A/N: Just little tidbits of writing, playing with the idea of Beast!Wirt. The words he recites later come from the poem, Hound of Heaven, by Francis Thompson.

I might add more to this later, but I doubt there will ever be a genuine plot, heh.

"Woe that this metal caging my soul - alas - cages also my spirit, doomed forever to be separate from the place I truly belong…" rose the mournful words of one Wirt Wood. His body was huddled against a tree trunk in the depths of the Unknown; he had his cloak gathered tightly around him, and his head angled so that the long heavy antlers jutting from the sides of his head did not snag on low-hanging branches.

Wirt was in one of his more tragic reveries – forgivable, perhaps, by past circumstances.

Wirt's brother was privy to the whole affair. "Wow," Greg said, swinging his legs as he sat up in the tree. "Is that how you're gonna lure in lost souls, Wirt?"

"What?"

"Poetry!" Greg declared happily. "The old Beast sang, and you recite poetry!"

"What - no - Greg! I'm not going to lure in lost souls." Wirt pulled his cloak tighter around himself, chilled by the very thought.

"Oh. Well, I think you're low on oil!" the clinking of metal rang above Wirt's head as Greg swung the lantern, its sound unmistakable.

"No, it's not - it's not running low, it just, the curve of the glass makes it look that way," Wirt rattled off. He hated the sound of that lantern. Its icy rattle pierced him to the bone with hollow, lonely hunger. It made him ache. He hated it.

"Ooo-ohhh..." more clinking as Greg examined the glass intently. "Whoa! If I look at it this way, it's empty - and if I look at it this way, it's full!"

"Yeah, that's right, it's just the glass." Wirt rubbed his emaciated forearms.

"I never knew that. Hey, do you think someone could help turn you back?"

"Nobody is going to want to help the Beast, Greg."

"What about the Woodsman?"

"No, Greg."

"Adelaide?"

"No."

"Oh, I know! Jason Funderberker!"

"Ra-owr," went the frog.

Wirt sighed. "A frog can't do anything."

"He can sure carry a tune. Remember that, Wirt?" Greg patted Jason Funderberker the frog. "You have a beautiful voice."

"A song can't save me."

"Well, that's okay," Greg said. "Don't you worry, brother o' mine. I'll get it all figured out!" There was a thump as Greg jumped off the tree branch and plopped onto the ground.

"Although, maybe Beatrice would help..." Wirt continued thoughtfully. "If we could find her... And explain before she runs away. Or tries to axe off my face. Would she do that? ... She'd do that. She's pretty tough."

Wirt frowned. "Okay, back to 'no one is going to help us." He bowed his head and surrendered to the despair that had become so familiar lately.

Except this time there was no escaping it.

A gust of winter wind ruffled his cloak and sliced its chill into his body. Wirt shuddered. Ever since… well….

Ever since, he hadn't been able to feel warmth. To some extent he felt the cold, but it never numbed his fingers, subdued his steps, or slowed his mind. He simply was the cold, in a way that he could never really feel heat again.

Greg, though, he could still get cold.

"Let's find you an inn," Wirt said. "Maybe we'll come across another house. They won't let me in, but if I stand back far enough…"

There was no response. No rattle of the lantern, even.

Wirt cursed under his breath – of course, he hadn't been paying enough attention and looking after Greg the way he should have been.

Wirt leapt up so fast that his antlers bounced against the low hanging branch and tangled themselves almost immediately. "Ow! Stupid things..." Grumbling to himself, Wirt scraped away the branches and shook his head free. "Greg? Greg!?"

Spinning around, he spotted a trail of fresh foot prints wandering away from the tree's trunk.

Wirt scowled, and stalked after them. After only a few minutes of trudging through the snow, the trail led him to a neat clearing.

A shack huddled comfortably close to the ground, a tiny chimney poking above the snow to spurt out warm black smoke, rich with the scents of a fresh meal. The windows glowed with warm radiance.

Wirt halted, his eyes widening.

Greg was at the doorstep, and as Wirt watched, a portly old lady opened the door to peer down at him.

Instantly Wirt's heart tensed. His mind flashed through Adelaide, Beatrice.

They had no way of knowing who this lady was. She – she could be anyone! She could be a witch, or a devil, or -

Without thinking, he bolted out of the woods, arms raised, "Greg! Get away from her!"

The woman, in response, drew in a fast gasp. "Boy, the Beast is upon you!" Lunging forward, she snagged Greg's arm and dragged him behind her. "Away, back, back, Beast!"

Wirt skittered away as she waved a broom wildly in his face. "Hey! That's my brother!"

"Mmmm," Greg sniffed the air in the doorway. "Wow! Cinnamon rolls? Pie? Roast pork?"

"Lady, stop waving that thing in my face!" Wirt protested.

"Back, I say! Don't you go twisting this poor little boy's mind to his death! You won't get him on my watch!"

Grumbling, Wirt retreated further into the shadows. "Come on, Greg. Let's find shelter somewhere else."

"Bye Wirt!" Greg waved and toddled into the old lady's house, rich with the scents of a fresh meal.

"Greg! What, no –"

"You won't get his soul tonight!" The lady shrieked.

"Jeez – ugh." Wirt slipped away from the house, and the complaints of the lady. Once he deemed himself a safe distance to put her mind at rest, he settled himself against the trunk of a tree and buried his face in his arms. His antlers brushed uncomfortably over his upper arms, and he stiffened.

Quickly he diverted his mind from their presence.

He sure hoped Greg was okay. The lady hadn't seemed dangerous, but in the Unknown, you couldn't ever really be certain.

Wirt chewed his bottom lip. Then again, Greg hadn't eaten since… Wirt furrowed his brow. Time was difficult to account for in the Unknown. But it sure had felt like a while. He'd at slept twice since he'd last eaten… Wirt cringed.

Now he felt pretty bad for not looking after his little brother well enough. No wonder Greg left him to get some food. Maybe he'd stay the night for shelter, too.

"Be nice if I could have some food too," Wirt muttered to himself, thinking longingly of all the scents emanating from that warm, cozy shack.

But as the big brother, it was more important to look after Greg than his own needs. Wirt settled into a better spot against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. "He'll come get me when he's ready…"

The sky above the Unknown was at its darkest; Wirt was dozing, although not quite sleeping. He hadn't managed to fall asleep since… well… since the lantern business.

But he was deep in his own thoughts, until the cheery tones of his yelling brother snapped him to wakefulness.

"Wirt! Wirt! Hey, Wirt!"

Wirt peered up to see the small form of brother standing proudly before him. "Greg!" Wirt leapt up. "You had me worried! Where have you been all this time?"

"Brother o' mine, I was eatin' up that old lady's food until my belly just about burst. She cooks a mean roast!"

"Don't disappear for so long! What if she ended up like Adelaide or something?"

"And tender rolls, and corn yellow like that honey comb – here, have some!" Greg dug out a sweet-smelling roll, a wrapped package of tender pork, and a sealed bottle with some type of berry in it.

"Were those in your pants?" Wirt said suspiciously.

"Yup!"

"Great." Wirt accepted them anyway, because he seemed to remember at last that he was hungry – and anyway, all the food had been carefully wrapped.

As the two sat down in the snow to eat, Wirt glanced over at his brother. "Hey, thanks, Greg."

"No problem, big brother!"

Bones aching with hunger, Wirt tore off a piece of the golden roll. It was soft, and carried the warmth of a cozy, peaceful home. Wirt nearly salivated at the prospect, and hurriedly popped it into his mouth.

Instantly, his nose scrunched up, and he spat it right out. "Blugh! Greg, this food is awful!"

Greg gasped. "Wirt! Don't say that about Ol' Lady Mae's cookin'!"

"Well, let me try this." Wirt bit into the strip of pork, only to find it had exactly the same disgusting oily taste as the roll. "How did you eat this?" Wirt muttered around the chewy piece of meat. He forced himself to swallow it down, but instantly felt queasy.

"It's delicious!" Greg exclaimed, as if personally offended about Wirt's dismissal.

"It's terrible, how could you like this?"

Greg snatched the food from Wirt's hand and gulped it down, saving just a tiny bit to feed Jason Funderberker the frog. "We'll just eat what you don't," Greg said. "Isn't that right, Jason Funderberker?"

"Ra-owr."

Wirt clutched at his stomach. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

Greg's brow furrowed. "Do you need hot soup? Mom always made us hot soup when we felt-"

"Not that kinda s- hfn!" Wirt lurched up and staggered to the side; bent double, he promptly vomited up what little he had eaten. The contents of his stomach splattered into the snow; Wirt wanted to gag all over again when he swiped away a trail of oily black saliva from his lips.

"Ew, that looks like the stuff in the lantern," Greg said.

"It's not," Wirt choked out, although he had to agree with Greg, and the thought settled like a heavy stone in his desiccated stomach.

"Greg, who do you think the last beast was?"

"A frog!"

"Do you think he was like me?"

"Nah. You're too short."

"When he blew out the lantern… do you think he knew?"

"That he was blowing it out?"

"I think he might've. There are some reasons to do it, even if you know."

Greg wasn't eating.

There wasn't anything to eat.

Wirt, now possessed of knowledge concerning the Unknown, led Greg back to the house where he had first found warmth and food after Wirt's transformation.

But though the house stood, it was empty and cold. Wirt knew then that the lady who previously occupied the house had Moved On. She'd escaped out of his reach.

Greg scraped some old beans out of the bottom of a can, but found no other food or water in the house.

Wirt considered bringing Greg to Pottsfield, and Enoch, but their food wasn't liable to be something Greg could share, if they ate at all. Anyway – with Pottsfield, there was always the risk of never leaving. Pottsfield did that to people.

So instead, Wirt watched as Greg grew thinner and thinner, weaker and weaker. Ol' Jason Funderburker the frog, in turn, stopped croaking quite so much, and chose to spend most of his time huddled up on Greg's hair, bulbous eyes watching Wirt with a strange, surly look.

"He's just hibernating up there," Greg told Wirt cheerfully, stretching a grin across his sallow face. "He'll perk right up once winter's over!"

"I don't know if this winter will ever be over."

"Whaaat? Pff, it'll be over before you know it!" Greg swung the lantern as he trotted at Wirt's side. "Trust me brother o' mine, soon it'll be spring."

Wirt shuddered imperceptibly. The clatter of the lantern always set an ache in his bones that he couldn't describe.

"Nothing will be better in Spring."

"Sure it will! Then all the plants will grow! We'll have corns, and tom-ah-toes, and –"

A dull thump. The lantern rattling.

Wirt turned around to find Greg sprawled on the ground, the lantern rolling away from his fingertips.

Beatrice's house. There was no where else to go.

Beatrice would help Greg.

They would feed him. They would make sure he got healthy again.

Wirt drifted through the forest, Greg gathered to his chest, panic bolting through his heart.

Beatrice hadn't seen him since…

But this was critical. He thought he could take care of Greg, and he couldn't, and…

Greg needed company. Real, human company. Company that could feed and tend to him.

Wirt's new form didn't permit the very human expression of tears, but never before had he felt so much like crying. Beatrice would see how horribly he'd taken care of his brother. She'd see how awful and terrifying Wirt himself looked. In every sense, a monster. But for Greg…. For Greg, he'd do anything.

Wirt found her just outside her house, chopping down trees not the Edelwoods for their fireplace.

"Beatrice?" he said tentatively.

"Aii!" She leapt into the air and looked as though she was seconds away from chastising him, before her eyes really settled on who it was that addressed her. "Wirt? Is that you?"

He held himself to the shadows. "Beatrice, Greg needs help. He's starving, and I don't know who else to go to."

Her eyes fell to Greg's lifeless form. She dropped the axe and approached slowly as if pacifying a feral animal. "Okay. Okay. We can take him."

"Beatrice, I-"

"Let him go, Wirt."

"I-"

"Let him go. We can help Greg, but you need to let him go."

It was only then that Wirt realized he was clutching Greg tight to his chest in a gesture vaguely predatory. "I didn't mean-"

Slowly, he unwound his arms from Greg, and let Beatrice take him.

"It's okay. It's okay, Wirt, we've got him now."

But when she backed away with his brother in her arms, there was something unreadable in her eyes, something that lingered too long on the antlers branching from his skull and his hideous glowing eyes.

There was a gnawing ache in him, not unlike what people experience after intense food deprivation. But it wasn't physical, so to speak. It was in his head, in his mind… which made it much, much worse.

Scowling, Wirt rubbed the base of his antlers. They seemed to weigh heavier and heavier every day. The lantern, too. Between these two things, it felt like someone had driven hooks into his body and were trying to tug him down into the earth.

It's a disturbing thought.

Softly, he whispered, "Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me… Strange, piteous, futile thing."

His eyes curved upward and there was a little girl standing, not far, dwarfed by the immense trees.

He went silent.

She was lost. She gazed up at the canopy as if seeking some form of light, some tiny figment of hope, and she walked staggeringly, exhausted, blindly.

Wirt began again, "All which I took from thee - I did but take, not for thy harms, but just that thou might'st seek it in My arms."

She turned to him, lips parted. "I didn't see you there. You have a beautiful voice."

Wirt's head ached, at the base of each of his antlers. He rubbed them insistently. "Thank you."

She crept closer. "Sir? You wouldn't happen to be familiar with this forest, would you?"

It ached. "I do know it well." He didn't really sound like himself.

Another step closer. "Could you show me the way out?"

That sealed her fate.