(A/N: 18 and older only beyond this point! I never felt like Wirt or Greg had any reason to understand what the Unknown was even after leaving it and waking up in the hospital. They had all these crazy adventures, but because they were in the middle of all the craziness they didn't get that outside perspective that we did, so they couldn't see the big picture. This is me remedying that fact...sorta.

Also, I don't feel like OTGW gets a lot of traffic on this site, so please review! Good or bad, I need feedback. )

It had been spring when he'd left for the Unknown again. Yet, it was autumn when he'd arrived. Winter was on its way, he'd felt a touch of its chill on its last visit. It was a coarse and bitter thing. Wirt intended to be fully clothed upon the season's arrival. The forest might have had other plans, though.

After a day of walking his pants had snagged on some sort of bramble. Not a small tangle, either. The entire side of his pant leg was caught. Pulling away would certainly rip his clothes all the way up to his thigh. So it was left to him to stand and patiently pull the thorns out one by one.

He sang as he worked to stave off the uneasy feeling that was creeping in on him so steadily. Was it guilt? Was it shame? Or was it being back by this old forest again? Nothing seemed strikingly different about the place. Wirt had always supposed that stopping the beast had set everything right. Perhaps he was wrong, though. Perhaps the beast had only been one evil among many in this cursed place. Or maybe his last visit had rendered him traumatized. Why had he come back then? He couldn't remember. It was by choice this time, that much was for sure.

Perhaps he'd come to visit his old friends. That was the way of the Unknown, though, you never knew your purpose there. You had to search it out before you could return. He remembered that about this place...everybody was something. A butcher, a highwayman, a tavern keeper, a bluebird...All of them working towards a goal, doing a job.

His fingers worked at an entire branch that had penetrated his pant leg. "I don't know who she is or how she is or when or why she is, but as for where she is..." A birdsong sounded from close by and Wirt immediately stopped his own. "Beatrice?" No, that was silly. He couldn't remember the obstinate bluebird ever singing for him or his brother. And then he remembered that she wouldn't even be a bluebird if he did encounter her again.

A gust of wind blew straight towards him, fast and cold enough to make his eyes sting. It seemed as if the sun was going down, and he had no lantern. Something ran through the bushes behind the one that had ensnared him. There was no other living thing near him. Still, he spoke softly and haltingly, unsure of his words.

"There are two kinds of light. Hope and warning. And one kind of darkness, all doubt and mourning. And..." he trailed off, unhappy with this poem's progress. It had been a while since he'd tried his hand at poetry, and even longer since he'd tried anything but free verse.

Greg's songs, though simplistic and sometimes overly cheerful, always had displayed a surprisingly mature grasp of rhyme and rhythm. What's more, song had always come naturally to his younger brother. At first Wirt had been jealous, resentful even, but he'd eventually grown to be proud of Greg's talent. Greg's songs made any place or situation feel like part of a whimsical adventure. That's why they'd been so helpful in the Unknown the last time. That's why he'd miss them so much this time.

As if being woken from a nightmare, Wirt jerked to attention. Where was his brother? Why had he not come? Or had he come along and gotten lost? His pants had ripped after Wirt had jolted to attention so violently, but he couldn't have cared less. His brother was missing.

"GREG!" his voice rocketed through the silent trees and echoed its way into nothingness. Wirt tried again, and then again. There was no answer. He began to run. The cold autumn air whipping at his exposed right leg. He ran at such a blinding pace that had he passed his brother he wouldn't have noticed the small boy, but such was the magnitude of his panic. "Greg!" His lungs burned from the shouting and the dry air. "Jason?" he tried hopelessly.

Wirt's shoe connected with a root or a rock and he went sprawling forward. He briefly wondered what he would do if he broke a bone out here. Find Greg or find a doctor first? Instead, it was his face that made first impact. His cheek smashed into the dirt.

It took him a while to sit up again. His left cheek stung as he brushed the dirt away from it. His fingers touched something warm and wet, and he knew it was blood. It would be dishonest to say that he didn't feel a brief moment of panic at the thought of infection, but it flared and died quickly. Maybe those therapy sessions hadn't been such a waste, after all.

Wirt looked around him for something to wipe his face with. He intended to keep his cloak and hat (it had only seemed right to bring them back with him) clean, so in a decision very uncharacteristic of himself he decided to not care. He'd find his way to a pond or stream and wash there.

The boy removed his hat. Bringing it, which had seemed so poetically right before, now seemed like touting an extraneous piece of nostalgia. At least the cloak served a purpose, and it still fit him properly. It had been featured in both of his last two Halloween costumes, though his mother had made minor adjustments. He'd grown and so she'd lengthened it, he'd required a hood so she'd added one (though the fabric didn't quite match), and finally he'd wanted pockets. They weren't necessary, but he liked the idea of a cloak with pockets on the inside. The hat, however, had sat on the shelf above his bed. It was slightly too small and too silly for him continue forward with, he decided. It seemed to represent himself as a child, and there was no place for that here anymore. If he was going to find his brother he would have to act and look more serious.

Wirt stood and brushed himself off. He picked up the hat and placed it almost ceremoniously on a low hanging branch that was already bare of leaves. Something about this action hurt. He felt that that was stupid though, he'd worn this hat one night years ago while traveling through these woods. This was where it belonged.

Wirt pulled his hood over head. It felt much more adult. Much more mysterious. He liked the feeling.


After two days of walking, things began to look familiar. He'd found an old tree that Greg had named after their grandpa and had taken a nap beneath it. He'd stopped for water at a stream that he knew ran by the school house. On the second night he'd wandered into the old tavern, and was surprised to find it occupied by completely new faces, save one or two. Even the tavern keeper had gone.

"Left to help with her brother's farm," the new owner had said dismissively, though he'd later kindly offered Wirt free board for the night. "Dolly's friends were always good folk."

For a moment Wirt tried to remember who Dolly was or if he'd ever met anyone called that before realizing that the old tavern keeper must have had a name. He had just never bothered to learn it. Of course, she'd never offered it to him either.

Nobody had asked who he was this time, though he'd been prepared to call himself a pilgrim. Nobody sang except for the band. And nobody talked to him at all, which was all well and good. Wirt sat on a bench across from the fire and ordered first one, then two cups of mead.

Many of the patrons had left or gone upstairs to bed, by his third cup. Still, the band played on. Three men and a woman that brushed their instruments like lovers. They preformed like they, those three humble players, were stars on a golden stage. Nothing in the world existed to them except their music, and it was because of this that Wirt stayed long after he became numb from the wind blowing through the thin wooden walls and long after he became tired. He sat, his hood up, alone in front of the fire even after the tavern keeper left. It was the sort of weird and peaceful scene that could only play out seriously in the Unknown. For the first time Wirt felt like he sort of knew what he was doing here.

"Along the fields of straw and stover, clocked in 'til the work day's over. Time's a gentle stream, longer than it seems..."

Their latest song was slow and folksy. Dreamlike even, his eyes began to close, and he wondered if he should finally go to his promised bed.

"Patient is the night..."

Wirt felt the gust of wind before he heard anything behind him at the door. He turned (his first movement in what felt like hours) to see a young woman in the door frame. She struggled to push the door closed against the bitter wind. As she did, Wirt's thoughts turned briefly to the old sheepdog that had once lived here. Had he gone with Dolly?

"...How I long to see her face now, her starry moonlit gaze now..."

The woman spoke as she pulled a gray cape tighter around herself, "Are you the keeper?"

It was then that Wirt knew he was drunk. One glass of wine at Thanksgiving and Christmas had not prepared him for this. His head moved like a...what was it that Greg's dad called them? A bobber? Bobbin? The things that floated while you fished. It didn't matter. He felt dizzy. He also felt peaceful and almost happy. Almost. But mostly dizzy.

"Sir?" the woman wouldn't come near him. He could tell by the look on her face that she was nervous. "Do you work here?" He suddenly remembered that he hadn't washed. He was probably still covered in dried blood and dirt. Too late now...

"Nope," Wirt half-hiccupped. "I'm just up late," he gestured to himself with his thumbs as if she could be unsure about the subject of his last sentence.

The woman approached finally, and began to tie up her red hair. "Okay, um...well, do you know if there are any rooms left? I can pay the owner in the morning."

Wirt's hood dipped a little below his eyes as he swayed on his feet. He lost sight of the woman for a few seconds. Perhaps it was for the best. He must have looked incredibly idiotic, and if his eyes were covered maybe he could pull off looking more mysterious. Or at least sleepy...Anything was better than drunk.

"Probably. There were like...six people here before." His hands gestured wildly, but he couldn't decide what he was trying to articulate. He looked down and could see the toes of her shoes in front of him. Awfully, close for a stranger...but she wasn't saying anything. Instead she tugged at his cloak. She rubbed the blue wool between her fingertips, inspecting it.

Her voice was quiet and suspicious when she finally did speak. "Where did you get this?"

Wirt pulled away, suddenly defensive and a little nervous. "My room? It's mine!"

"No..." Her eyes widened. "Wirt?" Her head tilted to the side.

Wirt almost fell over backwards. "What?"

"It's Beatrice."

"Wha-Oh. Oh!" He thought about hugging her so happy was he to see a familiar face (so to speak), but even in his drunken state he knew that it would be weird. They weren't exactly friends. Were they? He decided that if the question was worth asking, they probably weren't. Instead he stood, cowering away from her and clutching the bench for balance.

"...Patient is the night..."