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Dorothy had never been very good at reading lips. Back in Kansas, when her friends attempted to mouth something to her from across the room, she was never able to figure out what they were trying to say.
Eyes, however, were a different story.
It was part of why she and Toto were so close. She didn’t need her dog to be able to talk in order to know what he was thinking. He could just tilt his head and raise his eyebrows in a certain way and she’d know. Facial expressions were her specialty. There was always something about the eyes that communicated the thoughts, whether intentionally or not.
Which was how Dorothy knew that when the scarecrow said “I'm not afraid of her” after the cackling witch disappeared in a puff of red smoke, he meant it. His eyes hadn’t said fear when she’d thrown a fireball in his direction. Not even anger.
Distress. Disappointment. Mock offense. Maybe even a touch of betrayal, but in an almost… endearing way.
What an odd mix of emotions.
With proper context, Dorothy was sure she’d immediately have known what he was thinking, just from that expression. Instead, that expression made her one hundred and ten percent sure there was a lot she did not know. Through the rest of the day, she decided to be okay with that for the sake of shifting her attention to surviving and taking in the strange and unfamiliar world she was travelling through, and the scarecrow’s expression slipped from her mind. It wasn’t until later that evening, once the Lion was curled up and sleeping and the Tin Man was lying with his face to the ground… presumably sleeping, that Dorothy was awake alone with the scarecrow and remembered her curiosity.
How did one bring up that kind of a topic? For a moment she considered letting it go, but the more she looked at his face, the more she remembered the unexpected communication of his eyes, and she was so dreadfully curious!
“Scarecrow,” she said hesitantly, thinking over her next words.
“Yes?” the scarecrow prompted. His voice always had a warm edge to it, and there was a laid back nature to him that put her at ease. It would be safe to ask him a question. She didn’t have to worry how it sounded.
“Well, when the witch threw that fireball at you earlier… you weren’t frightened, were you?”
The scarecrow raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I be frightened?” he drawled. “I am, after all, made of straw.”
“I don’t know why you wouldn’t. That’s why I’m asking,” Dorothy pointed out. Suddenly she felt very shy, as though she’d asked an intrusive and unnecessary question. What did it matter if he had complicated feelings regarding evil witches and fire? She shouldn’t have asked. “I’m sorry, it’s only that I’ve always been good with expressions and faces… eyes, really… my aunt used to joke that I could read minds—”
“And that’s quite a talent,” the scarecrow interrupted her, laughing. “You needn’t be worried. I understand the question. So, little mind reader,” he said wryly, “what was I, if not afraid?”
“Sad,” Dorothy answered on instinct, though she backpedaled almost immediately. “Or, well… it was complicated. Like you were expecting something different.” Goodness, she sure hoped she was right now. She always had been back in Kansas, but this wasn’t Kansas! She shouldn’t have presumed she knew anything at all…
“Hm,” the scarecrow acknowledged thoughtfully. “Complicated. Yes, you’re quite right about that. Perhaps your aunt was right, and you really are a mind reader.”
Dorothy flushed pink. “Well, it would hardly take a mind reader to find out you had complicated feelings.”
“And yet, you were the only one looking. Really looking, even though you reached the natural conclusion that I would be terrified of burning.” Seemingly sensing Dorothy’s anxiety, he rushed to add, “Which is a good thing! You don’t make assumptions. You look for what’s true. You look for yourself. It’s a good trait,” he murmured, almost to himself. “One I wish I saw more often in Oz.”
“Well… thank you,” Dorothy acknowledged, somewhat awkwardly. She definitely noticed the scarecrow hadn’t actually explained the complicated feelings, but she wouldn’t be overstepping anymore today. If he wanted to tell her, he would.
“I suppose you want me to explain why I wasn’t afraid.”
“Now who’s the mind reader?” Dorothy pointed out, feeling more at ease as he chuckled. Feeling more relaxed, she decided to stop voicing her thoughts, handing the conversation over to him. She realized she must have stumbled onto some great story indeed with the way the scarecrow was staring off into the distance, rather than at her. His eyes told a story all on their own: a story of loss. No, more than that: a story of emptiness; of searching and finding and losing.
A story of secrets.
How many of them would he tell her? If any?
“You said you noticed that I was expecting something different,” he said, noticeably using her own words, telling her things she already knew. Clever. She prepared herself to not receive the whole truth, and she was fine with that. “Well, you were right. I wasn’t expecting the fireball. I was too surprised to be scared.”
What were you expecting? Dorothy wanted to ask, but she stayed true to her promise to herself to keep her mouth shut from here on out.
The scarecrow turned towards her, meeting her eyes. “If I told you I didn’t believe the witch would try to kill me—actually kill me, as in, end my life—what would you say?”
What would she say? It seemed a very foolish thing to believe, but Dorothy did not wish to offend the kind scarecrow. “I would say that’s a rather odd belief to hold. I mean, you’re a scare crow, not a scare-wicked-witch!” she giggled at her own joke, emboldened when the scarecrow laughed as well.
“And if I said I didn’t believe she’d try to kill any of us?”
“I’d also think that’s an odd belief,” Dorothy said cautiously, “considering you’re all traveling with me, and how angry the witch is at me.”
“Do you know how she became so angry with you?”
It seemed Dorothy would not be listening to a story after all, but rather answering questions. “Well… my house landed on the Wicked Witch of the East,” she said slowly, “which seemed to make her very upset. I didn’t mean to, though, I swear,” Dorothy rushed. Even though the person she’d “killed” (unintentionally) was wicked, it was still important to her that she hadn’t meant to kill anyone. “It was the tornado… and my house… an accident.”
“An accident,” the scarecrow murmured. There was a look in his eyes, but before Dorothy could decipher it, it was gone, as though he was purposefully trying to hide it from her clever eyes. “Yes, that did make her rather upset, didn’t it?”
“Very much so,” Dorothy agreed, shivering slightly as she remembered the witch’s terrifying, wicked smile, which looked more like a grimace, or like she was preparing to bite.
“And why do you think that was?”
Dorothy looked up at the scarecrow suddenly, not anticipating the question. “What do you mean, why? Why was she angry that I accidentally killed the Wicked Witch of the East?”
“Precisely.”
“Well, I supposed I hadn’t really thought about it,” Dorothy admitted. “I just assumed that since she was her sister, naturally she’d be upset.” That was what she’d assumed, but she hadn’t really thought about it or put it to words until now. She already anticipated the scarecrow’s next question, and could already see where this was going.
“If someone killed your sister, Dorothy—even by accident—would you become angry with them?”
“I don’t have a sister,” said Dorothy, “but if someone killed my aunt or uncle or even my dog Toto, even by accident, I’d become very angry indeed.”
“And so, naturally, it follows that if you killed the witch’s sister, even by accident, she would become angry,” the scarecrow concluded. “But you wouldn’t kill that person, would you? You might be upset with them. You might seek some petty revenge… but you wouldn’t kill them.”
“Well… yes,” Dorothy said hesitantly, “but that’s me. The Wicked Witch of the West, is, well… wicked, so when she gets angry…”
“And who told you that she was wicked?” the scarecrow asked flippantly. Too flippantly, which was the same as boldly. He was venturing into dangerous territory for his secrets, though Dorothy couldn’t yet see how.
Either way, the question made her incredulous. “Why, it’s a part of her name!” Dorothy exclaimed. “And the one who told me was Glinda, the Good Witch of the North. She said she was even worse than her sister was, and I didn’t know the Wicked Witch of the East, but if she was wicked as well, I can’t imagine—”
“Wait,” the scarecrow interrupted, “go back. It was Glinda who told you this?”
“...Of course,” Dorothy confirmed, suddenly confused. Why would that matter? Of course Glinda was the one to help her… she was the Good Witch!
“That the Wicked Witch of the West was her name, or that she was worse than her sister?”
“Both. And that I should never take off these shoes,” Dorothy said, gesturing to the ruby shoes on her feet, “because they have powerful magic in them, and it would be disastrous if the Wicked Witch got her hands on them.”
The scarecrow laughed incredulously, and almost… bitterly? That couldn’t be right. Her sixth sense was a bit shakier when it was the voice rather than the eyes. “Glinda said…” he trailed off, following her line of sight to her shoes. “Yes, I did wonder…”
“Wonder what?”
“It’s not her name,” the scarecrow piped up suddenly, which wasn’t an answer to her question, but seemed to be important to him. She had the feeling he responded that way not to evade what she’d asked, but to share something that mattered to him a lot.
“What isn’t? Glinda?”
“No, the Wicked Witch of the West. That’s a title, given to her by others, who… clearly weren’t her. Like Glinda, the Good Witch of the North. Her name is Glinda. The Good Witch is a title.”
Of course. Dorothy really should have thought of that. “So what is her name?” she asked curiously.
The scarecrow shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”
But she could read his eyes.
“Yes you do,” Dorothy said boldly, refusing to back down. It was a simple question. It couldn’t be too difficult to answer, especially if he knew. Why would he lie?
She expected the scarecrow to be frustrated with her, but instead he chuckled, studying her. “Mind reader indeed.”
“If I could read minds, I’d know the Wicked Witch’s name already,” Dorothy pointed out. “You’ve made me dreadfully curious.”
“Well, it was…” His eyes wandered over to the sleeping Tin Man, and then to the Cowardly Lion, before turning back to her, almost as though he didn’t want them to hear—though that wouldn’t make any sense. “It was Elphaba. Is Elphaba. Her name is Elphaba.”
Though he was hesitant to tell her, once he’d said it, it was as though he couldn’t get enough of the way the name tasted in his mouth, as though he could simply say it over and over again and never tire of it, an impulse he clearly reined in. Instead, the next thing he said was, “And she’s from the east.”
Dorothy tilted her head. “What?”
“She was born in the east, in Munchkinland. She and her sister are from the same place, which I’m sure makes sense to you.”
“Of course,” Dorothy agreed, “but then, if she’s from the east, why…”
“Her castle is in the west. Or well, that’s where she is now.”
Dorothy nodded thoughtfully. “Elphaba,” she said, trying out the name. “Why don’t people call her that, then? People call the Good Witch by her name, Glinda.”
“They like Glinda,” the scarecrow said, and yes, this time his voice was bitter, she was sure of it, “so she gets to be human. They don’t like Elphaba, though, so she doesn’t. She’s just the Witch to them.”
“But not to you?” Dorothy said, continuing from the natural line of thought.
The scarecrow didn’t respond.
“Believing the only reason she was mad was because her sister died… that wasn’t the only reason you thought she wouldn’t try to kill you, was it?”
More silence.
“You knew her.” It was a leap, but the lack of response to her previous to questions nearly solidified it in her mind. This scarecrow and the Wicked Witch of the West knew each other personally, and for some reason, he hadn’t expected the Witch’s abrasive show of violence in his direction without so much as a second thought.
“She didn’t know it was me.”
“Because you weren’t always a scarecrow?” Another leap. One she only saw hints of in his eyes, but it was as good a guess as any.
He cracked a smile. “Little mind reader indeed.” He reached for their lantern, clearly looking for a reason to end the conversation. “You should get some sleep, and I should too, assuming I still can…”
“You don’t know,” Dorothy pointed out. “So you haven’t been a scarecrow for very long, then.”
Once again, he had nothing to say.
After a long pause, he repeated, “You should get some sleep.”
“What was your name, then?” Dorothy pressed, allowing herself one last question of the night. With no more lantern, the darkness should have been scary, but she only felt bolder, as though its descent meant she wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of anything she said. “It wasn’t Scarecrow, I’m sure, if you weren’t a scarecrow.”
Silence was her response. She couldn’t see the scarecrow’s face, but she knew he could hear her. “I’ll keep your secrets,” she assured him. “Once I get back to Kansas, there won’t be anyone who cares to hear them, anyway.”
“Who said they were secrets?” the scarecrow asked wryly.
“Your eyes.”
The next pause was long enough to make Dorothy think the scarecrow had gone to sleep without answering her question. But then, quietly, she heard him say: “Fiyero.”
“Fiyero?” Dorothy asked, testing the name to make sure she’d heard right. It was certainly an odd one.
“Yes. Don’t, ah…” he cleared his throat. “Don’t use it when the others are awake, alright? Just… because.”
There were reasons for that, Dorothy was sure, and there was far more to this story than she’d heard tonight, but she was satisfied, for now, with what she had learned. “I won’t. I promise.”
“Goodnight, little mind reader.”
“Goodnight, Fiyero.”