take you all around
Wirt isn't 'only human.'
He's not entirely certain when he stopped being human. Certainly before his antlers grew in; he'd looked at his blood under the microscope before that, and the cells had been distinctly plantlike. Was it when his eyes began to glow and he had to teach himself shapeshifting? Was it when he'd lost the ability to eat meat? When his fingers stretched out like twigs? Or perhaps he'd surrendered his humanity the moment he blew out the Dark Lantern.
So no, Wirt isn't only human, and he hasn't been for quite some time, but that doesn't mean he's not a person. He still has limits, breaking points. And it turns out that one of his breaking points is being trapped in an unsettling dream world where an evil imitation of his mother explained that the world would be better off without him, nearly giving into months of accumulated despair, and getting bailed out by the Beast of all people (because apparently the Beast-fragment that lives inside him is self-aware, and isn't that just completely terrifying?) all because a friend had been kidnapped and brainwashed by misguided witches.
He is angry. Months of frustration and fear, the stress of an entire world on his shoulders, the general populace still refusing to understand that he's not the Beast, it's all seething behind his breastbone. His Lantern's light is hard and white, unyielding.
Wirt should probably go through the proper authorities, whoever those may be, to ensure that the four witches are punished in accordance with the law. And he will! Sort of. That is, he's going to make damn certain that they're brought to court rather than cursing them himself. (The curses whisper in his mind of dreadful consequences, wonderful revenge. He does his best to ignore them.) It's just that he should have the authorities track them down and bring them in rather than go a-hunting himself.
He's going to hunt them down. Not his brightest idea, considering that they'd already defeated him once, but… something needs to give before he snaps in a different, more dangerous way, and those four witches have made targets of themselves.
So once Wirt's ensured that Andrew and his family are safe, once he's regained his soul, he makes his excuses and disappears into the forest, following the murmur of long-suppressed instincts and the fading not-scent of their magic. The woodland shudders and darkens as the wakening trees spread the message:
For the first time in over a year, the Beast is on the prowl.
It's been four days since Felicity and her fellow witches defeated the Beast, and none of them have grown antlers or developed the desire to go and frame innocent people so they can justify cold-blooded murder. Their blood is still red, their fingers still normal length, their eyes no brighter. Letting the Dark Lantern melt through the ice has given them enough distance to escape the Beast-curse.
Even better, they've avoided a repeat of the Hollow Winter. The first Beast had obviously cast a powerful curse upon the entire Unknown when he died, one that his heir had used to support his claims of being a benevolent place-spirit. Even though Felicity had known this, she's still relieved to have it confirmed. The forest feels sullen, brooding on the loss of its lord, when she and her friends pass through it, but that's a far cry from what happened a year ago.
It does not occur to her, to any of them, that the Pilgrim might still be alive. They'd opened the Dark Lantern's valve and placed it on one of the thinner sections of ice, and the days have been warm. The ice might have held for a day, even a day and a half, but there's no way it lasted until the second sunset. No: The Pilgrim is dead, the Beast's line is ended, and the Unknown is better for it. This might not have brought back her murdered brother, but it's certainly avenged him. Now Felicity just has to clear his name, which will hopefully be easier now that the Beastling isn't around to influence peoples' minds.
They're safe now. The forest is safe, and she has no qualms about following the woodland road.
Miles away, a shadow lopes steadily closer.
Wirt has to take a few minutes to regain his equilibrium after he sees the four witches who'd tried to murder him. He's not a violent person, but now, watching these kidnappers prance through his forest like they've done nothing wrong, he's tempted to make an exception.
They're four, maybe five miles from the nearest town. The forest ends before then, giving way to farmland, but the humans are still deep within the Pilgrim's demesne.
They won't make it to the open fields. One way or another, Wirt will turn them back.
Darkness falls upon them like a cloudburst. There's no warning, no way to prepare, just a few seconds of unnatural, inky blackness. Felicity startles, instinctively jumping backwards, clutching at the feathery amulet of protection she wears around her neck. Horror ices her veins when she realizes that it… isn't working. The magic is still there, it's just not doing anything. It's like someone has quenched a firepit. The pit remains and it could be lit again, but it's inactive. Useless.
Felicity doesn't understand. She's never heard of something like this, doesn't know of anyone or anything that could disable an amulet like this without touching or damaging it. What kind of power—
Realization strikes half a second before the darkness lifts.
Her surroundings have changed. No new trees have sprouted, but the ones before them have woven together, their boughs forming an impenetrable barrier across the road. The noon sunlight is dimmer than it should be, and every shadow is bigger, blacker, great pools of night where there should be only smudges.
Another shadow, tall and slender, steps out from between the trees. The Horned Lord strides with confidence, an arrogant prince in the heart of his kingdom. A long cloak flows behind him. His many-tined antlers are huge and wide, a fitting crown for a woodland god. The white brilliance of his eyes is matched only by the hard light of the Lantern at his hip.
Constance chokes on a sob. Bart tries to run, but thick vines—not edelwood, Felicity realizes after a single heartstopping moment—coil around his legs, binding him in place. Trevor is frozen entirely.
Felicity clutches at her useless charm and tries to think of a way to escape, a spell to use, anything other than we're all going to die we're all going to die.
When the Beast speaks, his voice is low and tightly controlled like he's fighting back the urge to shout. "You four are going to Kenningdole."
The sheer unexpectedness of his words startles Felicity out of her stupor. "Huh?"
"Kenningdole," repeats the forest spirit. "It's a town a few days to the south that has a jail and a court system and all that. Your little ki͠d̡ńa҉ppin̷g took place in Kenningdole's territory, so that's where you'll be tried." His eyes flare in tandem with the Lantern-light that comprises his corrupted soul, momentarily turning to concentric rings of blue yellow pink before fading back to white. He takes a breath as if to steady himself. "One way or another, you're going to face justice for kidnapping my friend and attempting to murder me. The only question is whether you'll go quietly or be d̴r͠a͟ggȩd͡."
Trevor begins to giggle. Whether it's an outlet for his terror, a symptom of hysteria, or a reaction to the most powerful creature in the Unknown threatening them with mundane prison of all things, Felicity can't say. Probably all three.
But the monster's hypocrisy sparks another emotion, one that burns through the rest of her paralysis. "You have no right to threaten us with imprisonment, monster. When did you stand trial for murdering my brother?"
Trevor's giggling increases, then he passes out.
"Are you out of your mind?" Bart hisses.
"Ignore her, she's crazy," Constance yips. "We'll go, we'll go."
The Pilgrim raises an imperious hand. Constance quiets. "No, no, she's got a point."
Felicity had known that the Beast's mantle caused bloodlust, violence, the uncontrollable urge to hunt and ruin and kill. She'd known that this creature had once been a human child before his heroism had damned him to a fate worse than death.
She hadn't realized that the Pilgrim's mind had completely divorced from reality.
"I did kill your brother," the Beast continues. "It was an accident, and for a good reason, but he's still dead because of me. I'm pretty sure that any jury would be too terrified to convict me, but you're well within your rights if you want to press charges."
That's when Felicity realizes what's going on. He's mocking her.
Sudden spells have never been Felicity's strong suit. She works better with wards, with charms, with slowly enchanting objects or places to hold a magical charge.
Normally, she would never attempt to cast an acute, offensive spell against another magic user, much less a creature so much more powerful than she is. But the blood is pounding in her ears, her vision is blurred with red, and there's a piece of this monster's antler in her pocket. Any body part is potent, but the antler, a symbol of the Horned Lord's authority and power, is even more so.
She grabs it, spitting the words of a pain curse. The monster cries out, grasping at his temples where his antlers sprout. His shadowy outline blurs, writhes.
Felicity grins.
Then the Beast's head snaps back up, his eyes burning like stars, and the earth buckles beneath Felicity's feet. Roots erupt from the snowmelt-sodden mud, knocking her off balance. She staggers, instinctively flailing her arms for balance. She barely keeps ahold of the antler piece.
The witch intones an intensifier, amplifying the pain spell, reveling in the murderer's soft noise of distress. She repeats it again before a root wraps around her neck. A thorny vine winds up her arm, trying to wriggle between her hand and the antler, and she realizes that she's made a mistake. She should have bound him first, should have done something to block his own terrible power—
The Beast is there, right in front of her, tearing his antler piece from her hand. He slips it beneath his cloak of shadows, probably into an unseen pocket.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, how could she have been so stupid?
The root around her neck retreats. Pastel eyes flash towards her wrist, red blood welling where thorns have pierced her skin. A soft huff, and the thorns are gone, though the vines remain.
Felicity bites out the intensifier again, again. It doesn't have as much effect now that she lacks the antler piece, but it catches on the tail end of her unravelling pain curse. The Beast snarls as fresh pain washes over him, a horrible inhuman sound that makes something primal in her want to run, then startles like he hadn't known himself capable of making such a noise. He presses a thin finger against Felicity's forehead and—
-and—
-for half a moment, Felicity is crushed beneath the awful pressing weight of a POWER unlike anything she's ever wielded, a strength that the Pilgrim has only just begun to tap. Her mouth falls open, her fingers spasm, a shudder wracks her entire frame. Then a sliver of that might splinters off, utterly crushing the remnants of her spell. Metaphysical reverberations twang back into her, following the spell to the root. Her own magic—scatters—and instinct tells her that she won't be able to use it for days.
(She'd heard that the first Beast could do this, but had always assumed that it cost him, left him exhausted and weakened like it would for a human. Surely that story about him crushing over a hundred witches in a single day was nothing but a gross exaggeration. Except that no, it isn't. It really isn't.)
The new Beast pulls back, unaffected by a feat that would leave witches on their knees. He turns away from her as roots tangle around her legs, presses that same slender finger against Trevor's brow. The other witch jerks awake with an involuntary yip. Another moment passes, and they're both wrapped up in tree roots.
"We'll be back soon," the murderer says darkly, and Felicity realizes that Constance and Bart have run. Her heart sinks like a cold stone.
She hopes they get away.
The witches should have split up.
Wirt has more than his fair share of powers, but being in multiple places at once isn't one of them. (Or, if it is, he has not figured it out yet.) If Big Nose and Bad Hair had separated, Wirt would have had to capture one of them before running after the other, so one of them could have escaped. But by sticking together, they've made themselves a single target.
Easy prey.
There is a dark thrill to chasing down his enemies as they flee in terror. It makes him want to sing, to torment them with a game of cat-and-mouse. They have hurt him and those he cares about, and he can use their fear of him to hurt them back.
He could draw this out. Cover them in midnight blackness, stealing their sight. Singing as he circles them, coming a bit closer every time. Tree roots that move beneath their feet, causing them to stumble and fall and bruise.
He could. He wants to.
He doesn't.
Instead, Wirt darts out of the woods in front of them, pastel eyes narrowed in a glare. They pull up short, slipping and nearly falling on the muddy path.
"Nice try," Wirt says. "Now, are you going to come quietly, or would you prefer to make things more complicated for all of us?"
Constance, Bart, and their captor return shortly after Trevor regains consciousness. Felicity stops trying to remove the unyielding root around her ankles to glare at the Beast. He stares at her a long moment, unblinking, with those unnatural white eyes. Then the covering of shadows bleeds away, revealing a skinny boy all in black with demon's eyes and a crown of antlers. He glances down, and the root slithers off Felicity's leg. She thinks about running, but there's not much point in it. She'd need a long-lasting distraction to give her enough of a head start.
"Start walking," the Master of the Trees orders softly. She obeys. So do the others. The Pilgrim stalks behind them, silent.
Felicity's jaw tenses. Any moment now, the Beast will start taunting them. He'll laugh at her brother's death, mock her for the human weakness of love. He'll gloat about how this Kenningdole place is completely under his control and they'll be punished horribly.
The Pilgrim remains silent, save for a bit of humming. When Felicity glances back at him, she sees that flowers have blossomed in his footprints—not every step, but often enough that the correlation is unreliable. She cranes her neck for a better look, wondering if the blooms mean anything. Pale bloodroot, paler snowdrops, purple pansies with hearts of yellow, dark hellebore. A pasque flower.
Do they mean anything? All these plants flower around this time of year, give or take a few weeks, so it could just be that he's enhancing plants that were already preparing to appear. But the snowdrops, which flourish earlier in the season, seem to disprove that theory.
Maybe he just likes these flowers. Maybe they all have evil applications that are slipping her mind.
No, no, she needs to focus. There has to be a way to escape. The easiest way would be to wait until he's asleep, but do Beasts even sleep? Best not to count on it. Will he risk bringing them through any town other than Kenningdole, and can she use that as an opportunity to run? The forest is his kingdom, not settled places, and there will be other people to distract them. No, there's no way he'd be stupid enough to bring them into a village.
They round a corner. The forest's edge gives way to barren fields, with a picturesque little town in the distance.
Vines twist around Felicity's ankles to form living shackless. Still not edelwood, thank the stars.
"Right," says the Pilgrim. "You four stay here and I'll take the curse off you once I'm back."
Felicity's heart stutters. "Curse?" Trevor squeaks.
The Terror of the Unknown smirks. There's something pained about his expression, like happiness of any kind is anathema to him. His antlers vanish, his eyes fade to human brown. "Yes. All four of you are extremely cursed, but it won't really start up for two, three hours, and I'm the only one who can stop it. So don't try anything funny."
The vines climb higher, encircling waists and shoulders and wrists. They can still move, but not far, and then branches are reaching between the prisoners to weave together.
The Beast inspects his work, nods firmly, and stalks away.
Wirt keeps his prisoners on the edge of his awareness as he walks into town. They aren't struggling against their chains, so he's pretty sure that they bought his lie about being cursed. Excellent.
As he enters the village, satisfaction at his vengeful little fib begins to fade as a new emotion trickles in. His nerves shudder with anxiety as he asks for directions and approaches the tiny one-cell jail.
Wirt might be the place-spirit of the Unknown, but he didn't grow up here. He has no knowledge of its legal systems and only a general sense of its laws. Is Kenningdole the best place to press charges? Andrew's family lives in Kenningdole's territory. But Wirt was assaulted in Maximspot, and that's too small to have a jail, so maybe he should figure out which larger township has jurisdiction over the smaller village. And what if there's some law that says he has to bring his prisoners to the nearest constabulary?
In retrospect, he really ought to have asked Beatrice or her parents. Or he should have donned his human guise and asked any random person. He definitely should have taken care of this before capturing his prisoners.
So this is an information-gathering mission first and foremost, with a high possibility that he'll need to actually bring the witches in. Hopefully, he can legally just bring them to Kenningdole or wherever himself. Far less explaining that way, and he's pretty sure that a few residents have begun to see him as a dangerous and unwanted neighbor rather than an all-devouring dark monstrosity. Not much improvement, but better than anywhere else.
Maybe he can bring the witches in to Pottsfield. Its skeletal inhabitants are still wary of the new Beast, but Enoch thinks that Wirt's incompetence is hilarious and is more likely to try the four witches fairly. Probably not, though.
The few townspeople who are out mostly ignore Wirt. When he asks for directions to the constabulary, the bespectacled wolverine who points the way does so without any sign of fear.
The building reminds Wirt of the jailhouses from old Westerns. There are two cells on one side, both unoccupied, and three equally empty desks in the entryway. With nothing better to do while he waits, Wirt looks at the posters that crowd the wall. A couple stolen property notices, seven newspaper clipouts (two of which mention the Beast. He very pointedly refrains from reading it), a tattered wanted poster, and (oh, stars) a warning to avoid "Beast-Haunted Kenningdole."
Against his better judgement, Wirt inspects that last one more thoroughly. It's got a helpful little map and a badly-drawn picture that is supposed to be him. The figure's shadow possesses jagged antlers and ominously glowing eyes; the part that supposedly depicts his human form resembles a human turtle-eater crossed with a cartoon villain, ridiculous horror movie monster pose and all. The only things missing are a twirlable mustache and a screaming blonde tied to some railroad tracks.
Wirt scowls and seriously contemplates reducing the thing to dust.
The door creaks. At one point, that would have startled Wirt, but he's gotten a lot better at processing background noise. Hanging around people who want to shoot you will do that. He turns towards a pair of middle-aged women in blue uniforms with brass buttons. They exchange the necessary pleasantries, introducing themselves as Mathilda Dunn and Kendra Bernstein, before asking Wirt why he's there.
"I have some questions about what to hypothetically do if I hypothetically captured these criminals and wanted to press charges."
"Hypothetically," Dunn deadpans.
Wirt makes the wood behind the officers creak loudly so that they look away while he blushes. When they turn back, the incriminating gray has left his cheeks. "Let's say that I tracked these people from the place where the crimes happened to another area. Do I have to bring them to the nearest jailhouse, or—"
"Yes," Bernstein interrupts. "Yes, you absolutely should."
"Would it cause hypothetical legal problems if I didn't?"
"Yes."
Darn it.
"Is there something you would like to tell us?"
"Yes," Wirt confesses. "There's these witches who, who kidnapped and enchanted a friend of mine, then tried to drown me in a lake. I've got them, ah, tied up by the forest."
They startle at that. "Already captured?" Bernstein exclaims.
"You captured multiple witches?" Dunn adds, eyes narrowing. "How under the stars did you manage that?"
And here it is. The moment of truth, because he can't explain how a skinny teenager defeated four full-grown witches without mentioning the part where he's the Beast's successor. That means giving up the easy camaraderie between human strangers, the assumption of good faith. That means seeing these helpful constables recoil in disgust and horror. That means being hated and feared again.
No one wants you to wake up.
Wirt is shaking.
Dunn places a hand on his shoulder. "Breathe, son," she instructs. "In two three four, hold two three four, out two three four, hold two three four…."
Tears prick at the corners of Wirt's brown human eyes. He squeezes his lids together before the incriminatingly black liquid can fall.
Breathe in, breathe out.
And get it over with.
Wirt clenches his fists, forces himself to look at the two officers. They aren't currently armed, but they're close enough to physically attack him if they panic. He swallows around the lump of his throat, squares his shoulders, and says, "I was able to defeat them because I'm the Pilgrim. The Beast's heir." He points at that stupid warning poster. "That guy, but real." For proof, he pulls the shadows onto his hands, his arms, lets his eyes glow blue yellow pink.
Bernstein blanches as she steps away. Dunn makes a small noise as she goes absolutely rigid.
Wirt braces himself for the moment that the shock wears off, the inevitable screams and loathing and, and everything else he's become accustomed to.
The world hates you.
He waits, hunching in on himself like a turtle into its shell. The shadows dissipate, but he does not return his eyes to human brown. There's no point.
For once in your life, Wirt, don't ruin everything you touch.
Bernstein takes Dunn's hand. She takes her eyes off the Terror of the Unknown. Dunn tries to speak, but it comes out as gibberish. Bernstein squeezes her hand. The other officer swallows hard, pastes a querulous smile onto her face.
"You—you look like Matthias said."
This is—this is not how these things work. "Huh?" says Wirt.
"Our nephew," Dunn replies. "The Pilgrim—you—you found him in the woods last autumn and brought him home."
It clicks. "The kid who kept going on about my monster eyes?"
A watery, forced chuckle. "That does sound like something he would say. So. You've, uh, you've captured some witches and need them processed?"
"Yes," Wirt answers. Maybe this is some kind of scheme to free his prisoners? He sniffs the air surreptitiously. It's heavy with fear, but the smell is… less than it should be, considering that they're indoors.
More dark tears threaten, but Wirt blinks them away before they can form.
Dunn nods. "We'll have to take more information, of course, but I think we can arrest them."
It's unnerving, almost frightening, to have people other than the O'Sialias know who he is and treat him like a normal person. They're afraid, but they're not going to run away. The least Wirt can do is return the favor.
"I can feel the curse," Trevor moans. "I feel it in my belly. It's starting."
"No, it's not," Felicity growls. She gives another tug to the stubborn roots holding her hostage. It's as unsuccessful as all her other attempts.
"You've said that ten times already," Constance points out dully. "We don't even know what this curse is. It might start slow, it might come on suddenly. We won't know until it happens." She shudders.
"But I think it's real this time. I—"
"Look!" Bart exclaims, a half-second before the Voice of the Night lopes into view.
The Pilgrim is there moments later. The trees release their prisoners in obedience to their master's unspoken command. "Come on," he orders.
They follow, but slowly, warily.
There is a prisoners' cart waiting for them, one large enough for four people and drawn by two horses. A woman in a constable's uniform stands by the door. There's a pistol at her hip. "Mathilda Dunn," she announces. "You four are under arrest for kidnapping, illegal spells, and attempted murder."
Felicity goggles. She looks at the constable, then at the Pilgrim with his plainly visible antlers and glowing eyes, then back at Mathilda Dunn again. Bart is making odd spluttering noises. Constance's mouth hangs open.
"Into the cart with you," Dunn continues. She fits the key into the lock, pulls open the cage door.
"That's the Beast," Felicity points out. "You—you can see that, right?"
"He's the Pilgrim," Dunn corrects her. "Completely different. Now get into the cart."
Numb, disbelieving, Felicity does. It isn't until the door is locked behind her that a flash of anger melts her paralysis. "Aren't you going to arrest him, too?" she demands, gesturing at the monster who started all this. He stares back with those unnatural pastel eyes of his. "Or did he not mention the part where he murdered my brother?"
Dunn pauses, uncertainty flitting across her face.
The Beast takes a deep, slow breath. "One of the nastier rumors is true. Last summer, a witch tried to sacrifice two children to me. I turned him to edelwood. I didn't mean to, I didn't even know I could do it that quickly, but… I did." He meets Felicity's gaze. "And I've regretted it ever since. Not rescuing those poor girls, but… killing someone. Like that." He shivers.
"You are lying," Felicity spits. "My brother would never do something like that."
Dunn is visibly horrified. Her eyes dart from Felicity to the Pilgrim and back again.
The Horned Lord steels himself visibly, draws himself to his fullest height, every inch the sylvan king he is. "He did." He turns to Dunn, who clearly regrets every choice that brought her to this moment. "I'm not familiar with the intricacies of the law. Is it possible for me to be tried in Kenningdole?"
"What?" the constable asks.
"For killing that witch. It's not too far from—Low Peccability, right?" Felicity nods stupidly. She's lost. The Pilgrim, oblivious, continues, "So there might be some sort of jurisdictional overlap."
Rage flares. "Like they'd ever dare to condemn you."
He meets her gaze. "Not if they don't know who I am."
Felicity gapes at him, because she really doesn't know what else to do.
"Marshall Bridge," says Dunn, drawing all attention to herself. When everyone stares, she elaborates, "If you're going to involve so many counties, you'll want to go to Marshall Bridge. They'll have jurisdiction."
The Horned Lord nods. "Marshall Bridge it is, then."
"…Right," Dunn confirms. "Marshall Bridge it is."
Title from "Old Black Train," which is in turn from Chapter 9 of the series, "Into the Unknown."
I really like writing from Felicity's POV because she thinks that Wirt is so terrifying and majestic and we all know that he is an anxious mess.
Matthias is an OC from "as autumn colors fall."
How does Wirt intend to be tried for edelwood homicide without letting people know what he is? He's still figuring that out.
I'd hoped to publish this two days ago for the autumnal equinox, but we were YET AGAIN having internet issues.