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better be wise
Lottie is the first to step into the circle of protection, the first to stop and gasp. It's like entering a warm room after a long day in the cold, like her mother's hugs after a nightmare, like an old quilt around her shoulders. Nothing and no one can harm her here; this she knows in her bones.
The others pause, too, as they enter. The oldest witch, a woman who insists on calling herself Toadstool, sways. Her will-o-the-wisps flit about her in obvious excitement, pulsing rose and cyan and limoncello.
"Have you ever felt the like?" breathes Toadstool's apprentice.
"I haven't," the older witch replies. "I've always needed to focus to sense protection spells. This is…." She shakes her head in amazement.
"But will binding him still work?" Lottie asks. That's why they're here: to bind the Beast-that-isn't. Except now, covered in the safety care love serenity protection that the Pilgrim has woven around Peggy and Patrick O'Sialia's home, she finds herself wondering if the binding is actually necessary. It seems unlikely that someone only interested in hurting her kin would do this.
Toadstool sniffs the air, eyes fluttering shut. "He's inexperienced, you can tell," she murmurs. "He's put too much of himself into this spell. But then, perhaps that is one of the reasons it's so powerful."
"The binding," Lottie repeats, a bit more firmly.
A dark eye cracks open, fixes on her. "Do you still think he needs to be bound?"
Lottie bites her lip.
"B̧o͝un͟d?" repeats a voice. It echoes and reverberates and sinks through her skin. She can't pinpoint the source, though, as it seems to come from all around them.
A trickle of unease flows through her. Is the new Beast affected by this protection spell, or is he still able to hurt them? She touches her gun, even though she knows it won't fire properly. She probably can't even use it as a bludgeon without the spell breaking it apart.
"An͠d̷ wh͡at͢ th͠e͏n?" demands the voice. The Beast, the Pilgrim. "Wh̕a͠t do͝ ̀you i͏ntęnd̷ t͏o do̧ aft̀eŕ elimin̶ating̴ me̕?" The forest darkens like a storm cloud has eclipsed the sun. The trees around them are jagged watchful silhouettes, each with a thousand pointed fingers. The hunting party instinctively steps closer together. "You̕ ͟al̛r͡e͏ady k̶now th͡at t͝hos̷e w̨ea͡pon̕s w̵o͏n'̧t w̢or̡k̛ o͏n̢ me̷." A swirl of blackness wraps around one particular person. "Esp̨eci̸al̀l̨y̢ y͔̬o̖̭͕̝̘ͅu͎̘̤̳."
Hattie squeaks, stumbling backwards from the insubstantial tendril. Lottie almost groans; she'd told her neighbor not to come, that Beatrice, controlled or not, would hardly be thrilled to see the woman who'd held a knife to her throat. It looks like the Pilgrim-Beast is equally unhappy.
(Can he hurt them within the boundaries of this protection? He is the one who created it.)
Someone needs to say something. "We're just here to make sure my family's all right," Lottie calls. Where is he? She wouldn't be able to tell even if this unnatural gloom wasn't obscuring the woods. His voice is still coming from all around them, its source impossible to pinpoint.
"So͏ ̛ýou br͏òug̸h́ţ s̶om̢eone w̢ho ̕once̵ trie͢d́ t͝o ķi̕ll B̧ea͏tri͞ce," the Pilgrim-Beast sneers. "Ye̡aḩ, t͝h͟at's l͟ogical̷."
"I panicked, okay?" cries Hattie. Her shaking has nothing to do with the midwinter cold. Actually, it's noticeably colder now than it was mere minutes ago. A fresh layer of frost stiffens Lottie's coat, the toes of her boots.
"Eve͢n̕ ìf I̛ be͏l̛ieve͡ḑ y̛ou—" and it's clear from his tone that he doesn't "—ýou ̧li̵tera̶lly j̛ust śaid that ̡y͝ou w̛e̵re g̸oi͠ng tǫ bin͢d̛ m̷e."
Toadstool drops to her knees. "A contingency plan only, great Horned Lord," she assures him, "in case you were harming these innocents. We can see now that you are not. I beg Your Lordship's forgiveness."
The ensuing silence feels startled, somehow.
"It's true," Bertram seconds. "We just wanted to make certain that everyone's all right, and we needed some kind of protection. From things that aren't you."
"…Òn̛e ơf͟ ̕you ma̵ỳ c̨o̵me," the Pilgrim decides. "Bu̡t yo͟u'̀ll l̕eave̵ yǫur w̢eap͏ons̨ b͠e̵hind. Ćhoo͟se quic̡k̨ly."
"Wirt!" yells a very familiar, very exasperated voice. "What the heck are you doing?"
The sun brightens, the temperature rises, and Lottie can breathe again.
"Thę p̕ers̨on wh̛o tri̵ed t͢o̷ ̡st̕ab you̧ i̴s ̀h́ere," he protests, sounding downright defensive.
"So make them all disarm and pay extra attention to her," Beatrice orders. "We talked about this, remember?"
"But we didn't think they'd bring her." The creepy echoes are gone from the Pilgrim's voice, but not the suspicion.
"That's why we're improvising." Lottie can see Beatrice now. She's stalking towards a particularly thick tree with a scowl on her face. It's not just directed at her… whatever the Pilgrim is to her. No. Her glare is fixed on the intruders. "You guys, drop your weapons before Mister Paranoid over there does something stupid."
"It's not paranoia if they're really after you," the Beast-that-isn't mutters.
The party from Kenningdole drops their weapons as he steps out from the shadows (she's not sure how she hadn't noticed him before, but he'd blended in so well with the forest….).
The heir of the Beast, the Terror of the Unknown, the Light-Eater, the Travelers' Bane, is as tall and lean and eerie-eyed as she recalls. He still dresses all in black, as befits the Death of Fire. Broad antlers spring from his temples, and those tricolor eyes of his do not falter in his scrutiny of Hattie and the three witches, one of whom is still kneeling.
Does he not realize the strength of his protection spell? Or perhaps he's not certain if it will affect the witches' magic. Or maybe he thinks that they can undo his enchantment. Perhaps his paranoia isn't so unjustified after all.
Beatrice herds them along, further into the protected area, away from their weapons. The wisps congregate around the not-Beast's antlers, flitting between the tines. Their (ostensible) mistress is staring at him with something like wonder; her apprentice is watching her with concern. Almost everybody else is looking at the Pilgrim with either nervousness or outright fear.
Lottie turns to the third witch, the one who might be the most important of all, because it's said that she can see things. Admittedly, she hadn't said anything about the protection spell, but Bittersweet's abilities work best on people, and she is staring at the Pilgrim with tears rolling down her face. That's… either very good or an indication that they're all going to die.
"Someone needs to get that lady a handkerchief," comments the Dreaded One. Toadstool's apprentice wordlessly hands his over.
"So what's this about binding my friend?" Beatrice asks as they follow her and the friend in question, her voice dangerously sweet.
"Only sleep," Hattie promises, not looking at her but at the tall figure bringing up the rear. Naturally, she staggers over something hidden beneath the snow almost immediately. "We just wanted to make him sleep until we knew you were all right." Mostly because killing a Beast apparently means that you'll become one, but they don't need to know the exact details of their thought process.
"And the guns and stuff are because…?"
"Just distractions," Lottie promises. Also because shooting things full of holes is a good way to weaken them enough for sleep spells to take, but that's another of those things that Beatrice and her Beast don't need to hear about.
"What about your stab-happy friend?" the Pilgrim demands.
"There weren't a lot of volunteers."
His expression remains unimpressed.
The Beastling doesn't want them in the house, just the mill, but everyone else overrules him. He follows the awkward procession through the door, antlers vanishing briefly as he crosses the threshold (much to the wisps' displeasure), then stalks over to the corner and pulls the darkness toward himself. It's like there's a cloud of ink obscuring the entire area, purely black except for two narrow, unblinking white eyes and the softly glowing wisps, who only make the Beast creepier when their light provides glimpses of his antlers.
"Good grief," mutters Beatrice. Raising her voice, she adds, "Wirt, if this is how you've been trying to convince people that you're not scary, then it's no wonder it isn't working."
"Don't worry. I only do this to people who threaten my friends."
Hattie winces again, mumbles another apology.
Aunt Peggy and Uncle Patrick seem just as displeased by the situation, though part of that is probably because they have to quickly herd all of Lottie's other cousins upstairs. (The cousins are almost certainly listening in. They all know it. Still, their parents are obliged to try.)
"What exactly can we help you with?" Aunt Peggy asks flatly, her arms crossed.
Everyone turns to Lottie and Bertram, who have apparently been elected spokespeople by virtue of their O'Sialia blood. The siblings exchange a silent but frantic conversation before Lottie concedes defeat. "We were here for proof that you're not, um…." She makes a helpless little gesture.
"That you're safe," Bertram finishes. He glances over at where the Voice of the Night has wrapped himself in darkness. "Which you are."
Lottie takes over. "But just in case you ever need to leave the protection spell, we were going to have the witches make you all amulets." Technically true, though the original plan had involved making them from cross-sections of the not-Beast's antlers once they'd bound him to sleep, because they were meant to protect from him. Maybe they can find a substitute that will have a similar effect?
"Really?" The gloom that's fallen over the chamber lightens appreciably, especially in the corner where the Beast-that-isn't lurks. Glancing over, Lottie can just barely make out his silhouette. "You three can make portable protection spells?" And, much to Lottie's surprise, there's palpable hope in the creature's voice.
"Yes, Horned Lord," Toadstool confirms, "and gladly."
The sunlight returns; the shadows in the corner disperse entirely, leaving behind a shape that's almost human, save for his eyes and antlers.
Beatrice remains suspicious. "And that was the plan all along, huh? Amulets to keep us safe against people trying to hurt us for being too close to him?"
Toadstool's apprentice blushes red as a berry. "Well," he mumbles, then falls silent.
"We could have Whispers take a look at them, make sure they're real," suggests Uncle Patrick.
"We don't even know if she's coming, though," Aunt Peggy points out.
"Is this Whispers one of your servitors, Horned Lord?"
"No, she's just a friend." The Pilgrim scowls. "I don't have servitors."
"You have the black turtles," Beatrice reminds him.
"Oh, right. Other than them, I mean."
"So the Beast-cult is loyal to your predecessor, then?" Lottie asks, relieved. That's one less thing to worry about.
The Pilgrim's head whips around at inhuman speed. He gawps at her, momentarily speechless with horror, before whirling towards her cousin. "There's a Beast-cult?"
Beatrice shrugs, nonchalant, but there's a faint dusting of pink on her cheeks. "Nothing's ever been proven other than that some witches made deals with him. Nobody's actually found concrete evidence of a full-blown cult, so they probably don't exist."
Aunt Peggy cuts in before they can get too off-track. "My point is that after Beatrice was nearly attacked by an angry mob, we'd prefer independent verification of any enchanted items you'd like to give us."
"Wirt could go to Whispers," Uncle Patrick suggests. "How quickly can you get there and back?"
"And leave you alone?"
"You've spent the last week singing that protection spell," Beatrice reminds him. "It's got to be pretty powerful by now."
"Assuming that it actually works," the not-Beast mumbles, shoulders hunching.
The outsiders stare at him, wondering if he's serious.
"…It works," Toadstool assures him after a long moment's silence. "We could feel the difference the moment we stepped inside."
"Well, that's easy enough to test," notes Beatrice. She bundles up, coat and boots. "Try not to traumatize each other too badly while I'm gone." Mittens, hat, scarf, and she's gone.
The silence weighs down on them, heavy as a wet cloak. The Pilgrim watches them with unblinking eyes, they stare nervously at him, and their hosts are left to awkwardly offer belated hospitality in the form of tea and other hot drinks. The visitors accept, not knowing what else to do. So does the Pilgrim, which is a surprise.
Hattie makes an awkward comment about the weather. Much to Lottie's (and Hattie's) surprise, the Tree-maker responds with an equally coltish agreement before asking if anyone thought there'd be more snowfall before the end of the week. Then, somehow—Lottie genuinely has no idea how—half of the table is holding the most uncomfortable, stilted conversation she's heard in her life. About the weather. Though she can't be too disgruntled, as she's part of that conversation in an effort to stave off a silence that might be even worse.
Then the Beast—the Death of Hope, Harbinger of Lamentation, the Town-slayer, etc., etc.—is taking her teacup away to refill it.
Lottie begins to wonder if this is just a very strange dream.
The Feared One, the Shadow-cloaked Lord, the Doom Singer (and so on and so forth) hands her teacup back. It's full of hot water; she puts in leaves to steep it.
Thankfully for Lottie's sanity (because this is by far the most surreal moment of her life), Beatrice chooses that moment to return. "Yeah, Wirt, you don't need to worry about whether or not that protection spell works. I'm pretty sure that it's physically impossible to hurt anyone here."
"Are you completely—"
Beatrice sighs, then—oh stars—aims a punch for the Beast's sternum. Lottie's heart nearly gives out.
The deadliest, most dangerous, most powerful creature in the Unknown blinks owlishly. "Oh. That didn't hurt at all."
Lottie makes incoherent spluttering noises. She's not the only one.
"Patrick, Beatrice, Wirt, let's go discuss this in private." Peggy leads them to the rest of the house, where they'll doubtless confer with Lottie's other cousins (at least the ones old enough to meaningfully contribute) before making their decision.
The moment they're out of sight, Hattie squeaks, "Did you see that?"
"I saw it." Bertram's voice is distinctly higher-pitched than usual.
"Speaking of seeing things," butts in Bittersweet, whose tears have finally dried, "none of them are under his control, and…." She shakes her head in amazement. "We were all wrong about him. He might be the Beast's heir, but there's no more evil in him than there is in any of us." The smile that brightens her face is incandescent. "I have never been happier to be wrong."
This is what they do:
The three witches manage to, between them, whip up a sample amulet in just a few hours. Wirt the Pilgrim takes it, wraps it around his antler, and runs off in the shape of a black stag.
("He can shapeshift?" Beatrice squawks. "Since when has Wirt been able to shapeshift?"
The answer, she'll learn when he returns, is about two, two and a half months. He just hadn't told them because they make enough deer jokes already and he really does not want to give them more ammunition.
Beatrice will retaliate with even more deer jokes.)
The party from Kenningdole spends the night at the O'Sialia millhouse, listening to stories about Wirt until it's time for bed. They learn what really happened the night he changed a man to edelwood. Lottie's not entirely certain if she believes the tale, but… it does fit with what she's seen of him.
Come morning, Lottie, Bertram, and Hattie set out for their home, leaving the witches behind to create more amulets. It will take them two days to craft enough charms for the entire family, by which time Wirt will have returned with confirmation from Whispers that the spells do what they're supposed to do. Then the witches will check in at Kenningdole before dispersing to their own homes with one hell of a story.
And when Lottie and Bertram's parents and other siblings ask them what happened, if their kin are safe, they won't hesitate to answer that the millhouse O'Sialias are very safe indeed.