Work Text:
at the hour the sun goes down
There is a cemetery on a hill. It's been there since the early seventeen hundreds, when white colonists settled in this area. Graves from four different centuries stand vigil over the slumbering dead.
At the western base of the hill runs a small river. It looks like it's barely more than a stream, but the waters run deceptively deep.
A year ago, that river nearly stole both of Amy Whelan's sons. Now, if her older boy's theory (conveyed to them with letters carried by turtles, of all things) is correct, it will finally give one back… at least for a time.
Sunset approaches. They sit on a picnic blanket at the water's edge, her and Jonathan and Greg and Jason the frog, watching the shadows lengthen. Waiting.
"Do you really think this will work?" Amy asks her husband. She speaks softly so that their son won't hear.
"Wirt knows his own capabilities better than we do," Jonathan points out reasonably—but there's a tension in his jaw.
This is true. Still, Amy's heart is in her mouth. She's wanted this so desperately for so long that it's almost unreal to think that she's finally, finally going to see him again in just a few minutes. It's hard to believe, at least for her. Greg doesn't share her worries. He's happily chatting with his frog, not a care in the world.
The air stills, thickens, a faint exotic scent wafting through it. The water smooths to a perfect mirror. The shadows darken to little pools of night.
And then Wirt is there, familiar and real and there, and Amy can't help the little noise that escapes her throat. She holds him tight, tight, as tight as she can manage. He's taller now and far too skinny, but he's there, he's hugging her back, and all is right with the world.
Finally, Amy steps back (but not too far) so she can get a better look at her son. Wirt's smiling a wavery smile, his eyes limned with oil, a dark tear rolling down his face. He's taller than she is and dressed all in black. His hair has grown out; it's streaked with red and orange and gold. And of course he's older, his face subtly altered with age.
But Amy Whelan would know that smile anywhere.
"Wirt!" yells Greg, jumping into his brother's arms. Wirt laughs—Amy startles a bit at how his voice has deepened, though of course she'd been told about that change—and catches him. "I missed you, brother o'mine! Do you like my costume?"
"I love it," Wirt assures him. "You and Jason could be twins."
He glances up at Jonathan, smile fading. Jonathan tenses, his own smile going stiff. But then Wirt smiles again, shyer this time, and wraps one arm around his stepfather's shoulders in a quick, rather awkward sort-of hug. He lets go after just a couple moments, blushing black, but it's still a hug.
Jason breaks the silence before it can become uncomfortable with a loud croak. Wirt gives a little chuckle and scoops the frog up for a hug. It's a mark of how strange Amy's life has become that she doesn't bat an eye at the frog hugging him back.
Tears well up in her eyes, blurring her vision. "I can't believe it," she chokes out. "You're here." She pulls him close again, presses a kiss to his forehead.
Nothing happens. She's not surprised, though she can't help the pang of disappointment. Either only the romantic version of true love's kiss can break curses or it just doesn't work.
"I'm here," Wirt assures her, his voice all gentle. "I'm here, Mom." He swallows hard. "I can't believe I get to see you again. I thought…." He closes his eyes, visibly steels himself. When he opens his eyes again, they're filled with determination. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry for just running off without a real explanation. I could have—I wasn't very strong yet, but I still could have shown you something. I was just… a coward. I couldn't stand the thought of actually saying goodbye."
"I couldn't have stood it either," Amy tells him. "I wouldn't have let you go." Then, before she can restrain herself, she asks the question that's haunted her ever since she learned that Wirt can come back. "How long can you stay?"
It would be hard to explain his months-long disappearance, but surely they could think of some excuse. He can go back to the Unknown at night and stay with them during the day. He doesn't need to sleep, so he'd have time enough to live a double life. They could make it work.
"Not long," Wirt sighs. "A couple hours, I think. It feels… really, really weird to be out of my—the Unknown." One hand rises to absently rub at a temple, and Amy realizes something she should have noticed right away: his 'neat branchlers' are gone, his 'pretty colorful eyes' have shifted to human brown.
Amy forces a smile. "Then we'll make the most of it," she vows.
"Yeah." Her older boy's smile is equally forced.
Greg, bless him, remains oblivious to the tension. "It was super hard to choose what to be this year."
"Let me guess, you wanted to be a magic tiger?"
"Or a turtle, or a Viking, or you, or a ghost, or Paul Revere, or Elvis, or an iguana, but then I realized that if I dressed up like a river frog, Jason could have a fancy costume too. It took forever to find something that fit him, but we made it work."
"That's right!" Wirt digs into his satchel. "I brought presents. This is yours, Jason." He hands the amphibian a bundle of frog-sized clothing.
"Are there socks?" Greg asks.
Jason croaks, holding up a pair in each webbed hand. He croaks again, this time directing it towards Wirt, who smiles and nods. "You're welcome."
Next comes a small songbook, which is handed off to Jonathan. "There's a lot of music in the Unknown," Wirt explains. "These are just a few folk songs, but I thought you'd like it."
"I love it."
"You haven't opened it yet." But Wirt's words lack the sharpness they would have held even a year ago, before he and Greg fell into this very river. "You're next, Mom."
Greg makes a little whining noise but makes no comment.
"You're really hard to shop for," Wirt continues, just like he has every Christmas and birthday since he was a little boy. "But it was easier this time." The book with which he presents her is thick and heavy. The Tome of the Unknown. The history book, not the magic version for which it was named. "This is a pretty good read, very informative. I figured you'd want to know more about everything. Just… try not to freak out too much when you read about the Beast, okay? He was a lot less powerful by the time Greg and I met him."
She's frightened already. "Of course. Thank you."
Greg leans forward, practically twitching with anticipation.
Wirt hides a smile. "I think that's everyone," he drawls.
"No it's not!" Greg bursts out.
"Oh, that's right." Wirt makes a show of digging around in his back. "I sure hope I didn't forget it."
His brother squeaks in horror. "Say it ain't so!"
"Wait, here it is. No, no, it's not. Hmm."
Jason croaks reprovingly.
"Okay, okay." Wirt draws back from the bag, something green and flowing in his hands. Then the fabric unfolds and Amy can see that it's a cloak, child-sized and summer-green and clasped with a silvery teapot. Greg puts it on right away, happily babbling his thanks. "It's perfect for adventuring," he declares.
His parents stiffen automatically. Greg is seven, far too young to go traipsing off into the Unknown with only his teenage brother for supervision. They have no intention of letting him off on any potentially fatal adventures.
"Something like that," Wirt chuckles. "But only if Mom and your dad say it's okay, you understand?"
Greg looks up at them, all hopeful pleading eyes. "Can I stay with Wirt over Christmas break, Mom?"
"Don't you want to see your grandparents?" Jonathan asks after the silence lingers a moment too long.
"They can come too."
"Or I could visit instead," Wirt points out. The cloak is partly a question, and he can hear the silent answer loud and clear. This is his way of assuring them that he understands, accepts it.
"That would be wonderful," Amy assures him. Inside, she's wondering if a Christmas miracle might change him back. It doesn't seem likely, but neither does anything else about this situation when she views it objectively. "Are you still a vegan?" Too late, she remembers that this might not be an entirely safe topic of conversation; she and Jonathan had speculated once that he only changed his diet due to some sort of Unknown curse, and they've never actually asked Wirt about it. But she's said it, so she forges on. "I could probably find some good recipes by Thanksgiving, even."
"Thanks, but that isn't necessary," her son replies. "I'd probably stop by after dinner."
"But you still like to eat, don't you?" Greg inquires. "I know you don't have to 'cause you have photocinnamon, but if sunlight doesn't have a taste, then food has to be a lot better, relatively speaking."
Amy had wanted to avoid the topic of Wirt's new nature, but, she recognizes ruefully, that had been a fool's wish. The knowledge of it lurks in the lengthening shadows, the slenderness of his fingers, the too-long pauses between carefully selected words. Perhaps it is better to do as Greg does and seize the bull by its horns—or, she supposes, by the antlers.
"How is your, um, forest magic coming along, Wirt?" she inquires. It's a valid question, but not something she's truly asked before, nor had her son volunteered the information. After the first letter, sent home with Greg and Jason, which had explained everything, Wirt had kept his missives focused on the non-magical aspects of his new existence: places he'd been, his friendship with Beatrice, questions for them to answer. His words dance around anything that might bring his readers too much discomfort, and Amy does not doubt that he's left out quite a bit.
He's still, inhumanly so, for a long moment. Jonathan freezes too, but in a much more familiar way. (And now that she's noticed how strangely Wirt moves, contrasted with her husband, how his eyes catch too much of the dying sunlight, she can't not see it.)
"It's coming along all right," he answers at last, his tone carefully even. "I'm getting better at sensing corrupted places from further away, and I've started keeping a sort of logbook. And… I've been experimenting, a little. A few days ago, I learned that I can snuff out fires, and that got me thinking."
"Why did you need to snuff out a fire?" demands Jonathan, alarmed.
Wirt's hands flutter. "It wasn't an angry mob chasing me with torches and pitchforks or trying to burn me at the stake, I swear. I just… had to get past some people to take care of this thing involving one of my turtles. My life was not at any point in danger."
From Jonathan's expression, he finds these reassurances just as comforting as Amy does—which is to say, not at all. Wirt must realize this too, for he tries again. "You really don't need to worry about me, I promise. As long as the Dark Lantern stays lit, I'm completely fine, and besides, it's not like I go around deliberately getting into situations where I'm chased by dogs or shot at or stuff like that. And some people are finally starting to realize that the Beast and I are separate people." For some reason, he pulls up short at that, casts a quick, strangely pained little look at his mother. "Not that all the rumors are particularly… nice… but mighty trees sprout from the smallest of seeds."
They aren't going to get anything out of him, not until his guard is down. "…What sorts of rumors?"
That odd expression flits across his visage again. "Well, the funniest one is that I used to be a black turtle but got promoted when the Beast died."
"That is funny," Greg agrees.
"Speaking of rumors, have you figured out how to explain my disappearance?"
They have not.
Wirt ponders this for a few moments. "…I guess you could say that I joined a cult?"
"The Order of the Black Turtles!" Greg exclaims.
"Yeah, sure. But, seriously, that would explain pretty much everything."
"It would also inspire a police investigation into the cult that convinced a fifteen-year-old boy to run away," Jonathan points out.
"I think that we should just tell the police," Greg contributes. "And also all our friends and family, because they're still really worried about you."
Wirt flinches. So does Amy. She knows that her younger boy doesn't mean to make Wirt feel guilty, but that's nonetheless the end result. But then her older son leans back slightly, fingers tapping at the ground. (The grass curls lightly around his fingers, impossibly green for this time of year. He doesn't notice.) "That's actually not a bad idea, Greg."
"Thanks."
"But let's think about it first, okay? Figure out if we actually want to do it, whom to tell, how to prove it… everything like that."
"It's easy to prove it," Greg reminds him. "We just have to show them your branchlers." A frown mars his face. "Now wait just one cotton-picking minute here. Why aren't your branchlers out? And don't say that you don't have a headache, because you're rubbing at where your branchlers should be right now."
Wirt jerks his hand away from his temple. He looks like he'd been acting unconsciously, without even noticing. His brown, human eyes flit towards his mother. "Don't call them branchlers," he grumbles.
"Go ahead, sweetheart," Amy advises, trying to ignore the dread that curdles in her gut. He's still her son, even if parts of his new life make her distinctly uncomfortable. He's her son, and she will always love him, antlers or no antlers.
But Wirt shakes his head and mumbles something about not wanting to hit anybody. "Oh, have they grown again?" Greg asks.
"I… think so, yes."
"We should have brought a measuring tape," Jonathan comments. Amy meets his gaze with a quirked eyebrow; his answering smile is a little forced, but still bright and full of love. "How big are they, Wirt?"
An uncomfortable shrug. "Maybe a foot and a half each? I don't have much access to rulers out in my forest."
Amy searches for a way to carry on in this vein, though part of her wants to change the subject. She thinks that he needs to hear this, feel it. "So how do you keep them from getting stuck in the trees?"
Wirt is baffled, like he can't understand why anyone would need to ask that. "The trees wouldn't do that to me," he says, and Greg and Jason nod like that makes perfect sense.
Amy glances down, again, at the patch of greenery where her older boy is sitting. It's dark enough now that she can't tell for certain, but she thinks that it's bigger than before. Certainly the grass twined around Wirt's hand is taller than it has any right to be. "I see," she says lamely, and it's only half a lie.
Oh, to hell with it. Amy squares her shoulders, meets Wirt's (brown) gaze directly. "I love you, Wirt. Human or not, you're still my son, and… even if parts of… all this… are hard to accept or understand, I still…." But now the lump in her throat is too big to speak past.
"I love you too, Mom." There's a hand on her shoulder. "And I'm sorry that everything has been so, so crazy lately."
"Not your fault," she manages.
"It is, actually," he sighs, "though I'll admit to having no idea as to what would happen."
"If you knew, though, would you do it again?"
Wirt is silent for a long moment, his gaze sliding towards his brother. He nods. "Yes. And… not just for Greg, though obviously that's a good enough reason to do it again. The Beast was hurting the Unknown. Someone needed to take over from him." A soft huff, not quite laughter, certainly not a sigh. "I just wish it was someone who knew what he was doing. I mostly just make things up as I go along, and that… doesn't always work." His gaze darkens, and Amy knows that he's thinking of an edelwood tree on a witch's doorstep.
"I think you're doing really good, Wirt," Greg assures him. "But I'd still like you to come home, because I miss you."
Wirt swallows hard, wraps his arm around his brother. Greg leans in, wrapping the black cloak around himself. "Thanks," the older boy chokes out. "I miss you too, Greg."
Jason croaks. Amy doesn't speak Froggish, but she thinks she hears a note of question in the noise. Wirt translates before answering. "Jason wants to know if I've made any progress finding The Tome of the Unknown. I have, in a manner of speaking. There's a rumor about a sailor who has a map to the Cave of Wonders. Beatrice figures that the Cave is probably our best bet of finding the book, so I'm going to try to find her. It'll probably take awhile, though. She might not be in port for weeks."
(His hand drifts to his temple yet again. It's been doing that more often, these last few minutes. And his eyes are very bright.)
"It'll be good to have you home again," Jonathan says sincerely.
Wirt hesitates barely a moment before asking lowly, "What if that doesn't happen? What if the book tells me that there's no going back?"
"We'd have to visit each other a lot," Greg proclaims, "and find you a cell phone with really good reception."
Wirt laughs, cuddles his brother closer. "I don't think there are any."
"Maybe not now, but Mrs. Daniels says that technology is advancing faster every day."
"I suppose it is." A brief instant of pain flickers across Wirt's face.
Amy is alarmed. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, it's just that I've never been away from my forest and Lantern so long."
Greg rises to his feet, hands on his hips. "And you're human-looking. You know that gives you a headache." Wirt looks ready to protest, but Greg jabs him in the clavicle before waving his finger reprovingly. "You know it, Wirt."
Amy steels herself. "He's right. You shouldn't hurt yourself just to look human." Jonathan nods his agreement. Even Jason gives a reproachful croak.
Wirt seems to shrink in on himself. "Seriously, I'm fine."
Amy folds her arms. "Wirt, you are obviously in pain. Fix it."
He cringes, eyes closing, but obeys. Antlers spring from his temple, each tine studded with a red leaf. An eye cracks open, just a sliver, and Amy glimpses blue and yellow and pink before he turns his head away.
"Oh, they really are bigger," Greg observes, looking up without a trace of discomfort.
Amy can't speak. She hates seeing him like this, as someone she can't understand or help or even be there for, because he belongs to the Unknown now.
(And most of all, she hates the way that he looks somehow right.)
Jonathan speaks for her, covering the potentially awkward silence. "Very striking. I'm certain that you're all the does can talk about."
Wirt forgets his discomfort enough to glare with those unnatural pastel eyes. "I get enough deer jokes from Beatrice," he gripes. "I don't need any from you guys, too."
"But deer jokes are funny," Greg protests.
"You're both terrible," Wirt mutters, but his voice lacks heat. He darts a quick glance at his mother, her silence noted and probably causing him vast amounts of anxiety.
Amy smiles and shoots him a thumbs-up, swallowing rapidly until she can speak. "Is your head feeling any better?"
He nods, leaves rustling. (Her son has leaves growing out of the antlers that are growing out of his head.) "Yes, but… I'm not sure how much longer I can stay. It's probably just because this is my first time, though. I'll probably last longer my next visit. I'm sorry. I really did think I could last longer."
It's been only a few minutes, not nearly long enough, and now he will have to go back for who-knows-how-long. But if he can only stay a bit longer, there's something Amy should say.
"Wirt." He looks at her with his inhuman eyes and his very human emotions. "This… isn't what I want for you or something I even understand. I want you to come home and be safe and happy and not have to worry about fixing an entire world. But… you've handled this so well, and I know that the Unknown is thriving with your help. You're doing amazing things, Wirt, and… I don't have the words to say how proud I am of you."
She leans forward, arms outspread. A leaf brushes against her face as he hugs her back, his thin arms surprisingly strong. Greg and Jason wiggle into the embrace, and Jonathan lays his hand on Amy's shoulder. A moment of hesitation later, and he does the same for Wirt, who neither stiffens nor flinches away.
They stay like that for a long, long time.
At last, Wirt sighs softly, pulls away. "I don't think I can stay any longer," he confesses softly. Indeed, he's visibly tired, his eyes dim. "But… I'll try to visit again around Thanksgiving, and there's always the turtles. See you then?"
And as much as Amy hates letting him walk off into the Unknown again, she has to acknowledge that Wirt knows more about all this than she does. "See you then," she agrees, and it's a promise.