Chapter Text
During the day, when they’re moving, traveling, marveling at the wondrous sights of Oz, everything seems fine. Or as fine as things can be, when on the other hand her life is upside down and she’s trapped in a strange world and everything is just a little bit terrible.
Her companions are pleasant enough, if endlessly strange, and while their mission is odd and uncertain, something fuzzy around the edges of this place keeps it from feeling truly frightening.
But at night, when she can’t sleep, afraid of the way the bright colors still dance behind her closed eyes and the unfamiliar sounds creep into her ears, the Scarecrow notices.
He notices, and he talks to her.
First, he just says neutral things.
It’s warm out tonight.
We should reach such-and-such landmark soon.
Then he asks her questions.
When did you first meet Toto?
What subjects do you like in school?
What does your farm look like?
Then one night, as if he’s been building up to it, he says, very softly, “She’s not as wicked as they say.”
Dorothy takes this in, considers it.
“I suppose she would have to be very wicked indeed if she were,” she finally says, understanding without clarification whom he means. “The way the Tin Man speaks of her. The stories he tells.”
The Scarecrow frowns.
“People say foolish things when they’re angry, or scared, or hurt,” he says. “Cruel things, too.”
He looks at the Tin Man, cautiously, like he’s afraid of being overheard. Seeing as the Tin Man spends a good portion of each day fuming and saying nasty things about the Witch, Dorothy supposes that makes sense.
There’s a long moment of silence before the Scarecrow adds, “But saying them doesn’t make them true.”
A few nights later, when Dorothy again can’t sleep, she sits up and nudges the Scarecrow’s foot, hesitantly.
“What is she, then?” she asks, at a whisper, when she has his attention. “If not so wicked?”
He’s thoughtful for a moment. “Desperate,” he finally decides. “The acts of desperate people, just like scared people, easily err towards darkness. She’s different from most people, and difficult to understand, but Dorothy, you must realize, she isn’t evil.”
There’s an almost pleading tone in his voice, like it’s imperative she believes him. She thinks she does. Perhaps it goes against sound reason, but she thinks she trusts the way he tells her about these things privately, in the warm shield of night, instead of clanging and shouting about like the Tin Man does when he rails against the Witch, using words as weapons.
The Scarecrow never contradicts the Tin Man when he speaks in that way, nor when the Lion anxiously voices agreement, but he never moves to concur, either. Dorothy just takes it all in, wide-eyed and uncertain and hoping she can find some way to truly understand and discover the right path forward, beyond the yellow bricks.
So, at night, while the Tin Man and the Lion and Toto slumber, oblivious, the Scarecrow tells her other stories, tales of the Witch that don’t sound at all like the horrible wicked happenings the Tin Man relates with bitter glee.
People tell scarecrows things, he explains, when she asks how he knows so much about the Witch, so much of the goings-on far from his cornfield. They like a captive audience, and even if he has straw-for-brains, he says, he’d like to believe he’s become a good listener over the years.
He tells her the Witch was always different, always marked and kept apart, often mistreated by those around her, but that she hadn’t let it stop her from living.
He tells her over time the Witch became known for being smart, and dedicated, and passionate. That she was expected to do great things, to be someone of significance and power.
He tells her that the Witch loved her sister, that she would give or do anything to protect her. He tells her about the Witch’s undying loyalty, how she tried to help the sister even when she’d been banished and rejected, risking everything to offer her mobility, freedom, friendship.
He tells her how the witch once rescued a young Animal who was being tortured, refusing to be silent and allow injustice and cruelty to persist.
He tells her about the Witch’s best friend, and how they became inseparable even though they couldn’t be more opposite. He tells her how they helped each other, changed each other, how they must miss each other dreadfully now.
And he tells her about a boy named Fiyero, and how the Witch saw through the walls he’d put up to keep the sorrows of the world at bay.
He tells her they were unlikely friends, too, perhaps even more unlikely than the Witch and her peppy, blonde roommate. He tells her that didn’t stop them becoming friends anyway, even if they might not have admitted it at the time.
He tells her how the Witch went away and something terrible happened, and she was branded a traitor, branded wicked, but Fiyero knew that could never be true.
He tells her how Fiyero couldn’t leave it alone, even as the rest of the world moved on, turned the Witch into a frightening story, a cautionary tale, an enemy to be apprehended or avoided. How he was determined to speak the truth about the Witch, not give power or credence to ridiculous rumors and superstitions. How he was determined to find her, enough to work to become the captain of the guard, to gain charge of the search for her.
He tells her how they found each other, how they lost each other again, how Fiyero swore it still could not be the end.
He doesn’t tell her it’s a love story, but Dorothy is certainly not an unromantic little girl. She doesn’t have to be told to know.
Her name is Elphaba, he tells her one night, weeks into their journey, after nights and nights of spun stories. The most precious secret.
Finally, Dorothy can’t help asking.
“You’re Fiyero, aren’t you?”
It shouldn’t be possible for a scarecrow to look so sad, or so chagrined.
“You’re a smart kid,” he says, but Dorothy brushes off the praise. She doesn’t tell him it was terribly obvious almost from the start, that despite the straw and strangeness his heart shone through the tale he told plain as day.
“How did you become a scarecrow?” Dorothy asks.
Fiyero’s sewn-on mouth twists. “It’s not a pleasant story,” he says.
“Not much of this story has been pleasant,” Dorothy remarks. “Nor my time in Oz altogether.”
That makes him snort out a laugh rather lacking in humor. “I was getting hurt,” he says, conceding. “And Elphaba used her magic to protect me. Scarecrows...scarecrows can’t die.”
Dorothy’s eyes widen and her stomach gives an unpleasant churn, but her gaze stays steady.
“Are you unhappy?” she asks. “Do you wish she hadn’t done it? Are you angry at her?”
She’s quite certain the answer to the last question is no. The way he talks about her is too soft. Too sad. She doesn’t know much about grown-up feelings, but Dorothy doesn’t think anyone can curve their voice around a name the way Fiyero says Elphaba unless they’re hopelessly, tragically in love.
“She saved my life,” he says. “And because of that, I know I will see her again. Anything would be worth it, for the sake of that truth. Any pain, any transformation, any sorrow.”
She almost hates to change the subject, when she can see the comfort he finds speaking of her, the faraway look in his eyes, but Dorothy has to ask.
“The Wizard of Oz isn’t really so wonderful, is he?”
Fiyero slides back from his daydream. His eyes go sad once more as they meet hers.
“I told you,” he says. “You’re a smart kid.”
“But we’re going to see him,” she says. “To ask him for help.”
“Yes,” Fiyero agrees. “And I think I know what he will ask in return for his favor. He’ll try to use us against Elphaba.”
Dorothy ponders this. “I think I don’t want to be used against Elphaba,” she says. “I think I believe you when you say she isn’t wicked. I don’t think you could lie like that. I don’t think you could pretend that much love.”
Scarecrows can’t blush, but Fiyero does whatever it is scarecrows do instead. “I won’t go against Elphaba either,” he says. “But I think we can use the situation to our advantage. That’s why I’ve come this far. We’ll need to be very careful,” he adds. “And come up with a very good plan. The Wizard isn’t all-powerful or all-knowing, not really, but he’s clever and he has almost all of Oz believing in his authority and his might. We can’t let him—or any of his minions—have any inkling who I am, or that we would betray him.”
“Then we’ll be careful,” Dorothy says, firm. “And we’ll be smart. And we will best the Wizard of Oz.”
And they do.