(no subject)
Wicked/Dead Like Me crossover drabblet. Spoilers for Wicked. No other warnings; G rated.
For George-mun.
Happy birthday. ♥
...just the handsome look of them ripped her heart to pieces. Their wildness. Their otherness.
They still looked like him, though. The children clustered in their mother's skirts, one - the middle child - daring to peek out, take an uncertain step forward. Just as the prince had said, his name was a password. Say 'Fiyero' and the Vinkus opened up to you - all the Vinkus, that was, except his widow's frozen stare. Her expression said clearly that George had been judged and found wanting. Nevertheless, she had that name - and the story Fiyero had told her to say, the one that would get her into Kiamo Ko. She'd come too late for him, but she could still see his children.
"Bid our guest welcome, children," Sarima said eventually, and the braver boy - Manek, his name was Manek - strutted forward, a tiny imitation of his father's exaggerated, comic swagger, the one he'd used to make her laugh. Nor, the youngest, buried her head in Sarima's skirt, her dark eyes wide. Irji smiled bashfully, just the way Fiyero had done. Sarima's eyes were still fixed on George; the young Reaper was sure she'd faced worse in her life and life-after-life, but right at this moment she couldn't think of anything that could be more terrifying than trying to stare down Fiyero's wife.
Not quite sure what to do, she bowed, and had to bite back a laugh when little Manek stared proudly at her and then mimicked her. They'll be polite, she heard their father say, amusement and love in his voice. They'll make you welcome. He'd tried to describe Kiamo Ko to her, but nothing could have prepared her for the scale of the place, for the wildness of his children, for the way the fortified building was both oppressive and comforting at once. She could see him here, the lord and prince in his territory, as insubstantial and real as the souls she'd taken. He was here, in his children's eyes.
"You'll stay for a week," the widowed princess of the Arjikis said - not a request, more a command - and swept away, gathering her children around her like ducklings. "Five will bring you to my rooms after dinner."
George was still puzzling over what spices they used to dress their food here, in this strange fairytale world, when she was duly escorted up to the chambers that once Fiyero must have shared with his wife. Sarima sat in state on a chair almost like a throne, wearing a dress that was beautiful but had not quite had all the dust shaken off it. Once again that icy stare pinned the Reaper against the door, hardly daring to move forward until a gesture told her she had better do what Fiyero's widow commanded.
"My husband never spoke of you," Sarima said, her voice even colder. "I presume he did not know you for long before his death." There were accusations in her gaze, ones that George only wished she could say were completely unfounded. "However, his last letter made mention of you, though it was rather unspecific as to when you might arrive. He seemed to think it could be decades. Perhaps my kinsman misinterpreted it."
She didn't dare to speak.
"He sent this with the letter. For Miss George Lass. Of course, none of us have opened it," Sarima sniffed.
It was almost like a log of paper - a scroll, maybe. Of course they'd still use those, here in Oz. George stared at the seal - wax, impressed with a design she'd seen Fiyero doodle on scraps of paper back at camp, when he was alive. She hadn't really believed he would die, no matter how convinced Elphaba was. She'd believed he'd find a way to go on.
"Thank you," she managed, and jumped in surprise when one of the sisters materalized beside her with a small knife and held it towards the paper. To open it, of course - it was too blunt to do any damage, but for a moment...
Unrolled, the scroll proved to be more than just a scrap of paper. A ring fell onto her lap, pewter enamelled with blue diamonds - pretty, but nothing special, until she saw Sarima watching it like a hawk. Until she remembered Fiyero's tattoos.
And on the inside of the scroll, a sketch, lovingly rendered in every detail. Herself, smiling, head tilted upwards, glowing like unexpected sunshine. It wasn't until she saw remember written beneath the sketch that she started to cry.
For George-mun.
Happy birthday. ♥
...just the handsome look of them ripped her heart to pieces. Their wildness. Their otherness.
They still looked like him, though. The children clustered in their mother's skirts, one - the middle child - daring to peek out, take an uncertain step forward. Just as the prince had said, his name was a password. Say 'Fiyero' and the Vinkus opened up to you - all the Vinkus, that was, except his widow's frozen stare. Her expression said clearly that George had been judged and found wanting. Nevertheless, she had that name - and the story Fiyero had told her to say, the one that would get her into Kiamo Ko. She'd come too late for him, but she could still see his children.
"Bid our guest welcome, children," Sarima said eventually, and the braver boy - Manek, his name was Manek - strutted forward, a tiny imitation of his father's exaggerated, comic swagger, the one he'd used to make her laugh. Nor, the youngest, buried her head in Sarima's skirt, her dark eyes wide. Irji smiled bashfully, just the way Fiyero had done. Sarima's eyes were still fixed on George; the young Reaper was sure she'd faced worse in her life and life-after-life, but right at this moment she couldn't think of anything that could be more terrifying than trying to stare down Fiyero's wife.
Not quite sure what to do, she bowed, and had to bite back a laugh when little Manek stared proudly at her and then mimicked her. They'll be polite, she heard their father say, amusement and love in his voice. They'll make you welcome. He'd tried to describe Kiamo Ko to her, but nothing could have prepared her for the scale of the place, for the wildness of his children, for the way the fortified building was both oppressive and comforting at once. She could see him here, the lord and prince in his territory, as insubstantial and real as the souls she'd taken. He was here, in his children's eyes.
"You'll stay for a week," the widowed princess of the Arjikis said - not a request, more a command - and swept away, gathering her children around her like ducklings. "Five will bring you to my rooms after dinner."
George was still puzzling over what spices they used to dress their food here, in this strange fairytale world, when she was duly escorted up to the chambers that once Fiyero must have shared with his wife. Sarima sat in state on a chair almost like a throne, wearing a dress that was beautiful but had not quite had all the dust shaken off it. Once again that icy stare pinned the Reaper against the door, hardly daring to move forward until a gesture told her she had better do what Fiyero's widow commanded.
"My husband never spoke of you," Sarima said, her voice even colder. "I presume he did not know you for long before his death." There were accusations in her gaze, ones that George only wished she could say were completely unfounded. "However, his last letter made mention of you, though it was rather unspecific as to when you might arrive. He seemed to think it could be decades. Perhaps my kinsman misinterpreted it."
She didn't dare to speak.
"He sent this with the letter. For Miss George Lass. Of course, none of us have opened it," Sarima sniffed.
It was almost like a log of paper - a scroll, maybe. Of course they'd still use those, here in Oz. George stared at the seal - wax, impressed with a design she'd seen Fiyero doodle on scraps of paper back at camp, when he was alive. She hadn't really believed he would die, no matter how convinced Elphaba was. She'd believed he'd find a way to go on.
"Thank you," she managed, and jumped in surprise when one of the sisters materalized beside her with a small knife and held it towards the paper. To open it, of course - it was too blunt to do any damage, but for a moment...
Unrolled, the scroll proved to be more than just a scrap of paper. A ring fell onto her lap, pewter enamelled with blue diamonds - pretty, but nothing special, until she saw Sarima watching it like a hawk. Until she remembered Fiyero's tattoos.
And on the inside of the scroll, a sketch, lovingly rendered in every detail. Herself, smiling, head tilted upwards, glowing like unexpected sunshine. It wasn't until she saw remember written beneath the sketch that she started to cry.