time's a gentle stream
For the first time in almost two months, the Pilgrim contemplates avoiding Kenningdole for the day. It's silly, he knows. He's making progress there. He can finally walk through the streets of the town without being greeted by threats of violence, only suspicious glares. Some people have even started responding—awkwardly, with stilted politeness, but still responding—when he gives his polite goodbyes. He shouldn't retreat, shouldn't risk losing all the ground he's so painstakingly gained.
It's just that today is the anniversary of his return to the Unknown.
One whole year since he took up the Dark Lantern. One whole year since his antlers grew in, since snowdrops first appeared in his footsteps, since what was almost the last time he'd ever see his family. Since then, he's (mostly) gained control of (most of) his powers (the ones he knows about, anyways). He's learned to craft two types of edelwood, reunited with his family, faced down the Beast in some strange shadowland. Objectively speaking, he's done quite a bit.
Subjectively speaking, it doesn't feel like enough.
Most of this world still fears him. There are hundreds, thousands, of polluted patches of forest and meadowland. He still has powers he doesn't know exist. And in one very notable way, he's made life worse. The O'Sialias have the best protection that he can afford them, but one day, someone will test those defenses, and Wirt does not know what will happen then.
Perhaps he ought to put more effort into his sporadic search for The Tome of the Unknown. A book that holds all knowledge would be a good source of protective spells.
He leans against a tree, staring up through its bare branches at the sky. After a year of roaming, he's become familiar with the stars. He doesn't know most of the constellations, just the few that Beatrice had taught him last summer, but he can find this world's North Star. It shines along the perimeter of a roughly circular constellation known as the Wheel of the Years.
Wirt's eyes trace the Wheel's spokes, its outlines, and come to rest on one of the other constellations that he actually recognizes. The Crown's five 'jewels' each glow a slightly different color; differentiating those hues, according to Beatrice, is a traditional test of extraordinary eyesight. The Stag prances to the Crown's east and south, his antlers curving around the Wheel of the Years, while the Lantern with its densely packed star cluster occupies the space to its west.
The Pilgrim takes out his own lantern then, stares deeply into the fires of his soul. The flame is steady and serene, not leaping about in a wild dance of light.
The Dark Lantern doesn't need filling, but Wirt tops it off anyways. He can feel the oil—tapped from faceless edelwoods of his own creation, not the Beast's soul-bound abominations—flowing into its reservoir, ready to transmute death and corruption into life and renewal as soon as it's needed.
It still looks like it did when the Beast's soul hid within, he realizes. The Lantern's new master frowns, scrunches up his brow. He's never really thought of that before, but now that he has, he doesn't like it.
There's no harm in trying, so Wirt closes his eyes, focuses his will. When he opens them, the Dark Lantern has changed. Before, its sides had been metal, with a small panel of glass at the door. Now, though, the sides are all clear glass, save for the delicate lattice of red metal that gives it more strength. Wirt smiles, pleased with his work.
It gives more light this way.
Perhaps, Wirt thinks, he really can take the entire day off. He'll wander his forest with a quiet song in his throat and the Dark Lantern swinging at his hip, soaking in the beautiful stillness of winter. He might sit for a while by that dear little pond and play his clarinet, then read beneath a particularly sturdy elm or birch.
(When is the last time he just was?)
That sounds lovely, Wirt decides. He'll start his walk a bit before dawn, just wander wherever he wants, letting his forest's peace soak into him the way it had shown him its relief that first night.
(When he walks, he'll discover that the forest has bloomed overnight. It's not something he did—at least not consciously, though there's a slim possibility he did it by accident—but the growth can't be natural. Winterberry fruits stud spindly branches, and blushing hellebores dot the ground. And there are snowdrops, so many snowdrops, taller than they should be and so sweetly fragrant.
Wirt doesn't know what caused this, if it's him or the Unknown, but he won't complain.)
For now, though, he sits, and thinks, and looks up at the eternal stars.
Wirt: *casually changes a powerful magical artifact to better suit his personality/aesthetic
Also Wirt: I've accomplished so little and am terrible with magic!
Title comes from "Patient is the Night" in Chapter 2 of the original series.
Happy New Year!