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A sea of white crocuses greet Wirt, spreading far to the horizon. Flowers rest under his weight and crumble beneath wary fingers. He sits up, rubs his eyes, and is keenly aware that he is no longer in a car bashed over a bridge by a joyriding teen. There is blood under his fingernails and the smell of ash. The light is blinding and unpleasant, but is interrupted by a familiar and encroaching shadow, whose antlers tear the sky like reverse lightning. Were they always that large?
“Those with the knowledge of death are worthless for kindling.” That voice is richer than he remembers. He likens it to food he dismissed as a child, only to later learn its complexities.
Wirt laughs, to measure the Beast’s responses just as he is similarly measured. A minor shift in his posture is enough to feel the weight of five concealed knives, none of which have been confiscated through the crossing. Oh, thank goodness. Old rules still applied. Rock fact.
“So you’re saying, that since I know I’m dead, I can’t be re-dead.”
Their distance closes. The Beast towers over him. Wirt flashes a joyless smile.
“I can’t have you sharing this knowledge.”
A cue to run; Wirt takes it. Branches grow to trip and grasp but he is faster than he once was; faster and stronger and ten times as desperate. He sprints as fast as his legs can carry and when legs aren’t enough he pulls out a knife strapped under his coat and cuts like an animal through the trappings, quick and efficient and aware that he cannot win in the Beast’s territory. Vines hold his wriggling limbs after some struggle, still and close to the ground. The trees wind above him intricately, like black lace weaving along the sky until all light is finally choked out.
He’d cut down all the shadows, he told Greg while the child cried hideous tears. He’d cut down all the trees and become larger than all the monsters and keep them all away. He’ll never leave him helpless again.
Fastest in track; one freestyle martial arts trophy; thirty self defense books. How to start a fire. How to eat weeds. How to pretend you’re made of steel when you’re really made of paper. How to make do with just paper. How to make do with nothing.
The branches grow large, round fruit that glow, lantern-like. Walls and rooms construct and obscure themselves, winding methodically and expertly to create a beautiful and enormous cage.
Should he be flattered?
“Nine years rest heavy on you,” says the monster with an inflection of something Wirt cannot decipher.
Tendrils recede from raw wrists. Wirt stands, not quite as small as before but very small still. The Beast rests weighty palms over his shoulders. His knees weaken at the touch, though not in the pleasant way.
“Nice. How many people did you have to eat to pull off these fireworks?”
A hand travels toward his cheek. Wirt shuts his eyes.
“One. Just you.”
Without ceremony, his captor grasps a free wrist and rips at the skin like packaging, letting forth not blood, but light. Wirt howls an ugly noise and nearly falls from his own weight but lands straight into the Beast’s welcoming arms.
They remain like odd statues indeterminately, the glamour only ruined by Wirt’s ragged panting that calms to a sob asphyxiated before leaving the cocoon. The Beast plays with his hair, as though struck with enough vanity to admire the new container of his lantern.
A much more efficient container. A container that will never burn out, armed with the knowledge of death.
Wirt offers a bloodless curl of the mouth.
“I’m impressed.”