Chapter Text
Wirt was dead.
After everything– everything– Beatrice had put him and Greg through, after she fought so hard to make up for what she had planned to do, when he was so close to going home with his brother, he was dead.
She knew it wasn't logical to blame herself, but that wasn't going to stop her from blaming herself anyway.
The Woodsman hadn't blown out the Beast's soul. That angry, grieving father in him reared its head and decided simple death wasn't fair. No, not when he would live in agony for the rest of his life. Beatrice understood why he instead chose torture or the closest thing to it for something like The Beast. The Woodsman smothered the flame, kept it small and flickering. The trees shook violently, snow picked up from the ground and hung, suspended in the air as the flame-soul choked. The Beast wasn't there on his knees like she sensed the old man wanted, but the forest screamed its agony all the same.
He kept the Lantern lit no more than a cool red tealight, snug between his knees as he held Beatrice secure in one hand and golden scissors in the other. Neither of them knew where he should cut or if it mattered at all. Still, she held a shaking wing out, steadied by axe-worn fingers, as frigid metal was aligned with the joint of where her elbow should have been.
She remembered when her little sister, Abigail, had fallen from a tree. She had screeched in a way that sent Beatrice running to her because she knew it wasn't just the cry of an over-dramatic five-year-old. She hadn't vomited when she saw the bone sticking from the girl's forearm, but the way her stomach rolled made her wish she had. Abby was alright for the most part in the end, though that arm never worked quite right again and ached in the winter. (She hadn't been able to fly when they were cursed, the left wing crooked and weak. It was only luck that their father was still big enough to carry her off the ground away from predators.)
'Was this what little Abby had felt?' she thought, as scissors meant for cutting thread and fabric tore through her flesh, 'This blinding, all-encompassing pain?' She hoped so because then, at least one of her younger siblings would be familiar with what would have to be done.
Beatrice heard the Woodsman's frantic apologies, but they didn't quite register. She barely even noticed the severed wing fall to the snow until he had started on the second one. Did she scream? Was she able to scream? Or had the pain left her limp in the rough palm holding her? 'A bird in the hand…' came to her deliriously, and then she started to change. She was laid on the ground where the Woodsman had previously been sitting, free of snow, as he stepped back and gave her privacy. She felt like pulled taffy, a comparison she's sure Greg would adore.
When the ringing in her ears quieted, and her body finally settled, she realized how cold she was . And how exhausted; too exhausted to jump as the Woodsman carefully draped his heavy woolen coat over her. Oh, right. She had almost forgotten the way her new bluebird form had to struggle from the pile of her dress left behind. She was naked. And in the snow. Slowly trembling, Beatrice lifted herself up, sliding her arms into the oversized but so, so warm coat, wrapping it tightly around herself. Her red curls partially obscured her vision, and she had to squeeze her eyes shut for a moment when she brushed them away, vertigo creeping up on her.
"Are you one of Finny's girls?" The sudden question startled her, the human voice sounding off after so long with a bird's hearing. She blinked her eyes open again, squinting up at the Woodsman and his offered hand.
"Finny?" She asked, her mouth feeling clumsy.
"Sean Finnegan, are you one of his brood?" He still held down a hand, giving her time to orient herself. It took her a moment for her depth perception to make sense again, but once she found his grip, he hauled her to unsteady feet.
"Oh, um, yeah. I'm the fourth oldest. You know my father?" She swayed, and the Woodsman kept a firm hold of her hand, the other arm ready to catch her if she fell. He let out a low chuckle, something she hadn't been sure he was capable of.
"Ah, Finny and I are old, old friends. I've known him since he was just a wee thing toddling after me to see the toy boat my mother made." Nostalgia flickered over his face, and he leaned back to inspect her. "Fourth, you said? Why, I think I held you as a baby! A right temper on you, screamed at anything that didn't read your little mind." She surely would have blushed if her body had the warmth to spare. Anyone in her family old enough to remember was always happy to go on about the 'wee monster' Beatrice had been as a small child, too young to make the active choice to be a menace.
"I didn't bite you, did I?" She did that a lot, too, even before having teeth. Never grew out of that, really. The Woodsman seemed to deflate, eyes going unfocused and misty.
"No, no, not me. You did bite Anna, though." He tentatively released her hand, bending down to retrieve the Lantern once he was sure she could hold herself up. Beatrice floundered for a way to respond, but luckily she didn't have to.
There was a pop of pressure releasing, pressure she hadn't felt building. She wasn't sure how, but she knew down to her newly thickened bones that someone had just found their way home. Beatrice couldn't suppress her spreading grin as she looked to where the two brothers had disappeared into the trees and back up at the Woodsman.
"They made it!" Her smile faltered at the far-off expression on the man's face, a reminder that not everyone was getting a happy ending.
"It would seem so."
And then the Lantern's dim glow roared, blue-hot flames licking at the glass window before snuffing out just as suddenly, not even smoke left behind. Beatrice felt a cold dread settle behind her eyes, in the back of her throat. The still-floating snow fell, and the trees stopped rattling as if flash-frozen. The Lantern was out, but something was wrong . All remaining leaves holding stubbornly to their branches dropped at once, fluttering down around them. Something was wrong. The Woodsman reached out to stop her, but fingers only grazed his own coat as Beatrice ran, stumbling, to follow Wirt's footprints, who should be safe. Should be home. But something. Was. Wrong.
When she was eight, Beatrice had gotten into an argument with her oldest brother, Jacob. She couldn't remember how it started, only that she had started it.
"Blood doesn't have a smell, dummy." She'd said with all the smug confidence of a child's limited life experience. Jacob was fifteen at the time and regularly helped their father with gutting and skinning the deer they had hunted in preparation for winter. That didn't matter to Beatrice then; her nastiest run-in with blood had been when she'd accidentally sliced her finger while "helping" her mother cook.
"It does when there's a whole lot of it." Jacob replied with an exasperated sigh only younger siblings could elicit, when one accepts the circling back-and-forth that will never break through a little kid's mindset. Wirt had perfected that sigh.
(Jacob ended the heated argument by dragging Beatrice far out from the mill where the deer were slaughtered. He was grounded for two months after carrying her back, snotty face hidden in his shoulder and wracked with screeching, fearful sobs. She couldn't eat deer after that, and Jacob had been hunting rabbits for her winter meals ever since.)
The smell of iron clogged her throat, and she had to catch herself against a tree. That dumb red hat lay in front of her, discarded. She was frozen, unable to take the few steps forward that would reveal the source of that metallic tang she could taste on her tongue.
Then she heard the weak, gurgling choke, and her body lurched forward.
She was kneeling beside Wirt in an instant, knees falling hard on the blood-stained snow around him. She didn't know what to do. She didn't know what to do. Her hands hovered over his abdomen, blood bubbling from she didn't know where , the sound of it horrifically gentle.
"Oh God, what do I do? I-I don't— what do I do?" There was so much blood, and Wirt was so still until his fingers twitched, a strangled whimper working its way around all the red in his throat. Her hands moved of their own accord to either side of his face, and she tried to meet his lolling eyes.
"Hey, hey, I'm here! I'm here, Wirt, just look at me, okay? Stay with me, it's alright, you're gonna be okay, I promise! Just–just—" She glanced back up, frantically searching for any sign of Greg. She spotted his small footsteps, ending suddenly in a spot that still smelled of ozone. He was home without his brother.
Her attention was pulled back as Wirt attempted to suck in a gasp, only managing to fill his lungs with more blood. Beatrice forced herself not to flinch at the warm wet splattering against her face as her friend choked out wracking coughs. His eyes still hadn't focused on her yet. Did he even know she was there? Did he know he wasn't dying alone?
That truth crashed into her like a train. There was nothing she could do to keep Wirt alive. He was going to die right in front of her. There was nothing she could do. He was bleeding out, lying in the snow and drowning in his own blood , and all she could do was watch and wait for it to be over and—
There was a tug on the sleeve of her borrowed coat, weak but there. The fabric was darkened where his fingers had slipped, but he managed to grip the fabric enough to pull at it again.
No, there was something she could do. Not to save his life, but it was something.
As gently as she could, Beatrice slid an arm underneath Wirt's shoulders, muttering the same apologies the Woodsman had while snipping her wings as the movement forced pained, whining groans from him. He was rather light, and she made quick work of orienting them both so Wirt was resting against her front, his head tilted back on her shoulder.
With shaking fingers, she raked through his hair, her other arm wrapping around his body to hold him tight. He still held fast to the coat sleeve. Irregular puffs of wet air brushed along her jaw, and with his face pressing into her neck, she could hear a quiet whimper with each exhale. It took everything in her to stifle the sob building in her throat. She swallowed it down once, twice, rocking the two of them as softly as she could.
"Hey, I've got you, okay?" There was nothing she could do about the tears dripping into her voice, but that didn't really matter. "I'm right here, Wirt. Your brother is home, alright? You did a good job; you got him home, he's safe. It's okay, I'm–it's okay, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, I promise ." She spoke into his hair, eyes squeezing shut when his breath stuttered. Whatever he was trying to say was lost to another gasping coughing fit that sent his whole body rattling. The blood trailed along his jaw to behind his ear. Beatrice could feel it trickling down her bare chest. Still, she knew what he was attempting to ask. To make sure of.
"Greg is home , Wirt. He's safe. You got him home safe. You can–y-you don't have to—" the dam broke, her voice going high as she stuttered around sobs. "You did–you did a good job, alright? It's–it's okay to stop now. I'm here with–with you, I've got you, I promise. You ca–you can stop now. I've got you, Wirt. I've got you."
The Woodsman burst wildly from the treeline; he must have followed the sound of her screaming. It was enough to pull some of her attention away from the unbreathing dead weight against her chest. She lifted her face where it had been pressed into her friend's hair, and the sight of the old man standing stock still in shock filled her with a sudden rage.
"Why couldn't you have just blown out the Lantern?!" The screeching of her voice tore at her already raw throat, though not enough for her to stop. "Why didn't you just end it?! You could have killed it! Why didn't you just kill it?! " She wrapped her arms tighter around Wirt, tight enough she knows it would have been uncomfortable if he was–if he was—
The Woodsman dropped his axe and the empty Lantern, taking a step forward.
"I didn't think–the Beast has never— "
"You didn't think it would kill him? You didn't think it would go after the person who figured out its weakness? You didn't think the Beast would want revenge?!" She hadn't thought that either, at the time, but she hadn't been the one with the Beast's soul in her hands. She hadn't been the one Wirt handed the Lantern to.
"The Beast has always been a manipulator. A trickster! Not–not this!" He gestured weakly forward, despair that Beatrice didn't care about in his voice. "Never this brutality! Are you certain it was the Beast that did this?" He stumbled forward again, eyes scanning the dark woods around them for some unseen predator.
"Am I certain?" Were it not for her friend's dead body weighing her down, Beatrice would have attacked the man. "He has wood and oil under his nails, so yes, I'm certain." She wondered faintly if the Beast had attacked before or after Greg left the Unknown; had Wirt fought back for his own life or his little brothers? There was no real way for her to tell; the desperation spoken clear by the ruined state of his nails and fingertips could have been for either.
It wasn't until the Woodsman was close enough to disturb red-soaked snow did a surge of animalistic protectiveness wash over her, and she jerked back, Wirt still secure in her arms.
"No, don't touch him!" She felt her lips pull back in a snarl, but the Woodsman heeded her no mind. He knelt slowly into the snow beside them, his eyes assessing the bloody state Wirt was in. Then he leaned forward, hand outstretched, and it was pure instinct that made Beatrice's hand flash out like a viper to strike the man across the face.
" I said don't touch him!" The slap clearly hadn't caused any pain, the Woodsman looking more sad than hurt.
The wet, red mark her palm left behind on his cheek sent her spiraling again.
"You–you can't take him away! He needs me here! I have to be here with him, I promised! He–he's scared, so I have to–I have to stay with him because he's scared . I'm good at making people less–less scared, okay? My father said so, he said I always make my siblings feel safe when they're scared so I can't leave him!" She had devolved to hysteric ramblings, trembling fingers brushing Wirt's hair from unblinking, unseeing eyes.
She hadn't noticed the Woodsman standing back up to move behind her until he took her upper arms in a firm grip and pulled her back, the limp body of her friend falling back to the ground without her supporting him. The old man paid no mind to her screaming and thrashing, his hold merely adjusting to haul her to her feet. She wasn't sure if actual words were coming out of her mouth or if it was just feral shrieking.
He had turned Beatrice around at some point, giving her full range to beat against his chest, drag her nails over his face. Beatrice knew he was letting her rage at him, letting her tire herself out. After a few moments, he shook her hard enough for her neck to ache. It left her stunned, halting her attack.
"Get a hold of yourself, girl!" The Woodsman shouted, his warm breath reminding her how cold she was. How cold Wirt was. Her arms fell to her sides, and she was released once the man was sure she wouldn't go at him again. She felt numb all at once; physically, emotionally, mentally numb. Burly fingers fumbled to button up the coat hanging off her, the collar pulled up around her neck. He took off his own tall boots, guiding her pale, frozen feet inside and pulling their straps as tight as they could go. Then he took her hand, curling her fingers around the golden scissors he pressed into her palm.
"What are you doing?" She asked, her voice shredded. His hands took her face, guiding her eyes to his own.
"You need to get back to your family, get them safe and warm and human again." He spoke gently, nothing like the shout before. Beatrice weakly shook her head.
"I can't leave him. I promised." It was directed more to herself than anything else.
"You can't stay here, Beatrice. You'll freeze to death, and then scavengers will have their fill of the both of you."
"Scavengers." She echoed. Animals that ate dead things. Her friend was a dead thing.
"Listen to me now; I'm not leaving him out here, understand? There's an abandoned storehouse not a mile from here. I'll take the boy there, and nothing will get to him. You go to your family, make sure they're alright. In a week, mid-day, I'll meet you back here so we can bury him properly. Do you hear me?" She nodded dumbly. "There's a good girl." The Woodsman patted her cheek and moved away.
Beatrice watched him retrieve the Lantern and axe, hanging both from his belt. He knelt back down beside Wirt and carefully scooped him up; one arm under his shoulders and the other under his knees. Her chest ached when the old man turned around, her eyes fixed on the way her friend's head hung back.
"Wait." She called, and the Woodsman looked as if he was preparing for her to lose it again. She couldn't feel enough for that. She approached, the oversized boots making her steps awkward and heavy. She put a hand to the back of Wirt's head, settling it snugly against the Woodsman's shoulder. She closed his eyes as she fixed his messy hair one last time. With that, she turned and started marching away.
Beatrice made her way back to the small clearing, where her wings still lay discarded in the snow. She had thought they would turn to dust or smoke or something, but evidently not. Without a thought, she gathered them up and shoved them into one of the coat's large pockets. Scissors still grasped tightly in her hand, she headed home.
Her family's joy at seeing her human again was quickly replaced by concern and horror at the blood painting her. Beatrice simply assured them it wasn't her own, then she cradled little Abby in her palm and started towards their Mill-house, the others having no choice but to follow. They were quiet as the collapsed mill came into view. Quiet as Beatrice started a fire going. Quiet as she went through the house, gathering blankets and clothes.
Her parents were first to have their wings cut away, so they would be there to comfort the others. After they were dressed, her father requested the scissors.
"Let me do it for your siblings. You're tired." He said softly, though his hand faltered over her shoulder, the wool dark and sticky.
"No, I'm doing it." She beckoned for little Maeve, her wings only streaked with blue; she's only four, and Beatrice wanted to take care of the younger children first. Her father sighed.
"Beatrice—"
"I said I'm doing it!" She snapped. His concern burned into the back of her head before he heaved another sigh and settled in front of her, holding Maeve in his hands. Her feathers shook, and he brushed his thumb over her head, down to her beak and back again, soothing. Just like he would do when any of them were scared, roughened fingers trailing from hairline to nose tip.
"Alright." Was all he said, and he steadied her baby sister's wing.
Warmth had finally settled into the wood floors by the time her family was human again. Her father was putting the little ones to bed, her older siblings cleaning what they could. Beatrice sat in front of the fire, still wrapped in the Woodsman's coat. Her eyes fixed on the flames as her mother sat beside her. A plump hand tucked unruly curls behind her ear.
"What happened, sweetheart?" It wasn't a question, not really. The moment Beatrice turned her head to meet her mother's eyes, she felt her bottom lip start to wobble.
"My friend is dead, Momma." Her voice came out small and choked; Beatrice felt like a scared little girl who just wanted her mother. She crumpled then, quickly caught in a tight embrace. With kisses and words of comfort pressed into her hair, Beatrice let herself fall apart.
———
Beatrice had often thought about what it would be like, the days after her family's curse was lifted. She imagined a large meal, no longer having to eat seeds and bugs. She imagined the little ones roughhousing without worrying about brittle, hollow bones snapping. Mostly, she imagined absolution.
Instead, the following week was the most painful of her life. Everyone tiptoed around her and her all-encompassing grief when they weren't picking up her pieces in careful hands. It was so frustrating, unable to so much as comb her hair. She wanted to take care of herself, hated every moment her father carried her to bed or her older sister Deirdre had to help her get dressed. She couldn't even bathe herself, not when it seemed that every time her mother ran the warm sponge over her skin, it pulled up more flecks of dried blood.
Jacob had started sleeping in her bed, curled around her, waiting for the nightmares to send her screaming and flailing. Sometimes she dreamt that she was back in those woods; Wirt leaned against her, but her mouth wouldn't open; her lips sewn shut as he begged for her to say something around the blood in his mouth. Other times she dreamt Greg was bleeding out next to his brother, and she just couldn't hold both of them as they died.
She'd told Jacob what had happened one night when she was afraid to fall asleep, her ear pressed to her brother's chest and listening to his heartbeat. Told him how the Beast had been killed, but not before getting its revenge on the boy who'd outsmarted it. She told him how Wirt was still alive when she'd found him, how he'd died in her arms. She didn't cry as she spoke, didn't think she could. Jacob did, though. He tried to hide it, but she could feel the way his lungs stuttered.
Then the week had passed, and Beatrice stood at the front door, the Woodsman's cleaned coat folded over her arm. Her hand gripped the handle, her mind telling it to turn. Without a word, her second older brother, Liam, covered her hand in his and turned it for her. She took a steadying breath against the morning winter sun and trudged her way through the settled snow.
The clearing didn't look too different in the day except that the roots that had once wrapped around Greg were shriveled and rotten, starved. She lingered there longer than necessary, observing the mushrooms feeding on the Edelwood, the insects making it their home. Eventually, she forced her feet to follow the path she had run frantically a week ago. Her breath stopped tight in her throat as her eyes caught the red hat, damp and half-buried in snow. A mouse startled from the nest it had begun building inside as she picked the hat up.
She reasoned that the blood wouldn't be there, the mess compacted into the cold dirt and covered. As the second clearing came into view, Beatrice stumbled to a stop. She was right; there was no sign of blood. However, deep red ivy spread wildly where her friend had died, white wood anemones peeking throughout.
Her eyes never left the mess of flowers and ivy as she made her way towards it, brushing snow away with her foot to sit down. She kept the red hat in her lap, brushing shuddering fingers over the leaves and petals. She thought about picking some to take with her wherever the Woodsman had prepared a grave, but it felt wrong. So she kept a gentle touch, allowing the crawling beetles hiding within the foliage to climb onto her hand. Every so often, she glanced up to the treeline to catch any sight of the old man.
Beatrice waited until nightfall, but the Woodsman never arrived.