Dec. 31st, 2014

seraphcelene: (it mocks me)
This isn't finished and never will be. I'll be honest about that. There were supposed to be parallels between Dorothy and Willow, and Dorothy and Buffy. I had big plans about themes of loss and addiction, etc, etc, etc, blah, blah, blah. But, yeah. Not so much. Moving on. Done and done. So, to close off 2014, here you go:

Title: The Dandelion Seed
Author: seraphcelene
A/N: Amnesty! Unfinished crossover fic: Buffy/The Wizard of Oz/Wicked.

"Was she to be taken seriously,
or was she merely a blow-away dandelion seed,
caught on the wrong side of the wind?"
- Gregory Maguire, Wicked

"Treacherous red of poppies and poison berries.
Crimson, carmine, cerise, cayenne,
safflower, scarlet, vermillion.
All the dangerous, warning, compelling, ripening,
happy, fortunate, words for red."
- Eileen Berry, The Red Poem


Here is where you are. There is love and there is hate, but there are no bluebirds. There is nothing in the stars. It was all a lie.

Miles away from where you began, this is home.

i. Poison Poppies

Dorothy's too fragile, or so the Wizard tells her. One of the palace doctors slides a needle into the brachial artery in the crook of her elbow. It's thick and hearty despite the injections.

She isn't from Oz and the poppy, poison distilled and diluted, is the only way they can get her across the void.

When she isn't jumping wormholes, Dorothy lays the poppy out in lines.


Scarecrow tells stories about concrete things: sun, wind, rain, and growing things. Sometimes he gets poetic, philosophizing about the state of potatoes, describing the dry murmuring of corn husks in the field or the mocking cackle of crows. Trapped in an opium haze, drugged so that she can retain her sanity crossing dimensions, in Dorothy's mind the stories always turn into nightmares filled with looming, laughing shadow crows that peck at her eyes.

Dorothy rolls into Brr, huddles naked against his side. His fur is sleek-soft and only half as warm as usual. A curling warmth against her side, Brr gags and heaves. The choking sound makes Dorothy's stomach twist hard and what's left in her belly begins to back up into her throat. Just as she's going to swallow and choke and maybe die, hands wedge beneath her back and wrap around her thighs turning her as the gorge rises. Convulsing, her body trapped in the rhythm of involuntarily contracting muscles, Dorothy tries to purge the magic-laced opium from her body.

Cramped and exhausted, Dorothy whispers through dry, cracked lips, "No more crows."

Scarecrow repeats softly,"No more crows."

Dorothy cries when Scarecrow begins to tell her a story about sunsets, so he tells her about sunrise instead.
Read more... )


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