to wind thy soul
"Mom, Jonathan, Greg, there's something I—no, I should talk to Mom first. Or should I do it all at once?" Wirt stares at the white oak tree like it might have some insight, but since he hasn't been speaking a language it can understand, it can't reply with anything except a sense of faith that he'll figure it out. That's very kind, so Wirt pats its bark in gratitude before returning to his fretting.
"I don't want to do this more than once, so I'll do them all at the same time," Wirt decides. The oak sends him a brush of encouragement. "Hopefully Greg won't stray from the topic." He grimaces. There's something else he needs to speak with his brother about, a theory he hopes is never proven. He'll need some excuse to get Greg alone during the family trip to the Unknown, so—
"No, no, no, one thing at a time." Wirt exhales in a long whoosh, blowing a lock of hair out of his face. It floats for a moment, then lands squarely between his eyes. Grumbling, the Pilgrim readjusts. "One thing at a time," he repeats.
"Mom, Jonathan, Greg, there's something I need to talk with you about, but before I start that, I'd like to say how much I love and appreciate you and all that you've done for me. I'll never forget that. It's a very serious thing that we need to discuss, and—nooooo, now I just sound like I'm dying. Can't have Mom panicking.
"Everyone, I'd like to talk with you about something. It's not a bad thing, so don't worry." He groans, his head thunking against the oak's trunk. "That's not going to work either, though. Telling them not to worry will only freak them out. Except Greg, obviously."
He thinks for a few moments. "Maybe I should just blurt it out? Rip off the bandage. But I still have to say something. Oh tongue, wherefore hast thou failed me? What folly has turned thee to lead?"
A bird lands on the tree across from him. "Beatrice is blunt," Wirt mutters. "Maybe I could ask her for advice? I can't deny that she has a certain way with words."
Neither the bird nor any of the trees around him respond.
"Maybe someone less abrasive, though," he decides. "Like…. Who do I know who can and will help me?"
Wind rustles the leaves in his antlers as Wirt mulls over the list. He knows a few people who are good with words, but he can't get to all of them without causing a terrified riot and some of them wouldn't help him. But there's one individual who knows the context of his problem reasonably well and might be inclined to help.
Wirt steps into the shadows to make for Pottsfield.
The lad's coming along nicely, Enoch thinks, smiling behind his paw. Every time he sees the new Beast, the Pilgrim's settled further into his skin, grown stronger and wiser and more assured. But for all the seeds of greatness growing within him, he's still a very young, fretful man with no guidance.
"You're making a mountain out of a molehill again, neighbor," the cat informs the forest spirit. The Pilgrim's face is masked in shadow, his expression hidden, but those great white eyes of his are remarkably expressive. He's frowning behind his veil, but instead of bristling, he gestures for Enoch to explain.
The mayor lowers his voice. "'The Unknown is my home now, and I choose to stay.' That's all you have to say. Then let your family ask their questions."
The Pilgrim sighs, his eyes closing. "It seems so obvious when you put it like that," he grumbles.
"That's why you need an outside perspective," Enoch chuckles. "Lets you see the forest as well as the trees."
The Pilgrim's eyes have no pupils when he wears darkness. Nonetheless, Enoch can tell that the lad is rolling his eyes at him. He grins, fangs glinting in the summer sun.
They're a few hundred feet from a villager. The woman's been weeding the fields, so there is a small pile of dead greenery by her side, but she stops when she notices how close Enoch has brought his guest as they meander through the growing crops.
The shadows vanish, the white eyes flooding with color. The Pilgrim stops to stretch, very conspicuously basking in a sunbeam as it breaks through the cloud cover. Lips barely moving, he asks, "On a scale of one to ten, how much do I scare that lady?"
"Good question. I'm not actually sure. Less than usual, as she can see me on your shoulders." At this distance, the mayor can't even tell who it is.
The Pilgrim hums, disappointed but not surprised. "Assuming she can even see you, and that she doesn't think I'm using your skin as a scarf."
"Good point."
The sun slips once more behind the gray, but Enoch's guest doesn't call back his shadows. He starts walking again, but his path has changed slightly. This way, they won't pass the woman so closely, and the now-more-visible Enoch will sort of be between her and the Terror of the Unknown. A push, but a gentle one.
Enoch smiles again, then scrambles, climbs, careful to avoid the antler. He lands easily on the Pilgrim's head. "Much better." He waves at his citizen. Her answering gesture is hesitant, but the mayor thinks he can read relief in her posture.
"There's one other thing I was hoping to ask you about," the Pilgrim continues, apparently ignoring their audience. "You remember my… encounter… last year with a witch who mistook me for my predecessor?"
"The one who offered a sacrifice as homage?"
"Yes." There's a hint of steel now in the Pilgrim's voice. "I didn't really think about the implications of that, but now it occurs to me that there must be other people with similar arrangements. Lives for power. I know I can't bring all of them to justice, but I'd like to put as many as possible behind bars. If I got you a list of names, could you send it to someone with the power to prosecute?"
"I can. Can't guarantee that they'll do anything, though."
"It's more than I could do by myself. Thank you."
"Not a problem."
Enoch glances to the side, where his villager is slowly weeding the field. She's turned to face them and glances up every few seconds. Then the cat looks behind him and the Pilgrim. For a moment, he doesn't see it; then his eyes, not meant for distinguishing colors, pick out the trail of slightly taller, visibly healthier crops that follow in the Horned Lord's wake and several feet to each side. He thinks that the plants might be a deeper green, too, though he can't quite make it out.
Walking in the fields, you might not notice the change. But if you look from a lofty vantage point or a distance—if you know what you're looking for—the difference is as clear as day.
"If that's all you need, neighbor, I'll go chat with my constituent over there."
"Of course. Thanks again. I really appreciate all the help."
Enoch glances once more at the cornfield and nods. "Same here."
He leaps to the ground, landing lightly on silent paws. As he speeds away (no need to make his villager fret), he hears the Pilgrim's baffled, "For what?"
The cat ignores him, of course. The lad can figure it out on his own.
"Soooo," Wirt begins, not looking at any of them, "what did you think about my suggestion?"
Amy plays dumb. She knows exactly what her son is talking about. His last letter, he'd suggested that they come visit him in the Unknown. Even if the other world isn't as dangerous as it was before—though it's still odd to think of Wirt as so capable of potentially defending them—something about the idea rubs her the wrong way. So, playing dumb it is. "Don't worry, we've already hidden the candied blackberries from your brother."
"They have," Greg grouses. "I only ate a couple!"
"You're not supposed to eat any until winter," Amy reminds him. "We could only sample them when we were making sure we were doing it right."
She could have kept going, but Wirt interjects when she draws breath. "I was actually talking about, about you coming to visit me. In the Unknown. So we can talk longer."
"Yes!" Greg yells. "Mom, Dad, you've gotta say yes. Please please please please please!" He weaves his fingers together like he's praying, turns massive brown eyes on his parents. "Pleeeeeeease." His lip sticks out and wobbles, just for emphasis.
"I don't know, Wirt," Jonathan says solemnly. "Your brother doesn't seem that enthusiastic about going back to the Unknown."
"I am too," Greg pouts. The lip quivers some more.
Wirt presses his perceived advantage. "We could make a weekend of it, even. You two could meet the O'Sialias and then I could bring you to an inn in—or you could go camping! Swim in the river, hike the trails, look at the stars."
"S'mores and ghost stories," Greg adds. "And maybe some real ghosts, too."
Something that Wirt said strikes Amy as suspicious. "Why don't you want us in an inn?"
"Because camping is ten times better," Greg says.
Wirt doesn't quite meet his mother's gaze. "It's, you know, a lot easier for me to be in my forest." He taps the base of an antler. "So what do you say?"
"I say that hotels don't have s'mores, so we should go camping," Greg declares. "Wirt, has Beatrice ever had a s'more?"
"I've never asked."
Amy regards her older boy through narrowed eyes. His excuse is reasonable, but it's just that—an excuse. Wirt has some reason that he doesn't want them in an inn. Every inn, she wonders, or just one, or somewhere in between? And is it just inns he wants to avoid, or populated areas in general? She's weighing whether or not to confront him directly when Jonathan takes the choice out of her hands. "Why don't you want us to visit an inn?"
He stills in that uncomfortably treelike way of his where he even stops blinking. His recovery is quick, though, and he tilts his head to the side. "What do you mean?"
"You're hiding something," Amy points out. "Remember that talk we had after your antler got injured?" He still hasn't told them the whole story, wiggling out of divulging the details every time they confront him. She's let him think that they've given up getting answers in the hope that he'll be lulled into a false sense of security, but maybe now is the right time for another interrogation.
"…So early last fall, when I was just starting my reputation repair work, I had the bright idea of helping out this little kid who got lost in my forest. I obviously couldn't do that covered in shadows, so I made my antlers blend into the night and hoped he wouldn't realize what my eyes meant. He didn't. Then we found his family, I let them see my antlers, they freaked out and ran away. You know the drill. But they made some warning posters with my face, and at first it was just in the one area, but they've been spreading for the last few months." He shrugs. "I'd rather not risk being recognized."
"We should get you one of those glasses with the fake mustaches," Greg decides.
"I think I'll pass, thanks."
"Is there some reason you didn't tell us about this?" Amy demands.
Wirt shrugs. He's still not meeting anyone's gaze. Still hiding something, his mother deduces. "Mostly the old not-wanting-you-to-worry thing."
"Have you ever met your mother?" Jonathan teases, exaggerated heartiness cutting through the tension. "She always worries. That's why you should tell us these things. It's better for her to worry about stuff that's happening instead of whatever terrible things her imagination can conjure. Remember, her version of teenage rebellion mostly involved sneaking out to watch age-inappropriate horror movies and giving herself nightmares."
"I promise you that my life is not a horror movie," Wirt assures them. "Things are actually going really well for me right now." He grimaces, knocks on their wooden table. "Probably shouldn't have said that. But—look, if you want all the details of the times that went… less well… that's another thing we could talk about if you visited me in the Unknown. Speaking of, it's about time for me to go back."
"I could make you a sandwich," Greg offers.
"That's very generous," Wirt fudges, "but I don't think so. I've got a lot of work to do. Same time in three weeks?"
"I shall prepare sandwiches in advance," Greg proclaims. "This time, for real, I really will talk Mom and Dad into letting me do it."
"I'm sure you will," Wirt says, studiously not looking at either of the people who have been running interference for him. "See you then." And he vanishes into the shadows before the conversation inevitably turns.
Greg turns to his parents, and they resume the months-old debate about whether it's appropriate to feed one's brother biohazards disguised as sandwiches (or other foods). It's enough to take Amy's mind off Wirt's invitation for hours, but she remembers when she's in the process of falling asleep. Just like that, her tiredness retreats.
She doesn't want to go to the Unknown, doesn't want Greg to go back to the place that had almost seen him dead. She also, if she's honest, leery for another reason, one that she can't quite put her finger on. After a few minutes' contemplation, she decides that it's something about the way Wirt was talking, as though he were inviting them to his home. His permanent home.
Amy sighs silently, slips out of bed. After donning her bathrobe, she slips downstairs to her reading nook, hoping that her biography of Maria Anna Mozart can take her mind off things.
It does for a while, and she's foolishly optimistic when she returns to bed. No sooner has she pulled up her covers (and wiggled away from Jonathan's cold feet) than the most important question returns to the forefront of her mind: Why? Why does Wirt, who's been perfectly content with visiting them in this world, suddenly want them to visit the Unknown?
(She suspects the answer but does not allow herself to acknowledge it. The thought stalks through her mind, relentless, no matter how she tries to ignore it.)
When sleep finally comes, she dreams of music and a forest and a campfire beneath unfamiliar stars.
"The Unknown is my home now, and I choose to stay," Wirt says. It comes out soft, almost hesitant, even though the only living things nearby are faceless edelwood trees. He winces, tries again. "The Unknown is my home now, and I choose to stay."
The breeze murmurs in the leaves. Distant waves crash against the cliffside borders of the Windswept Isle.
Wirt is proud of his work here. When he first came to this island, he could hardly stand to stay on it. Corruption filled the air, the soil, the water. It seeped into his skin, coated his tongue whenever he sang.
Now, though, the Windswept Isle is speckled with tall, healthy edelwood trees, and the Quadrangle of Doom in which is floats is bordered by the thickest woestone barriers it's had in over a thousand years. It's not comfortable, exactly, to stay here longer than necessary, but Wirt no longer feels the need to flee immediately upon completing his work. He can even take short breaks on the now-less-cursed ground without wanting to claw his skin off.
There's still a lot of work to be done, here and in the rest of the Unknown, but it's work that Wirt wants to do.
The Pilgrim presses his hand against the newest edelwood's red-brown bark. His fingers are very long, inhumanly so, but he's accustomed to them now.
"The Unknown is my home now," he repeats, soft as the gently rustling leaves, "and I want to stay."
Perfect, he thinks, and draws breath to sing.
Fic title is from "The Pottsfield Song" from the second episode.
You've got to love Wirt's ability to overthink everything. I mean, he comes by it honestly, but still.
You might have noticed that Wirt has a sudden new concern. You'll learn what's behind that in the next story, assuming I can ever get it out. The story fights me, plus I'm busy with work, a contract, and catching up with my goals for my Merlin fic.