praise to the fire
Wirt stares at the… thing… that definitely wasn't there a few days ago, desperately trying to convince himself that it's not what it looks like. The structure that looks like an altar (one carved with a pattern of edelwood leaves, no less) is just a table. Someone set up a stone table here in the middle of his forest and left a bunch of random items on it—including a turtle shell, a pair of antlers, a chunk of obsidian, black candles, an incense stick in a black incense holder—for their own weird reasons that have nothing to do with Wirt.
…yeah, no, it's definitely an altar. To him. An altar to him, covered in literal, actual offerings.
It is at this point that he remembers an offhand comment about a Beast-cult. He'd completely forgotten about them, which, in retrospect, is a massive mistake—though in his defense, he's had a lot on his mind.
Out of morbid curiosity, Wirt steps closer. Is that… alcohol? Yes, those three bottles are definitely alcoholic. Peachy, just peachy. And there's more incense lying on a black cloth. It's powerful stuff, mixing with the incense burning in the holder to form a most unpleasant mix of scents.
The Pilgrim allows himself a few moments' weakness. He closes his eyes, groans a long groan, wonders despairingly why this is his life. Then he opens his tricolor eyes and glares at the sacrifice-laden altar, wondering what the heck he's supposed to do with all this. Should he take the offerings, leave them, take some and leave others? He's very tempted to just turn around and pretend he didn't see anything, but sticking his head in the sand won't make the underlying problem go away.
Because someone made this thing. At least one person went through all the trouble of quarrying or otherwise acquiring the dark stone, carving the pattern of edelwood leaves—not a popular design choice—dragging it into the forest, and covering it with all these other vaguely Beast-themed objects.
Wait. Now that he thinks about it, the selection bears a certain resemblance to the funerary items he's found at the bases of edelwood trees. Oh, stars, had those been offerings to him too? Had he been stumbling across cult sacrifices all this time without realizing it? He has, hasn't he. He definitely has. He thought that the offerings at even faceless edelwoods were just because people assumed they were graves even if nobody'd gone missing around when the new trees appear. It was a completely valid assumption, but now they're weird cult sacrifices to him and just how widespread is this thing, anyway?
Wirt squeezes his eyes shut, focuses on calming his breathing before he can spiral into a full-blown panic attack. Okay, so the Beast-cult, which is now his, yay, is apparently more real than he thought, not to mention more widespread. And there's at least one or two members of the Beast-cult here in Risorgimento who made him an altar because…. He draws a blank. Is it a belated greeting, a bribe, a request?
He needs more information, because the last thing Wirt wants is for this to escalate to human sacrifice. Hopefully the cultists have heard about what happened to the last person to try that, but Wirt isn't willing to push his luck.
(And now he's thinking of Aaron Kohl and shuddering, because if there's an entire cult of people like him and Adelaide...)
When he asks the trees about the altar, they inform him that two burly humans carried it here and a smaller human set up the offerings. They'd done so in broad daylight, which only loudens the alarm bells ringing in Wirt's head. Maybe the cultists had gambled that nobody would roam the woods with the new Beast nearby, or maybe the cult is powerful enough that they didn't fear exposure. Maybe the Beast-cult has taken over Risorgimento and is selecting their first batch of sacrifices right now, and Wirt is dithering like an idiot when he should be helping people.
The Pilgrim's first impulse is to charge into the village in a panic, but he's been shot at enough times to know better. What if this altar thing is a trap intended to make him feel safe when they've actually prepared a diabolical magical ambush for him in the town square? So he heads to the outskirts and extends his forest-sense as far as he can. It doesn't detect any traps or caches of weaponry or impromptu prisons full of potential human sacrifices, but just to be safe, he circles the entire village.
Wirt leans against a tree and ponders. Everything seems perfectly normal, which is a good sign no matter how he looks at it. Worst-case scenario, the entire town is part of the Beast-cult, possibly as a defense mechanism against him sort of semi-accidentally terrorizing them for the few weeks, but they have yet to resort to human sacrifice. Best-case scenario, the three people who set up the altar are just pretending to be in the Beast-cult so that Wirt doesn't attack them. Stars, he'd love for this to be nothing more than a ridiculous misunderstanding brought on by reading too many of those awful penny dreadfuls where the Beast-cult is trying to take over the world.
It is probably not a ridiculous misunderstanding brought on by cheap fiction, but he decides to cling to that hope as long as he can.
Since nobody is in immediate danger, Wirt's investigations resume at a more leisurely pace. He takes The Tome of the Unknown from his pack, asks hopefully, "I don't suppose you'll give me the names of whoever set up that altar?" and opens to a random page. The book must be feeling more cooperative than usual, because it supplies information that, while not what he asked for, is actually relevant to his inquiries—information about the sacrifices the cult offers to the Beast and, now, the Pilgrim.
It turns out that Wirt's earlier theory is correct. The 'grave goods' are actually offerings to him, not to the dead. They're mostly intended to placate, not (usually) invitations to remain longer and help out with local problems; some people also use them as thanks for the beneficial effects that his mere presence has upon the surrounding greenery.
But sometimes, Wirt learns, very rarely, the sacrifices were thanksgiving for a more specific act than 'good for plants.' Long ago, before the Beast had lost the bulk of his power and he'd still hunted down cursed creatures, the people of the Unknown had expressed their gratitude with gifts remarkably similar to the ones on this altar (which were basically the usual sacrifices, but in much greater quantities).
The book is conspicuously silent on the Beast-cult's history of more lively offerings.
Wirt is a bit calmer now that he has reason to believe that human sacrifice is less likely. He's still got his forest-sense fixed on the village, and nothing has happened there. He can probably afford to continue his investigations a bit more slowly.
So he waits until night has fallen before creeping into Risorgimento, his branching antlers vanished into the ether, his eyes human brown. Most people are preparing for bed, talking about the mundane events of the day, but he finds what he's looking for at the sixth house.
"Do you think it worked?" a child asks. Wirt starts to slip away—surely the cult wouldn't involve their own offspring—but the little boy clarifies, "About the Pilgrim, I mean."
Wirt freezes.
"Shouldn't you be in bed?" replies an adult man.
"I can't sleep," the kid giggles.
"Neither can I!" chirps another child.
"Me neither!" agrees a third.
A woman chuckles softly. The man sighs, "For the last time, kids, we won't know until morning. The mayor will tell us then what happened at the altar. Now go back to bed."
The children protest. Wirt tries to figure out what it means that the mayor is involved. Has… has he accidentally terrorized an entire town into joining a cult? It's starting to look like he has.
Crap.
This house is probably his best bet for timely information, so Wirt decides to wait. He listens with half an ear as the parents herd their offspring into bed—it feels rude to eavesdrop—trying to pay more attention to the family garden and the ivy climbing their walls. He keeps his work subtle, almost invisible, not wanting to freak anybody out, but the plants are so much stronger and healthier now. The timing works out perfectly. By the time Wirt is through with the greenery, the children have returned to their bed and the parents have gone back downstairs for more conversation. Like Wirt hoped, he's the topic of discussion.
"Do you think it worked?" the man asks.
"I don't know," the woman confesses. "I don't even know what they're going to look for. My family's never been involved with that."
"Nor mine," the man grumbles. "But… I imagine it's a good sign if he takes the offerings, right? That would mean he likes them."
"Probably," his wife agrees. "Hopefully they're enough to buy our safe passage through the woods."
"How often do we have to bribe him?"
"Good question." The woman mulls it over for a moment. "Maybe every month or so? I have no idea what fledgling Beasts consider reasonable."
"I'm not a fledgling Beast, but I think once a month sounds completely reasonable," her husband assures her.
"Of course, it all depends on whether he's even accepted the sacrifices. He might not have found them yet, it's only been a week."
A week? The incense stick had only been half-burnt. Wirt supposes that someone must have been by to replace it. This kept getting better and better.
"We'll find out tomorrow," the husband says.
So while this does not appear to be a potential-human-sacrifice situation, Wirt still doesn't want it to continue, much less escalate. He wracks his brain for the rest of the night, but no matter how hard he thinks, he can only come to one conclusion: He'll have to actually talk with someone.
Thankfully, his eavesdropping revealed a way to make contact without going into town. If there is a meeting in the next morning to discuss his response to the altar, then obviously someone is going to inspect it shortly after sunup.
Wirt takes a book—not The Tome of the Unknown but a volume of nature poetry that he'd picked up around Cauldron Bay—sits leaning against a tree, and tries to read. He can't focus, finds himself staring at the same two pages as his senses strain. There. A presence on the edge of his awareness, followed shortly by another. The hum of distant conversation, the crackling of brush under feet. Two figures approaching through the trees.
It's easy to tell when they realize that the Pilgrim is present. The leading figure stops without warning, his face drained of color. The other stumbles into him. "What the hell, Lucky?"
"He's here." No need to specify who he is.
Wirt watches through his lashes, still pretending to read. The gentle breeze carries their conversation to his keen ears. It's mostly the sort of thing he's come to expect: how should we sneak away, is it safe, has he noticed us yet? What does he want? Are we in danger? But there is one major difference that lights a little flame of hope behind Wirt's breastbone. They aren't just debating the best method of getting away, they're discussing whether they should run.
"Beverly says he hasn't killed anybody in Kenningdole," Lucky points out. This argument is good enough to overcome Eustace's objections. They take a few cautious steps forward, pause, keep going. Lucky clears his throat.
Wirt stops his pretense. He closes the book, takes a proper look at the two men. They have the same jawline, the same widow's peak. Brothers, he thinks with a pang, and lifts his hand in greeting.
He makes no other movement, does nothing that could be interpreted as a threat. He simply lets his hand fall and waits.
His leaf-jeweled antlers and pastel eyes are on full display. His clothing is as dark as the shadows he commands. The Dark Lantern sits by his side, its light steady and unwavering.
He might be a mess of anxiety on the inside, but at least he looks like he's got his act together.
A few small, skittish steps forward. Slowly, telegraphing every movement, Wirt slips first his book and then his soul into his pack. See that? No threats here. I'm ready for a conversation. Let's have a conversation.
Lucky and Eustace have a dagger apiece, but that's all the weaponry they've brought along. No firearms, no spears or axes. Yet they continue to approach the Terror of the Unknown.
It's probably just their own courage, their own character. They wouldn't have been sent into the Beast's forest if they weren't brave. But Wirt can't help but hope that maybe his efforts are bearing fruit.
Their hands clench the hilts of their daggers, and they're clearly ready to bolt at a moment's notice. They stop a good thirty feet away, stare at Wirt in tongue-tied anxiety.
"This isn't necessary, you know," the Pilgrim says, laying a long-fingered hand on the side of the ridiculous altar. "Why exactly did you set it up?" He has enough practice to keep his voice light, mild, unthreatening.
The brothers glance at each other. They answer at the same time, words all jumbling together.
"It wasn't really our—"
"It's supposed to keep you—"
They freeze, exchanging another set of awkward glances. They aren't going to keep going, so Wirt guides the conversation. "It's supposed to keep me….?"
Another moment's hesitation, then Eustace finishes, "Calm. Um. Not… not murderous."
"I'm already not murderous," Wirt points out. Careful, careful, don't make it sound like an accusation.
"Well," Eustace begins. "It's—it's to keep things that way. Um. Your Lordship."
Wirt winces. The humans blanch. They'll probably pass out if Wirt tries to make them use his name, so he says, "If you need to use titles, just call me Pilgrim."
"Yes, Pilgrim." A pause. "Lord Pilgrim?"
"Just Pilgrim will do."
Nods.
So far, this is going better than Wirt had hoped. His conversational partners haven't run screaming or fallen to their knees in weird, creepy worship (which would make him run screaming). He taps the altar again. "Like I said, this really isn't necessary. I'll stay not-murderous even without it, so you can tear it down and take all the offerings back or whatever you want to do with it. I don't even know what to do with these things. I'm nomadic, you see, and there's only so much space in my bag." That's true enough. The bag is significantly larger on the inside—Wirt's still not sure how he accomplished that—but it doesn't have infinite storage space. It's more like the volume of his old wardrobe in the other world. The point is, he really doesn't have space for shed antlers and turtle shells and stuff like that, especially if (please no) this behavior spreads.
"You're… rejecting our offerings, Pilgrim?" Lucky asks. The scent of fear wafts off him.
"I'm rejecting the idea that I'm someone who should receive offerings. I don't want secret ceremonies or, or night priestesses or anything like that, and I especially don't want human sacrifice. Yes, I know your village has never tried that—" For Lucky and Eustace look, if only for a moment, indignant enough to contradict him "—but some people have. Even if I'd wanted sacrifices before that, which I did not, meeting Aaron Kohl would have soured me to the idea of veneration very quickly. So… if you actually are part of the Beast-cult and not just getting this from a book, please tell your friends to knock it off."
He stops then, not just because he doesn't want to start ranting but also because there's a hint of hysteria edging into his tone. Calm. As calm as the windless night, as calm as fresh-fallen snow. These men don't know him, don't know his moods; they might interpret any strong emotion as cause for worry. Indeed, there's a tension threading their frames that wasn't there before.
"So you're rejecting the offerings," Lucky concludes.
Wirt inhales, exhales, regains his equilibrium. "Yes. As I said, I don't need or want offerings and altars and cults. I intend to clean up the Beast's mess either way. If you're desperate to do me favors, you can tell visitors that I don't want to hurt anybody and would prefer it if other people stopped trying to hurt me."
"That's it?" Eustace remains baffled.
The Pilgrim realizes then that he has forgotten something. "That depends on whether you're in the Beast-cult or not."
The brothers exchange trepidatious glances.
Wirt holds up his hands, fingers splayed. "I'm not angry either way," he assures them. "If you are in the Beast-cult, I'd appreciate it if you told the other cultists to just… stop. It's… very flattering—" This is a lie. "—but I'm, ah, uncomfortable with the idea of having my own cult, especially one that used to worship the Beast."
"We didn't worship him." Lucky freezes, eyes wide, like he hadn't intended to say anything. "I—I mean—it's not that sort of cult."
Wirt doesn't particularly want to know too much about the Beast-cult, but he makes a 'go on' gesture anyway. It's always important to show strangers that they can disagree with him without having their souls petrified, tapped, and burned.
Lucky and Eustace hold a silent conversation. The latter takes over the explanation. "It's—the way Gramps always explained it, the Beast-cult is more about keeping you—um, keeping him—satisfied enough that he doesn't lure any locals into the forest." His eyes dart over to the tree by Wirt's side. No faces mar its trunk, but it is still an edelwood. "The ones who make… other sacrifices… to curry favor with the old Beast, they're not with us."
The new Beast's mouth thins before he forces it back to neutrality. "The favor-currying is no longer necessary," the Horned Lord decrees—and however mild the delivery, these words are a decree, an order, one that he expects to be obeyed. "Not this sort—" He taps the altar again "—and certainly not the other kind. I'd appreciate it if you let people know."
The villagers acquiesce. Wirt smiles at them. See? No hard feelings. Just a simple misunderstanding that we resolved with simple communication like ordinary people do because I am very reasonable and not at all terrifying.
An awkward silence descends. Wirt tries to figure out what he did wrong. Lucky asks, "Are… are we dismissed?"
"I'm not your master," Wirt reminds him. "You two can leave whenever you want to."
Their nods are suspiciously deep and bow-like, but the Pilgrim takes his victories where he can find them. Eustace and Lucky back away, disappearing among the trees. They're out of earshot for a human when Lucky whispers, "Do you think there's any offerings he would accept?"
"He says he's nomadic, so we should probably aim for quality over quantity. Maybe focus on the wine. That's drinkable, so he doesn't have to carry it anyplace."
"Good ideas."
Wirt just sighs. He isn't even surprised, because this is his life now.
He hopes he can keep it from Beatrice for at least a few days.
(He can't. On his next visit, she takes one look at his too-innocent face and demands to know what's up, then laughs until her stomach aches. But once she's done laughing and has wiped the tears from her eyes, the Pilgrim is free to tell her that the cult's existence reminded him of Aaron Kohl's attempted sacrifice, and even if the Beast-cult isn't like that, there's no way that Kohl and Adelaide were the only ones with that sort of arrangement. Her face grows grave, and she says, "We should probably do something about that."
We, not you. This is also Wirt's life now, the part that makes the cult thing worth it.)
Fic title comes from "Come Wayward Souls."
This story was originally a lot longer and took place over a much longer timeframe before I realized that I should probably spread this cult nonsense out over several installments. (Wirt is not happy about this.) That's why there's a reference in "to wind thy soul" to Wirt speaking with Enoch about evil witches. This story takes place in the midst of the last one, causing Wirt enough stress that he temporarily forgets his stress about telling his family that he's going to stay. Originally, there was going to be a lot of overlap, but then this story would continue beyond the chronological bounds of the last.
Lovely people have continued to create gorgeous art for this series. The most recent is the-dead-of-wiinter on tumblr, who is the first artist to depict Wirt in his deer form. Absolutely beautiful art.