Work Text:
A faint flicker of light is the only sign that anyone is awake or, indeed, even occupying the room at the end of the corridor. The flame dances against the room’s darkness, revealing a green arm resting on the desk. Wax drips down the side of the candle like raindrops on a windowpane, and beside the candlestick, a bunch of poppies are nestled in a clear vase.
The Witch is awake.
She’s breathing evenly, like someone who is relaxed and completely at home. Dorothy knows this because she recognises the same patterns in herself; it’s disconcerting, because doesn’t that make the Witch seem human? Not a witch, but a person—a person with thoughts, feelings, and emotions. Strengths and weaknesses, likes and dislikes.
Friends. A family.
Like Dorothy herself.
Is there someone out there the Witch loves? Do witches have boyfriends? Perhaps he’s a wizard—no, not a wizard. A warlock, instead. That sounds better.
The Wicked Witch and the Warlock.
Dorothy creeps back into the shadows the moment she sees that green arm move. Her vision is better now, adjusted to the darkness: the Witch holds a book in her hands, her knuckles tight as she grips the leather cover.
A spellbook.
Dorothy barely clamps down a gasp—of surprise, of horror, of awe, perhaps. She’s not quite sure.
The thing is, sitting there at that desk, all alone, in a simple dark—because it’s not quite black, almost navy, almost purple, even—dress and with a deep brown blanket tossed over her shoulders, the Wicked Witch of the West no longer looks wicked.
She looks like Auntie Em after a long day, sitting in the rocking chair and reading her romance novels. She even looks a little like Uncle Henry after attending one of those ‘wobbly’ meetings, with his head bowed over the dining table, scrutinising the newspaper as if searching for secret messages.
She looks like someone Dorothy might know—and that scares her more than the idea of the Wicked Witch being, well, wicked.
And with that, she hurries back to Toto’s side, hoping she’s gone unnoticed. She grips the dog firmly against her chest and presses her face into his fur, breathing in the familiar dog smell she has grown used to over the years.
Try to sleep.
That’s right, Dorothy thinks, her eyelids suddenly heavy. If she’s to have any hope of escaping this castle and returning to Kansas, she needs some sleep.
She presses her knees up to her chest, just as Toto makes a quiet, indignant grumble and settles beside her legs. Dorothy’s eyes close, peaceful for the first time since her house dropped in Munchkinland.
She’s too far gone to realise that she’s being watched.