through the mist
Wirt doesn't know what he expected from the Oracle of Tidingstown, but it certainly isn't this. If pressed, he probably would have guessed a Greek Revival-style pseudo-temple in front of a spooky, atmospheric cave. Instead, it's a charmingly asymmetrical Queen Anne brownstone, with a sprawling waiting room on the bottom floor, offices on the second, and a three-story tower on the northeast corner where the Oracle does her business. Inoffensive landscape paintings and informational posters hang between tall rectangular windows. Three oak desks squat near the back entrance (which has "Staff Only" painted across it in huge blocky letters), matching the coffee tables and cushioned chairs that litter the rest of the room.
In short, it's a lot like a dentist's office. He's starting to feel vaguely guilty for not brushing his teeth. Can he get cavities? He doesn't think he can get cavities, but it's not like his body comes with an instruction manual. Nothing about his life comes with an instruction manual. If it did, he wouldn't need to be here.
The couple in front of him thanks the secretary and scurries off with a clipboard and a massive stack of paperwork. Wirt steps forward.
The spiel the secretary gives him is the exact same one that he gave the nervous couple. (Wirt wasn't trying to listen, but his ears are as keen as ever.) It must be a standardized speech about how seeing the Oracle won't solve your problems, it will only give you another tool with which to solve them yourself, their waiting list is currently seven months and five days, and it doesn't matter how important you are, unless this is a matter of imminent life and death, you cannot skip ahead in line. Any attempt at doing so will result in banishment from these premises for one year. Once you've seen the Oracle, you can't see any oracles for a minimum one-year period. Please read this paperwork carefully, sign or initial when prompted, and ask Frederica at the Help Desk if you have any questions. When you're finished, please give your forms to Stephanie.
Wirt takes his paperwork with a murmur of thanks. He heads to a window seat between two small tables laden with potted plants, which send him a silent greeting. He smiles at them before turning his attention to the stack of forms.
The first thing he sees is that his Customer Service Number is thirteen. Great.
Wirt reads the papers carefully. The first sheet is the standard identification stuff: Name, birthday, occupation. He groans softly and resolves that whenever he's asked for his name, he'll write it as messily as possible. He'd rather scrawl something illegible than risk getting kicked out and/or starting a riot.
He puts "forestry" as his occupation and uses the O'Sialias' address. It's true enough.
After that, there's a lot of liability stuff. Sign here to acknowledge that you understand xyz. Initial here to acknowledge that you understand each step of the process. Sign beneath the all-caps, bolded disclaimer that you only get one try per year, that's the way the magic works, so don't even think about trying to cheat it.
In other words, Wirt might have only one shot at doing this right.
Apparently petitioners get to meet with a Resource Officer upstairs who will help them go over their problems to see if they can be solved without consulting the greatly overworked Oracle. They also help clients perfect the wording of the one question (one per year, the form reminds him yet again, with no double-dipping allowed) that they're allowed to guarantee the best results. The last sheet asks petitioners to briefly describe their problem so that they can be matched with the best Resource Officer and requests that this page be left on top of the paperwork pile. All problems, it assures him, are strictly confidential.
Wirt is not reassured. It's bad enough that he'll have to explain the Beast-fragment to the Oracle and this Resource Officer person. He's not putting it in writing. The fewer people who know, the better… at least until he knows how much of a threat it is. He writes something vague about an evil spirit that might or might not come back from the dead and brings his paperwork to Stephanie.
After that, there's nothing to do but wait. Stephanie calls for Client Six, then Seven, then Nine. Eight gets upset that Nine got called first, and Stephanie tries for several minutes to explain that they need different Resource Officers. She's interrupted by another staff member announcing that the Oracle is ready for her third appointment of the day, and also Eight's RO is ready.
The rest of the wait is uneventful. Wirt is called in about an hour after he turned over his paperwork. He goes to Room Four, half-expecting to see one of those motorized chairs that dental patients use even though his logical brain knows that's not going to happen.
Mr. Ganzorig is a small, slight man with almond-shaped eyes and a finely groomed mustache. His bookshelves are lined with titles like Exorcism in Twelfth-Century Doxia and A Compendium of 1,000 Curses with Their Counters, vol. 7. (That ten-book series takes up an entire shelf, the tomes are so thick).
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. …?"
This is the first bit he's dreaded, but there's no point in trying to sidestep. "Palmer," the Pilgrim supplies. "Wirt Palmer."
He freezes like a mouse in a hawk's shadow. Wirt plasters on his most harmless smile as Ganzorig's eyes dart across him in the all-too-familiar way, taking in the fingers and the height and the light in his eyes and the darkness of his shadow. The Resource Officer's face drains of color as he realizes that this isn't some bizarre joke, he really is in the presence of the Dreaded One.
"Stars above," he chokes. His fingers stutter through the movements of the ward-evil.
Wirt nods and waits.
The silence drags on until it becomes awkward. "Are you all right?" Wirt eventually asks. Ganzoig hasn't started screaming or running yet. That's a good sign.
"W-why are you here?"
"I want to be on the waiting list for an appointment with the Oracle, just like any of your other clients. I'm not here to harm anyone."
"Of course," Ganzorig responds. He does an admirable job of keeping the skepticism out of his voice. The cloying scent of his fear fills the room. He glances towards the door but, instead of making a break for it, visibly steels himself. "What do you need to speak with the Oracle about?" He's tense, the cords in his neck sticking out, like he'll bolt if Wirt so much as twitches.
"The short version is that I'm concerned about whether it's possible for the Beast to return."
A million emotions flit across the wide-eyed face. For a few moments, the poor man is speechless in horror. He tries to respond once, twice, thrice, but has to stop each time. Finally, after several deep breaths, Ganzorig can talk again. His voice is carefully level as he asks, "Do you have reason to believe…?"
Wirt closes his eyes, not wanting to see the reaction. "I think so, yes."
A sharply indrawn breath. Ganzorig takes a few moments to absorb this. Wirt can guess what he's thinking: The Pilgrim is powerful enough to be dangerous, but he's let a lot of people get away with a lot of things. The first Beast was merciless, ruthless, dangerous in a way that this one is not. The Resource Officer weighs his options, realizes that Wirt is very definitely the lesser of two evils, then says, "I must inform the Oracle immediately. This is—this is the sort of emergency she needs to hear about right away."
"Of course."
Wirt half-expects Ganzorig to run for the hills as soon as the door closes behind him, so he tracks the Resource Officer with his forest-sense. He's pleasantly surprised when the man makes a beeline for the tower, where he actually interrupts the Oracle's prophesying session; the magic in the room pops like a soap bubble. He's less surprised when people start evacuating the premises. Soon, only two other presences remain.
Not even ten minutes after Ganzorig leaves, he returns to his office, though he hesitates at the door. When he enters, he's wearing the sort of customer-service smile that Wirt has always associated with minimum wage workers counting down the hours. Wirt smiles back, still intent on appearing as harmless and friendly as possible.
"The Oracle will see you now."
"Thank you."
They walk in silence until Wirt enters the Oracle's room. The Oracle stands, inclines her head, drops into a curtsey. "Horned Lord," she says. She's better at keeping her composure than poor terrified Ganzorig, but she too smells like fear.
"Oracle," Wirt returns, nodding his own head. Should he bow? He hesitates long enough that he'll look stupid if he does, so hopefully bowing isn't a requirement.
"Mr. Ganzorig informs me that you have reason to believe that your predecessor might return?" The fear-scent spikes. She takes a moment to swallow. "I'm afraid that I will need more details to most effectively channel my abilities."
"All right." Wirt takes a moment to gather himself before beginning his explanation.
"You've probably heard that this spring, I was captured by a group of witches and put into a dream of days gone by. Magic works strangely on me, and the dream didn't quite stick the way it was supposed to. The dream kept restarting because I kept noticing that something was wrong. Eventually, it took… certain drastic measures… to ensure I remained asleep, and that's when the Beast appeared to me. He said he didn't want to spend the rest of eternity watching me bumble through my old life, so I needed to wake up. And then I… did, I got my memories back, and I realized the frankly horrifying implications of a sapient, self-aware fragment of the Beast interacting with me inside my head."
Ganzorig is taking notes. Wirt has mixed feelings about that. He doesn't like having these details on paper, but he appreciates the effort to keep the details straight. He'll try to focus on the reassuring professionalism and ignore the fact that they're making a written record of his most closely guarded secret.
"The Beast appeared to you within your mind?" the Oracle repeats.
"Yes," Wirt confesses.
"Please tell me every detail," the Oracle says.
"Just about the dream, or…?"
"Anything that might be relevant. Every last detail of that encounter, all the steps you've taken to hold him back, any other influences he has on you."
"I will if I must, but there might be another way." Wirt pulls The Tome of the Unknown out of his pack. The Oracle gasps softly when she realizes what it is. "Do you know how to use this?"
"The Greater Tome," she murmurs, running a reverent finger along its cover. "I'm afraid not, Horned Lord. Mr. Ganzorig?"
"I don't either."
Wirt is acutely aware of Ganzorig and his pen, but this is too important to let his discomfort get in the way. He starts from the beginning, recounting the tale of how he'd defeated the Beast in the first place. No doubt his audience has heard it before, so he doesn't spend much time on it.
After that, he tells them about the subtle things that he now knows come from the Beast's influence, the ease with which he uses (most of) his powers, the knowledge of the ancient songs. There are a few other things, too, that might or might not have come from his predecessor. Wirt had adjusted to his new body quite quickly, and he doesn't know if that's because the Beast-fragment within him is accustomed to being tall and slim and antler-crowned. He likes the night better now, but that could just be his improved eyesight. Things like that.
Wirt pauses now, frowning, aware of something new on the edge of his senses. "Someone's coming," he announces.
A minute later, there's a sharp rapping on the door. The knocker doesn't wait for a reply before opening. She's a squat, grizzled police officer with a baton at one hip and a pistol at the other. Her two companions are similarly armed.
"Is everything all right, Madame Oracle?" the lead officer asks. The other two are staring at Wirt with expressions of suspicion and hostility. Wirt stands in a slouch, hands clasped behind his back, and wishes he'd worn more of a disguise than just his red shirt and no cloak. He smiles, trying very hard to look as human and harmless as possible.
"Everything is fine," the Oracle answers. "As I told my clients, a young man with an urgent life-or-death problem arrived to ask for my assistance."
Wirt waves, realizes that they might notice his fingers, and returns to his previous position a little too quickly.
"You've had situations like that before without evacuating the entire building," the lead officer points out.
The Oracle forces a laugh. It's painfully, obviously fake, and Wirt's not the only one who notices. One officer's hand drops to his baton. "It's a very complex situation, so it requires a full divination. And, as I said, it's a rather urgent affair—"
"I'm certain that you and Mister, ah…."
"Ganzorig."
"Mr. Ganzorig can spare five minutes to speak with us in private."
"It's—too urgent," Ganzorig squeaks.
"Way too urgent," Wirt agrees. "Every moment counts!"
Stars help him, they are all terrible liars.
"What exactly is so urgent?" the leader asks.
Ganzorig and the Oracle freeze.
Oh, stars, Wirt might actually be their best bet for getting out of this. "It's—the Quadrangle of Doom," he improvises. "There's this cave there on the Windswept Isle, and it's full of vrykolakas, and there was a landslide and I was the only one to make it out, and I need to save my crew." He fights the urge to nod like a bobblehead, knowing that such an action is not convincing in the slightest.
Ganzorig and the Oracle chime in with confirmations, which, if Wirt is reading the cops' expressions correctly, is not helpful.
"We'll need to see those notes," the leader announces, gesturing towards Ganzorig.
"Do you have a warrant?" Wirt blurts. He'd read one of Mr. O'Sialia's courtroom dramas last month, and there had been a plot point about improper warrants. Wirt has no idea if the cops need a warrant to look at these notes, no idea if they're overstepping their authority, but he'd rather get through the day without revealing himself to them and probably getting shot at, thank you very much.
The leader freezes.
Holy guacamole, Wirt's flailing is working. He presses his advantage. "Actually, can I ask what we're being investigated for, ma'am?"
"…A citizen reported strange behavior from the Oracle and wanted us to ascertain her wellbeing." She's not approaching the notes. Neither are her subordinates. They're not leaving either, but maybe Wirt can get through this without exposure, provided he plays his cards right.
"Was it the lady in the kind of yellowish dress with a gray shawl?" Wirt asks, remembering the morning's drama with Client Eight. "Because she made a scene at the help desk, and I really don't want my crew to die because she's mad that my urgent, life-threatening issue let me skip the line while whatever she's here for didn't."
The head officer glances at her comrade to the right, who nods.
Ganzorig takes over. "As you can no doubt see," he says, "the Oracle and I are perfectly safe. Now we need to return to our preparations. If you have further concerns, you're welcome to petition a judge for access to our private, confidential records."
"We're certainly safer than this Mr. Woods's crew," the Oracle adds waspishly.
Mr. Woods? Mr. Woods?
"…Right," the head cop mutters. She shrugs, apparently deciding that further pursuit isn't worth it. "If anything does happen, Woods, we'll know where to start looking."
"Understood."
The cops leave. Wirt tracks them with his forest-sense, informing the others when they leave the building. Tension drains Ganzorig and the Oracle. "Mr. Woods?" the Resource Officer asks incredulously.
The Oracle's cheeks turn pink. "I'm meant for telling uncomfortable truths, not lying."
"It's a common enough name," Wirt supplies weakly. A bit more strongly, he adds, "And the important thing is that they're gone, so…. Could we maybe get back to the problem?"
"Of course," the Oracle answers. "Where were we?"
Ganzorig consults his notes. "You were speaking of things that might or might not be the Beast's influence."
"Right. I think I covered that pretty thoroughly, so I should probably talk about when I first learned of the Beast-fragment…."
He tells them about the night he'd learned to weave edelwood from the stains of corruption, the conversation he'd had with the Beast in that strange dark grove, and then recounts his experience in the witches' dream-world. There, the Beast had appeared to him more than once, so he provides context for every interaction, which necessitates saying more about the dream than he's ever told anyone. He keeps the worst bits to himself, though.
Ganzorig and the Oracle listen in near-silence. Occasionally, one asks for clarification, but for the most part, the only sound is the quiet scratching of Ganzorig's pen. They remain silent for several moments after Wirt finishes.
"Quite a tale," murmurs the Oracle.
Wirt nods. He's been human-shaped long enough that his head is beginning to ache, but his companions are already trying not to freak out about having him (and the Beast-fragment) in the room with them, so he doesn't change back.
"Do you think an exorcism could help him, Mr. Ganzorig?" The Oracle sounds doubtful.
"I doubt it, even if magic did not react so strangely to him."
She grimaces. "Are there any other magical options?"
"I can think of a few avenues of research, but none are particularly promising, and I'd need a better understanding of how Beast magic interacts with regular enchantments before making any attempts."
The Oracle mulls this over. "Then research that," she orders. "Find all the credible accounts of magic being used against the Beast, and interview the Horned Lord while I set up a full ceremony." She starts to move aside, then pauses. "But first, Horned Lord, might I trouble you for some herbs?"
"Whatever you need," Wirt promises.
Even with intermittent assistance from Wirt and Ganzorig, it takes the Oracle over three hours before she's ready to begin. A lot of her preparations involve quiet murmurs and tracing incredibly precise sigils onto the floor, things that she has to do alone. Wirt spends much of that time speaking with Ganzorig, telling him all about how his power interacts with other magic as the man's pen flies. They finish before she does, though, and he starts brainstorming books to consult.
Wirt can't help with that. He looks over at the Oracle, but she doesn't need him either. With nothing better to do, he has another go at working The Tome of the Unknown. Instead of information about the Beast, though, or anything else useful, it opens to a treatise on various headache cures. Wirt rubs at his painful temple with a scowl and closes the book.
"Would you like me to get anything from your office?" he asks Ganzorig.
"Thank you, Horned Lord, but that's unnecessary." He nods towards the Oracle, whose eyes have glazed over and whose movements have become slow and dance-like. "She should be ready within the next five minutes."
Wirt nods.
The Oracle continues her final preparations. Now that he's not distracted by Ganzorig's interrogation, Wirt can feel the power gathering in the room, like a summer evening when the air is heavy and darkening clouds murmur in the distance. Her movements slow further, her soft chanting transforming into a song that he almost recognizes.
Wirt hasn't been counting the seconds, but it feels like it's been more than five minutes. It's probably just his anxiety messing with his perception of time, not to mention the discomfort in his eyes and temples. He glances at Ganzorig. The Resource Officer must have been staring at him for a while, because he jumps and flushes like a little kid holding the cookie jar.
Darkness is creeping up Wirt's legs, staining the tips of his fingers. He banishes it as he leans toward Ganzorig. A thought occurs to him. Softly, afraid of interrupting the Oracle's trance, he asks, "Is there any risk that me being in this shape could mess things up?"
"Quite possibly," Ganzorig admits.
"If I change back now, will that shock her out of it?"
Ganzorig contemplates the swaying Oracle for a long moment before shaking his head. "She's too far gone."
"Then I'll change back now," Wirt says, and does.
Ganzorig sucks in his breath. He's probably staring again as the shadows card Wirt's hair at the join of his antlers. The Pilgrim ignores him, waiting for the Oracle to finish.
Wirt knows when she's ready even before her body seizes up, even before her eyes open, even before her mouth gapes. When she looks at him, her irises are gone entirely, swallowed whole by her pupils.
Ganzorig grabs his pen.
"HAIL, WIRT PALMER, PILGRIM, PRINCE OF SNOWDROPS." Her voice echoes despite the smallness of the chamber.
"Hail, Oracle," Wirt replies politely, wishing he knew her name.
"ASK OF ME WHAT YOU WILL."
"Is there any way that my predecessor, the old Beast, could return?" The words hang heavy in the air.
"AS LONG AS YOUR FLAME BURNS, IT SHALL HOLD THE DREADED ONE AT BAY."
"Are you saying that the Beast can't come back while I'm still alive?" Wirt asks slowly. Oracles are notoriously easy to misunderstand; he wants no room for ambiguity.
"YOU UNDERSTAND."
"But if I die," Wirt continues, "that gives the Beast an opportunity to return."
"EVERY MOMENT YOUR FIRE REMAINS UNLIT IS AS A PATH OF SHADOW."
People attacking him with guns and pitchforks and axes. Standing on a lake on a cold spring day as a witch held his immortal soul in her hand, the flame wavering in the wind. The constant threat of somebody going after the O'Sialias again.
And then there are the Aaron Kohls and Amos Cranes of the world, people who would deliberately attempt to bring back their master if they thought it possible. If someone like them gets ahold of the Dark Lantern, they can end Wirt and return the Beast in a single breath.
Except—
"The Dark Lantern was empty for months before I took it up," Wirt recalls.
"YOUR FLAME WAS NOT YET A FLAME, BUT IT BURNED NONETHELESS."
Wirt's stomach plummets. "So it's not the Lantern, it's me."
"YES AND NO. YOU ARE BECOME THE LANTERN NOW. ITS LIGHT IS YOURS."
Wirt takes a deep breath. "Is there any way to prevent that? To keep the Beast from returning in the event of my death?" He speaks more quickly than before, because the power in the air feels different. The foundation is beginning to crack.
"THERE IS. TRIUMPH BEGETS TRIUMPH AND DEFEAT, DEFEAT. A STUMP MAY SPROUT AGAIN AND AGAIN, BUT NOT FOREVER." The Oracle's arm spasms. The rents spiderweb across the force of her spell. "ONE VICTORY TO EARN YOUR CROWN, ONE TO CLAIM your POWER, and ONE TO erASE HIS CLAIM. YOU must OVerCOME THE BEAST BY ovERCOMing THE Beast."
"What does that mean?" Wirt demands, throwing his own power at the Oracle. He fills the spiderweb fissures with root and vine, but that won't last long.
"YOU ARE TWICE VICTORIOUS ALready. SEEK the THIRD prize, THE third spoil, the THIRD victory."
The magic breaks. The Oracle collapses; Wirt barely gets there in time to keep her from hitting the ground. Her skin is sticky with sweat, and her eyelids twitch like she's in the midst of a bad dream.
"The fainting couch," Ganzorig calls. Wirt nods, puts her down on its soft cushions. She's beginning to tremble, so he grabs the blanket over its back and tucks her in. It doesn't seem to help. Is she going to need a doctor? Wirt can't smell any sickness, but it's too soon for any proper diseases to have taken root.
Ganzorig presses his hand to the Oracle's brow, his leeriness of the new Beast temporarily forgotten. "No fever." He exhales a shaky breath. "M—the Oracle has never delved so deeply before, but I've read about this. She'll most likely wake within the next hour. I just need to keep checking for fever."
Wirt sighs his relief, but he can't let go of all his tension. Most likely is no guarantee. "Do we need a doctor on standby?"
"I don't think so. There's nothing we can really do except wait and watch."
"Right." They're silent for a moment, listening to the Oracle breathe. She's rasping a bit, but her breath is deep and steady. "Do you have any idea what she meant about defeating the Beast?"
Ganzorig's eyes flick towards Wirt's antlers. Wirt shifts, returning fully to his human guise. He tells himself he doesn't mind; it's been long enough that his headache is gone, and he'll be perfectly fine for the next few hours.
"Her last words, I think, are the key to the rest. She said that you are twice victorious already. The first time is obviously when you slew the Beast, and the second is probably a reference to the confrontation where you learned to create edelwood."
Wirt nods. "Once to earn my crown, once to claim my power. So I have to confront him again." His eyes narrow. "No, I don't just have to confront him. I have to win something from him. A third prize, a third spoil."
"What else can you win from him, though?" Ganzorig wonders. "You've already taken his life and his power and the one relic associated with him."
Wirt almost answers, but he stops himself at the last moment. He doesn't understand how the Beast's awareness of his life works, but he's pretty sure that the Beast-fragment is paying attention to everything he can, which means that the Beast will know. Probably. Again, Wirt doesn't have access to any guidebooks here.
…Oh, stars, what if the Beast can read his mind?
"His titles as well," Ganzorig continues. "In spirit, if not always worded exactly the same."
"What?" Wirt asks, more to distract himself from the horrifying realization that his own brain might not be safe than because he cares about the Beast's absurdly long list of titles.
"The Oracle hailed you as the Prince of Snowdrops," Ganzorig clarifies. "I assume that's equivalent to the first Beast's title Prince of Bramblethorn."
"You mean the snowdrops—" Wirt shakes his head. "Silly question. Of course that's not one of the first Beast's names."
"You—" Before Ganzorig gets any further, he remembers that Wirt is very scary, so he cuts himself off.
Wirt knows exactly what he was going to say. "The Beast had something like four hundred titles. I've never bothered learning them all."
"Of course, Horned Lord." Ganzorig busies himself with fussing over the Oracle, who shows no signs of improvement. She's not getting worse, though, so Wirt tries not to be concerned.
…Does the Beast know that Wirt is concerned? Did he hear the Oracle's words? What about Ganzorig's? Wirt needs to get some clarification before he drives himself insane.
"What can normal… possessing spirits, parasitic spirits, whatever you call them… how do they interact with their hosts? How do they get information when they're dormant?"
Ganzorig is smart enough to realize what Wirt is really asking. He blanches, but his voice only wavers a little as he answers, "It isn't constant. They tend to receive sensory information when their host is experiencing high levels of emotion, or in magically charged situations."
In other words, if the Beast-fragment works the same way (and that's a big if, considering how bizarre Wirt's magic is), then the Beast probably did hear the entire conversation with the Oracle. Yay.
He takes a deep breath. "When you say sensory information, do you mean exclusively sensory information, or… can they hear thoughts too?"
The Resource Officer doesn't answer right away, which is not reassuring. His brows crinkle. He buys a few more seconds by checking on the Oracle again, which must mean that the Beast really can read Wirt's mind, so he can't even come up with a plan because how can he win against someone who can hear his thoughts? He's on the verge of a full-fledged breakdown when Ganzorig proclaims, "I highly doubt that the Beast can read your mind."
"Really?" Wirt shrills.
Ganzorig must realize, then, the result of his hesitation. "Yes! I had to calculate the odds, but unless you've been able to hear his thoughts, your mind is almost certainly safe. I'm only leaving the slimmest possibility otherwise because your power has such unusual properties, but you're stronger than he is and haven't noticed anything."
Wirt thinks that Ganzorig is sincere, but his hands are still shaking. "How did you calculate that?" he asks.
"It's a bit technical, but…."
Ganzorig's explanation is as thorough as he can make it without becoming incomprehensible. Basically, there had been cases of powerful parasitic spirits who'd been enmeshed with their host for a long, long time gaining the ability to occasionally eavesdrop on the poor victim's thoughts. It's unlikely that the Beast can do this because Wirt is stronger than him, this isn't actually a possession situation, he's had the Beast-fragment for less than two years (it feels more like ten), Wirt had defeated the Beast rather than falling victim to him, and he isn't able to hear the Beast's thoughts.
When the Oracle wakes forty minutes later, it's to a mostly-calm Pilgrim and a visibly relieved Resource Officer. "Are you all right?" Ganzorig asks, handing her a tall glass of water.
The Oracle downs the entire cup before answering. "I think so. My head aches, but it's nothing a good night's rest won't fix."
"I'm glad." Ganzorig refills her cup.
"As am I." She downs this water a bit more slowly, but it's still gone within the minute. "Horned Lord, did you get what you need?"
"…I think so."
He has information, now, and even the seeds of a plan. Except, he realizes, the Beast isn't stupid. Assuming he heard the exchange with the prophesying Oracle, he'll be thinking of things that Wirt can win from him, and he'll eventually come to the same conclusion Wirt did. The Pilgrim will either need to be very, very sneaky, or he'll have to think of something else. Maybe both.
Ganzorig and the Oracle must have heard the uncertainty in his voice, because they're exchanging worried looks.
"Look," Wirt says (and if he's trying to reassure himself, too, that's just being efficient), "the important thing is that even if I never defeat the Beast again, he can't come back unless I die. That's… not impossible, obviously… but I'm hard to sneak up on and hard to kill. You saw that yourselves with that policewoman. The sneaking-up bit, I mean. She didn't try to kill me."
They nod. Wirt tries not to think about how he doesn't know if he can die of old age or not.
"You will find a way, though," Ganzorig blurts. "You were the one to discover the Beast's great secret. You could not have become the Prince of Snowdrops in the first place if you weren't clever and resourceful."
"Thank you," Wirt says, surprised.
"But if it takes you longer than a year," the Oracle states, "come back, and we will try again. Your predecessor is vicious. He must not return."
"I will continue my research," Ganzorig vows. "And… perhaps we could ask Ms. Purev for her expertise, as well. She is our expert in the laws of inheritance and succession."
Wirt's brow crinkles. "Is that really… I don't think this is the sort of thing you can resolve through the courts."
Ganzorig hesitates before disagreeing with the new Beast, but either he's become comfortable talking back to Wirt or he's just that desperate, because he says, "There are sometimes magical aspects to inheritance, Horned Lord. She might find something."
Wirt still doesn't want to involve more people, but he'd sooner tell the whole world than let the Beast return. "Okay," he acquiesces. "If you think so. But maybe wait until I'm gone before telling her I was here. And… I'd appreciate it if you put any research notes or letters in the big fir tree with the split trunk growing at the first fork in the road." He doesn't think they'd appreciate the black turtle express.
The Oracle nods sharply. "Very well. We all know what we must do." But there's uncertainty in her voice.
"I have ideas," Wirt assures her. He doesn't say that the Beast will likely (or already has, if he listened to the prophecy) come to the same conclusion, that he'll be on guard against it. The Beast has underestimated him in the past. He'll use that to his advantage.
Stars know he'll need all the advantages he can get.
Title for this fic comes from "Into the Unknown." The Oracle is kindly clearing some mist away from Wirt's path. Also, I couldn't think of another title.
I know exactly what this third prize is going to be, and I'm curious to hear your ideas. I won't confirm it one way or the other, though. I'm looking forward to the reveal.
My next update will be published on Halloween. I can finish it by then and edit it, too. I've been looking forward to this one.
Lastly, on an entirely unrelated topic, I am begging my fellow Americans to vote in this election. Go to the polls. Bring your friends and family. Vote like the fate of every vulnerable person in your life is in your hands. Vote for dignity and privacy, for the air we breathe and the water we drink and the soil beneath our feet. Vote for Kamala Harris.