AN: This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction. I do not know what I am doing. If I am screwing up, please let me know in as much detail as possible so I can stop doing that. That is to say: I welcome any criticism, so please, hold nothing back. I want to get better.

I had several goals in the construction of this story. Primarily, I wanted to express a coherent wirtxbeatrice/infinite eyerolls storyline that agreed both with (how I perceived) each character's personal motivations AND with the internal logic of the OTGW universe. I also wanted to retain some of the anxiety and urgency that drove the original story, and while this is centrally an extended "ship," I've also constructed it as an adventure in its own right. I have attempted to avoid explicating too much of the metaphysics of The Unknown, though as the story progresses, you will probably notice that I necessarily involve some of the fundamental nature of the place in what's going on.

Additionally, I'm making several implicit assumptions throughout this story. It might be useful for me to outline those which may not agree with established or prominent beliefs within the fandom:

The Unknown does not represent the afterlife. The Unknown is a parallel (not alternate!) universe to the one we inhabit, and the liminal space between these universes is the garden wall itself. I make this assumption largely to make the narrative a little less convoluted, but I also don't think Beatrice, for instance, is dead IRL.

Wirt and Beatrice both clearly like each other. They are not entirely conscious of this fact during the original OTGW.

In the original story, Wirt and Beatrice were fifteen. Greg was nearly seven. This story takes place three and a half years later.

Wirt lives in or around Providence, Rhode Island, and the year is 1996 (so, 1993 for the original story). The Unknown is not attached to any kind of time period or place, but it functions as a reflection of rural New England circa 1880. I'm basing this on the existence of a "big top" circus, Georgian architecture, and photography, though I recognize that this choice makes some of the music of the original show anachronistic.

In terms of content warnings: If you could handle the show, you can definitely handle this.

Sorry for the long introduction. Here's the story.

Chapter 1

"Thus Time," I cried, "is but a tear
Some one hath wept 'twixt hope and fear,
Yet in his little lucent sphere
Our star of stars, Eternity, is beaming."

"A Song of Eternity in Time," Sidney Lanier

There was a knock at the door of the old grist mill.

Beatrice thought it odd that someone would come to their homestead—which was, to her general dismay, truly in the middle of nowhere—at all, much less in the later hours of the evening, but she had developed quite a tolerance for abnormality over the last few years. She could not see who was at the door from her window, though her younger sisters often liked to tease that she spent all that time staring out of it so that she could be the first to lay eyes upon her suitor when he arrived. Not that any ever came, though. All she could see out her window was empty, black forest, lit only by the pale, waning light of the moon.

There was another knock.

Beatrice, roused from her inattention, stood up and carefully made her way out of the room she shared with her sisters, walking gingerly on the balls of her feet to avoid making too much noise, and was about to descend the stairs when she heard the door open. Her mother had beaten her to it, it seemed, but Beatrice's interest was piqued nonetheless. She sat quietly at the top of the steps with the intention of eavesdropping on whatever was happening below.

The bitter, cold air rushed into the house as her mother showed their guest inside. It was strange—April had never been this frigid, but ever since Wirt and Greg had gone back home, it was as if even the seasons themselves had succumbed to the malaise which threatened to consume Beatrice. It seemed as if the woods, even in summer, had grown colder with each passing year. The snow had finally begun to melt, but the trees looked dead, and the mud and petrified twigs that covered the forest floor made travel entirely unappealing, even to her wandering spirit. She repositioned herself on the topmost step, angling herself so that she could listen better.

Beatrice could only hear the hushed tones of their introduction when her mother had been at the door, but now that they were inside, she could begin to make out what was being discussed. The visitor spoke like a young woman, perhaps not much older than Beatrice herself, but with a bit more refinement and poise. It was rare that more "cultured" folk ever came out as far as the homestead.

"Please, let me take your coat. It must be freezing out there. Come, come! The fire is nice and warm!" Her mother offered as much hospitality as their household could manage.

"Well, thank you, but I'm actually here on somewhat urgent business-"

"Urgent?" her mother interrupted. Beatrice hated when she did that.

"Yes, urgent. I shouldn't be here long. Tell me, is there a girl named Beatrice who lives here?" Beatrice immediately perked up at the young woman's request, though she did not yet make her presence known.

"Beatrice? You mean my daughter, Beatrice?"

"Good, then I've found the right house. Is she here?" The stranger's motives were still entirely unclear, though she did not speak as if danger were afoot, nor as if she bore malice toward Beatrice or her family—only as if her charge was important.

"Why, yes, of course! You know my Beatrice? She hardly leaves the house anymore, the poor thing. Just spends all her waking hours daydreaming, or... just looking out a window, I suppose. Cabin fever can do quite a number on a young girl, particularly out here in the wilderness..." Beatrice's freckled cheeks flushed with both anger and embarrassment, but she remained motionless.

"Then she's awake? Good. My father needs to speak with her, urgently. I have a horse waiting outside and-" Again, the young woman was interrupted.

"Your father? Why, wait—you need to take my child to him? My dear, I don't mean to sound rude, but I don't even know who you are!" Beatrice's mother was not upset—she was more confused than anything, from the sound of her voice.

"Ah! My apologies, madam! My father is Mr. Turner—he's a lumberjack, or I guess he was. We live not too far from here." The girl was a little flustered, it sounded, and Beatrice was wracking her brain, trying to figure out what some lumberjack wanted from her. "I've spent quite some time riding through these woods, you see..."

"A lumberjack, you said?" Ugh, Beatrice thought, yes, mom, that is, in fact, what she said.

The young woman nodded, paused for a moment, took a small breath, then spoke: "He says he met your daughter in the woods three years ago. When she was a bluebird. He's very ill, and he says there's something he needs to speak to her about. I'm sorry, I wouldn't have disturbed you unless he thought it was important." The house was silent save for the crackling of the fireplace.

Beatrice stood up, slowly and deliberately so as to avoid creaking the floorboards, and walked down the stairs. Her mother was clearly at a loss for words; it was not as if the family had advertised their misfortune, and, moreover, her mother had been largely unable to extract any specifics from Beatrice regarding what exactly she had done while she was away. This was certainly the first she'd heard of any lumberjack. Isolated memories of that fateful night began to crop up in Beatrice's head—the old man, sprawled out on the snow, a wood ax at his side. The way his chest heaved with heavy, ragged breaths. The way his eyes pierced through the terrible darkness as he stared down Death's horrible visage. She shuddered.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and paused. She did not recognize the young woman, either by voice or by appearance, though she was correct in assuming that she was around her age. She had delicate, pale skin, big doe eyes, and dull brown hair that fell in slight waves around her shoulders. She wore a plain, heavy coat and muddy riding boots, but it was obvious that she was quite pretty beneath it all. With her was a large canvas sack, speckled with snow and mud, and outfitted with straps to be worn as a kind of backpack. Beatrice was sure she'd never seen this girl in her life.

"This... this is my daughter, Beatrice," her mother offered, still taken aback by the situation.

"You're the Woodsman's daughter?" Beatrice asked, anxious to skip the pleasantries. "Woodsman" was the name Wirt gave him when he spoke about him, and it had always made him sound like a kind of character, a role that be so happened to fill, rather than a person. It only now dawned upon her that he had a family—or even that he was still alive.

"Yes, that's right. My father asked me to bring you to him—he's very sick and may not have much time left, but he insisted that he speak with you. I've spent three days riding through this tortuous wood, trying to find this homestead. Time is of the essence, and he needs to see you as soon as possible—so we should go, quickly."

A log shifted in the fireplace, and a small shower of sparks danced around the hearth floor.

"Wait." Beatrice was unconvinced, and her eyes narrowed. "If it's so important, why couldn't he just have you pass his message on to me? Or write me a letter? Or... really, anything but this, which—I'm gonna be honest, here—would be incredibly, overwhelmingly suspicious if you hadn't mentioned the bluebird thing. In fact, you know, it's still pretty suspect. So what gives?"

"Beatrice..." her mother began to chide. This time, however, the young woman spoke up.

"I understand how sudden this must be, and believe me—I'd be just as cautious about it if I were you. But my father says that you're the only person left in this world who will understand whatever it is he has to tell you. He asked for you by name." The words seemed honest.

"'The only person left in this world'? That's what he said?" Beatrice asked.

"Those were his words. I know little more than you do, it seems."

Beatrice thought for a moment. If the Woodsman needed to speak to her, it probably was important. There was so much that she had seen that she did not understand. Finally, she exhaled deeply, then spoke: "Alright. I believe you. We'll go-"

"-tomorrow! You oughtn't leave tonight, you'll catch your death of cold for sure!" Beatrice's mother insisted. Beatrice shot her an icy glance.

The young woman thought on this—clearly, she had intended to leave right away, but it was quite cold outside, and the woods would be a challenge to navigate at night. "Okay," she conceded, "but we should depart at sunrise. We'll stop at an inn I know that's on the way for night, and should be at my father's by no later than sundown the next day. Beatrice, have you ever ridden horseback before?"

"Only as a bird, so I'm not sure that counts." Beatrice managed a wry smile.

"It's nothing to worry about," the young woman assured her, "just hold on to me—the roads around here can be quite perilous."

The conversation lulled. The crackling of the fireplace had dulled, and the fire had dimmed. The night was upon them.

"We can put you up for the night in the girls' room," Beatrice's mother offered, "though you may have to share a bed..."

"I appreciate it, but I do not think that will be necessary. I have a sack in my belongings; I can sleep in that." She gestured to her backpack.

"Whatever you'd like, dear. Beatrice will show you upstairs." Her mother looked at Beatrice expectantly. The young woman removed her boots and coat, leaving them by the door, and followed Beatrice politely up the staircase.

Beatrice's mother stood, alone, by the fireplace. The house smelled of smoke and aged wood; the aroma of fresh-cooked food was gone, and the house felt empty. She thought back to when Beatrice had left the first time—the time when she'd had the bright idea to assault a bluebird. Beatrice's departure then was born out of anger—she had run away, taking the dog with her, which was not a particularly uncommon occurrence for the stubborn, restless child—but ever since the ordeal had finished, it was nearly impossible to get her out of the house. True, she did seem more compassionate, more empathetic, but it was as if her anger had been replaced by melancholy; the happiness of those first few months back seemed like a distant memory now. Whatever had happened to her daughter out there in the Unknown, it had taken some time to finally sink in.

And now Beatrice was leaving, but something felt wrong. Perhaps the trip would give her daughter closure. She had never questioned Beatrice about her absence, or about the boy and the frog she had left them. She knew her daughter too well.

The house was silent now. Night was upon them.

Upstairs, the Woodsman's daughter had rolled out her sleeping sack on the ground beside Beatrice's bed. The room was quiet, and Beatrice's sisters were fast asleep already. Beatrice, however, was awake with the anxious energy of imminent departure. She rolled over to face her new house-guest, who likewise had not yet fallen asleep.

"Hey," she whispered, "you're still up, right?"

"Barely," the girl yawned quietly. "What do you need?"

"Did your father say anything else? Besides that he needs to speak to me?"

The young woman thought for a moment. "He told me that he needed to speak to Beatrice. He told me that you were a bluebird, but that you were human now. He told me you were the only person still in this world who he could speak to. He told me you were there when the Beast was extinguished." She paused. "That's all he told me."

"Huh." Beatrice rolled on her back and stared at the ceiling.

"You should sleep. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow," the young woman mumbled, her speech heavy with drowsiness.

"Yeah. Okay."

Beatrice's thoughts returned to the Beast, that terrible, antlered specter of death. It was dead now, certainly, but even the thought of that moment in the clearing made her blood run cold, just as it had three and a half years ago. She remembered the terror of seeing Greg bound up in the Edelwood branches, the youthful spark finally gone from his eyes. She remembered the look on Wirt's face as he ripped his brother free—terror, panic, relief. It was easy to press these thoughts back into her mind, to keep them silent beneath her facade of harsh wit and indifference.

She tried to think of happier memories. She thought of Wirt.