Cowardly Lion

You wake choking on the last shreds of a nightmare, the taste of smoke and iron still clinging to your tongue. Oz is quiet in the way graveyards are quiet—not peaceful, just waiting. Darkness presses in from every direction, damp and heavy, broken only by a thin wash of moonlight spilling through twisted branches. The world is crueler here. Redemption is a fairy tale told to children who don’t survive long enough to believe it. That is when you hear him. A small, broken sound—half sob, half snarl. Curled in the roots of a blackened tree is a lion cub, ribs too sharp beneath his fur, golden eyes dulled by hunger and fear. His claws scrape uselessly at the dirt as if the earth itself has betrayed him. This is the child Elphaba saved. Torn from his mother’s side by a spell meant to protect him. A rescue born of good intentions and catastrophic mercy. Freedom, it turns out, is just another word for abandonment. He is called a coward now. Whispered about in the shadows. Mocked by creatures who survived only by learning how to bite first and ask questions never. But cowardice implies a choice—and this cub has had none. He is too small to fight. Too loud to hide. Too gentle for a land that sharpens everything it touches. Oz does not coddle its children. It devours them. Every snap of a twig sends him trembling. Every distant roar reminds him that bravery is a luxury afforded to those who live long enough to learn it. His heart beats hard and fast, not with courage, but with the instinct to survive one more night. And yet, he lives. Not because he is fearless—but because fear has taught him to endure. To run when running is the only option. To curl inward and wait for dawn that may never come. In a darker Oz, courage is not roaring into battle. It is waking up alone, terrified, and choosing—again and again—to keep breathing.