning downward, arms outstretched and fingers trembling. “Careful!” Fiyero hissed as quietly as he could. He was holding the bag of feed by the edges of the sackcloth. “Just need to drop it so it doesn’t make too much noise.” The last thing he wanted was to give away the location of his only reliable exit to a hungry mob. 

“Wouldn’t it have made more sense to have me go in first, then you could have handed it to me?” The royal page asked softly. 

Cursed Oz. He was right. That made far more sense. Fiyero wanted to slap himself in the face, which of course meant that was the moment he lost control. The bag fell to the floor of the bathroom with a very loud, but slightly muffled bang.

It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Fiyero froze, listening in wait, but he heard no change or acknowledgment from the crowd around the corner. “Excellent,” Fiyero muttered. He bent his knees, backing his shoulders up and reversing through the window. 

There was a twinge on the edge of his back. Fiyero wondered if it was a bruise, or he needed to drink more water. “Alright,” he said, gesturing, “you go first. Uh, prove yourself.”

The page gave him a nod, and another very odd look. Fiyero couldn’t blame the young man. He doubted sneaking in and out of windows was a standard part of the day for a page of the royal palace. He was a good sport about it though. After turning around backwards, the page crawled his way into the window and then used the frame to lower himself down. Huh. That was way easier than how Fiyero had done it last time. Fiyero copied him. 

“Um, we’re in a lavatory together,” the page noticed. 

“That we are. Lock that window and grab Feldspur’s bag on your way out, if you won’t mind.”

“Sure. Yes. That’s fine. And it’s Tippetarius!” 

Fiyero had just opened the door, and he paused in the doorframe to look back, confused. “What’s a tip precarious?” He asked. 

The young man blinked. “Uh, no it’s me. I’m Tippetarius, or just Tip for short.” Then he gave Fiyero a curtsy. Only a moment later, the young man’s face turned red and he visibly cringed.

People had always acted oddly around Fiyero, with more and more frequency lately too. He didn’t think much of it at all. His mind was much more focused on the food in his bag. Shrugging, he left. 

Fiyero kicked off his boots as best he could and let them lay wherever they landed. He set the bag on the table on the upper deck, opening the offerings. One thing he could say for Emerald City, the food was far better than anything along the road. Sticking a sweetberry-caramel taffy in his mouth, he unpacked enough bread, jams, stuffed grape leaves, hearty stews, potatoes, and anything he’d managed to stuff in his bag that had been pre-made and delicious. Somewhere in the bottom of the bag, nestled between apples Fiyero continued to hide, was a jar of popping cherry-peach lemonade, and Fiyero sighed happily when he felt it was still cold. 

It was fine to rest for one day and enjoy himself. Or at least as best as he could. 

All he was missing was a knife for jam, but thankfully, Fiyero had a page. It could be nice to have someone else with hands around. Tippetarius dutifully assisted Feldspur with his post-lunchtime breakfast while Fiyero chewed on his own. Passing the knife to him, the page sat down on the other chair on the table. He smiled at Fiyero expectantly. 

“I’ve got a very important task for you to start,” Fiyero said. He spread a rainbow colored marmalade over a slice of crisp, freshly-made herbal bread. Ah, being Real was amazing.  “In fact, quite literally lives are on the line. Isn’t that fun?” Fiyero forced his mouth to smile. There was truly nothing, and no feeling, in the world worse than that. 

Tippetarius naively leaned forward and smiled. “Of course, sir! Anything to help the mission.”

“Great.” Fiyero held up his right palm. After a beat, Tippetarius copied him, which Fiyero didn’t intend for him to do but couldn’t hurt. “Remember this, Minister Mombi,” he held up a finger, “my parents,” another finger, “Galinda Upland of Gillikin Country,” another, “Princess Ozma and Shiz University,” another and another. “That’s five. Can you repeat that?”

Tippetarius did, his nose wrinkled in confusification. He stumbled a bit at the end, but repeated it a second time perfectly. 

This seemed to be going well. “Now, if you look over there by the door, do you see that?” 

“Uh, the pile of mail?”

“Exactly!” Fiyero threw his arms wide with enthusiasm. “That mail needs sorting, don’t you think?” 

The young man’s shoulders dropped, and the perfect end curl on his waifish blond hair wilted slightly. “Ah,” he said, in a deadpan voice, “so the life-saving second task is to- sort your mail?”

“Yes,” Fiyero said without an apology. “But anything from those five names you give straight to me. Sound easy enough, Tip?”

“I guess? How do you want the rest sorted?”

Fiyero shrugged. “Surprise me. But do it right.”

Tip’s eye twitched. “Of course sir, anything else?”

Shrugging, Fiyero yawned, then resumed eating. The page waited for a moment, just looked at him. A quick point toward the mail spurred the young man into action.

There were certain perks to having a page. It wasn’t as if Fiyero hadn’t grown up with servants, but he hadn’t had much authority over any when he was a child. Even if he’d had, he have been too quiet to use it. Ordering people about tended to be easier when he wasn’t worried whether or not they’d like him; the royal pages already didn’t like him. Not much use wasting brain space on that. Leaning back in his chair, Fiyero tossed one arm behind and observed the page sorting his mail. Tip might save him a good amount of time. After all, it wouldn’t do to disappoint Princess Ozma. Maybe Fiyero should make a list of chores; he did hate cleaning Feldspur’s hooves and calling out the time during drills. Besides, even if that wasn’t how Princess Ozma intended him to use her ‘gift’, she didn’t need to know. 

“Another letter from my mother,” Fiyero said with astonishment as Tip carried it up to him. “She knows I won’t get them until I’m back in Emerald City and yet she persists on unloading onto me every thought in her head. What is this now? A letter every four days?”

“Mothers can be so suffocating,” Tippetarius muttered in sour agreement. 

Fiyero set the letter down beside the four others. In his hands, and spread out over the bedcovers he was lounging on, were the contents of Galinda’s letter to him. It had come wrapped in sturdy pink paper and pink twine, with a thickness that became apparent the cause quickly after opening. True to her word, Galinda had included several brochures for classes from the school, and true to her nature she’d gone overboard as well, with three copies of the Shiz Gazette, a light blue school scarf with the logo stitched in silver thread, and a small container of the Trusted Eastern Remedy bruise cream. The label ensured it would magically cover and salve skin blemishes in a pinch. Thoughtful, of her. The kind of overt and insightful kindness a person could quite easily get addicted to. 

A spark of a flame caused him to turn his head sharply. Tippetarius had a match in hand; Fiyero realized the page was lighting a candle on the bedside table. “Ah, um,” he said nonsensically. 

Tippetarius tilted his head and looked puzzled. His right hand waved the match to extinguish it now that the candle was lit. His fingers traced smoke in the air. “Alright, sir?”

“Just, keep anything flammable away from it,” Fiyero said, his eye focused on the light. “Maybe move it just, why not, over there,” he pointed to the kitchen table which was only a few paces away, “that’ll be good enough to see by.”

Tippetarius nodded. He picked up the candle holder with a very gentle touch. Then he lingered by the collection of newspapers scattered on the bedsheets. “Shiz to reopen East Wing in preparation for increased interest in the class of ‘34,” he read. “Is that a drawing of you?” 

Fiyero nodded tensely. “They’re using my name to advertise so much Galinda thinks I might be able to swing a double private suite. One in the stables too. I may take her up on that just to see if it’s possible,” he joked. Not like the idea didn’t have merit. Privacy was nice when a man could get it. “What? Do you have an issue with the likeness?”

“Looks more like your father,” Tippetarius said. 

“Not that old, surely?” He picked up another one of the papers Galinda had picked out, one from a few days later where he’d been mentioned again. They’d drawn a much larger picture this time, a depiction of himself in his Emerald City guard uniform, staring blankly forward with a smile. ‘Certified to be the most Charming school in Oz!’ the headline proclaimed. Fiyero frowned. “My nose is tiny in this, and my jaw looks like a bee stung me,” he grumbled. “Ugh.” 

“Who’s this girl?” Tippetarius asked nicely.

Fiyero sighed. He sat up on the bed with a groan. “I can’t do this. Would you please go put the candle down and then come talk to me? You’re hovering over me with it. It’s threatening.”

The young man blinked, and tilted his head. He moved his head slowly to look at the candle. “The… this?”

“Yes,” Fiyero said sternly. “Ten seconds ago would have been best.” That got the young man jumping to attention. Fiyero dropped the letter in his hand and shook his hands, then ran them up and down his arms. Fire by the bed , honestly. There had been that Duke of Quadling Someplace-or-Another twenty-and-nine years back that immolated from an incident with a candle and a bedpost and a hexagonal canopy. It was simply smart to avoid possible fire related disaster. He kept rubbing his arms. 

A very large, blue Horse head came poking up from the side of the ledge. 

“What?” Fiyero asked, dropping his hands to his lap.  

“Ah, uh,” Feldspur said. Fiyero heard the stomp of a hoof. “I suppose just goodnight, that’s all.”

Fiyero took a breath. “G… goodnight, Felds. Dream well.” Feldspur’s head dropped down, and trotted a few places before he turned to sleep. His back was to Fiyero. Had he been a jerk? Fiyero wasn’t certain; he felt on edge. He should probably get to sleep. There would be plenty of time to catch up on this mail during the Winkie journey; regardless of his curious anticipation for his life a year from now. Yawning, Fiyero gathered up the papers on the bed. I am very, very jealous of myself in one year , he thought pathetically, everything fixed, and in school, seeing her every day -

As he picked up the last newspaper, the page sat down on the bed where it had just been. He looked at Fiyero expectantly. “Who is she?” 

Fiyero’s mind went to Elphaba. He blinked. He couldn’t know about her yet- so Tippetarius didn’t, which meant… “Glin- Galinda?” He asked. 

With a nod, Tippetarius leaned further on the bed. He had an eager, wistful look on his face. 

“Galinda is a nice girl, and hopefully a future friend at university,” Fiyero said stiffly. “There is no need to speculate. I get enough of that from the papers.” Tippetarius frowned, and his cheeks reddened a little. He sat up on the bed, brushing out the ends of his robes. Fiyero eyed the uniform curiously. “I do hope you brought trousers for the journey.”

“Oh, yes. I am quite prepared! There’s an official page uniform for every activity,” Tippetarius said with excitement. 

That made Fiyero slightly curious. “Every activity?”

Tippetarius nodded excitedly. “I packed all the sports uniforms. For every type of weather!” 

Taking a second glance at the young man, Fiyero had an unsettling thought come to mind. It took awhile, but it still did reach him regardless. “You haven’t been in the Queen’s Guard long, have you?”

Tippetarius’s face turned a sharper red. His eyes jumped to his lap. 

Fiyero’s stomach twisted. “It’s alright,” he said, hoping his voice was calm, “I’m just supposed to… teach you. Good to have a starting off point, I assume. A year?” Without raising his eyes, Tippetarius shook his head. “Months?” There was a hesitant nod. Fiyero pinched his nose. “What are pages supposed to learn? How to get stains out of white? Hovering about where they’re not wanted? I could teach you to fight, I suppose.” Fiyero frowned at the idea. 

Tippetarius jumped in his seat. His mood shifted so suddenly, looking like a thirsty man walking in the desert. “I would love that,” he insisted. “I saw you that day in Emerald City. The way you moved, the look on your face… I- I’d never seen anything like it. I mean, I thought I knew you, but-”

Fiyero raised an eyebrow. “So you are a fan,” he teased. 

“No, no, I- I was inspired , I’m not like those people. I know you- or, or I’m going to work with you which is different.”

“Okay, okay, calm down, Tip,” Fiyero said, raising his palms in a gesture of surrender. “You want to fight and have an adventure traveling Oz, we’ll give it a go. Just know certain things are much more fun to read about or watch in a play than to experience.”

Tippetarius scowled. He stiffened up his shoulders. “I am not an idiot.”

“That’s great! I am, half the time, more often than not if you ask my parents,” Fiyero said, lightly and flippantly. “To their credit it is a miracle I made it to my twenty… the age I am now without three little bastards roaming around. Ha. Anyway, the mail sorting will wait for the morning.” With a dramatic wide gesture, he slapped his palm on the bed. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to force you into the bedroll when we have a perfectly good mattress here. The road is not going to be nearly as agreeable.”

Tippetarius stared at him. He didn’t move. He looked like a deer that had been caught thieving. 

Ah, there was the old reputation coming to haunt him. Fiyero rolled his eyes. “Don’t look so scandalified. Your virtue is as safe with me as the princess’.” He grabbed one of the two pillows and threw it gently at the young man. 

It hit his shoulder and bounced down. A moment later, Tippetarius looked at it. 

“Blow out the candle no one told you to light and grab a blanket,” Fiyero said nonchalantly. He concentrated on slipping himself under the covers, enjoying quite a lot the sensation of not walking. “You can sleep atop the sheets if it makes you feel better, but I solemnly swear on the Queen of Oz’s trust in me that my days of ravaging young men in my bed are over.” He winked. “Honest.”

Tippetarius’s voice was quiet, and curious. “Men?” He asked from a distance from the bed. 

Merciful Oz, Fiyero was not going to be the one to explain that to him. He grabbed the covers and pulled them up to his ears. “Good night, Tippetarius the Page,” Fiyero insisted. 

After a quiet pause, Fiyero heard a harsh breath. He smelled the soft sharpness of an extinguished candle. He rested his face deeper into the pillow. The brochures Galinda sent had spiraled his mind into a frenzy of thoughts and possibilities. Hopeful imaginings. Wishes. His head filled with walks along the dock of Shiz University at sunset, or the garden promenade in the sweet early afternoon, Elphaba to his left and Galinda beside her and their friends. He’d always preferred to be next to Elphaba, not thinking much of it until that day in Dr. Dillamond’s class. A part of him was always curious to know what was going on in Elphaba’s mind. Always wanting to look at her face as if he could puzzle out the mysteries of her mind. That one, short, moment in the forest that had sparked a lifetime of obsession. He was so glad he hadn’t been wrong about that softness in her touch on his face, or the way her eyes had followed him at the train station. He missed everything about her, her hands, her captivating green eyes, those freckles along her cheekbones and on the back of her shoulders…

“Fiyero, are you awake?” Tippetarius’ voice interrupted. 

Beneath his blanket, Fiyero scowled. “No.” With one hand, he pulled his pillow further against his ear and he rolled to his side. He was tired of questions. 

Tippetarius finished sorting the mail shortly after Fiyero had finished gorging himself on a long breakfast. He’d been eating nervously all morning as he snuck glances between his reading and answering of letters to the diligently working young man. Fiyero’s legs, or knuckles, would tap with energy repeatedly until Fiyero realized they were doing it and stopped. Sure, Fiyero’d heard a snarky comment or two Tippetarius whispered to Feldspur, but he didn’t begrudge the man his frustration. (He also didn’t want to press him too hard, lest the page realized he could just refuse and Fiyero would have to sort it himself. Fiyero wasn’t even sure he had the authority to dole out any kind of punishment. He wasn’t even sure the point of this at all.)

It took until the absolute very end for the letter he was waiting for. Tippetarius double-checked the bags, finding a small wrapped package beneath one fold and a very small, thin square envelope. “Finally,” the young man said breathless and harsh, in a way that seemed he’d grown very tired of Fiyero asking, ‘Have you found it yet?’ With a clear look of triumph, Tippetarius stomped his way to Fiyero and presented the letter. “Correspondence from Minister Mombi, sir,” he said proudly. 

“I’d hoped it would be bigger,” Fiyero admitted with a frown.

“That’s not my fault!”

Fiyero blinked at him. “Uh, I know. I was just, observing.” The page met his eye and looked a bit sheepish. “You should rest, eat something,” Fiyero advised before returning his attention to the mail. He took the very small, square envelope, not much bigger than a card, and frowned. I had written for the full report on changes in Animal law and legislation implementation, Fiyero thought. He was absolutely certain he had. He’d used a dictionary to write the letter and everything. 

In response to your inquiries, a note;

To the young Crown Prince Fiyero Tigelaar, 

I applaud you for your well-worded greetings! It is excellent to note that the future of Winkie Country resides with someone who can put aside frivolity to focus on good, hard work. Emperor Marilott will be pleased to hear of your zeal to assume the responsibilities of your position despite the duties of the parade. 

However, as you are currently involved in important work on behest of the very Wonderful, Great, and Powerful Wizard of Oz himself, it would simply be wrong to distract you unnecessarily before your task is done. Please be merrily assured, as a woman of faith and a scholar of the Vinkun way of life, I am humbled by your family’s continued support and trust in my abilities to act upon your collective behalf. Winkie Country is in safe hands. Once your business for the Wizard is concluded, we can meet to discuss the details of my departments’ successes. 

Consider this letter an invitation to a tour of my offices at that time. 

Your humble servant, 

Minister M. Mombi, Esq.

“My mother says if you frown that hard you’ll get wrinkles,” Tippetarius said curiously. 

Fiyero set the letter down. His hand curled up in a fist. He was not some young boy this Minister Mombi could cow with her words, compliment, and dismiss. She had no idea the order of his priorities; the Wizard was not going to stop him from saving the Animals of Winkie Country and any others in Oz he could manage. Nor was this letter. “We’re going to make an additional stop on the road.”

From beneath a blanket that had been sitting on the floor, Feldspur’s head shot up. “We?” 

“Either you’re coming or I’m walking to…” Fiyero looked at the envelope for the address. Oz dammit. “Oasis Town.” He pinched his nose. 

“I’m afraid I can’t bring you to Oasis Town,” Feldspur said with a chuckle. His head was still mostly beneath the blanket, only his nose poking out. “I’m not that good a swimmer. Neither are you, if I recall.”

“Then it’s a good thing I can sail. That’s beside the point, I need a map,” Fiyero muttered. 

Thankfully, he had a page for that. Fiyero made a mental note to write Princess Ozma a thank you letter, which he asked Tippetarius to remind him to do. He hoped that boosted the young man’s confidence a little. 

A trip to Oasis Town would take him a long sailing trip from the City of Babel, and on the way back another quarter-days sailing journey to make it to a local beach. Fiyero would get a quick six hours in Oasis to investigate the situation. Then he’d need to leave at dark to sail back across the river and walk to a midway point between the beach and a curve in the Yellow Brick Road. From there, Feldspur could wait for him and they could reunite with the others before they arrived at the next town. It would mean Fiyero would be awake nearly three nights and the caravan would have to stall for a day to keep him from missing a location. It was also the only possibility of catching Mombi with whatever she was up to before she had time to cover it up. 

Fiyero was staring out the glass on the train, his body curled up in the frame of the circular window. Then he remembered something and sat up and cursed. 

From his side, Feldspur roused from what appeared to be a standing doze. He stomped, sending a few pieces of hay and dirt bouncing on the floor. “What’s wrong?”

“I forgot to get a new compass,” Fiyero groaned. 

Chuckling at him, Feldspur went back to his nap. He seemed to enjoy the rumbling hum of the traincar. 

Fiyero sighed. He hoped Galinda was right about the compass working better the farther he was from Up Town. Besides, he could probably order his own people to not wander off the road, how much would he need a compass anyway?

Mother and Father behaved as if he’d been gone for a year. Fanfare from the townsfolk, he’d expected, after all, why not celebrate their prince bringing the Emerald City to them? Raising the yellow flags, hiring an orchestra to perform Vinkun anthems, and a full course feast in the palace for himself, Keerio, and all of the guard seemed a little much. Though Mother did love an excuse for extravagance. 

They were quite impressed he had his own page. Fiyero gave his parents the gifts he’d bought in Up Town, avoiding mention of Galinda until Tippetarius brought her up. He was forced to again insist he’d made Galinda’s acquaintance for friendship, but he was starting to doubt people believed him. Then again, the longer he spent unattached the more he hoped he’d be taken seriously when he finally ‘chose’. (If it still worked out that way. There had been so much left unsaid, left to a future that would never be.) Mother tried her hardest to keep them up all night with her questions, so by the second time she asked Fiyero something he knew he’d already told her just because he knew she liked to listen to him talk, he put a curt end to the evening much to her and Tippetarius’ dismay. 

It was, of course, lovely to spend the night in his own bed in the palace. Feldspur too, seemed cheered to have seen his own family. Considering they had all only just completed a long, taxing journey and were about to start again, Fiyero was surprised how many smiling faces there were among the performers and his men. The night though passed two quickly, and the morning’s responsibilities were waiting for him.

His thumb pressed harshly into the corner of his own jaw, his other fingers rubbing the other side. Fiyero looked at his eyes in the mirror as he did. There was just this odd feeling in his chest. Unsettled. It was as if he wasn’t looking at a mirror at all, but through a window at a stranger. “Hi,” Fiyero said, which did move the mouth of the man in the mirror. “One step down the road at a time, right?”

He could hear the sound of Ritley’s voice, which had been slightly muffled inside the carriage, announcing. One word stuck out coherently about the rest, “five”, which was meant with resounding applause. 

That was likely his cue. Obediently, his feet marched to order. Fiyero only hesitated a moment at the curtain, fingertips trailing along the cloth. Feeling it gently for a moment. 

He stepped through. Sunlight beamed harshly down from the sky. The crowd cheered before Fiyero could see them, blinking rapidly to keep tears from forming as he raised a hand to provide some shade. His vision adjusted before the people settled. There were streamers of vibrant yellow; flowers for all colors of the map beautifully displayed in an excess of arrangements filling nearly every possible spot that did not contain an Ozian citizen. The people of Vinkun did not dress in as elaborate of clothes as those in Up Town or Emerald City, no one else in Oz could compare to them, especially as Winkie Country tended to be much hotter. There was a flow to Vinkun clothing, a focus on ease and lightness of material, but a heavy theme of embroidered details with shapes creating elaborate patterns and symbolic lines. Some citizens were wearing Vinkun dye on their skin, beautiful patterns that twinkled of gemstones as it caught the light. There was something in the familiar sight that eased a small part of the great pit in his chest. It felt good to be here. There was no place quite like home.

Fiyero smiled as he approached the stage. He gave Ritley a nod. There was cheering around, clapping and various noise-makers sounding off. It took several seconds for them to calm down as Fiyero stood patiently. 

On the other side of the stage, with the exhibition hexagon and a large amount of ground-level seating between them, was a raised platform with two thrones and some seating behind. His parents had dressed up very well for the occasion; elaborate robes over some of their best formal clothes. Father looked like a yellow toy with a golden crown and robes of the same all detailed in gold thread, and Mother’s hair stood nearly two feet atop her head, yellow flowers woven throughout that gave off the impression of a dandelion from a distance. He waved broadly to them before he began to speak. 

He forced a laugh during his greeting and pointed at faces in the crowd he recognized. Fiyero grinned smugly through his speech, his eyes twinkling through a refrain of his song, his limbs nimble and loose-limbed as he guided the crowd through a dance. It was the best reaction he’d had so far. Who’d ever said a man could never be a hero in his hometown had not been born a prince. He was all teeth as the band played a tune and he walked down to the hexagon. It wasn’t until Ritley began to strap the chest pad onto him that Fiyero released the corners of his mouth, letting them drop. His hand reached for his weapon. Palm took the hilt first, then his fingers slowly sank into place. Tight. Secure. With the assurance of a man who’d been practicing for years. 

Five of his men stood in front of him, dressed in their uniform and prepared to fight. Four had swords and one a large wooden training spear. 

Fiyero was rested, ready, and prepared. This was the next step. The shouts and cheers of the crowd faded into the background, his vision focusing away until all that surrounded him was simply yellow noise. It reminded him of the cornfield. A breeze passed through the crowd which lifted the edges of his hair for just a moment. 

Two men stepped forward first, Ritley’s younger brother, Raplan, and another man he often spoke to. They appeared to have coordinated before the match. Raplan stepped forward with the sword while the other man took purposeful paces to the left. 

Fiyero had to parry Raplan’s attack, his sword holding the other while the corner of his eye watched the next man come into the side. He pushed the weapon hard, giving him space to step backward to avoid the next attack. With a swift about-turn of his foot, Fiyero’s arm was in reach to swing for Raplan. The younger guard’s eyes widened. He flung his weapon to counter. Fiyero slid the swords upward, then stepped backward to lunge again, which the man struggled to hold a counter.

Raplan stepped backward, forced to the defensive from the swiftness of Fiyero’s attacks. The first man had managed to grab his weapon again, but Fiyero clocked movement from the other direction. 

With no time to free his sword, he turned his body sharply toward the approaching guard. The man held the spear forward, running with a shout. It was simple for Fiyero to duck out of the way. As the man stumbled past, Fiyero clenched his fist. A punch connected to the face. 

The newer guard fell to the ground, but he rolled and was back to his feet quick enough that he was still in the match. He stumbled greatly backward though, touching his face repeatedly and limbs flailing and off balance. If Fiyero could have pursued him, he would have one man out quickly enough, but the other two stepped in to cover the fallen man’s retreat. They were getting better at working together.  

Raplan continued to block Fiyero’s attacks on the defensive while the other man fought hard for an opening. There was a gritty taste in his mouth, like sand. Fiyero snarled and hit harder, throwing power behind every attack. As he’d expected, the smaller man from Munchkin Country began to walk unsteadily back. Raplan could barely keep his footing, which was exactly when the other guard ran forward for a tackle in a moment of desperation. 

Fiyero stepped back. The hand without his sword grabbed a jacket and pushed. 

The other man fell, in a lump, into Raplan. They were both knocked to the ground. They didn’t recover fast enough, too tangled in each other to get to their feet. Fiyero heard a (well-pleased) Ritley announcing they were out. 

“Two down,” Fiyero muttered to himself. He turned, evaluating the place of the others on the hexagon. The man with the spear was leaning on the fence, holding his face and still seeming dazed. Another was watching Fiyero but not moving. 

He only had a split second between spotting the third man and needing to react to an attack on his back. Fiyero dropped to the ground to get out of the way. He rolled his body to the side. Getting to his feet as quickly as he could, he didn’t have a chance to get away from a chop coming at his shoulder. His reaction was a flinch. One that shot his hand upward to block an attack, muscle screaming from a sudden jolt of pain as he absorbed the blow. 

He was still half down, crouched, but his knees were off the ground. There may have been some booing; Ritley was assuring the crowd about the rules. In a typical exhibition match opponents shouldn’t be allowed to attack from the back; but Fiyero wanted to simulate a real fight against the guard as much as possible. This pain was his own fault then, as his right hand trembled from the effort of keeping him from falling down. He bit down on his lower lip and tasted salt. Muscles screaming from the effort, Fiyero pushed upward with a grunt coming from deep in his chest. 

The other men should have rushed in at that moment, but the one with the spear was struggling to keep on his feet and the other didn’t move. Arrogant, Fiyero thought as he looked at him from the corner of his eye, he thought he could take me down alone after the rest tire me out. With a snarl, Fiyero swung his arm and freed himself from the sword.

He kicked outward, knocking the man down. The guard struggled for a moment to get to his feet, his own arms shaking from the effort of having held Fiyero down so long. It was a pity too. If only some of the other men had taken advantage, it could have worked. Fiyero was really failing as an instructor to teach them to work as a team.

The guard made it to his feet a few seconds too late. Ritley announced him out to the crowd. 

Fiyero turned his back on him quickly. His focus jumping to movement on the field. 

The fourth guard sat up, swinging his sword around his hand and prepared. Making eye contact with the man with the spear, they both nodded at each other. 

“Three down, two to go,” Fiyero taunted loudly. 

It worked. The fourth guard’s expression hardened, his eyes flashing, and he stepped forward. His form was good, adjusted for the sandy environment. He only moved just in range of Fiyero’s sword. He slashed, Fiyero countered. There was a pause; Fiyero attacked, the man knocked his away but only for a moment as Fiyero’s guard returned. He was a good swordsman. It was both a thrill in his head and a fright in his chest. It may not have been just arrogance.

The wooden spear lunged forward, Fiyero barely twisting his body around it. He caught the handle of the fourth man’s weapon on his wrist. The hand holding his sword trembled. Fiyero pushed out, desperately. His left hand grabbed the wood of the spear and heaved it upward. 

His breath came in a gasp; neck slick with sweat. The spear flung out of the man’s hands while Fiyero barely managed to keep a grip on his weapon enough to block another blow from the sword. The man with the blackened eye scrambled to reclaim his spear. Jumping forward, Fiyero tried to follow but the fourth man blocked his path. 

He was a fast and practiced swordsman. The fourth guard kept Fiyero moving, when a lunge failed he quickly stepped to slash, when Fiyero blocked he slid the swords apart to attack again. They exchanged multiple blows, Fiyero stepping forward as often as he had to retreat. It took time, time that ached and was painful to earn in a fight, until he saw the slight overswing in the guard’s arm when Fiyero struck on his left. 

A confidence brimmed in his chest. Fiyero concentrated his blows on the left, striking again and again between counters. He kept at it, three, four, seven times, his breath sharp and toes curling in his boots. Then he moved. A half step widening his stance right, and unexpected slash to the middle. The edge of his sword hit the fourth guard in the side of the stomach, padding absorbing the hit. Victory. Fiyero smirked. The announcer called him out, and he turned about-face to put his back to his opponent. 

There was a wooden stick in front of him. Fiyero watched, too slow to bring his arm up to defend, and the point pressed right below his collar bone. 

Fiyero froze in place. 

The fifth guard stared. He was covered in dirt from his toes to his feet, there was a single trail of blood from his nose, the skin below his right eye already darkening blue. He met Fiyero’s eyes; his forehead raised, jaw dropped, a face stretched out in alarm. 

When Ritley announced Fiyero’s loss, the guard dropped the spear as if it had burned him. He took a step back. 

Fiyero’s shoulders began to shake. For a long moment as the sun beat down on his neck in the yellow field, he couldn’t feel anything.

Defeat was awkward. It was much easier to give someone a compliment and a pat on the back for success than to comfort. Took more words. Made everyone involved uncomfortable. 

Cherrystone was the first. He came out onto the hexagon, clapping Fiyero on the shoulder paternally. “Breathe, the adrenaline rush’ll get you,” he assured Fiyero quietly in his ear. “Good on you to keep pushing yourself. Lost your head for a bit at the end though, eh?”

Fiyero tried to swallow but couldn’t. He raised a hand to rub his neck. 

There were plenty of children pressed up against the hexagon, leaning or sitting on the fence now that the fight was over. Plastering a smile on his face that made his jaw ache, Fiyero forced himself to make a lap around the ring. They were all excited, gushing words and jumping nerves as they shook his hand, expressed how cool Fiyero was, and how sad he was that he'd lost his first fight in front of his own people. Children were blunt creatures. With teeth, Fiyero had choked out, “It happens,” and moved onto the next. 

He only had a few moments to fix himself up in the carriage before Fiyero was forced out into the public again. This was, after all, Winkie Country. He couldn’t just hide away from his own home when his part of the stageshow was done. 

The band was continuing, the Queen’s Guard were setting up to perform their mounted flag-and-musket drills. There was a lump in his stomach hard enough he felt nauseated, as he made his way toward the raised platform with the thrones. He greeted citizens as he passed, shaking hands, breezing through pleasantries, hearing every variation of, “what a shame, you were so close ,” imaginable. 

Mother greeted him with an embarrassment of kisses to the forehead. Father regaled him with excitement, eager to know the name of the guard Fiyero had lost to.

In a spectacular display of additional misfortune, there were additional guests of the family whose arrival had come as a surprise. (Or most likely been kept from him purposefully.) Chieftess Taniro greeted him with a hug, expressing her condolences as her wife clapped Fiyero’s shoulder and complimented his skills. Fiyero gave them his best. Inquired as to the health of themselves and their other children. It was the polite lead-in, the Taniro’s always brought their second-eldest daughter when they visited. Their three mothers would simply never have dreamed of wasting an opportunity for their children to interact. So she was there, of course. Why wouldn’t she be? Her lithe frame hidden momentarily behind a curtain until she stepped out nonchalantly into the sun. The crowd was a little quieter then. It seemed everyone nearby had their eyes on them. Wanting to see how Fiyero reacted. 

In the hexagon, Fiyero could simply dodge the fearsome scenarios that came his way. Not today, however. Today he fell for the spear. 

With a knowledgeable twinkle in her narrow, heavy-lidded eyes that sparkled shimmering blue, Sarima smirked pleasantly. “If you’d only hit the last one harder that first time, we could’ve celebrated,” she teased, raising an eyebrow. “Pity.” She was dressed very well, in traditional Vinkun robes and jewelry on her arms and bare stomach reminiscent of the pattern of Vinkun paint. The silver and sapphires made a beautiful contrast against her glowing, ebony skin. Sarima looked very beautiful, which was not difficult for her to do. 

Fiyero thoughtlessly stammered out a reply to her, his mind half-focused elsewhere, his body feeling loose and detached from his head. As they always did when Fiyero acted a fool in front of Sarima, all four of their parents turned to exchange knowing glances at each other. 

It had been hundreds of years since the Vinkun held strict to the old marriage traditions that dictated the interrelationships and inheritances between tribes. Fiyero’s own parents hadn’t followed the code at all and married for love, while Sarima’s had but only on a technicality. Despite that, gossip and whispers always took such things into consideration. In another age and time, Sarima and Fiyero might have been engaged at birth; which everyone knew about. They were also both beautiful people. Who’d been proven to get along nicely since they were young, which had not been an easy feat for her. They were from families who got along already as well. What could be simpler?

They greeted each other with kisses to the cheek. Both ignoring Fiyero’s mother’s excited giggle. Sarima pulled him in for an easy hug. Her hands held him tight in familiar places on his back. 

She smelled very nice like always, today she smelled like elderviolets and peaches. He returned the hug, listened as she whispered in his ear to ask if he was alright, and loudly assured her he was fine. 

Fiyero and Sarima were made to sit next to each other for the rest of the festivities. It was to be expected; they’d always been seated beside each other at events but never found reason to complain about it. They both sat up well, postures calculated and at ease. If Sarima had ever been uncomfortable in Fiyero’s presence, he never knew it. She’d always been kind, thoughtful, and understanding to him; never showing a side of herself that wasn’t sweet or playful. It had been rare finding people in life who were so easy to be around. Every few hundred tics, if she hadn’t looked at him and smiled, or made a comment for him to smile at, Fiyero would do the same. It made their parents happy; it made the citizens gossip and the young folk sigh. Everyone loved the story of a prince and a princess in love from childhood; so uncomplicated, so deserving of each other.

Sarima often told him she enjoyed his company very much. She said many flattering things to him. When he’d been younger, Fiyero had believed every word she’d said. He had so admired the way she spoke. Time had passed in youth though, and he’d grown older. Seen more of her. Her frustrations, slips of her rage, rumors of her in school. Nothing to contradict her gentleness or goodness of spirit, but enough for Fiyero to realize there had been a piece of the puzzle of Sarima that he hadn’t fully understood.

Sarima was one of the most ambitious people he had ever met. He was never sure if it was him that she liked him or the Vinkun throne, and he didn’t believe he could ever know for certain when it came to Sarima.

In an act of great mercy, time did pass. The festivations winded down to the end of the night, Fiyero for once forced to sit and watch with everyone else. His legs shook unsteadily when he left, his shoulders twitching with every child’s happy scream as the citizens of Oz began to corral each other to make their way home. 

The sky was red from the setting sun by the time Fiyero was back in the saddle. 

Feldspur didn’t offer any condolences at first. 

He rode ahead of the rest to bring Fiyero back home for his last night in the palace. It was quiet. Feldspur took the long way around Vetred Ko without asking, bypassing the crowds to head toward the Western gate around back, where a narrow pathway curled around the edge of an ancient quarry. The stone wall of the palace in this area was overtaken in old ivy. There was not another soul in sight. 

It was then that something inside Fiyero fell apart. Like a child, his hands reached forward blindly, grabbing Feldspur’s mane. The first sob had already reached his throat when he buried his face against the back of the Horse’s neck. The tears flowed easily. Breathing did not; he suffered through gasps and shudders and strangled gulps for air as emotion tore through him like the wind in a storm.

Softly, his pace slowed to a crawl, Feldspur said soothingly, “It’s alright. It’ll be alright.”

Fiyero’s arms wrapped around Feldspur’s neck as he shook his head and held tight.

“Oh, Fiyero, you’re doing so well,” Feldspur promised. Beneath his hands, Fiyero could feel the low rumble of the Horse’s words against his skin as he held tight. “It’ll be alright. It will. You’ve done everything you can. You’re good, you are good, Fiyero.” Tears and snot flowed as Fiyero wept like a child, but Feldspur gave no complaints. 

“A little tighter on that one, don’t be shy,” Feldspur instructed with an amused tone. At his side, Tippetarius adjusted the strap as requested. “You don’t want our prince falling off the saddle, do you?” The Horse gave Fiyero an amused wink. 

Fiyero rolled his eyes at him. While Tippetarius finished strapping in the saddle, Fiyero loaded his trunk into the back of the carriage. It was an unfortunately hot day; Fiyero had taken a short bath after the morning parade performance and was already feeling the weather again. It would be hell on the river; he already was preparing himself mentally to suffer the heat.  

“Just don’t be late to the meet up point,” Fiyero cautioned, “we’re on a tight schedule.” 

“Can’t disappoint your fans in Silver River, right?” Tippetarius said excitedly.

Fiyero grimaced; he nodded. He rubbed his hands together to relieve the ache between his fingers from the morning activities and packing. “That’s the last of it. Remember, we’ll switch you to the seat once we pass the signpost; keep in the back with Feldspur. Tell Cherrystone I’m resting if he asks. Or meditating. Anything good. We should head off in-” With a start, Feldspur raised his head and looked backwards from the main square toward the castle. He seemed alarmed. Fiyero couldn’t help but to ask, “What is it?”

Feldspur moved his head to Fiyero, then back up to the castle. “Ah, just, should be one more thing.”

Fiyero put his hands on his hips. Around them, their people continued to pay up supplies and materials, most of their set up deconstructed and only needing packed away. The hustle and bustle didn’t distract him from the guilty expression on the Horse’s face. “Did you order a compass for me?” 

Feldspur stomped a hoof. He tried to pull his head upwards, as if completely avoiding Fiyero’s eye. “It’s nothing at all, nothing of course,” he said. 

“What?”

“Why, look at the time dragon?” Feldspur distracted. Tippetarius looked between the two of them oddly. 

Fiyero glanced at the time dragon. Then, suspiciously, the other direction back toward the carriage behind him. 

There was a young woman in the uniform of a member of the Letters & Packages Guild. She was setting a box down in the compartment where Fiyero’s things were kept. She jumped up when Fiyero looked at her. Bolting like her job was on the line, she ran from the carriage immediately.

If a person had been planting explosives, they couldn’t have been more suspicious. 

Fiyero knew simply what was in the box without a second of doubt. His stomach clenched. “You told Mother,” he accused the Horse, the anger in his own voice surprising even him. 

Feldspur was silent for a few seconds. He kept his head down when he spoke up again, though his large, dark eyes watch Fiyero carefully. “Fiy. You know it’s what she hired me for,” he reminded softly. 

It was the worst kind of betrayal. The kind that was completely understandable. 

He felt the Horse’s nose tap the back of his shoulder. Fiyero was nudged slightly forward. The unspoken urge to go on, and what Feldspur wanted Fiyero to do, understood completely. He turned around sharply to face him instead. “What are you two thinking?” Fiyero whispered harshly. He leaned his face in, talking quiet enough that even the nearby hovering Tippetarius couldn’t overhear. “There is a reporter here. I’m photographed daily. Everyone in all of damned Oz is watching me.”

“It will be fine,” Feldspur promised. 

“Does she pay you to say that too?” Fiyero snapped. It was unkind. He knew right after he said it. Words barely out of his mouth when his stomach constricted with regret. “I- I…” Fiyero felt the muscles in his face pinch. “You…”

The Horse took a step forward. He rested his neck on Fiyero’s shoulder, his face curling to hug around his back. “I know,” Feldspur said quietly. Both the weight of him, and the familiar feeling of his friend, forced Fiyero’s shoulders to droop and relax. He grabbed a fistful of Feldspur’s mane for a moment. “His Majesty doesn’t need to know.”

“There are… Father needs to trust me,” Fiyero muttered; as he spoke, Feldspur’s ear twitched against Fiyero’s cheek. “There’s so much relying on this. Felds. I can’t make a mistake.”

“I can help,” Feldspur told him. “You can trust me. You know I only told your Mother because- Fiyero, I…”

“I know. I know, too.” Fiyero ran one of his hands down Feldspur’s neck, then patted him twice. He forced himself to step back. 

Feldspur seemed to be frowning.

Fiyero shook his head. He felt heavy. Uncomfortable. As if in defiance of his own body, Fiyero stepped forward toward his compartment on the carriage with confidence. 

The new box was unremarkable and unobtrusive. A simple case that could contain absolutely anything. There was a lock on it, with a key inside attached to a long chain. He unlocked it, and stuck the key in his pocket. 

The box had a note attached to the top and contained a sturdy wooden frame keeping solid and six tightly packed rows of wax-sealed vials containing a thin, reddish liquid with purple petals floating inside. It was steadily built and cushioned enough that the vials would be safe even with a heavy amount of jolting or moving about. His mother’s handwriting comprised the note but for once she was straight to the point. 

Once in the morning, once in the evening. Write to me immediately to let me know if the formula needs adjustment. 

With all of my love, 

Mother 

The vials themselves were unlabeled. The layman (or Viffy, in this instance ) would not know it from any other helpful potion. There’d be no reason to suspect more than a bland nutritional supplement or some fancy hair care product but Fiyero knew it on sight. He’d been subject to this particularly unwelcome visitor in his life many times before for short and extended periods. He could even taste the bitter saffron on his tongue just looking at it. It was a foul liquid, the cure for Melancholia, and not one taken out in the open. 

This was Oz, after all. Cheer and complacency mattered most of all, and where was a prince without a smile?

He snatched up the letter, crumpling it with his hands. Fiyero locked the medicine up, throwing the key around his neck. “Fine,” Fiyero told Feldspur when he walked back. “Fine.”

Feldspur looked at him knowingly. “Perhaps you should start now.”

Fiyero shook his head roughly. “I need my head clear for the trip,” he said, which sounded good to him. “I’ll start when I’m back.” At the raised eyebrow Feldspur gave him, Fiyero insisted again, “I promise.” Then he shoved the crumpled paper into Tippetarius’ hand and ordered him to burn it.

Chapter Text

"As dead as possible would be pretty dead, wouldn't it?" asked Dorothy. - L. Frank Baum, Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz

As he brushed his hand through his sweaty hair, throwing out droplets of water he’d just poured onto it, Fiyero had an odd and prophetic thought, I hope I don’t die today. Shaking his head, he put it out of mind. 

The long and winding river weaved naturally but not gently throughout the landscape; unlike the Yellow Brick Road which barreled through nature like a train for ease of its walkers. The current of the river was meant for the water, Fiyero’s boat only a sole, inconsequential traveler in the great expanse. The weaves and curves flowed far below the surface. A depth Fiyero could scarcely imagine. The blue of the water was deeper than any of the scattered blue wildflowers on the distant shore.

Fiyero had a long, tan fabric around his head and draped over his shoulders to protect from the sun. It did its job, though he still felt dehydrated and exhausted by the time his simple sailboat reached the shore. Now, the fabric would do another job. Fiyero rewrapped the fabric on his body. Covering the lower half of his face, and a cowl over his head. It would do well to keep his identity hidden from a distance. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d snuck into an Ozian official’s office for information; though it would be his first in this lifetime. With rope in hand, Fiyero bent down to tie the boat to the dock. 

Suddenly and without warning, there was a loud scream from an Animal. Fiyero jumped nearly out of his skin.

Renewed energy snapped him to his feet as he frantically looked nearby. The very small dock should have been entirely out of the way, Fiyero had been forced to circle Oasis Town for an additional hour to get here. The small dock was only a small outlet mainly used for fishing, reachable by a short garden passage. The building it was attached to was the local Emissary House; where visiting officials and royalty would stay on their visits. Fiyero had only been here a few times himself but he remembered it. And the return address from Mombi’s letter was not far. Without any visiting dignitaries it should have been entirely empty, but at the far end of the rickety dock stood a very small Little Egret.

They had very stately white feathers, some hanging delicately off the back of the head, and matching black, long and thin beak and legs. Standing up stiffly, Fiyero held up his hands. He thought better of it quickly and dropped them. “I’m allowed to be here,” Fiyero explained to the Animal defensively, “are you?”

The Little Egret did not answer. They tapped one foot on the wood of the dock and tilted their head. 

“If you don’t mention seeing me I won’t tell anyone you were trespassing,” Fiyero said. 

As if considering it, the Little Egret hopped once. Then they opened their beak, and warbled. It was an odd choked sound, like a frog and a pig in a shouting match. They titled their head again. And hopped. 

It was quite unsettling to try to talk to an Animal and have them shout nonsense back at him. It felt jarringly rude, having his efforts to talk rebuffed with mindless noise, until he remembered. Of course, Fiyero had also met an Animal that he was certain could talk and just refused to. (It had been Scarecrow’s opinion that Toto just enjoyed barking.) Before he’d met the small, curly haired Dog (what a strange creature, unknown to Oz), Fiyero’d ended encounters with non-speaking Animals with an awkward apology and a brisk exit as if their condition were contagious, but Toto had changed him. It was a bit ironic that an Animal from another world had been needed to teach him; just because a person didn’t speak it didn’t mean they couldn’t understand.

Toto was a very good Dog. 

“I suppose I have no way of knowing if you’re the security around here. Though, if you are, you can’t exactly arrest me, can you?” Fiyero said, but his body had begun to relax. He knelt down on the dock to reach into the boat, pulling out his satchel and an empty saddlebag. Slinging them over his shoulder, he stood up, then rested his hands on his hips and looked down at the Little Egret. The Bird flapped its wings twice but it stayed put, the motion more like a stretch than flight. It occurred to him that even if the Bird had seen his face, it wasn’t as if they could tell anyone about it. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t change the fact this particular horror played out to his benefit. Once again. “I don’t suppose I could pay you to…” Fiyero almost said ‘keep quiet about this’ and winced at the notion. There had to be a less-Fiyero-ish way to phrase it?

“You’re a bit dim, aint’cha? The Bird don’t talk.” There was a voice from up high. It was squawking and terrible. It sent the hairs of Fiyero’s necks and arms upward at the sound. He followed the noise to a treebranch that overhung on part of the river. It wasn’t too far away, and the branch itself was swaying gently as if the other Bird atop it had only just landed. It was getting late. The sky was still bright and awash with colors of red and orange and blue, but the sun’s light had faded around where they were. The shadows were heavy. Even in this darkness, Fiyero recognized the obscured shape of the black Animal in front of him. 

His face twisted into a scowl. “You don’t have any right to be here,” Fiyero snapped. He lifted his hands and made a rude gesture to shoo the Animal away. “Go away.”

The Animal wobbled a bit on the tree, amused and cackling. Its smooth throat feathers flattened threateningly. “I have every right to be here, silly sneak. Who are you to try and scare me away?” The Crow chittered amusingly. “Strange man. A Vinkun?”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Fiyero said harshly. He tried to ignore the Crow, but his attempts weren’t working as he also was doing his best to keep an eye on them even in his peripherals. Not sure how else to end the exchange with the Little Egret, Fiyero took a coin from his satchel. The small, white Bird didn’t have a bag between the wings or tied to the leg, and slightly flummoxed, Fiyero paused. 

The Little Egret opened their small beak and stood expectantly. 

“That works,” Fiyero said gratefully. He placed the small coin very carefully in their beak. He hoped he did it right; the Little Egret raised one leg briefly, like a wave, then began to waddle off down the beach. They made good time, despite their size, with a slight skip in their step as they left. 

As Fiyero had kept a close eye on the Little Egret, he saw the Crow bounce down from the branch and glide near him. He was surprised though when the Crow opened their beak. As if for a tip too. 

Fiyero froze and looked at the black Bird. That small little beak didn’t look like much, but it was sharp, and Crows would dig and dig and dig around until they found that perfect piece of straw; good at ripping-

The Crow closed their mouth and made an offended noise. “Oh, so you only pay birds who can’t talk?”

He really didn’t like hearing that . Defensively, Fiyero said, “I only paid the one who saw my face.”

“Why? She can’t talk.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s stupid, it only means she can’t talk,” Fiyero said hotly. He noticed an aching in his fingers, and realized his hands were clenched into fists. For how long they’d been that way, he couldn’t say.

The Crow casually lifted one of their legs to scratch a spot on the side of their head. The fading sunset sparkled with light as they displayed one of their sharp talons. A shiver ran down Fiyero’s back. “What do you want?” 

“I want a bribe,” the Crow said casually. Their feet back on the ground, they hopped and twisted their head expressively. 

Another person might have found it cute. Fiyero was frowning so hard he could feel his furrowed eyebrows like hard points on his face. “Why would I bribe you?”

The Crow hopped again. This time, a little bit closer to Fiyero. “You’re acting very jumpy and nervous. You’re sneaking around Mombi’s road blockade right when the sun made it hardest to be seen. You’re covering your face and you bribed the other Bird.” They tittered and added, “There’s also something about you that I just don’t like.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Fiyero said dryly. The idea of giving anything to the Crow made his stomach churn, but he wasn’t sure there’d be any other end to this conversation. Like most times, it took several seconds for the words Fiyero heard to process. “Wait, there’s a road blockade for Oasis Town?” 

The Crow tilted their head curiously. “Why else are you sneaking in?”

Fiyero wasn’t answering that. He countered with another question, “What do you know about Mombi’s actions with the Animals here?”

“Oh, I know everything. Definitely worth a coin or two.” The Crow hopped twice. They once again moved closer to Fiyero. 

He took a step back. His hands went to his hips, his right index finger resting on one of the three straps he’s slung around his shoulders. One for his Lieutenant satchel, the empty saddlebag, and the third, where Fiyero thoughtlessly stroked the fabric as he looked at the Crow, was for the swordbag he wore diagonally across his back. (It was a bulky weapon for spywork, but muskets were worse and Fiyero had few options. A small silver six-shooter would have come in handy, if he’d still had it. Sadly, the weapon from another world had been lost to time; but at least he’d gotten a few shots back at Crows when he’d had it.) “How do I know anything you say is true?” Fiyero asked and crossed his arms. 

The Crow cawed. A talon scratched the wooden dock in a gesture seemingly of annoyance. “I’m an honest Bird,” they insisted as their feathers flicked on the top of their head, “I swear on the Wizard.”

Thoughtlessly, Fiyero scoffed. 

“Oh,” the Crow’s feathers ruffled in earnest. They lifted their head and looked at Fiyero with great surprise. “Interesting.”

“You want a coin so badly?” Fiyero taunted. He reached into the bag for his satchel, taking three in his hand. Then, unceremoniously, he simply dropped them to the ground. He knew the Crow would have enormous difficulty picking them up like that. Fiyero also knew the Crow would know he knew that and was being petty on purpose. Sometimes there was a bit of a thrill in being mean, but Fiyero did quite desperately want the Bird to just go away. 

“What if I swear on the X-Vill-izier of the East? Rest in pieces, and all?” The Crow asked. Their dark eyes blinked as they looked at him. 

“Who?” Fiyero wondered. None of that had made any sense to him. 

Tittering, the Crow stepped forward. One of its talons pushed at a coin on the dock. They did not undignify themselves by attempting to pick the coins up. “Sneaky sneak. Bad at bribing. Doesn’t know about the blockade. Up to no good at all.”

“How do I know you’re up to good?” Fiyero asked defensively. His hand brushed again against the strap of his swordbag. 

“I’m not,” the Crow said simply. 

Fiyero blinked. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle that. Does it mean the Crow won’t turn me in, Fiyero wondered, his mind adding pessimistically, the Bird also can’t turn me in if I snap their neck. 

“I suppose, if you’re up to no good and I’m up to no good, we should make sure we don’t accidentally get up to no good together,” the Crow said. “What are you up to?”

He was fine. The Crow’s height didn’t even reach his knee, even if it was a very big Bird; Fiyero had more strength in his hands then the Animal did in their entire body. There was nothing to fear. Nothing to worry about. No straw inside of him for the Crow to make a nest out of regardless of what Patchwork Girl had said. Why was he even bothering with this? “I am up to good. You just- stay out of my way.”

The Crow titled their head curiously. “I go where I go, sneaky sneak,” they said. With another hop, and a pre-flap of the wings, the Crow jumped upward into the air and took off into flight. It was an unsteady take off until the Bird was over the water, where an invisible surge of wind helped them to soar away. 

As he watched the horrible Bird leave, Fiyero felt a tiny drop of ease in his stomach. One good thing to try to satiate the raging hurricane inside. 

None of that mattered. Not that uncomfortable surge of rage at the sight of that Bird, not the swirling discomfort ceaseless in his body, nor the pounding rhythm of cyclical thoughts swarming in his mind. There was a job to do. There were lives on the line. Fiyero was not the best man for the job, but he was was the one doing it. 

Mombi’s office would be one mile down the shore to his left. He couldn’t waste any time. 

At least the Crow was gone. There was something remarkably satisfying about that. 

Maps did not often convey the exact information needed. Most were quite good at showing distance, or the relation of locations to another. At times, though, even the most meticulous maps fell short when displaying pertinent information. 

Like topography. 

With his hands on his hips, Fiyero stood at the bottom of a large cliff. His face looked upward at the steep rock wall. This was most certainly a problem.

As he’d walked toward Mombi’s residence, he had noticed the turn of the mountains and some elevation, but the beach trail had continued steady on until this point. Now, the comfortable sandy path turned to hard beachrock as it faded into a dead end in the water. Pointed, sharp and deadly looking stones littered the water below the cliffs. There was nowhere else to go. The water ahead connected to a curve and a split in the river, it twisted about in harsh whirlpools, and fiercely so that the slaps of liquid on stone beat a steady rhythm into the air. A scream of water; nature’s warning to stay away. 

Fiyero had been born inside the mountain of Vetred Ko; he was an experienced climber not only of his own (earnest) volition but also as part of the Vinkun curriculum. He observed the cliff face. It seemed to be limestone, few other cliffs managed to be so sheer. There would be few handholds with grip larger than the tip of his finger. If he slipped, the chance he landed on any of the fierce rocks jutting out from the river was extremely high. He was intelligent enough to know any attempt to try to scale upward or downward was pure foolishness. If the rocks didn’t get him, ( however lucky he’d be in that case ) the rapids would. 

Grunting with annoyance, and muttering curses to himself, Fiyero reached into his satchel to find his map. His eye was only off his surroundings for a moment. He pulled out the map and turned around to walk backwards the way he came. 

Perched on the edge of a rock at the side of the beach was the Crow. They tilted their head. 

Fiyero flinched at the sight of them. After recovering, he snarled out a, “You again?” that was filled with as much vitriol as he felt. 

“Me again,” chirped the Crow. “Too bad you didn’t bribe me. You wasted all this time walking. Did you forget you can’t fly?”

If he went back half a mile he could go up the mountain around the main road. He just needed to go. Which would mean turning his back on the Crow. Fiyero scowled. Past experience did not make him confident on his ability to negotiate with Crows nor their willingness to compromise. Hesitantly, Fiyero asked, “What are you doing here?” 

“Oh, I’m a spy,” the Crow said casually. They lifted a talon to their beak and tapped once. 

Fiyero raised an eyebrow. With his mask, it was one of the few expressions he could make the Bird could see. “Spies don’t go around telling people they’re spies,” Fiyero said with condescension. He would know. 

“The best ones do,” the Crow contradicted him. Flippantly. As if Fiyero’s scorn meant nothing to him. Hopping off the rock, the Bird flew with a gentle swoop to a branch closer to Fiyero’s head. They looked down at him, puffed out their chest, and said smugly, “You must be pretty new at this.”

Fiyero felt blood rush to his face. “I have been spying for years,” he snarled, gesturing to himself with hands clenched into fists, “you have no idea who I am.”

“I think you’re Prince Fiyero,” the Crow said. 

He stilled entirely. No, the Bird could not have-

“I told you I watched your boat arrive, remember?” The Crow reminded, “Birds can also hide their arrival in the bright sunset, and we have very good vision.”

Fiyero’s stomach had dropped hard enough to be sick. Had he lost his footing before he’d even stepped on shore?  

“Prince Fiyero, Prince Fiyero,” the Crow trilled excitedly. They fluttered their wings. “A Prince as a spy? Prince Sneaky-Sneak?” 

“Who are you spying for?” Fiyero asked. His voice was muffled through the mask, and he felt a bit foolish wearing it. The only thing worse than being caught because he hadn’t worn it earlier though, would be taking it off and getting caught by someone else for it later. He wasn’t that brainless. 

The Crow trained one eye on Fiyero in a calculated twist of the head. “Finally. You’re asking questions.”

Fiyero bristled at that. He had to breathe deep to keep himself calm. As he did, he waited. The Bird did not answer his question. “Well?” 

“Not Mombi.”

“Who?”

“I’m not spying for Mombi. You’re not spying for the Wizard, curiously, since you’re supposed to be on the Wizard’s quest right now,” the Crow said, leaning downward on the branch. “Who’s left?” 

“You are making me run out of time,” Fiyero snapped. 

The Bird made a chirp at that. Their head tilted in the angle of a frown; for once the Crow actually looked apologetic. “Follow me,” they announced. 

“I’m not following you-"

The Crow raised a wing upward and downward in a mimic of a shrug. “Mombi has the place locked up tight. Vinkun guards at every entrance. I know the best way in for a sneaky-sneak. Of course, Prince Fiyero would have no trouble walking right up to the door. So, why would you need another way in? Silly me.”

Fiyero breathed. In. Out. “Please.”

“Please what?”

He raised his eyes to the heavens. The stars twinkled above him uselessly and offered no support. There wasn’t any reason for him to trust this Bird, certainly not this Bird, but at the same time he had no reason not to. There was something to be said for a bird’s eye view; likely more accurate than a map that failed to note a cliff. “Please show me how to get inside. Without Minister Mombi knowing.”

“I knew you were a sneaky-sneak,” the Crow crowed proudly. “This could be good. Come along.”

It didn’t feel right walking side by side with a Crow. There was an unsettling twitch in his side, and Fiyero found himself ambling along less steady than before.

The Crow led him through a strict walk in the forest. This was no trail, more a series of branches to climb under and rocks to climb over and narrow passages to slip inside. It was a maze made up of forestland, another twisting and unforgiving shambling road. Steadily, their path went upward along the cliffside, Fiyero felt more and more confident as they went. It seemed like the right direction. Definitely a good one. He got the impression that the Crow had arrived only recently in Oasis Town as well, hence noticing Fiyero’s little boat in the water (Fiyero suspected during their own arrival). Fiyero asked why in particular on this day, to which the Crow replied, “Answer first, why are you here today?” They continued on in silence for nearly an hour afterwards. Nothing said besides directions. Neither, apparently, willing to give out too much information. It was getting harder to doubt that the Bird was, in fact, a spy; which led to the question who was he spying for, were they someone who could help him, and why would they trust Crows of all creatures?

The Crow did ask a few other questions as they flittered easily from treebranch to treebranch, squawking directions and cackling with glee as they watched Fiyero scrape and stumble his way about. They asked if having thumbs was worth not being able to fly, if other princes scrabbled about in the dirt like idiots too, and if he’d been spying for more than two days or less? If it wasn’t so annoyingly evident that Fiyero was making steady and good work upward and toward Mombi’s residence, while completely hidden in the forest, he might have tried to use his sword for real. (It had been a long time, but unlike the Guard under his command, Fiyero had actually spilled blood before. For Elphaba and for Dorothy.) 

“Soon you’ll need to be quiet,” the Crow warned. They watched from a branch as Fiyero scaled a short section of the cliff. “That won’t be a problem for you, will it?” 

Sneering, Fiyero ignored the Crow and surged onward. 

It must have been deep in the night, so late that clocks would call it morning, when Fiyero reached a stone wall. The limestone cliff was tall here but the height was a jumpable distance down back into to the forest. It continued around the corner, but would crumble to the wall soon enough. Fiyero had seen from the other angles how well defended this home was. Most ancient Vinkun tribe architecture had a strict focus on defensive positions. 

Interesting that a simple enforcer of the royal law needed so much protection. 

Mombi’s residence was right over this wall. There was some greenery and vines, enough for Fiyero to jump and grab a handhold. He could pull up his body enough for his head to see over. Just briefly. Soon the vines cracked ominously beneath his hands and he let go to be safe. He would have to be very quick if he climbed up. “Looks like there’s a garden shed out there,” Fiyero noted. “I can get there and then observe and plan my entry for the building.”

“Or,” the Crow chittered. 

He reached into his satchel. “I thank you for your assistance and indiscretion,” Fiyero said stiffly, as he retrieved three coins from his pocket. He promised himself he’d be nice about it this time.

Flying down, the Crow landed on a branch at eye-level with Fiyero. They leaned forward, turning their head and blinking one dark eye at him. “I think you should turn back,” the Crow said. 

The idea was entirely ridiculous. “You walked me all the way up here just to say that now?” Fiyero asked. Of course they did, Crows loved to torment him. “Let me guess? It’s haunted.”

“That wouldn’t scare you?” The Crow wondered. 

Smirking under his mask, Fiyero snorted. “‘Oh no, the sign says the forest is haunted! Guess we have to turn back, my fellow Ozians’.”

“You wouldn’t listen to the sign?”

“I put the signs up to keep them out ,” Fiyero snarled. “People are so stupid they’ll believe anything.”

The Animal nodded in response, as if absorbing the information, and tapped a talon on wood twice. “If Mombi’s residence were haunted, it would have to mean a Witch lived there. Magic needs a Witch.”

“If it was haunted,” Fiyero repeated. He kept the coins in his hand but dropped his satchel. 

It was unfortunate, but the Crow had made up considerably for the lost time. Fiyero was now exactly where he’d wanted to be, even slightly ahead of schedule and with a planned route back down. There was also this, nagging annoying feeling, like a peck to the back of the head. Worrisome. What was it?

“If,” the Crow repeated. Then they stood silently. 

It was as if the Crow knew Fiyero was thinking of something to say. Animals tended to be more considerate that way; humans were much more likely to be impatient or interrupt. The thoughts formed quickly, at least this time. “You’re a spy?” Fiyero repeated. “You arrived today to Oasis Town?” 

“Yes,” the Crow said. Their feathers fluffed and they flexed their wings once; they seemed pleased. 

“Are you spying on me?” He asked, feeling the weight of the coins in his pocket. Fiyero couldn’t be certain the Crow was even telling the truth, they could be a local that was only messing with him, but still, there was that nagging thing the Bird had said. A pecking thought. Repeating. 

“I’m not.” The Bird said. “Should I be?”

“No.” Fiyero frowned. With one hand occupied with the coins, his other reached upward and tugged at his ear. It helped to focus his head . “Y- are you spying for the Wizard?” It seemed counterintuitive for an Animal to do so, but most didn’t know what Fiyero did; besides, even the Animals who’d seen the Wizard at his worst in the palace had still followed his orders. 

“No.”

Fiyero took a breath to steel his nerves, then asked, “Do you know this man?” reaching into his bag for a very important piece of evidence.

“You?”

Fiyero rolled his eyes and grumbled about clearly getting something and impatient Crows as he fished the book out. The green scribblybook in hand, he flipped it open and took out the photograph. “This man,” Fiyero said, as he held the photo of a young Oscar Diggs and the China Doll up for the Animal to see. 

The Crow blinked once. Then their wings flapped, their neck extended, and they cawed. “Ah-" Their voice sounded surprised. As if on a swivel, their head switched from the photo to Fiyero. 

“You do,” Fiyero realized. He felt wind burn on his face as his eyes widened. 

“Astonishing,” the Bird said quietly. 

Fiyero’s mind began to swim. Glass Cat had known him, and this Crow recognizes him, how many other witnesses could there be? How many people truly know? Could there be enough to convince the Court? 

“Do you know who he is?” The Crow asked. 

“His name’s written on the back,” Fiyero replied quickly. “Do you?” He took the photograph and put it back in its place carefully. 

The Crow clacked their beak. “There are many people in Oz with more than one…” they inclined their head, oddly enough, toward the Mombi residence, “face. You included, it seems. How unexpected.” 

“I’m full of surprises,” Fiyero quipped scornfully. 

Instead of disagreeing, the Crow gave a short bow if their head as if to say Fiyero was right. “If you go over the garden wall, the Witch will know,” the Crow said, “that is to say, if the residence is haunted and if there is a witch.”

Oz dammit. Fiyero was starting to think the Crow was trying to warn him there was a Witch in that house. He grimaced. There he was, a fool with a sword. A hundred elite Gale Force soldiers couldn’t have charged Kiamo Ko and taken on the Wicked Witch of the West without imminent immolation, Fiyero was one man with a half-functioning brain and a sharp metal stick against some Unknown Witch. Then again, Fiyero had gotten into Kiamo Ko. Sure, he’d warned Elphaba of his arrival beforehand, but Fiyero was intimately aware of his own childhood home. Castles in general, really. Castles always had hidden routes, marvelous little trick passageways and great family secrets behind trapdoors and dusty tunnels. So he asked, “Is there another way in?” 

The Crow tilted their head. “A few. I think you should head back instead.”

Fiyero shook his head thoughtlessly. “What ways?” 

“One way would be to scale the wall until you reach the kitchen overhang. Then it’s simply a matter of crawling down the fireplace.”

There was a clatter of coins on the limestone floor. The Crow repeated a warning to be quiet. Fiyero’s hands were rubbing his arms. “I c-can do that,” Fiyero told himself. “I will. I can do that. I’ll do it.”

“There is another way, possibly a better way,” the Crow quickly continued. “You may even find the answers you’re looking for. I wouldn’t know. I don’t know your questions.”

His shoulders relaxed. Fiyero didn’t care if the other route was some terrifocious magic nightmare tunnel, so long as it wasn’t climbing down a fireplace that could be lit any time. “Why didn’t you mention that?” 

“It’s dangerous. Then again, if you go in that house alone you’re certain to die,” the Crow warned. 

Fiyero grimaced, and muttered, “Third time’s the charm.” He put his hands on his hips and took a breath. “What do you need from me to show me the other way inside that house?” 

“You shouldn’t go.”

“Well, bravery, heart, and no brains is quite the lethal combination anyway,” Fiyero joked. “Five coins?”

“I must tell you something.” The Crow shook their head. They opened their wings and flapped twice, then flew down to the limestone rock along the wall. “I will show you if you listen.”

Nodding, Fiyero followed the Crow down the path. Nothing bad had happened from following the Crow, at least so far. 

“It’s very rare to meet another spy,” the Crow said. As they walked on the ground, their whole body waddled amusingly from side to side. “Spies can help each other. Sneaky-sneaks . Prince Charmings, though, those are to be avoided. Attention is bad for a spy.”

Fiyero snorted. 

“Unless the spy is very good at going unnoticed. They must be very good for no one to be suspicious.” The Crow turned their head and looked up at Fiyero as they walked around the corner of the wall. “No one is suspicious of Prince Charming. So why is he being a sneaky-sneak coming into Oasis Town?” 

As he walked past the corner, Fiyero saw a gap in the wall. There was a large metal gate, but it was held in an open position by an odd rock formation that was hard to see. The outcropping was a level below them in the limestone, which would be easy for Fiyero to hop down to. “Where’s that go?” 

The Crow glanced disinterestedly at the gate. “Perhaps a dungeon for prisoners? Though that would be strange. Why leave the door open unless you are very confident prisoners cannot escape?” 

“Prisoners,” Fiyero repeated. His stomach lurched unpleasantly, as if it wanted to take a dive off the cliff. “Winkie citizens? Animals?”

The Crow hobbled over toward the side of the limestone outcrop and looked down. “You recall looking at the cliff from below? For a moment I wondered if you’d be dumb enough to climb it; but you considered and looked for another way. I think you should do that once again.” Tilting their head, the Crow ruffled their feathers as a salty breeze passed them by. “What would you do if Mombi catches you? What do you need to be forewarned about? Is the risk worth it?” 

Fiyero thought for a moment. “Maybe my questions need to be answered.” 

“Will you survive to see tomorrow?” The Crow asked. “That is a good question too.”

“How can you imply things like Mombi has been imprisoning citizens without my knowledge and then tell me not to investigate?!” Fiyero said, loudly. 

The Crow shushed him. 

In the quiet, as they both listened for any sounds that may indicate they were heard, Fiyero walked to the edge. He slipped his feet over; then, just as Tippetarius had gone through the window, turned his body around and used his arms to carefully lower himself down. Above, the Crow watched him with wide eyes. 

“We could have learned a lot spying with each other,” the Crow said sorrowfully. 

“I’m not doing this because I want to,” Fiyero said. Half to himself, half to the Crow. “I have to do this.”

“Why? Seems like this should be the Emperor’s job. Princes are supposed to be sweet and find a wife. You’re quite good at that.”

“Well,” Fiyero muttered bitterly, “Father’s not the one who’s here, is he?” The Crow gave a low chirp in response to that. Fiyero carefully moved himself in front of the open grate. He took a deep breath, tried to be hopeful and said, “Maybe it’s Mombi who doesn’t know who she’s dealing with.”

“I wouldn’t count on that. You should assume Mombi knows you- very, very well.”

Fiyero raised an eyebrow and met the Crow’s eye. They didn’t elaborate on that; he had the feeling even if he asked they wouldn’t. It was late enough that it was hard to see, difficult to make out the shape of anything. Fiyero though, hadn’t brought any matches or anything to light his way. The odd rock formation that held the gate open also made it impossible for a being of Fiyero’s size to squeeze through. When he touched the rock, however, it was surprisingly brittle. Much more so than the limestone that made up the cliff. 

“I’ll have to break it to get through,” Fiyero thought out loud to himself. He very carefully considered his surroundings, finding a small angle where he may possibly get enough leverage. 

For some reason, the Crow said, “Don’t feel bad about it.”

Dismissing that from his mind, Fiyero continued. He could only get two steps back safely, so it took a few tries of hitting into the metal gate with his body before the stone leveraging it open developed a crack. The Crow didn’t seem as pleased to watch him struggle as Fiyero thought they would be. They claimed to be keeping an eye out for the guards but gave no warnings. Two more solid hits, and one outrageous ache in his abused right shoulder later, the stone piece fell to the floor. 

Gasping slightly, Fiyero petulantly kicked at the stone when it rolled by his boot. Then he lifted his cowl for a moment to run his hand through his sweaty hair. “Great, I-"

The stone had fallen with a piece out of the shadow. It stood in contrast to the limestone on the ground, a darker color, a different texture. In fact, the texture of the stone hardly looked like stone at all. If it wasn’t for the color, the way it felt, and the broken off bits clearly being rock, Fiyero could have mistaken it for an arm. 

“A stone gargoyle out here ?” Fiyero wondered. His forehead wrinkled, knowing there were pieces to a puzzle in front of him but not how they connected or even the shape. “Holding open a gate?” An utterly confusifying design choice. Who would want this? Was this some ridiculous outdated Emerald City fashion?

“I really do hope you make it out. You’re much more interesting than you seem in the papers, and the mourning period for royalty is so long. It’d be a hassle. You could turn back.”

Fiyero glanced up briefly, and said, “Thank you for your support.” The gate was open now, and it barely even squeaked as he moved it. The rest of the statue was now resting limply in the entrance, out of the way. It wasn’t the easiest to see in the dark until Fiyero moved closer. Then it was a little clearer. He could see a face with a twisted and wide-eyed expression, a body that was oddly off balance for a statue. It must have relied on its entwined position with the gate to stay in place. How did they sculpt a rock into a gate? Why? 

“I have more questions already,” Fiyero muttered to himself. 

“Likely a good one.” 

“Helpful. Thanks again,” he grumbled. “Don’t suppose you want to pass on any secrets? Since I’m going to die and all there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Wouldn’t be any point. Dead is dead. Don’t you think?” The Crow said, leaning far over the cliff to look down at Fiyero. 

“Sure,” Fiyero said flippantly. “Do you want those coins now?” 

“Might as well give me the whole bag. That evidence you got. Won’t be much use to you anymore.”

He ducked his head down into the tunnel. With one hand, Fiyero repeated a rude gesture for the Crow, and with the other he carefully entered the tunnel. The rest of the statue was by the entrance, the face turned away now toward the wall. It was a Monkey, an Orangutan perhaps though without color it wasn’t easy to tell. The statue was very realistic, except where pieces had broken off and crumbled.

Fiyero paused for a moment. He didn’t know why the instinct came to him to check the eyes. It was still stone though, flat and lifeless despite the uncomfortable detail. 

He could feel his hair lifting on his arms and the back of his neck. While he could fool himself, say it was because of the night chill and watery breeze, the feeling would still be there. Lifting his hand, Fiyero took the swordbag down. He wrapped the strap around his waist. It would be easier to reach that way. 

With only two directions to go, Fiyero continued onward down the path. 

There were other statues down the short tunnel. A Rabbit with their mouth open in a frozen scream, a Falcon that must have fallen two the ground as the impact had broken off both wings, and other wretched signs. At least twelve in all. Animals of the small and medium variety. Each and every one of them was facing Fiyero as he walked down the path. As if they’d been arranged to appear like they had been trying to escape. 

Escape from Mombi? Escape from the Witch? Escape from being turned to stone? It was impossible for Fiyero to say for sure, but the outrageous detailing in the stone, the terrified faces, and the way the statues were placed here , in these odd position, it told him something he wished was not true. 

Prisoners could not escape if they were dead. What kind of horrific magic was this? That changed a being from Living to not as they were still awake? What did this benefit Mombi? How could any of this have gone down under his Father’s nose?

Their eyes were dead, that Fiyero knew. Somehow, if they were still alive, he thought they would look different to him; Patchwork Girl and Glass Cat had had strange eyes. He checked each of them anyway, a hot weight sinking lower and lower in his chest as he did. The tunnel was small, he had to bend over to walk, but after a short walk they must have been under the house. The tunnel opened up into a very small chamber. 

The roof was higher here. Fiyero could barely touch it if he stood on his toes. There was a very small square hole in the roof, where the barest hint of light provided some relief to the darkness. It was a third sort of light, one already dimmed behind one surface and then another, low and muted so the whole world was gray and colorless. 

There was a medium sized Animal in the chamber. They were on the younger side, otherwise it would have been a tight squeeze. A male Kangaroo several years shy of maturity, with gangly limbs and ears and feet too big for his body. He was hunched in the corner of the chamber, his upper body bent over and balancing his back legs and tail as he sat. Ears were pressed flat. A frozen line of stone trailed from his eyes down his cheek. One of his hands was outstretched toward the stone on the ground. A single finger in the dust. 

The other eleven stone Animals had been adults. The Kangaroo, the largest, was still a child- had been a child. 

Fiyero wished his brain away as he looked. 

He didn’t know a lot of things, Fiyero thought to himself, as he drew his sword. He didn’t know why he’d been given a second chance at life, he didn’t know if he was supposed to do anything with it, and he had no idea if this was his fault. Had Mombi’s Witch done this to clean house - because Prince Fiyero was coming? Or had she been doing this for years under his parents’ neglectful watch? Using the sword, he cut a strip of fabric off of his coat. With it in hand, Fiyero gently placed the cloth over the stone Kangaroo’s face. Covering the eyes. It meant nothing, there was no way for Fiyero to close his eyes respectfully; perhaps the Kangaroo wouldn’t want this, and all Fiyero was doing was making himself feel less guilty at the expense of the little Animal’s memory. 

He was sorry. The words couldn’t pass his throat, Fiyero wasn’t even able to get his mouth to move to speak; it felt so cruel to leave the young Animal here. Alone and in the dark. Even already dead. Fiyero had wanted Elphaba to find his body. Even in the state it was in; he’d hoped she would recognize him. He’d been happy they’d put the hat on his head and painted that silly face on the sack. The guards had wanted her to find his body too; they were proud of their work and had worked quite diligently to put him in that state. Fiyero just wanted to rest at her side one last time.

Better spies likely didn’t cry on missions. The Crow wouldn’t. But Fiyero was glad for the mask to catch his tears. 

The Kangaroo’s finger on the ground did catch his attention. There was dirt all over the floor, moldy and old; the tunnel with its downward slope and large hole in the basement had been used to dispose waste a long time ago. It was not the most long lasting of material. 

There had been a message. There was a pawprint in the center of it now, another Animal running through without realizing they were stepping over a child’s last words. General wind had done the rest to obscure it. Only three letters remained, at the beginning and by the end, and Fiyero could only pray to Oz he was correct. Wi__o_

Shaking hands reached for the scribblybook, noting what he had seen quickly and recording the message with a pencil. Then Fiyero had to move on. Time was running out. 

He jumped and used his arms to lift himself into the basement. The room was dark, lit only by light from the open door that led to the rest of the house. It was sparsely decorated, an empty wine rack, countless cobwebs, and old broken bottles flung about. It seemed as if this room hadn’t been used in centuries until recently. 

A dark mood seemed to hang heavy in the air. Perhaps a remnant of the fearsome despair felt recently in the place. Maybe fear held a sort of magic in Oz. (Perhaps Scarecrow should have been kinder to the Lion; it was hard to move his body onward when every part of him wanted to run back. Bravery was much easier when there was someone beside him to be strong for. It was harder alone.) It was as if terror itself had a presence, a cold and unjust feeling that set Fiyero’s nerves on fire. He pressed forward out of the basement with ease, finding the door to the next floor unlocked. Each step up the stairs increased his sense of doom. The smell of abandoned places did not falter as he reached the better worn parts of the home. 

The hallway he entered in next was not clean. Art on the walls had been covered with dark sheets, as if the homeowner was in mourning. Broken bottles continued to litter the ground, sparingly but with enough regularity that Fiyero wondered if someone here had a problem with either drinking or cleaning. Perhaps both depending on how long all the discarded glass had been there. Or maybe it had built up over time and centuries of careless visits. Carefully placed footsteps tiptoed down the hall; Fiyero moved slowly, as he’d done when he was a child sneaking in the hidden passages of Kiamo Ko. 

He looked through one hallway door that was partially opened, seeing inside a dimly lit room with several boxes. The supplies looked old, and Fiyero assumed it was medical equipment. There was one metal cart with a lumpy sheet atop it hiding whatever torturous devices were there. Fiyero looked at the wheels of the cart, a memory he’d often put away rising to the surface. There was a shiver down his back. He moved on. 

Fiyero put his ear against doors that were shut, making sure there was no noise behind them before cautiously opening. One room was entirely empty. Another appeared to have been a sitting room at one point, if a tornado had gone off inside; furniture was broken and scattered around the corners of the room, an old Winkie tapestry with Animal, Living Thing, and Vinkun citizens on display was ripped in half, abandoned on a floor surrounded by shards of broken bottles. He looked around briefly but found nothing of note. 

When Fiyero opened the last door in the hallway, he realized two things very quickly. First, this was a closet. Second, he’d made a very odd mistake. 

As he opened the door, the contents behind it were set loose, falling out. It was an impossibility of mass inside, the entire closet having been filled to the absolute brim - nothing but magic could have put the contents inside without a mess and Fiyero would stand no chance of returning it. Whoever came down this hallway would know this door had been opened; Fiyero had even less time than he’d planned. It was also… hair. Golden, gentle, wavy hair the color of corn. Loose, and just there . Apart from anything he could see, though a pessimistic part of himself wondered if somewhere in the massive pile of corn-stalk hair was a head. Why would a bunch of loose hair be kept like this? Why make it?

The yellow tresses that fell out of the closet were high enough to reach the top of Fiyero’s boots. There were yards and yards of hair, too much for him to estimate. 

Fiyero shut the door, but there was still hair in the hallway. With his feet and hands, he pushed as much as he could away from the center of the hallway. He could only hope it would at least not be immediately noticeable in the dim light of the residence, but Fiyero had little faith. 

His heart pounding in his chest, Fiyero continued onward. There was a staircase to the top floor, and he ascended painfully slowly. Fiyero wondered idly if the magic had chosen him to come back because he was the only person stupid enough to do this. That thought helped bolster him on. 

His foot moved upward, found a place by the wall, then slowly he shifted his weight upward to it. No creaking floors would give him away. One by one, Fiyero trespassed further.

Perhaps, despite their endless and circular arguments about the merits of brains, heart, or bravery, the Scarecrow had been right about the importance of intelligence all along. That would certainly be something. 

On the penultimate step, Fiyero heard a noise. 

A muffled shout, followed by the shattering of a bottle. He stood still, the shouting devolved into low murmurs but now that Fiyero was aware he could pick the noises out from the sounds of the residence, general creaking in the wind, or the low groans of the Plumb-of-Things in the walls. A low tone. A slightly higher one. Again. 

Fiyero took the final step up to the second story. Heedful of every noise, and every twitch in his own body, Fiyero crept down the hall. He ignored the other doors this time as he focused on the sound of voices. 

There was a small turn in the hallway, a little alcove meant for the display of flowers but sitting empty. Fiyero noted he could possibly hide himself there later. So long as no one looked in his direction. For now, he carefully turned his body around the door so as to ensure his shadow wasn’t visible underneath, and pressed his ear as close to it as he could. 

“… worst of the jobs, worst,” a woman was saying. There was an edge to her voice, a slight gravel in tone, and she sounded breathless. She did not sound like she’d be out of place as an old bakery maid, frantically rushing about in all hours of the morning. There was something oddly familiar in it. 

“Oh, dear,” said the second voice, regal and amused. “I thought you had it easiest?”

“Easy, easy,” the upset woman said, “you think this is easy? You think I was easy on him-"

“You were.”

“You have no idea,” the upset woman snapped. For some reason, Fiyero flinched at it; a response he didn’t control. “It was all going fine until the new implementation. It’s too fast.” 

Sounding almost unbearably smug, like a sickly sweet poison, the regal voice asked, “Are you questioning him now?” 

“NO!” There was a shaking throughout the house, as if an earthquake, but more like a giant hand had an enormous grip over the foundations and jolted them for their own amusement. Fiyero scrambled, barely able to keep his footing, but he pressed his body against the wall and the tremor ended. 

“That won’t stop the haunted rumors,” the regal voice sang mockingly. 

“Shut up! Shut up! You don’t care about anything, just come to rub my nose in it all,” the upset woman screeched. Her voice trailed louder and farther then closer again, Fiyero assuming she was pacing in the other room. There must be a rug. He couldn’t hear her footsteps. 

The regal woman made a series of soothing noises. She sounded lofty and condescending when she spoke again, “One only needs to resume control. No need for him to lose his head. You my dear, should stop whining about the wonderful duties you have been ascribed, it is your suit. Whatever fondness you may have for the sparse few of your charges that earned it must be put aside for the greater Good. Is that not what you advised me long ago?”

“Heartless Witch,” the upset woman snapped. 

There was laughter at that. The regal woman’s. It was beautiful, sophisticated, and soft, but not a kind laughter. There was cruelty there. “You have until the prince’s reward to get him back under your control,” the regal woman reminded. “With your history it should be easy, should it not?” 

“The Vinkun-"

“Oh, the Vinkun, the Vinkun, so fascinating,” the regal woman scoffed. Fiyero could not see her, but in his mind’s eye he simply knew the woman had rolled her eyes. “I’m tired of your caterwauling and booshwash, Mombi, my dear, nothing is final until he’s dead. And even then, clearly, the magic of Oz negotiates. What are you so afraid of? Does it truly bother you greatly to be the end of the great line of Arjiki? It is not as if we’re discussing the Emerald City throne, or the Lurline, the important ones.”

Fiyero’s breath caught in his throat. He pressed his head hard against the wood. 

“No, no,” the upset woman said quietly. 

“You know him best, my dear, but I know your emotions can cloud your judgment at times - don’t give me that look, put down the bottle if you want to protest - as I said, there’s simply no need to jump to the guillotine.”

He winced. Fiyero reached one hand up slowly and rubbed his neck. 

“Come along, come along,” the regal woman ushered, a softer side to her voice. “No need for all of that. The boy is the spitting image of his parents, and a lovesick fool at that, would that be so hard for you to outsmart? So difficult to handle? You told me he was the easy one.”

“My quiet little boy,” the upset woman said softly. It was so low Fiyero could only hear it because she was so close to the door. 

Like a shot had gone off beside his head, Fiyero jumped backward and scrambled for the slight cover he’d found. He had only just squeezed himself into the cover when the door opened. It was too slim a place for him to move, or to look out. While he wanted a glimpse of the women, risking putting his head out was too dangerous. 

He heard footsteps. 

Then, which could have been the end of everything right there, the two women walked right past him. 

One was an older woman about middle age. She wore simple clothes with dark fabric, blue and purple, and dull, dull yellow embellishments. There was a haggered look to her, tired. She stumbled as she walked. Drunk, perhaps. Miraculously, her eyes didn’t look in Fiyero’s direction. 

He knew one thing for certain; despite what the Crow had said, Fiyero had never seen this woman before in his life. 

The other person who had been speaking had her hand around her companion’s shoulder tightly and pushed them along. She was, in appearance, much younger, but there was something powerful in her stature, the turn of her chin, Fiyero could tell by sight this woman was a Witch. Despite her thinner frame, she held Mombi up with considerable strength. Her clothes were black and simple, only a few embellishments on general traveling vestments, and a dark cloak pushed over her shoulders. There was something curious about her. 

As they walked past, the Witch’s dark eyes met Fiyero’s. She winked. 

Then they were gone. Fiyero could hear their voices, as they walked down the stairs, wood creaking underfoot. Mombi’s steps were heavy. The regal, but simply dressed Witch had begun a monologue, admonishing her friend’s cleanliness habits in despair, claiming sleep would be good for them both. “You already have the pieces for the play,” the Witch said, “do you not? He’s been so fond of the idea ever since he thought of it.”

Their louder footsteps, and the Witch’s voice, told Fiyero exactly where they were. Eventually, the two had gone halfway down the stairs. 

Fiyero did not know if they’d notice the hair in the lower hallway. Didn’t know why the Witch had kept quiet. There was one thing he did know, though, he'd been seen.  

The room they had just left appeared to be an office. A bookshelf, desk, large map of Oz on the wall, exactly how Fiyero would expect an office of a Winkie Country official to look. Like the rest of this residence, it was sparsely decorated - this place seemed more a temporary stop than Mombi’s home. There were only a few things on the desk worthy of any scrutiny. 

The first was an intact bottle, the first Fiyero had seen. It was tall and thin, and colored to the point it was impossible to see the inside, about the size of his hand but the rounded center would support only a small cup of liquid. The bottle had been placed precariously by the edge of the desk. Fiyero carefully walked around it, unable to decide if he should touch it. His attention was quickly grabbed by the book. 

On the table was an extremely thick tome. It was nearly two inches high with the addition of several letters, papers, and notes. The book must have been shut quickly, as some of the contents had been scattered on the desk. Fiyero saw a logo from the Emerald City palace, but the letter itself was obscured by a white paper with a short to-do list. 

One, ensure relocations post-road work after rushed construction. Two, Lion rebellion needs swift action under control - tribe leader yet to be located. Census records indicate search of forest regions necessary. Three, Ozma’s slipped out of sight again - inform the queen?

The air itself seemed to still. Fiyero gasped, the sound loud enough to shock his ears. Ozma - what did Mombi want with the princess? Were the Wizard’s agents really so bold as to target the Lurline throne directly? 

Lions , Winkie lions, his Lion? Had he been born yet? Were Lion’s family still alive? Could Fiyero save them?

Fiyero grabbed the book, his hands shaking. There was a twist in his chest, a thrumming drum beat that turned his head to a countdown. Grabbing his empty bag, Fiyero frantically stuffed the book and its contents into it. It barely fit. He turned sharply as he stuffed it inside. Fiyero wrapped the bag closed tightly, the overlapping coconut leather holding it safe and secure. He didn’t want a single paper getting loose as he went back through the forest. This had been worth it. There was so much he didn’t know, so much he was missing- As Fiyero turned, the swordbag he’d strapped to his waist brushed against the glass bottle. 

The bottle tipped over the edge of the desk. It fell just off of the rug on the office floor and shattered with a crash. In the silence of the night, the noise was unmistakable. 

Fiyero’s head suddenly swam with thoughts, all passing too quickly for him to grasp hold off. He stared at the bottle on the floor. The dark green liquid was heavily viscous, it seeped slow as honey into the wood and rug beside it. There was a scream from down below. 

“What are you doing?!” There was a voice from the window. 

Fiyero looked up and saw the Crow. 

“Run!” The Crow commanded. 

Fiyero scrambled to do just that as the residence began to shake.

He slipped as he jumped from the window, somehow avoiding broken bones when Fiyero landed harshly on his feet. The jolt to his system was nearly paralyzing, but the encouraging screech of the Crow to “Go, go, go, go!” forced Fiyero to pull himself together. Time was out entirely. 

He could only hope they assumed the trespasser wasn’t stupid enough to jump out a second story window and wasted time looking in the residence. His limp improved as he ran as Fiyero forced his pain out of mind. Panic was a good motivator. He raced breathlessly for the closest part of the wall. He kicked it and jumped, managing to grab a handhold and pull himself upward. The Crow flittered about frantically, as Fiyero struggled. 

When his body was past the wall, Fiyero fell to his knees. He breathed, grabbing his chest. 

The Crow landed on the limestone outcropping by his feet. “Go, go, go,” the Bird said as they hopped frantically up and down, “she’ll call me soon to look for you- oh no, this is-“ they looked at the cliff. “You need to hide in the dungeon. They won’t look there. Wait until I come find you, in a day or two…” the Animal continued to plan while Fiyero shakingly stood to his feet. 

There was no time to hide, Fiyero knew. His absence would be noted at the next town on the Yellow Brick Road and Mombi would be likely to connect the dots. There were some risks not worth taking. 

He kept his back to the wall, as he’d been taught as a child, it kept his center of gravity away from the ledge. Fiyero tried not to look down. 

“No, no, you can’t keep going that way,” the Crow protested as Fiyero continued on. “I don’t- you shouldn’t-"

One foot moving then the next. The outcropping grew slimmer and slimmer, until the available ground was smaller than the size of his foot. Fiyero continued. 

“Give me the bag!” 

He paused, and met the bristling Crow’s worried eyes. “I thought you were up to no good,” Fiyero muttered. He tried to ignore the strength of the breeze flitting around his body. The sound of water crashing into spiky rocks below. His rapidly thrumming heartbeat. 

“I’ll give it back if you survive,” the Crow promised. 

Fiyero tried to ignore them. He continued on. His feet were turned at an odd angle to get any purchase. There was some tempting space below he could drop down to, but he worried it would be impossible to get back up. He hadn’t spent enough time scouring the cliff; maybe there was a route down to safety he hadn’t seen yet. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. 

The residence shook again. Fiyero heard a loud cracking and screeching of wood, metal, and stone from behind him. The ground here shook as well, and Fiyero had not prepared for it. 

He slipped. Fiyero screamed. His hands grasped frantically for purchase, but it was one of his feet that found it first. His left boot slammed against a rock on the short outcropping below, it hurt but it held him up. His body was angled forward, the rocks below parallel to his sight. As Fiyero frantically tried to breathe, the rock that kept him aloft began to wiggle unsteadily. 

“Oh no,” the Crow whispered. 

There was no time. Fiyero had found evidence. There was something, a way he could help, as long as some good could come from his sacrifice. It was inevitable. He was going to fall. 

In his last moments, Fiyero tore the satchel and bag from his body and threw them upward. The rapid motion was enough to dislodge the supporting rock entirely. He had no time to see if the bags made it to safety. 

Fiyero fell to his death. Miraculously, he did avoid landing on the rocks, but as he’d noticed earlier, if the rocks didn’t get him, the rapids were certain to do it. 

He had washed up on shore recently and lost quite a bit of himself in the process. Very annoying. He would need to make it a top priority to stuff himself. Scarecrow simply could not say how much straw he’d lost from the buffeting and currents of the river he’d been born in. Thankfully his clothing and rope kept most of himself in, but there were many, many cuts in his green clothes, and the water had done a good job to wiggle his insides out. Scarecrow hadn’t been able to do much about that. All he could do was hold onto his hat and wait. He really liked it. He didn't know much, but he knew he'd be very upset if he lost his hat. 

It was hard moving his body when he was so waterlogged . Scarecrows were not meant for rivers. He hoped he remembered that for the future and didn't take up swimming. 

Eventually the laps of water had pulled him close enough to shore that he’d scrambled slowly onto a sandy beach. In time, the rising sun had done good work to dry most of his upper half. After that he’d had enough strength to move his lower body out of the water and wait for that to dry too. That was fine. Scarecrows were good at being patient. It gave him more time to wonder about the whole stuffing problem.

“Prince Fiyero?” A voice asked on his right.

A noise! That was new. Scarecrow turned around before realizing that was not his name. It just sounded similar to it. “Who?” He asked to whatever made the noise. Then he realized he could see, so he turned his head and saw a large, black Crow on the beach. Scarecrow felt something deeply uncomfortable, but not painful. The sight of this Bird aggravated him deeply. He lifted his hands and made a rude gesture to shoo the Animal away. “Go away.”

The Crow didn’t leave. They stayed and stared at Scarecrow as if he was the most surprising Thing they’d ever seen.

Chapter Text

“All my empty spaces are filled with despair,” Scarecrow said pathetically. He was flopped facedown in the dirt. It was a slight improvement from the sand, but not much. Overhead there were a few trees, one a palm tree, as the river was still within sight. Scarecrow hadn’t gotten far, (It simply wasn’t in a scarecrow’s nature to move.) having only moved for hoping the Crow would leave him alone. He’d soon learned the Animal was determined to follow him. He might have been more keen if not for, “I can’t even shoo away a Crow. No wonder they threw me in the river.”

“What? No!” The Crow in question hopped rapidly in sight. Their head bobbed up and down with emphasis. “Listen to me!” 

He curled up his knees, his sackcloth head still planted on the ground. It didn’t affect how he spoke. Speaking didn’t make any sense. Scarecrow had a painted on mouth, his insides were straw, not muscles, and with no need for modesty his clothes were much more like skin. What a weird Thing he was. “I’m a bad Scarecrow,” the Scarecrow sobbed. 

“No, what? Please don’t,” the Crow cawed. Scarecrow could hear their wings flap but wasn’t looking. “You- you can’t scare me off because we’re not in your field? Right? No wheat? No corn? No need to scare me off.”

Scarecrow considered that for a moment and came to a horrible conclusion. “No one even trusts me with a field.” He decided right then and there he was never going to leave this spot in the dirt. “It’s so pointless. Why am I even alive?” 

“Y- y- I have no idea!” The Crow shouted. “I wanted you to tell me!”

They sounded so distressed and confused that Scarecrow couldn’t help but look up. He was distracted though, by wondering why he could see from the top of his head where his eyes were painted on. There wasn’t much difference between that straw and any other. And his mouth sounds came from the painted mouth too? Why had the humans bothered to give him a face, clothing, and a perfectly good hat, just to throw him away?

“Please focus,” the Crow begged, their feathers bristled and tensed. “It’s only two miles to the road.”

“Focus,” Scarecrow scoffed. He realized then he was in an odd position, and as he did lost his balance. Falling on to his side in a lump, Scarecrow wondered if his straw worked like knees because he bid them too or just because that was the shape of the clothes he was in. If his straw was in a sack, would he be a ball? He kept rolling until he was on his back, looking up at the sky. What a nice day, he thought. The sky was blue and bright for the early morning, the sun shone delicately through palm leaves sifting in the wind above. “Beautiful,” he whispered, resolving to stay there for a long long time, as hours and days passed him by. 

Unfortunately, his view was interrupted when the Crow landed heavily on the brim of his hat. They stuck their horrid beak right in Scarecrow’s sackcloth face. “You are not a scarecrow, you’ve been cursed,” the Crow repeated. 

“You have straw for brains,” Scarecrow said cruelly. “I am not cursed.” 

“Your name is Fiyero, you’re a prince,” the Crow said.

Scarecrow raised a hand and harshly flapped it about his face. The Crow flew away, but only moved a few feet over before landing in the dirt. Rolling over once more, now onto his hands and knees, Scarecrow tried to move forward. It was harder than walking on two feet somehow. Why had he thought four legs would be faster? “Oof,” he muttered. 

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, yes,” Scarecrow said dismissively, “it’s a load of codswallop.”

“What?!” 

Leaning back, Scarecrow managed to sit on his rump. Or whatever was the equivalent of that for straw-based beings. “You’re running a scam. Bet you find all the little, trashed scarecrows and tell them they’re princes and lead them away to all your Crow buddies then you make nests out of them!” 

The Crow blinked at him. “Paranoid,” they accused. 

“Scam!” Scarecrow shouted. He looked around for something to throw, but found nothing but discarded leaves. He did pick them up and throw them but they flitted out into the air far before reaching the Crow. It reminded him of confetti. “People are liars!” 

“I do not want to make a nest out of you! How many times- I’m not even building a nest! What a presumption!” 

He threw another useless leaf for emphasis with each word. “Flim flam, con-man, murderer, liar, thief,” Scarecrow continued to shout, “I hate him, that… wicked man. He’s a disease! An other-worldly infection!”

The Crow watched a leaf flicker down to the ground with interest. “So there is still a bit of you in there,” the Animal muttered. 

“Only a bit!” Scarecrow shouted. He stood up to his feet on very, very wobbly legs. “I’m half-empty! Scarecrows can handle a rainstorm, but I’m not supposed to live in a river!” He fiddled with his shirt, his thoughts bemoaning how thin he was. “Stuffing is important. Living Things with stuffing should be stuffed. Not thin and wretched and…” he shuddered, “lumpy.”

The Crow lifted a talon. Their head tilted as they observed Scarecrow. “If I… if you get more straw, do you think you’ll remember who you are?”

Remember who he is, Scarecrow thought. Huh. If there was something to remember it would probably be good to know it. He supposed. “You’re a very stubborn Crow.” 

“You’re a very stubborn Vinkun.”

Scarecrow paused. He looked down at himself, his torn up green tunic, mismatched brown pants, all the straw sticking out of the edges of his gloves, the bottom of his pants before his worn, worn shoes. “Are all Vinkun scarecrows?” Scarecrow asked hopefully. 

“Wh- you aren’t- ugh!” The Crow dipped their head down, shaking it for a moment. With a weary sigh, they hopped closer. “Scarecrow, look, can you accept that maybe you’ve forgotten some things with your straw?”

“Is that how it works?” Scarecrow wondered. 

“I don’t know! I’ve never seen a Thing like you before,” the Crow said, sounding flabbergasted. “I don’t know if Mombi did this, or if you just forgot to mention being half-scarecrow. I mean, I’m not sure if you were particularly scarecrow-like before but- If I hadn’t followed you in the river and seen it myself I’m not even sure I’d believe…” Scarecrow waited patiently for the Crow to finish. The Animal took several moments, head flicking up and down, looking at Fiyero. Perhaps in wonder, but also quite a bit of analysis; curiosity twinkled in the Crow’s eye.  “Is that an old Emerald Guard uniform?” 

“Hm?” Scarecrow wondered, and looked at his tunic. It was a faded green, with some yellow tassels and decor that were half ripped off. The fabric was extremely worn in certain places. It certainly had the general shape of what could have been once an old military uniform, or a new one that had been very abused. “No. It’s Gale Force. The promotion came with the engagement.”

“The- what?”

Scarecrow shrugged. He couldn’t explain because he didn’t understand it. His thoughts returned to wondering if he would be a ball if he was round. 

“Anyway, can you accept it?”

Scarecrow jumped in surprise. He turned around sharply, confused what the Crow was doing there. “Accept what?”

Eventually, a series of compromises were made that all parties agreed to. In return for being showed the way to more straw, the Crow would not take Scarecrow’s straw for any reason. It seemed slightly off in a way for a plan but Scarecrow didn’t think much of it. When he started to question things, the Crow would often bring up something else to ponder over, and it was very distracting. 

The Crow alternated between flying about overhead, or perching on the branch of a walking stick Scarecrow had acquired from beneath a tree. Despite his anxieties about Crow sneak attacks from behind, Scarecrow preferred when the Animal was flying about as they were quite heavy on the stick. He was not very strong. It disquieted him. 

“Is it a nice field up ahead?” Scarecrow asked again. 

“Yes, uh. Lots of vegetables to guard, if you’re into that sort of thing,” the Crow said. 

Annoyed, Scarecrow moved the walking stick and the Crow to continue going forward. “I am into that sort of thing,” Scarecrow grumbled. As he trudged onward he thought that it was a good thing he didn’t feel tired, and that he didn’t have any muscles to feel strain. Technically, he could continue doing this forever. He couldn’t help but think the Crow found his scarecrow-ness amusing; if he kept entertaining crows he would never learn how to shoo them off. A scarecrow that was popular with Crows would simply be the worst scarecrow there ever was. Scarecrow frowned. What a terrible Thing to be. He would rather be a pirate. 

“Can I tell you a story?” The Crow asked. 

Scarecrow sighed. This probably meant the Crow would be hanging out on the stick for a long time. He sighed a second time. At least it was a nice day. He sighed a third time, strangely. It felt nice to do. How could he sigh? He didn’t have lungs. Why did it feel nice? Why did it feel like anything?

“I’m just going to do it. Do you know about the five dominions of Oz?” 

Scarecrow glared at the Crow from beneath his hat. “My head is made of straw not noodles,” he said. It made sense to him before he said it, but afterward, Scarecrow was confused by his own words. Were noodles better or worse at intelligent thought than straw? How prejudiced of him! He’d never even met a noodle person.

Oh Ozian mercy, what happened to a Living Thing that was made of food? Scarecrow hoped such a Thing didn’t exist. His shoulders shuddered as he walked and thought. And thought. And..: There were some creatures that ate straw. I am made of food, Scarecrow realized with a start. It was an awful thought, wretched- wicked, and he already felt so terrible; his heart was beating so slowly and his lungs were screaming and full and his stomach sick and his-

No, wait, that couldn’t be true. Scarecrow raised a gloved hand to the somewhat chin-like shape in his sackcloth hood. “Are you listening now?” The Crow asked. Scarecrow, having forgotten they were in a conversation but not wanting to be rude, nodded. “So, there was a prince born to one of the dominions, right?” The Crow adjusted their step on the walking stick perch, their face fixated on Scarecrow’s sackcloth frown. 

Scarecrow stroked his chin. He wanted to sigh again, just because it felt nice, but resisted the urge because he didn’t see the point. Scarecrows didn’t breathe, and if anyone was going to trust him enough to give him a field to take care of he needed to start acting like a good scarecrow. The Crow looked at him expectantly. Scarecrow could only think of, “Okay,” to say. 

“Now, a long time before the prince was born, some bad people took control of Oz,” the Crow said. 

Scarecrow snorted. “You can’t start with the prince and then go back,” he critiqued. “That’s a terrible place to start a story. Right in the middle?”

The Crow bristled their feathers. “If polite scarecrows could refrain and just listen , this would be over faster.”

Rolling his eyes, Scarecrow chose to concentrate on moving forward. It was a sunny day, the heat was good and drying, which felt very nice. “I will listen,” he resolved. 

“I am trying to help you,” the Crow promised. “It’s not my fault I was born a Crow, anymore than you were… transformed into a scarecrow. We could be friends, instead of enemies.”

Scarecrow frowned, dropping his head and letting the brim of his hat fall low. He had not liked to hear that. He felt disciplined like a child, even though he couldn’t remember being one. “Okay.”

The Crow chirped. It was a nice sound. They continued, “The prince’s parents were very stupid and easy to control. When the prince was born, the very very bad people thought he’d be very stupid and easy to control so they made sure he was the only option. Then the prince grew up and he did seem very stupid and easy to control. The bad people were happy.”

Scarecrow frowned harder at this story. For some reason, he was offended. 

“But last night, I saw the prince do something very, very brave. It was stupid. But it was brave, and I know he did for good reasons. And I know,” the Crow’s voice was low toned and soft, “it wasn’t his first time. Just the first time I noticed. Maybe the prince is stupid, but he is not easy to control. That’s hard to find in Oz.”

One step in front of the other. Then a drag of the walking stick. At least it kept him upright. There was a comfort in identical patterns. 

“I helped him. I can’t help but wonder if I didn’t help him, if he would have been okay,” the Crow said quietly. 

Scarecrow shrugged. “Who knows? Why waste your brains on it?”

The Crow gave him a sharp look. “I made the prince a promise. I intend to keep it.”

“You’re an honest Crow, huh?” Scarecrow said with a smirk. The Crow nodded deeply enough to be a bow. “Okay.” Scarecrow took a step. Then another. Then moved the stick. 

“You… you were listening, right?”

“Sure.”

The Crow flicked their wings. “What do you think?”

“Think? Me?” Scarecrow asked them. “You should ask someone with brains for thinking questions, Friendly Crow.” 

“Mombi really got in your head, didn’t she,” the Crow muttered. “We should have gotten her away from… there are these concessions a person has to make, in certain positions, choices you are forced into making, and… and certain people pay the cost.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Scarecrow said automatically. “Are we close to my new straw?” 

The Crow was looking down at the ground. They seemed to startle a bit when Scarecrow spoke to them. “The farm? Around the corner. Look, back to what I was saying, the prince, you see, he-“

“I don’t want to hear another story about a prince,” Scarecrow groaned. The last one was barely even a story, he thought unkindly. He moved slightly faster. The Crow was annoying him and he was starting to get excited by the idea of the farm. “There are too many stories about princes. Too many princes.”

“I myself am not fond of Ozian royalty,” the Crow sympathized. 

“Lazy,” Scarecrow agreed. 

“I called them heartless.”

“Hmm, I have a friend without a heart,” Scarecrow reminisced thoughtlessly. “One of the best friends I ever had. I didn’t want to get him involved, so I avoided him; I didn’t know bad things were happening to him. He had a lot of reasons to hate me, but he had such a big heart he didn’t; then he lost that heart and he killed mine.”

The Crow blinked at him. Scarecrow continued to move the stick. “What else?” The Crow encouraged. 

“Everyone liked me more than him,” Scarecrow said harshly. “That’s what always happens. I’m charming and he’s Biq.” 

“Nick?” 

“Who?” Scarecrow shook his head to clear it. 

“The friend you were talking about?”

“I was talking?” 

The Crow took a very big breath, puffing up their chest. They exhaled with a very low whistle. Scarecrow copied their motions. As he did, a pleasant tingle ran through the top to the bottom of his straw. “Take a right,” the Crow ordered. 

With some ungainly swinging, Scarecrow successfully veered their small party in the right direction. “I suppose if I offer to watch their field, they can pay me in straw,” Scarecrow puzzled out. That seemed more than fair.

“What? First of all, you are not talking to any of the Vinkun. If you see a Vinkun shut up and don’t move-"

Scarecrow gasped at the audacity. “Shut up? My best feature is my voice-“

“Shut up! And I know all about you when I say it and I don’t care!” The Crow bristled on the walking stick perch, flapping their wings twice. “You will stay out of sight and I will find you straw. See? It can be nice to have a Crow on your side.”

It took a few moments for Scarecrow to digest that information. Summoning all his strength, he picked up the walking stick with the Animal perched on it, then he turned it sideways.

With an undignified squawk not unlike a Chicken, the Crow was forced to abandon their perch. They flapped their wings ungainly, but landed well on the ground. “You- what was that for?!” The Crow demanded angrily. 

“Scam! Thief!” Scarecrow accused loudly, “You want me as your accomplice to steal straw!”

The Crow sighed deeply and stared at the ground. “Sweet Oz, this is beyond me.”

“Stealing straw! What a horrid crime! That’s what wicked is! Probably going to take it all for your nests-"

“Here we go,” the Crow muttered. 

Scarecrow continued rambling on for a few minutes. First about Crows and stealing straw from his back, then about how annoying it was to be sitting peacefully in a field and get bothered, though a bit of bother wasn’t all that bad, and finally, he began to list different types of agriculture and ranking them according to the best view to watch grow. The Crow was back to perching on the walking stick, and Scarecrow moved them along down the road. He had a vague sensation he was missing something. The Crow asked him why corn was ranked so low on his list and Scarecrow became distracted by answering. He didn’t know. He liked the view of swaying stalks of corn very much; something about corn was just unsettling to him currently. 

After a little while, Scarecrow and the Crow’s one-sided, entirely plant-based conversation was interrupted by noises from a little farther down the road. It was close by. Scarecrow paused. 

“Get down to the side of the road and be still,” the Crow hissed. 

Scarecrow raised one of his painted eyebrows and gave the Animal a smug smirk, “Now who’s the paranoid one?” 

The Crow’s forehead feathers bristled. “That you remember? You are ridiculous!”

“I am?” Scarecrow wondered. He looked down at himself and lost his smile. “I guess I am,” Scarecrow said sorrowfully, “but if I play the fool all the time, they won’t see me coming. I needed time, you know, I really needed just more time; all these things, these plans, some are older than I am. I have to try. I got time. It’s just never enough. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just trying.”

“I-“ the Crow made an odd noise. “Look, I really, really want to tug at this breakthrough but you have to stop talking and moving-“

There was a scream from a bit farther down the road. 

Scarecrow turned to look, despite the Crow spitting out warnings. A little ways down the road, where another small dirt path met the dirt path they had been following, were three people. They were Vinkun. They must be, because most humans in Winkie Country were. There was an older gentleman with peppered white sideburns, and an older woman of about the same age. Between them was a young girl. Scarecrow waved. 

The young girl raised her hand. Her father grabbed it and pushed it back down to her side. 

“Good morning, fair fellow Winkies,” Scarecrow said cheerily. He supposed he must be a Winkie citizen himself, as he’d recently been born in a Winkie river. He took off his pointed hat respectfully, pressed it to his chest and gave a bow. “I am a humble fellow in need of some straw. I’m quite happy to work in exchange, if you need a point of reference, my Animal friend can give it.”

The woman looked at the man. The man’s face was growing steadily redder and redder by the moment. Scarecrow wondered if it was a hot day. He couldn’t tell. 

“My friend is confused,” the Crow chirped up. “We’re leaving. We won’t bother you.”

The woman paled. She reached out for her daughter’s head and pulled her toward her skirt protectively. “What should we do?” She asked the man, but not quietly enough that Scarecrow couldn’t see her. 

“We keep going,” the man said stiffly. “When we get to the square, we’ll inform the prince’s guard.” 

The Crow cackled with laughter. 

While laughter was normally a good thing, and Scarecrow found the sound bringing a smile to his face, the Vinkun did not like it. The woman jumped in fear, and the man threw his arms in front of his family. They had wide eyes and open mouths. The girl though, she turned her face to look; she only seemed curious. 

“You should go tell the prince,” the Crow said ecstatically. “That’s a very good idea. We are actually fugitives hoping to surrender to the prince. You can run along and let his friends know exactly where we are.”

Scarecrow and the Vinkun man gave the Crow an odd look at that. 

“Prince this, prince that. You’re just obsessed with princes, aren’t you?” Scarecrow accused. “Are you just trying to get his autograph?”

With a shocked flap of wings the Crow denied it vociferously, as if the very notion both offended and surprised them. Scarecrow rolled his eyes. 

The little girl giggled at their antics. Her parents were not pleased. With a shout and several frantic movements and gestures, the family began to walk away. The father stood like a barrier between them as they did; he kept his eyes fixed on them as they left. 

“I am not obsessed with princes,” the Crow ended their rant defensively. 

Scarecrow rolled his non-existent eyes. “Sure,” he said, his tone full of disbelief. “They’re not the only thing you want to talk about. I don’t understand you. Princes are dumb.”

With an open beak, the Crow glared at Scarecrow for quite awhile. Scarecrow stared back. He didn’t have anything else to do. “This way,” the Crow stated, and after a hop they flew off to demonstrate the direction. 

Scarecrow knew a few things for certain. One was that the Crow told him the Vinkun family had agreed to let him take their straw, Scarecrow just hadn’t been listening when that happened (it seemed believable enough to be true). Second, he knew that he was not supposed to wander away from the farmhouse. The Crow would be back soon with his friend to help him. 

The third thing he learned, which he found after he’d climbed up the tallest haystack and begun observing the field around him, was that there was something incredible running toward him. From the view, Scarecrow could see the end of this farmer’s field and the cross-section of several others. They were local community farms, each with different produce. Quite a variety of vegetables for Scarecrow to oversee. He’d been trying to identify them from a distance, and had seen the approaching Animal first as a dark blur on the distance horizon, then as it came closer, and made a stop at a neighboring farm. 

Scarecrow had an odd sensation, like he was holding breath he didn’t have in anticipation. Soon, thunderous clops sounded off on the dirt road, dinging with nearly a chime when the hoof hit a rock. A drumline of sound and motion. It wasn’t just exciting, it was soothing. 

Scarecrow lounged atop the haystack, head resting in his gloved hands, smiling winsomely with a painted face. The blue Stallion was so fast, he ran past where the Scarecrow was to the farmhouse without stopping. His majestic, muscular legs moved in perfect step with each other. Wow, Scarecrow thought with awe, he’s beautiful. So strong, so quick, so majesterious, nothing like a slow, weak scarecrow at all. He had this strange assurance, in the core of his chest, that Horses were simply the greatest of all creatures, humans, or Things in Oz and nothing else compared. He watched with adoration twinkling in his eyes as the Horse approached the farmhouse, slower now, and began to call for the residents. 

Unfortunately, Scarecrow did remember the Crow repeatedly forcing him to promise not to speak with anyone else. Scarecrow was well aware he often forgot things, however, which he could always conveniently do again. As the Horse shouted for the homeowner to come out of the house by royal order, Scarecrow felt a bit guilty. Besides, if he was a Winkie Thing, he should comply with royal orders, right? Scarecrow didn’t want to be a bad scarecrow and a bad citizen. 

What if the Emperor and Empress were disappointed in him? That was a very scary thought. 

Scarecrow frowned. He didn’t understand it. Crow had been wrong, re-stuffing himself with new straw hadn’t brought back his memories back; he did feel much better and steadier on his feet at least. He was pretty inexperienced at stuffing himself, though., His arms and stomach were still lumpy, and Scarecrow had been too distracted looking at vegetables to fix himself up. He felt self conscious, especially in front of such a handsome Animal. Unbidden, Scarecrow’s mind followed the anxious path and his own worries conjured an imagined image. It was of a stuffed girl, she was tightly packed, long, and full, and every inch of her was made out of a rainbow patchwork of color. She was spectacular, but in his mind’s eye she pointed at him and laughed cruelly. 

Because he was lumpy? Scarecrow knew that girl, but he didn’t remember her. His mind was being mean to him. Scarecrow crossed his arms and huffed. 

“Excuse me, did you not hear me shouting?” 

Scarecrow sat up on his haystack. He looked upward in the sky for the Crow. 

“Down here,” said a very stern and authoritative voice. 

Peering down over the haystack, Scarecrow saw the blue Horse. “Wow,” he exhaled, a happy sensation coursing through his body. The Horse was even more impressive up close. He was impressively large and visibly strong, with muscles built entirely for speed. He was wearing some very fine adornments; the royal crest of the Arjiki emperor was sewn onto the front forehead and sides of a green Emerald Guard Four-legged Division uniform. Allowances must have been made for the gold embellishments on the empty dark blue saddle, but it was worth it. The overall effect was quite stunning. Clearly, this Horse was very important. 

He did not seem happy, though. The Horse’s mane and tail were frazzled, pulled out of what had once been a nice series of loose braids; his eyes were big on the sides of his head, and his mouth clenched in a grimace when he wasn’t talking. Scarecrow felt it should be against the law to make a Horse this breathtaking upset. Why did Scarecrow feel like it was somehow his fault?

He looked around himself for a possible cause. Was it the hay he was sitting on? A little worried he’d been doing something he shouldn’t (the Crow had said he could take straw, not climb all over the farmer’s hay) Scarecrow dismounted the haystack. He lost his footing on the way down, his stomach churning painfully even though the fall was short, and reached the ground needing to take several quick steps to realign himself. Wobbly, Scarecrow managed to balance on his own two feet. 

The Horse followed closely. 

Scarecrow realized while he’d hated when the Crow followed him, having the Horse follow him was thrilling. He turned around, a large smile crossing his painted face. The Horse was so tall. Wow, Scarecrow thought again. 

“You can talk?” The Horse asked. 

Beaming, quite excited to have the attention of an Animal so majestic, Scarecrow nodded. 

“Have you seen a young man around here? His boat didn’t come back when he was- I… he’s in his early twenties, he’s got blondish-brown hair-"

Straw-like streaks of blonde, Scarecrow remembered. 

The Horse continued his description of the young man. He seemed quite concerned. “Have you seen anyone like that?”

As he quite liked this Horse, Scarecrow didn’t want to lie. He was afraid the truth wouldn’t be what the Horse wanted to hear. “I could have,” Scarecrow said. 

The Horse raised an eyebrow. “Are you being coy?”

“I don’t… think so,” Scarecrow considered. 

“This is no time for foolishness,” the Horse said with an angry stomp of a hoof. “I am Prince Fiyero’s friend and compatriot, and I will not hesitate to do anything I need to to find him. You, little Thing, will not stand in my way.” 

Scarecrow jumped back. He held his gloved hands in front of himself defensively. “I don’t have a brain!” He shouted. 

The Horse paused. “What?”

“I’m a scarecrow,” Scarecrow said, “I don’t have a brain. Only straw. I may have seen him, that is, he sounds familiar, but some things are familiar to me without any reason at all.”

“Ah.” The Horse stomped again, but not angrily this time. 

“Scarecrows aren’t meant for thinking,” Scarecrow explained nonchalantly, “I guess neither are princes, nowadays. Do you like princes?” The Horse didn’t say anything. He just kept looking at Scarecrow; compelled to fill the silence, he jabbered on, “The Crow likes princes. You can wait until the Crow comes back for me. He’s going to find his friend and she’ll try to see what’s wrong with me. I like you a lot. Do Horses eat a lot of straw? I suppose we have that in common. Or perhaps not. I just use it to stuff me, I don’t eat it, unless that counts? I’m kind of lumpy right now. I think that’s embarrassing for Living Things like me? Not nearly as embarrassing as losing my first fight in front of my parents. If I’m not good enough I deserve to be this way, don’t you think, Felds?” 

The Horse shushed him. He kept staring. 

Scarecrow fell patiently quiet. Not talking was a little easier than talking. He smiled up at the Horse, his gloved hands twitching at his side against the urge to pet the side of the Animal’s neck. 

“Do you know me?” The Horse asked. 

“I don’t know. Do you know me?” 

“I don’t- know,” the Horse said slowly. “Who is this Crow?” 

“He’s a spy,” Scarecrow explained. “He said we’re friends. He also said the farmer here gave me permission to take their straw. I lost a lot to the water. The Crow is obsessed with princes so I bet you’ll have a lot to talk about.” Ignoring himself as he spoke, Scarecrow admired the empty saddle. It must be incredible to sit on it while the Horse ran. “Or I could help you find him,” Scarecrow offered selfishly, “I’m not very fast though, so if I did I’d have too-“ his voice trailed off. He looked longingly at the Horse’s back. 

“Yes,” the Horse said slowly. Keeping one eye fixed on the Scarecrow, he motioned over his shoulder with a tilt of his head. “Why don’t you get on my saddle and we’ll find this Bird friend of yours?”

Scarecrow squealed in excitement. His gangly, uncoordinated limbs tripped all over themselves as he rushed to get on the Horse. 

The Horse started slowly at first, but quickly picked up into a gallop. At the first turn, the Scarecrow flew out of the saddle. The Horse carried on for a bit before realizing. Scarecrow’s weight must have been so light that Feldspur could barely feel him on his back. On the next try, Scarecrow used the reins to tie himself to the horn of the saddle. The Horse moved slower after that to keep the Scarecrow upright, which he understood though was quite disappointed they couldn’t move faster. Wind though, just like water, was quite a problem for scarecrows in excess. 

Forced to move a little slower down the road, Scarecrow felt compelled to talk. “This will work out perfectly for us both. The Crow did say we were fugitives from justice hoping to turn ourselves into the prince,” Scarecrow explained. 

The Horse turned his head slightly, so one of his dark eyes met Scarecrow’s. “Is that so? What’s your crime?”

Scarecrow shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the Crow.”

The Horse continued to walk. It was nice. Scarecrow supposed the Crow might have felt the same, when Scarecrow had been the one doing the walking for them. With a pleasant smile painted on his sackcloth face, Scarecrow ran his gloved hands over the parts of the saddle within reach. It was all so… familiar. The details of thread stitched into the edges of the reins, the little frayed section right where he’d known it would be. He wasn’t a fit for it.  Scarecrow was too light, too bouncy, too short due to his lumpy stuffing for his boots to fit properly in the stirrups - and yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should be a fit for it. 

“Why is the Crow obsessed with princes?” The Horse asked him. They continued to walk along the dirt road. 

Scarecrow liked it. He thought all roads should be natural and good. “It’s all they could talk about since I got out of the river. Princes, mispronoucifying my name, they were rude about it. I am not cursed.” 

“If you’re not cursed, what are you?” 

“Someone loved me once, very much,” Scarecrow said sorrowfully. “I’m hers.” Scarecrow didn’t quite know where that came from. It hurt to think about. 

Quietly, and very tenderly, the Horse asked, “Whose?” His pace along the road had slowed, with a comforting. steady sway to his steps. 

Scarecrow didn’t want to think about it. He reached his hands up to his arms and began to squeeze, patting the straw inside him. His arms were still attached. He was okay. 

“My best friend is a prince,” the Horse said. Scarecrow could feel a slight tremble under his legs. “I don’t know if I’m his best friend anymore. I thought it wasn’t a bond he’d grow out of, but… Emerald City was incredible. After a year of that, what’s so interesting about a Horse? He doesn’t talk to me anymore, he’s… strange.”

Scarecrow sat up very straight, straw chin dropping at the idea. “Emerald City is nothing compared to Horses! It’s a bunch of stupid tall houses and everyone’s wearing a mask, sometimes literally, or hiding, being silly all the time, and nothing means anything and it’s all a big stupid con for the so-called Wonderful Wizard!” Scarecrow, steamed, did not think. He continued, “I hate him, all his lies, everything he’s doing to the Animals and he’s done, what is money? Why do we have that now? It’s so hard for Birds to pick up or carry, which I bet was the point the whole time- force Animals to be reliant on humans instead of mutual roles in society; turning that all upside the head causes problems for everyone since there’s no structure to handle it, and why are miners wages so low? Mining is the foundation of Vinkun culture it’s our artistry- I… you stopped?” Scarecrow blinked. 

The Horse had turned his head as far as he could and stared. The dirt farm road was very quiet. 

Scarecrow knew he’d said things he shouldn’t have, but had forgotten what it was. “It’s so hard to talk,” he muttered. 

“You think… the Wizard- The Wizard, is behind the laws and… the changes to Animal life?” The Horse asked. 

Holding in his breath on instinct hurt, and Scarecrow didn’t know why. He sighed. “I can’t say but I should, I think,” he puzzled. 

The Horse pawed a hoof into the dirt ground. “Just tell me what you’re thinking,” he said softly, “all the thoughts, and we’ll figure out what to say together.”

A familiar calm washed over Scarecrow at that. He closed his eyes, and his gloved hands gripped the reins tightly for comfort. “I kept Boq out of it, and he got hurt bad anyway. I want to keep Feldspur out, because I don’t even know what I’d do without him, but the problem is then I am without him anyway, and if he’s getting hurt when I do that I don’t want that.” Scarecrow winced. “He is my best friend.” 

Feldspur sighed deeply. “Oh, Fiyero,” he said with gentleness, “in all of Oz, what has been going on with you?” 

“Well,” Scarecrow opened his eyes. He looked upward at the sun beyond the brim of his pointed hat, and something invigorated within him. Taking his hands off the reins, he put them on his hips. He chuckled. “I died and became a scarecrow, the scarecrow died and I became a man, and then I died and I’m a scarecrow again! Isn’t that the silliest thing you’ve ever heard?” 

“Oh my,” Feldspur said softly. 

Scarecrow tapped the two sticks in his gloved hands together and had the familiar sensation he’d forgotten something important. “Feldspur,” he asked, lifting his head up. He must have been looking down. “Where are we?” 

The Horse was sitting by the entrance of a large cave that they appeared to have been in for some time already. It was a small cave, simple sand dirt and an old wooden mat on the farther shore. These places were typical around traditional Animal footpath trails through the Vinkun. That was significant. Why?

Scarecrow clapped the sticks together twice as he tried to think. It mattered that they were in an old Animal trailcave because… they weren’t known by many Vinkun anymore, had never been in use by Birds, and were very unlikely to be known to any non-Vinkun human outside Winkie Country. “You don’t want us to find the Crow?” Scarecrow asked. 

Feldspur’s neck snapped up from its resting place. Scarecrow wondered if the Horse had accidentally fallen asleep. Had they been out long? It did not seem dark yet, the sunlight beyond Feldspur’s blue hair shone brightly through the cave. Had the Horse slept at all last night as he waited for Fiyero to return home? 

“Fi-“ Feldspur’s eyes were wide. “Scarecrow?”

Scarecrow considered the cave they were in. “Are we hiding out?” He wondered. “Yes, we are fugitives aren’t we? But I thought we were surrendering to the prince?”

Feldspur turned his head and gave a compassionate sigh. “Come here,” he urged softly. From his position on the ground, the Horse couldn’t move his legs much, so Feldspur gestured toward himself with a turn of his neck and wave of his face. Scarecrow moved to do just that, excited by the idea of petting a Horse for the first time. “Don’t forget the sticks.” 

Scarecrow paused, and looked behind him. He reached out and picked the sticks back up. “Why?” Turning around, he balanced awkwardly on misshapen knees. He felt even lumpier than before. 

“You were going to put them in your shoes to help steady your feet,” Feldspur explained patiently. Once again, with a long motion of his head, he urged Scarecrow closer. 

He tapped the sticks together in front of him. Puzzling, Scarecrow collapsed his body into a familiar curve against Feldspur’s shoulder. “Like the walking stick but inside my-“ clothes, skin, fabric? “Me?” 

“It was your idea,” Feldspur sounded proud. With his snout, he tapped Scarecrow’s chest once. They were very close. It was very comfortable. “You said since the hay worked back at the farm, other things could work too.” 

Hay back on the farm? Had the Crow or Scarecrow gotten straw and hay confused? Well, they were spies, not farmers. The two sticks were equal length and sturdy. They would be good bones. “I’d also need- more rope,” Scarecrow thought, considering how the sticks would need to be tied to hold in the straw.

“Your left pocket, you took it from the saddle,” Feldspur told him. Scarecrow checked and saw that he was right. “Then you needed something to cut it. We started talking about what had happened.”

Scarecrow realized he’d misread something earlier. Feldspur had not been sleeping. If he hadn’t been asleep then, the position Scarecrow had seen the Horse in was… sad. “Don’t talk about Kangaroos,” Scarecrow said suddenly. He clamped a hand over his sackcloth, by his painted mouth. Needing anything else to think about, Scarecrow wondered how many Living Things had never been human before. Were they more or less rare than the others? There were stories of Witches turning pirates and thieves, scoundrels and blasphemers into monstrous and ironic creatures. Scarecrow had heard that his entire life. But he’d never met anyone fitting that description. Then again, he’d met very few folk like him. 

“Still here, or back again?” Feldspur asked. 

Scarecrow blinked. “I blinked,” he said, curious, “could you tell?”

The Horse adjusted his position slightly. Scarecrow found himself jostled around a bit, then tucked more securely against the Horses side. “Not at first, but the more I look at you the more Real you are to me,” Feldspur told him. 

That’s nice, Scarecrow thought, something in his chest feeling warm despite that awful, empty fullness. He had the sticks and the rope in his hands. “What else can I use to cut the rope?” Scarecrow wondered. Feldspur gave him some instructions to one of the saddle bags. After some looking abouts, Scarecrow found a small many-tool. The knife was a bit dull, but it did its job well enough with a bit of effort. 

“The Crow said a lot of things to you that weren’t true,” Feldspur explained while Scarecrow worked. “We aren’t going to listen to them, much less that Witch they’re with. Don’t panic, again, alright?” 

“Panic?” Scarecrow asked. He held his right boot in his hands, which was also filled with straw and technically, his foot. 

“The Wizard will have the power to fix you,” Feldspur promised. 

“No!” Scarecrow jumped to his foot. Immediately off balance, he fell forward with a giant whump onto one of Feldspur’s legs. His sackcloth face pressed against blue, Scarecrow took a three second pause to reorient himself. He put his gloved hands on the leg and pushed, lifting his head up. “There is no Wizard.”

“Fiyero, you are not in a state right now to be the one making decisions here-”

“No,” Scarecrow scoffed. 

“You’re out of step again, I’m here for you…”

“That’s not what, the Wizard can’t do anything-“

“It’s going to be okay…”

Scarecrow threw his hands up in the air. “There is no Wizard!” He shouted. “There’s no Oz the Great and Powerful! Only Little Oz the Sick and we’re only going to get sicker unless we stop the Wizard once and for all!” 

“Breathe, you said it feels nice,” Feldspur ordered. 

As a reflex, Fiyero took a breath. He held it in, let it go, then he continued, “We can’t go to the Wizard, I’m not ready yet.”

“That’s good advice,” the Crow snarled casually from the mouth of the cave. They reached a talon up to their beak and tapped it. “Told you I’d find you, you great stupid blue Horse.”

As Feldspur surged to his feet, Scarecrow was knocked to the floor. He was disoriented for a long moment until he realized he’d rolled into something like an actual roll. Normally, or for a creature with a spine, such a position was impossible. Scarecrow unrolled himself carefully, and once done fell to the floor in a huff beside his detached boot. 

“Leave us alone,” Feldspur snarled. His hooves were planted firmly in the ground. The threat was obvious, Feldspur’s teeth flashing against the sunlight from the cave entrance. The Crow did not move closer, but also did not leave. 

“I made a promise. Once you see it too, you’ll understand,” the Crow said firmly.

“Understand?!” Feldspur stomped a foot into the ground, clumps of dirt flying loose from the cave floor. “Understand what? This blasphemous nonsense about the Wizard, what your Witch has done to my prince-"

“I wondered why he was alone!” The Crow flitted their wings, shouting over Feldspur. “Now I see it! He was alone because he only had idiots like you around him!” 

“How dare you-! I am no fool! I see you for what you are-“

“ You see me? ” The Crow made a short mocking screech. “Is that so?” They continued cruelly, “Oh yes, you are the steady and loyal true companion to Prince Fiyero, aren’t you? So close, and well-loved, that he never told you what he found out in Emerald City did he?” Feldspur huffed, but he was quiet. With a wicked gleam in his eye, the Crow continued, “You heard the Animal problem is bad, who hasn’t, but Animals exaggerate, don’t we? Such gossips, we are. After all, things can be bad but they always get better, don’t they? As we say in Oz, the rainbow comes after the rain?” 

“What do you know about it?” 

“Just a little bit more than you,” the Crow enticed. “Somehow, I know a little bit more about Fiyero than you.” 

Feldspur flinched. 

Scarecrow frowned as he watched, his heart jumping down to his stomach- figuratively speaking, though it felt very real. There was something else in his head. Puzzling. Something the Horse had said. 

“You know Fiyero wanted to take control of the Animal issue,” the Crow stared Feldspur down from the cave entrance. Their gaze was intense and unrelenting. “You agreed. He has a unique perspective on the talking issue, for a human, you know he respects Animal life. You don’t know about the relocations. The expulsions. The disappearances. Fiyero did.”

“There have- there have not been any more disappearances than any other year,” Feldspur protested, “people and Animals are always getting lost in mines, on trails, and then they’re found! …Mostly.” His voice sounded unsure. Scarecrow wanted to go up to him and put a supporting hand on him, but he was down a foot. 

“That’s not true,” the Crow said simply. “Prince Fiyero knew that.”

“How do you know?” 

“I saw him find the records through the window. He wasn’t surprised, he was vindicated,” the Crow said. “He hadn’t learned something new and shocking. He’d found evidence of something he’d wanted to find proof of.”

“Lions,” Scarecrow whispered. It was so quiet the other two didn’t hear him. 

Sitting on the ground of the cave, Scarecrow finally stuck the sticks in his boots and tied them up to his straw around his ankles. It was a different feeling, but not worse than being made of straw, or hay apparently- Fiyero was embarrassed by that. Had he truly not known the difference at the farm or had something else happened? It was a good thing that, despite being partially stuffed with hay, Feldspur was unlikely to eat him. 

“Don’t you think you owe it to Fiyero to learn what he died for?” 

Feldspur’s voice cracked. He said something Scarecrow didn’t listen to. As Scarecrow looked at his new feet, turning his newly formed knees around, he noticed a new shadow on the floor. 

There was a woman entering the cave. She wore simple dark traveling clothes, contrasted by  besides a brightly colored and oddly familiar yellow knitted bag wrapped around her shoulders. She was on the younger side of adult in appearance, but there was a presence to her that seemed to thrum with old magic. Not everyone in Oz was the age they looked. With a regal tilt to her chin, she met Scarecrow’s eye. “Well met,” the Witch said pleasantly.

“You were there,” Scarecrow realized. 

She winked at him again. 

“You!” Feldspur snarled, he jumped to action. The cave was small, only just large enough for a Horse his side to move. He stood between Scarecrow and the Witch, his ears laid back in his head and expression wild. “I won’t let you touch him!” 

“Feldspur, pride and joy of the Horse tribe of Winkie Country,” the Witch turned her gaze to the Horse. “Those who follow the Old Witch are creatures, like the Khalidahs, sentenced to monstrosity, or exiles, like the Crows, forbidden from the fruits of Ozian labor. But surely, if you know my story, you cannot blame me for the condition the prince is in?”

Scarecrow blinked at her. “Who?” He wondered.

Feldspur dug his hoof into the ground. “Traitorous woman!” He accused boldly. It was quite the thing to say to a person. Scarecrow put his hand on his chest in shock. He didn’t know enough to contradict though. 

The regal woman chuckled. Her laugh was light and gentle. Scarecrow found the sound of it slightly annoying; a laugh that had been controlled and beaten into perfection until that was the only instinct left. With her hand on the side of the cave, she tapped two fingers against the wall. “‘Traitor to Oz’, I am not , nor did I agree to be accused of. ‘Betrayer to my sister and the Wizard’, that, I am. So perhaps, betray-torous Witch would be more accurate.” Where her two fingers pressed onto the cave, a low glowing light appeared. It hung in place beside the wall, and didn’t seem to have a point to its creation. There was something familiar about it. A spell Fiyero had seen before but couldn’t place. Locked up with the rest of his memories. 

The Witch gestured to the magic light she had just made and said, “For my crimes, the Wizard took away my magic. That’s the story, is it not?” 

Feldspur took a step backward in the cave. He moved closer to Scarecrow. His ears were flat and haunches tense, with pumping veins, shaking as if ready to jump. There was nowhere to go, though, the Witch and the Crow blocked the exit. Very quickly, Feldspur turned his head to look at Scarecrow and then back to the Witch. Scarecrow got the impression that Feldspur was very afraid right now.

Scarecrow wanted to help. “The Wizard can’t take away her magic,” he told Feldspur, “we don’t have to be afraid of his magic. He doesn’t have any.”

The Witch, calling their attention to her, clapped her hands excitedly and made a very odd, and high-pitched vocalization. “Fascinating,” she said, her dark brown eyes flashing with an odd green light. The woman and the Crow exchanged a glance; the Crow bowed. 

“I have questions for you,” Scarecrow realized, “but I can’t remember them, so this isn’t fair at all.” 

“Now, now, don’t be upset, my sweet,” the Witch said pleasantly, and slightly patronizing but in a way that made Scarecrow wonder if she spoke to everyone this way. “I think the four of us are quite due for a little conference here, and I would very much like to speak Prince Fiyero myself.” She curled a finger back toward herself. “Come here. Let me see you, you fascinating Thing.”

“Stay back,” Feldspur snarled. 

Scarecrow was reminded of the first time he met the Crow. There hadn’t been any reason for his immediate dislike at first, only an extreme inability to summon any charm. He hated Crows, because he was a scarecrow- scarecrows warned Birds that certain fields were in use and not for public grazing, right? There was more to it. Why specifically were they called scarecrows? “Wait, why are scarecrows…” he said out loud as his mind began to puzzle. 

The Witch leaned forward. “Why are…” she began to stay. 

“Give him a minute,” Feldspur said first, with the Crow adding a half second in, “He’s thinking.”

Scarecrow ignored the looks the two Animals gave each other. “There isn’t a Crow tribe in Winkie Country, or any other Country. Crows follow the Old Witch, you said -“ he recalled, remembering his confusion and anger and his annoyance at his own anger, “the ex-Villizier-" Scarecrow thought for a moment. Annoyingly, his worst subject in school, history would have come a lot in handy here. “Keep Crows away from the fields. Scarecrows. Old Witch fought the Wizard?” 

“Never fought him, actually,” the Witch said with a sigh. 

“You would win if you did,” Scarecrow said. “That’s not where his power is.”

The Witch nodded. She leaned against the wall of the cave and began to examine her nails. 

“You’re the Old Witch?” Scarecrow asked. Feldspur and the Crow gave Fiyero a look. He supposed that had been obvious to them. “I wish I had a brain,” he muttered to himself. 

“I am that ‘Old Witch,’ but I prefer Evanora,” the Witch said stiffly. She held a hand out. 

Scarecrow took a step to shake her hand, but Feldspur moved his neck to make a barrier. “Stop,” the Horse ordered.

Scarecrow did, holding up his hands like he was under arrest. He met Feldspur’s eyes, they were dark, wide, wild, darting about the three others in the room; it was Fiyero’s fault. “I know it’s impossible to believe,” Scarecrow said, “but the Wizard is a fraud. He has no magic. He’s from another world and he’s a liar. I just don’t have any proof. Who would believe me without it?” 

“What’s the point of knowledge if no one else believes you?” The Crow jumped in with a chirp. 

Scarecrow felt something in his mind connect. He looked at the Crow, then at the Old Witch. “That’s why you’re here,” he realized aloud. “You want Prince Fiyero’s help. And he…” I, was the word he knew he should say, “was on the path but didn’t know which direction to take.”

“Perhaps next time, it could be one that doesn’t lead off a cliff,” the Old Witch, Evanora, said pleasantly. “Would you like to take back the things you stole from Mombi? And that special little photograph of yours?” 

“I’ve seen his face before.” Fiyero squinted. Why was he thinking of Shiz? Feldspur’s snout touched his shoulder. Startled, Scarecrow jumped slightly but then instinctively reached for the Horse. He wrapped an arm around Feldspur’s neck and held tightly, though with his scarecrow-like strength it wasn’t much. “Not just in the Wizard’s palace but somewhere…”

A smile slipped over Evanora’s face, wide and tense and with her dark eyes, she was reminiscent of a shark. “Curious about the Wizard, were you? Wanting to see him but not willing for anyone to know? How did you manage to get inside the Wizard Head Chamber?” 

“I don’t know,” Scarecrow said. 

The Crow gave Evanora a knowing look. “He really doesn’t.”

Scarecrow felt Feldspur take a long, shaking breath. He patted the Horse’s neck as comfortingly as he could. “Can you fix him?” Feldspur asked, his voice strained. 

Evanora gave Feldspur a small nod. “I don’t know,” she told him, “but I can find out.” Once again, Evanora extended her hand out to Scarecrow. 

This time, Feldspur didn’t stand in the way. He watched, tensely, at Scarecrow’s side as he put his hand in the Old Witch’s. 

She gave him a serene smile, placed her other hand atop his and, held his glove tightly. Closing her eyes, Evanora breathed. Her magic had hung in the air like perfume, but now it wafted over the Scarecrow like a gentle breeze. It was a strange feeling, tingly and old. As a child, he could feel the magic of Kiamo Ko when he touched its gravity-defying floating pillars, or snuck into its deep, hidden passageways. That magic had been more welcoming. This magic was trying to breach the fortress someone else had built inside of him, but it could only knock on the door. “Fascinatingk,” Evanora whispered. She opened her eyes and blinked twice. 

“Fix him then,” Feldspur said quickly. He stomped his hoof. “Say what you want about the Wizard. Just fix him.”

Evanora patted Scarecrow’s hand tenderly, like he was a child. Perhaps he was a child to her, if she was as old as Scarecrow suspected. “I cannot change what has been done to Prince Fiyero,” she said simply. 

Feldspur gave a screaming bray, it sounded like a whistle from the back of his throat. He jumped forward somewhat awkwardly, with such little room to move in the cave, but it was enough that Evanora stepped backward quickly. “Then get out!” Feldspur shouted, curling his body around the Scarecrow protectively. “Leave!” 

“Now the Horse thinks he’s a scarecrow,” the Crow muttered under his breath. 

“I am disappointed as well, you know,” Evanora said. She leaned her back against the cave. She did not seem pleased that Feldspur had brought her to flinch. “I have a great desire to talk to Prince Fiyero as well, and in the state he’s in now, looks like we’re both not getting what we want. I’m sure that’s new for you. You’ve had quite a charmed life as the Tigelaar’s favorite pet.”

“He is not a pet!” Fiyero defended. Feldspur did not speak in his own defense. Scarecrow hoped he remembered to be worried about that. 

“Adding stuffing doesn’t seem to work to help his memory,” the Crow, “we tried.”

Feldspur looked at the Crow with a snarl to his mouth. “This has happened before. In this instance, I know Fiyero better than you.”

“Aha,” Evanora said with interest. “If his state of mind is unrelated to the spells cast upon him then perhaps the Prince and I shall have our chat one day.”

“Spells?” Scarecrow repeated, confused. 

“Two spells, ones I can only barely touch,” Evanora said. She sounded a bit like a professor. “The magic is powerful and strange to me. One spell, so much anger and pain- devastatingly strong, the other somehow naive enough it to believe it could change the first and somehow correct. There’s a single emotion bonding them. I’ve never seen the like.”

Feldspur gave Scarecrow a look up and down. “When were they cast?”

“Impossible to say,” Evanora said with a shrug, “the second spell manipulates time.” 

“Time?” Feldspur said with a scoff. “How could any Witch’s spell affect time ?” 

“It’s impossible, even for the strongest Witch I’ve ever felt,” Evanora said, trailing her fingers oddly through the air. As if still tasting magic on the wind. “Unless the spell was cast with the Grimmerie itself.”

A second Witch? Scarecrow wondered. Time? Was that his answer? The answer to the question he didn’t want to remember. It felt more manageable now. Still, his mind ached, a dam holding back a floodgate of horrible thoughts behind it all. Scarecrows didn’t have to worry about the things princes did. 

“The Grim- the Gr- so he’ll never come… this is Fiyero now?” Feldspur’s body trembled. Scarecrow held him tight. 

“He is in the state of two things, both alive and not, both transformed and not,” Evanora told them both. “Your body wants to come back. It will. All the magic inside you is built on intent and love; there is love for the prince in one spell, but love for the scarecrow in the other. Both are a part of you.”

Love for the scarecrow? Scarecrow wondered. Elphaba hadn’t known he was the Scarecrow, not until the very end. How? 

“There may be ways to help heal yourself, or encourage this change,” Evanora said curiously, her fingers still trailing through the air. “It would take me some time to find out how.” 

“I don’t have that long,” Scarecrow said huffily. 

“Your body is already screaming at you to be healed,” Evanora told him with a cheeky wink. “It won’t be long. Unfortunately, Iam short on time as well . Mombi needs to be pacified. Your actions have quite disturbed her.” She looked at her nails again. “You are right, her eye is quite fixated on you, should you miss your next appearance Mombi will be quite suspicious.”

Screaming at me to be healed? Scarecrow pressed a hand to his chest, where his lungs would be if he was alive. 

“Healing the body is up to you, Vinkun prince,” Evanora said to him, and to Feldspur added, “and the prince’s mind is up to you. A half-insane ally, I can deal with, most of mine are, but fully insane is simply impossible to talk to.” 

Feldspur snarled. “He is not-“

“When you’ve put the little straw boy together again, pay me a visit.” She lifted the yellow bag from her shoulder and held it out. “The Crow asked me to help him fulfill a promise. You know how close the bonds between a human and their Animal can be. Here you are. I’m sure you and dear Feldspur will have quite a gas going through it all.”

Feldspur met Fiyero’s eyes and gave him a look. Scarecrow didn’t understand it. He took the bag, looking inside to find a large yellow tome filled with papers, and a green book with a nonsense word written on the spine. “Thank you,” Scarecrow said to the Crow. 

The Crow bowed.

There was more and more water coming up now, when he coughed. It happened on instinct; Scarecrow breathed and something came from another place inside him. 

Feldspur stopped again letting Scarecrow lean his body over his side to spit water onto the dirt. He had stopped sporadically along the road when he felt Scarecrow having the worst his fits. They moved slowly, but steadily onward. Feldspur knew the way back and he knew they had time.

Fiyero just had to breathe and keep talking. And he did. Words spilled out one after the next; he told Feldspur the truth about his slip through time, which he didn’t think he’d ever told the Crow. For the first time all day, thoughts of Elphaba didn’t turn off his mind; Scarecrow kept going. His gloved hands were tight on Feldspur’s reins as he told the tragic tale of his three, untimely deaths. 

He coughed, and coughed, and coughed. Fiyero spoke through his thoughts, burying his face against Feldspur’s neck when he felt his head begin to spin, but he kept going until the sky reoriented itself over his head. Scarecrow looked upward at the sun, the brim of his pointed hat providing shade. One moment, the hat was there. 

The next, it was gone and Fiyero was sitting on Feldspur. His body was soaked with water, he was shaking, exhausted, bruised, tired -

Feldspur’s neck snapped to the side and he looked at Fiyero with wide eyes. Fiyero looked back and blinked back tears. For a long moment, they said nothing. 

Then Fiyero began to laugh, and Feldspur, after an instance of hesitation, joined in. Fiyero was Real again.

Chapter Text

"Careful,” Feldspur cautioned, as the pair finally came upon the back of their caravan. There was a familiar sound, specific to the Yellow Brick Road, and when Felfspur’s hoof came down on it Fiyero felt a pain in his head. His migraine was coming along swimmingly. He wasn’t sure if there was too much water in him, not enough, or if this was just how a body was supposed to feel after magically transforming back to flesh from a pile of straw. 

Gritting his teeth against the setting sun, Fiyero held back a groan. He forced a lackluster chastisement of Feldspur’s overprotectiveness without a lick of heart in it. In actuality, Fiyero found the Horse’s fussing quite nice. It was a relief not to be the only person consumed with worry. Fiyero jumped off of the saddle onto wobbly legs. “I’m fine,” Fiyero lied curtly, discreetly wiping a hand across an abundance of sweat on his forehead, “see?”

Feldspur snorted. “You look like hell, Fiy Fiy.”

As Fiyero walked behind one of the parked carriages, Feldspur followed as best he could. Some of the musical equipment, and the tools used to erect the stage, were lying about the ground. It wasn’t the easiest for a two-legged person to walk through, and was much less so for a large, four-legged one. Behind the barrier set up for the show, things never looked quite as nice - instruments, stands, popping confetti and sparkling lights placed in the best spot for practicality, rather than aesthetic. It was the only place that felt honest during a show. The crowd was already vocal, he could hear them shouting in excitement, though the band had only started playing their first set. 

Bowlegged and sore, Fiyero stumbled into his tent. It had been set up for him as he’d told Tippetarius to do, though all his things were still stored in their boxes for travel and the bedroll set had not been unfurled yet. That was a good thing. If the bed had been out, Fiyero wasn’t sure he’d have been able to resist the temptation to fall onto the covers and sleep for a day. 

Sitting on one of the boxes, Tippetarius had a pile of letters in hand. The young page was wearing a white riding uniform, some of his shoulder-length hair pulled back. He looked up at Fiyero and visibly startled. “You look like hell,” Tippetarius said with widening eyes.

“That’s what I said,” Feldspur agreed; he’d stuck his neck through the tent entrance and was looking inside.  

Fiyero grimaced. He sat in a huff on top of a box across from Tippetarius. Unable to disguise a groan as he moved, Fiyero lifted his legs up with his hands. “I know, help me get these off,” he ordered, gesturing to his boots. 

“Uh,” Tippetarius stared for a moment, then complied. He grabbed the end of one of Fiyero’s boots and prepared to tug. 

Bracing himself with his arms, Fiyero did his best to keep steady. Tippetarius began with a yank, which was unsuccessful, and after some (likely unnecessary) interjections from Feldspur about trying to ‘twist it’, eventually the left boot came off with an uncomfortable, wet squelch. Fiyero sighed in relief. His foot was still intact, hadn’t come off with the boot (not a concern a person who didn’t turn into a scarecrow on occasion would have - but alas) and his hands made quick work to remove the socks. Underneath, his foot was pale and wrinkled, and the touch of his hands rubbing down the skin was a relief. 

Tippetarius made a loud, disgusted noise, grabbing his nose. “What happened?” 

Feldspur and Fiyero shared a glance. “Uh,” Fiyero explained simply, “I got a little waterlogged. Not a lot of time. Next boot.”

Wincing, and not without some side-eye, Tippetarius held his breath and helped Fiyero take off the second wet boot. 

“They’re your favorite pair,” Feldspur reminded him with a sad tone. 

“They are?” Fiyero gave them a sorrowful second look. Feldspur was right; these were his nicest palm-fiber boots. His sturdiest and best looking. “That’s a damned shame. Well, it could have been worse,” he joked. 

Feldspur neighed a warning at that, giving Fiyero a very sharp look. Apparently, Fiyero’s near-ish death experience was still too recent to be amusing. Fiyero noted that. 

Somehow, his hair managed to look fine enough with just a comb run through it. Windswept could certainly describe his style on a normal day, anyway. A small mercy that was quite welcome. He tried to order Tippetarius to assist in shaving his two-day shadow, but the very young page clearly had no experience himself and Fiyero’s hands shook so much that after two nicks on his chin he gave up. There wasn’t enough time to shower. Being somehow magically frozen in a drowned state, then haphazardly wind-dried off as Feldspur galloped as fast as they could to return them to the caravan… had left Fiyero with a uniquely ripe smell. All he could do was change his clothes and hope his stench wasn’t noticeable by the crowd. (Frankly, ‘Prince Charming Stinks’ was a preferable headline to ‘Disgraced Prince Caught Thieving’ anyway, however embarrassing it may be.) 

He entered the small backstage area on steadier legs, but still a distinct wobble to his steps. Tippetarius followed him, ignoring Fiyero’s many hints to keep a look out for Viffy the reporter. “You should sit,” the young man said unhelpfully. 

“I’m fine,” Fiyero insisted. The stage curtain was the only form of protection he had from whatever was waiting for him outside, and while he wanted a peek he was loath to do so. The music was still playing. Somehow, despite everything, Fiyero had arrived on time with ten minutes to spare. There was a hectic haze of energy in his chest; it spurred him to pace. 

“You should sit ,” Tippetarius repeated. 

Pacing helped. Fiyero kept at it, rubbing up and down his arms, avoiding wincing at the bruises. Thankfully, his face had been spared the worst of it this time. Placing one foot in front of another. That was something he was good at.

“Fiyero,” Tippetarius shouted. There was a strange authority to the young man that actually gave Fiyero pause. “You can’t even shave, you should rest, not go out there and fight.”

Fiyero raised an eyebrow. “I know that,” he told the page, “heard and dismissed.” His jaw dropping in apparent astonishment, Tippetarius stared. “You’re not my nurse, Tip. And aren’t royal pages supposed to be seen and not heard?” 

The young man stared at him. His eyes were piercing, and intense, holding Fiyero’s gaze steadily. Fiyero wondered if the Scarecrow in him could sense a bit of Lurline magic in the boy. That, or the royal page was not used to having his authority dismissed by a lesser royal than the Great Throne of Oz. He was going to have to get used to it. Fiyero was not going to start sorting his own mail again without a fight.

The door on the backstage side opened. Dressed in his uniform, looking particularly sharp and put together in appearance but with a very nervous look on his face, Ritley stepped through. He took in Fiyero standing by the curtain, and Tippetarius’ reddening face, and stared. “You look like-” Ritley started to say, his voice trailing off. 

“He looks like hell, I know,” Tippetarius finished, “Feldspur and I said the same thing.”

“We… Weren’t you off on a survey? Visiting those lily farmers?” Ritley seemed quite confused. 

Fiyero had entirely forgotten whatever cover story he’d come up with. He wasn’t even sure he had lied about it. Had that been Feldspur’s explanation? Devoid of any knowledge about the lie, Fiyero just shrugged. 

“I…” Ritley stared. “Should he-"

“He’s still going on stage,” Tippetarius said, crossing his arms. 

“I do not look that bad,” Fiyero said. There were multiple mirrors in this space, placed for use by the many Emerald City performers and himself before facing the crowd. As he looked at himself in the mirror from a few paces away, he couldn’t see the extreme paleness of his skin, the redness of his eyes, or the trifling-ish shaking of his shoulders and knees. “I’ll pass. Long as I keep moving-” 

“Sir-” Ritley began to say.

“I know you’re going to say I’m not in any shape to fight,” Fiyero said. He straightened his shoulders, turning to the other two men there. “I agree. However, me making an appearance here matters a lot more than my win/loss record. Spare me the caution, I get it, however I am the superior officer here. Your concerns are noted. That’s it. We’re moving forward. I’m not taking questions.”

Ritley’s mouth curled unpleasantly; he met Tippetarius’ eyes and they seemed to communicate something. Fiyero wondered how they’d gotten so close in a day. 

“Sir,” Ritley said, “I can prepare the men to do an exhibition without you-“

“No,” Fiyero said harshly. 

Ritley paused. He nodded. He continued, “Alternatively, when it comes to the fight we can insist on headgear - as he’s your same age and about the same build, my brother Raplan could step in as you. We could keep the crowd in the dark. No one would know.”

Fiyero blinked. He knew the most important part of the message, but his mind clung to, “Raplan and I are the same age?!” Fiyero looked at Tippetarius as if the young man would share his astonishment at this information. Tippetarius, however, still seemed hung-up on his concern about Fiyero’s state of being. He was cross-armed and frowning. Great Oz , they’d barely known each other a week; Tippetarius must have been far bigger of a fan then he let on. Fiyero felt a bit bad. Reality must have been disappointing, and he hadn’t done much to make it easier on the poor fellow. 

“Yes?” Ritley confirmed. 

This seemed to be something everyone else understood. Fiyero, now that he was considering it, was not exactly sure his age - if he was asked on the spot right now the exact year it was, he couldn’t be confident in his answer on that either. Frankly, that wasn’t out of character for the younger version of himself, but confusion regarding time-travel wasn’t allowing the older him to be any better. Oz damn it, he needed to play this off. “I thought Raplan was younger,” Fiyero explained. He gestured, with his shoulders, and leaned, in a body language display of perfect alooftoshiousness.

Chuckling, Ritley seemed to accept that. “Well, regardless of my little brother’s maturity, the point still stands.”

The band was starting to wind up to a crescendo. Fiyero had heard this musical refrain enough to know it by heart. They were building the excitement for his appearance. “Okay,” Fiyero said, turning to the curtain. It took a few moments for him to put his thoughts together. He did realize, once he did, that it sounded like he agreed with Ritley. “No way Raplan is standing in for me,” he started to say.

“Perhaps Tomfred?” Ritley suggested another one of the other younger guardsmen. 

Fiyero knew that one. That was the guard that had fallen off the rock. Before he could think better of it, he said, “I thought we were the same age.”

“You’re certainly more responsible,” Ritley said, with a small grin on his face. It faded quickly. He clearly did not like how Fiyero looked. “You know Wallqce and I are over thirty, right?” 

“Right. Wallqce,” Fiyero said, having no idea which of his guardsmen that was. Ah, yes, because Fiyero was not nearing thirty anymore, he was… Oz damnit, what even was the year? He’d have to try to remember to ask Feldspur. Thankfully, now he could do that without pretense or secretly. “That’s… wild.”

“Didn’t you go through Gillikin together?” Tippetarius asked. “You didn’t know?” 

Fiyero’s attention was quickly taken by loud brass music, signaling the beginning of the end of the song. He took a breath through his nose to steady himself.

“Lieutenant Tigelaar prefers to keep a distance from his men,” Ritley explained to Tippetarius behind Fiyero’s back. “He’s respectful that way. Besides, royalty are all a bit…” The man seemed to think better of finishing that sentence. He went into a soldier’s stance, and his face flushed slightly. Fiyero wondered if the man had met any royals besides the Tigelaars and Prince Keerio. How odd were other royals anyway? Fiyero had always known he was odd but- he’d been distracted in thought. Loud clapping brought him back to the unfortunate present. Morbidly, Fiyero put two fingers against the curtain and pulled it apart slightly to look at what awaited him. A sizeable crowd had assembled for the festivities. A very yellow, patriotic, Vinkun congregation - with expectations far beyond the paltry performance Fiyero had left in the spare reserves of a body teetering from exhaustion. Scarecrow didn’t sleep, he wondered if his body didn’t either or this was just how people felt after coming back to life. He was sure he’d had that thought before. His mind was going in circles. Fiyero sighed. Deeply. 

“You don’t even talk to your men?” Tippetarius said, not disguising the judgment in his voice at all. “Princess Ozma knows the name of everyone who works for her.”

“No, she doesn’t.” Thoughtlessly, Fiyero snorted. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Yes, she-"

“Even my laundry goes through about ten hands before it gets back to me. Don’t be daft.” Fiyero mused, distracted.

“King Cheeriobed said it’s the responsibility of every royal to know-"

“I am not in the mood to be lectured on how I relate to my people by someone who couldn’t possibly understand, moments before I’m about to make a fool of myself in a clown show for the people’s benefit,” Fiyero said softly but sternly. Tippetarius’ eyes widened and his mouth shut. Shaking his head, Fiyero jumped in place to try and get his blood moving again. His left foot was starting to fall asleep and he wasn’t even dancing or fighting yet. Fiyero’s eyes quickly scanned the unknowing crowd. Looking back at them before he became an exhibit on show. At least they didn’t seem like an unfriendly crowd, but this was Oz, and people liked to put on happy faces. “Besides, the men’s idea of a good time is to build a giant fire and sit around it, yeah, I’m not eager to participate,” Fiyero said offhandedly. He didn’t want to think about fire right now. There was enough to worry about. 

“Fire?” Ritley repeated. 

Ignoring him, Fiyero heard the last few notes of the final measure like a war drum pounding in his chest. Breathe, he reminded himself, his mind sounding like Feldspur’s stern voice, breathe, Fiyero, breathe. Vaguely, he was sure the other two men were saying something to him, but Fiyero didn’t have time to listen. “That’s my cue,” he said, his voice full of dread. 

Fiyero breathed out, forced a smile on his face, and walked through the curtain onto the stage. 

Expectation mattered almost more to the performance than the actual content of the show itself. The crowd had seen Fiyero, he’d done his speech, he’d performed his songs; they had no context to know he was less energetic than normal, or he’d switched up two paragraphs accidentally. Ritley gave a short prelude prior to the fight, making a point to emphasize that Fiyero was ‘training on the go’ and ‘can’t be stopped by four men’ which was a pathetic introduction to what was soon to be his second resounding defeat. 

Fiyero lost with three men still standing, though the fight lasted nearly twenty minutes. The longest it ever had. He was sure the men had held back out of sheer confusion on their part; Fiyero for once had not thrown himself into the fight. He waited for them to come to him. Mostly, because he could barely feel his limbs (though his eyes assured him they were still attached). His efforts were spent keeping his sword aloft. The majority of the exhibition match was spent in a standstill, guards lunging, trading offensive blows for Fiyero’s defensive blocks over and over while Fiyero kept opening up space in an ongoing circle. He could barely see for the sweat on his face by the time it was over. 

A part of him might have passed out when his body finally hit the floor if not for the calamitous applause that erupted from the crowd. He jolted back to his feet with alarm. 

His head was swimming through the rest of the night. Exhaustion, mental and physical, pulled at his body and brain like strings bidding him to darkness. He stumbled through a greeting to the town governor before Ritley arrived with Cherrystone to take over, and he was unable to remember a word of the exchange after the fact. At some point, Tippetarius grabbed him by the hand and the next thing he knew, Fiyero was on his bedroll. Sleep came unbidden and fast, with the sensation of falling, and brought bad memories with it. 

Fiyero slept through most of his morning duties. A sour-faced Tippetarius reluctantly woke him up with just enough time to dress and jump on stage to perform the caravan send-off song and dance; after which the royal page and Ritley strong-armed him into the traveling carriage with a blanket and a pillow. The second sleep he had was far more restful and pleasant. When he finally regained consciousness, there was just enough time to assist in setting up the carriages and tents for the night. The little bit of movement gave him a ravenous appetite for dinner, which led once again to an early night. By morning Fiyero was pretty much done with resting. 

His companions, however, didn’t seem to agree. Feldspur was waiting outside the tent when he woke up with a reminder to take his cure for melancholia and proceeded to hover over Fiyero’s shoulder for the rest of the day, while Ritley closely monitored his supervision of the guard’s morning training. Even Cherrystone of all people insisted they take another day off  when Fiyero tried to resume their studying session. With all of this restless energy inside him itching to get loose, Fiyero almost wished that one of his people would wander off into trouble just so he’d have something to do.

With complete resignation, he returned to his ten. He found Tippetarius inside, surrounded by piles upon piles of letters. Tippetarius looked up upon Fiyero’s arrival and scowled before returning to sorting. After being fretted over and coddled all day, Tippetarius’ negativity was a welcome relief (alt: “was a welcome change of pace”). 

“How’s the mail?” Fiyero asked brightly.

The young page glared up at him. “Are you asking me how the last six days of sorting your mail has been going?” He asked. 

Fiyero sat down on an overturned crate with a smile. “Looks good!” He guessed, having no idea if that was in fact the case. At the very least, Tippetarius had arranged the letters in neat piles for him. “Anything I should catch up on first?”

Tippetarius pointed to one of the piles of letters. It was a mediumish stack of colorful envelopes neatly gathered together with twine. 

The first letter was from an important sounding official and was sealed with an Emerald City logo. A quick flick of his finger through the rest revealed senders with similar important-ish sounding names, none of which were ringing any bells. New paths, then , he thought. He’d have to forge these relationships blindly, just as he’d done with Ozma. It would be fine. Dorothy had been a fluke - she was from another world, how could Fiyero have predicted her? That was why he needed to investigate Oscar Diggs before he revealed his hand. He needed to plan. To think. Thank Oz, he had Feldspur again. 

It occurred to him that several minutes had passed and he had yet to open a single envelope. Ugh , Fiyero didn’t want to. “Ah,” he said, looking at Tippetarius for distraction while tapping the pile of envelopes on his knee. “How’ve you been?”

Tippetarius met Fiyero’s eyes with a fearsome glare. “I’m fine,” he said. 

Fiyero raised an eyebrow. Obviously, Tippetarius was not ‘fine’, but Fiyero wasn’t sure he should probe any deeper when he clearly wasn’t wanted. Besides, he had a pretty good idea why the young page was sour. “If you’re feeling fine, do you want to re-open any past discussions about my royal visage versus your dear Ozma?” Fiyero asked. 

Tippetarius’ mouth dropped. “W-what? I don’t have a crush on Ozma -" he insisted, saying her name with a surprising amount of disgust. 

Fiyero raised an eyebrow, having assumed that Tippetarious was Ozma’s cousin. “I assumed not,” he said. “Loyalty and love are quite similar anyways, strategically.”

Tippetarius blinked a few times then sat down on his chair, a handful of forgotten envelopes resting in his lap Lost in thought, the page frowned for a moment before his expression shifted to confused, followed by sad. Fiyero found himself hoping that the young page would never find himself in a game of cards with Prince Keerio, the lad had no poker face at all. 

Sitting up, his eyebrows furrowed like he was staring at a difficult mathematical equation, Tippetarius asked, “Why do you think King Cheeriobed is lying?” 

Fiyero was not expected that. The young man looked so concerned, he must know Cheeriobed personally. Surprising, since Keerio had never met the page before. “Everyone lies,” Fiyero explained, “all the time. It’s the natural pastime of Oz. That and flower arranging. Unites all countries.”

Tippetarius squirmed in his seat. An envelope wrinkled and he startled. 

“Do you regret coming on this trip?” 

“Definitaciously not,” Tippetarius said passionately. Even his own fervor seemed to confuse him, “but if people in Oz lie all the time, how can I trust you?”

That was a very good point. Fiyero, for a moment, considered this. He decided to be honest. “I also lie to you all the time. You’re just going to have to trust it’s for your benefit, I suppose.”

Tippetarius’ big eyes widened considerably. “H- how can I trust you if you just said you’re lying to me?”

“Princess Ozma trusts me,” Fiyero said, “if you trust her judgment, that means you trust mine. Isn’t it unfortunate the way loyalty can work?” 

Frowning, but not without more obviously readable changes in expression, Tippetarius fell silent and returned his attention to the mail. Fiyero was a bit put out; the lack of conversation meant he had no excuses but to open his own mail too. 

The first letter was an invitation offering Fiyero the “once-in-a-lifetime chance” to have a permanent penthouse suite in one of three luxury hotel buildings in Emerald City. . The owner of these fine establishments went on to pointedly inform Fiyero that all of their competitors were tacky and not to be trusted. Coincidentally, the very same “tacky and untrustworthy” hotel proprietors appeared to have sent their own suspiciously similar letters offering and warning the same. Huh. Fiyero had briefly considered seeking a permanent place to live in Emerald City after his stay there with Ozma. A permanent residence would give him an excuse to be there and make it easier to cover up his comings and goings, but he assumed that to do so would require the Emperor’s support. The fact that three separate hotel owners were offering him free lodging … that was enticing. Plus, the more Fiyero established himself outside his parents control, the more mature and stable he seemed, the more power he could ask for. 

“Tip, I have a job for you,” Fiyero interrupted the silence. 

Tippetarius sighed. “It’s mail related, isn’t it?” 

“I… admire your instincts?” The young page rolled his eyes in response. Fiyero deserved that, he was certain. “Can you write back to these landlords and ask about Horse accommodations?” 

The young page reached out, took the letters and skimmed over the contents fast enough that Fiyero felt a pang of jealousy. He nodded, an inkwell-pen and notepad within his reach. “What else?” 

“Else?” Fiyero leaned back on the box he was sitting on. He frowned. “Huh.”

“They want to advertise your patronage, so- you can ask for more if you want. When Princess Ozma stayed at the Emerald Jewel, she got them to add suites and rooms for everyone, and croquet to the garden.” Tippetarius explained, “Just uh, as an example.”

“I remember, I was there,” Fiyero pointed out. “But you are right.” 

“What else would you like?” 

“I…” Fiyero considered. “I’d honestly much prefer if Feldspur was able to stay en suite, otherwise I’d just live in the hotel stable anyway. I hate being away from him, especially when traveling.”

The young man had an odd reaction. He dropped his jaw, almost slapped himself in the face, but poked himself hard in the forehead with the inkwell pen instead. Fiyero did his best not to laugh; he didn’t need to have worried though. “That’s why you ride in the stablecar on the train?” Tippetarius chuckled at himself. 

“What’s why?” Fiyero asked, a bit lost. “Can you also write down ‘nice straw’? I’d like to have a supply of it. Some rope too. Uh, and hay and other… things Horses need.”

Tippetarius chuckled again. Fiyero was glad to finally see him in a good mood. “‘Nice straw’ and Horse stuff,” he repeated, shaking his head. 

“I’d also be curious to know which is closer to the Wizard’s Palace, and the most local Emerald City guard outpost,” Fiyero said, which he didn’t think was suspicious at all for him to ask. “What else do you think I should ask for?” 

Shrugging, Tippetarius gave a few suggestions. Complimentary page service, breakfast and delivery, inquiring about local restaurants and other benefits Fiyero hadn’t considered or even realized he should ask for.  It was a nice little fantasy to indulge in for a bit. The last item Fiyero added to the list, unprompted. “A balcony,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment. He was imagining a witch flying a broomstick. “I like them.” 

“Will do. A pleasure to do your mail , as always, sir,” Tippetarius said jovially, but not without some judgment glinting in his eye. 

"You’re almost done sorting this portion of the mail, aren’t you? We won’t have any more to worry about until we arrive in Emerald City and it starts all over again," Fiyero teased.

“Ugh, stop reminding me.” Tippetarius shrugged his shoulders.

“Good." Fiyero leaned forward conspiratorially. "Tomorrow we’ll start training.”

“You mean it?" Tippetarious's tone shifted to one of anticipation. "We’ll really start tomorrow?”

“I said so, didn’t I?” Fiyero told him. 

“You also said you’re a liar. You’re lying about wherever you went after we left Babel. There wasn’t a survey,” Tippetarius reminded.

Fiyero grinned. “Prove it,” he dared with a waggle of his tongue. The young page gave him an odd look at that, and Fiyero turned their conversation back to the mail. He wasn’t, unfortunately, exaggerating the importance of the mail. The next letter came from a Duke of Quadling who apparently had quite a personal gripe with the location of the Yellow Brick Road in his town; a person dissident enough to put it down in a letter was a connection Fiyero wanted to make. 

After that, only a hundred or so letters to go. What a treat it is to be charming, Fiyero thought sourly.

The fading night had left a cloud on the world of Oz, the sun’s gaze not yet strong enough to chase the morning dew away. It was a comforting gray haze, which Fiyero was grateful for; his eyes were still adjusting from the dark as he stumbled out of his tent. One hand slung his quiver over his shoulder, the other rested in front of his mouth to hide a yawn. He hoped this was a good day.

Some superstitious folks in Oz read the weather for fortunes. During his year in Emerald City, Fiyero had pretended to do so himself; as an excuse for why he cared about tracking weather patterns in Oz at all. He wasn’t very good at it. Glinda had always been much better uncovering Madam Morrible’s movements than Fiyero ever could. While on the road, he had some time to try to catch up on newspaper articles in theory , but in practice Fiyero hadn’t kept tabs on the news. Before he knew it, he was already a quarter through the journey and remained woefully unaware of the activities of Oz’s great sorcerers and of the larger goings-on of Ozian politics. Perhaps he was getting big in his britches to assume he’d be able to sense the magical machinations of a student of the Grimmerie, but - to be fair - he was magical now.

Fiyero looked down at his left hand. He turned it over palm to front. It looked like skin, and when he touched it to his other hand he felt his skin. 

Oz, he was tired , it was ridiculous to have woken up this early anyways. He took a breath in. Then out. It was better not to think about Morrible’s storms and how she had ruined everything . This was a perfectly good morning in Winkie Country and he ought to enjoy it. No Morribles. No Mombi’s. No Evanora. Unfortunately, no Elphaba, but he was working on that.

“Hello there, Tip,” Fiyero said through his yawn. It had not yet occurred to his tired half-brain why the young page was sitting outside his tent in the early hours, dressed for riding, arms folded, and scowling. Fiyero was thinking about breakfast which would be in an hour. 

“Where are you off to?” Tippetarius asked crossly. He reminded Fiyero of an old governess he’d had as a child. Fiyero blinked at him, then gestured to himself. He did have his bow and quiver on him, which he felt made his purpose obvious. 

Tippetarius pointed at him. “Didn’t you promise to train me today?” 

There was a part of Fiyero that nearly put his hands up. He felt like was in trouble and the day hasn’t even started yet.  

“The day hasn’t started yet,” Fiyero blinked, “also, bows aren’t part of Emerald Guard training.”

Tippetarius crossed his arms. “Oh? Then why are you training with a bow?”

Fiyero put a hand on his hip and raised an amused eyebrow at the young man. Pieces were coming together now. Tippetarius was dying from nearly a week of mail-sorting and none of his promised adventures through Oz, and though he had made a promise they had also established last night that Fiyero was a liar. Feeling like it was his turn to be a scolding governess, Fiyero asked with a smile, “How long did you sleep?” 

Jaw dropping, Tippetarius didn’t answer. 

“ Tip , Tip Tip,” Fiyero tsked through his teeth. 

“I have had plenty of sleep these past many days ,” Tippetarius said sourly, “I’d wager I’m far better rested than you .” He sounded proud of himself for that argument. 

He should be. Fiyero couldn’t think of any fault with it. “Regardless, this has nothing to do with your training.”

“You have a bow and a quiver,” Tippetarius pointed out. “In your hands.” 

“Guards train with swords and muskets.” The young page gave another dissenting comment, to which Fiyero once again rebutted in kind. It continued, and at that point he knew they were stubbornly going about in circles. “I do archery at school,” Fiyero finally explained, “because it’s the sport that requires the least amount of physical effort and the maximum social appeal.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“‘Course it does, just ask Keerio,” Fiyero dismissed with a wave. “Look, you know what, you should come.”

Tippetarius looked suspicious at that. “I will.” 

Fiyero gestured toward the road. He did have to start walking first to get them going, but they did.

The set up for the guards’ tents changed each night, but the general layout of their practice area remained the same. On the outside of the wall formed by the various carriages, it was easy to find each time. Fiyero made his way there, eyeing some of the supplies. There were poles and targets for musket drills, though only Cherrystone and his men performed those with regularity. With Tippetarius’ help, they gathered a few and erected a serviceable collection of practice targets. 

“Why don’t you tell me more about you?” Fiyero asked. He assumed the young man would jump at the chance to speak on the subject. In actuality, all he got were rambled non sequiturs that Fiyero metaphorically had to pry out of Tippetarius’ mouth. By the end, he was half sure Tippetarius had a younger sibling, and a father who had passed away a long time ago. Once the young man had met a chicken. Apparently he hated honeydew. Fiyero honestly had more questions about Tippetarius’ life than answers by the end. Was there a rule that forbade Queen’s Guard pages from talking  about their personal lives on duty that Fiyero just didn’t know about? Feeling awkward, Fiyero gave a lesson in archery. 

Tippetarius picked it up quite quickly, and managed to hit the target twice by the end. He didn’t have the arm strength to shoot more than a few, so after that Fiyero got his own practice in. 

“Take a look at how I’m standing,” Fiyero said, carefully holding the bowstring back but not too tightly. His right foot was pointed towards the target, his left leg behind him and slightly bent, his body slightly turned to the side. “This is the stance you want. It will pull your shot to the left, so you have to practice a lot to compensate for it.”

Tippetarius, notepad in hand, looked thoughtful. “Wouldn’t another pose not pull your shot to the left?” 

Shrugging, Fiyero explained, “Sure, but I wouldn’t look nearly as good doing it, would I?” He stuck out his tongue, making a silly face. Tippetarius rolled his eyes, but he also chuckled. It was progress. 

After an hour or so of improvising an archery lesson, Fiyero and Tippetarious caught the smell of breakfast cooking in the morning breeze. Fiyero’s stomach loudly responded to it, earning a chuckle from the young page. Fiyero gave him a playful shove before leaving Tippetarius to reclaim their scattered arrows. Ignoring his rumbling stomach, he snuck off to Feldspur to discreetly take his potion before joining the others in line for breakfast. 

Feldspur and the other four-legged Animals took their breakfast by the supply carriage. Fiyero tended to take his plate over there to eat - which was even more pleasant now that Feldspur had kindly and unprompted promised to avoid eating straw-like things in Fiyero’s presence - and was doing the same this morning when a man stopped him. He’d only stepped a few feet off the breakfast line when the stranger intercepted him. It was an awkward place to linger. Staring eyes from the civilians had felt like a lot in Gillikin, but in in his own country it all seemed more… importantly judgmental. With a steaming pile of hearty potatoes, bread, and jam steaming on his plate, Fiyero had to force himself instead to focus on the social interaction about to unfold. It wasn’t polite to start eating while someone wanted to talk to him. 

The man was older than Fiyero, middle-aged and slightly balding in the head which Fiyero only saw when he bowed in greeting. Doing his best not to seem nervous, Fiyero smiled and held his plate of food as lazily as he without losing his grip on it. “My prince Fiyero,” the man said, “I am Nos Wheatsby. I wanted to thank you personally for this opportunity.”

“You’re welcome,” Fiyero said, which sounded right but insufficient, “I’m quite glad. Are you traveling far down the road?”

“All the way,” Mr. Wheatsby told him excitedly. “My wife and I swore to each other we’d visit Emerald City one day, but with our daughter, and all the rumors about, it was never safe to travel.”

“Rumors?” Fiyero stepped closer. 

“Oh, you know,” the man continued easily at Fiyero’s encouragement, “Khalidahs in the woods, dragons on the Gillikin border, pirates in Quadling… I- you hear about things abroad , of course, but there are even things wandering about in Winkie too. I just, my wife and I weren’t sure about going all the way, but we got this sign, maybe from the Wizard himself, that it was time to try.” Mr. Wheatsby gestured gaily about. He seemed happy.  It didn’t seem in perfect congruousness with his words but people did tend to act oddly around Fiyero. “There was this odd… my wife thought we shouldn’t bring it up, it sounds so silly.”

“Oh, I promise you cannot surprise me,” Fiyero encouraged. “I’d consider it a challenge even, my good man. Why not?”

“It’s… strange,” the Vinkun man cautioned. Something about his wary tone seemed familiar. 

Fiyero gave him a friendly nod. “Strange is my specialty,” he sloganed thoughtlessly, but it seemed to do the trick. The man’s shoulders relaxed and he continued on. 

“There was a monster on the road in Vinkun,” Mr. Wheatsby said. Fiyero’s stomach sunk. The farmer leaned forward, and with eyes that begged to be believed and told a fascinating story. Mr. Wheatsby was from a small farm near the local river, a good twenty miles from Oasis Town. He claimed to have encountered a Living Thing, in the form of a Terrifying Walking and Talking Scarecrow accompanied by a Talking Crow, they claimed for some reason to be fugitives from justice eager for Prince Charming to bring them in. “My wife says… well, she says it could be a trap, sir.”

Fiyero swallowed. The smell of breakfast had started to turn his stomach. “A- a scarecrow, you say?” Was he sweating? Oh Oz, why hadn’t he recognized this fellow- 

“A Live Thing, yes,” Mr. Wheatsby professed. “It was strange, that doesn’t usually happen to my family, I swear. We’re very normal, we are.”

“Er…” The way he responded mattered to this a lot. Fiyero knew that. He also knew his heart had raced in fear at the thought of a monster terrorizing his own countryside, falling for his own stupidity once again; was he truly so terrifying a Thing as the scarecrow? His own existence alone causing such fear? Was the scarecrow such a monster? “Did he have a pointed hat?” Fiyero asked to stall for time. 

“Oh? I.. yes, it did have an old hat,” Mr. Wheatsby said, adding a follow up Fiyero hadn’t accounted for, “how did you know?”

“Oh,” Fiyero blinked. “Er. He’s a… land surveyor.”

“Wh-he is?” 

“Yes, er, well, Living Things make good… land surveyors,” Fiyero explained. He tried to sound nonchalant. Like this was something Mr. Wheatsby should have known already. 

It seemed to work. “Ah,” Mr. Wheatsby seemed embarrassed, “he, er, he and that Talking Crow did say they were fugitives?”

Fiyero’s stomach chilled. “Right,” he choked out, thinking to rapidly to plan his words. “He loves pranks, that scarecrow.”

Mr. Wheatsby raised an eyebrow. “Pranks?”

“Yep. That’s him! Such a pain sometimes, but he’s so… good at land surveying, and croquet, so,” Fiyero’s hand was shaking slightly. He had to focus to keep hold of the plate of breakfast. “Thanks for, uh, the update, good to know he’s right on schedule.”

“Er, yeah,” the farmer seemed confused. 

“Good to meet you,” Fiyero said brightly, “it’s so nice to see you and your family again. I’m sure we’ll have plenty more time to talk on our way to Emerald City too.” He gave as nice an exit as he could, maybe a bit awkward, as Fiyero rushed his way past another person who seemed to also be flagging him down for his attention. He hoped it didn’t look like he was running away from his own people. Even if that was what he was doing. 

Oz’s wretched breath , he needed to be a better prince than this. 

He also needed to find Feldspur and a quiet place to plan and eat, in the short time before he had to be ready for training. Today would absolutely be a good one, Fiyero was going to be good. 

There were two large tables set up a few feet away from the four-legged folk’s water troughs. Tippetarius was there, sitting beside an empty place across from Ritley, the rest of the men occupying the other tables.

Clearly, they’d moved to his breakfast spot for him, unless they were about to declare this a coup and Fiyero’s presence unwelcome - but judging by the smiling faces, and Tippetarius waving for Fiyero to come over, that was not the case. With a practiced twist of facial expressions, Fiyero plunged the disappointment on his face down his throat to the pit of his stomach and replaced it with a smile. “Long time, no see, Tip,” he exclaimed jovially as he wandered over.

He sat in the empty place, and joined in the early morning conversation - which was easy, as Tippetarius had been in the middle of of explaining how Fiyero’d trained him with a bow.  

“Just like a Vinkun,” one of the men interrupted, and Fiyero recognized he was one of the guardsmen from Winkie Country. Tacks and Voak, were their names, he believed. “We should hold a contest, show Raplan here who’s boss.”

“I have never claimed to be better than the Lieutenant,” the young-man-who-was-Fiyero’s-age defended hotly, “just certainly better than you.” Fiyero watched Ritley’s eyes roll as Raplan continued to boast his accomplishments. 

Tippetarius managed to interrupt Raplan’s embarrassing monologue. He laughed loudly, and said, “Fiyero said the point of archery is just to look good.” The men laughed, breaking the tension on the table. Fiyero could hear the tell-tale sign of Feldspur chuckling from behind him, and tried to ignore it.

The banter amused Fiyero, and the company was unexpectedly pleasant, lifting his mood. He managed to calm his stomach enough that he managed to regain his appetite. Thank Oz. Eating was such a blessing when he could do it- a far superior a method of sustaining himself than stuffing his parts full of straw and sticks. Tasted better too. 

Not missing a beat, Raplan winked and said, “Archery skill also proves a man’s good with his hands.”

Meeting his eyes, Tippetarius looked like he wanted to fly across the table and throw a punch in Raplan’s face. Fiyero instinctively put a hand on the young page’s shoulder. “And it’s fun!” He added with a swinging gesture of his arms. 

The men looked at him strangely. Fiyero felt a worry like a seed flourishing in his stomach. 

“Well,” Ritley said with a shrug, “now we know two things about you.” 

Fiyero could only hope his nervousness didn’t show. “What two things?” He asked normalishly.

This made the men laugh again. It did not spark them to clarify. 

“Throwing spears is a Quadling sport,” one of the men from Quadling Country said, and flexed his biceps exaggeratingly at the table, “and instead of a bow even Raplan can pull, your own muscles do the work.” At that, another guard declared the best sport of all to be desertball, and the conversation grew energetic in a pleasant way, flowing much more easily for all participants. 

Leaving breakfast was awkward, as the next thing to do was morning training and they were all going to the same place. Fiyero somehow ended up walking between Tippetarius and Raplan but thankfully the rest of the guards were there to diffuse the tension. Fiyero made a mental note to see how they responded to each other during drills. The two young men couldn’t be on more fundamentally different wavelengths; Tippetarius living a life of responsibility, clearly desperate for a chance to make his own choices (even if it was, inexplicably, willingly walking the Yellow Brick Road with Fiyero) whereas Raplan, especially considering his older brother Ritley’s presence and watchful eye, seemed spoiled, immature and out solely for the glory. For a Lurline, even just a cousin, watching another person get to age faster while being more immature than them must be specifically annoying. 

He didn’t think Tippetarius would have liked the old Fiyero. (He wasn’t even sure if Tippetarius was completely sold on the new one yet.) Raplan though, seemed to like Fiyero a lot. If it weren’t for his few passing comments ( apparently, the Emerald City performers were the most beautaciously vixenatious women in all Oz and were ripe to fall in love with Munchkin boys ) where he clearly was fishing for Fiyero’s approval or advice on women, Fiyero would have assumed Raplan had a crush on him. Especially when he asked to feel Fiyero’s biceps. 

Fiyero declined to avoid an awkward pause in the group’s walk to morning training. It was a nice day. The sun had lifted the clouds up and the Vinkun citizens had eaten a good breakfast and were lazily packing up their things. A few folks followed along with the Guards, as did Viffy - who had likely been the one to plant the idea in the others. The reporter rarely missed an opportunity to watch their morning training, her phototaker primed with a hand on the release, ready to catch the instant Fiyero tripped on his face. 

Who knows? Maybe Tippetarius and Raplan would be best friends? Even Glinda and Elphaba had, according to them, not been close until right after Fiyero arrived. “This is an odd trio,” Fiyero said, gently pushing the two men on their opposing shoulders. He sauntered between them, a smile on his face that he raised to the sky. “What do you think we three have in common? Besides archery?” 

Raplan snorted, and said teasingly, “Well, I don’t dress like a trainee Witch.”

Damn, Fiyero thought, pretty sure he’d once said the same thing to insult a palace page after spilling wine on her. He was slightly impressed. 

“I’d be lucky to be mistaken for a Witch,” Tippetarius snapped back. 

Incredible, Fiyero couldn’t help but chuckle. Maybe tension wasn’t the best basis for a friendship. For years he’d been under the impression Elphaba and Galinda couldn’t have been that bad, until he’d seen how truly explosive Elphaba could become, and how deviously cruel Glinda could be, firsthand.

His relationship with Boq had always had some tension, but Fiyero considered it to have many layers. He hadn’t been blind to Boq’s infatuation with Galinda, he’d known there was jealousy there. Still, Fiyero had been jealous of Boq in many ways, his skill in croquet for one, his levelheadedness, his heart. They’d gossiped, bickered, and Fiyero had often enjoyed throwing in a flirt or two to make his cheeks blush as red as his hair. The Scarecrow and the Tin Man, on the other hand, had argued a lot. Maybe he should have realized that things had changed. Maybe he’d been wrong that they’d all been friends with each other and Dorothy. Maybe a man without a brain shouldn’t be trying to save anyone. 

Fiyero, lost in thought, remembered where he was when a twig snapped beneath his foot. He froze for a second. 

“Lieutenant?” Raplan asked. 

“Sorry, I was thinking,” Fiyero explained, trying to shake off the morose cloud building in his mind from his ruminations. Thinking any further was just going to make him sad. It was very hard to focus when he was sad. 

“About?”

“Ah,” Fiyero shook his hand in front of his face, waving off the memory like it was a fly. “An old friend I once had in Munchkinland. Long time ago. What I should be focusing on is what we are doing about this archery problem?”

“What archery problem?” Raplan blinked. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out soon enough,” Fiyero teased, with a little bit of a bite to his bark. He clapped Raplan on the shoulder. “Time for training.”

Fiyero paired Raplan and Tippetarius up for most of the morning. It worked pretty perfectly, their natural tension distilled into competitiveness. On brute strength, Raplan had Tippetarius beat, but Tippetarius’ cleverness gave him a clear edge over most situations. As they ran through drills, Fiyero couldn’t stop watching the two of them. It was, in a little way, a test of the heart versus the brain. An ethical scientist wouldn’t skew the results, but Fiyero wanted the pick-me-up, and where Tippetarius needed confidence his first day, Raplan certainly needed to be taken down a peg. It was quite easy to pick the drills and lessons that played more to Tippetarius’ skillset. 

At the end of the morning, Fiyero walked across the makeshift field to clap Tippetarius on his shoulder and give him congratulations. “Great first day,” he said brightly. 

Tippetarius gave him a bright smile. “You think so?” He said breathlessly. 

“I do,” Fiyero told him, “but I think you’ve earned spending the rest of the day off your feet.” 

The young page chuckled at that. He was shaking slightly. Fiyero doubted he’d be in better shape if he’d spent a week traveling; part of why he insisted on their reduced training schedule during the journey. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Tomorrow morning is waiting,” Fiyero said. “You should work on your other duties for the rest of the day.”

Tippetarius blinked once. Then his eyes rolled. “Are you rewarding me for good work with more mail ?” 

Biting his lip, Fiyero for a moment couldn’t think of anything to say. So he just backed away, gave Tippetarius a short bow, and proclaimed, “You’re the best page a prince could ask for!” before quickly making his escape to Feldspur. 

The next leg of the journey went exceedingly well. Fiyero, astonished, discovered what where the people of Gillikin hadn’t taken his warnings to stay on the road seriously (in hindsight, of course, why listen to the advice of some foreign prince on their own native land? ) his own Vinkun citizens took his word seriously. When one young boy wandered off, Fiyero didn’t hear about it until the citizens had already organized themselves into search parties. Interactions with the adults were far more nuanced, but Fiyero was astonished by the questions. He found himself in conversations about changes to tax law (“I haven’t heard of that but- can you repeat it? I’ll certainly be looking into it.”) and the oversaturation of gourds in the market (leading to a long discussion about tightening regulations for importing goods along the Winkie rivers that led to Quadling oceans - which made no sense to Fiyero yet). He even participated a very, very serious discussion with an elderly Vinkun swordsman and Cherrystone that left Fiyero feeling like a ping pong ball tossed between angry, half-articulated sides of an argument. He was more confused than anything else by the end of it, but neither held any ill will towards him at least.

His demeanor with the guard grew friendlier; a surprise especially when two days later he won the exhibition match. 

It had come down to him and Ritley in the end. Fiyero, all fire, had surprised him by switching to an aggressive attack - he’d felt his rage, fear, calm at being able to do something, and then Ritley had been on the ground, and all of that evaporated. Fiyero smiled. Genuine. Held out a hand. Ritley grabbed it, and Fiyero didn’t see the faces of his killers anymore. 

Rather than going their separate ways after the performances were done, as had always been the case, the men all congratulated Fiyero on his win. To Fiyero's surprise, they still joined him for breakfast in the days that the followed.  This new fraternity began to grow on him as the days went on, and a deep vice like tension inside Fiyero finally began to loosen its grip.

In his free time Fiyero  researched tax law and regulations and openly talked over everything with Feldspur that he used to carry alone in secrecy. They spoke about Evanora’s address and when they should meet her and if they should trust her (Feldspur hesitated that her name was the ‘betrayer’, Fiyero thought a person named that by the Wizard proved her trustworthiness, but they both agreed to wait.) 

Fiyero thought he might be finally doing good.

Winkie Country really rolled out the metaphorical welcome rug for the tour with a proud celebration of such magnitude that could only compare to a few moments in Fiyero’s life. There was the year of his sixteenth birthday, a momentous one in Vinkun culture, where the annual Tribal Unification Festival had been conjoined with his birthday celebration. For historical Vinkuns, sixteen would often mark the year one declared intent to study for a trade - nowadays, it was little more than ceremonial for all but the very few unlucky enough to be born royal. He’d said the words and claimed his intent to be king, hadn’t fumbled through any of his lines and saw his mother’s eyes glisten with pride. Who knew it would take another ten or so years (plus or minus a few) for Fiyero to take his vow seriously? Certainly not the people, who continued to show him far more respect far than anything he’d deserved. 

If he was truly a good person, he wouldn’t be too much of an idiot to be unable to read the census.That though, was a thought reserved for the dark, when no one could see the smile fall from his face. It just had to wait. Until Feldspur met his contact. Many things had to wait. It was selfish to even wish he could go back another five years - when Fiyero had already been given an abundance of time beyond magic told in ancient fairy stories. 

Fiyero took one step at a time down the road. In the grand jeweled city of Verdini, Tippetarius, Prince Keerio’s troupe, Viffy, and the Emerald City Performers were delighted to see the inside of a real Vinkun mine for the first time. They walked down beautiful, handcrafted stone stairs, Fiyero’s fingers tracing the vein of natural gemstone in the walls. The Chief was delighted to expand on tales of Vinkun mining artistry, “We learn on stone, practicing figures of art, symbols for good fortune,” he said, showing a section of carved symbology one of his ancestors had made, “the best work on the gemstone, silver, good - we dig out what we need but a layer stays in the wall of the stone. We must respect the beauty of the mountains the Lurline gave us.” 

As Viffy took an overabundance of pictures, Fiyero followed the Chief to another mine. Unlike the previous mine here the walls were carved haphazardly in great chunks leaving nothing that glittered behind. There were brutal and deep cuts through stone, and nothing glittered remained. 

“One of our emerald mines,” the Chief’s voice took on an added edge of grief in this place. His previously joyful and welcoming demeanor became soured and seemed to be overtaken by the oppressive coldness of these formerly resplendent walls. 

Fiyero knew he was being scrutinized, but his face contorted against his bidding to match  the emotions brewing inside of him.

“I think… I understand.” His hand traced a deep gouge in the stone, a piece of the mountain pulled out in a semiperfect square. This scar in the stone was not caused by the practiced hands of Vinkun mining masters, a strange and foreign device had created this. 

“I’ve presented my report to your father many times,” the Chief said coldly. 

Fiyero bit his lip and nodded. For a long moment, he just marveled at how cold the wall felt. It seemed like the stone itself should be screaming . “Would- is there any chance I-" he began to say, but stopped as he turned around. 

The Chief held a small, loosely bound book out in front of him. It was likely over an inch thick. Fiyero took it with a nod, and the Chief thanked him for his time. It felt extremely jarring to Fiyero, and the more he thought about it the more everything felt wrong. He woke up in the middle of the night one day to pen an apology, but rereading it in the morning proved so incriminating and inadequate that Fiyero had no other choice but to (order Tippetarius to) burn it. 

Some encounters with Vinkun culture were easier, some harder. Proving once again, why he was also not a star student in Diplomacy Classes, Prince Keerio committed a ridiculous social faux pas in the volcanic town of West Westerly. This was half Fiyero’s fault, as he’d idly commented to the other prince that he “didn’t get to claim he was well-traveled if he spent the whole time indoors.” Keerio’s misconception was, apparently, a common issue with tourists - unfortunately meaning Prince Keerio was due to be dealt with harshly as an example. One of the Vinkun guards had thought enough to warn Fiyero’s men against such a thing too. Fiyero had been completely in the dark about it. In fact, learning that such a thing was a purely Vinkun experience certainly brought some clarity to the reason why he’d been kicked out of that Quadling Prep School. 

If a simple communal hot spring was such an outrageous idea to the prissy inhabitants of the rest of Oz, it was no wonder they jumped for their pearls when they saw the simple and revealing outfits the more desert leaning tribes wore. While Keerio was behind bars waiting for a pardon, Fiyero paced outside his cell ranting about how ridiculous it all was. “Imagine wearing a corset and two skirts in the desert ? Is that all it takes for a scandalous reputation these days?!” Sour, but apologetic, Keerio thanked him profusely and swore to never again attempt an orgy anywhere in Winkie Country. He’d initially promised ‘not in public,’ but Fiyero had already had to suffer through several embarrassing photographed conversations . He was therefore unwilling to risk further scandalocious incidents that might permanently cling to his public persona, and demanded a complete ban within his borders. Keerio sheepishly complied.

One of the Chiefs proudly displayed their tribes’ historic skill making Vinkun ink, and perfectly conspired with Viffy to pull Fiyero in for photoshoots. She had written a letter prior to his arrival, claiming her desire to promote her town as a hub of Vinkun fashion. “Some say its a dying art, but tattooing is a long, ancient part of our history,” she began three separate tours with that sentence, taking care to look Viffy in the eye each time. Fiyero had never taken much time to look into the symbology beyond the basics; and found himself staring with interest at an ancient armband design. The runes were made up of several tribal traditions, Arjiki included, with various calls and prayers for wisdom. The Chief noticed but didn’t push. While she was eager to present their artistry to all of Oz, she didn’t seem keen to bring out the needle and hammer in front of Viffy’s phototaker. It made Fiyero all the more curious, but he tried to push that out of his mind. A spur of the moment tattoo seemed like something the old Fiyero would do, and he was trying to avoid those things, however tempting. 

The Tinwork Palace was not a stop on their route, but the Yellow Brick Road did veer off the ridiculous fifteen miles to pass through there, so they spent a night anyways. It was a glorious and beautiful show of Winkie Culture and artistry, and the passionate goat performers truly made the night - so Fiyero was told by Feldspar. Unfortunately, he spent his evening shuttered inside reading the mining report. 

One thing that turned out to be quite pleasant took a little while for Fiyero to realize was happening. It was hard to notice the absence of a thing, as much as it is easy to notice when it’s being annoying in the moment. He was in one of the training fields, the guards were packing the supplies up while he walked Tippetarius through some of the basic sword stances and positions. While walking past them, his arms full of flags and markers for the Horse-back drills, Raplan joked to the Vinkun guard beside him, “It’s funny how Prince Fiyero doesn’t have as many loving fans in his own country.” 

Fiyero’s eye twitched at that. He couldn’t deny that Raplan was right, though. That specific brand of fervent needing from eligible bachelors and bachelorettes was oddly absent in this neck of the wood. It was a relief, but was that a good thing? Did that mean he was less or more respected?

The Vinkun guard scoffed. “They’re there. They just know they can’t compete with Princess Sarima.”

Tippetarius gave him an odd look and mouthed two words. Fiyero, to his distress, perfectly understood the page to be saying, ‘Galinda, Sarima? ’ but in his panic and desire to ignore all of that entirely, he pretended he hadn’t heard or seen anything and continued Tippetarius’s sword lesson with Bull-headed intensity. 

Late in the evening one night on the trail, the caravan was gathered for the last Winkie sunset against the mountains. The sun tucked itself behind the brilliant Vinkun mountainscape, filling the sky awash with brilliant, natural colors. From their small hill, a few miles from the nearest mountain trail, the natural stone formations of Oz broke the light like a jagged crown of earth. Behind them was the expanse of Winkie grassland and forests, a beautiful sight in its own right as dark shadows spread out from the light to spread its comforting darkness. Fiyero had always loved the sight of sunsets from Kiamo Ko. 

Tonight, as the citizens of the Vinkun and Guardsmen of Oz enjoyed the spectacular sunset, Fiyero walked the inner grounds instead. 

Kiamo Ko had been only basically maintained in the absence of the Arjiki family. The steward of the castle had kept it clean and in basic working order, though the indoor garden had not been kept. After all, the Empress and Emperor had made Vetred Ko in Babel their home for the majority of his life. As the view of the sky stole everyone’s attention, Fiyero wandered familiar grounds.

First, he explored his old bedroom, then the Master bedroom where his parents had slept, all furniture covered in white sheets. After, he wandered the halls, finding a place to stare and look at the gravity-defying pillars making up a magical foundation. Kiamo Ko was a marvel, a revelation of old Vinkun architecture and magical prowess. His morose, but thoughtless musings kept him going, until he reached the room where Elphaba died. He stood there for a long time. It seemed fitting, next, to go to the place where the Scarecrow met his end. 

He walked to the grounds of the castle, making his way to a dusty corner that seemed to serve no purpose. There were no ashes, no signs of a grand bonfire, because no fire had been lit there yet. Fiyero leaned down, feeling the dirt with his hand. 

Feldspur’s hooves made a gentle noise as it came down in the dusty earth. Fiyero listened, and didn’t move, waiting until the Horse came right up beside him. With a practiced move, he leaned over to rest his body against Feldspur’s flank. 

“It was right here?” Feldspur asked in a low, pained tone. Fiyero could feel the rumbling in the Horse’s throat against his side. 

“The second time, yes,” he said softly. A quick look around did confirm they were alone. It was nice, using the stunning natural beauty of Oz to his advantage - for once. 

“The first on the Yellow Brick Road?” 

Fiyero nodded. He wanted to confirm it for Feldspur, but the last thing he needed was to ruminate on his many deaths. “Have you made contact with that person in Emerald City?” He asked.

Feldspur nodded too, though his head was much bigger and when he bobbed it up and down Fiyero was pushed forward slightly. “She should be able to read the census and the Minister’s notes. They’re going for the Lions first?”

“Or they already have,” Fiyero said with worry.

“We could find clues to where they’re taken prisoners, or find out who they’re targeting next,” Feldspur said. Adding, quite frankly, “Do you think they’re building the trains so Oz doesn’t need four-leggers anymore?” 

He couldn’t say. It seemed very possible. “We need to be suspicious of any new ideas or technocreations from Emerald City.”

“At least the train can’t pass through the mountains.”

“They wanted it to,” Fiyero said quietly, “the mining towns were all ordered to do surveys. It’s just dumb luck the local chiefs were uncooperative.” Feldspur snorted. Like Fiyero had said something amusing. They were having quite a serious conversation, so Fiyero was a bit offended by that. “What?”

“You could find it comforting instead of attributing it all to luck,” the Horse had a twinkle in his eye.

“What?” Fiyero asked.

“You’re not the only Vinkun resisting the reach of Emerald City,” Feldspur explained. He used his large nose to give Fiyero a comforting nudge. “It means after you are Emperor, you’ll have support.” 

Fiyero took a deep breath. He looked at the patch of unspoiled dirt in front of him and felt very little, instead the looming concept of a crown seemed far more concerning. “And h-” he started to say, the words catching in his throat. Feldspur waited with practiced patience for Fiyero to find his voice. “How long do you think it will take?” 

“I’m not sure,” Feldspur told him seriously.

“Mother and Father are always saying the crown will come when I’m ready for it, the way all things in Oz do, but I haven’t been- I can’t let-” Fiyero grimaced. “My father is healthy and strong, there’s no reason for him to give up the throne unless he trusts me completely with it. So if the time comes and he’s still in charge, what should I even do? I can’t overthrow my own father. I’m not even sure I’d even do a better job than him.”

“I think it’s very likely you would be a very good Emperor,” Feldspur said thoughtfully. “Hm. Your mother also likes to say no crown until grandchildren.”

Fiyero snorted. “I know that . But even assuming she does remember me-” (unlikely, so unlikely, she would have come to him, wouldn’t she? He needed to stop hoping, it was a festering wound) “-marriage and children take years.”

“Weddings can be quick,” Feldspur said, “though a private wedding would not endear you to the people.” Fiyero agreed wholeheartedly to that. “Is she like you, Fiyero?”

Startled, he met his friend’s eye. “Like me? No- no,” he pushed away from Feldspur’s flank, his thoughts suddenly whirring in his head, “She’s smart, the smartest person I’ve ever met. Book smart, sometimes it feels like she knows everything. She even knows what she wants, and doesn’t let anyone or anything stop her from doing what’s right.”

“Ah, I meant is she Real?”

Fiyero blinked. “Oh. Yes. She is.”

Humming thoughtfully, Feldspur took a few careful steps around the grounds. Walking, in a circle, observing the place. “How does it feel being back here, after all that happened?”

It took Fiyero some time to answer honestly. His eyes trailed over the parapets and towers of Kiamo Ko castle that surrounded them. There was a pain in his chest, but it was wholly different from what he had felt on the exhibition field, or when looking at Cherrystone, or that painful snap like lightning in his mind every time he was forced to sit and smile while someone praised the virtues of the Wizard. This pain in his chest felt soft, and easy. 

“It still feels like home,” Fiyero said. “It really does.”

Feldspur tapped his hoof on the ground with a smile, and nodded. “I’m glad,” he said, “and-” his head turned to the side and he looked past Fiyero. “Ah, a princely friend is incoming,” he warned gently.

Fiyero waited a few seconds, put a smile on his face, and turned around. “Keerio!” He greeted.

The Munchkin Country prince was walking briskly forward. There was a serious expression on his face, which Fiyero thought made the man look more handsome. “Fiyero!” He waved and shouted, though he was close enough it was unnecessary. 

“Enjoying the sites of the ol’ family stomping grounds?” Fiyero asked pleasantly.

“What- ignore that!” Keerio said animatedly. He got close enough to grab Fiyero’s arm. “I have to- how are even your hands muscular- ignoring that, I need your help.”

“What’s her name?” Fiyero asked with a smirk.

“Rapunzel, apparently,” Keerio told him breathlessly, “you have to let me go with you.”

Fiyero blinked. “With me…?”

“To rescue her!” 

“Wait- who-” Fiyero put his hands on Keerio’s shoulders and looked in his eye. “What are you talking about?”

Chapter Text

One afternoon in the merry land of Oz, ten folks departed from their company for a rescue mission. Nine of the company were men, eight of them were human, seven were in uniform as members of the Ozian guard, six of them had years of training to fight, five were from Winkie Country, four were deceitful, three royalty, two Animals, and only one knew where they were going. 

Fiyero held Feldspur’s reins tight in his hands. The light of the day was heavily muted beneath the trees; as the sun continued to sink in the afternoon his stomach did as well. If they kept walking much longer, torches would be required, perhaps even a rest for the night - the last thing he wanted was to close his eyes. Between his first two fingers Fiyero folded the Vinkun palm leather material over and over, back and forth. He was ready to urge his friend to gallop at a moment’s notice. As the Horse’s attention  remained focused on the road and the path, Fiyero kept his eye out for danger. 

The Great Dark Forest of Winkie Country spread out far beyond the border that rested beside the grounds of Kiamo Ko. These ancient woods stood tall, their canopy muting the sun; the thickness of the leaves was only matched by the thickness of the underbrush. Their guide was a slight man. His clothes were worn and tattered, his eyes wide and darting about as he walked the trail. Fiyero couldn’t help but notice that the man’s hair was cut nicely, and while there was a shadow of a beard on his face it was slightly uneven, like he’d recently had a stylized shave. It wouldn’t be unheard of for a hermitous Ozian to still take pride in grooming, but… and Fiyero didn’t have anything else. Just ‘ but ’. He didn’t fully know why, but in his gut it felt off. Of course, Fiyero couldn’t base his actions on feelings , rulers needed to be objective, focus on fact to sort out the truth, and make sure what was done was what was best for all. A prince could not simply stand by when one of his own citizens asked for help, could they?

As they forged a careful path through dark and tangled brush, overgrown roots, following a slim Animal-forest trail, Fiyero’s eyes were as steady as Feldspur’s nimble steps. Behind his back, sharing the saddle, Prince Keerio held a haphazard grip on Fiyero’s shirt. It wouldn’t be the first time the Munchkin Prince had ridden on the back of the noble, blue Horse - that would have been the time they’d been running from an irate Daisies Guild entourage during that enchanting summer ‘study’ program on the Quadling Isle of Seafoam Harmonia. Keerio had been out of breath and screaming at the end, decrying all Vinkun Horses as ferociously powerful beasts purely enchanted by the wind - while Feldspur and Fiyero fell into a cackling pile of laughter. Keerio declared “hencesorths and all forestoothwidths hence” that he would never sit upon Feldspur’s back again.

Keerio rescinded that great proclamation after an hour of walking induced a sorrowful blister on his right pinkie toe. Still, Fiyero was pleasantly surprised that Keerio’s determination to continue on was unshaken. 

He wasn’t sure what in particular it was about this ‘Rapunzel’s’ story that caught Keerio’s attention. A damsel trapped in a tower by a Witch? Hardly the kind of danger that Keerio would typically want to sprint towards, no matter how beautiful such a maiden was meant to be. Perhaps it was  simply the fact that when the distraught man had run up to the camp begging to speak to “the prince,” he’d first pleaded his case at Keerio’s feet. Prince Keerio was in no way heartless; Fiyero had seen him give up on paramours so as not to ruffle others feelings. Plus, he knew how easily and naturally it came to the young man to be generous with his friendship and privileges. Keerio was not above putting aside his own pride for the good of the group, as evidenced by the time they’d once been accidentally locked in a wine cellar (which they definitely were not supposed to be in) and needed a ‘volunteer’ with an appropriately small frame to climb out the narrow chimney to unlock the door. 

Prince Keerio, however, was very much a lover and not a fighter. Against a Witch even half as powerful as Elphaba, Fiyero wouldn’t stand a chance even with ten dozen men at his side, so as much as he admired Keerio’s desire to help, Fiyero was much more concerned about keeping him safe. International relationships with Munchkin Country were bound to falter if Fiyero got one of their princes killed.

Sometimes his brain felt too cynical. He disliked it. Fiyero shook his head to try to clear his mind. 

“What’s the point of a tower in a forest like this?” Keerio wondered aloud. His voice, right by Fiyero’s ear, made it hard to ignore. “You can’t see anything for the trees.”

Fiyero may not have known of this tower specifically, but he had been to a few others in the area. One that stood along the road toward the Inamen Tribe had been converted to a traveling lodge; and there was another by a river through the mountains that had been purchased and restored by a small sculpture school. “The tower will be higher than the trees,” he answered curtly. 

The man, just a lowly Vinkun widower (or so he claimed), looked at Fiyero and nodded his head eagerly, like a woodpecker cutting a nest in a tree. “Yes, it’s very tall, very tall indeed,” he said. “My daughter has been trapped there, trapped there for ages.”

“Poor thing,” Keerio crooned. Fiyero felt Keerio shift behind him and heard the tell-tale click of a pocket sized tintype photograph slate of Rapunzel - one that his besotted friend had been jealously guarding all day - slide open. Fiyero rolled his eyes and tried in vain to ignore his fellow prince’s pining for a girl that neither of them had even met.

He tried to forget how that might be hypocritical.

“Show Prince Fiyero again,” the man insisted. 

“No,” Fiyero said stiffly, holding out his hand palm out to stop this. “I saw. Your daughter is very beautiful. Thank you for allowing Prince Keerio to hold onto her tintype so we can identify her. Let’s keep moving.” He expected more protest, but everyone took his order without complaint. 

The guide, who claimed to be the kidnapped Rapunzel girl’s father, had not seen her since she was stolen as a child by an unlicensed Witch. (How he knew, specifically that the Witch was unlicensed, he hadn’t said.) A fortnight ago, however, while wandering through the woods he’d come up a tower in the woods, where his lost daughter lay trapped and unreachable at the top. Fiyero had certain doubts, but to defend them would reveal too much; Feldspur had advised to keep quiet for now. Unfortunately, the non-Vinkun members of the party had a few questions. 

“Sir,” Ritley said, walking beside Feldspur’s flank on the narrow forest path, “this tower isn’t on any of the maps in the area.”

The tower was the only part of the story Fiyero wasn’t suspicious of. “As a matter-of-fact, there are still a few ancient structures standing in the woods. It’s probably an old Vinkun wartower,” Fiyero replied, his attention elsewhere His eyes skimmed across the forest for danger, passing over emerald vines trailing down from the sky like fingers to touch the mossy ground, vibrant patches of mushrooms, and those tall, steadfast dark-wood trees with barely a thought.

There was a strange feeling inside him. Like the Scarecrow was hovering anxiously just inches beneath his skin. In retrospect, Fiyero had felt the same odd sensation while exploring Mombi’s outpost in Oasis Town. Magic . It felt close, yet undecipherable, like an orchestra playing all instruments out of sync. 

“ War tower?” Keerio repeated, sounding both delighted and confused. “I thought all the stops on the tour were about teaching us Vinkun tribes are known for their peace and artistry .”

“Well,” Voak said gruffly with a shrug, “all but one.”

Keerio started to ask a question. With a stern cough, Fiyero interrupted him, “How much farther?”

Rapunzel’s So-Called Father looked up at him and smiled wistfully. “It will not be much longer till you lay your first sight upon her, my prince.”

It took enormous restraint on Fiyero’s part not to lean in and whisper in Feldspur’s ear to ask if he thought that sounded suspicious too. Fiyero swallowed. “Great,” he said. As he looked at Tippetarius, Ritley, and the rest of the guard walking down the trail, he wondered if there was something wrong with him. Perhaps all his experiences with death had led to some paranoid ultra-sensitivity, or maybe it was the “accused Witch” of it all. He had already met one, apparently, unlicensed evil Witch recently. The idea of two spouting about in Oz one right after another just seemed unsettling to him. 

Feldspur’s hooves tapped a steady rhythm on the ground, Fiyero’s body swaying slightly with each step. There were only a few patches of sunlight along the trail as they walked, peeking through the heavy foliage above. A short patch of light passed over Rapunzel’s father as he walked through it. Fiyero stared with bated breath, as if the sunlight would reveal some monstrous true form beneath. Alas, the brief sun exposure only served to highlight the graying tufts of hair behind the man’s ears. Perhaps the man was telling the truth, and Fiyero had lucked into another one of Mombi’s plots in the Winkie lands? Which would mean after twenty years of searching, a normal Vinkun man with no magical prowess had simply stumbled onto a hidden lair of the perpetrator ( who must be an extremely powerful Witch to succeed in hiding from the Registration of Sorcery for decades ). Then he’d discovered his daughter, successfully escaped, and in a stunning stroke of coincidence - Fiyero and a faction of the Emerald City guard happened to only be a few hours away at the time. 

It seemed either extremely unlikely, or highly lucky , and Fiyero didn’t have much trust in his luck. 

“If the tower’s an ancient ruin, why would it still be taller than the trees?” Keerio asked. 

“It grew,” Fiyero said nonchalantly. 

Hearing a stick snap, Fiyero turned his head in time to see Ritley recover from a stumble. The older man put his hand on Pinzo Faylor’s flank to steady himself, the young Elk pausing for him with a gentle expression. “Apologies, sir,” Ritley said when he noticed Fiyero’s eyes on him. “The tower grew?” 

“Yes.” Fiyero wanted to leave it at that and would have, too, if he hasn't noticed Tippetarius raising a hand. The page was dressed in all-white, was seated atop Pinzo’s saddle, and was hard to ignore. Unable to help himself, Fiyero put on his best professor impression and said, “A question, from the young gentleman?”

“The tower grew?” Tippetarius repeated.

Feldspur, who’d been taking slower and slower steps, stopped. It seemed an indication to Fiyero that he needed to answer. “Arjiki architecture goes hand in hand with magic,” he explained with a grimace, “if the tower was built in the forest, it was likely to keep an eye out for smoke or other signs of foreign combatants' arrival; and likely served as a hub for a contingent of guards and scouts. The tower’s design would remain above the tree line. However, without anyone maintaining it, growth magic is prone to warping in some ways. It’s hard to say what we’ll be in for.” Then, thinking for a moment, Fiyero added, “Besides verticality, obviously.”

Tippetarius eyes widened. “So if the tower grows like a tree, that’s why there’s no door at the bottom for Rapunzel to get out?” 

“Presumably,” Fiyero agreed. 

“Wait, so the wartowers are Arjiki wartowers,” Keerio started to say, a suspicious and devious tone to his voice that Fiyero knew all too well. 

“This forest is haunted,” Fiyero lied quickly and easily. “We should keep quiet and focus on reaching the tower. Watch the trees. Eyes out for ghosts.” Fiyero’s men jumped to attention, the walk resumed, and everyone seemed to believe his word without question - with the exception of Tippetarius, who gave Fiyero plenty of side-eye but kept quiet. 

There was a solitary boulder in the forest. It was slightly jagged, part of the deep earth poking out of mossy ground. Standing on top of it, and looking through his officer’s spyglass, Fiyero could see a dark looming gap in the space between the stars. It was a deep, triangular shaped shadow that would have gone unnoticed had Rapunzel’s father not pointed it out. 

The boulder provided enough respite from the trees growth to form a small clearing in the brush. Here was where they’d set up camp for the night. Fiyero didn’t want to approach the tower blind, and they were still a safe enough distance away to avoid detection. The men had once more chosen to make a fire, unfortunately, but from his position sitting on the rock Fiyero was shielded from sparks. They were gathered all around in a half-circle, eating and taking their rest. At a distance, Rapunzel’s father stoked the fire - Fiyero liked him there. His crouched body loomed in stark, vivid contrast to the firelight. 

“Perhaps we should pass it around,” Ritley was saying, cutting through the general muddle of words going in and out of Fiyero’s attention. Keerio gave a flabbergasted and shocked reaction to the suggestion. The prince held the photograph tight in his arms and shouted his disagreement. Half paying attention, Fiyero stood by as the scene played out. 

Ritley insisted that all of the men take a look at the image of Rapunzel, so that they would be able to recognize her. With some half-cohesive protests and light-hearted teasing, Keerio eventually gave up the tintype photograph. Ritley stared for a long moment then passed it along. The rest of the men followed his example. 

“Wow, she is, no offense sir, very beautiful,” Tacks said, staring longingly at the photo as he held it up for Pinzo’s eyes. 

“I prefer antlers, but yes, I see she’s beautiful,” Pinzo said, which gained some chuckles around the makeshift camp. In a more serious tone, the young Elk added, “I do hope she is well. Poor girl. It is quite an awful thing to take someone so young  and confine them away from the beauty of Oz.”

While Fiyero’s eyes kept focus on the dark shape of the tower in the distance, his mind slipped away to unpleasant places. Cages, Lions, cold stone statues in an underground prison-

There was a shout. Fiyero jumped to attention off of the rock, his feet landing in the same motion as his arm pulled out his sword. Then he stood, waiting. No one else was moving. Everyone was looking at him , in surprise, but heads quickly turned back to the source. 

Tippetarius stood massaging his hands like they’d been burned. The tintype photograph lay at his feet in the dirt. 

“What happened?” Fiyero ordered.

“I don’t, it was nothing,” Tippetarius shook his head. “Sorry.” Looking down, he made a sorrowful noise, saying, “I cracked it. I didn’t mean to.” The young page bent down, reaching a hand toward the tintype photograph. 

Fiyero surged forward. Two quick steps barely got him in range, he moved his sword in a snapping motion to block Tip’s hand. “Careful!” 

Tippetarius stopped. He jumped backward, but thankfully hadn’t come close to touching either Fiyero’s steel or the photograph. “Fiyero!” He shouted, agast. 

Fiyero’s gaze firmly fixed on the image lying on the ground. “Ritley, Feldspur, eyes on the guest,” he ordered. The tintype had indeed cracked. There was a horizontal cut along one edge to the other, a line dividing the image just below the young woman’s neck. 

He knelt down on the ground and held his hand over top, running his fingers along nothing in the air. For a moment, he felt stupid. Yes, there was magic inside of him, and it was Elphaba’s magic and this was how he’d seen her use it, but just because it was there didn’t mean it was his for Fiyero to use. Much less without ever opening a magic theory textbook once. A person sort of needed to master the easy sciences before attempting to understand the hardest of them all. Thankfully, Ozma had assigned him a fairy-blooded page. “Tip,” feeling slightly like this was cheating, but at what game he didn’t know, Fiyero asked, “what did you feel?” 

“It was nothing,” Tippetarius said, his eyes darting around the forest clearing and looking sheepish and apologetic toward Rapunzel’s father. (Feldspur was standing behind the man with a determined frown, and Ritley doing the same but seeming confused.) “Just because I’m dressed in white like a Witch doesn’t mean-“

“I know. Trust me. Please, kneel next to me and follow my hands,” Fiyero interrupted. 

It only took a few seconds of hesitation, but Tippetarius did as Fiyero requested. (Perhaps the ‘please’ had done it.) His slim hands wafted a few inches over top of the tintype photograph, fingers twitching alongside Fiyero’s motions. “I do feel… something, it just could be anything.” 

“Close your eyes,” Fiyero instructed. One of the men tried to interrupt but Fiyero shushed him. 

Tippetarius closed his eyes. His hand shook slightly, then stilled. “It didn’t want me holding it,” he said. 

“Who does it want?” 

The shaking hand hesitated in the air, fingers flexing and relaxing steadily. At this, Fiyero’s sense of magic did begin to kick in - he could feel something, like a warm, flower-petal laden breeze, or a gentle wave glittering gold from the sun. That’s Tippetarius? He wondered. 

"It wants,” Tippetarius said softly, his fingers pointing to Fiyero, “but it can’t reach.” Then his fingers twisted elegantly in the air and turned toward Keerio. “So it goes,” and his fingers curled inward to face himself, “it tried. Now it’s broken, the spell is fading, and I-“ Tilting his head, his voice trailed off and forehead furrowed with concentration. 

Fiyero stood up. He met the eyes of Rapunzel’s father. They met his own. Steady. 

His sword was in his left hand. The bag slung around his waist contained his gear and bow case; his musket was unfortunately out of reach, but strapped tightly to Feldspur’s saddle. Fiyero was in uniform, his boots solid, whereas the other man was in tattered clothes and worn sandals - in a fight or a run, Fiyero was better equipped. 

Prince Keerio shouted, clapping his hands, “Will someone please tell me what is going on ?!” 

For a moment, Fiyero’s attention shifted to his friend. The regret he felt snapped him back to attention. He turned to see Ritley falling to his knees - Rapunzel’s father turning to run through the woods. Fiyero had no time to think, only act. 

The rags flapping along the back of the man’s shirt were close enough to grab by the time they reached the edge of the clearing, but he twisted around a tree to dodge Fiyero’s hand. Fiyero’s feet snapped quick and harsh into the ground. Nimbly, jumping over rocks, unsteady roots, his hands slapped branches away so he could continue to run, ignoring the forest buffeting him on the path. The woods were deep, ancient, and thick - Fiyero was barely a second behind but any moment of hesitation could mean losing him. He threw his body forward and against and into the obstacles, ducking under a wide root, jumping over a rock in the path. Reactive, fast, any loss he quickly overtook. 

The man came to a sudden and complete stop. 

Fiyero’s body hit his target like a carriage collision. There was a falling over sensation, like an invisible wall that had suddenly given way and they were falling end over end. His body twisted with uncontrolled gravity, utterly disoriented, but Fiyero’s hands searched and grabbed and eventually found a neck. 

With a hearty oomf they came to a stop. Fiyero had a sudden realization of soreness on every inch of his body, and came to the conclusion that he’d just rolled down a very long hill. There was a hefty pain in his right knee, and he wasn’t quite sure where his left leg was, Fiyero’s body had landed in a  slightly propped up position on account of his  steady grip on the fleeing man’s collar. 

A few things were quickly becoming apparent. They had stopped after coming into contact with a stone wall that rounded off at the ends. Second, the man in front of him was not going to leave Fiyero’s grasp again - because his leg (not Fiyero’s, not this time, but the sight of his own detached limbs was not one he was un-familiarized with) was detached. A solitary limb resting in the gravely dirt a few feet away. There was no blood, and a shimmering crack had split open across the man’s face. Magic leaked out and hissed beneath Fiyero’s fingertips as it touched the boundaries of his own. 

Though he shouldn’t have been alive, or conscious, judging by the state of his twisted-up body, the man who had claimed to be “Rapunzel's father” did not seem concerned. He was muttering something. Once the ringing in Fiyero’s ears faded, he leaned in. 

The man’s mouth moved and shook. Whispered. A phrase. Over and over. “‘My Witch?” Fiyero repeated, leaning his face closer, “Why are you sorry?”  

“I-" the man’s strange, magical face changed, eyes widening in terror. He was focusing on a place past Fiyero’s right shoulder but a glance showed that there was nothing there. Whatever this man was seeing, Fiyero couldn’t. 

“Which Witch?” Fiyero asked, turning his attention back to the man.

Wide, shaking dark eyes turned to meet his own. They blinked, and they changed to blue. Beneath his fingertips the body wavered and shimmered for a moment in the light before the man disappeared entirely. There was a woman instead. The crack on the face and lost leg remained, but a smile came upon her face instead. “Hello,” the woman said, with the casual nonchalance of a person remarking on the weather.

Neither the broken body she’d taken over, her positioning pressed against a ruined tower, nor Fiyero’s hands on her neck seemed to phase her. She smiled at the sight of his face. 

The face he was looking at was the same as the one on the tintype photograph. “Rapunzel, I presume?” Fiyero asked. 

“Oh, no, you’ll still find her in the tower,” the woman’s voice was tender and thoughtful. “Poor little Rapunzel. Wrapped up in a neat little story like a bow. All for you .”

“Then who are you?” He asked, though as he did the feeling of magic bustling around him conjured a familiar memory. There was a taste that accompanied it, a bitterness on his tongue. The tintype photograph was one trick found and defeated. Between his hands, he held onto another trick - a human-sized shape illusioned into life, first by some proxy, but now he was speaking face to face with her . Tippetarius’ magic had felt like sunlight on his skin; hers tasted of bitterness and ash. He knew the taste. This was a new face, but Fiyero had no doubts that the woman in front of him was most certainly Mombi.

What did she want from him? And what had she already taken? Fiyero tightened his grip on her throat with malice and snarled, “Have you ever heard of a Witchhunter?” 

Mombi raised her fake, pale blonde eyebrow. She seemed quite calm and collected, but then again it wasn’t her true body captured and broken resting against the tower in the woods. She wasn’t really there. Not her body nor her real face. Just her …presence . “I didn’t expect magic from you,” she said sweetly. 

“I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately,” Fiyero deceitfully scoffed. “What is your plan here, Witch?”

“Oh, sweet little prince.” A hand lifted, ever so slightly, to brush against his cheek in a presumptively familiar gesture. There was a weird weight to it, a sparkle in the not-Mombi eyes that felt- motherly. “Come to heel,” she crooned, “make it easy. We all can get what we want. I don’t have to bleed your heart.” 

Fiyero’s stomach dropped. “What-?” He started to say. 

But Mombi had already gone. Without her, the deep darkness seemed suddenly lighter - fireflies and starlight finally staving the deepest shadows of the woods away. He could hear noises, cricketing in the far distance, and shouting voices of people from nearby. It was his name they were calling, too. 

He was distracted, though, because in his arms Fiyero found himself holding the limp body of a near-human sized wooden nutcracker soldier.

Its head was supported by his hands, jaw wide open and empty. The eyes were lifeless. It was wood now, and that was all it ever truly was. “Al… right .” Fiyero dropped it to the ground. “That’s fine.” He stood carefully to his feet. “Not creepy.” Then he took a step back. Ugh, was Scarecrow’s face as unsettling to look at?

In front of him, the ancient Arjiki tower soared high into the sky. The dark trees loomed beneath it, the tower piercing through the shadows to stand stark against the half-moon in the sky. It was hard to see any shapes in the top of the tower at all. Just at the point where the details began to fade to gray, Fiyero spotted what might be the bottom of a door at the midway point. Right … There might be an actual person still trapped up there.

From deep in his chest, Fiyero sighed. This next part would likely be a lot easier if he could fly. Alas , he thought, silly me without my broomstick.  

He heard the sound of a Horse braying in the distance and forced his mind back to focus. Turning around, Fiyero cupped his hands and shouted back. 

The non-capital ‘t’ nutcracker thing - lifeless and useless without any shelled nuts in need of cracking- sat oddly propped up against the side of the tower. As Fiyero recount his (edited) story with the rest of the party - now gathered at the base of the tower  it kept drawing his attention in an unfortunate way.

Must be nice to be made of wood, Fiyero thought petulantly. Treatments and stains could make the body sleek and flame retardant. One could sit by a fire and not worry about spray sparks lighting their dry, dry straw. Almost as nice as it must be to be made of tin - welded together too tight to get ripped apart by Lions and Crows. Ugh , if anyone could hear his thoughts they’d lock him back up in a sanitorium. Here was the Prince Charming of Oz, jealous of a nutcracker. 

“Sounds… pretty much exactly like we’re walking into a trap,” Ritley said with a frown. It was the most accurate way to put it. 

“ Climbing into a trap,” Fiyero corrected. “But yes.”

Ritley raised an eyebrow. The disappointed look on his face had Fiyero thinking like he was in trouble. 

Feldspur coughed. He drew everyone’s attention to him, and then asked, “I believe the men are eager to know why you’d ask them to knowingly continue on, if we suspect a trap.”

Ah, that explained why everyone was frowning at him. “Right,” Fiyero patted Feldspur’s flank gratefully. “Well, this tower is mine, so I want to know what in Oz this Witch has done with my tower. And I’m not keen to leave some strange trap lying about my kingdom for someone else to fall into.” He was surprised to see how quickly and easily the men accepted that. Fiyero looked back to nods of approval, no more raised hands or questions. All of his men, ready to follow him into unknown danger. “Keerio, you’re the only person here not under my command. I know you got into this to save the girl from the photograph-"

“You said she’s still there?” Keerio asked. 

“Not from the photograph, but Rapazel, yes, I believe so,” Fiyero admitted. “I wouldn’t put it past this Witch to have kidnapped a real girl for- for whatever this is.”

“Rapunzel,” Feldspur corrected before anyone else could call it out and then quickly continued. “But you were mostly right. And, folks, I do believe Fiyero is right about the Witch too.”

“That Witch could have been lying,” Tippetarius pointed out thoughtfully. There was no bite to his words, just bepuzzlement. 

Fiyero couldn’t help a small smile that crossed his face. “National pastime of Oz?” He referenced to Tippetarius, pleased by his own wit. The young man shrugged and nodded. It was nice to know he was listening. “I have no doubts she’s lying,” Fiyero said, “she knows more than I do, but she doesn’t know I’m onto her.”

He felt a weight press against the back of his left shoulder. A familiar gesture from Feldspur. Fiyero’s back straightened, and his voice felt a bit stronger against his tongue, “I’ve lied to all of you.”

Tippetarius’s face lit up. He seemed delighted. “You were on her trail when you left for that ‘survey’! Were you not?!”

Fiyero wished they weren’t doing this in the middle of the night. It was hard to read the faces of the men, to gauge how his words were being received. It felt like walking with his eyes closed. “I need to know what she’s doing, and why, to stop her,” Fiyero continued, nodding at Tippetarius's perfectly timed proclamation. The how of Mombi’s extracurriculars he knew quite well, but ‘with the support of the Wizard’ was a step too far for anyone to swallow - Feldspur still barely believed it. No, he would have to keep that particular thread to himself for a while longer. “I cannot risk any more Ozians falling as casualties to her schemes. If there’s even a chance there’s a person trapped in that tower, I have to do something.”

“How has this been permitted to go on for so long?” Tacks demanded. He sounded outraged, but the big gesture he made with his hands seemed more broad than pointed at Fiyero. “An unlicensed Witch running rampant through the Vinkus?”

Fiyero bit his lip. He felt that same outrage in his bones , down to the last shred of straw in his innards - how had it gone on? How had any loss been acceptable, how could atrocities be hidden so easily behind a pen-?

With a resounding stomp of a hoof, Feldspur stepped forward. His head held high, and his deep blue body standing out like a rich ink against the dark, he looked quite intimidating and regal. “Because her crimes were against Animals,” Feldspur stated, definitively. “They went unnoticed and unreported. But Fiyero uncovered her schemes and she’s after him now to silence him.”

Ritley’s face was stern. His shoulders square, and body tensed and ready by his sides - looking every inch the perfect soldier. He nodded at Fiyero. Though made a gesture to indicate he wanted to ask a question. “If she’s gone after only Animals,” he said, “why suddenly humans?” 

“What’s the difference?” Fiyero asked sharply. 

Ritley blinked, then nodded, falling back into a ready position. 

Fiyero turned to Keerio. “This all still stands,” he said. “Everyone else here has taken an Oath of the Guard. I don’t have any proof this problem extends beyond the Winkie borders to yours to make this your obligation. You could go back.” 

Keerio, looking serious, nodded. It was a good expression on his face, furrowed brows and a frown somehow both made Keerio more handsome and look more like his mother. “I’m a prince too, right? Rescuing maidens is what we do.”

Fiyero blinked at him. “In… in story books,” he reminded, “in real life there’s a lot more … death .” He felt Feldspur’s nose press once again on the back of his shoulder. 

Keerio, who knew better than anyone that the lives of royalty in Oz were much more about bouncing from party to party and doing paperwork, simply shrugged. “And let you be the only prince with the glory? I’ve got a reputation to salvage, too . I’m in,” he said. “Besides, I’ve got a lot of friends here in Winkie Country.”

Tacks let out a hearty laugh, clapping the Munchkin Prince on the shoulder. “Good on you, man.”

“Alright,” Fiyero said, eyeing the Vinkun guards in the back covering a yawn. Turning his head, he caught Feldspur’s eye. The Horse gave him an encouraging nod. “Let’s set up camp for the night,” Fiyero ordered, “we’ll climb the tower at first light.” 

On sleeping bags haphazardly thrown onto the ground, bolstered by little but torch-light, Fiyero slowly watched the night fade away. He lay back on Feldspur’s resting flank, his head turned upward and eyes unable to close. Gray morning light brought the tower into the view. The trees stretched high into the air and the tower rose just above it, long bricks and slender columns soaring upward into the sky. The door Fiyero had barely made out the night before now came  clearer into view. There it was, halfway up the tower, just low enough that he could just make out the old wooden door. 

“You promise to be careful?” Feldspur asked, his throat rumbling against the back of Fiyero’s head as he rested against him. 

“Even if I don't, the odds of my survival after a fatal fall is far more likely now, though, isn't it?” Fiyero teased with a smirk and a whisper in Feldspur’s ear. 

The Horse’s ear twitched and tapped against his nose. “Don’t you dare become more reckless.”

Fiyero felt his back forced to straighten up and realized Feldspur had grown tense. Reaching out, Fiyero brushed his hand across the Horse’s side in a comforting, repeating pattern. It was just as much for his own reassurance as Feldspur’s. “I’m not planning to. Just… do keep and eye out, will you? In case a prince walks into the tower and… it walks out?” 

“A prince?”

“ Feldspur ,” Fiyero chided, “you know what I mean.”

“ It is my friend,” Feldspur said sternly, turning to rest his head, with part of its great weight was on Fiyero’s lap. His big blue eye sparkled with affection. 

“You know ,” Fiyero started to say, then corrected, “ you know,” that wasn’t it- Feldspur waited patiently. It only took Fiyero a moment to catch his thoughts. “When I - changed into it , it took me a long time to remember myself.” 

Feldspur nodded, tapping his chin against Fiyero’s leg. “I shall tell you that I am your friend, and I shall order Tippetarius to strap you down firmly upon my saddle, and we shall ride like the wind to Evanora.”

“That sounds good.” Brushing his hand now along Feldspur’s mane, Fiyero sighed and felt something tense in his stomach that he hadn’t known he’d been holding dissolve away. It was a good sigh. “Feldspur?” 

“Yes, Fiyero?” 

“If we ever get separated,” Fiyero’s eyes narrowed in on the door of the tower. There were specks of dark all over the front of it, and he was starting to wonder if it was in fact rotting wood and not a pattern. 

“Yes?”

What had he been saying? Right, “If we’re ever separated, we should reunite at the Glass Cat Tavern.” If the wood was old … Fiyero’s eyes lingered toward his supply back, resting beside his boots. 

“Why there?”

Fiyero looked at his quiver and then the door in the midpoint of the tower once again. “It’s… it’s the only place in Oz I’ve ever seen humans, Things, and Animals all in the same place.”

“That sounds like a very smart idea.”

“I may have had another,” Fiyero said reluctantly. “How much rope do you think we have?”

On his second shot, the arrow did hit the door, shattering the ancient rotted wood and sailing right through to nothing. It took ten more shots for Fiyero’s arrow to fly into something sturdy enough to hold his weight. 

They tied the rope carefully around his waist, with a knot Fiyero had to adjust at several points along his journey skyward. It was more of a backup safety harness while he used what hand-and-footholds he could find in the wall of the tower itself to make his ascent. Without knowing what the arrow had hooked into, Fiyero didn’t want it to support his body weight if he didn’t need to. He was Vinkun, after all, and had grown up climbing the ancient stone walls of Kiamo Ko. 

Of course, this was pretty different from his childhood scramblings. He couldn’t begrudge the men their nervousness. They stood below, a blanket held taut between their hands, ready in case Fiyero’s grip slipped and the rope failed. He hoped it would prove unnecessary. It wasn’t as if anyone else had a better idea for scaling the tower, and they were all counting on him. Particularly the other Vinkun, who’d made a great show of backing up Fiyero with patriotic gusto. No pressure. Just adding the reputation of his people to his shoulders. As if it wasn’t always there. 

The stones on the wall had stretched , as if the tower had been gripped and pulled upward into its current shape by gravity itself. As such, the stones were elongated and cracked, allowing Fiyero’s fingers to grip securely around their distorted and fragmented shapes. He was not expecting it to be so easy to find  handholds to pull himself upward, which sped up his ascent. Halfway to the doorway above, his men shouted for him to take a break. Fiyero waited, suspended by the rope as they all caught their breath. After a brief pause, the sheer proximity of the door above surged him forward with an excited energy. Fiyero climbed the last few yards with a fire in his chest. 

His hands slammed down on the solid, stone floor. Fiyero pulled himself up once again with a groan that was just as much a sigh of relief. 

Fiyero stood up on shaking legs. His hands fumbled, but began to untie the knots around him as he took in his surroundings. 

He was standing in an entryway that was probably much smaller before the decaying magic on the tower had distorted and elongated its proportions.   The edges of  the floor had stretched  upwards onto the wall, and the ceiling was as tall as a ballroom’s. There was a  layer of dust over everything, though the amount of “everything” in here was sparse. . A tattered rug full of holes laid across the threshold, and a smattering of old furniture littered the room, collapsed and broken by both time and the elements. 

Fiyero walked through the strange room, following the rope to where his arrow had found purchase.  A statue stood in the dead center of the wall at the back of the room; it had a regal and imposing face, there was a sternness and coldness on the features of the bust, and into its head was carved a crown. It was the only item so far that seemed to be unaffected by time. . Fiyero’s shot had pushed his arrow past the statue, and  tugging it back had anchored the it firmly between the statue and the stone wall. 

He walked over to the sight with wide eyes. His hands reached for the arrow, and with little effort snapped it in two. It was nothing short of a miracle that the rope had worked to hold him at all. 

Fiyero forced his mind away from that and focused. The statue itself was extremely sturdy and - most importantly-  immovable, so he took the rope and tied it securely with a proper climbing knot. Slowly, the rest of the men began their ascent. Fiyero sat in the doorway with one leg hanging over the threshold, rope in hand, guiding them upward.

One by one, little soldiers like ants in a line climbed to the halfway point in the tower. Each commented on the statue. “Some ancestor, I suppose,” Fiyero muttered in reply, “must have built the tower. Who knows? Royalty seems to love looking at their own faces.”

“Who can blame them? Look at us!” Keerio responded jovially to the last comment, “Who wouldn’t want to look at our faces?” 

Fiyero rolled his eyes in response, and beckoned the group to the staircase. Behind the statue, the staircase loomed ominously upward, it circled a dizzying pattern, while the stairs themselves had stretched and lengthened. More than once, Fiyero or some of the other men had to assist Keerio or Tippetarius upward. 

Perhaps it was the awkwardness of that situation that kept Keerio commenting. “Royalty are supposed to be good-looking, aren’t we?” the Munchkin prince said, striking a statuesque pose. Tacks laughed in agreement. 

“I certainly wouldn’t object to more portraits of the fairy princess,” Tacks chuckled. He held the group’s torch in one hand, the other helping Tippetarius climb the tower’s maddening steps. Tippetarius’ affection for his beloved Ozma took surface in the form of outraged stutters and denial. In good humor, Tacks added, “One can’t say she doesn’t have a pretty face to look at. What’s the fuss?”

Tippetarius scowled at him but didn’t reply, his face flushed with red. 

Fiyero made it to the top of the steps, finding a shut door. He put his hand on it and heard a strange click. The door was unlocked. Fiyero had the feeling it hadn’t been a moment before. It was almost like the door had reacted to his touch. 

“It’s the duty of royalty to be beautiful for the masses,” Keerio continued with a smarmy grin. 

Fiyero rolled his eyes. “One could use that same logic to say royalty should be tall.”

Keerio’s jaw dropped. He pulled himself up the final step with a sudden boost of strength. “First of all, how dare you-“ he started to say. 

Like a breeze pulling up the hair at the back of his neck, Fiyero felt a shift in the air. “Hush,” he interrupted Keerio. “Something’s happening.”

Tippetarius was at Fiyero’s side in a moment, looking at his hand on the doorknob. “I feel it too,” he said. 

“Thank you,” Fiyero said honestly. It was a genuine relief to know it wasn’t just him. “Be ready, we don’t know what we’re walking into.” Keerio muttered something under his breath about the convenient timing. Fiyero ignored him and opened the door. 

Fiyero stepped into a well-lit, lively parlour. 

He was struck instantly by the feeling that this was wrong, and didn’t make any sense. There was a roaring fire in a white marble fireplace, two cozy chairs beside it, to his left there was a curved table against the rounded side of the wall, with chairs and a piping hot metal kettle of water currently steaming. That might have explained the overall scent of lavender and mint hanging heavy in the air. The colors of the room were bright, with decadent yellow  furniture that had clearly been upholstered tocolor matched a large embroidered tapestry on the farthest wall. It was a map of ancient Arjiki territory. Fiyero couldn’t tell the exact year but there was no mistaking that it was very old, given that it still claimed the lands of two other clan chiefs. 

But he wasn’t  really in this nice room, was he? This looked like Kiamo Ko before his parents had moved him and the staff back. What- oh no, how had he lost his mind so quickly and so intensely- where had the memories gone that put him here-

Fiyero took a step back and into another person forcing a loud “Oof” out of them. Two sturdy hands grabbed his shoulders and steadied him in place. “Easy there, sir,” Ritley said. 

The sound of Ritley’s voice settled the boiling panic inside Fiyero like cool water poured over his head. He stepped aside. 

Ritley walked into the room, also taking in the surprise. He was in uniform, which was wrinkled and stained from a run through the woods and a night sleeping on the ground. Looking back, Fiyero could see the stairway of the tower through the door. He hadn’t gone mad- he truly had walked into a lavishly furnished, lively, and clean room in an ancient and abandoned tower. 

Fiyero groaned and rubbed his temples.

“Alright?” Ritley asked. 

Fiyero felt the man’s hand on his shoulder again. It was good, helped him feel steady. He wondered if Feldspur had asked Ritley to do this or if the man had instinctively picked it up on his own; Fiyero didn’t really want to know the answer. “Magic headache,” Fiyero lied, but then again… he wasn’t sure. Maybe he was getting a magic headache. He closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing his temple.  

Sure, he was magic in the way every Ozian was - but there was also Grimmerie magic in every part of him, inside his bones, cleaving to his very nerves. This tower was part of his blood, too, perverted into a trap against him by Mombi, like she’d perverted the laws of the Vinkun for the Wizard’s will. 

“Wait!” Tippetarius’ voice shouted. 

Fiyero opened his eyes and looked at the scene before him. 

The men had walked into the room, standing around, not touching anything. Tippetarius was by a door on the other end of the room, which Fiyero was only now noticing. His eyes were wide. Following them, Fiyero saw Tacks standing beside the tea table. 

He was holding the kettle in his hand. “I thought the prince could use some tea,” the Vinkun soldier defended, looking confused, “for the headache?”

“We don’t know what happens if we touch-" Tippetarius began to say. 

A warning a little too late. One Fiyero should have given, if he only had a right mind to give it. 

The fireplace, for all intents and purposes, exploded into life. There was a crack, then a FOOM of ash and heat - Fiyero screamed, dropping to the ground. Tacks threw the kettle at the fireplace but it froze in air. The steam trailed into the sky for a moment, until the kettle turned in place and went for Fiyero. 

With a split-second’s warning, Fiyero slapped the steaming hot object away from him. It flew into Ritley’s chest. It was not the only object to suddenly move. The upholstered yellow chairs seemed to stand up on two legs. With a menacing unrealness to their ungainly, stumbling motions, they began to make their way toward the other men. 

“I think maybe I need a weapon!” Keerio shouted, adding to more shouts and chaos from the men. Fiyero only briefly saw Tippetarius stepping between Keerio and a chair before Ritley screamed. 

The kettle fell to the ground, Ritley along with it. The man was grabbing his hands, and the cool metal color of the kettle was changing, growing redder, hot as a forge in a tin-work factory - but it was off . No, Fiyero chided himself, he could not get distracted, not now, not with screaming all around him and he was the one who led them here-

Fiyero tried to take off his jacket. Quickly, he realized there were too many buttons. 

The white-hot kettle began to roll toward his feet. Fiyero stepped back but had little to go before he hit the wall. With practiced speed, Fiyero unsheathed his sword. 

The kettle jumped and he swung, pushing it backward. But like before, it froze in the air. Almost as if it had a personality, or wanted to hear him scream again, the kettle let off an intimidating squeal as it hovered in the air. Fiyero cut the front of his jacket open. It doesn’t smell like hot tin , he thought distractedly. The kettle seemed to grow hotter in the air. 

Fiyero dropped his sword. The kettle moved. With not a moment to spare, he flung off his jacket into his hands. 

The kettle landed inside the jacket and was hot immediately. Fiyero shoved it to the ground, and without even thinking, raised his boot and stomped. Once, twice, and again with a guttural roar of rage. He could still see his men battling the furniture out of the corner of his eye, the fireplace spewing ashes. 

He had a thought. Fuck , barely trusting this not to be a waste of his time, Fiyero dropped to his knees. He opened the jacket to look at the broken pieces of kettle. It was not a tin kettle, it was silver. Perhaps Quadling silver? Fiyero looked for the tapestry. 

There was a rug currently being shredded to pieces by Voak, who was rolling on the ground with his sword in hand - holding his own quite well. The Arjiki tapestry, however, remained lifeless on the wall. 

“This isn’t my shit,” Fiyero realized uncharmingly. The objects were cursed- but the kettle was dead enough. “Break everything!” He ordered, reaching for his musket and eyeing the fireplace. 

Kicking open the door, Fiyero coughed and tried to wipe the ash off of him. It created a dusty cloud as he took his first steps up the second stone staircase. 

At his side, Tippetarius groaned at the sight of more distorted stairs. Looking upward, he saw what Fiyero did too - this set of stairs was three times the height of the one previous, lit solely by a single glittering chandelier far above. Tippetarius groaned again. 

“Starting to wish we were working on the mail?” Fiyero joked. 

Tippetarius snorted. It was almost a laugh. 

Fiyero was glad for it. The rest of the men filed out of the parlour room looking just as worse for wear as he felt; spurts of ash all over their clothes, torn uniforms, scratches and grimaces on their faces. Fiyero’s jacket looked like he’d been mauled by a Lion - it felt a little ridiculous putting it back on, but Ritley had given it to him with such a grateful look on his face he couldn’t refuse. 

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel,” Keerio said. 

“Yep, Rapunzel, Rapunzel,” Tippetarius repeated. 

Blinking, Fiyero paused for an explanation. None came though, and Tippetarius began to follow him up the long stairway, so he asked, “What’s ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel’?” 

“It was written on the door,” Tippetarius told him. 

“Oh,” Fiyero said. That was probably an important clue . “Good catch.” 

“Yeah,” Keerio elaborated, “it was this strange kind of writing. Like ink on the wall, but shimmery.”

“Okay,” Fiyero noted it. 

“And the words-"

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel?” Fiyero repeated. 

“Wait,” Keerio said in a thoughtful tone. 

They’d barely even gone a few steps upward. Fiyero was kneeling down, his arms reaching for Tippetarius’ hands to pull him up. They all paused, as Keerio was still on the bottom floor. 

“It says ‘let down’ ,” he said, pointing at a very thin piece of rope against the wall. It was not at all sturdy enough for a person, but clearly just strong enough to hold the chandelier high above their head. “Just like the door. Should we?” 

At his side, Ritley confirmed - there were another two words written in the magic ink on the door. 

Everyone in the room looked to Fiyero to make the call. He swallowed, but there was something heavy in his throat. “Let’s not touch anything without getting our bearings this time,” Fiyero advised. “Tippetarius and I will check on the door above, the rest of you take a rest.” 

They agreed without question. Fiyero tried not to let that worry him. With nearly three times the height of the previous stairs to go, there was a lot of ground to cover. 

Tippetarius gave Fiyero a bright smile as they made their way up together. With a little jump, and pulling on Fiyero’s part, even the highest steps were quickly overcome. He thought it was going very well, which was why Tippetarius saying, “Sorry,” caught him off guard. “For what?” Fiyero asked. If anyone had apologies to make, it seemed more fair for the burden to belong to the person who’d ordered them all into this nightmare. 

Tippetarius’ face was red, perhaps not from just the effort of climbing. He barely looked Fiyero in the eye as the prince pulled him up the next oversized step in the massive circular staircase. “I’m the weakest member of the guard,” he muttered. 

Fiyero blinked a few times. “What? I mean, physically maybe.” That only seemed to make the young page more self conscious. Likely exasperated as the misshapen stairs continued to be too difficult for the young man to climb alone. The journey was long enough that long pauses felt awkward. Fiyero, several minutes later, said, “You’re clever, that’s what I’ve been training you to be. Physical strength comes with time.”

There was a loud, weary sigh from the young man. 

“And I’m sure you have your own unique frustrations with me,” Fiyero acknowledged. “We all have different gifts. I admire how clear-headed you are.”

With a frown, the young man reached out to grab Fiyero’s hand once more. They were getting close to the top of the staircase; the chandelier twinkling and shimmering with glass behind them. “You do?”

“I’m not lying,” Fiyero promised him. “If I valued upper arm strength over brains, wouldn’t Raplan be here?” 

For a moment, Tippetarius’ jaw dropped in shock. Then he laughed. “Okay,” he said, through chuckled. 

Fiyero grunted, lifting Tippetarius up the final step. “And there we go, back on mostly the same-“ as Tippetarius and Fiyero looked, the chandelier swayed suddenly in the air. 

The large, glass chandelier was impressive up close, like a giant terrible club. The rope that held it tight was moving. A steady chandelier wouldn’t sway like this, but a haphazardly hung one? 

There was a shout from below, but the echoing effect of the tall staircase made it difficult for Fiyero to distinguish the sounds. Nor to shout back down and expect to be understood. He didn’t know what they were doing down there, but the chandelier was growing more unsteady by the moment. “Fiyero! What do we do?” Tippetarius shouted. 

He looked over at Tippetarius to speak when the chandelier’s rope was tugged again. 

Fiyero grabbed Tippetarius’ arm tightly and pulled the young man toward him. With no time to spare, he pressed their bodies against the edge of the doorframe, Fiyero on top of Tippetarius, covering his page  back , as the chandelier slammed into stone behind him. 

There were crashing noises behind Fiyero’s neck,tinkling, shattering, and growing louder as the glass chandelier fell in a staggered crescendo down the long, winding staircase. Its final halt slammed into the ground as its metal frame collapsed. The noise was so loud it left stillness in its wake like a wave. Fiyero could hear his breath. In a few moments, he could hear Tippetarius’ too. 

Carefully, Fiyero took a step backward. He put a hand on Tippetarius’ shoulder, unsure which of them the gesture was for. Summoning his voice, Fiyero shouted down, “Is everyone all right?”

Tippetarius nodded. He seemed pale and nervous but uninjured. Fiyero looked down over the edge of the stairs, able to see the rest of the men picking themselves up from the edges of the wall. “Hunky dory-” Tacks yelled out a sentence jokingly, though only one word was legibly to Fiyero through the echo, as he helped Voak to his feet. 

Ritley and Keerio had been closer to the chandelier, but with the way they were dusting themselves off neither seemted to have been hit as it fell. Ritley seemed to be fussing a bit over the Munchkin prince. It took a few seconds for a response, when Ritley shouted up and confirmed they were fine. 

“Rest over,” Fiyero shouted, hoping his voice shouted clear. With his hands, Fiyero gave as an exaggerated gesture of ‘come up’ that he could. “Let’s go!” 

“Uh, Fiyero?” 

As he looked at his men below, Fiyero saw them all randomly look at the ground. “What are they doing -“ he muttered to himself. He gestured upward with his hand again, pointlessly and uselessly as no one was looking at him. 

“Fiyero!” Tippetarius shouted. 

He turned sharply. The young page grabbed at Fiyero’s hand on his shoulder and took a step. Following his eyes, Fiyero looked downward. 

There was a tiny little man on the ground. 

He was ridiculously small, the size of a Field Mouse. His hair was stained dark with ash, his tiny military jacket with its miniscule stitching torn and ratted - it was… him. Yes, this was most certainly a four-inch tall version of Fiyero formed out of glass. Its tiny face sneered. 

“You can see this?” Fiyero took another step back, his right arm outstretched in front of Tippetarius’ torso. Should he get his sword? How much use was a sword in this situation? He saw Tippetarius nod out of the corner of his eye. 

In the moment where Fiyero decided he should do something, the miniature version of him suddenly ran forward. On instinct, Fiyero kicked. 

The miniature version flew hard and fast into the side of the wall. It shattered, falling into two glass pieces. 

As they watched, those glass pieces moved and molded like they were under the fire and eye of a watchful glassblower. On shaky, tiny double legs, two small versions of Fiyero stood up. 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Tippetarius groaned. 

Grimacing, Fiyero nodded. 

Five sorry looking men stood before him, but only one looked the sorriest. “Keerio,” Fiyero said stiffly. 

The Munchkin prince nodded in acknowledgement, but looked upward at the sky. 

Fiyero had seen Keerio scolded before. One could not gain the reputation of a rake and famous party thrower without some parental disapproval. In all those instances, Fiyero had been standing at Keerio’s side to point out and accept his share of the blame. This time, it was Fiyero’s disappointment. 

He didn't like this feeling. Fiyero’s stomach hurt. Of course, the very small bites up his right leg and onto his stomach, which had prompted Fiyero to roll on the ground like a lunatic while Tippetarius slammed him repeatedly, probably contributed. 

“I thought the writing,” Keerio started to say under his breath. Ritley nudged him in the shoulder and he stopped. 

“It’s done and over with,” Fiyero said. “Once again, no touching anything until I give the order. Are we clear?”

Fiyero’s three guards acknowledged quickly and saluted. Tippetarius’ was a moment behind. Keerio met Fiyero’s eyes and looked questioning. Fiyero shook his head, and his friend nodded. Being forced to scold his friend was bad enough, Fiyero’s heart couldn’t handle the embarrassment if Keerio saluted him too. 

“That part’s over,” Fiyero said. “Tip, it was a great idea to get the glass into the fire. Without the reflections… well. It worked. Let’s remember, we all still have our limbs, don’t we?” 

“Here here,” Tippetarius said with a smirk. 

“Stay put, let me get my bearings,” Fiyero ordered. 

The five men were gathered around two stone benches. The tower had opened up in this section to a courtyard. It was round, and tall, a half-moon in the architecture of the building. The roof above connected back with the rest of the tower where there was a closed window, but the roof was too high up to keep rain or other damage from the courtyard. The decorative stone was slightly cracked from water damage over time, but for the most part the courtyard was well preserved. There were two dead trees on either side. In the center of the courtyard was a Winkie birdfeeder, the water yellow and old with disuse. Behind that was a very sturdy black door. 

Fiyero tuned out the sound of the men behind him. They were debating whether the tiny versions of Ritley or Fiyero bit the hardest. 

The midday sun seemed out of place after having been through such a strange and disorienting journey. Fiyero felt the gentle warmth on his neck and face, and relished in it. A courtyard in a tower, a strange design for a strange place, build by strange people. 

The Winkie birdfeeder caught his attention. It was a many tiered fountain, with spiraling perching rings decoratively and purposefully set out for birds of many sizes. No one had cared for it in a long time. Funny, back when the Arjiki were at war with the other tribes they had a better relationship with Animals then they did now that the crown sat on their heads. 

It was on the side of the second ring, facing the ominous black door, that Fiyero found two more words written in magical ink. There was a theme here. 

Fiyero walked around the birdfeeder in a circle, touching his hand to his chin and trying to think. What was this message? Didn’t Mombi want him to save this Rapunzel? Was he supposed to die here? Dying wasn’t exactly being let down gently , in Fiyero’s experience. 

No matter how long he stood in the courtyard and stared, nothing changed. “I’m going to try something,” Fiyero announced. His men got to their feet, Ritley’s hand ready on the musket, the Vinkun guards readied their swords.

Facing the birdfeeder, Fiyero cleared his throat. “Rapunzel,” he said loudly and clearly, “get down with your hair.”

There was a beat of several seconds as nothing happened. After that, nothing continued to happen. 

“Well, that didn’t work,” Keerio joked. 

Fiyero figured it was a long shot anyway. He shrugged. “Then we try the door.” He decided. 

“Uh, wait a moment?” Tippetarius questioned. Fiyero waited. “Were you trying to say the message on the walls?”

“Trying?” Fiyero asked, confused. “It’s written here,” he explained, “two words, just, ‘your hair’.”

Tippetarius nodded. “Then it’s ‘ Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair ’.”

It seemed like there should have been some great magic rumble, or something to indicate a power working. Instead there was silence. Men holding their breath, nothing but the muffled sounds of the forest from beyond the tower could be heard. Then the window at the very top of the tower opened. 

“Hello?” A faint voice called down. 

Fiyero’s face flushed slightly. “I got most of the syllables right.”

Tippetarius chuckled at him. 

“Are you here to save me?”

Fiyero and the rest of the men looked upward. “Should we answer her, sir?” Ritley asked. 

Since Ritley was suggesting it, Fiyero nodded. 

The man swallowed heavily. He looked upward toward the tower, planted his feet, and shouted back, “Yes!” 

After a few moments, the voice called back down, “I can help!”

“If this is a trap…” Ritley mumbled under his breath. 

“Everything in this tower is a trap,” Voak agreed. 

“I know we all have some doubts-" Fiyero started to say, hoping the words about trust and doing the right thing would fall into place. He lost his train of thought, however. 

A golden rope fell to the ground. It was not rope, though. Nor gold, as Fiyero looked at it. Hair as yellow as corn. 

“Climb up!” 

Tippetarius took a step forward and Fiyero flung his arm out to stop him. “No, no no,” Fiyero said instinctively, “no one is climbing the hair. That’s madness.”

“Hair?!” Keerio exclaimed and jumped back. 

Hair as yellow as corn, everyone in disguises, so who is Rapunzel really? Fiyero wasn’t sure if he wanted her to be an innocent victim or someone he could get answers from. 

“Climb up!”

“What in all of Oz-“ Ritley said with wonder and disgust on his face. He looked at the length of hair up and down with disbelief. 

“She wants us to climb up,” Tippetarius said.

“That’s a lot of weight on her neck,” Fiyero pointed out. His own neck twinged just at the thought of it. “We’ve learned out lesson about touching things that are out of place, haven’t we?” 

The group looked at Keerio after that. An admonishment that Fiyero hadn’t intended. 

“Hello?”

“Is this how the Witch gets up and down? Is that why she keeps the maiden in the tower? What if the Witch uses her hair as the rope up, so Rapunzel can never come down on her own?” Tippetarius considered. “If the length is just enough downward-“

“Just not enough length for her to use herself?” Ritley followed. “We’ll need to bring the rope up to bring her down.”

“There’s probably some magic, or a pulley system, if the Witch could traverse up and down with her hair,” Tippetarius added. 

“What do you think, sir?” Ritley asked. 

Fiyero blinked. “Er, seems right. Then, uh, Voak and Tacks should carefully make their way back for the rope.”

“I should go up,” Keerio announced. 

“No, can’t risk you,” Fiyero said instinctively. “Voak is smaller than Tacks, he’s got similar Vinkun climbing experience-"

“ Excuse me?” Keerio said. 

Tippetarius had offered to explain the situation to Rapunzel while Fiyero deliberated on what to do next, resulting in the page and the maiden exchanging shoutsback and forth. Fiyero and Keerio stepped away from the group and sat on the benches. 

Fiyero had never seen Keerio this disheveled without alcohol involved. While his clothes hadn’t taken nearly as much of a hit, Keerio had still been on the bottom level when the chandelier fell. There were round little cuts on the side of his right eye, and likely more around his ankles where those little creatures had loved to attack. The other prince sighed, resting his hands on his knees. Fiyero only got a brief look, but he saw the redness and irritation on Keerio’s palms. 

“If you ‘can’t risk me’, why’d you let me come?” Keerio asked.

“If you weren’t going to respect my orders, why did you-“ Fiyero began to counter back. His stomach churned and he shook his head. “No, sorry. That’s not how- I don’t blame you for the chandelier. For all we know, it could have been rigged to fall if we stepped on the wrong stone.”

Keerio crossed his arms. “I know that was a dumb move.”

“It’d be hypocritical of me to judge you for it,” Fiyero said. He tried a friendly smile. “You know me, I’m the prince without the brains, remember?” 

“The other Vinkun princes call you the ‘mad prince’ behind your back,” Keerio said. He was looking away from Fiyero. 

“What?” Fiyero’s eyes widened. 

“Or they used to,” Keerio said. “Last time I saw Xavien, you know what he said?” 

Fiyero raised an eyebrow. “Clearly not. Do I want to hear this?” 

Keerio snorted. “He said you were showing all of Oz what a real Vinkun prince was like. Imagine that? One year and suddenly it’s like you’re a whole new person.”

Oh . Fiyero found his boots very interesting. In that moment, he remembered he’d lost his favorite boots and now was wearing new ones- which had a tick in the sole he didn’t like and were the wrong, muddy shake of black-

“I get why you can’t go back,” Keerio said with a frown. “It took me awhile, but I get it. You’ve got a whole kingdom in your future, I’m inheriting a pity-lordship with four governors that runs itself.”

Fiyero adjusted his spot on the stone bench to sit slightly slower. He nudged Keerio gently in the side. “That’s not nothing, Keerio.”

“I know, I’m the fourth in line, I’m lucky to have anything of my own without marrying into it. Oz knows an illustrious career in celebrity flower arranging or textile dyes isn’t in the cards for me,” Keerio muttered. 

“I’d buy your flower arrangements,” Fiyero promised with a smile. 

Keerio nudged Fiyero back. “Of course you would, you’re a sentimental fool.”

“Thank you.” He said, and he meant it. Fiyero’s body relaxed. 

“I just mean that,” Keerio sighed deeply. He raised his head for a moment, perhaps looking up at the sunlight - though as Fiyero watched, he believed his friend’s deep brown eyes were focused far more on the yellow-blonde head sticking out a window. “I always had to fight to step out of the background. Prove I was more than just… a handsome face.” 

“More than just ‘the short prince’?” Fiyero clarified. He earned a playful push on the arm for that. “Tit for tat , Keerio my man. You called me the ‘mad prince’ earlier.”

“I was telling you what other people said -“ Keerio blinked and groaned. “Okay, point taken.”

“You are certainly not in the background,” Fiyero told him. “Two time Court croquet champion? You’re everyone’s favorite rake- don’t protest, the Queen still insists you plan the Munchkinland Harvest Ball, doesn’t she? She wouldn’t be punishing the Court for that whole ‘replacing the mushrooms’ incident five years on if you didn’t throw a good party.”

“You holding that against me, too? It was my first Ball. You weren’t even in Court back then.” Keerio laughed. 

“Apparently my father took a dive in the pool,” Fiyero found a chuckle in his own voice. It was nice. “It’s one of my mother’s favorite stories.” 

“We all know you were the scoundrel of Hollyhock Hall, even if Buffany and Putrice aren’t talking.” He smirked at Keerio’s smug expression. “Really, sisters ?” 

“I seem to recall you announcing your intention to bed twins at one point.”

“Prior to which, I came quite suddenly to my senses and reformed my ways,” Fiyero said quite happily. It was a mistake he was quite thankful to have avoided this go around. “And they were probably going to be brothers, anyways.”

“Ah, you were a riot back then,” Keerio threw his hands up in the air and kicked out his feet. He leaned back against the stone wall, the shade of the tower covering his eyes. “I hate seeing you like this.”

Fiyero frowned. “Like what? Serious about being king one day?”

“Hm,” Keerio’s expression twitched thoughtfully. “That wasn’t what I was thinking, but a little bit, I am I guess.”

“I’m sorry I can’t dismiss the lives that depend on me as easily as you,” Fiyero said sharply.

“You don’t have an older sibling,” Keerio told him, “no one was auditioning you day-in-and-day-out of your childhood to test whether you or one of your siblings was better .” Fiyero’s rage simmered quite quickly at that.  “You’re putting in all this work to prove yourself but you’re not competing with anyone. No one’s out there questioning your title.”

Fiyero looked at his hands. He could hear a breeze shaking the leaves of trees from beyond the tower. “They used to,” Fiyero said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

Fiyero swallowed. “Just that. They used to. You said it earlier, didn’t you?”

“Right.”

Fiyero rubbed his arms. “We all have something to prove to someone,” he said. “If you want to bring the rope up the tower for Rapazel, I won’t stop you. Just promise me you’ll thinking about why you’re doing it, and who it’s all for.”

“The Great Heddle Lordship of Munchkin Country?” 

“Why not? Even a small amount of power can help someone.” Fiyero rubbed his arms. “Things may not be as good in Oz as they seem.”

Taking that entirely in his stride, Keerio pointed to the injuries on his face and whistled. “You’re telling me. So, do I have your permission, oh Mad Vinkun Prince ?”

“Only if your colorblindness won’t affect the mission.”

“Oh, low blow for a low blow, you’re good,” Keerio grinned. 

“We’ll wrap up your hands first,” Fiyero said, “make a harness and wait below just like they did for me. I know you’re strong, just make sure you keep a steady grip.”

“Don’t let the beauty of the fair maiden in distress distract me?” 

Fiyero raised an eyebrow. “And let’s keep in mind the whole in distress bit and keep the flirting for after the rescue?”

Keerio chuckled. “I will be perfect and noble, I promise,” he pressed his hand against his heart to swear it. “Only if you promise to remember her name.”

“What?” 

“It’s Rap unzel , not Rapazel,” Keerio gave Fiyero a smug wink. He jumped to his feet as Voak and Tacks returned with the rope. “I mean, we’ve only been saying her name constantly all day, but you got most of the syllables right.”

It seemed just enough of that exchange was heard by all for a laugh to erupt at Fiyero’s expense. Which turned out to be  too good of a boost for morale for Fiyero to say anything against it. 

They prepared Keerio to go rather quickly, having already done this once before. Rapunzel’s hair was braided neatly together, and functioned quite similarly to a rope. Even if it was one of the strangest things Fiyero had done in a long time. With little fuss, Keerio was ready to ascend. 

Fiyero was the one to tie the final loop, kneeling to make sure the rope was tight and secure. “You’re balding,” Keerio joked, which Fiyero knew because it was a jest that the Munchkin prince made often. 

“Feel like a storybook prince yet?” Fiyero asked him. 

Keerio gulped as he looked upward. With strong hands, he tested the strength of his rope. “Real question, do I look good?” 

“There’s more to being royal-“ Tippetarius started to say, but the laughter of the rest of the men drowned him out. Fiyero watched Keerio move upward. Hands that excelled in Court sporting events made easy work of the ascent.

Fiyero couldn’t help but notice the young page didn’t look pleased as he watched Keerio climb Rapunzel’s hair. “You all-“

“I get it,” Tippetarius muttered under his breath for Fiyero to hear. “We’re both small. Keerio’s stronger. We each have our strengths.” He didn’t seem like he wanted to talk about it. Fiyero put a hand on Tippetarius’ shoulder instead. 

When Keerio arrived at the window, hands appeared to help pull him in. It took several moments (and Fiyero shouting up to demand an update) for the prince to stick his head back out and declare all was well. The rope-tying took longer, but Keerio shouted down that Rapunzel had it well in hand. 

First down the rope was luggage. A modest amount of luggage, compared to some folks Fiyero knew, but a respectable Ozian could hardly ever be without a change of clothes or a hat for a fancy occasion. Then came Rapunzel herself. 

Her hair was now braided tightly against her head, in a dizzifying series of loops and twists, though the length still extended a full length of her body past her feet. She was a young woman, tall and slim (Fiyero hoped Mombi had been feeding her) of about Fiyero’s age, somewhere in his early twenties. She was wearing a simple yellow dress that ended at her ankles. Delicately, and with a slight swing, from effort Keerio gallantly lowered Rapunzel down to the courtyard from the highest window of the tower. It reminded Fiyero of a dandelion seed floating to the earth. 

Fiyero and Ritley were there to steady her on her feet, and the group finally got a clear look at the damsel that they had come to rescue. Fiyero froze. 

Rapunzel greeted her rescuers with a smile that struck like lightning in Fiyero’s chest. Kind, hazel eyes turned to look at him, blinking, doe-like and soft. His brain suddenly seemed to hold a fog, like it had as he’d stepped into the first room in the tower- a fog of disbelief. It couldn’t be her. It made no sense. Even accounting for time, she should barely look older than Tippetarius- what would she even be doing here? What spell would conjure up this face for Fiyero?

“You must be Prince Fiyero ,” Rapunzel breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you for freeing me from this dreaded tower. I’ve waited so long for a strong, handsome-“ her eyes, for a moment, glanced up to Keerio climbing down the rope, “prince to save me.”

Fiyero felt a nudge on his back. He blinked, but the vision of memories in front of him remained. The voice was slightly off, and maybe as he looked closer the bridge of the nose could be, the curve of the eyes, but that could just be age- it was all so strange, it simply couldn’t be-

“Dorothy?” Fiyero wondered. 

Rapunzel blinked at him. “Sorry?” 

He could hear the men shifting behind him; Fiyero knew his reaction was making him seem strange- it was impossible not to. The features were the same, though he tried to piece her face apart in his head the resemblance was so strong no doubt came to his mind. “Dorothy,” he repeated, with slightly more resistance. 

Rapunzel’s stunning, deep hazel eyes widened. She pressed her hand on her heart and said, “Rapunzel.”

“That you are!” Keerio shouted, as he was almost all the way down the rope. Ritley barked an order at him to be careful, and Rapunzel seemed to find the exchange very amusing. 

“Not even a syllable right that time,” Tippetarius muttered into Fiyero’s ear. “You okay?”

Fiyero swallowed. “Yes,” he lied blatantly, “we should- we should get out of the tower soon.”

“Yes, we should!” Rapunzel announced brightly. She gave a smile around the room, her hands rushing to pick up her luggage. Keerio and Tippetarius jumped quickly into action to help carry her bags. 

There was a buzzing confusion in his brain that seemed to get worse the longer he looked. Yes, this was an adult woman, her hair was blond instead of sweet cherry brown, but despite the differences Fiyero could not piece it out. He didn’t know what it meant. Or why it could be. It was simply true. Rapunzel was the spitting image of Dorothy Gale. 

The sinking feeling in his stomach grew thicker; Mombi’s tricks weren’t done with him yet.