A Woodsman's Lament: An Over the Garden Wall Oneshot
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The Beast had been right about one thing: he hadn't wanted to return to his empty house.
The Woodsman slugged his pack of sticks off, letting it slide to the floor. They bumbled across the creaking wood, a few rustling free and rolling away. This time hours ago, he would have collected them all together and made sure they were pristine and neat. That's how she had always liked the house: spit-spot, everything in its place.
But he knew now she wasn't there. She would never chide him for his messiness, or nag for him to collect his things from the floor. He'd thought keeping her spirit around would motivate him to fulfill her wishes, but it'd all been for nothing.
The Woodsman went back outside, settling into a rocking chair. From his view on the porch, the woods went on forever, still dark, still seemingly never-ending. He hadn't brought anything out with him: not a blanket to fight off the chill; not his ax; and, for the first time in eons, not the lantern.
After vanquishing the Beast into shreds of shadows and pathetic howls, the Woodsman had wanted to leave the lantern behind, to allow the woods to clean up the mess. But he'd found that his fingers wouldn't unclench from the handle. For years, they'd been cemented there, ironed to the lantern by desperate, sad, hopeful intention, and years of dedication could not, unfortunately, be broken by one moment of realization.
The Woodsman was too empty to be angry. He should've been feeling everything, but all that was there was a hollow ringing. Sure, yes, he'd conquered the Beast—no, the boy had conquered the Beast, and had showed him the truth. The monster with cold, dot eyes and antlers, that always lurked in the dark, always used his words to get what he wanted, was gone. He'd never again be able to harm any more innocent souls. The Woodsman, with one, fatal, vengeful breath, had made sure to that.
But with the Beast had gone any chance to see her again. Years of protecting a dark lantern…wasted. He thought he'd been protecting his flesh and blood, his precious daughter, but he'd been harboring a devil. The Woodsman rubbed at his face, hands shaking, upon the thought of all the souls he'd charred up over the ages—good, unfortunate people he'd ground up to feed to a monster.
His memory went to what he'd thought was her flame. There'd been a time when he'd looked at the fire and thought, Yes, of course that's her. Look how she moves. Only she could ever be this bright! But had that been more of the Beast's manipulation? Or his own mind playing tricks on him, bamboozling him into thinking he was just doing a father's duty, cutting down innocent souls right where they stood, roots entangled into dark soil?
Perhaps there was good in this. No longer would he have to watch and protect the lantern. Before, his entire day would be shuffled around in accordance to the lantern's safety. The windows would always be shut, to keep the wind out. He'd always had spare oil with him, and then a second spare, in case of emergency. The lantern had rarely been left alone. He was free now from his role of lantern bearer, a role he had never, ever wanted in the first place.
And who knew? Perhaps she was in a better place. Perhaps that's where she'd always been, and maybe, now, she was at peace, knowing her father was free. The Woodsman wondered if he'd be allowed in, where she was, at the end of it all, considering all the damage he'd done to countless innocents. Surely she'd gone somewhere good, full of light, tranquil. Would they let him past the gate, seeing all the blood he had on his hands?
It wasn't something to think about, he knew. His thoughts shifted to the two boys and the bluebird he'd been seeing so much of lately. Worry stained his mind. The Beast was gone, but he still prayed for their safety. He'd done all he could to protect them from the Beast's omniscient wickedness, and now they were on their way home. He knew they'd find home eventually—the Beast's absence cleared the woods and extracted from them their mind games—but, he mused weakly, a parent's concern never faded.
The sky was black and starlit, snow falling heavily around him. He couldn't remember the last time it had snowed. He should've brought a candle out with him, to illuminate his dim, rickety porch and keep him warm. He knew he wasn't in the darkness anymore; he'd won over evil and cleansed the woods. He'd saved those two boys and the bluebird, saved them from a long, aching end.
Perhaps he could be happy about that, in the least. He hoped she was, from wherever she was.
The Woodsman must've dozed off, for when he awoke, it was much colder and darker. The snow still fell in thick, hurried clots, and had blanketed the ground. He was numb, and he considered going to bed, and something panged in his chest. Tonight, he'd truly being going to bed alone. Recent times, he'd been sleeping in the company of evil, thinking it the company of love.
How cruel it was. Maybe it would've been better to have never slept at all.
Enough self-pity, he thought. I must get out of this cold before I catch my—
And then his door was opening. It struck the Woodsman as extremely odd instead of threatening. He had forgotten what it looked like to see his door open, instead of opening it himself.
The inside was lit, and a candle was being held. A face peeked out from the other side of the door. Careful, scared eyes. Long brown hair. Simple, traditional clothing.
The Woodsman's eyes widened. Recognition struck him: recognition he thought he'd never feel again. There she was, as simple as that. Tears streaming down her cheeks, a tiny smile crinkling her face. He was frozen, staring at her, but the spell was broken as she spoke with a voice he'd dreamt about every single night since it was snatched away, and his heart was, finally, brought back to life.
"Father?"