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Chapter Text

Winter in the Unknown can last for as long as the witches permit it. 

Spring in the Unknown can last for as long as the Queen permits it.

Summer in the Unknown can last for as long as the Harvest King permits it. 

Autumn in the Unknown can last for as long as the Beast permits it. 

Wirt returns home and shakes the snow out of his fur before entering and tracking it inside. It's strange, he's said to the Beast, sometimes it feels like fur, sometimes the coverage feels like leaves. The Beast tells him he's reading too much into it and should finally be happy they needn't waste so much of their time keeping him warm. Now, it is only Lorna who lights the hearth in the House with the Broken Mill. She feels it is necessary for her health. Only someone who’s never known health can truly understand the necessity of keeping it once she finally has it in her grasp. 

Lorna is sitting next to the fireplace, her unwavering eyes trained on the Lantern. The flame dances and stops and dances and stops and dances and stops and stops and stops. It is lit. It will forever be lit, if any of them have anything to say about it, but the way it's stagnated worries Lorna. Wirt doesn't quite know what to make of it. He doesn't even try. He feels fine. So it's got to be the Beast, himself, who's going through some things. Things, Wirt knows, the Beast would tell him are none of his business. Wirt has learned obedience and when to test the elder eldritch creature, thanks so very much.

''Do you think they'll ever wed?'' Lorna asks Wirt. She holds the lantern close to her chest to feel warm. It's the deepest winter. Something about this winter feels stranger than all the other's. Wirt doesn't know how to articulate it, but he knows he is not the only one who feels it. Lorna is restless, as well.

''Who?'' Wirt asks. He is jumping from one foot to the next so the snow from his antlers falls down. Some twigs fall off, too, and Wirt knows for a fact that it's because birds have started circling him and trying to build nests onto him. The damned fiends. Beatrice has cursed him so they follow him around as an inconvenience. She's a bit of a vengeful witch, if Wirt dares say so. She's yet to bless anyone.

Lorna scoffs at him. In these moments she does remind him an awful lot of the Beast. ''Turtle and Enoch, of course. Who else? Everyone is quick to marry so they may spend as much time together in the Unknown before they part, yet it is only the two of them who never think to do so. Who find comfort in their distance because it makes their reunion that much sweeter. Yet I won't stand for it, any longer. Enoch has been stringing Turtle along for far too long.''

''You're saying that Enoch should make an honest eldritch creature out of the Beast?'' Wirt's antlers, bark, are longer than they used to be. Another thing, perhaps, that he's gotten used to without noticing. He tilts his head to the side, a pale copy of when the Beast does it, but it's still him.

Lorna's eyes are not cursed, yet the mischief and wickedness in them is all the more obvious. ''I think we should do something about it.''

Wirt is afraid. He's an honest soul. There, Lorna's holding it. She should know! Why is she dragging him into nefarious things? ''Why are you dragging me into nefarious things?''

''Come on, poet! Write a chanson of romance that cannot be overlooked. Write something and I will compose it and we will set it into motion. This winter has stagnated . Let it shift into something new!''

A winter that shows no signs of abating into spring is dangerous. It shows a certain level of apathy and boredom that can't suit the Unknown. And it doesn't. And it won't, if Lorna has anything to say about it. Her Turtle's flame will dance !

The Beast doesn't see them often. Wirt sees more of Beatrice of all people than he does of the Beast. The winter wind is the same every day. It's never happened before to have it be the same every day. It's never happened that the Unknown is the same every day. It's despairing, it's gloomy, it's the Death of Hope's design, of course, but there's a slight change to the designs every day. It makes winter interesting and dangerous. If the residents of the Unknown get used to something, they will stop fearing it.

Wirt's learned this. They've gotten used to him and stopped fearing him. They never quite get used to the Beast and continue to fear him until their dying breaths.

However, at times, when the Beast does cross paths with Wirt and Lorna and the Lantern, he greets them amicably and says that he hopes they are getting on well with one another. They don't talk as much as Wirt is used to. Lorna, herself, is worried more and more. She says that Turtle loves to talk. Wirt wonders if they're talking about the same individual. Lorna scoffs and raises the Lantern. The flame is standing tall, proud, but it's not flickering. Sometimes, even, it feels like the Beast is avoiding them.

It feels a bit reminiscent of that scene where Bambi's dad just leaves him when Bambi can take care of himself. Wirt's had to explain Bambi to Lorna for her to get the reference. But she thinks it makes enough sense. However, she still thinks their Beast needs something to shake things up. This isn't normal.

''Maybe he's gone through a creative burn out?'' Even the Beast, an artist like him, has to have off days when he can't create? They've got more than enough trees now. Wirt's been getting more into it. He actually finds the notion of meeting new people and seeing them until the end refreshing. Or so Lorna reads from the Lantern. She claims Wirt is never more at ease than when he feeds the Lantern.

But the matter of fact is that the winter of the Unknown has stagnated. It's never happened before.

Lorna believes Enoch's to blame for all of this. She demands Wirt accompany her to Potsfield immediately. When a woman who has her hands on your soul tells you to do something, well, unfortunately, you don't really have much of a say in the matter.

''What are your intentions with, Turtle?'' Lorna asks. She looks down at the cat, curls her hands at her chest, and huffs some stray hairs which poke her in the eye.

Enoch's ear twitches. He licks his paws and bathes himself. ''What are your intentions with me ? This can be considered cat-napping, you know?''

Wirt doesn't want to be charged with cat-napping! He's a model citizen. He's done nothing wrong. His criminal record (upkept by the Potsfielders since his stint at the very beginning of his stay in the Unknown) will surely grow so tall by the end of this it will dwarf him. Wirt just hopes the Beast won't mind terribly. That this will be funny to him.

However, he finds nothing humorous when it comes to Enoch. Lives mean nothing to him. Children are tokens. Even Wirt's plight is unnecessarily dramatic for his sake. Lorna's romantic woes are a cause for chuckling and mockery. The only thing the Beast never laughs about is Enoch's wellbeing.

Cat-napping sounds like a dangerous activity with that in mind.

But Wirt's already scooping the cat in his arms and fleeing Potsfield. Lorna runs after them, kicking into a sprint, the Lantern casting them all in a ferocious glow. She laughs, giddy. Without the sickness and with the knowledge of the forest from her time as its cursed child, she can run with a similar assurance that Wirt can, who's been blessed with the map's contents inside his head.

Enoch meows. He digs his claws into Wirt for purchase, but he doesn't fight. To him this is a great adventure that he and the Beast will laugh about. Well, Enoch will laugh about it. He knows there is no harm here. These are the Beast's children and so they are his children, too.

Enoch curls around the fire in the House with the Broken Mill, and he dozes off in a small ball.

Lorna says that step one has been completed. She takes out a stack of papers. ''I've been planning this for a while, now.''

''I can see.'' Wirt's exhausted. His criminal record will surely reach the Queen of the Clouds by the end of this.

''What is the meaning of this?'' The Beast is horrified to see Enoch so far away from Potsfield. ''Harvest King, you never come to my territory.''

''I should think this is a great error on my part,'' the cat opens his eyes and stares at the Beast. ''You have come so often to Potsfield that you have finally learned all of my villager's names, yet I have not once visited your home.''

''It is not my home .'' The Beast warps the noun into something condescending.

Enoch looks at the Lantern. ''It is the home of the Lantern, the Lantern Bearer, The Beast Poet, and you. Is this not true?''

The Beast bristles. A sight so foreign to both Lorna and Wirt that they have to memorise it and sear such a sight in their minds forever.

''Explain your presence.''

''I have been cat-napped.'' Enoch says. ''There has been a grave misplacement of magistrates. The king has been harvested from the grounds and taken to a secondary location. Truly, a worrisome and unfortunate series of events have befallen me.'' 

The Beast is sputtering now. He does not know whether to punish Lorna or Wirt or to comfort Enoch as best as he can. This is foreign ground to him.

''Again, however, I admit this is a grave error on my part.'' Enoch purrs as he makes his way towards the Beast and begins climbing from his arm to his shoulder, where he whispers. ''I have failed to see how long time has passed. I deeply apologise. If it weren't for your dear Feast Friend and Poet I would not have noticed for who knows how many winters more.''

''What do you mean?'' The Beast is still. This is not only foreign ground, but this is verging on insult.

''The Winter, dearest friend, it is the same. Every day is the same.''

''It is winter.'' The Beast says. ‘’It is despair. What else is there to it?’’

''You are uninspired .'' Enoch accuses.

The Beast's guard is up and he is shaking the cat off of him. ''I did not think of you as someone who deals out cruelty in foreign lands. Remember some manners, some courtesy.''

''It is my fault, they claim.''

''Preposterous!'' The Beast has never before heard anything so rude. The Harvest King may take offence. His villagers outnumber the Beast, but the elements will always freeze the bones even through their pumpkin suits. Yet any conflict should prove dangerous between the Harvest King and the Death of Hope. ''You are not to blame for anything. I am sated, is all. I do not need to craft new winter symphonies. I have always done so out of necessity, in order to confound, to despair, to inflict the worst of the worst upon the wriggling lost souls. The youth has taken over. I find myself walking and seeing more trees engraved with poems than I do of faces frozen in awe of song.’’

Enoch’s tail swishes. ''No, no,'' he purrs, ''it is wholly my fault for not seeing your struggle earlier my friend.''

The Beast cannot begin to articulate how embarrassing this is for him. All manner of words, written, unwritten, sung, unsung, are failing him. 

Lorna and Wirt have left them, sprinting out of the home to hide in some bushes as if it will camouflage their eavesdropping.

''Give me time to properly court you, Hope Eater.’’ 

Said Hope Eater is burying his head in his claws. 

Enoch is delighted by this reaction. If anything, he’s never felt the Beast become so unbearably hot to the touch than he has in the moment. Will the Beast thaw the winter frost just by his own embarrassment? 

‘’Though, I hope you will not leave unsatisfied. I am awfully fond of autumn weddings. Are you partial to them?’’

A nod. ‘’That sounds adequate.’’

‘’Excellent! We will keep in touch.’’ Enoch asks Wirt to take him back to Potsfield, sussing him out from the bushes and telling both Lorna and him that their cover has been blown. ‘’Your legs are longer and I will not prosecute you if you follow my commands.’’

‘’P-prosecute?’’

‘’Illegal misplacement of magistrates is a crime punishable by much worse than mere hours of manual labour.’’ Enoch doesn’t grin, he can’t - but Wirt feels it in his bones nevertheless. He scoops up the cat. 

 ‘’I want it for the record that it was Lorna who put me up to this. She threatened my soul.’’

‘’I did no such thing!’’

‘’It was very much implied!’’

‘’Implications can’t stand up in court.’’

‘’They can if they’re humorous enough.’’ Enoch pips up. ‘’Death of Hope, you have interesting children!’’

The Beast vows to murder both Wirt and Lorna. Wirt knows that he's tied to the lantern and can't effectively get murdered, as they've tried this in the first week and come out worse for wear, but he fears slightly for Lorna. Lorna, however, winks at the Beast. The Beast growls, but it's more out of exasperation than it is malice. Somehow Enoch’s purring is louder than the Beast’s growls. 

‘’Magistrate,’’ Lorna draws Enoch’s attention, her smile ferocious, hungry: ''If you try something, I’ll devour you. I have always wanted to devour a god of this world.'' 

The Beast very gently tries to pull Lorna away from Enoch, who's looking at Lorna with his cat eyes. He purrs the more they threaten them, finding this all no cause for concern. ''And you, poet?''

''I'll – um – '' Wirt looks at Lorna, who's expectantly waiting for him to come to her aid, ''I'll feed you to a dog.''

Enoch chuckles. The sound travels from the small cat into the very core of Wirt and Lorna. It is the vibration of the sound that fills them with dread. This is not someone they can just threaten with the mundane. This is the Magistrate of Potsfield, the Harvest King. He is the Beast's chosen companion. He is the very soil of the Unknown, rich with life and death both. 

''We don't serve witches.'' The Tavern Keeper says. ''They bring bad luck, don't you know?''

''Witches bring good luck.'' Beatrice scoffs. She has her axe slung over her shoulder as she looks at the people avoiding her gaze. ''But I agree, finally, about the bluebirds.''

Recognition dawns in the Tavern Keeper's eyes. ''Still won't serve a witch, but it's good to see you walking about on two whole legs.''

''I had legs, then, too, but they were rather itty-bitty.'' Beatrice is particular about being exact. Magic, she's thought, isn't meant to be exact. But a hunter needs to be precise and exact while hunting. She is the Hunter-Witch and thus must tread the line between the two carefully. ''Don't serve me inside. Come outside and just happen to bring a drink or two, then.'' Beatrice waves off and goes outside. She finds some splintered wood and fashions a chair out of it. The snow is thick outside. She is in winter clothes, but she knows spells to keep warm now. Let them see her capabilities.

The Tavern Keeper brings a drink or two and sits with the Hunter-Witch. They chat and they laugh. ''No hard feelings, I should hope.''

''Please, it was a lifetime ago.'' It was a couple of titles ago for Beatrice.

''The winter has stagnated.'' The Tavern Keeper whispers into her drink. She rubs her hands to stay warm in the frost. A part of her wants to lift her ban on the witches and the bluebirds if only to alleviate her cold, but she is stronger than that. This cold, for her, is temporary. ''Your dad is proud of you, even though he's told he shouldn't be. His little girl is a witch.''

''He's always wanted someone in the family to be a hunter. My brothers are lost causes. They'd accidentally fire off an arrow or set a trap on something that they shouldn't. I have learned caution and I hope they never need to.''

''Do you visit your home? Not the one we built for you in the community, but the one you had before.'' The Tavern Keeper is a gossip and she craves it very dearly. Beatrice is a gossip, too, these days, for she understands the importance of trading information and stories. There is magic in stories. And magic is her greatest passion now.

''I visit when invited. And I am invited quite often.''

Lorna lives in Beatrice's old home. Old old home. Because old home is just the home built by the Tavern Keeper and her friends. Beatrice's new home, or rather, her current home is with Whispers and the Apothecary witch. Until she grows into herself, the coven must be united. The maiden, the mother, and the crone. Whispers claims she's the mother. Both the apothecary witch and Beatrice scoff and tell her she only wishes, that she's as much of a crone as crones can get. They fight but they joke and they laugh at the end of this.

''I am a mother of creation.'' The apothecary witch has invented many, many more potions than either Whispers or Beatrice have. Mother means something different. It does not need to have a literal meaning.

''What is your little girlfriend even doing there?''

''She's happy.'' Beatrice has learned to accept a lot of things if it makes people happy. She's not as brash as she was anymore. It's a part of growing up, or growing into her role in the Unknown.

There is always a Tavern Keeper, too. And who knows how long this one will last. But if she's friendly with witches, she may last long enough to be remembered.

''And you? You happy, too, witchling?''

''Very much, yes.'' Beatrice knocks back her drink and laughs. A witch's laugh makes the frost ebb away. The Tavern Keeper thinks a witch like this, one who knows what being human is like, should definitely be welcomed in all places she used to be welcomed in.

''Bless my tavern, witch, and I'll be sure to keep the drinks coming.''

Beatrice looks at the Tavern. She raises her axe towards it, and just kind of waves it about: ''Oi, may nothing worse come for people who come inside the tavern than what they are owed for their actions outside of it.''

''That's not a blessing!''

''It's not a curse, either!'' Beatrice laughs again. The Tavern Keeper can't argue with that logic. They clink their glasses together and continue drinking, taking their business inside.

The winter turns cruel overnight. The Beast is inspired and suddenly thrust into a whole new world of possibilities. He finds this all strange and forward and tells Lorna that she should never meddle like this. Lorna gestures to the flame. It doesn't lie. The Beast continues to warn her against meddling. ''Even if you think it's for my own good.'' Lorna taps the Lantern gently. The Beast cannot argue with her. He sends such ferocious frost that kills all crops and makes the North Wind look like a child's plaything.

It is the worst winter of the Unknown's lifetime, some say. That means the spring and the summer will be stronger than ever. And an autumn full of bountiful harvest, another adds with a smile. 

A winter in the Unknown that is terrifying is followed by a spring in the Unknown that is kind. This is known. This is accepted. So there is no reason to worry about the cruelty of a passing winter. Especially not when spring is just around the corner. They must endure! 

''I found one who actually sings opera.'' Wirt says. Those are rare. A song here or there, a lullaby to soothe the shot nerves, a drunken barsong, but so rare to find someone who is classically trained.

The Beast immediately goes to where this one is. He always prefers the ones who know how to sing. They trade their prey if they have the time. Wirt wants the philosophers. The Beast can't stand them.

''Are you well, my sweetling?'' Whispers frets every time she sees Lorna. Lorna says that she's more than well. There's a healthy blush to her cheeks. Her hands are never cold to the touch. The lantern keeps her warm against any frost.

Whispers remembers speaking with the previous lantern bearers. The lantern has ailed them, has caused them grave misfortune. It protects Lorna, however.

Legends change. It's an expected course of action. Whispers is old. She has lived through many legends, herself, back from when she was a maiden to a mother and now a crone. A full witch’s lifespan is a blessing. 

The Dark Lantern is not so dark in Lorna’s hands. Perhaps because for the first time there is a Lantern Bearer holding it who has not been tricked into the task itself. 

There is magic in the Unknown. But truly the most potent magic has always been found in honesty. 

Lorna spends the rest of the evening telling Whispers all about Beatrice. There’s a blush on Lorna's cheeks and an expression of sheer adoration. Whispers smiles. 

"Do you believe Autumn and Winter are next to one another or are they separated by Spring and Summer?" The Beast asks Wirt one random morning.

Wirt doesn't even hesitate. "They're together."

The Beast seems to dislike this answer. He shakes his head, the antlers rustling with stray leaves. The foliage always makes for an interesting background melody for the Beast. Wirt has learned to recognise it when he listens. And he's also learned how to listen. He remembers before back when he's just become a Beast, how utterly difficult it was. How lost he was. He'd thought himself more lost than he had as a human.

"It's the witching season soon."

Wirt doesn't know what that means. 

"Spring is soon to be upon us."

Wirt doesn't know what that means either ! "Isn't it eternal winter in the Unknown?"

"When there are no witches, yes. However the Unknown must always have the Beast, must always have three witches, must always have the Harvest King, etc."

Et cetera. Wirt is going to have to write all of this down as a guide for himself. "So it's been winter all this time then?"

"A mild winter. A long yet mild one. There is a way to do these things. Next winter will be gruesome but short. As is the way."

Wirt nods. He thinks he understands.

‘’So, how does it become spring?’’

‘’There is a ritual.’’ The Beast teaches. ‘’I need you to pick an edelwood for it.’’

‘’What?’’ Wirt has only ever thought that the edelwoods serve the Beast. That these trees are only meant to fuel the lantern. They have another purpose? 

‘’It is a game.’’ The Beast explains. ‘’Pick an edelwood that you are tired of seeing. Sacrifice it for spring. It is a great honour for a tree to reach such transformation.’’

‘’Why can’t you do it?’’ Wirt doesn’t want to do anything wrong. His mind is seized with thoughts that are verging him into a panic attack. What will happen if he ruins this? 

‘’Because you have never done it.’’ the Beast then says, because he knows him by now: "This is your duty to the Unknown. You will just know which tree to pick. Do not uproot it." The Beast says. "I learned that the hard way. Just pick a tree and tell me which one you have picked so I may tell the other parties."

"OK." Wirt says. And then he slips away, into the shadows of the Unknown. It will be strange to have a different season than winter to contend with.

Lorna herself has told him that she has never seen the coming of spring in her entire lifetime. This will be a monumental occasion!

Which means Wirt can't mess it up.

Wirt knows just the tree to use. He sees the glistening teapot on it, left unmarked with frost and the passage of time. He runs a gentle hand over it and whispers: ‘’Hello, Greg. You're going to get to participate in a ritual. Doesn't that sound fun?"

The tree says nothing. Greg isn't in it. Just as in the tree frosted and brittled by wind next to it doesn't have his mother in there anymore. Perhaps it's time he moved on properly. By commemorating his loved ones one last time. In a way only the Unknown can cherish.

"Have you picked a tree?"

"Greg's tree."

The Beast only nods and shoos him away. He has business to attend to.

Wirt manages to tease him on his way out, now that there is a safe distance between them: "No wonder you're so quick to get to Spring, it's a season closer to your autumn wedding~"

The Beast throws a twig at him. "Go bother some lost soul with your inane behaviour!"

The lost soul happens to be a soul that's neither lost nor much of a soul these days. 

Beatrice points her axe at Wirt and says she will curse him if he doesn't tell her what the big deal is with their seasons.

"Our seasons?" Wirt questions her, boggling at her, twisting around the pointed axe as if trying to understand the inexplicable. 

"Duh, Wirt! Whispers told me the Witches and the Beast, well, Beasts are the ones who create the coming of Spring. It's a joint effort." Beatrice dances in place with self importance. "And you can't do it without THREE witches. Ehehehe."

"I was told to just pick a tree. What were you told?"

Beatrice shrugs. "Not much of anything. They just asked me not to curse anyone when the day comes."

"Solid advice."

"Ah, they're cramping my style." Beatrice huffs, rolling her eyes. 

Soon comes the big day. The Beasts are present, as are the Witches, the Queen atop her clouds, and the Harvest King in his suit, accompanied by his dearest villagers. It isn't every day Spring comes to the Unknown!

It brings forth change. Transformation.

Enoch waves at the Beast. 

It brings forth better things to come.

The Beast doesn't dignify such a thing with a response other than an annoyed scoff that's more endeared and smitten than anything else. Lorna says the Flame does not lie. Wirt tells Lorna she should stop reading the flame if it means the Beast will glare at them like so.

"Like what?" Lorna wrinkles her nose.

Wirt gestures to the Beast glaring at him. "Like that."

Lorna loops her arm through the Lantern handle and now that both of her hands are free uses them to make a little heart through which to stare at Turtle. 

Turtle gives up on them.

Whispers, Beatrice, and the Apothecary Witch begin their singing. They have their hands joined. Then they turn to the edelwood and sing. Magic comes from the ground itself, wrapping around the tree, transforming it from dead and dry into a tree full of life, flourishing with buds and leaves. The faces twist, overcome by moss. The frost from the seemingly eternal winter in the Unknown thaws. The teapot falls off, clattering onto half thawed, half green pasture. 

Better things are to come.

Beatrice breaks from the group as the third witch, raises her axe, and points at the tree, urging her magic to do its might: "May this tree be a testament to the beginning of spring! May this Spring be wonderful and prosperous and the best so far. While this tree stands tall and proud, so, too, shall Spring stand tall and proud!" 

There is a shift so profound in the very air they all breathe or simply acknowledge in the Unknown that the arrival of Spring is unmistakable.

‘’Spring has arrived to the Unknown!’’ Beatrice raises the axe in the air and jumps with glee. ‘’Woo!’’ 

Lorna shouts back: ‘’Woo!’’ and collides with her in a hug. 

The Beast makes sure the Lantern is away from these hooligans, drunk on glee.

Ribbons wrap around his branch hands so quickly that all the Beast manages to do before being pulled into a dance is hand the Lantern over to Wirt.

The Queen atop the clouds makes it rain. It isn't cold. 

The villagers bring forth music with their makeshift instruments, playing on pumpkin and combs and bones.

Wirt hears the music, sees the joy, sees the grass where once was only snow and ice, and hugs the Lantern close to his chest. Contently he hums.

Chapter Text

It is warmer and warmer.

The hearth is lit less and less.

But conversations around it are no less agonising.

’’Would you rather have a spring to your step or oil to tide you over the entire winter?’’

A scoff, well timed and utterly bemused: ’’Neither if I can help it, Muriel.’’

’’Well, you’ve got to pick one, Seamus!’’

Seamus rolls his eyes just-so, and says: ’’Well, I’d rather bathe in the summer rain than I’d ever do either of those things! To hell with your ultimatums!’’

Muriel raises her hands up in the air in exasperation. Giggles alert her to mischief worse than anything her husband can think to say: ’’What are you children doing over there?’’

The lack of giggling, upon being caught, is worse than any mischievous giggling. It only proves that mischief is afoot.

’’Don’t make me repeat myself!’’

Silence. Muriel looks at Seamus. Seamus heaves a sigh and shouts: ’’Answer your mother, you hellions!’’

Multiple red heads pop out from the other room. They rush towards the unlit hearth, still crackling with the memories of recent winter times. Both parents glower at the children, scrutinizing them for any sign of mischief. But this one is a mischief they are keen to show off. The youngest, bubbliest of the redheads, lifts up his palms and shows a flower. It’s a daffodil.

It is warmer and warmer.

Muriel picks the daffodil up and smiles. She giggles, too, like a young school girl. Seamus laughs, like a clumsy boy, and puts the flower behind her ear. They smile at one another, and then at the children.

’’My parents met in spring.’’ Beatrice smiles. She holds Lorna in her arms as they sway outside, underneath trees with budding leaves. 

’’I came to be in autumn, if Auntie Whispers is to be trusted with her seasons.’’ Lorna confesses. She twirls Beatrice. They stare into each other’s eyes and smile with a shy sort of love that’s blossoming into something strange and delightful.

They sidestep ice that turns to water and continue dancing.

It is warmer and warmer.

’’I think this is the first spring I’m going to enjoy.’’ Beatrice kisses Lorna, who turns hotter to the touch than any sunlit day. And there are more and more of those.

’’How long does spring last?’’ Wirt asks.

The Beast doesn’t answer.

’’Okay, how does spring turn into summer?’’ Wirt sighs.

The Beast has a rule. He’ll only answer questions that have answers. It’s his most annoying rule. Not a philosopher, this eldritch creature, that’s for certain. He doesn’t entertain anything that might be – only what is – and what will be – and what was.

’’We were slighted by the witches.’’

This goes against everything Wirt knows so far. He quickly scrambles to write it down in his poetry journal that doubles as his Unknown journal. ’’Wha- wh- what do you mean slighted?’’

The Beast hasn’t given any indication – not even the slightest HINT – of being slighted by any of the witches. Not Whispers. Not the Apothecary witch. And certainly not Beatrice!

The Beast croons something dangerous, it’s as if the oil in the lantern itself rumbles with his emotion, his passion: ’’They have taken what isn’t theirs.’’

’’We  - but – but we gave them –’’ Wirt flounders, ’’isn’t the Edelwood theirs now?’’

The Beast’s eyes alight with a ferocious sort of power. He hisses, like a kettle, like a mill grinding the edelwoods into oil. ’’An edelwood tree, no matter its form, is always ours.’’ Then. A pause. Then, when Wirt can feel his own heart beating in the lantern, when he can hear his own soul screaming for answers, the Beast waves it all off, ’’unless it’s won, of course. But they haven’t won anything from me yet.’’ The eyes blink. ’’Us, yet.’’ He corrects.

’’What should I do?’’

As if it’s the most natural thing in the world: ’’Go to the witches and demand what’s yours.’’

Whispers is sitting by the edelwood tree. She is embroidering something while humming a springtime tune. Her jacket is not off, though it is unbuttoned. Ice and snow cling to the edelwood, still, even though around it grass and flowers bloom. She lifts her head upon seeing Wirt’s shadow loom above her.

’’Uh, ah,’’ Wirt points at the edelwood tree, the tea kettle long since discarded (the tea kettle taken, not to be found, someone somewhere is putting better use out of it than it was previously – perhaps another child is using it to play elephants, or maybe a mother is pouring tea with it, tea from all of the budding spring flowers she can pick).

’’Yes, Wirt?’’ Whispers says.

’’Um,’’ Wirt takes in a deep breath and says, ’’I’ve been told to take the tree back from you. It’s ours.’’

Whispers nods. She looks back down to her embroidery and continues with the calming task. She doesn’t hum any more. ’’I understand.’’

Wirt inches closer to the tree. He doesn’t feel at ease, not at all. You have to be someone powerful to raise someone like Lorna, after all. He won’t underestimate Whispers for even a fraction of a second. ’’Where’s Beatrice?’’

’’With my sweet Lorna.’’ Whispers smiles. She lifts up the embroidery. It’s of bones and axes. ’’A small present.’’

’’It...suits them.’’ Wirt doesn’t have a higher compliment than that. He moves to touch the tree, though he is uncertain as to how he is to reclaim it from the witches. The tree, itself, hasn’t moved. It’s technically in their territory – but it’s transformed and maybe he needs to reverse that? But how? The Beast never explains things all the way through, loving to torture him.

’’I know this is something you must do,’’ Whispers whispers, giving Wirt a sad look, ’’but it won’t end well for you.’’

Wirt is terrified. He is shaking as he moves his claw closer and closer to the edelwood. Her words ring, potent, in his ears. In his bones. In his heart. In his soul. In the flame in the lantern left with Lorna. Through it all, Wirt manages to touch the edelwood, still.

Nothing happens.

Wirt sighs in relief. ’’Madame Whispers,’’ he turns towards the crone, smiling awkwardly, ’’what did you mean by –’’

The very next thing he sees is Lorna staring up at him. She is resting the Lantern over his chest to calm him. Turning to his side, Wirt notices that he’s back home, in the house with the mill.

Singing – ever so disdainfully amused – alerts Wirt that the Beast is here with him.

’’Turtle, Wirt’s awoken!’’

The singing stops. The Beast leans his smug self through the open window to see the state of him. ’’Was it Whispers?’’

Wirt finds himself nodding, dazed, humiliated, and utterly defeated.

’’Yes, I should have warned you not to listen to her whispers. Though, really, no better way for you to learn than to be ensnared in her curse.’’

Lorna mimes the ringing of a bell. ’’Sounds, inarticulate or articulate, are her domain.’’

The Beast continues: ’’She may not be a singer, but she is an excellent orator. A true storyteller, you may even say, for all the things she whispers come to pass. I had thought Lorna had told you how the crone got her name.’’

Wirt shakes his head no, at both of these menaces. He glares at their lack of apology, too. And shouts at them, once his head has cleared enough: ’’You just sent me on a suicide mission, then!’’

’’There he goes again, nattering about taking his own life.’’ The Beast sighs, forlornly.

Lorna shakes her head despondently. ’’Oh Wirt.’’

Wirt glares at them both. ’’I’m not taking the tree back.’’

’’You must.’’ The Beast says, cutting his fun with Lorna at Wirt’s expense. ’’It is necessary.’’

’’Then you do it.’’

’’Ah, I would that I could, alas, I cannot.’’

’’Why?’’

’’I commit myself to a new duty in springtime to make wreaths and gift them to singing young ladies.’’

Lorna, then, begins belting out a song about spring that sounds eerily close to the one that Whispers was humming. The Beast says he must attend to this duty post haste. ’’Whispers is the difficult one. The other two are easy. Just make sure the crone is occupied.’’

Wirt won’t cry. But he’ll complain about it.

Wirt goes to the only helpful source in the Unknown. He is accosted by many a skeleton. As he’s ready to bat them away and scream for help, he takes notice of their voices and their way of speech and finds them all so suddenly very familiar.

’’Oh, ho, hello? Where are all of the pumpkins?’’ Wirt asks once he’s taken into the big barn, yet again, though this time not like a criminal awaiting justice.

’’They’ve rotted! It is warmer and warmer, poet.’’ Enoch licks his paws and bathes his ears with it, purring up a storm as he does so. Once Wirt leaves he has himself a special meeting with a special someone. ’’You can’t grow pumpkins all year round, you know.’’

Of all the things that can’t be done in a place as surreal as the Unknown, growing out of season crops is where folks draw the line.

’’But they’re naked?’’

’’No, they aren’t, don’t be preposterous. They’ve yet to choose their new springwear is all.’’ Enoch gives Wirt a Cheshire smile. He does not elaborate any further. Wirt does not ask any more questions, either. He’s learned that it rarely pays off to ask questions of these two.

’’Ask your question, seek the counsel you need.’’ Before Wirt can open his mouth, Enoch laughs, ’’I heard you fell victim to some nasty whispers going around. I would think she would prove no match for a poet, as you both deal in creation.’’

’’I didn’t know she could just will whatever she said into existence. Nobody tells me anything!’’ Wirt’s voice booms with all of the frustration his heart aches to unleash.

’’Goodness,’’ Enoch startles at the booming voice, his fur going up as a result, his electrified tail swishing angrily, ’’aren’t you full of surprises? Truly, no little beastling anymore.’’ He readjusts himself so he’s calmer, steadier on the maypole as he stares down at Wirt. ’’Don’t just go and take it.’’ Don’t do what the Beast told you to for his own amusement. ’’You won’t be able to.’’ It’ll only humiliate you. ’’Witches are at their most powerful in their own season, you know.’’ Wirt didn’t know. How would he? Nobody’s bothered to tell him anything.

Wirt tries to articulate himself –

’’You come to me with a lot of plights.’’ Enoch says, wrinkling his nose and his whiskers. ’’Go and challenge them. To a fair game. Of your choosing. Something tailored to you that you know you can win. Though, heed me, poet, if you don’t win – ’’

’’I will.’’ Wirt says. ’’I’ll win. I’ll get the tree back.’’

Enoch chuckles. ’’I’m sure you think so.’’

Singing, so much more frequent in the springtime, alerts Wirt that this is his cue to leave Enoch to his fun.

Wirt turns on his way out, to look back at the cat burrowing into the maypole with the rotted worm-infested pumpkin head, ’’Thanks for helping me.’’

’’Oh, rest assured, I’m not.’’ Enoch’s voice reverberates through Wirt. Ribbons lead him out.

All of the good will Wirt had for Enoch dissipates with that.

A skeleton asks Wirt if he’ll help her choose a springwear.

’’I might as well.’’ Wirt is still thinking of his game, of a game tailored for him. How about if he challenges the witches to a poetry-off? No, no, that’s awful. That’s stupid.

They travel together through Pottsfield, transformed.

’’You don’t remember me, none, do you?’’ The skeleton asks. She says they met the Spring ceremony, many moons ago.

Wirt shakes his head no, apologetically. ’’Sorry. I feel so bad. Ahh. What’s your name?’’

’’Well, it used to be Margery, but I’ve since decided to name myself something different. Tis Spring, after all. I asked Mr Enoch, and he said that sounded like a,’’ putting on an air of sophistication and pomp only known to cats who talk, ’’fine and dandy idea, Miss Margery!’’

’’So you’re Margery?’’

Not Margery Anymore says: ’’Not anymore, oh no! I’m fixing to reinventing myself, you see. If the winter can thaw, then I can do that, can’t I?’’

If Wirt can transform into a beast, then this doesn’t sound like anything impossible. He smiles at her and says, with all of the gusto he can muster: ’’I think you can.’’

They go in a field full of flowers, filled with skeletons picking and choosing different kinds to put between their bones. Regular residents, too, the kind Wirt’s seen in the Tavern, are there as well – and mingling about – picking herbs and commenting on the skeleton’s choice of springwear if asked. Laughter fills the pasture. Wirt sits on the ground and makes a small wreath full of hyacinths and snowdrops to put on around his antlers as Not Margery Anymore comes to model many stylish looks with moss and tulips and even a few forget-me-nots to boot.

’’Do you think Martha sounds nice? I do like a good M name, you see – but it’s all so very strange. You had a name that your parents gave you – and you wore it so well – but it’s also nice to gift yourself something for a change. What’s your name?’’

’’Wirt.’’ Wirt says.

Maybe Martha tilts her tulip covered head to the side. In the eye-sockets she’s put daffodils. ’’Do you like that name?’’

’’Yeah.’’ Wirt says. ’’It’s the only thing I’ve got that’s only mine.’’ When you share even your soul, you become very possessive of your name.

’’Do you think you’ll keep it?’’

’’Why?’’ Wirt flounders.

Maybe Martha skips around Wirt, throwing irises around him as a little joke. ’’Well, did you ever reckon that the Beast had a name a long, long time ago? Mr Enoch has a name and they’re the same, aren’t they?’’

Wirt admits to never thinking about it. The Beast has always been the Beast, as far as he’s known him. Though that’s so little. Not even a full turn of the seasons. Though, Maybe Martha says very few are fortunate to see the full turn of all seasons.

’’What do you mean?’’

’’Well, I heard,’’ Maybe Martha smiles a smile full of foxgloves, ’’that you get a chance to bring Winter back. And that a couple of seasons ago, there was a big back and forth between spring and winter. Why, I think nobody felt the summer storms for DECADES. Can you believe that?’’

’’But that doesn’t make any sense.’’ Wirt has it on GOOD AUTHORITY that the Beast wants it to get to Autumn as fast as possible.

Maybe Martha shrugs. She says that’s all she knows.

When it’s time to leave, once Maybe Martha’s picked out her springwear, she tells him that he would look marvellous with flowers on his own body. While the wreath suits him, he should really grow his own. She would if she could, you know.

Wirt flusters. ’’I can’t grow flowers!’’

’’Oh? Maybe I misunderstood what I heard, too, but all of the old Pottsfielders do so love spring because the Beast blooms.’’

Wirt bellows, in horror: ’’I grow flowers?’’

’’They aren’t flowers.’’ The Beast tells him. ’’And maybe you won’t. You already cannot sing. Besides, you’re more fur than bark.’’

Lorna has seven wreaths on her. Stacked. She even put a little wreath over the lantern. ’’I think you look beautiful in springtime, Turtle,’’ turning to Wirt, ’’and I know you’ll look marvellous, too.’’

Wirt is in agony. ’’Can you give me an idea what my challenge to the witches should be?’’

As if it’s all so quite obvious: ’’Challenge the Hunter-Witch to a duel to the death. She is young and inexperienced; it is an easy kill.’’

Immediately Lorna shouts: ’’Beatrice will wipe the floor with him, don’t do this to him! He’s a writer, not a fighter!’’

’’Beatrice will kill me.’’ Wirt won’t even attempt such a thing. ’’Give me some real advice.’’

’’That is usually what I do.’’ The Beast says. ’’I always kill one of them and then have to find a replacement for the Unknown. Adelaide may be the first Third Witch I have not killed.’’ A pause. As he tries to recollect his extensive existence. ’’That I remember.’’

’’Anything else?’’ Wirt begs.

’’You are of these modern, changing times, Wirt, think of something that suits you. Play your clarinet!’’

The Beast must surely hate this conversation if he urges Wirt to take up the instrument. After Wirt’s singing, his clarinet is the thing that the Beast loathes most.

’’I am off!’’ The Beast is going to Pottsfield. Again.

’’Don’t just leave the conversation mid-way!’’

’’I am off!’’ He repeats, fainter now with the bigger distance.

It is warmer and warmer.

Buttons are unbuttoning.

Flowers are blooming.

It is warmer and warmer.

’’Why, this might be the prettiest spring so far.’’

’’Even the birds are coming back!’’

The bluebird narrows its itty-bitty eyes in recognition. 

Beatrice holds her axe and takes aim, goading it on to try something.

They’re locked in a stand-off.

The Apothecary Witch shouts, in utter confusion at their youngest coven member. ’’Beatrice, if you were meant to hunt bluebirds you’d have a rifle! Leave that blasted thing alone!’’

Beatrice, with her free hand, makes the I’m watching you gesture at the bird.

The bird does the same with its wing before flying off.

’’Blasted girl, if you’re so wilful, go and relieve Whispers of her duty for a change. And remember! Don’t you cut it down by accident because the Beast won’t see it as such.’’

Beatrice, cowed, annoyed, tries to say that she’s planned an outing with Lorna – doesn’t get a chance to plea her case. The Apothecary Witch sees the Beast and goes to see what that ’blasted tree’ wants.

’’I have a date with Lorna-’’

’’Go to the Edelwood!’’

Beatrice goes, grumbling. She kicks a stone in her anger. And there’s so many of them, once the snow thaws. She looks towards the Beast, momentarily, and can feel cold. It passes when she quickens her pace.

’’Tonic mixer, have you any interesting wares?’’ The Beast asks. He twirls the Lantern on his own twig finger and waits, nonchalantly.

’’Only for interesting prices, Death of Hope.’’ The Apothecary witch smiles. It’s full of sharp teeth. ’’Lots of interesting flowers are blooming and can be used for many tonics, indeed. What do you offer me?’’

The Beast’s eyes are full of colour. He looks down at the Lantern and sees it dangerously swaying, chaotically, on the brink of death, one might even say. ’’I propose an interesting wager.’’

’’Aye, do tell.’’

Wirt turns to Lorna, once the Beast has absconded with the Lantern. ’’You’re my only hope, Lorna.’’

’’I’ll speak with Beatrice...’’

Beatrice is at the edelwood tree. She’s bored out of her mind. Swings that axe around (never at the tree in springtime), and bemoans her plights: ’’I can’t believe Whispers and that stupid tonic crafter put me here. Ugh. I was supposed to be with Lorna tonight.’’ She paces the full breadth of the tree many times, muttering her curses, feeding it to the ground below, hoping that it’ll meet her targets or bring her what she most desires.

’’Beatrice!’’ Lorna’s voice travels the field. Healthy and powerful.

The Hunter Witch swirls around, her expression full of merry and cheer. Even when she spots Wirt approaching does she continue to smile as wide as she can. ’’Lorna!’’ Then. ’’Wirt!’’  She waves the axe around and beckons them closer to keep her company.

Lorna places a wreath of spring flowers on Beatrice and smiles. ’’You look wonderful.’’

’’As do you!’’ Beatrice is flushed red from embarrassment. She leaves the tree to quickly pick flowers to gift Lorna. To cover her from head to toe in flowers if she must, if only to prove her lifelong love.

Wirt looks from the Hunter Witch, away from the edelwood, enamoured utterly by the Lantern Bearer, to the discarded tree. He inches towards it. Very suspiciously. Very quickly.

Lorna, from out of the corner of her eye, spots what he’s doing. She winks at him.

It’s all the encouragement Wirt needs!

He digs his claws into the edelwood, into the lively springtime tree, and reminds it what it truly is.

It is warmer and –

’’Oh no!’’

Fingers fumble to button up.

’’Oh no, we’ve spoken too soon!’’

Gusts of such cold envelop the Unknown that the flowers begin to freeze.

’’Isn’t it supposed to be spring?!’’

Muriel and Seamus quicken the children inside. They close the doors from the harsh winter wind – it has no right – Muriel shouts – no right at all to be here right now! ’’The Witches put a stop to this!’’

’’Well,’’ Seamus says, having better memory of the pair, as he lights the hearth with fire, ’’to be quite fair, Muriel, it’s never actually spring until the Beast’s Spring passes.’’

Muriel seethes, shaking her fist at the elements outside: ’’My daughter will put a stop to your lot! Yes, she will!’’

Beatrice’s eyes are giant saucers when she sees the snow-covered pasture where the tree is. She turns towards Wirt. All of the flowers in her hands have died. Anger enters her eyes. Especially when she sees Lorna rubbing her arms to warm up. OH. OH THIS WILL NOT STAND!

The Hunter Witch picks up the axe and charges at the Poet Beast.

’’Beatrice – BEATRICE, PLEASE – THE BEAST TOLD ME I HAD TO RECLAIM THE TREE – BEATRICE, MERCY!’’

’’YOU SHOULD HAVE STUCK WITH POETRY IF YOU DIDN’T WANT TO PICK A FIGHT!’’

Beatrice slams the wood of her axe into the tree.

It is warmer!

It is thawing!

It is kinder!

On his way to escape the swings, Wirt claws the tree to give himself purchase.

It is HORRIFIC!

IT IS INSANE!

WHY IS IT SNOWING IN SPRINGTIME?!

THE CROPS ARE DYING!

WHEN WILL THE BEAST’S SPRING PASS?!

The Tavern Keeper glares at the way the folks inside it complain. One minute it’s so hot inside because of the fire, that they open up all of the windows – the next it’s so bloody cold that they have to close all of the windows and light the fire again.

’’This is springtime for you! You had just best hope we don’t come back to winter!’’

Horror: ’’The Witches won’t let that happen!’’

’’Aye, I heard from my great-grandfather that they’re prone to it, if they’re feeling nasty.’’

’’Who’s at the tree, being spoon-fed honeyed words by those awful Beasts?’’

’’The Hunter Witch, I believe. I saw her moments ago pacing around the tree.’’

’’Do you suppose that youngest witch, the hunter-witch is a vengeful sort?’’

Cries in agony when they realise whom they're dealing with. ’’We’re never going to see spring.’’

’’Eh.’’ The Tavern Keeper rolls her eyes. ’’I’ll bet on her.’’

’’Oh Turtle, hello.’’ Lorna sits with the Beast, his fur covering her. They both watch Wirt and Beatrice fight and flee. ’’I didn’t see you there.’’ He hands her the Lantern to warm her. She accepts it lovingly. ’’How was Enoch?’’

’’I did not go to him. Though, he is no doubt hunting mice as they have burrowed out of their winter holes.’’

’’Who did you go to, then?’’

’’Hello!’’ The Apothecary witch shouts, startling Lorna. She turns and sees the witch behind the Beast.

’’Ah, hello!’’

’’Who are you betting on?’’ The witch asks, sitting nearby – but never as close to the Beast as Lorna has allowed herself.

Lorna blinks. She turns towards the tug of war between spring and winter. ’’I don’t think I’ll vote for either one of them. It wouldn’t be proper to cast a vote against someone I very much love.’’

’’I don’t have such problems.’’ The Beast says laconically. ’’I gamble to win.’’

Lorna raises her head, tilting it back so she looks at the Beast from his lap. ’’You’ve voted against Wirt, haven’t you?’’

The Apothecary witch whispers, pained: ’’Am I the only one who gave the boy a fighting chance?’’

’’MERCY, MERCY, BEATRICE, PLEASE – OH GOD – OH DEAR GOD DON’T – PLEASE, I’LL LEAVE – I’LL LEAVE AND NEVER RETURN – YOU CAN HAVE THE TREE – OH NO! OH NO!’’

’’You made my Lorna cold! She’s of frail health – what’s wrong with you?’’

’’He is so much more agile than I am.’’ The Beast comments, his voice devoid of that usual condescension when speaking about Wirt. ’’She managed to cut me and she still hasn’t cut him.’’

’’Wirt’s younger.’’ The Apothecary witch says.

’’That he is.’’

’’I heard from a cat that Wirt was colluding with some Pottsfielder.’’ Lorna giggles.

’’What are you doing talking to cats?’’

’’Oh,’’ Lorna smiles cheekily, ’’is it disallowed suddenly?’’

’’Hm,’’ the Beast hums, petting Lorna on the head, not moving his eyes from the fight in front of them, ’’only mildly disallowed. You wouldn’t want a cat to scratch you because it becomes bored of you, would you?’’

’’I’ll eat it.’’ Lorna mimes a bite.

The Beast laughs. Whether from Lorna’s joke or Beatrice finally cutting into Wirt’s leg is anyone’s guess.

The Apothecary witch shouts. ’’NO!’’

A song booms from the Beast.

It makes Beatrice stop dead in her tracks. Wirt is just happy that it’s all over.

They’re covered in dirt from the green grass and the water from the thawed ice. Beatrice’s fingers are blue from the cold, but then when she sees Lorna, they warm up.

It is warmer and warmer.

It is warmer and –

OH COME ON!

The Beast is leaning on the edelwood tree.

Beatrice is shouting at him to go away. ’’This tree is ours now!’’

’’You’re playing the game so poorly.’’ The Beast finally says. He turns towards Wirt and then snaps his attention back to the Hunter Witch. ’’Truly, this is the worst one yet.’’

’’Worse than the time when we locked you in the lake?’’ the Apothecary witch tries to jog the Beast’s long memory.

’’I enjoyed that one.’’

’’Worse than when you cut off Whispers’ tongue? She had to spend days regrowing it in the garden.’’

’’The saplings lack creativity.’’ The Beast comments.

’’Well, without guidance –’’

’’I am not here to guide him.’’ The Beast says. ’’Nor are you here to guide her. They are their own and if they cannot grow on their own, then that’s a fault of theirs.’’

’’I beg to differ!’’ Wirt shouts. The Apothecary witch is applying her tonics to heal his cut. It won’t scar. Beatrice doesn’t want it to, snuggled up in Lorna’s arms as she is now. He limps towards the Beast and prods at him. ’’I think you’ve been the least helpful this spring than you’ve been all winter! And I don’t know what’s wrong with you or whatever – but just because you’re putting more and more responsibility on Lorna and me doesn’t give you the right to just never help!’’

The Beast listens to Wirt shout at him. Lets him get it all out of his system. Before he just says: ’’Hm, perhaps you will grow flowers. You’re certainly moody enough for it.’’

’’I don’t want to grow flowers!’’ Wirt has not been able to catch a single break since spring has happened. Everything is different! Nothing is the same! Everything he’s used to is gone and nobody will sit him down and tell him what to expect. THINGS ARE HAPPENING TO HIS BODY! BEATRICE JUST CUT HIM LIKE FIREWOOD!

’’Tonic mixer, make my spring.’’

’’You did win.’’ The Apothecary witch hands a special vial to the Beast, who chuckles darkly. He walks away from Wirt and then back to Lorna, taking the Lantern from her. He opens it up and douses the entire tonic into the open flame.

All of the frustrations and the agony spring has brought forth leave Wirt. He just lays down on the muddy, grassy ground and smiles, curling his hands over his chest. His eyes flicker between so many colours, each more vibrant than the last. ’’Wow.’’ He says. ’’Spring is joy and mirth and delight and growth. The world you knew stops only to grow and to expand into something you will get to know. We are all part of it.’’

’’Oh my god he’s drugged him.’’  Beatrice turns to give the Beast a piece of her mind when she sees that the Beast’s eyes are flickering between the same colours. ’’Oh my god, you’ve gotta be kidding me.’’ She turns to the Apothecary witch. ’’You drugged them!’’

’’Oh please, it won’t hurt them. I make it for the Beast every Spring. It’s the only reason why he hasn’t killed me yet.’’

’’Now, I am going to Enoch.’’ The Beast says to Lorna, his voice never this relaxed.  

Lorna gives him a thumbs up and says she will watch the Lantern most carefully in this period. The fire is purple. Now green. Now red. Now orange. Now yellow. Maybe it doesn’t last long – no, no it’s magenta now. This will last a while.

Beatrice tries talking to Wirt, but he’s reciting the weirdest, happiest poetry she’s ever heard him recite.

’’I’ve never seen a foxglove smile before,’’

’’Uh, me neither.’’ Beatrice crouches down next to him. ’’You okay, man? I know you’re tied to him or whatever, but there’s gotta be some tonic you can take – not the lantern – that might clear you up?’’

’’I think I’m fine.’’ Wirt says. ’’I’m calm for the first time in a while. I was really worried when it became spring. What does any of that mean? Can edelwoods even grow in spring? Will we starve? Do I have to preserve oil in jars and stuff...I was...really worried...and then the Beast told me that I had to reclaim the tree...and then all of this started...and...uh...’’ Wirt closes his eyes. ’’Just when you think you’re used to it all – everything changes.’’ A pause. ’’Oh god, I’m dead.’’ His eyes fly open in horrific realisation.

Beatrice breathes in disbelief. ’’Wirt, for fuck’s sake. We’re all dead.’’

Lorna hurries to hand Wirt the Lantern to hug. ’’I’m coming!’’

’’That’s what Enoch said!’’  Beatrice winks and makes a silly pose.

’’This is not the time.’’ Lorna chastises, but she’s failing to hide the curl of her lips, the shy smile that’s going to burst into laughter.

Wirt’s holding the Lantern. ’’I died before I ever kissed anyone.’’

’’I thought you were into that Jason Funderberker?’’

’’The Frog?’’ Lorna mouths.

Beatrice shrugs.

Wirt shakes his head. ’’No, no, I didn’t kiss him either. The Beast is kissing someone.’’

’’You can feel that?’’ Beatrice grimaces.

’’No, but I bet he is.’’ Wirt sighs. ’’You’re kissing someone, too.’’

’’Not right now. I’m dealing with you, you mistake of nature!’’

Wirt doesn’t brighten up at the age-old-jab as he normally would. Instead he goes back to the ground and curls up in a ball, around the Lantern.

Lorna attempts something. It’ll either be a hit or a tremendous miss. ’’Well, I didn’t kiss anyone for a long time, too.’’

’’You kissed those dead people’s skulls. I didn’t even do that.’’

The ground underneath Wirt is turning into ice.

’’Man, he’s not having a fun time at all.’’ Beatrice glares at the Apothecary witch.

’’Well, I do recommend that you take the tonic when you’re feeling lively.’’ Then at a speed unfathomable, comes the disclaimer. Beatrice can barely catch ’not recommended for persons, only eldritch creatures’. Lorna says she heard the witch say something along the lines of ’side effects may include a harrowing realisation, followed by depression or a deep desire to change things for the better, you never know’.

And then, as all medical professionals are want to do, the witch flees.

’’We’ll find you someone to kiss.’’ Beatrice says, patting him on the back. ’’I didn’t even know you liked that sort of thing.’’

’’Yes, Wirt, you’re so much more handsome now than you were before. I’m sure there’ll be many skeletons you can kiss.’’

Beatrice looks at Lorna, wanting in on the secret. Lorna gives a cheeky smile.

’’Huh. I didn’t know you had it in you, Wirt.’’

Wirt sobs. ’’Why does the Beast have a boyfriend?’’

’’To be fair, I don’t think he’s a boyfriend.’’ Lorna says.

’’Enoch is a friend, though.’’ Beatrice nods.

’’Oh definitely.’’

’’A catfriend.’’ Wirt corrects himself.

’’Is he a cat, though?’’ Lorna wonders. ’’Or is he just something beyond our mortal comprehension that only Turtle can see?’’

’’Nothing more intimate than the knowledge you’ll be known in the Unknown.’’ Beatrice says.

’’Nothing more intimate than the knowledge you’ll be both be Unknown to everyone but each other.’’ Lorna swoons. ’’Oh, Wirt, isn’t it all so romantic?’’

Wirt is crying.

Beatrice and Lorna lift him up and begin dragging him away from the edelwood.

It is warmer and warmer.

So warm, in fact, that a girl leaves her home. She puts on her grey cape, still, because you never know with the Unknown what kind of weather one will get to, well, weather. There aren’t many things she can take from her home, aside from the essentials, of course.

Her father’s rifle rests heavy in her hands. He would shoot geese with it, in the warmer times. It’s the awful winter he could never stomach. It’s that same awful winter that took him from her.

The girl moves onward with her father’s rifle in hands. She’s never shot before, but she reckons it isn’t hard. All hard things are easy in the Unknown, it’s those things people take for granted – like breathing and living – that are difficult in the Unknown.

Gusts of cold envelop the land. The girl hides during such times. She waits this war out until she can feel her fingers again. That’s when she continues forward. Only forward. Because there’s no turning back. There’s no going back to that house, with a hearth that remembers a lively home that won’t ever liven up again.

She’ll take her chances out there. She’ll find out what happened to her father.

Her hands curl around the rifle.

And she’ll do whatever she must to survive.

Chapter Text

Flowers bloom in springtime. Trees bloom, too, in their own special way. In the Unknown, it is unknown whether or not anything blooms. Things simply become different and people either notice or they don’t.

But the things they do notice, these creatures of habit that they are (as all dead things are), why, they make quite a fuss about them.

Case in point:

The Queen of the Clouds hovers over the ground, her heels encased in floating clouds. She’s on eye level with the Beast. Not the Poet, mind, but the one she despises. Perhaps in a few springs she will despise the Poet, but who is to say! No, the feud goes long and deep between that that throws lightning and that that burns when hit by said lightning. One would think that the Beast would cower, or at the very least, show some courtesy to the royal from the sky. Alas, the Beast is a singer, and so he is proud.

She’s shouting something fierce. Her voice breaks into a thousand different thundering clouds and even lightning sparks in her hands. The monstrous emerges from her dreamlike facade, because there are no children here, only them – and they, much as they may hate one another, never lie to one another. So it is with such honesty that the Queen accuses, with a betrayed anger few can elicit from her: ’’You killed them! You broke the accord!’’

The Beast, try as he might, remains deeply unbothered by her accusation. Why should he be, really, as he claims next: ’’Bringing your false woes to my domain does nothing but paint you as desperate.’’

’’I am not in your domain!’’ The Queen snarls. She, unlike the Beast, knows the rules and abides by them. She gestures to the shoes of cloud, and to the metre or so she remains aboveground. ’’You have defiled our sacred promise.’’ There is a storm in her eyes. But there is heartbreak in her voice.

He remains unmoved. ’’Perhaps it is time that you wake up from this self-induced nightmare. I have done nothing of the sort. And if you continue to insult me I have half a mind to-’’

Lightning strikes next to an Edelwood then.

The Beast hisses, and it is such a deep hiss, that it sounds like it can break the lightning in half. His eyes are an array of colour, his bark is breaking, with weeds and blooms ripping through them. A monstrous being, made something more when thawed.

However, she is not cowed, and she speaks over him: ’’Until you set this right, you will live in spring forevermore.’’

With that out of the way, the Queen of the Clouds returns, leaving the Beast of the Edelwoods on the ground. He does not send threats her way. A man of many words, he is not. But he does plan to do something about this.

If it were only up to him, he would not lift a twig, let alone any other part of himself, to investigate and find out who it was that has framed him for murder. Spring would continue ad infinatum and he would not give a single care. It would drive the Queen to madness, of course, and she would undoubtedly set it to rights. And he would have won.

Unfortunately, it is not solely up to him. The Beast speaks: ’’I can tell you’re there, cat.’’

And the cat emerges from behind a tree, scuttling about with its tail raised high and its smirk hidden neatly behind whiskers. It jumps on his leg, and them climbs atop his shoulder. Then it begins to purr and groom, nuzzling itself against the antlers, as if he is now a scratching post and not a monster framed a killer.

’’What say you?’’ He asks the cat.

’’I say nothing.’’ The cat laughs. ’’Your miserable relationship always amuses me. I am your good neighbour and hers as well. Just as you and the witches are good neighbours and I cannot stand them.’’

’’What say you about her accusation?’’ The Beast stresses, then.

The cat continues to purr, unbothered.

No wonder the Queen is angry at him. If this is how he acts around her. The Beast begins to understand. ’’Do you not want it to be autumn?’’

’’Of course, I hear I am to be married next autumn.’’

’’Enoch.’’ The Beast hisses in reprimand, but before he can swat at the cat playfully, the cat is already jumping up his antlers and onto the nearby Edelwood. ’’Enoch, you are deliberately unhelpful.’’

’’Perhaps, but it is amusing to see you and the Queen quarrel.’’ Enoch’s fur glistens in spring light. Then the delight glows in his eyes. ’’Did you kill them?’’

’’Preposterous.’’ The Beast renounces such accusations. ’’I have better things to do than quarrel with birds.’’ Then a moment. ’’Did you kill them?’’

The cat licks its paw. It is filled with long claws that can rend not only feather, but flesh, and bone, and so much more. ’’I have better things to do than quarrel with birds.’’

So it is like that, then.

The Beast leans on the Edelwood and stares up at his cat. Not yet his. In autumn, yes. Now, not so much. Now the cat only allows him his company because it is agreeable. ’’You would tell me if it was one of your own?’’

’’Do you believe her when she says that they are dead?’’ The cat inquires.

And the Beast shrugs. It is something he has taken to doing much more frequently, due to the Poet inspiring him. Such human emotion, such a human gesture. It slithers into one’s body language and stays there like a word one adopts in one’s vocabulary because of a friend. ’’She doesn’t lie, try as she might to imbibe us with infighting. Her barbs are always above board.’’

’’I believe these are the nicest things you’ve ever said about her.’’

’’We are very similar.’’ The Beast admits. He scratches the tree with his claws. ’’It is why I dislike her.’’

The cat’s tail swishes from left to right.’ ’She would argue you are like night and morning.’’

’’Yes, but we are all the same day.’’ The Beast fans Enoch away.

And Enoch laughs. ’’That was almost a poem.’’

The Beast growls.

It is unfortunate, but necessary, to hold a meeting about this. They are in the House with the Broken Mill. The Witches are there, of course, because they are the Beast’s neighbours and they are the Queen’s neighbours – so they are in the worst position.

’’The Queen of the Clouds has accused me of a crime I have not committed.’’ The Beast goes on. He is sitting down because he cannot stand in such a short environment. The roof would impede him. But if they are outside, they are in direct eyesight of the Queen. So, for privacy, they are here.

’’What’s the crime?’’ The Hunter Witch asks. She slings her axe over her shoulder and lifts her red brows inquisitively.

The Beast, while he is one for dramatic pauses and such, has no time for them in spring. It is much too hot to dilly dally: ’’She has accused me of killing one of her own.’’

Not a single being there jumps to his aid. They know of his animosity of the Queen. The silence is even deadlier than if they had asked him if he had killed them.

’’I see.’’ The Beast simply says. He turns to the Poet and asks him: ’’You lack context, yes?’’

A nod. Sheepish. Still so deeply self-conscious.

The Beast resigns himself to this fate, and begins. ’’Did you kill them, Wirt?’’

Wirt startles. His eyes widen. The flowers in his hair close like his entire body cloisters inward. ’’I don’t even know who you’re talking about!’’

The Beast decides to play a game. He is good at it. It is just tedious. So, he peers straight into Wirt, and then towards the Lantern, the one the Lantern Bearer holds to her chest. She is leaning into the Hunter Witch. The Lantern does not lie, so he moves on. He looks at Whispers, next. She is hunched over and short, her giant eyes staring up at him like she is bug-eyed. Her large mouth parts, perhaps to inquire about something, but the Beast decides to move on. It is not Whispers.

Next, the Apothecary witch shakes under his scrutinizing eyes. ’’Now,’’ she starts, and this one’s a talker, ’’if you were to accuse me of something, you’d best be certain.’’

’’I am certain.’’ The Beast says. And then he moves on. His eyes settle on the Hunter Witch, and he can see a motive stretching in front of him, draping the young witch with the malice and energy necessary to commit such an atrocious crime. ’’I am certain it is you.’’

The Lantern Bearer does not drop the lantern in alarm. She has two hands, so she grips the witch with the other. ’’Beatrice would never kill a person.’’

’’It is not a person has been killed, Lorna.’’

’’But the Queen deals with clouds and merry children.’’ Lorna insists that Beatrice, what with her many siblings, could never do the unthinkable.

Beatrice is gritting her teeth and snarling something fierce. ’’You’re looking for a scapegoat.’’

’’I am, yes. The faster we get to summer, the faster we get to autumn.’’ The Beast admits his motivation easily.

’’You’re not doing this right, then! Where’s your scientific integrity?’’ The Apothecary witch comes to Beatrice’s aid, because the Beast seems ready to take her to the Queen and have her fall for something she has not done. ’’What is your method, how have you come to this conclusion? Speak, Beast!’’

And the Beast does, very easily, because he may not be of many words, but the ones he does say carry thousands of years behind them: ’’Because the deceased in question is none other than the Bluebird that charmed our Hunter Witch and her family into bluebirds not too long ago.’’

An intake of breath. Lorna looks at Beatrice. The flickering of the lantern obscures her emotions. Beatrice clings to her axe. ’’I didn’t kill it. Next thing you’ll say that I chopped it up with my axe.’’

’’Of course not. We cannot know this. There was no body to recover.’’ Now he looks at Lorna. And he adds, weary: ’’It was eaten. Only bones remained.’’

The unspoken question lingers in the air. Whispers is holding her breath. Beatrice is cursing something foul under hers. Lorna boggles, this time nearly dropping the lantern. ’’Turtle, I don’t eat birds.’’

’’Right.’’ The Beast nods. He expected nothing less than sensibility from Lorna.

’’I don’t know...’’ Wirt whispers, and the Beast turns to him, ’’you did say you wanted to diversify your diet...’’

Now the Beast turns back to Lorna. She turns to glare at Wirt. Quite meanly, too, because Wirt deflates and hides behind the Beast. ‘’I would have taken the bones with me. I would have made a stew of them, or a broth, or a soup. I would have nibbled on them like a teething babe. I would have made art with them! I would not have left them.’’

None can argue such passion. They know Lorna. Everything she says is true.

’’We must find the culprit.’’ The Beast says. ’’Before we are trapped in spring forever.’’

’’She can’t do that.’’ Beatrice says, paling. ‘’That’s messing with the Unknown. Last time someone messed with the Unknown, its very air killed it.’’

‘’She was a witch.’’ Whispers says, speaking of the late Adelaide. ‘’Not a mapmaker.’’

‘’But you said we are mapmakers, too...‘’ Beatrice furrows her brows.

‘’Together, we can change the season. Apart, we cannot do anything.’’ The Apothecary witch gestures to the sky. ‘’The Queen is much more powerful than we.’’

‘’But she is not mad, is she?’’ Wirt fiddles with his thumbs. ‘’It takes madness to want to halt the Unknown in its process, doesn’t it?’’

’’Enoch has done it before.’’ Whispers recollects. ’’He was angry with the Beast and so he wrought eternal summer on us.’’

’’It was not a good decade.’’ The Apothecary witch agrees, shuddering. She closes her eyes. ’’I thought I would melt from the heat.’’

’’How does summer start?’’ Wirt asks.

And the Beast tells him he is asking the wrong questions. Then he finally stands up and exits the house. ’’I shall investigate matters further.’’ Just as they think he is going to leave, he spins around and says: ’’If it is the two of you, one for revenge, and the other for... I do not know why you would eat a bird, Lorna, but if you did – know I would sacrifice you both for summer.’’

’’It’s always nice to know where you stand.’’ Beatrice mumbles. But it turns to shouting: ’’I didn’t do anything to that bird, but good riddance to them all the same!’’

‘’I would have thrown the bones at the Queen if it were me! She would know.’’ Lorna has become emboldened with time and independence and fiery love.

’’Yes, you are not helping your case.’’ The Beast says. ’’Or perhaps it is that you are throwing me off from the real culprit. In which case, very good work indeed.’’

‘’Turtle,’’ Lorna has never sounded wearier, ‘’I did not kill the blasted bird.’’

‘’It is as you say, until I find evidence proving it is not.’’

Beatrice pinches the bridge of her nose. She simply tells Wirt to accompany the Beast, be his assistant in this. ‘’He thinks himself a detective…’’

’’This is really some Sherlock Holmes nonsense...’’ Wirt smiles with pure delight, ’’I’ll get him a deer stalker.’’ Even brighter delight as his mind connects: ’’A stalker deer with a deer stalker.’’

Chapter Text

Time is a construct that Wirt holds onto with a vice grip. He digs his claws deep into the passage of time and begs to know exactly how much time has passed. Because if he is to give up on this last part of control, he’s going to lose something precious to him.

The Beast has stopped nagging him about this. He says Wirt’s going to miscount one too many days one day and just decide it’s too much effort.

However, the Queen has it out to kill his sense of orientation and his construction of the passage of time as if it’s a personal affront.

Case in point: it hasn't rained in a long time. Which, from the Beast’s recollection of previous springs, is a never before seen phenomenon.

Wirt sees flowers falling down in spring. So he hurries after the Beast, who's gone on a yet another round of investigation. Alas, he hasn’t made it far.

Mainly because the minute they see him, the villagers scream and run in the opposite direction.

The farthest they managed to get is by interrogating the Highwayman. Who, other than promising he’s going to turn his life around and get an honest job, doesn’t really have any relevant information.

Wirt’s beginning to lose his patience. The Beast, meanwhile, is sure that the next person they accost in the woods is – for sure – going to be the right one to speak to about this murder.

The Lantern’s flame is thin. Exhausted. Wirt exhales his fatigue and tries to inhale some optimism.

But with the Beast snooping around the woods, overturning every rock, and trying to excavate information from every turtle they pass by… it’s beginning to take a toll on him.

Not only him! The villagers are frightened and soon enough, some of them are going to become enraged. They can’t walk as they normally would. Even during daytime they see the Beast where the folk are, speaking to their young (not their young!), speaking to their old (not their old – well, to be honest, maybe some of them), and speaking to the Tavern Keeper (who, mind you, is beginning to think letting witches inside her tavern IS VERY MUCH INDEED bad luck and now she’s been marked by the Beast).

The Tavern Keeper’s been tasked to look out for any suspicious busybodies who clearly look as if they’re a murderer. This is when the Highwayman says he’s never actually murdered anyone and that this is all an outfit he’s donned since coming to the Unknown. Because there was already a schoolteacher here and well, he really wanted to try new things and so he, much alike any pedagogue, decided to finally accept the criminal insanity inside of him and be true to his sensibilities.

All while this is happening, the Beast is just staring through the Highwayman. And then he tells him: ‘’Do you take me for a fool?’’

At this point, the Highwayman is shaking like a leaf, all the while Wirt’s doing breathing exercises because this has gone on for too long. It hasn’t rained a day since the investigation began. People are on the precipice of rioting. Their crops are wilting, just when they’re supposed to grow. Their fruit trees are dying.

No matter how much prayer and sacrifice is given to the Queen, she is unmoved from her throne. There will not be any rain or wind until the murderer is caught.

Suddenly there’s a bright light aimed towards the Beast, who, by the opinion of many a villager, is doing fuck all nothing. They ought to get up and grab weapons. If there’s a murderer in their midst, then they’ll set fire to them. Have their soul reach the Queen for judgement, carried by flame.

Unfortunately, this faction of villagers ends up, for a lack of a better word, lost.

‘’Any who decide they know my forest better than I do must pay penance.’’ The Beast explains.

Wirt is out in the forest looking for stragglers now. He could have gone without this.

There is no way to tell the time. It is spring and it will be spring until the Queen decides it’s time for summer. However, it is unlike any spring the Beast has seen so far – because the Queen is enacting vengeance on the murderer through all of them, by halting Spring’s change and metamorphosis. There will be no crops. There will be no rain. There will be no wind. There will be nothing from the sky. She has hidden the sun behind the clouds and the moon even more. They have no true idea how much time has passed.

Lorna’s coughing something fierce into her handkerchief. With her other hand, she holds the Lantern close. But her eyes are screwed shut with pain. It is difficult to breathe.

Beatrice’s brothers are pale and sickly, unable to function without sunlight as they otherwise would be. Their days are shorter, or they their nights are longer… it’s difficult to tell. Even their watches do not tell the time as well as they should, the mechanism itself confused by the Queen’s reign of terror.

The edelwood oil burns even faster, because its consistency is weaker. The soil is weaker and so the tree itself, is less than it needs to be. Wirt is beginning to panic. He looks to the Beast, to see if he has any words of wisdom for this, or a song to ease the nerves. Neither come from the now silent creature. They look at the oil being poured into the Lantern. Wirt is delegated to hunting for more lost souls until this is fixed. The Beast doesn’t cross paths with anyone. He goes deeper and deeper into the Unknown.

Wirt and Lorna wait. They make do with what they can, to keep the Lantern lit. And to keep the villagers from storming inside the forest for answers.

‘’Where were you the night of the 14^th?’’

‘’I don’t know how to tell time! Honest, sir! I’m just a tea-horse on his way to do his honest job. To make an honest living!’’

‘’Now you’re lying to the Warden of these Woods?’’

‘’I’m really not, honest! I’m just Fred the horse – I-I think I was doing a gig on the 14^th?’’

‘’So now you KNOW how to tell the time? Interesting!’’

‘’Sir, please, you’re mighty frightening you are – please stop taking my shipment – sir, please stop opening the tea containers – sir, I’m begging –‘’

‘’- riiibbbiit we don’t know anything about anyone!’’

‘’You have a lot of frogs here. It would be a shame if one of them, perhaps even more than one were to disappear into the Unknown with me? I have connections with recently died Italian restaurateurs –‘

‘’OH ANYHTING BUT THAT – RIIBIIIT! HAVE SOME MERCY, WE’LL PLAY ANY SONG YOU WANT, MISTER TREE –‘

‘’Ha! I shall not be so easily swayed by mere promise of song –‘’

Cut to the Beast being easily swayed by mere promise of song. He’s singing with those playing frogs on their ferryboat as they lift him farther downstream. When one of the frogs misses a note, he delights in throwing it overboard.

The Queen is looking down on all of this from her throne atop the sky. She’s shaking her head and ruminating. ‘’Is it possible that the killer has not yet been caught?’’ Then, looking down at the Beast, who is way farther than he should be.

Now he’s cursing the frogs for tricking him. Come Winter time they’ll see! Oh they’ll all see!

‘’He’s impossible…’’ It is around this time that a flash of something catches the Queen’s eye. The flash, it comes from Whispers. So, easily, the Queen glides down to the witches’ house. ‘’Where were you on the night of the 14^th?’’ The Queen asks, meaning to joke. That questions’ drilled in her mind.

Whispers doesn’t entertain any jokes. She’s grim faced. ‘’The Apothecary witch, Beatrice, and I have scoured the entire territory belonging to us. There is no one here.’’

‘’Yes, the Beast says the same. His forest is empty for any bluebird killers. That boy of his, Wirt, he claims the villagers aren’t hiding anyone. They’re have been sweeps.’’

‘Yes…’’ Whispers says. She wants the Queen to say it herself. ‘’Where does that leave us?’’

And the Queen grimaces. Not wanting to entertain that thought at all.

‘’I heard thunder.’’ The Apothecary witch says. She’s sitting with Beatrice and Lorna, in Lorna’s bedroom. Then she points, loftily, in a direction leading towards Pottsfield. ‘’There wasn’t any lightning to accompany it. But I did hear it. Isn’t that what the Queen said the North Wind told it? It’s he who found the bluebird.’’

‘’Thunder without lightning?’’ Beatrice wonders. She’s sallow faced, herself. Having been unable to find anything fresh to eat in a while.

‘’Aye.’’ She’s mixing elixirs. ‘’You need to be careful. I think I know what’s come upon us.’’

‘’What?’’ Beatrice speaks. She’s close to the cauldron. The whiffs of elixirs tangle in her hair, and the light from the fire and the bubbles illuminates her face. ‘’Come on, you can tell me.’’

‘’It’s not a bluebird killer.’’ The Apothecary witch whispers, she takes a ladle to the cauldron and then to her lips. They glow, and her own bones do, too, even through the skin. ‘’That thing will strike again.’’

‘’And you think the killer’s in Pottsfield?’’ Beatrice wonders. She grabs hold of her friend by the arm and speaks, urgently: ‘’Do you think Enoch knows? We should warn him.’’

The Apothecary witch shrugs her shoulders. She frowns. ‘’He wouldn’t warn us. So we won’t warn him.’’ And then he shakes Beatrice off of her. ‘’I say this to you so you remember yourself. Don’t go where trouble follows. The Queen needs the maiden for her ritual in summer. You're valuable. Stay away from that village.’’

And just like a maiden, Beatrice looks at her sister and lies: ‘’I won’t, don’t worry. I know this is serious.’’

Beatrice slings her axe over her shoulder and sets forth towards Pottsfield. On her way through the village, she passes by acres of farmed land. With skeletons in moss and wilting flowers driving around Turkey-strewn carriages. They greet her amicably, noting her axe. ‘’Oh it’s that bluebird girl. She helped dig up the life of the party, don’t you remember?’’ ‘’Oh, oh yes I do. But she’s no bluebird anymore!’’

‘’No, sir, not a bluebird anymore.’’ Beatrice smiles. She entrenches deeper, towards the heart of the village. More and more turkey are outside, ambling, unsure whether it’s day or night. They’re gobbling in confusion. Beatrice nods towards them in greeting and carries on forward. When the Turkeys see the axe on her shoulder they begin swarming her and pecking gently at her, as if greeting an old friend. Beatrice raises her arms in the air and starts swinging the axe around. ‘’Get! Get away! OI!’’

They finally do leave her be. Beatrice adjusts her dress and heads forward, one foot in front of the other. Axe now in hand. Her red hair frames her face like fire. Her hunting boots drip with mud and dirt. The soil in Pottsfield is untouched by the Queen’s scrutiny. That’s the first thing that tips Beatrice off that something isn’t right here.

She’s just about to head for the Barn, where Enoch is, when she’s stopped by some skeletons. Who’ve decided they’re testing things out and are now donning edelwood sticks. ‘’Don’t we look exquisite?’’ ‘’Why, yes, I do believe we certainly do! Tis a trend, we’re starting. Why, especially when the great union happens!’’ ‘’Oh, I cannot wait, I certainly cannot!’’ Beatrice’s mind whirls with many thoughts as she tries to fight her way past these fashion divas. Alas, they’re very chatty. So they crowd her. ‘’Is it possible that the Folk Hero has returned?’’ ‘’Folk Hero, my dear boy, this is the Explorer! She set forth an expedition into the Unknown and defeated the Beast in duel!’’ ‘’Oh no, no, my good man – you’ve got it all wrong – ‘’

Beatrice fights her way out of their one-up-manship. She heaves a sigh and finds herself in front of the looming, open barn of Pottsfield. The Heart of the Village. There’s a pit of deep dread pooling in her stomach. Beatrice doesn’t move forward or backwards for a while.

‘’- she’s a witch now!’’ the chatter from outside forces Beatrice to finally head inside. It’s time she finally asks some questions of her very own.

‘’A witch?’’ Horror from outside. ‘’But she didn’t look at my bones, not once! Why, I say!’’

‘’She’s not that kind of witch!’’

‘’What kind of witch is she, then?’’

‘’Well, a new kind of witch, I imagine. We needn’t be fright-‘’

Beatrice closes the barn door behind her. And she sees the maypole come to life.

There is no warm welcome. There is no chuckling. He treats her as she was warned he would, since becoming a witch, as a thief in the night. Beatrice isn’t sure whether it’s day or night, so she’ll keep shut on that matter. Instead she sets the axe aside, lest he believe she’s come to cut him down for timber. ‘’Hello, Enoch!’’

Silence from the maypole. It shifts its ribbons accordingly. They trail towards her, but they don’t grab at her. Yet.

Beatrice breathes out. She balls her hands and thinks of Lorna, of her health, and she thinks of her family. Of the Unknown. ‘’I’ll not waste your or my time.’’ It shifts even closer. Beatrice balls and unballs her hands. There’s a stench in here, from the rot, from the corpses. From the flies circling the pumpkin head. She was expecting to speak to the cat. The cat’s an easier target to speak to. This… this is… rather… Beatrice cranes her neck up and up and up and thinks how being human and being a bluebird has done next to nothing to make Enoch smaller. He is over expansive. Vast. Limitless.

‘’Go on.’’ Enoch speaks and it reverberates through her very bones.

Beatrice gulps trepidation down. ‘’This whole thing with the bluebird killer… everyone else looked over their territories… and the killer’s nowhere to be found.’’ She’s staring up at the expansiveness. She’s staring up at Death. At the Magistrate of Pottsfield. And she feels small. She feels like a third of what can stand its scrutiny and survive. ‘’It’s with you, isn’t it?’’

The pumpkin looks as if it’s smiling at her. The mouth moves, but it cannot open. It cannot devour her. The ribbons wrap around Beatrice, bringing her closer. ‘’Is this an interrogation?’’

‘’No, it’s just a question.’’ Beatrice tries to reach for her axe. But she finds it’s gone from its spot. Next she whirls her head around madly, looking for it. ‘’Where’d you take it?’’

‘’Why did you reach it for it, if this were only meant to be a friendly visit?’’

Beatrice doesn’t know how to defend herself from this. ‘’Where’s the killer? They’re with you, aren’t they? Don’t you see it’s madness outside? How can you idly sit by here and let it all go to waste? Where’s your sense of responsibility? And where’s my axe  –‘’

A ribbon wraps around Beatrice’s mouth and nose tightly. ‘’You’ve come into my village and accused me of many things. But I will say, asking after an axe that isn’t even yours has got to be one of the strangest cases I’ve had the misfortune of listening to. Not even the Beast’s lost are this creative in their dying, bargaining moments.’’

One of the ribbons shows the axe, lifting it from behind Enoch. Beatrice muffles something out. It’s rather obscene. So Enoch doesn’t care to hear it.

Instead, he swirls and sways behind her. ‘’You are the first witch to come to Pottsfield. I suppose because you have been not-a-witch for longer than you have been a witch, and so you thought – quite naively – that you were afforded the same courtesy.’’

The ribbon around Beatrice’s mouth tightens. She tries prying it off, but another ribbon grabs her hands and pulls her down. Her knees crack down onto the barn floor. Spots begin to litter her vision. She tugs at the ribbons, begging.

Enoch makes a swinging motion with the axe and cuts the ribbon around her mouth and nose. She’s still bound, now breathing in deeply and coughing out. Panting for breath and crying. ‘’It is your kind who steals from me. Time and time again. You took that axe without checking if you were allowed.’’

‘’The Woodsman wasn’t using it!’’ Beatrice shouts. She glares fiercely, awakened by the promise of death into something desperate.

‘’Yes, what did happen to the Woodsman after he died? I prepared his body. But then all of that nasty business came with the Beast and the Poet.’’ There is anger when Enoch speaks. An emotion that Beatrice has never heard associated with the jolly magistrate. She tries not to shake. ‘’I went to Pottsfield to bring help. And then I carried the Beasts to the House with the Mill – because the witch’s niece said so. And when I came back for the Woodsman, there weren’t any bones for me to take. You stole from me. Again.’’

Beatrice says she doesn’t know anything about that. ‘’I wasn’t a witch back then!’’

‘’You aided the Poet in killing the Woodsman.’’

Beatrice realises she is on trial, without a jury, and only an executioner primed for results. She’s thrashing with the ribbons. ‘’He was going to kill Wirt – I couldn’t – he’s tied to the Beast – you wouldn’t have wanted the Beast to get hurt – admit it–‘’ a new ribbon wraps around Beatrice’s mouth.

‘’So, you admit in collaborating with the Beast Poet in killing the Woodsman. You took the axe as a souvenir –‘’ Beatrice is shaking her head no furiously. ‘’- then the witches of the Unknown, yet again, stole bones from me. Bones from a father, who now cannot even rest. The Beast, since you’re keen on bringing him up, has made an arrangement with me that his lantern bearers come to me when the time comes. I do not see him anywhere.’’ The barn shakes. ‘’Where are his bones?’’ He’s closer, closer than ever, the rotted pumpkin. Orchestrated by the feline inside.

‘’She won’t say.’’ A frightened, tear-filled voice speaks. ‘’Mr Enoch, she won’t say, will she?’’

Beatrice turns, madly, and sees a young girl with a rifle. She’s been hiding behind Enoch. The barn impedes any view from the sky, it's a perfect hiding spot. Beatrice sees the killer face to face. There are tear streaks down her face. It’s a pale young girl. The resemblance between her and the Woodsman is striking. Beatrice chokes on a lump in her throat that refuses to go either way.

Enoch continues, undettered. ‘’I shall now list the Hunter Witch’s crimes. Collobartion in the case of the Woodsman’s murder. Theft of the Woodsman’s bones, on account of her now being a witch and this being a solely witch-related matter. Possession of Pottsfield property that was only lent to the Woodsman through a third party, for the task of cutting down edelwood.’’ Enoch rises, unfurling more of his ribbons, like tendrils behind him. ‘’And the worst crime of all: trespassing.’’

The ribbons don’t allow Beatrice to speak. They simply manhandle her body so it turns to face the young girl head on.

‘’The verdict is simple.’’ Enoch turns to the young girl. ‘’Miss Anna, if you would please.’’

Beatrice sees the young girl raise the rifle in her hands and aim it straight at her.

Chapter Text

There are very few rules in the Unknown, and that is because the players who have unfortunately been thrust into the act of forging said rules do so hate the mere idea of having to uphold anything that isn’t their own selfish pursuit for satiety.

Those very few they could agree upon go something like this:

There must always be a Beast, must always be a Queen, must always be three witches, must always be a Magistrate, etc.

The etc. part is where things get tricky.

A growl of a stomach. Ravenous thoughts. The howl of a cold, nightmarish wind. That is the symphony Anna has to contend with on her way through the Unknown. The farther out she gets, she more lost she feels. It's a revolting thing, holding her father's rifle and taking his place. She doesn’t feel like her hands can carry the weight.

‘’Girl,’’ a voice says, full of mocking glee, ‘’what are you doing so far out of your home?’’

Anna turns towards it. She sees a bluebird perched in a tree. And her hands knowingly curl around the rifle. Around the trigger. ‘’I’m looking for my father.’’ She describes him to the bluebird.

‘’Your father is dead.’’ The bluebird chirps, swooping closer, until it rests on her shoulder. It regards her like one does a new toy.

Her eyes widen. ‘’Liar.’’ She whispers, drowned out by the nightmarish wind. This all feels like it’s a terrible dream. ‘’You’re a trickster, aren’t you?’’

‘’You’ll find we all are on this side of the woods.’’ The bluebird mocks. Its beak pecks her hard, in lieu of a toothy smile.

Anna fans it away and stumbles backwards. She hits her back against a tree. And when she turns towards it, she finds it is marred with horrible, pained faced. ‘’Leave me alone.’’

It refuses, following her deeper and deeper into the woods. It flies circles above her and jeers.

Anna’s stomach growls. She bends beneath another tree trunk, marred with expressions of terror and awe, and she doubles over. Clutching onto her stomach with one hand, and not letting go of her father’s rifle with the other. ‘’I said leave me alone.’’ She begs the bird, with tears in her eyes.

The Bluebird laughs, a high pitched thing. Higher than the whistle of the wind. ‘’Are you looking for your father’s bones?’’

‘’I’m looking for my father! Bones and flesh and soul and all!’’ Anna shouts, over the wind. She wants to find her father much more than she wants to bend to the elements.

‘’I’m afraid he’s already been ripped apart. At most, you’ll be able to find his bones. His soul’s spoken for, and his flesh has dissolved in another’s stomach by now.’’

Anna shudders. ‘’Liar. Trickster! Deceiver!’’

The bluebird perches on a tree branch, twisted by a different sort of relief of hunger. The kind of relief Anna cannot have. She looks at these strange trees and finds her head dizzy. Finds starving spots littering her vision. ‘’He’s dead, girl.’’

‘’No, he’s not. He said – he’d never die. He’d never leave me. Not after mother left.’’ Anna begs. Her hands shake. As she raises the rifle at the bluebird.

It watches her. It peers into her and it finds something delicious. Not a new toy, but an old toy come back to life. ‘’Do you think you can do it?’’

‘’What?’’ Anna whispers, through chattering teeth. Shouldn’t it be spring? But it’s no kind spring, as they’ve promised. There’s something deadly about this spring. Something awfully cold still that lingers.

The Bluebird chirps, inquisitively. ‘’Kill a witch. Do you think that’s something you can do?’’

Anna looks away. She whispers, under her breath, it coming out as mist. ‘’You’re a witch?’’

‘’Well, I’m many things.’’ The bluebird pitter-patters with its little feet all over the tree. ‘’A trickster, as you say. A magical bluebird, as some call me. A vicious, magical bluebird.’’ It corrects. And then laughs. ‘’But my queen calls me her eyes and her wings, her Court Witch. She loves me very much.’’ It flies into the sky, finding the wind nothing but a slight breeze, when Anna cannot even hold steady on her feet. She hides behind the tree, looking up at the bluebird doing flips of all things, emboldened by the nightmarish wind, as if greeting an old friend.

Anna takes aim. ‘’Leave me alone and I won’t do anything untoward.’’

‘’You’re starving.’’ The bluebird says. Now, it lands on the barrel of her rifle and begins grooming itself by pecking at its wing. ‘’You didn’t pack enough food, did you?’’

Anna’s blush is from the cold and not embarrassment, she hopes. ‘’I packed plenty.’’

‘’Then why are you hungry?’’ The Bluebird must know. That’s why it’s asking her like she’s an idiot. It just wants the satisfaction of being the one to explain to her why.

Anna whispers, pained. ‘’I do not know why, but everything has rotted. I packed all of my favourites, all of the things my mother would make for me, all of the things father would –‘’ she trails off, screwing her eyes shut and looking away from the bluebird. ‘’I heard of madness coming from these woods. The Beast is afoot-‘’

‘’Oh nay, child.’’ The bluebird laughs. ‘’The Beast does not inflict hunger on others. He is not so cruel.’’

‘’Then you?’’

‘’Not at all! I come from the sky, with souls aplenty. I do not bargain like so. Tell me, these things you brought with you – did they come from the soil?’’

Anna nods. She starts listing these things, from vegetables to fruit. And she’s taking them out of her bag. All of them are rotted when they weren’t before. ‘’I don’t understand.’’ Her stomach growls. ‘’I tried to pick mushrooms from these woods, but they –‘’ Anna drops the rifle, causing the bluebird to fly near her height. She shows the bluebird, finding mushrooms intertwined by black turtles. They’re ripe and wonderful, but when she takes them out of the soil, they’re dead as can be. Infested with something she doesn’t know how to handle. ‘’I don’t understand.’’

‘’It’s because the soil has recognized you. And it’s leading you to a place where you can eat.’’ The Bluebird joyfully does another flip.

It is not a joyful occasion at all for Anna. She buries her head in her hands and weeps. ‘’You’re saying all of this is for nothing? That my father’s dead. And that the Unknown is toying with me.’’ Anna takes up the rifle again. She dries her tears with her hand. ‘’And why should I trust anything you say? Didn’t you just admit you were a trickster?’’

‘’The Beast and the witches share these woods and the dead who wander inside, one scavenging for souls, and the other for bones.’’  The bluebird climbs further up the barrel so it can peck her hand and wake her from her daze. ‘’The Queen is above it all, you see. She has me to deal with these worldly matters.’’ It expands its wings. ‘’I’m her little eyes so she can focus on what’s important. So she isn’t distracted from her hunt.’’

‘’Get to the point already!’’ Anna screams, hunger and the wind blaring in her mind’s eye. She shakes the rifle and so she shakes the bluebird off of it. Finally, she has it in sight as a target.

‘’I’ve been looking at you for a while now. It’s always been the case that those of your affliction can’t be sustained by anything other than the harvest. I can take you to Enoch, he’ll be happy to see you. One of your kind hasn’t been around these parts in a long while.’’

‘’I think you’re lying.’’ Anna says. She has no reason to believe a self-proclaimed trickster spirit. But it is true that whatever comes from the soil rots by the time it reaches her mouth. Her eyes widen when she sees the Bluebird flapping its little wings, high up in the air. ‘’I think you’re lying to me. About everything.’’

‘’Think what you like. But with the way you’re poorly managing, I don’t believe you’ll last another day.’’ It jeers her, laughing and flying up higher and higher in the air.

While it does flips and circles in the air above her. Anna grits her teeth. And she whispers: ‘’You don’t come from the soil…’’ Her stomach churns. Her stomach flips into something deeply pained. She widens her eyes and aims her rifle at the bluebird. This time, with finality in mind.  

It looks down at her and chirps. ‘’Do you want to know why I know you won’t last a day? Because Enoch won’t have any use out of you if you won’t kill witches. And here you are, starving, and still holding yourself back. There’s no room in the Unknown for hesitation.’’

‘’And you want to die?’’ Anna whispers. She puts her finger on the trigger.

‘’I don’t, no.’’ The bluebird says, but then it mocks her. ‘’But I know you can’t do it. You don’t have that same resolution as the boy before you did.’’

Anna is so terribly hungry. She imagines that bluebirds taste like the geese her father would shoot and skin and cook. Her hands are shaking. She hopes that there’ll come a moment, during the bird’s speech, when she’ll stop hesitating and take action. But it’s frightening. It’s frightening far more than the hunger is.

‘’Neither you nor your father could ever do anything for yourselves. He was the Beast’s pawn and if you’re lucky, if you survive this – you’ll be the cat’s. Ask yourself what you want?’’

‘’I want to find my father.’’ Anna shoots the damned thing.

It drops from the sky with a thud. No more mockery, no more jeers, no more ugly, terrible things spilling from its beak. She begins plucking it hurriedly, ravenously, afraid that any moment it’ll rot – that it’ll all rot before she can eat. And she’s so hungry. She so wants to eat. Tears mix with wind and blood.

The Queen is berating the Beast yet again, because he isn’t yielding any results. ‘’It was right beneath an edelwood, in your part of the woods! You broke the Accord! I have no idea what this farce is – playing detective – when I know – oh I know you’re guilty! I can see it in your lying eyes. The North Wind said there was thunder with no lightning – and I don’t know what sort of magic you wield, trickster – but let it be known that when I find out you’re behind all of this, there will be reckoning!’’

The Beast is staring right through the Queen. He could have gone without this.

‘’You best hope – oh you best hope you catch the culprit, Beast, or else I’ll start with that Lantern Bearer of yours- since clearly the arrangement means nothing to you.’’

The Beast, also, could have gone without these threats.

‘’Could you start with the Poet, instead?’’

‘’No! You’d enjoy that!’’ The Queen vanishes into the sky with her cloud.

The Beast decides he ought to speak with some reasonable folk for a change. 

Anna finds herself ambling towards a village. She sees turkeys and skeletons. They greet her jovially, like one would a guest. And when she explains her predicament, they bring her to Enoch.

He’s a cat sitting on a fence. He’s licking his paw and cleaning his ears. ‘’Welcome to Pottsfield.’’

‘’Hi. Er, thank you.’’ Anna whispers. She sets her father’s rifle aside. Because that’s the polite thing to do. ‘’My name’s Anna.’’ She sits on the grass next to the fence and waits for the cat to speak.

‘’My name is Enoch, Miss Anna. I have been waiting for your arrival.’’

‘’Mine?’’ Anna doesn’t know what makes her so special.

‘’Well, I’ve been waiting for an arrival. With now there being three witches and this being the witching season, after all. I am owed my due.’’ Enoch purrs and jumps off of the fence to nuzzle against her. To offer her comfort. Anna pets him, gently going along the length of his back. His tail playfully swats her face. Anna blinks at this. She smiles, lopsided, and waits for further instruction. It doesn’t yet come. Instead, Enoch takes her to where she’ll sleep and eat.

Anna’s mouth waters at all of the fruit and vegetables. And meat and eggs.

‘’Look at him, he dares to show his face.’’ The Apothecary witch has been drinking potions. So this means she’s in a fiery mood. Fire fuming out of her nostrils and ears notwithstanding.

The Beast greets them. ‘’I expected to have all three of you present. But this will do.’’

‘’What’s next?’’ Whispers asks, anxious how she hasn’t been in a long time. ‘’Should we expect another arrival?’’

‘’No, absolutely not!’’ The Apothecary witch shouts, drawing back as if burnt. She drops a vial on the floor. ‘’Don’t you even speak that into the wind, lest into the Unknown!’’

‘’It is only fair.’’ The Beast says, slowly. ‘’You being three versus only one of him.’’

‘’Lest you forget it’s one of his that hunted and pared us down until we were unrecognizable!’’ The Apothecary witch shouts. She’s mixing tonics and shaking something fierce, something only age can bring forth. ‘’Do you want to be the one to explain to Lorna why it is, that this the first Spring she’s seen? Why there are so many old bones in the crypt under Whispers’ home that haven’t been replenished. He’d have us starve!’’

‘’We have the Accord now…’’ The Beast says lamely. ‘’You can have bones as long as the living say so before they die.’’ Again. ‘’The Accord is there to be upheld-‘’

‘’Not a single of you actually wants to uphold that thing.’’ Whispers raises her brows at the Beast and any ill-fitting attempt he may have to defend this. She’s holding a bag in her lap, and she’s rummaging about it to calm her nerves.

‘’Well, we must.’’ The Beast reminds them. ‘’Lest you forget what happened in order for us to need it.’’

Whispers shudders. She takes out a rib from the bag and flips it around and around and around.

The Apothecary witch is downing a potion down her gullet. Then another one for good measure.

‘’Where is the Hunter-Witch?’’ The Beast laughs, at the misnomer he gave her for a time. ‘’I remember thinking her the witch hunter.’’

‘’The Cat never looked her way. She was marked by Adelaide, after all.’’ Whispers says. She puts the rib back in the bag and sets the entire thing aside, to stand up. ‘’That one changed so many titles. And for what? She runs head first into things like she learned nothing from her time antagonizing bluebirds. You know what gets a witch when she runs head first into things? It gets her killed. I’ll tell you that much.’’

‘’You need a strong constitution to be a witch hunter, after all. You need to be alive.’’ The Apothecary witch pauses, mulling it all over in her mind before continuing. ‘’Or you just need to be good at farming, I don’t know what qualifications the cat is looking for.’’

The Beast tries to speak to them, to tell them that this might not even be a witch hunter. This might just be a criminally deranged soul whom they’ll find and deal with. That this isn’t a cause for such alarm.

‘’I swear, Beast, if I see the cat threatening us with a witch hunter, I’ll make sure to go after that Lantern Bearer of yours.’’ The Apothecary witch, not one to let death take her sitting, is now climbing on top of the table to really lay it on the Beast, ‘’She breathed your oil and I’ll make sure I’ll douse her in it and burn her, making sure she dies by it just as she lived by it.’’

Whispers pulls the Apothecary witch down from the table, from trying to get on eye level with the Beast. ‘’Control yourself. Threats won’t do anyone any good.’’

‘’Nay, I’ll do it! I will! And I’ll go right after her – better on my own terms than however that barbaric cat took us all out.’’

‘’In his defence you did… steal from him… an absurd amount of times.’’

‘’Of course he’s on his side!’’

‘’Well, they are to marry.’’ Whispers does point out.

‘’I recall you once being a friend of witches!’’

‘’A long time ago.’’ The Beast concedes.

‘’Now he sleeps with cats.’’ Whispers mumbles.

‘’If I see another arrow of bone, I swear Beast – ‘’

‘’The chances of the new witch hunter knowing the old ways are very slim. Wirt barely knows how to sew and that used to once be a requirement for any form of life. No, you must think in line with the future.’’

‘’You think they’ll have a gun?’’ Whispers asks.

The Apothecary witch shrugs her shoulders. ‘’Honestly, might as well.’’

‘’What is a gun?’’

They turn to look at the Beast.

‘’It’s that thing the pirates used on you.’’

The notorious battle of the pirates v Beast is a story that’s been passed down in the Unknown as one of the weirdest moments in the Beast’s long history.

The Beast continues to stare. ‘’Swords?’’

‘’It makes thunder without lightning.’’

‘’Ah, a cannon.’’ The Beast has his eureka moment.

‘’Yes, but a small one.’’

‘’So not a very efficient cannon. Why are you afraid of it?’’

Before this can prolong (just as all matters do when it comes to explaining anything to the Beast, who is against learning anything new, ever, even if it’ll make his life easier), the Apothecary witch asks: ‘’Is it stated in the Accord that he can’t have a witch hunter since the incident or that he isn’t allowed to have one until a certain amount of time has passed?’’

‘’Yes, good question. What does the Accord say?’’ Whispers asks.

‘’Ask the Queen, she has the Accord.’’

This is when both witches turn on him. ‘’YOU have the Accord!’’

The Beast doesn’t do anything as undignified as sputtering. He comes close: ‘’Since when do I have the Accord?’’

‘’I believe there was talk of the Queen being liable to change it in disfavour of the Beast.’’

‘’Yes, also there was talk that if either the cat or we had it – that that just wouldn’t be wise.’’

‘’So I have the Accord?’’

‘’Yes.’’

The Beast does not know if he has ever seen the Accord since signing it.

‘’Sweet Circe…he’s lost it.’’

‘’This isn’t good. It might have been stolen in the meanwhile. Without the Accord we don’t actually have any means to prove if that cat is breaking its rules or not.’’

The Beast goes to search for the Accord.

‘’Check Pottsfield!’’ The witches shout.

He waves them off. He has many a place to check before he saunters into that village and accuses Enoch of such treasonous crimes. Maybe he’s well within his rights to get a witch hunter. And maybe whoever’s killed the Queen’s witch isn’t a witch hunter at all, and maybe it’s just a lost soul that he’ll turn into an edelwood. Or he’ll be collegial and he’ll hand the soul over to the Queen directly. He’ll see.

For now he makes a detour on his murder investigation to find that Accord. He makes a brief stop at the House with the Mill to find Lorna coughing her guts out. He takes the Lantern from her and tells her to get some fresh air.

‘’Am I cursed again?’’ Lorna’s holding onto Beatrice’s hand, emulating a scene around a deathbed.

The Beast doesn’t do anything as undignified as snorting. He comes close: ‘’Don’t be ridiculous, Lorna. You’re sick because the sun’s been gone and there’s nothing fresh to eat.’’

Lorna groans, burying her head under the covers. ‘’None of you will let me be.’’

‘’Lorna, sweetheart,’’ Beatrice is attempting to get Lorna to eat something, anything.

Lorna, as per her right as a melodramatic and ailing girl, refuses to get out of bed. ‘’My time has come.’’

Beatrice turns to the Beast, and she pleads with him. By looking forlornly at Lorna and then at him and then back to Lorna.

‘’Fine. You have apparently become a nuisance.’’ The Beast grabs hold of the covers and rips them away from Lorna. She hisses, with perturbed anger. ‘’Get out of bed. Get some fresh air.’’

‘’Nothing I eat is good.’’ Lorna’s crying. ‘’I’m a growing girl. Why is the world constantly against me? Wherefore, Turtle, wherefore? Bea, who am I? Am I dying? May my last words to you be: I love you!’’

‘’Oh honey,’’ Beatrice begins cuddling Lorna. ‘’You’ll make it. Don’t worry. It’s all a trying time right now.’’ Let it be known that out of the two of them, Beatrice looks like she’s on death’s door much more than Lorna does.

The Beast is mortified by this display. ‘’If you do not pull yourself together, I shall have no other choice but to let your aunt come to watch you. Because clearly, you are in no fit to do so by yourself.’’

Lorna jumps out of bed. ‘’I am going for a walk!’’ She begins dressing. ‘’In fact, I think I shall run! Because that is something that is good for one’s constitution, isn’t that right, Turtle?’’

‘’Just sit outside and have some fresh air. Drink water from the river and nowhere else from. Catch a fish. It doesn’t come from the soil.’’ The Beast sometimes truly cannot believe how many children he surrounds himself by. He turns to Beatrice. ‘’Where is Wirt?’’

She shrugs. ‘’I think he’s wooing a skeleton girl in Pottsfield.’’

The Beast does not have time to unpack that. ‘’Good for him.’’ He settles on being positive. And then, he digs into his coat, and past the leaves, and deeper into the crevices of his bark, until he finds a small glass vial. When he takes it out, he hands it to Lorna. ‘’If you really can’t function. Drink this.’’

‘’I’m not drinking edeloil.’’ Lorna looks at him like he’s insane.

‘’I shall have you know that you drank this when you were a babe and you turned out fine.’’

Lorna looks at the vial in horror. ‘’There weren’t any milkmaids you or Auntie could find?’’

‘’This was during the brief period of time before you came to be in your Aunt’s care.’’ The Beast drops lore on Lorna she had no idea about and leaves.

Now, to find that Accord.

The Beast has no home office to speak of, and hardly anywhere as secure to keep something as precious as the Accord. So he thinks of someone with a tangible house, with four walls and a roof to protect against the elements (the Queen), the earth and weeds from burrowing inside (Enoch), or even witches from coming by (mainly due to a deep dislike and an animosity that only festered with age).

He finds himself standing in front Adelaide’s house in the pasture. Long, long ago, before this house was built here, there used to be many witches who would dance and sing around a giant bonfire, smashing their feet against bones and feeding on magic. They would always invite him, because he was a friend of witches at the time.

Inside, he sees it’s been stripped bare of any magical items. This is how it’s always been. When a witch dies, and right after the golden age, they used to die quite often and quite horrendously to boot – when a witch dies, the other members of her coven would come and take what they want from the house, in honour of the passed witch’s great endeavours. Unfortunately for Adelaide, she isn’t very magically adventurous. But she does keep things that no one else would. The Beast certainly wouldn’t.

He’s using the Lantern to illuminate the many books she has and probably hasn’t read, even cooped up inside as she was in her last years. He finds a book that’s much more used than the others, on account of it being well taken care of and maintained. So he nudges it out of from its nook and lets it fall on the ground. It doesn’t have a title, but when he opens it, he finds Adelaide’s handwriting. Getting messier and messier as the years go on. The Beast entertains himself by reading a few passages, if only because her song-writing has always been much better than her spell casting. Her last few songs range into the sphere of melancholy and heartbroken, which doesn’t fill the Beast with any inspiration. So he closes the book without any further ado and starts looking for that Accord again.

He finally finds the Accord in an umpteenth book. This one laying on her bed. She uses the Accord as a bookmark. Well, frankly, the Beast has no weight in this because up until a few hours ago, he didn’t even know the Accord was supposed to be with him. There are photographs of Lorna in this one. Almost all of the photographs inside of this book are of Lorna. Up until she gets cursed.

The Beast takes the Accord from between the pages and sets the book back. He examines the Accord and thinks to himself that there’s much ado about nothing. It’s just a slip of parchment. Barely legible. What illiterate wrote this? The Beast then remembers he was the one to note take during that accursed meeting.

Finally, on his way out, he sees Adelaide’s ashes. Her coven sisters didn’t touch them. All they did, as witches are allowed to do to their own, is take their magic and carry it over, pass it on. But these things, things that make up one’s soul, they leave them be. For the next of kin, but Adelaide’s without any next of kin, on account of being so wretchedly terrible in her old age she’s managed to burn all of her bridges.

The Beast scoops a handful of the ashes and feels her slip between his claws. He opens the flap to the Lantern and this time, when he scoops up Adelaide’s ashes, he flings every last grain into the flame.

Without anything else to do in this house, the Beast leaves.

Wirt is stumbling through a poem and being very brave about it. Maybe Martha, the skeleton, is draped with wilting flowers. He hopes she’s smiling. But he isn’t sure. He really isn’t sure. Oh no. Skeletons don’t have human expressions. But that’s fair, he doesn’t really have any human expressions either. Oh this terrible. How will either of them know if the other one’s having a fun time? Wirt is losing any and all manner of coherent thought the longer he’s on the outskirts of Pottsfield with Maybe Martha.

‘’That’s such a lovely poem,’’ she says in the end, something about the way the flowers frame her mouth into a silhouette of a smile.

And Wirt’s eyes glow. ‘’Ha, hey, um, thanks.’’

‘’How goes the detective work?’’

Wirt so rarely has any time for himself these days. When he isn’t with the Beast, helping him solve crimes (he is not solving anything, if anything the Beast, just by his mere presence and the history of who he is in the Unknown, manages to make everything much worse and leaves Wirt to pick up the pieces), or when he isn’t hunting and making new trees to make sure there’s enough oil for the both of them, he’s trying to be with Maybe Martha. ‘’It goes well. No progress yet. Though, the Beast says he’ll find the culprit. How are you? Anything new happening in Pottsfield?’’

And Maybe Martha leans forward, as if she’s about to give him the tastiest piece of gossip. ‘’We’ve got a new arrival.’’

Wirt infers this to be of the skeleton variety. In a way he’s correct. Anna certainly does have a skeleton. ‘’O-oh, tell me more?’’

‘’Well, she lives with the turkeys. They like her best. But she’s a shy thing. Lost a father. Carries around his rifle of all things.’’ Maybe Martha then goes on a whole tangent about how the poor thing’s unaccustomed to the turkeys and how they chased her around all day.

Wirt chuckles. He rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. ‘’This Anna sure sounds like she’s having a rough time.’’

Maybe Martha crosses her bony arms.

Wirt now begins to suspect that skeletons, much alike living girls, can get rather jealous. ‘’I didn’t mean anything by that!’’

A loud noise startles Wirt. Maybe Martha turns in the same direction he does – towards Pottsfield. He stands up, curious. She pulls him down and simply says. ‘’That’ll be Anna. She practises shooting when she’s done tending to the turkeys.’’

‘’With a gun?’’ Wirt remembers the phrase ‘thunder without lightning’ and then puts in the context of half of these people and entities not knowing what a phone is. So he’s to fill the blanks.

‘’I imagine that is what a rifle is.’’ Maybe Martha’s bony arms continue to be crossed. Yes, oh – yes, she did mention a rifle. Wirt was not listening. Oh no. Oh no, no. No, he was too busy looking at her and wondering if his poem really was terrible and if he was laughing at all of the right moments to truly listen. No, no, he needs to flee. Wirt stands up and says: ‘’The Beast is calling me.’’ His voice breaks and he flees.

Enoch explains to young Miss Anna what the current situation is: ‘’The witches, they cheated me. Again. I have no way of defending myself against them, you see. Defenceless as I am against them. Someone has to protect these villagers of mine. Before they become bold and steal their bones and use their magic to interfere with what I’m trying to bring these kind folk. You see, this has been going on for a long time.’’

‘’Oh Mr Enoch,’’ Anna whispers, clasping her hands together. She looks to the skeletons, all merry and content, and cries that her father didn’t get this. ‘’I’ll help you.’’ With a full belly, of course she will.

‘’It’ll be difficult.’’ Enoch says. ‘’And I do so hate the timing of it all, but if I don’t draw a line now – come next spring they’ll retaliate even harder.’’

Anna nods. ‘’I understand, Mr Enoch! And you’ve got my full support.’’

The Beast finds Wirt and Lorna and hands them the Lantern. ‘’Watch it.’’

Next, the Beast hands Lorna the Accord and tells her to guard this with her life. That the fate of the Unknown’s continued existence depends on it.

‘’Where are you off to?’’

‘’I am off to interrogate some frogs. Find clues. Do something to stop this insanity.’’ Then, to Wirt. ‘’When you are done courting skeletons, be sure to pull your weight.’’

Wirt, were he not completely derailed and embarrassed by the Beast finding out about his outings with Maybe Martha, would have probably at the very least attempted to stand up for himself. Alas, he does not. ‘’S-sure, yeah.’’

Lorna attempts to stand up for Wirt, but the Beast just looks at her. ‘’I see you are in better health.’’

And she shuts up instantaneously.

The Beast does not like frogs anymore. He should have expected this type of behaviour from a band. They just don’t know how to treat a singer. So he turns away from the river and goes into the forest. He strolls about for a while, with no care for any amount of passing time. This is a strange part of the forest, one he does not enjoy walking in.

‘’Are you lost?’’ An odd thing sing-songs, jumping in front of his path and waving hello. It flaps its red wings and grins a wicked grin at its new companion. Nobody comes in these parts for a reason.

‘’Absolutely not. I know exactly where I am.’’ The Beast does not like where he is, but that’s a different matter. For the most part he tries to ignore the thing following him, ever since he’s disembarked from the ferryboat. Instead, he stares at an edelwood, that’s pale and thin, with wind and cold aches in the bark.

‘’You have me concerned, friend, since you’ve been staring at this tree for a while now.’’

‘’I am allowed to look at my old trees all I please.’’ The Beast returns. He scratches the tree with his claw for good measure. It breaks the bark easily. It’s old. Dead inside. Dried up.

‘’Yours, are they?’’ The thing raises to its full height (rather short fellow, honestly – the Beast doesn’t see a threat here, merely an inconvenience) and tries to glare with its giant, eerie eyes.

‘’Yes, they are.’’

‘’I don’t remember seeing you around these parts.’’

The Beast does not elaborate. He goes further into the Unknown. Glancing upward, at the sky with no sun or moon. ‘’What do you think of this?’’

‘’I don’t mind it.’’ A relishing laugh. ‘’People are desperate in the dark.’’

‘’That they are.’’ The Beast agrees.

They continue in silence. But the thing, whatever it may be, or whatever it wants to become, isn’t one for silence. It begins speaking, rapidly. ‘’I have never met anyone quite like you, fellow. Are you that Beast they speak about over yonder, on the other side of this forest? The Unknown’s Singer, they say. Is it true the Unknown itself gave you that voice? I heard you singing on the ferryboat. And cursing quite a lot, too!’’ The thing laughs, its wings flapping, its form doubling over and shuffling in the air in circles.

The Beast is not one for flattery. Especially not when he has no recollection of whatever this thing is. And he usually knows what things are and who people are. He, however, won’t ask it for its name.

‘’Where’s your lantern?’’

The Beast tilts his head to the side and thinks. He closes his eyes and sees his flame with his cat. ‘’Pottsfield.’’

‘’And where’s that, friend?’’

The Beast nearly breaks composure. He does not: ‘’It appears you do not travel often.’’ For him it is unthinkable that there can exist things that do not know of Pottsfield.

‘’No, can’t say I do. There’s just not enough time for Old Scratch to strike out. I’ve got to keep guard of this part of the Unknown. It’s mine now.’’ Old Scratch snaps his fingers and disappears in a puff of red smoke, only to appear on another edelwood tree. ‘’Say, why’d you leave it anyway?’’

‘’I forgot about it.’’ The Beast admits easily. ‘’Luckily, too, or else I’d have to contend with the likes of you.’’

‘’Ah, but I’m a friend.’’ Old Scratch grins a big and wide smile. ‘’I am not interested in anything competitive with the likes of you or the missus from the sky, no-sir! Instead, I make ill spirits and malevolent forces and I bottle them up and sell them. Business used to be better in the golden age of the witching season, I’ll tell you that much. But oh well, the Accord’s the Accord! I sleep in your trees, also.’’

The Beast takes a moment to process this. His entire take away from that is this: ‘’You sleep in my trees?’’

‘’Yes, I do. You’ve made them a rather comfortable arbour endeavour. Rather warm, too. I think it’s because of the human aspect, that warmth. Or it could be because they’re ever so happy in the end, not to go alone. I think that’s what’s most frightening to these poor, lost things.’’

The Beast does not know how to feel about Old Scratch. He decides to stick with annoyance. ‘’I am stuck with a poet, and now a philosopher.’’

Old Scratch disappears and reappears in front of the Beast, trying to ask him more and more about what happens on the other side of the forest. He’s heard wonders! ‘’Is it true you’re getting hitched?’’

‘’How did you learn that?’’ The Beast boggles.

‘’The Queen’s witch, that bluebird of hers, it flew down here a while back and told me.’’

‘’You spoke with the Bluebird?’’ The Beast now remembers he’s still got a murder investigation to, well, investigate.

Old Scratch nods his head so hard it threatens to dislodge and roll on the ground below. ‘’Sure I did! Blue and I go way back. I tell you, he used to be my best customer back in the golden age. I cut him, in, too, if he’d carry my wares to the other witches. This used to be witch territory, wasn’t it?’’

‘’No.’’ The Beast says. ‘’This part was always mine. I now roam where they used to.’’

Old Scratch attempts to speak. The Beast doesn’t have time to entertain the follies of the mentally insane. Instead: ‘’Where were you on the 14^th night of Spring?’’

‘’Night of the 14^th? This Spring? Why, I can’t say I was anywhere, really. I might’ve been in that tree over there.’’ Old Scratch points to the tree in question. It’s just an ordinary edelwood. The Beast tries to recall if he can who it is he put in that tree. But he can’t. It was such a long time ago.

‘’Is that right?’’

‘’Or I might have been in this tree.’’ Old Scratch disappears and reappears into a different tree entirely. On top of a twisting edelwood, two-or-three of them intertwined together in an embrace. The Beast imagines this to be some sort of family, or siblings. They usually come in threes. Well, they might’ve been lovers. But lovers lose hope the slowest.

‘’Sleeping I take it?’’ The Beast drawls out. He is losing patience with Old Scratch.

‘’Well, honestly, now that you mention it. I think I was at the waterfall.’’ Old Scratch rubs his chin pensively.

The Beast draws back. He blinks his eyes at the little being in front of him. ‘’It is still here?’’

‘’Oh yes, indeed! Look, I’ll take you.’’ Old Scratch jumps to attention and begins marching.

The Beast follows. And ignores Old Scratch for the most part.

Anna shoots the rifle with shaking hands. It misses Beatrice. Wirt slams open the barn door. He’s carrying the Lantern. Lorna’s coughing as she ambles after Wirt, bending down and wheezing. All in all, a poor rescue they make.

Enoch’s staring at them all. ‘’What’s this about?’’

‘’Um, well,’’ Wirt, never one to think of himself as capable of taking on the role of a Sherlock Holmes-like character, always rather satisfied and content to be Watson, has found himself working alongside the worst possible entity to ever attempt to play Sherlock Holmes, and so that entire experience kind of broke him out of this mindset. Why can’t he be Sherlock Holmes? Who says? The Beast? That guys isn’t even here. ‘’I figured it out.’’

Enoch burrows out of the rotted pumpkin. He jumps down the maypole and towards them. ‘’Yes? Where are the Woodsman’s bones?’’

Wirt has not figured that part out, on account of not knowing that was something he was supposed to figure out. He begins to sweat. Maybe he should not have been so bold. This is agony.

‘’With Auntie.’’ Lorna says, as if it’s all rather obvious.

‘’Vindication!’’ Enoch shouts, his tail swishing angrily. He bares his teeth and his claws, ready to strike a whole frontal attack on the witches for this slight.

Anna, if she’s being perfectly honest, is not cut out for this life. She drops the rifle and puts her head in her hands. This isn’t the kind of person her parents would want her to be. ‘’Why are my father’s bones with some strange woman? A witch, I take it?’’

‘’Well, as per the Accord,’’ Lorna’s looking at the piece of parchment. And she’s looking. And she’s desperately trying to read this. Wirt joins in, scanning the parchment in agony.

‘’Who wrote this?’’

‘’I don’t know. Whoever did was illiterate.’’

‘’I will have you know that letters looked a lot different back then.’’ Enoch comes in defence of the culprit. ‘’You try writing things with ink and parchment under the light of Lantern.’’

Beatrice, now free of the ribbons, stands up and shouts: ‘’He tried to kill me!’’

‘’Be careful, who says I am done with my attempts?’’

Lorna grabs hold of Beatrice and pulls her behind. ‘’Try something and see what happens, cat.’’

Enoch laughs, looking at the sight of the witch’s niece trying to threaten him.

Wirt says he can’t decipher this for the life of him.

Lorna says, then, what she does know is fact: ‘’The Woodsman chose to give his bones to Auntie. And as per the Accord, that’s all right.’’

Enoch refuses to entertain these notions. They can’t even read the Accord. He won’t indulge their fantasies until someone unbiased actually reads that damned things.

Wirt raises his hand. ‘’I mean, I’m unbiased –‘’

‘’No, you’re a friend of witches.’’ Enoch dismisses him.

Fine.

They call the Queen.

She arrives in her regal glory, descending on a cloud, with a beautiful golden birds chirping as her background. She’s donned a stellar, starry dress, with a crown atop her head. When she isn’t yelling at the Beast, she does take great care in resembling a beautiful dream.

With a well-sculpted hand she takes the Accord from Wirt and brings it to her face. And then stares at it. And then begins to squint, because she isn’t sure what madman wrote this or for what reason. It’s around this point that she truly remembers why it is that the Beast sends her into fits of rage so easily. ‘’I cannot believe that we gave him this job. Do you know I was supposed to write it all down? But oh no, he claimed I wouldn’t write it down correctly. Paranoid bastard. Now look at this? The Accord might as well be null and void because none of us know what’s in it.’’

‘’It’s rather short.’’ Beatrice says. ‘’Didn’t any of you memorize it?’’

Enoch and the Queen boggle. ‘’Who has the time for that?’’

‘’There are seven lines at most.’’ Wirt whispers, in great horror that these are the entities who run the Unknown.

‘’We have no other choice but to find the Beast.’’ Enoch says. He turns to the Queen. ‘’You’ll bring him fastest.’’

The Queen hesitates. She grimaces, crossing her arms on her cloud: ‘’He’s in the middle of something.’’

‘’What?’’ Enoch wonders.

‘’Last I saw him, he got into a spat with some frogs.’’

Enoch’s ears go down. ‘’Ah, poor man. He never does know how to handle himself around a band.’’

‘’And so they left him near the waterfall.’’

Enoch blinks. ‘’There’s a waterfall in the Unknown?’’

‘’Yes, he used lived around there – the pest.’’ The Queen says. Turns to Wirt, specifically. ‘’He flooded the forest one year. All of it. And then he had to move inland, where the witches once roamed. So whenever he tries pushing you around, you remind him of that. See how he’ll dig himself out of that.’’ She pats Wirt on the shoulder. ‘’I am so very tired of watching you get bossed around by that stupid tree.’’

‘’Aren’t we like mortals enemies?’’ Wirt has been instructed, meticulously by the Beast, never to speak to the Queen.

‘’No,’’ The Queen says, ‘’that’s the Beast and I.’’

Enoch tries reading the Accord, before they give up and decide to reconvene once the Beast returns. He really has no word of defence for this level of anguish emanating from the written word. If it can even be called a word.

''Fine.'' They'll wait for the Beast.

Chapter Text

The part where the Unknown makes sense is a part that no one's quite yet managed to uncover. This is why, when the Beast finds himself standing in front of a frozen waterfall that goes farther up than up has any right to be, he doesn't think to question it. He simply says: ''I suppose I finally have enough time to do this.'' And without any further ado, he embeds his claws into the ice. It's Spring, and therefore it isn't winter, when the ice is hard and unyielding. Now it cracks, gives way, and accepts change. So it allows the Beast to pierce it curiously, to test its strength and its power. Next he tries to find some leverage, by putting his weight onto it. He looks up, cranes his antlers all the way back. He doesn’t see an end in sight. Though he does know there is one. 

‘’What are you doing?’’ Old Scratch is flying beside him. Scratching his head and looking at the Beast with little to no clarity in his eyes. 

‘’I do not need to hunt or care for my lantern, nor carry it on my person. So, I am doing something I have always wanted to, but never quite had enough time.’’ The cryptic answer comes easily from the Beast, melodic in a way only he knows how to speak. He embeds his claws further in the ice and decides to test his luck.  

Meanwhile the lot from Pottsfield has left the village in favour of a more neutral ground. They are in the Beast’s stomping grounds, between the witch territory and Pottsfield. It is time to come up with a new plan. 

Enoch wants the witches to suffer for their crimes. The witches claim there is no crime committed, speaking to the cat if he is truly sure he’s thinking clearly, and , what does he think his lover will say when he finds out you wanted to halt the progression of the seasons for petty vengeance? 

There is only logical thing to do: 

The Queen says they’ll bring about Summer while they wait for the Beast and then if a witch IS found guilty of a crime, they won’t need them anymore. It is at this point that uproar comes from the witches, who have always rather felt unseen and victimised. Only for the cat of Pottsfield to reply that they stole exactly seventy-one thousand four hundred and thirty two bones from him. And who here is the victim then? 

At this point, the Lantern Bearer whispers to the Poet Beast that she feels like a victim for having to be here when she could be lying down. 

‘’Where is the Beast?’’ the Poet wonders. ‘’Shouldn’t we go looking for him?’’

‘’He’s trapped in a prior engagement.’’ The Queen doesn’t want to think about the Beast. That man only spins chaos wherever he goes and this is a matter that CAN be resolved without him. She’ll ensure it if she must. 

‘’You know for a fact that before the Accord was struck we battled for the lost souls’ bones fairly. You stole from us, too, cat! It is simply that you kept losing and you disliked it.’’ The Apothecary witch and Whispers have joined the conversation. 

‘’I was outnumbered! There were barely ten of us in the village at one point. I had to do something. You were out of control.’’

‘’Out of control he says? But who here killed more than a hundred witches?’’

Beatrice’s eyes widen, just trying to imagine that many witches. Lorna, too, blinks in disbelief at the number. Sure, she’s certainly heard her Auntie whisper tales of the golden age of witches, but that all felt like a fairy-tale. 

The Queen placates them before this can escalate, by flinging a cloud and picking Enoch up from the ground and carrying him to an edelwood. He lets his claws out and stomps on the bark, cutting it up like he would like to cut the witches up. ‘’Enough of this. We are to bring about Summer.’’ She’s sitting, poised, on her own cloud and watching them with annoyance. ‘’And then you can take whichever witch you want, and I shall take my bluebird killer.’’

Anna shrinks back. She tries to explain the situation, but the Queen has a storm in her eyes, and so she falls silent. 

Enoch turns on the Queen, instead. ‘’No, she is mine.’’

‘’You are not allowed one anymore.’’ the Queen says. ‘’Isn’t that the entire point of this?’’

‘’Says who?’’ Enoch demands. 

‘’The Accord!’’ The Queen does not remember what the Accord says, but she wants vengeance for her bluebird. And so she shall have it. 

‘’You don’t even know what the Accord says!’’ Wirt shouts. All eyes turn to him. He’s the first one of the young to dare speak up. Interesting how his tongue grows without the Beast present to cut it out. But he lowers his voice all the same, feeling sheepish even without that old tree. ‘’No one does. That’s the entire reason why we’re waiting for the Beast in the first place.’’

‘’Careful with your words, Poet, else you’ll turn into an enemy like that mentor of yours has.’’ The Queen aims her lightning stare at him, to impress upon him the necessity of silence at matters pertaining to things far beyond him. 

He looks away, but he grumbles something to the Lantern Bearer all the same. She pats him on the shoulder gently and smiles. 

‘’I took his bones.’’ Whispers confesses, without any guilt whatsoever. She turns to Anna, who’s looking at this strange woman, with giant eyes and a horrible, wide mouth. ‘’I took his bones because that’s what he wanted.’’

‘’Preposterous! No one would refuse Pottsfield.’’ Enoch refuses to listen to the lies of witches. He swishes his tail angrily and climbs further up the tree, so he can scout out for the Beast. But he doesn’t see him, nor sense him. He is too far away. 

Whispers sits next to Anna, on the ground, and she places a gentle, giant hand on the young girl’s shoulder. Looking so despondent and small, she reminds her of Lorna, before she had become emboldened by her fiery lover and her overindulgent ‘Turtle’. ‘’He was tricked by the Beast, child. Into toiling away until his death. He didn’t leave you because he wanted to.’’

Anna gently wipes the tears out of the corners of her eyes and sits with the comforting crone. ‘’Him?’’ She gestures to the Poet. ‘’How can he trick anyone?’’ If anything he looks like the easily tricked sort himself. 

Whispers laughs, and then cuts the laugh off in half. ‘’No, you see, they come in a pair now. But before the Poet joined the Lantern, there was only one soul tied to it. That is the Beast I speak of. He is the one who wrote down the laws of the Accord. And is off gallivanting somewhere while we’re waiting for him.’’

Anna nods, trying to understand. ‘’So he tricked my father into serving him?’’

‘’Yes. When you’re tricked into something, you aren’t that something. Look at my Lorna, over there.’’ 

Lorna’s waving the Lantern about and huffing, crossing her arms, uncrossing them, speaking to Beatrice and Wirt in hushed, yet heated tones. She’s making a signalization to Wirt, who’s waving his arms around and begging: ‘’You can’t set FIRE to them!’’ 

‘’If I see that cat threatening Beatrice, I shall!’’

‘’I’d like to see you try, girl!’’ Enoch shouts back from atop an edelwood. 

‘’With your lover’s flame, no less!’’ Lorna twists the knife, waving a fist up at the cat. 

Enoch hisses, his fur rising. The Queen sends a different cloud to pick Lorna up and carry her over to Whispers. Away from Enoch. 

Whispers shakes her head and speaks to Anna . ‘’She’s a Lantern Bearer because that’s something she’s accepted. Now, there’s also something about this being an innate sort of talent for her – having always had the Beast’s influence on her even since a young age.’’ She’s tied herself in her speech, melancholy and aching, wishing she didn’t have to talk about any of this. ‘’Sweet child,’’ she tries to comfort, tries to go back to where she needs to in her story, for it to make sense, ‘’your father hated the Beast.’’

She goes searching for her, of course, and she doesn’t waste any words on her. In her sleeve, she keeps the bell. In her mind, she thinks of what she’ll say. 

It’s difficult being a parent to someone like Lorna. She doesn’t know how to relate to the young thing. Age has nothing to do with it, Whispers thinks better of it. It’s got to do with the affliction. That child was born hungry, ready to tear the world asunder. And with the curse on top of it all. Whispers shakes her head in dismay and trudges further into the woods. 

Maybe she’ll be lucky, and Lorna will run into the Apothecary witch. 

Maybe she’ll be less lucky, and Lorna will run towards Adelaide. And Adelaide will behave herself this time around. 

And maybe, as Whispers can deeply feel inside her own old bones, she won’t be lucky at all, and Lorna will run towards that infernal creature. That ugly, depraved thing. That lazy, manipulative bastard. 

By worrying whom her Lorna will run into, Whispers forgets to worry about whom she’ll run into. She hits a man and staggers backwards, just as the man falls over. The light of the Lantern illuminates them in the ugliest light. Whispers doesn’t know why she finds him endearing. She truly doesn’t. Perhaps she’s just lonely, cooped up with a girl that finds her company boring. 

He grunts. His hat’s fallen off. Whispers doesn’t bend to pick it up, she simply watches him, transfixed. For a moment, all she can hear is his blood, as it pumps through his arteries, his bones as they crack and bend and support his flesh. The epidermis stretching and thinning, just as hers does. Whispers blinks her big eyes as she looks at this man, and she sees the witch hunter’s axe on his hip, and she draws in a deep, frightened breath. 

Has her time truly come? 

He smiles kindly, awkwardly. 

It has not. 

‘’My lady, are you well?’’ He speaks, looking her over and trying not to grimace. He hides his revulsion well. Much better than the others do. Whispers knows she is no longer young, but neither is he. ‘’I do apologise.’’ He bends to pick his hat up and dust it off. When he puts it back on his head, the image clears slightly and she gets a better picture of who he is. 

This man may have the Beast’s Lantern, and he may have the Witch Hunter’s axe, but he is neither the Lantern Bearer nor the Witch Hunter. 

‘’I am as well as I can be, in these parts of the woods.’’ Whispers tests his knowledge. 

And his grimace tells her enough. Yes, he does know who stalks these woods. How could he not with the Lantern in his arm. But why cradle it like so? Like Whispers cradles Lorna in the young girl’s more affectionate moments. When she isn’t a wild thing, rabid and feral. 

‘’I am looking for my niece.’’ Whispers explains her presence away, lest he think she’s one of the Beast’s friends. ‘’She’s run away.’’

His expression shifts into worry. This is a father’s worry. ‘’I shall help you look for her, then.’’ He offers her his hand, and Whispers, well Whispers does take it. She is not above accepting comfort, when it does not come with caveats. 

They walk in silence for a moment. As they collect their thoughts. Whispers’ eyes keep straying to the nameless man and an axe that does not belong to him, holding a Lantern that will only harm him. 

He finds her eyes and says, not unkindly. ‘’I use it to cut the edelwood. That is the only time I use it.’’

Whispers names him. ‘’You’re the Woodsman, then.’’ Then she peers at him peculiarly, trying to remember where she knows him from. ‘’Did you move here, from the city?’’

‘’Yes,’’ he says, as if it happened a lifetime ago. Perhaps it has. The Lantern casts a terrible shadow on them both, and yet they ignore its attempts to dismay them. ‘’My family and I lived…’’ it is too devastating to speak of. He turns to the Lantern and looks at it with such tenderness. Whispers grimaces, feeling acid climb up her stomach at the sight. A poor man, this Woodsman, but a fool is a fool is a useful tool. 

‘’You lived in a witch’s house.’’ She tells him. And hurries her step when she sees turtles in the snow. Her Lorna knows how to follow their trail. 

‘’A witch’s house?’’ Now it’s his turn to wonder. 

‘’Yes,’’ Whispers explains. ‘’It used to belong to a coven long before you came to live there. Even before the tenant before you. So fret not. Your bad luck has nothing to do with that. Before you go accusing them of anything.’’

‘’Your sisters, I take it?’’ The Woodsman isn’t as easy-going as before. He speaks like a man who has never thought any of this was possible. Whispers envies him. She wishes to live in the world of impossibility and law as he does, if only for a moment. If only she does not have to go looking for cursed children and fight with fantastical Beasts. 

‘’They were not my coven.’’ Whispers might as well test the Woodsman, now that she knows he is not the Witch Hunter. ‘’But they were my sisters all the same. I mourned them. Just as you mourned your wife.’’ A pause. ‘’What did you do with your wife?’’

‘’I, what a question.’’ The Woodsman sees the monster now, just as the Lantern wants him to. Just as he now agrees she is. Whispers is undeterred. Her hands wish to rip, her hands wish to pick apart, to clean, to collect, to curate. ‘’I buried her.’’

‘’In the woods?’’ Whispers asks. ‘’Not in Pottsfield?’’

Woodsman looks at her, as if she’s insane. ‘’I buried her in a pasture she liked visiting.’’

Whispers adds gullible to her list of adjectives for the Woodsman. Yes, she does understand why the Beast is making his play with him. ‘’Where in the pasture did you bury her?’’

He aims that axe at her. Perhaps he is observant, too, when he wants to be. ‘’Why are you asking me so many questions?’’

‘’So the Beast does not get to her.’’ If they are changing the story, with the Lantern’s purpose up for interpretation, then he may be after bones and not souls for this purpose. ‘’What do you think something like that feeds on?’’

The Woodsman flees from her, in the direction of where he buried his wife no doubt. To check . 

Whispers notes the direction he’s gone. She hears him panting for breath. A man unused to manual labour. 

For a moment she wonders if she’s making a mistake, by following him and not the turtle trail leading her to Lorna. But she is a witch first, and then an aunt. Just as Lorna’s always going to go to him first, and then everyone else. 

He leads her past his home, too quick in his haste to the pasture to take notice of a waiting young thing inside. Blinded by the Lantern, no doubt. 

Whispers looks at the house, as she slows her pace - because she does know where the Pasture is and she knows the quicker way to it. This house has had a couple of tenants after the witches. All of them thought they were homeowners of course, but Whispers will always see this home as the Wire Sisters’ home. 

They reach the edge of the pasture. Whispers grimaces when she sees two eyes staring at her through a window of a house in the pasture. Dressed in red, always red with that one. What a pest. 

The Woodsman discards the axe. How it came to be in his possession is a question for another day? He takes up a shovel instead. Whispers watches him dig and disappear into the dirt. She licks her lips behind his back, envisioning him with a broken neck. With his tendons snapped. With his flesh in her hands. My, she could just devour him. But she isn’t wicked. And he isn’t dead. 

Whispers controls herself. She truly does. But the sight of so many bones, the sight of them in her grasp – so close – so close and yet so far – it’s enough to drive her to madness. They’re surrounded by rotted flesh. Woodsman, Woodsman, you didn’t have enough knowledge where to get a casket, did you? Woodsman, Woodsman, you didn’t have enough knowledge to make one, did you? Yes, he is from the city. Whispers smiles, and when he turns, the smile is gone. 

‘’He – ah, he didn’t get to her.’’ He cradles his dead wife’s body to her own. What a parody this all is, Whispers watches, detached utterly by the sight in front of her, as the Woodsman takes the Lantern and places it close to her, to see her better. Does he not know that the Lantern will only show him pain? Despair? Agony? He does not know. That’s the entire tragedy. He is from the city, from over the waterfall, where old relics are stories and nothing else. 

‘’You came this way in the summer?’’ Whispers already knows. The roads are all covered in ice any other time. 

‘’Ah, yes,’’ the Woodsman says, trying to will the tears out of his eyes at the sight of his dead wife, ‘’yes, that is correct.’’ He turns to her, a man cornered and overwhelmed. He is spread too thin, wanting to stretch his hands as far as they will go, to protect that which he loves. 

Whispers would say she was charmed by the sentiment, if only she could focus on anything other than the bones she has the chance to get. And the cat does not. ‘’How did you learn about the home you lived in with your family?’’

‘’It was her aunt’s.’’ The Woodsman gestures to his wife. 

Yes, and before it was her aunt’s it was the witches’. Whispers doesn’t correct him. It won’t do well for business. Faintly, she hears singing in the distance. Towards Pottsfield. Good. He won’t come this way and ruin her fun. Whispers merely hopes he has enough of a frame of mind not to take Lorna with him there. She won’t have that cat poison her against her roots. ‘’And where is the aunt? I might know her.’’ 

‘’She died. My darling was devastated upon the news. Especially because there was no funeral.’’

‘’But where is her resting place?’’

He turns to his wife, to run a gentle hand over her half-decayed face. Her eyes are closed, serene. The Woodsman speaks: ‘’From my understanding, she was cremated.’’ 

Whispers’ lip twitches. The Queen’s, then. Neither the cat’s nor her own. But that means the cat has no claim to these bones, either. 

She hears a knock. It is drowned out by the howling wind, by the Woodsman's cries for his wife, and even the faint singing of the Beast. Muffled by glass and distance. No one but Whispers ought to hear it. So she turns towards the house in the pasture to see what the pest wants. 

The pest is gesturing to her, and then the Woodsman, and now she's miming the act of an axe swinging. Whispers frowns. She mouths “what?”  

Now she holds up a hand, presses it against that blasted window like they're about to communicate in charades. Whispers does not have the time - Lorna's head pops up in the window and she waves at her Auntie, grinning widely from ear to ear. She makes a heart with her hands in the window. 

Oh. Okay. So that's where she went. Well, Whispers does feel a little better about this than if she were off following the Beast around like a lost puppy.

Whispers watches, transfixed and horrified how any aunt ought to be as Lorna pretends to be a murder victim and Adelaide mimes the swinging of an axe. It's a whole bloody production, red yarn and red thread seeping out of Lorna, who now dramatically throws herself at the window and slides down slowly, all while looking her dead in the eye. The window squeaks as she slides down it.

Adelaide is gesturing to the Woodsman and to her again. Whispers shakes her head no. 

It calms Adelaide. Who then begins to raise and lower her brows and make obscene gestures between her and the Woodsman. Whispers would shout something in her defence at this but she is doing a play and must not raise any suspicion. So she turns away from those hellions, her cheeks faintly blushing. 

Cries from the grave fully immerse Whispers back in her play. 

‘’Before the Beast comes, let us go quickly.’’ Whispers hastens him, simply to get out of here herself, and he turns to listen to her, to hang off of her every word, ‘’I will protect your wife from him. She will have an eternal rest away from harm. But we must make haste.’’

‘’Why are you helping me?’’ He asks her, for the first time, a sane man. 

‘’Because it appears no one else will.’’ Whispers smiles. 

And he smiles, too. 

Gullible, yes. 

But also full of loathing and mistrust towards the Beast. 

That’s the angle. That’s the knife she’ll twist until he does as she wants him to. 

The Woodsman brings his wife to her home, and he asks her, nay, he begs her: ‘’I do not want us to be apart. May I visit her?’’

Whispers smiles. ‘’You may, of course you may. When the day comes, and if you wish it, I will join your bones together in eternal, harmonious rest.’’ 

And the Woodsman, how could he do anything but accept?

‘’You coerced him!’’ 

‘’So it is not a crime when the Beast does the same?’’ Lorna shouts in her Aunt’s defence. 

Enoch hisses at this. He does not enjoy the fact that he has lost two potential villagers. 

‘’You’ve been greedy, cat!’’ Whispers points an accusatory finger at him. ‘’Time and time again, people die – villagers die, and then their bones are buried in your plots. Time and time again! You’ve had to expand Pottsfield four times since the Accord. Going deeper and deeper into the woods, that Beast of yours giving you more and more trees. When will you be satisfied?’’

While this is going on, there are those who don't want to wait for the Beast to return. 

“We gotta go get him.” Beatrice says. 

Wirt nods. “How, though? It'll take us days to get to where he went…”

This is when the Queen stops eavesdropping and fully joins their conversation: “If you don't mind helping me with a tiny errand on the way, my cloud and I would be happy to take you.” She pats the cloud. It looks unbelievably comfy and fluffy.

Beatrice pumps her fist in the air: “Yeah, that sounds like a plan to me!”

Wirt, meanwhile, has to ask at least seven safety related questions before boarding.

The Queen rises on her cloud, with Beatrice and Wirt along for the ride, as they go up, and up, and up, and up. 

Wirt’s holding onto the cloud for dear life. 

Beatrice breathes the gust of wind in. It flows through her hair. She draws her arms out. It is a familiar cold, elevating her, thrumming something thought forgotten in her soul. 

“Do you miss flying?” The Queen asks. 

Beatrice faintly nods. She breathes out, looking down at the trees, at the villages, at the Tavern. They're so small. If this is how the Queen sees the world, no wonder she does not see their plights as real. It must be the same way Beatrice sees ants. 

“Then I'll be sure to make this a flight you'll never forget.” The Queen winks and speeds their cloud up. “Hold tight!”

Wirt digs his claws into the cloud and begs: ‘’Please, don’t kill us.’’

‘’Come on, Wirt, enjoy yourself!’’ Beatrice laughs madly.

‘’Yes, Poet, I never let the Beast join me!’’ The Queen joins their revel.

‘’Even if you did, he’s not insane to go along!’’ Wirt screams, his voice echoing as they skyrocket into the sky. 

Chapter Text

The Queen doesn’t land the cloud, on account of that quite possibly starting a feud with the Beast who’s got her on thin ice (though, speaking of which, it is he who is on very thin ice at the moment). She lowers it until it barely touches the ground, in order to unload both Wirt and Beatrice. 

Once they disembark and see the blooming edelwood they’d spent Spring around, it’s Wirt who turns to her and says: ‘’Hey, you tricked us!''

The Queen looks at them both. ''What part of that is surprising?'' At their sputtering, she goes on: ''We're all tricksters here!''

They try to argue about this. And they do argue. Yet, it all has no basis.  

The Queen sighs. She sees that she must speak to them plainly, how one would to a commoner. ‘’You entered the Unknown as the tricked . The one who is tricked. The one who does not trick others due to the fact that they are a prime target to be tricked, deceived, cursed, manipulated, etc.’’ She speaks very slowly, as if they’re idiots. Perhaps rightly so, because she wouldn’t have to explain this to someone who knew what they were. ‘’Now you are the one that tricks, that plots, that schemes, that curses, that blesses, that creates, that manipulates. And it is high time you start acting like it.’’ She gestures to Wirt. ‘’You specifically. I’ve seen the Hunter Witch cast a mean curse or two out of boredom alone and I approve wholeheartedly. If she lives through Enoch’s hysteria, she and I will be very good neighbours.’’

Beatrice crosses her arms. She says she won’t bring summer. And then: ‘’Don’t you need all three witches anyway?’’

The Queen rolls her eyes. ‘’Please, no, I don’t. The witching season’s passing. I only need the Maiden and the Beast for this.’’ 

Wirt raises his arm. 

‘’Yes, Poet?’’

‘’I don’t think the Beast would want me to do this…’’

‘’If the Beast told you to go and jump off a cliff, would you do it?’’

‘’Probably.’’ Beatrice and Wirt say at the same time. 

The Queen just places an exasperated hand on her forehead, to hide her face. She hopes the Beast is dealing with an annoyance of the same calibre as she is. 

Old Scratch shivers as they go up. He doesn't have the benefit of foliage how the Beast does. ''Say, friend, don't you think you've gone far enough?''

''Not at all. I have time. If they need me for anything they can get Wirt. Or Lorna, I suppose. She can fill in for me if she wishes.''

''That's Adelaide's girl?'' Old Scratch's teeth chatter. He can barely make out his question. Frost begins to accumulate on his extremities. His wings bat harder and harder the higher up they go.

''Yes.'' The Beast continues his climb. He doesn't look down, that view has never interested him. In fact, he knows what's down. But what interests him is what lies ahead.

''A good customer, that Adelaide. I sold her quite a lot of curses back in the day. Shame what happened to her.''

''Nothing she didn't bring upon herself.'' The Beast laconically answers. There's a slit in the waterfall, and he decides to slip inside it. Surrounded now by ice. Old Scratch can't fit in the slit, so he's flying in front of it, trying to warm up by rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. The Beast looks at this odd creature. ''What kind of curses did you say you made?''

''Whatever kind you wanted me to! Adelaide was a piece of work, I'll tell you that much. She wanted a really nasty one. The conditions to break it were insane.’’

‘’Oh?’’ The Beast feigns interest. ‘’Amuse me.’’

Old Scratch chuckles. He rubs his hands together. ‘’You'd need a magical singer to break it. No less than a bass.'' Old Scratch tries to fit inside the slit with the Beast, but the Beast just shoves him outside without any effort. ‘’Ha-ha, okay, I see. And he’d have to work with two lost souls in order to do so.’’

The Beast is leaning into the ice. He's scratching out patterns to amuse himself as he listens with half a mind to the ramblings of Old Scratch. ''Yes, that does all sound very intricate. Do you know who she was going to curse?’’

‘’Well, that girl of hers, she said. But I hear the curse got broken recently. I assumed you did it. You fit the mould and all that, but you’d never work with lost souls. It’s beneath you.’’

‘’No, it was a frog that allegedly sings very well.’’ The Beast hums.

Old Scratch sneezes a big icicle off of him. He gets blown away by nothing short of the north wind next and has to fight his way back to where the Beast rests.

‘’Beast?’’ A rather childish voice says. ‘’Warden of the Woods? Death of Hope, is that you, sir?’’

The Beast pokes his head out from the slit and sees the Cloud City Welcome Committee looking at him like he’s intruding. He is not. Because he is not on any cloud. He is climbing the waterfall. So he tells them as such. And they, very reluctantly, leave him alone. But they will be telling the Queen that he’s stopped by.

‘’I have not.’’ He makes sure to tell them. ‘’I am on the waterfall. The day I willingly come to the Queen’s domain is the day she steps on my stomping grounds.’’

So this is his cue to continue climbing up. The top of it has to be close if he’s made it this far.

‘’Lorna would be much better suited for this.’’ Wirt whispers. He’s thrown himself in front of the blooming edelwood tree, and he’s now holding onto it like he imagines a mother would hold onto her child. ‘’No! Not this specific edelwood! How dare you try to harm it? Oh woe!’’

The Queen’s holding a megaphone, a black beret on top of her crown. ‘’Yes, AND NOW say: Oh beautiful Queen, Light of the Sky, Wonder of the Unknown, I am your servant, your pawn, your –‘’

Wirt whispers to Beatrice, who’s holding her axe up to cut the edelwood: ‘’I can’t imagine the Beast ever saying these lines.’’

She talks out of the corner of her mouth, so she doesn’t break character: ‘’No, shit, Wirt.’’

‘’AND ACTION!’’  

Old Scratch catches up to the Beast finally. He’s panting for breath, finding it a rarer affair than ever before. The Beast is unaffected. He sits on top of the waterfall, right on the edge, dangling his feet over yonder.

It's peaceful up here. He can see all. 

And frankly speaking, he’s never been happier to be so far away from the cacophonous struggle of those still clinging to the illusion of life.

Lorna has a skeleton in a headlock.  Things have escalated. ‘’Come and fight me by yourself, coward.’’

‘’I would if you were an opponent worthy of my claws.’’

‘’You’ve never done a day’s work, you mangy thing!’’ The Apothecary witch throws a rock at Enoch.

Enoch jumps out of the way, climbing up until he reaches the top of an edelwood, where they can’t quite reach him.

The Beast stands on the ice of the waterfall. He stretches into the sky, bark breaking, the glass vials inside him jingling. There isn’t any wind here. There isn’t any noise here, either. Even Old Scratch is silent.

Both of them stare out into the Unknown. The one the Beast knows. His stomping grounds, the witches’ pasture, Pottsfield, and the villages they’ve left to the Queen. Every Monarch needs her denizens. She’ll have their souls and Enoch will have their bones. It’s always been him and the witches who have had to cheat and trick and steal, in a much more overt and frowned upon way than those who lie and trick via politics and power.

‘’I see Wirt is embarrassing me.’’ The Beast has caught sight of him, draped over the blooming edelwood and begging, singing the Queen’s praises ad astra. All he does is shake his head.

Old Scratch isn’t chatty anymore. He’s staring in the other direction, the one they only ever see in the summer. The Beast turns around, and looks into that part of the Unknown. The one that’s safe from the relics of the past. Marching forward with industrialization and innovation. Each summer, a scant few of their scholars and innovators slip through the waterfall or go the longer way via an unfrozen road if they’re civil servants.

There has not been summer in a long, long while. The Beast finds himself intrigued by what this one will bring. He sits down on the edge of the waterfall and looks at his Unknown. He sees Enoch, squabbling with the witches, commanding his villagers. Whispers makes quick work of them, with her old power. She no longer wields songs, but stories have a power to them all the same.

Lorna’s gotten hold of a skeleton arm and she’s batting the other skeletons now like pinballs.

The Beast doesn’t think any of this is in line with the Accord. He finds himself chuckling as he watches them. For the first time not caught up in their webs, but as detached as he so needs to be sometimes. They are all a play to him now. He digs his claws into the ice and enjoys the sensation. There are very few things that are frozen still. It is spring, after all. And he has near forgotten how it looks, with how long they’ve forced his winter. Due to stubbornness, no less.

Old Scratch holds himself, to keep warm. The Beast leans back, back, back, so he rests on the ice entirely. And he stares up at something above the sky and the Queen’s Cloud City. He imagines this is the Unknown. And he finds it beautiful.

‘’When are we going down?’’ Old Scratch asks.

Never, the Beast wants to say. Drawn as he always has been to this place. Alas, with the Lantern always by his side, how dare he tread this journey? Alas, with no capable Lantern Bearer (well, aside from Ophelia, who wasn’t a complete failure), how dare he truly leave his flame with such incompetence? Alas, with no Beast to play his important part, how dare he leave the others?

The Beast watches the darkness. It watches him, too, and yet it is with a much more beautiful finesse that it does so. He does not feel like prey, yet what can he possibly be when pitted against such vastness?

‘’I think I shall be on my way.’’ Old Scratch says.

He beckons him closer. ‘’Don’t,’’ the Beast isn’t done with him, ‘’not until you finish your tale, friend.’’ There is nothing even close to friendly in the way the Beast addresses him.

‘’Not much else to say.’’ Old Scartch approaches the Beast, upon seeing the old tree beckon him hither hither. ‘’I make curses and I sell them. What the witches who buy them do with them doesn’t interest me.’’

The Beast gently runs his twig-fingers over Old Scratch’s near-frozen wings. Old Scratch tenses, but doesn’t move away. ‘’I would argue you are equally culpable, are you not? It takes two to make an edelwood, a lost soul and myself.’’

‘’What are you doing?’’ Old Scratch whispers, alarm blaring in his mind. With no one there to help, he finds himself in the company of a monster whose home he’s invaded, whose presence he’s invaded, and whose closest he’s cursed. His teeth chatter and why, oh, why does it sound like a death’s march so?

‘’You have the capacity to make new curses, do you not?’’

‘’O-of course, whatever you, my customers, want me to. Anything goes.’’ Old Scratch tries to step out of the way, but he finds that the Beast’s fingers dig deep in his wings now, keeping him in place. 

“And you have the ability to make a new curse, with stipulations of breaking it involving me, do you not? This, before, with Adelaide was not a one time thing? You would do this again?”

Furious nodding. Old Scratch all but screeches: “Yes, yes of course. I can do it. I would, for a price, anything a mind can think of I can curse.”

The Beast has a grip, firm and steady, on the other's wings. “On whose authority did you dare put me in the context of a curse?’’

It is far too late for Old Scratch to wriggle his way out of this one. So he can only look at the Beast.

A very precise lightning bolt splits from Cloud City below and hits a very specific tree. 

The Beast ignores it. He has his eyes set on Old Scratch here, who’s trying to pry his claws off of him. ‘’Well, friend, I’m an equal opportunist. I’d use that Queen as a curse, if someone asked. This is the Unknown, we’re talking about here. What are you if not inspiration for my craft?’’ The Beast snorts, realising it is nothing more than empty flattery. Being up here brings a certain level of clarity he normally does not have surrounded by hunger and trees and souls. Old Scratch bends to unsuccessfully wriggle away from the Beast’s hold on his wings. ‘’Don’t take it personally that I didn’t ask permission for something like that!’’

‘’I believe I shall.’’ The Beast rips Old Scratch’s wings off how a child does a grasshopper’s legs. He topples from the air and down the frozen waterfall, trying and failing to claw and catch onto something. The Beast watches him go. He hums, and this time it is a death’s march. His is so much better.   

Now alone, the Beast sits on the edge of the waterfall. He goes to embed his claws in the ice again, simply to feel it, when instead he hears a splash. It is then that he blinks. And repeats the motions. Splash. Now he lifts his claws up and sees water dripping from his bark. Ah. The Beast very slowly turns behind him and sees a turret of water rushing his way. Ah, summer has come.

It envelopes and tosses him down the now very much unthawed waterfall.

Chapter Text

Wirt, on account of what he is now, can't have a heart attack. The only way for him to die is for the Lantern to go out or to get murdered. Via axe. Or a candle. He is to avoid all open flames if he can help it, really. 

But he forgets about that entirely when he sees a giant part of the forest is flooded and that the edelwoods he meticulously crafted near the river are now useless. 

''What's going on?'' He's shouting, in great horror. He falls to his knees and clutches at his head. 

Beatrice is climbing to higher ground, her clothes soaked to the bone. ‘’Yeah, what the hell is going on here?’’

The Queen just looks at them. ''It is summer .''

Enoch, on account of being a cat and all that, is stuck on top of a tree. He could go down, but down is water. Also the witches. Since he doesn’t like either of these options he decides of his own volition to stay on top of this very tall edelwood. Alas, the edelwood fills with water and begins to cant. And he sighs. ''It's summer.'' 

The Skeletons are holding Lorna's head underwater. She's tapping for a time-out. Whispers sees all of this going down and makes quick work of them. ''Let go of my Lorna, you sad sack of bones!''

They do so, like marionettes with a cruel puppeteer. And for good measure, they pull her up and tidy her clothes before marching in Pottsfield's direction. 

Whispers turns to find the Apothecary witch smiling as the rain descends on them all. She sees the sun peeking behind the clouds, and so she thrusts her hands up in the air and laughs. ''Look at that, Whispers, it's Summer!''

They move to the pasture, to Adelaide's home. ''We shall wait here until the water makes up its mind.'' Whispers explains to Lorna, and the rest. Beatrice nods. She says she'll go farther out and see if her family's all right. 

''The villagers ought to be.'' The Apothecary witch explains, merrily. ''Everyone over there builds their homes in favour of summer. It is the Queen they hope to see in their final rest.'' A pause. ‘’Final, final rest.’’ 

The River, as if deterred by the Pasture, goes around it. Perhaps it is deterred. Lorna looks at it bending around the edelwoods. It is as if it uses them as guides on where to go. 

''Lorna,'' Whispers begs, ''do not stray, please.''

Lorna nods, but she approaches the river and bends closer to it. She places her hand into the water and dips it lower, and lower, and lower, until she finds her entire arm is in it. ''Remarkable.'' 

She doesn't get another word out of her mouth before lungfuls of water spill inside her. Lorna fights the force that current, kicking and screaming under the water. 

It isn’t long until she resurfaces, as well as her assailant from the river. 

‘’Turtle!’’ Lorna coughs. She holds onto him, onto the wet leaves and bark. Embedding her fingers into the disfigured faces of the most desperate souls he’s consumed, she breathes in and out deeply, trying to calm her sledge-hammer beating heart into something normal. It will take time. ‘’Why would you do this, you horrible tree!’’ She hits him with a fist and then shouts, when glass shards embed in her 

The Beast merely laughs, buoyant fellow that he’s become now. ‘’Careful now. My edeloil vials burst upon impact.’’ 

‘’What?’’

‘’I fell.’’

‘’Where from? Wherefore?’’ 

The Beast shrugs. ‘’It is of no concern.’’

Lorna gets comfortable, finds her place on top of the Beast. She takes off her bonnet and rinses it out. She’s expecting shivers, and she’s expecting quite a few coughs to follow, with sneezes to boot and a dastardly fever to finish it all off. When none of it happens, Lorna simply turns to him and grins: ‘’What is this?’’

And he can’t smile, what with being what he is, but he shoves her off of himself into the water.  ‘’Tis summer, Lorna!’’ This time, when Lorna resurfaces, she laughs . 

Once they have everyone gathered together, it’s finally time to address the proverbial elephant in the room. If one were to get a little literal, like the Apothecary Witch, or Enoch for that matter, they might say something along the lines of: ‘’Come over here and read this blasted Accord!’’ Lovingly. ‘’You maniac.’’ With utmost vehemence. ‘’Horrible tree!’’

The Beast takes the Accord, pretends to look at it, and tosses it into the Lantern before anyone can stop him. Uproar from the others. He lets them rattle and shout until they tire themselves out. It doesn’t take long, especially due to the flood and the change of seasons. Summer is difficult to get used to for most. It is too hot, it is too sunny, and it is too long. The Beast, meanwhile, relishes in it for a different reason than most would think. Now, under the scrutiny of his other fellows, he makes a noise, low and pensive: ‘’I propose we make a new one.’’

Groans. Especially from the witches. ‘’Last time it took us ages to come to terms with only one line!’’

‘’Yes, that is because of Enoch being obstinate.’’ The Beast says. 

A scandalized gasp from the cat himself. ‘’Why, I would never-‘’

‘’No, you would.’’ The Beast says. Followed by affirming murmurs from the witches and even a tentative nod from the Queen. 

‘’It is as the Beast says. Though it pains me to admit he is correct in any capacity – he does know you.’’

Enoch’s tail swishes angrily. His fur is raised. His eyes narrow into tiny slits. But he does not fight them on this. ‘’Fine, I am keeping the Witch Hunter.’’

The Queen scoffs. ‘’Absolutely not. I want to kill the Witch Hunter for her crimes against me. Besides, rumours say she cannot even kill a witch unless starved.’’

‘’Then I shall starve her.’’ Enoch says it simply. 

Anna’s eyes widen. She’s hiding behind Whispers and feeling faint just by listening to these folks speak about her fate. 

‘’Starve her you say?’’ The Beast tilts his head to the side in order to keenly regard the cat. ‘’What do you know of starvation?’’

Enoch does not speak a single thing to that, having wisened up. ‘’I wish to keep her, is all.’’

‘’Does she wish to be kept, I should say is the more pertinent question?’’ Whispers inquires. 

Anna does not know. She’s beginning to think that neither of these forces want anything good for her. They all mean her harm, it is simply on her to choose which harm befalls her. 

‘’If you are so adamant that she lives,’’ a snort, as the Queen finds the entire matter ironic given who they are and where they are, ‘’then I propose she live out an eternity as my new bluebird.’’

Anna does not want to be a bluebird! She clutches onto Whispers, in comfort. And thinks of running. 

‘’And what, hunt worms and curse young girls?’’ Beatrice shouts. ‘’That’s no existence for her.’’

‘’She tried to kill you.’’

‘’I’d try to kill me, too, if I had either of you tricksters whispering things in my ear! You manipulated her.’’ Beatrice clings onto something her compatriots around her have long since given up on: humanity . She embeds her nails in it, bloodied and brittle as they are, but she keeps hold firm and steady. 

Enoch pretends none of this is of any concern. He climbs atop the Beast and rests on his shoulder. This is one edel tree that will not cant and disappear in summeritme. 

The Beast reminds everyone that their best bet is to come into this with lowered expectations. And then to lower them once more. 

It lasts hours. 

‘’At least.’’ Whispers corrects. ‘’It must say ‘at least’ three witches.’’

‘’No,’’ Enoch hisses. ‘’That will lead to more of you spawning and forming your covens and ousting me.’’

‘’We have a system in place now.’’ Whispers says, exasparated. 

‘’Aye, ‘at least’ three or else we won’t sign anything.’’ Apothecary Witch resolutely nods. She’s got her arms crossed as she regards the Beast. 

‘’What do you wish out of this?’’ The Beast ignores the feuding soil and bones, in favour of another soul scavenger like himself. 

The Queen grimaces. ‘’The same conditions as last time.’’

‘’Yes,’’ The Beast nods, ‘’I found those adequate myself.’’

‘’Because you two wrote them!’’ The Apothecary witch shouts. 

It lasts even more hours. 

1. There must always be a Beast 

Wirt raises his hand in the air to ask a question. 

1. There must always be at least one Beast 

The Beast raises his own hand now. 

1. There must always be a Monarch in the Sky, must always be a Magistrate of soil, must always be at least three witches, must always be the Death of Hope. 

‘’That does not fix my issue with the wording.’’

‘’Fine,’’ the Queen is the diplomat today, as much as he is, ‘’What problem do you have?’’

‘’What is he?’’ The Beast gestures to Wirt. ‘’Are we both the Death of Hope? Is it a title that simply encompasses us both? What is the proper nomenclature to define this parasitic relationship?’’

‘’Symbiotic.’’ Wirt corrects. 

‘’I know what I said.’’

Wirt frowns. Beatrice chokes on a laugh, masking it into a cough. Wirt frowns harder.

It takes them well into the night (much shorter with the arrived Summer) to reach an Accord that meets everyone’s wishes, by which, the Beast here means none of theirs. The witches are not pleased, the Queen is coming to terms with her concessions, and Enoch’s tail may as well propel him back to his village with how everything is going. The Beast waits for anyone to contest him, but no one does. Because if they do not have the Accord, the Unknown itself will intervene. And the last time that happened, well...it's best not to ruminate.

''All right, can everyone read it?''

''Can somebody retype it on a typewriter or something?'' Wirt, brilliant idea man, comes up with a brilliant idea that gets shot down imediatelly.

''Absolutely not. I do not trust any machine. Lorna, be our Scribe.'' The Beast commands Lorna to write in neat penmanship that which they have all devised.

''She is biased to the witches.'' Enoch says.

The witches all clamor. ''She is not a witch, though! She is biased to the Beast, as his Lantern Bearer.''

Anna remains silent as a grave, ill from learning her fate, sitting down next to Wirt. Head in her hands. Woeful. Wirt's patting her awkwardly on the back.

''Lorna, write.'' The Beast instructs, ignoring everyone else. ''Make sure it is tidy.''

''I-I shall.'' Lorna hears their arguing grow. The Queen attempts to silence them with her lightning and her thunder, but the skeletons are rising up again with pitchforks. Beatrice gets out her axe and aims it at them, pretending they are nothing more than kindle if they are to come at her.

''What is this nonsense? Enoch, because Lorna does not belong to you, does she?''

''I should think that the matter was obvvious.''

''Well, I should think some communication on the matter is more obvious. I did not know how you felt about me until this winter.''

''IT TOOK YOU THAT LONG?'' Lorna stops writing to look at the Beast.

The Beast simply blinks, one eye at a time. ''Matters are never obvious to me.''

Enoch so longs for the maypole so he can hide behind it. Here, now, as a cat, he is very open about his exasparation. ''The witches have been your helpers for far longer than we have danced our dance.''

''I understand.'' The Beast whirls around. He leans and whispers something to Lorna.

Lorna nods. And then frowns. The frown deepens. In fact, the grimace now stretching across her face is deep enough to rival any canyon. ''I won't do that.''

''Alas, you have no choice. We are all making compromises today.''

She narrows her eyes. ''What is your compromise? I cannot recall if you have made a single one.''

This one sentence has the effect of a war. Everyone turns on the Beast, claiming that why yes - what's changed for him?

More hours pass. Wirt is now the lone Beast and the Beast has been demoted.

Even more hours pass. The Beast and Wirt are both the Beast, but as it stands, the Elder Beast (he objects to this title) -

Perhaps one too many hours later.

They are all far too exhausted to be still going on about this. But none of them are willing to adjourn for another day. This has to be finished in one sititng or it will never be finished. Lorna's hair is disheveled under the damp bonnet, more from sweat than river water. Beatrice and Anna are halfway between begging for this to end and trying to run for it (respectively). Wirt's placating the witches from putting the Beast on a bonfire for all of his mistakes in the past.

''Retribution!''

Enoch's now on Lorna's writing desk and peering intenly at her writing. So she doesn't pull a fast one over him.

Lorna's holding onto the quill with a strenght no one but someone as entirely fed up with today's events as Lorna can be. All of her thoughts are asking if she stabs Enoch with the blackened quill, if he'll bleed black. This is, thankfully, not someting either of them have the chance to figure out.

The Queen sends another round of thunder and lightning to bring them back to what needs to be done. ''You do not want the Unknown to handle our affairs! Lest we forget!''

''I would not mind the Unknown meddling in our affairs if it means I get to finally leave.''  The Beast says. This is yet another moment when utter pandemonium strikes. If they had fruit, they would be throwing it at him. Alas, they only have stones.

''Stop throwing stones at me, you know I am right!''

This is it. This has to be it. None of them are even speaking anymore. Wirt's muffled poetry reciitng is the only sound they hear, other than Lorna's scribing.

There must always be a lit Lantern, must always be at least three witches, must always be a village full of bones, and must alway be a filled throne atop the sky. They must always have a Bluebird to purvey the matters of land for the throne in the sky, must have a Witch Hunter (only the one, and only allowed to kill a fourth witch - because there will never be more than four at any given moment), must have bones aplenty for any ritual (that they will not scavange from the village full of bones, but other locations that are nary close to the aforementioned village, and never in such abundance that they threaten the village's bone quantity*),and must always have at least one Lantern Bearer to care for the lantern**.

*the amount of bones decided for the village to be considered full is 416944

**it is expected that there will only ever be one Lantern Bearer at a time, but in the case of the Great Ophelia's return, the Accord should reflect that whether or not she is present, she is, and always shall remain, a Lantern Bearer of great capability.

(Whispers breaks the silence: ''You said Ophelia died.''

The Beast claims this does not sound like something he would say.

Before this can go on, the Queen demands that they continue with the Accord's finalisation)

The Scribe of the Accord must always be a party of great unbiased status, neither belonging to a single mapmaker, or belonging to them all. In the case of the Accord's second revision, the Scribe is Lorna - a Witch's Niece and Companion, a Lantern Bearer,

''Fine.'' Lorna turns to the cat. ''I won't promise you my own bones.''

Enoch doesn't hiss, but he is displeased.

Lorna looks to Beatrice, who will never be put to rest in the ground, and Lorna will not leave her, not even then. ''I will, instead, offer you my children's bones.''

Beatrice wants to interject here, but the Beast speaks quicker than them all. ''Excellent news. She has promised you a villager. There is a debt of bone between you now. May we continue?''

Enoch supposes that they might.

With her wonderful penmanship, Lorna goes back to writing the Accord.

the Scribe is Lorna - a Witch's Niece and Companion, a Lantern Bearer, a Party in a Debt of Bone, and

Lorna turns to Whispers and the Apothecary witch. She turns from them, to the Queen atop the her cloud, not once glancing to check if Lorna's writing things as she should.

''Madam,'' there's a small quiver in her voice, at getting the Queen's full attention on her entails. ''Madam, what am I to you?''

And the Queen does give her a small smile. It's small, warm, and not at all scorching how her other grins can be. Lorna blinks at it, at the gentleness of it all. She waits, still, because she hasn't been told what to write for her. The Queen leans closer, closer, so her breath is on Lorna's ear. With a smile, she speaks.

And Lorna, with a hand she steadies by her own sheer will, finishes writing the Accord.

a Witch's Niece and Companion, a Lantern Bearer, a Party in a Debt of Bone, and a Summer’s Child. 

When celebrations begin, they very easily veer away from the Accord.

‘’It is Lorna’s season!’’  The Beast unravels the secret. Sets something dreadful into motion. 

Whispers tries to get ahead of it. But the Queen of the Clouds is quicker than the witch. 

‘’Her entire bend around the seasons!’’ The Queen croons delightfully, clasping her hands together in cheer. She smiles fondly at the hungry little thing and laughs. ‘’What a wonderful time, indeed.’’

‘’I’m an autumn’s child.’’ Lorna coughs, not from illness, but from surprise, looking towards Whispers and the Apothecary witch, who are whistling and avoiding meeting her gaze. So she turns towards the Queen and says: ‘’This makes no sense to me.'’

‘’Hungry child, you came to be on the longest day of Summer.’’ Enoch supplies what little he knows. 

‘’You were cursed in autumn.’’ The Apothecary witch blurts out. She gets elbowed by Whispers. ‘’Oh come along now, she’s old enough to know!’’

‘’Your mother bartered you away to the Beast, my sweet Lorna. But you must not think less of her, her last view of both the sky and the edelwood crown stretching atop her.’’ Whispers says.

Before Lorna can ask more questions, the Queen glides around Lorna on her cloud. She pulls her to sit with her, to hover above them all together. With gentle fingers she curls Lorna’s hair behind her ears, trapping them inside the bonnet. It’s damp, still. The Queen grins, with razor sharp teeth usually hidden behind dreams and song. Now, instead, with claws instead of fingers, she pulls Lorna’s bonnet off of her head entirely. 

‘’No one ever told me anything about her. Why did she barter me away?’’ Lorna whispers, clinging onto the Queen with a ferocious need to know. It is as if she is drawn to flame, like a moth. 

And the Queen simply smiles. ‘’Because, summer’s child, that soul did not want to end up in his lantern.’’

It usually is the case for all barters with the Beast. Lorna’s shoulders slump. Suddenly her mother is someone simple and common. Not complex or special. Just another soul who wanted to save herself from despair. 

Lorna does not allow for this to depress her. Tis a new season, a full turn for someone like her. ‘’Do I get anything for my full turn of seasons?’’ She smiles, with razor sharp teeth. 

And sends forth laughter, each a different tone, each a strange melody, more inhuman than the last. A comfort in this revel, and one that Lorna is at the centre of.

Chapter Text

After the revelry, Wirt says he’ll walk Lorna home. The Beast, alongside Enoch, the witches, and the Queen shall remain at the pasture. They have yet to fully enjoy the first night of summer. 

‘’Tread carefully,’’ the Beast says to them, in warning. ‘’You do not know what awaits you inside.’’

‘’I know these woods.’’ Wirt calls back, peeved yet again to be treated like a child. There is a hot bloodedness coursing through him, boiling the oil greasing his bark and bones. 

‘’No, you do not.’’ The Queen says, tilting her head to the side, the crown unmoving. ‘’They change little by little, but they never look as different as they do in summer.’’ 

Lorna tells them they’ll be careful. She lifts the Lantern, not so dark in her grasp. ‘’It’ll show us the way, in any case.’’ Instead of finding confidence in the Lantern’s presence how she usually would, Lorna peers at it curiously. There has been a change within, and not one she knows how to ask the Beast about without opening up new wounds. Plenty have been opened already during this night.

(Auntie Whispers cannot shout, not really. But they see her struggling to speak above them, so the Beast pushes her to the forefront of everyone’s summer revelry, with the new Accord having been written, too. 

All eyes on Whispers: ‘’Lorna, sweet child, you must understand that I never wanted to hurt you by keeping silent on your past. I did not want to see you turned into a pawn again.’’

‘’A pawn?’’ Lorna wonders aloud. There is a boldness to her now, at her full turn of the seasons, and she laughs, unable to curb her tongue in time. ‘’Better a pawn than a kept niece in any case, I should think!’’

Whispers draws back into herself at such cruelty. When has Lorna learned to be cruel? To wield her words like a blade. Perhaps always, but she has simply expended too much energy at keeping the curse at bay and has not refined her other talents. ‘’Dear Lorna…’’

Lorna blushes, at seeing Whispers so small. She blushes, further, at the things she has not known she has swallowed down for so long. She had thought it would all fade away, and for a time it did. In those first few moments in the House with the Broken Mill, Lorna has not thought of Whispers once. Instead finding purpose with the Lantern, and the piano, and Wirt, and Turtle. 

Seeing Beatrice and her family has broken the lock on something she had thought would never need to be unlocked. ‘’Perhaps I wouldn’t have been as cursed for as long as I had if I did not live with you. You never looked into breaking the curse, merely managing it.’’ 

Everyone present, save for the Queen, who sees their fight as entertainment, avoids looking at both Lorna and Whispers. Lorna is fully grown, now. With her own thoughts. With no curse to impede her. 

‘’Sweet Lorna,’’ Whispers attempts any placation, ‘’I did the best I could.’’

‘’Right. I have to learn from them that I was not an autumn’s child.’’ Gesturing to the Queen and the others present at the revel. ‘’I have to find out that my mother’s just some poor woman who sold me to the Beast.’’ A near laugh, startled. ‘’Who would do that?”

Whispers tries to get her to see her sense: “What could he have possibly done for you? He was untamable, back then, rootless. He only cared for himself.’’

‘’Cared a great deal for Adelaide.’’ The Apothecary witch mumbles, unable to stop herself. Her mouth tastes of drink, cold to combat the summer heat. At Whispers’ look of warning, the Apothecary witch does not acknowledge it, shrugging her shoulders. ‘’What? You keep on lying to her, spinning your stories, and when she pieces it all together she won’t ever want to speak to you. Face it, Whispers, the cat’s out of the bag!’’

Enoch meows in reproach at that. 

‘’Oh you know I don’t mean you!’’ The Apothecary witch waves off. 

Whispers spells the other witch silent, her mouth sliding off of her painted face entirely, melting away. The Apothecary witch hunts after it in the ground, making sure it is not eaten by the nearby river or the tall pasture grass. 

Lorna blinks at that. She takes a step back, as if the distance will make Auntie Whispers make sense. ‘’For Adelaide?’’ Then her eyes turn in the direction of the Beast. He is either fully engrossed in whatever Enoch is telling him, or he plays the part masterfully, completely ignoring Whispers and Lorna. 

Beatrice and Wirt, alongside Anna, have secluded themselves to the edge of the pasture, skipping stones in the river. 

With the Queen as spectator, and the Apothecary witch as witness, Lorna rounds on her Aunt harder. ‘’Before you call me ungrateful,’’ there is a heat broiling inside of Lorna, clearing her mind from fog and her fingers from cold numbness, there is a heartiness to her she has never before experienced, ‘’I do want to thank you for rearing me. It was not easy, dealing with the burden of a cursed girl.’’

Whispers watches Lorna, every miniscule expression, every twitch, every spasm. It is a tapestry of unsaid words. Heavy and heavier than the last, but something that Whispers must bear. ‘’It was not a burden. I grew to love you. But I had to save you from them. It was cruel to raise a child like a pawn, using it against the other. I look at you now, fully grown, with your own thoughts and your own journey ahead and I cannot sleep if I imagine the nightmare you would have grown into had I not taken you.’’

Lorna zeroes in on that which her aunt has always hated about the Beast. His frivolity with life. It is only the soul that interests him, it is only the hunt that inspires him. Everything else is something to discard. ‘’Just because I bear the Lantern, auntie, it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what was always there for me to grow into. If it had not been Wirt, it would have been me.’’

‘’Not while you were cursed.’’ Whispers spits on the ground, and the grass bends and melts, ‘’The one good reason why she’d done it, other than trying to twist his arm, to bend her way and uncurse you himself. The Unknown would have never accepted a cursed Beast.’’ With a narrow of her eyes, and a frown marring her big mouth, she now glares ahead at the Beast. ‘’They would both use you against the other. I could no longer sit there and watch it. So I took you.’’ There’s an edge to her words, always when she’s telling the truth. ‘’I took you and I gave you a chance to be yourself.’’

The Beast pretends like he does not hear her, engrossed in something Enoch is murmuring to him in their clandestine corner, underneath a tree that is not an edelwood. 

Lorna listens to her aunt, however, holding onto the Lantern. It is warmer to her, warmer than it ever has been. It is not the Beast that does so. Nor Wirt. It is another inside it, churning out, decomposing, surging forward with such joy to see her afloat, to see her full turn of seasons. She places a hand on the lantern’s handle and soothes the fire inside. The souls of the Beasts and the lost souls feeding them. 

The Apothecary witch comes forward, too, having found and slapped her mouth back on her face. ‘’If Lorna wants to know more, I won’t hide it from her any longer. She’s fully grown… a tree now. With her own roots.’’ A glance in Beatrice’s direction. 

The Beast leaves Enoch’s side, having finally had enough of Lorna’s distress amplified through the Lantern. He places a cursory elbow on the Queen’s cloud. She disdainfully looks down at him, but doesn’t shake him off. Instead, he tilts his head to the side and presses the flat of his claw to his face, made of shadow. 

Whispers senses his presence and drags the Apothecary witch away, whispering only to Lorna, that she wants to speak more about this. Lorna nods, curtly, but she does not mean it. Instead when they leave, she only feels the Beast and the Queen closest to her. 

They are Soul Scavengers, having seen the last remnants of a soul’s life before being snuffed out or devoured. Slowly she eases up to them, and looks up at the Beast, who’s always been easy to find in the forest. Then she turns to the Queen, atop her cloud, who’s simply always existed in Lorna’s knowledge but never been more than a joint in a structure made of bone, keeping it all together and allowing it movement. It’s not something you see, but you know without it, nothing would work. 

‘’I think I made a mess of that.’’ Sheepishly Lorna admits. She is not the kind of young thing to stand up to her family. And Auntie Whispers has been her family for as long as she remembers. But perhaps she should also make room for the family she does not. 

The Queen waves her off. ‘’Nonsense. Best to clear the air before autumn and winter, when you have to be cooped up in one room.’’ 

Elixirs awash the Beast, giving him a new scent unlike the one he’s sported in spring, the Apothecary witch has one goal this coming summer and it’s to ‘keep them coming’ for the Beast. His eyes are a flurry of colours, dancing in front of Lorna. Bathing her, in return, in colours. 

‘’Auntie says my mother bartered me to Turtle in exchange for her getting to stay in the sky?’’ Lorna has never been this vulnerable. When she looks away from Turtle in order to look at the Queen, her eyes are the same as the Beast’s- these two have always been eerily similar, with more things in common than not. It is in similarity that they find antagonism and ego, isn’t it? ‘’Did she…did she ever watch over me from up there?’’

The Queen opens her mouth, perhaps to lie, tricksters as these are. But at the Beast hissing, and the Lantern’s light boiling, she thinks better of it and favours the truth, then. ‘’It was a land dispute.’’

‘’Excuse me?’’ Lorna boggles. 

‘’Your birth. Your coming to be.’’ The Beast explains. ‘’She had one foot on witch soil, another on mine, and her head was full of sky. We didn’t quite know what to do with you.’’ His claw moves through her hair, no longer wet, but no longer under that bonnet. It is a strange sensation. Lorna hangs on every one of his words. ‘’You ate your way through her.’’

Lorna pales. ‘’Excuse me?’’

The Queen nods. ‘’Yes, my bluebird said so, as well. You were born with a full set of teeth. The Witch of the Pasture was there. She held you first. And as that woman was dying, she begged the Beast to leave her soul.’’

‘’I have never been put in such a position.’’

‘’Now that isn’t true.’’ The Queen says, calling to attention many babes born under edeltrees, with dying mothers. 

‘’What was she like? My mother?’’ Lorna whispers. 

‘’A mother would have begged for the soul of her child and not her own.’’ The Beast accuses, ripping his claw out of Lorna’s hair with a painful tug. ‘’Therefore, Whispers can call her what she wills, but that was not your mother.’’ It appears she’s insulted him, and that’s a triumph. Lorna has never succeeded in insulting the Beast. She draws back when his claw swipes through the air and snatches the Lantern back from her. It staggers her, the speed and strength of it. She bumps into the Queen’s cloud and feels her hands on her shoulders, grounding her. 

The Queen bends lower and whispers to Lorna. ‘’You knew her. Whispers calling that seller your mother is just another one of her failsafes. But with too many of us willing to finally call her fibs for what they are…well, she is easily found out. You can spin a story, with as many whispers as you may devise, but if people do not believe you, then it is a moot power.’’

Lorna frowns. She rubs at her eyes and groans. ‘’This wasn’t on my prediction list for this summer.’’

A pat on the head from the Queen. ‘’Do keep having your fights outside, will you? I have not been entertained like this since the great battle of the pirates.’’

Lorna huffs: ‘’I’ll see what I can do.’’ She turns towards Turtle’s direction, he’s twirling the Lantern, up, down, up, down, and talking to Enoch about preparations. There’s finally word of a guest list. Of seating arrangements. 

The Queen pushes her towards him. ‘’Do not take his words too harshly in summer. He will be stranger with each passing day.’’ 

‘’Thank you.’’ Lorna stammers. ‘’You have been of great help to me, your majesty.’’

A wink greets her, before the Queen pilots her cloud over to the riverbank to harass Anna. Beatrice puts herself between them, shouting something fierce, about how she won’t let Anna be turned into a soulless bluebird. 

The Beast turns to Lorna, approaching him. When their eyes meet she halts, unsure whether to continue or flee. He beckons her closer. Once they cross that distance, he hands her the Lantern back and tells her to watch it. Then, with something she imagines is Enoch’s influence, he reveals he has never been more at peace than when she holds onto it. 

Tears spring up in Lorna’s eyes at this. She holds the Lantern close to her chest, and nods.)

Lorna twirls the Lantern by her hand, up, down, up, down, up, down. Wirt tells her to be more careful with it. It’s his soul, after all! She scoffs at him, and with an eye-roll, reminds him: ’’It’s Turtle’s soul, too.’’

’’How did that even start?’’ Wirt wonders aloud. At Lorna’s curious expression, he explains. ’’Turtle. Who started calling him that?’’

’’Adelaide did.’’ Lorna says, with a blink. ’’At least that’s what she told me. They all keep secrets from each other. While Turtle is fond of the witches, for their help and their long history, it is no one he favoured more than Adelaide.” Another pause, filled to the brim with bitterness. “So, I’m told .’’

’’Your aunt Adelaide?’’

’’No, not my aunt. I’ve only got two.’’ Lorna says. She maneuvers through the trees like she knows them. Perhaps she does, and perhaps they’re fond of her, so they part ways and trip Wirt for annoying her. He, too, outmaneuvers them. He is the Beast. This is his forest. They should really learn to respect him by now. The Beast says he just needs to grow into it, but Wirt thinks those are just empty words at this point. 

’’Wild thing to find out you were born in summer, huh?’’ It’s interesting to Wirt to find that there’s also someone in the Unknown who doesn’t know everything they’re supposed to. Least of all did he expect it to be Lorna, though. Lorna, who, sometimes, feels like she’s at the centre of it. Once upon a time, that used to irritate him. Now, in a way, Wirt’s thankful it isn’t him. 

’’It would make sense why I am always ailing in cold weather.’’ Lorna tilts her head to the side, in lieu of a nod. 

Wirt regards Lorna.  She is a witch’s niece, but she is no niece of Adelaide. Adelaide, who calls the Beast Turtle. A nickname forged from fondness more than a title of reverence. Only Lorna, a Beastling before a Cursed Child or Lantern Bearer, is allowed to call him Turtle. 

’’When do you think you were born?’’ Think, instead of know. They do not speak of the Known in the Unknown. They, herein, not meaning Wirt. Wirt still speaks of it. Even when the Beast tells him to keep some things to himself, that if he shares it enough times out into the air, the very air of the Unknown will carry his last remnants of known away. 

’’I think it was Autumn.’’ Wirt says, trying to recall and realising he’s only guessing at this point. ’’On the change between it and winter. Greg was born in spring.’’That makes sense to him, somehow, even if he doesn’t quite know if it’s true or not. Perhaps it’s just a lovely lie. 

Lorna nods, seemingly satisfied. But Wirt is not. 

As they continue walking, avoiding any villagers, nor hunting any lost souls (in summer, they belong to the Queen, unless a barter is struck in favour of the Beast s ), Wirt asks her: ’’So...if you’re the Beast’s intended heir...and Adelaide isn’t your aunt...and Beatrice told us Adelaide would go on and on about the Beast as if they were...’’ 

A shrug. Lorna twists the lantern, up, down, up, down. She glances down at the flame. An outline of Adelaide’s, in a light Lorna has never seen her, draped young and daring instead of old and ailing. ’’I think so, too.’’ Her voice is small, so as not to disturb the dancing flame. It might be an illusion, but there is no one to deceive. So the Lantern has no reason to lie, least of all to its bearer and one of its souls. ’’I never knew who I came from. Last night was the most I ever learned about her.’’ Looking at Wirt, up, up, up, because he is much taller. Spindly creature. Lorna is tethered to the ground, while he looks like the wind might knock him away. Unlike the Beast, he is rootless. ’’Your mother is in the lantern, too, with your brother?’’ 

Wirt nods. He does not look towards the Lantern, not even when Lorna lifts it up so it illuminates his features. Barely any skin left. Bark and fur. Less fur in this heat. Strange fellow, Wirt. Even stranger is she. 

’’I lived with Adelaide for a time, I’m told. I can’t recall it. I must have been too small.’’ Lorna says, twisting through briars. The Unknown’s forest transforms alongside the seasons. In its summer, the Queen is a cruel designer, deigning to inflict down nightmares and dreams and claim whatever they come across is their own fault and no one else’s. If they want dreams, they must promise their souls to her, and if they want to contend with her nightmares, then she will lead them to the Beast, who is the biggest nightmare of them all. 

Wirt tenses his claws and cuts through the briars. 

Lorna gets cut up, but she welcomes the incisions. Shielding the lantern as they navigate through this new forest. No, it is not new. Just as the season is not new. They have simply not experienced it yet. But summer and this forest has been here for longer than Wirt or Lorna ever will. ’’He called her Edel Aide and she called him Turtle.’’

’’Adelaide the Edel Aide.’’ Wirt laughs, seeing the wordplay. 

Lorna smiles. She bleeds, her hands cut up, her clothes torn at the ends. Yet it is no imposition. It is simply the price of moving through the Unknown. ’’How’s your skeleton girl?’’ She teases now, once they’ve reached the end of the briars and come to the waterfall. 

Before Wirt can blush and stammer, he points to said waterfall. “I think we got a little turned around.”

Lorna nods. She's never been here before. 

Its thunderous downpour of water is interrupted by a louder, more cacophonous noise. Not of the natural variety, either, as one might expect. Instead, Wirt pulls Lorna behind him, as the waterfall splits into half, allowing a giant ship to rip through it. 

Wirt and Lorna watch, transfixed utterly, as the white sails flutter. Atop the crow’s nest, there’s a flag, black, with a white...skull...that does not...quite...look like any human skull Wirt has ever seen. 

’’Oh no,’’ Lorna laughs at the sight of it, lowering her lantern and hiding it from these new arrivals. ’’Wirt, do you think-?’’

The flag billows. The strange white skull is crossed out with what Wirt imagines is red paint, though it could be blood. 

’’There he is,’’ shouts the captain with his big red hat, and a scallywag crew accompanying him, pointing directly at Wirt, ’’there’s that blasted Beast !’’

Cannons go off. Pistols shoot straight for both Lorna and Wirt. 

The crossed out skull on their flag has antlers. 

’’Oh no.’’ Wirt shouts, nearly pushing Lorna down in their joint retreat. ’’Oh no, no, no, no.’’

Lorna’s panting, holding onto the Lantern for dear life. She will not turn around to see the pirates jumping overboard, carrying nets, running after them like their very honour depends on it. When one’s dead, that’s all one’s got. 

‘’Get ‘em!’’ Wild shouts. Followed by more nefarious banging. ‘’Let’s skin that deer for all its worth!’’

*
The Unknown is open in summer. Old roads thawing. They used to get explorers a few turns back, but now they’re more akin to tourists who know that staying in this part of the Unknown after summer is a creative and cruel experience. The Beast knows of only two paths that lead them from over yonder. The quicker path, less travelled, through the waterfall. Treacherous, but rewarding. 

And the one civil servants take, that is roundabout and full of meandering pathways that force one to prepare ahead of time, with all the necessary paperwork.  

There appears to be a third. The Beast looks up into the sky and sees something that is neither a cloud, nor a bird, and certainly not a monarch. 

It is a strange contraption. A creature. Whirring loudly. Spitting smaller, darker clouds out of it. He wonders what the Queen will make of this. Whether she’ll shoot it out of the sky - and there it is, there’s the lightning in mid day. 

It sends the contraption flying straight towards where he is. The Beast steps a couple of steps to the side and allows it to nosedive into his trees, creating a crater in the soil as it stampedes. 

To add salt to injury, the strange thing sets itself on fire. The Beast demands for some recompense. The Queen sends a rain cloud to put the fire out before it spreads to the rest of his forest. Well, at least that’s something. 

Out from the creature emerges a smaller creature. A, this one’s a human. But it’s got a bigger head. Ah, it’s removing it, revealing a smaller head. Truly, those souls from over yonder are a lot different than the ones growing this side.  

‘’Hello!’’ Upon seeing him, this soul does not falter, instead becomes bolder. ‘’Are you the Beast?’’

A blink, one eye at a time. ‘’Yes.’’ 

‘’I’m Milica!’’ Milica outstretches her hand for the Beast to shake. The Beast does not. It does not deter her. ‘’I’ve been waiting quite a while to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you from my father, my grandfather, his mother, her father, and his father’s father, and so on and so on.’’ Then, at his blank staring, Milica uncovers a small book. ‘’These are my notes on you. I’ve got a sales pitch for you.’’

‘’I do not know who you are.’’ The Beast slowly begins to retreat into his treeline. ‘’Nor who any of your relatives are. Whatever wares you are selling, I want no part in them.’’

‘’Wait, wait, wait.’’ Milica flips through the book in her hand, quickly, trying to find the secret formula to keep the Beast near her. She seems to find it, for she stands up straight and says: ‘’Oh wait, wait, I fucked up. Wait. No.’’ Louder, ‘’My name is not Milica, Beast, it is your friend Isaac! Ha ha,’’ she slaps the book on her thigh, and effects her voice, ‘’that was but a jest!’’ 

‘’Oh,’’ the Beast says, coming from out of his treeline, to peer at her, ‘’you don’t look like yourself, Isaac.’’

Milica wants to say that neither she nor any of her grand(xsomething) fathers and mothers were Isaac, either. That the Beast just seemed to name the first one like this for a lark and that it’d stuck. 

‘’How are your children?’’ The Beast asks. ‘’I hope well. You did beg me to let you go so you could see them again.’’

Isaac plays the part of a jovial small-talker well. All until he gets the Beast where he needs him. ‘’Now,’’ rubs his hands together like the most precarious of flies, ‘’let’s talk business.’’

But the Beast has not yet decided they’ve small talked enough. So Isaac, for all intents and purposes, has to keep his business proposal to himself for a few more questions. 

‘’I was not expecting you so soon, usually you arrive mid summer.’’

‘’Yeah, that civil servant path takes a long time to tread.’’ Milica agrees. ‘’Took my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather half of summer to get there, one full day to convince you, and then the other half of summer to come back before the paths freeze up again.’’

‘’Is he so great?’’

‘’Well, I never met the man, but I’m told he was very great, indeed. Because of the paths being frozen for so long, five generations have not come by.’’ 

‘’Isaac, your stories are so strange,’’ says the strangest thing Milica had ever seen in her life. 

Though, he is correct. Milica needs to stop being Milica for today and embody this Isaac. She goes through the book on the Beast that every Isaac has written in after their return, and laughs. ‘’Ha-ha, old sport, do you still partake in the creation of music?’’

The Beast’s eyes alight with something ferocious, indeed, as he spends a long, long, long time speaking to her about music. 

*

Lorna’s not tied up on the pirate ship, but Wirt is caught in a net. The pirates are all hungry for blood, or oil, in this case. They want to tear the Beast apart for what he’s done to them the last time they’d been here. He cracked open their ship with edeltree roots like one would an egg. Their ship is not an egg! This insult cannot stand! So they have bided their time, in wait for summer’s thaw of the waterfall cavern, a treacherous path that leads them straight to where the Beast slumbers.

They raise their swords in the air, and their pistols, too. Lorna observes them all. None see her as any threat. But they have separated her from the Lantern. She must get to it before something happens to it.

There are so many uncertain things in Lorna’s life right now, but being Lantern Bearer is the one certainty she clings to for dear life. If this, too, shatters, she will not be able to answer for whatever dire actions she might unleash upon her surroundings. It’s the last thread holding her together.

One of the pirates, not dressed as a pirate at all, but a traveller who’s merely hitched a ride with the pirates, glances towards the lantern meaningfully. Lorna tells the older woman off, to back off. It elicits a laugh from her. She’s so tired of all of these crones in her life, whether witches or pirates or travellers.

For a time she does as Lorna asked, keeps away. So Lorna looks in Wirt’s direction and thinks of a way out of this. Without a diversion, they're both done for. 

Wirt attempts at a diversion: “Can, um, can I walk the plank then?” 

Lorna slaps the side of her head in dismay. Wirt shrugs under the net. That's all he knows about pirates. 

The Captain swishes his sword about and laughs. “That old trick will work on us only once, Beast!” Hollers from the rest. They begin rattling chains and stomping their feet, creating a symphony of doom for them both.

Lorna notices the traveller coming by the lantern again. She nearly wraps her hand around the handle. Lorna hisses at her to leave. Tells her she doesnt know what she's doing. 

It elicits a grin from the traveller. She's wearing a pirate's hat, but under it is a different title altogether. Bubbling to the surface the more Lorna tries to scare her away from the Lantern. 

There's a wild ferocity in her eyes, sizing Lorna up and finding her lacking. It is not a thing Lorna will tolerate. She takes a step towards this traveller, to show her she will not be frightened in her own home. It is she who is here a stranger, a tourist. 

“Aye, we shall disembowel you, Beast!”

“Rip your guts out if you've any!”

“And if not, spill your oil until you dry up!”

Raucous laughter fills the air around them. Much warmer than Lorna has ever experienced. 

“You a witch, then?” the traveller asks. Her fingers linger above the lantern, crackles of electricity so thin and small in the air that only someone as capable as Lorna would be able to notice this attraction. This knowing . 

“Nay.” Lorna may speak how the witches do, but she is no witch. “You aren't from there, are you?” A quick glance in the waterfall's direction. She gets a wink as an answer. 

“Guide! Guide, come here and regale us of your knowledge.” The First Mate summons the guide.

She moves from Lorna and the Lantern, turning to face the pirates and a captured Wirt. “Aye, what is it you want to know?” She is not surprised by Wirt, nor does she find him frightening. In the same sense that those who know what the Beast is find Wirt harmless. 

“Would a beheading do it? Would it kill this creature?” The First Mate has put a sword to Wirt's throat. 

“Hm.” The Guide peers at him with curiosity. “I imagine yes. A beheading can kill most things.”

“Would it die in flame, like kindle?”

“I imagine so. Most things burn.” the guide nods. She continues to inspect Wirt. He tries to ask her for help. It seems to surprise her even more, his lack of arrogance in the face of danger. 

“Would it die if we tied it to our mast and starved it for weeks?”

The Guide looks at the panic etching all over Wirt's face. Hidden half in shadow. What is starvation to the Beast but a respite from the hunt? 

“I imagine yes. Most things starve to death.”

“Then what do you advise be the best way to kill the Beast?” The Captain asks, impatient. 

Now the Guide turns to him, her eyes wide, full of knowledge those over yonder simply do not know. “The Beast cannot die. Not while I draw breath!” the guide throws off her hat, revealing auburn hair. She extends a cutlass sword in their direction, and with her other hand throws a dagger straight for Lorna. 

Lorna grabs it and heads straight for Wirt, to cut him free. Then she will grab the lantern. But that woman is quicker, doing first what Lorna thinks. She crosses the swashbuckling distance between the pirates and the Lantern and grabs it with her free hand. There's a spark, there, igniting in the flame. It raises high in recognition. 

She twists around the pirates, each trying to put a stop to her. ’’Ophelia, you traitor!’’ they scream. And she laughs, canting her head back and revealling an aged, well-lived face, with deep smile lines.

’’Thanks for bringing me home, lads!’’ Then in a moment of inspiration, she throws the Lantern up into the sky, way above the sails, near the crows nest. 

The lantern soars in the sky, twirling, once, twice, thrice. Lorna hurries to catch it, to throw herself and throw her arms out to cushion it. But Ophelia catches the handle of the lantern with her sword and tosses it away from the water, on this tipping boat. The lantern, closed, thankfully, slams into the side of the deck and totters downward, avoiding being stepped on by many feet as the entire ship erupts in pandemonium. 

Wirt, screams, when the Captain swishes his sword and embeds him with it, drawing oil. ’’This is your death that nears, Beast!’’

’’I’m not even that guy!’’ Wirt shouts, his mouth full of black oil, stumbling throgh the crevises between his teeth. He holds onto the sword and doesn’t know whetheer to force the sword out or keep it in. What laws does he abide by, the human ones where bleeding out is, bad, or beast ones, where being felled by a sword is embarrassing?

Lorna pushes herself to stand and runs after the Lantern, jumping over ropes and barrels. Ophelia slams one of the barrels with her sword and rum begins spilling over, slicking the deck. 

One by one,maneuver by maneuver, the pirates go overboard or topple into unconsciousness. 

Lorna is yet to reach the Lantern. It rolls in this Ophelia's direction, as if to spite her personally. 

’’Give me back my Lantern!’’ Wirt yells after this woman.

And this woman, this stranger, she looks straight into the flame of the Lantern and reads it with the same clarity Lorna has been learning all of her life. It comes to her in seconds. A laugh bubbles past her lips. ’’ Now isn’t that something? ’’ She tosses it over her back, cuts a rope with her sword, and goes catapulting to the other side. Once away from the pirates, Lorna, and Wirt, she opens the flap of the Lantern and speaks, with a deep smile: ’’You're getting hitched!’’

Lorna screams, clasping a hand over her mouth at the sight that greets her next. She’s tended to the flame, ensured it would stay warm and the fire would forever be lit. Now it’s all going to go to ruin. The lantern is tossed into the air while Ophelia swordfight against Wirt's claws. It soars overhead all of this water. A flame, Turtle’s flame, Wirt’s flame, Lorna’s whole purpose. 

It does something that it's never done before, or at least never something in Lorna's knowledge. The flame flies out of the lantern and attacks the sails, cascading its fire downard until the entirety of the ship burns to a crisp.

Ophelia kicks Wirt away, twists, grabs the lantern before it plummets into the water, and catches the flame into it from right under the sails. 

Quickly she closes the flap then jumps overboard before Wirt or Lorna can stop her. They, too, jump overboard and swim to shore, just before the main burning mast collapses and plummets the ship downward. 

On shore, wet as rats and wet wood, Lorna watches Ophelia wielding the Lantern with an ease that sets her mind aflame and inflicts her with a jealousy in her eyes. She balls her hands into fists and grits her teeth.

Turning to Wirt and Lorna, who are both panting and horrified, Ophelia gives them another wink. “You kids want to fill me in on what I've missed?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Lorna shouts, loudly, and even stomps her foot down on this riverbank.

Wirt startles, having never heard Lorna speak like this to Anyone. 

A wave of the Lantern, up, down, up, down. “I’m Ophelia, the Beast's Lantern Bearer.” 

The pirate ship burns behind them, with the pirates all running in different directions, screaming for help and finding that no matter where they go, the briars spit them back out in front of the waterfall. They will have no other choice but to retreat by foot or breastroke through the waterfall.

To the Lantern, ’’Let’s start that again.” to Wirt and Lorna. “Hello, children.’’ There’s a big smile on her face. Ophelia outstretches her hand and shakes it with Wirt, then with Lorna. ’’I have not been back in this part of the Unknown for a long while.’’ Staring at Wirt. ’’Remarkable, truly. There being two of you.’’ Then, at Lorna. ’’A word of advice, kid, you really ought to watch over the Lantern a little better.’’ Then she twirls the Lantern, up, down, up, down, and tosses it up, has it twirling in mid air, falling back on her head flat. It’s a trick she’s perfected.

It’s irreverent is what it is. Lorna’s lips pull back in a snarl. Less a bearer, more of a beast. ’’Perhaps you ought to watch your mouth.’’ Then she’s chasing Ophelia, who screams involuntarily and runs into the briars with the Lantern.

Wirt stands there, confused. He blinks. ’’I should probably tell the Beast his Lantern Bearer’s back.’’

*

‘’I have a new Lantern Bearer, as well.’’ The Beast has not yet done regaling poor Isaac about his life. Isaac is losing patience. He has come here on a mission, from a long, long line of industrialists, who have courted this creature to no avail. But this Isaac will be the first to wow the Beast, this he knows. ‘’The old one came by the path of the civil servants and never took to countryside life. Carried around an axe, but couldn’t swing it for the life of him.’’

‘’Oh, you know, now that you mention it, I’ve another thing to get done.’’ Isaac unfurls a list of names from one of their jacket pockets. ‘’I’m doing a census, as well, to ensure that the ones who left our side made it to yours. If you recall any teachers?’’ Isaac describes him. 

The Beast nods. ‘’Yes, he yielded to a life of crime and is a highwayman now because we have a schoolteacher already.’’

Isaac’s eyes widen. He leaves a little checkmark beside the name. ‘’The university inclined are always on the precipice of criminal insanity, I tell you.’’ Then. ‘’The project manager?’’

‘’What is that?’’

‘’It is some man or woman who stands about and pretends like they’re all that while telling others what to do when those others know exactly what it is they must do even without being told to.’’

‘’I think that one drowned.’’

Another checkmark. ‘’But they made it through the path. So that’s good news. Whatever happens to them once that’s done is of no interest to us.’’

More and more titles pass by. Isaac finally gets to the last one: ’’I was wondering about the whereabouts of the Judge?’’

’’The Judge?’’ The Beast wonders. 

Issaac nods. ’’The Judge.’’

’’I saw no judge.’’

’’He came with his family.’’ Isaac attempts to jog his memory. 

’’His family?’’ the Beast wonders. 

’’His family.’’ Isaac nods. 

The Beast tells him, before this can continue ad infinatum, that he has no recollection of any judge coming this way. The only new arrival he can possibly picture that’s as self-righteous as a judge could be the Woodsman with his wife and Anna, who’s being ripped apart by both Enoch and the Queen of the Clouds at the moment. 

‘’Yeah, no, I don’t think the Judge would ever stop being the judge to be a Woodsman, though.’’ 

What do city folk know about the ways of this side of the Unknown? 

‘’Isaac, get on with your sales pitch, I am to be married in Autumn and have much to do.’’

Isaac’s grin widens and he stammers, unable to help himself. ‘’Well, congratulations! That’s wonderful.’’ Then he flips his census sheet for his business proposal. 

The Beast continues staring at Isaac. Isaac realises he really cannot fraternize with the Beast. The notes his family has left him on this wild, incomprehensible being are true in that regard. This creature has no time nor desire to listen to meandering thoughts, but insists that his own are listened to. 

‘’So, I know you hate the idea of trains!’’ Isaac’s great(x14) grand-father has tried to expand the train tracks from their side of the Unknown into this side, but he never could get a permit to do so, on account of needing the Beast to yield him acres of his forest. That or Enoch. But Enoch’s even worse because he’s killed three of Isaac’s great(something) grandfathers (x10 and x8, respectively) and kept their bones in his village. 

‘’I do hate trains, that is true.’’

Isaac the current strikes a heroic pose and shouts, gesturing to the wreckage that nearly burnt the Beast’s forest down behind them: ‘’But have you considered aeroplanes!’’ 

The Beast leaves Isaac right then and there. 

Isaac attempts to run after him. ‘’Wait, no, please let me explain. It’s the future of travel! And it doesn’t require a lot of land. Nor would it be safe to traverse between our land and yours in any other time than in summer. You said you hated trains because that would make your forest much too available. And I get that! I get that! Hey, please, wait!’’

The Beast has disappeared into the treeline. 

*

On his way away from the pirates, Wirt finds Anna. She’s holding opera glasses, the handle engraved with bluebird wings. When she lifts them to her eyes to regard Wirt with, it’s like he’s looking into the reflected cosmos, drawn entirely to her. 

’’Hello, Beast.’’ her voice is calm. 

’’Wirt.’’ He corrects her. She is dressed in Pottsfielder’s garments. From the recently buried. It is a clash, her autumnal garb with the regal hairstyle she now sports and the opera glasses in her possession. ’’How are you doing, Anna?’’

The unspoken have they decided what to do with you lingers in the air between them. 

Anna gets up on her tippy-toes to get a better look at Wirt. ’’Did you just come back from a fight with pirates?’’

’’Ah, yes?’’ He wonders how she could ever possibly know that. 

Anna nods. She lowers the glasses and it feels like she is but a girl again, and he is no ferocious beast. With quick, nimble fingers, Anna digs around for a little skin-bound notebook and begins writing into it with a pen. ’’I am to write down anything of note and relay it to the Queen when I am not acting as Enoch’s Witch Hunter.’’

’’They’ve...come to a sort of agreement about you?’’ 

A shrug follows his words. Anna doesn’t want to think about it. ’’It beats becoming a bluebird. I have Beatrice to thank for that.’’ She pockets her notebook and her opera glasses, folding them up and putting them in her apron’s pocket. 

Wirt smiles. It doesn’t come across as such, but Anna appreciates the sentiment regardless. ’’I’m looking for the Beast. I have to tell him about the pirates.’’ 

’’Right you are.’’

’’Lorna’s having an existential crisis.’’ Wirt continues. 

Anna takes out her notebook and starts writing any and all gossip Wirt knows. And Wirt, on account of being rather unassuming, has learned quite a lot of it. 

They part on the fork between the House with the Broken Mill and Pottsfield. Anna waves him goodbye. He waves, for a little while longer than he has any reason to. 

*

’’Lorna’s having an existential crisis.’’

’’Because of Adelaide?’’ 

’’Oh my god.’’ Wirt whispers in horror for guessing that correctly. He raises his voice: ’’No, uh, because she’s hunting down your previous Lantern Bearer and has said, to quote, I am going to kill her because there can only be one, end quote.’’

The Beast lazily floats in the river. The House with the Broken Mill stands behind them, empty. Open for the air to creep inside and float outside upon its leisure. Such is the pleasure of summer. There are no closed doors in this time. The Unknown is cracked open for all to come in and come out at their own pace. ’’Ophelia stole the lantern away, did she?’’ A chuckle. ’’Always a chase with that one.’’

’’I’d like a little input...on what we’re supposed to do about – you know – most of the edel trees drowning with the rise of the river?’’ 

The Beast all but tells him this sounds like a Wirt problem for growing them near the river. 

’’Fine, I’ll grow them higher up next time.’’ 

’’Good luck with that.’’ The Beast laughs, floating away slowly. 

Wirt learns something horrific as he finds the Beast in the river, floating lazily. ’’What do you mean?’’ He shouts after the floating creature, running after him on the riverbank. 

The Beast waves him off with a clawed hand, twigs rattling against one another in a mockery of a twirl. ’’Never fear, Wirt. Enoch is as impatient as I for Autumn’s embrace. He will not starve you for very long.’’ A sigh, nearly yearning. ’’A pity, really. His rage is a delicious affair. I had thought to experience it once more in its full glory.’’ An imperceptible shrug. ’’But alas, we must make haste. Perhaps next summer.’’ 

’’What do you mean we can’t grow edeltrees in summer!?’’ Wirt doesn’t care about their romantic flirtations and their games of starvation. He sees the Beast ambling downward, towards where the Tavern is. Soon, with the river’s current becoming bolder, he becomes smaller in his distance. 

His reply is too faraway for Wirt to make out. 

He grabs at his hair, atop his head, and he screams: ’’You could have told me this before I grew so many near the riverbank! All of our supply for summer drowned! What do you mean I can’t grow new ones?!’’

The Beast could not care less even if he tried. When he reaches the Tavern, or whatever’s nearest to the tavern, he orders some of the villagers nearby to go inside and get him a witch. Once this is accomplished, he tells the Apothecary witch to prepare him some elixirs. Wirt’s rather stressed, the poor lad. It’s bringing him down. 

‘’I’ve got one I haven’t tested yet.’’ A pause. ‘’It’s pretty strong. I don’t believe you’ll handle it well.’’

The Beast waves her off. ‘’Don’t be ridiculous.’’

*

Never let it be said that the Apothecary witch doesn’t know how to brew an elixir. The how and why isn’t important. Nor would it be something either could recall, even if they would trace their steps back both physically, metaphysically, or just by guesswork. 

The Queen and the Beast, drunk , are going through the forest and stumbling. ‘’Ophelia’s back.’’ The Beast says. Perhaps for the fifteenth time that evening, or it might have been the first. 

‘’Will she be your something old?’’ The Queen, gliding on her cloud, lays on her back and tries not to pay attention to how everything, including the world she forbids from spinning, is spinning to spite her. She, too, has partaken in this new elixir. Why should the Beast taste it when it is her season? Offer it up to me, witch, for I may judge it! 

There aren’t any briars on this side of the forest. The Queen does not know where the Beast is leading her. But she is much too carefree to give a man. The Beast answers her: ‘’Perhaps she might be. Lorna is something new, then?’’

‘’Lorna is your only family.’’ A pause. As the Queen turns around and halts the movement of her cloud to put her head in her hands. The crown embedded in her skull pulsates something fierce. A groan. ‘’Or as close to a family as you get. You insane creature, you spiteful cur, you inane man.’’

‘’Yes, yes, yes, insult me all you like. Call me a hack and a soundless beggar. Claim I have no right to the voice I have, nor to the songs I’ve composed since it. You dared call me a thief.’’ There is an anger to his words. ‘’What is it that you said, exactly: That I’ve stolen the witches from you and made them my servants, that if I had to do a day’s honest work and both hunt for the oil and churn it, too, it would be beyond me?’’

The Queen blinks away the fatigue and the headache. Now it travels down to her stomach, and she holds it firmly to stop it from expelling the elixir. Perhaps this is not meant for a palate as sensitive as hers. ‘’I’ve never said such a thing in my life!’ 

They have stumbled in front of a tree. The Beast leans on it and regards the Queen, atop her cloud, looking belarily at him as equally as he does her. In another light, without all of these shadows, or perhaps without so much light reflecting on her, they might have even shared the same face. ‘’You have, indeed. It’s the cruellest thing you’ve ever said about me.’’ 

A trickster, a liar, a failed artist with no rhyme or reason to his art, a hack, a toneless singer, all the things the Queen’s thrown at the Beast since they’ve first met - but she’d never call him a thief. The Queen places one of her hands on the tree he’s leaning on. It pulsates with something that for a moment draws her attention. It is a familiar sort of feeling, causing her to furrow her brows in wonderment. ‘’I never said that.’’

‘’Denying it now?’’ The Beast scoffs, and it sounds like a hiss. He turns to the tree and begins clawing at it, a creature of habit the likes of which the Queen has never come across again. 

‘’Oh, and will you deny your slanderous words about me, then?’’ The Queen tests him, ‘’Too overextended wretch from the sky that wouldn’t know the difference between a femur or a humerus any better than she would how to carry a high note!’’

The Beast halts his scratching when that insult meets his mind. He blinks, one eye at a time. And turns to her. ‘’Does that even sound like something I would bother saying?’’

‘’No, it does not!’’ She scoffs. ‘’Ergo, the reason why I had to take action and persevere my honour against your slander.’’ The Queen digs out a scepter from her cloud, slams it in the crack of the edeltree, and pries it open as if using a crowbar. 

It is at the sight that greets them inside the tree that both the Queen of the Clouds and the Beast of the Unknown meet a conclusion. ‘’It’s the boy!’’

‘’I suppose it is.’’ The Beast says, having forgotten where he’d put him. 

‘’Oh, Enoch will want his bones, won’t he?’’ The Queen turns to the Beast. And just by the mention of Enoch, in this state, surrounded by the previous Witch Hunter’s bones and soul, they begin to piece together…something else. 

‘’Why would I speak of bones?’’ The Beast asks, looking straight at the bones inside the tree. ‘’I do not even know what a femur is, hardly if you would be able to tell it apart from that other thing you said.’’ With a flippant wave of the claw, he says it makes no sense. 

‘’Yes, and what reason do I, a Monarch, have to judge you for not wanting to do labour?’’ With her own claws, she reaches inward and wraps a smooth, unblemished hand through the ribs, in search of something delectable. Something shining. 

Upon bringing the uneaten soul between the Beast and herself, the both of them whisper, in realisation: ‘’Enoch .’’ 

A storm cloud forms above them, thundering angrily. The Queen growls, squeezing the soul with so much unsaid wrath. The Beast peers forward into the edeltree and sees the bones. ‘’I have an idea how we can get back at him.’’

The Queen eases her hold on the soul and tosses it to the Beast, for safekeeping. 

He gestures to the bones with it. ‘’Let us give the boy’s bones to the witches. This is, after all, the Witch Hunter that tore down the Golden Age. I imagine they will want him.’’

It splits her face in a smile. She laughs, and the sky rips apart with rain. It is warm. Fresh. Of a new beginning, cleansing their slate clean. ‘’You vindictive beast.’’

He rips the boy’s soul in half and tosses her half. A new covenant, between them. 

*

The witches are thankful. More elixirs follow. The Queen of the clouds stumbles upon her step and nearly falls, laughing something fierce as she does so. The Beast holds her by her arm, splinters embedding in her skin from his grip. When he walks, or rather totters, he is no better at all. 

‘’To Pottsfield!’’

‘’To that craven, scheming cat!’’

*

The Queen of the Clouds and the Beast stumble their way to the borders of Pottsfield, like a pair of drunken fools. Enoch comes, having been summoned by their collective presence. He does not know what awaits him, but he does want to always see the Beast.

His cat ears fold back at the sight of him on the cloud, laughing and stumbling alongside the Queen. It is a sight that he has not seen yet. ''What's all this, then?''

The Beast lifts up a bone and aims it at Enoch. ''Behold!''

Enoch's eyes widen, and his pupils slit. ''Meow.'' He involuntarily lets out a noise, causing another laugh to rip from the Queen and the Beast both. His is a rumbling, hers a high, cold affair. Summer feels cold, suddenly, and not how it does seeping into autumn.''My boy's bones!'' He makes a move to jump after it, on the cloud, but the Beast cruelly pushes him off and tosses the bone to the Queen.

The Queen catches the bone and giggles, unable to help herself. She tosses to bone from hand to hand. ''We've given away the boy's bones.'' She says to him, no room for argument. This is her season and she will make sure everyone knows.

''Cruel, I say, to speak like this to your good neighbour.'' Enoch sees the Beast by her side and he pieces together what has happened much before they speak about it. Cruel tricksters that these are, one and the same, especially with a common foe. It is only thanks to Enoch's long standing relationship with the Beast that he does not worry what this newfound camaraderie might do to Pottsfield.

The Beast slides off of the cloud without any fanfare, turning into oil with heavy limbs and no orientation to speak of. Enoch meows, again, at the sight of him – starving still, disoriented with potions, and going through interesting revelations. ''Harvest Cat.'' His titles slur together. ''O Harvest Cat. My Cat of the Harvest.''

''Your tempo's horrific.'' The Queen gives her notes. ''What is that, a piss poor attempt at iambic pentameter?''

The Beast fans her away. ''You would not know about iambic pentameter if it hit you over the crown.'' There's a serenade that he stops singing halfway into remembering he's supposed to be angry at Enoch.

Enoch watches all of this, his eyes switching between the Queen, the bones he is owed and been denied, and this beloved. It is a cumbersome affair. ''Will you seek revenge now?''

They look at one another. Then back at Enoch. Then back to themselves. And then they burst into laughter. Enoch's ears wish to fold further back than they're able. This is all humiliating.

''We have given the boy's bones to the witches. He has, after all, slighted them and not us.'' The Queen of the Clouds says. She raises her hands up in the air. ''I have tasted his soul and found him true. He will live on in my clouds.''

''His place was in Pottsfield.'' Enoch hisses. ‘’It was one thing to keep him away from all of us, as punishment, but to find him and hand him over to them and not me-’’

The Beast scoops him up, cradling him to his chest. Enoch will not purr, just out of principle. Enoch will not purr, not even when the Beast begins scratching him under his neck. Now he begins to squirm, but his hold on him is vice, full of love. Pressing his antlers against Enoch, they pin him down. Enoch can do nothing but submit to the calm of this creature. A gentle death if requested. 

‘’For your crimes against us, Enoch of Pottsfield,’’ the Queen is halfway on her cloud and halfway off it, a meandering drunkard, high on aged souls. ‘’The Beast and I demand satisfaction!’’

Enoch simply looks up at them, fools that they are: unable to phrase what they want of him and dissolving into fits of insanity and laughter, musically inclined or otherwise hysteric. This is just yet another change he must contend with. This turn will be the death of him, surely, with so many shifts and transformations. ‘’Careful now, my good neighbours. I may start Autumn tomorrow and end your reign prematurely just for this coup you’re attempting.’’

The Beast laughs at him, too. ‘’Good luck with that!’’ 

The Queen laughs alongside him as well. ‘’Yes, without the Beast you can’t hope to bring about autumn.’’

Enoch meows, with interest. ‘’And how do you figure that?’’

‘’Enoch, I must admit, autumn has not come to the Unknown for a long time, but surely you recall what it is that I must do to shepherd it forward.’’ 

Enoch purrs, waiting for the two to catch up. It appears that they, too, have yet to fully embrace the new additions and remember their roles. ’’Oh, only you?’’ 

The Queen hits the Beast on the shoulder. It hardly hurts either of them. More to the point to get his attention. ‘’Beast!’’

‘’Ah?’’ He wonders, the incomprehensible old tree that he is. ‘’What is it?’’

‘’He can have Wirt do your part!’’

It takes him a moment. One. Two. Three. Then he rounds on Enoch, his eyes flaring with danger. ‘’Don’t you dare.’’ The Beast says to Enoch. ‘’I have not nearly starved to my satisfaction. Do not rob a blind man his small pleasures.’’

Enoch hums, finally wiggling out of his grasp and jumping up on Pottsfield’s fence. ‘’I think I shall . Very much so. If you two simply believe I will allow you to bully me-’’

‘’You started this bloody animosity in the first place!’’ The Queen demands satisfaction of her own. Enoch will not be able to bring about autumn until he finds Wirt, and until that time comes, this is still summer, and this is still the domain of the Queen of the Clouds. She will be obeyed! 

The Beast lifts from the ground, unsteadily. He says he will deal with this. 

‘’How?’’ The Queen wonders aloud. 

‘’I shall kill Wirt.’’ He says to them both, a paragon of ideas that no one, least of all him, has thought of. He disappears into the tree line and sets forth on his task. 

Both the Queen and Enoch begin running after him, reminding him of how that poorly went last time. ‘’That won’t work! Come back here!’’ 

Chapter Text

The Beast does not kill Wirt. The Queen and Enoch put a stop to him. He pretends like he has not tried to kill Wirt ages ago, or perhaps he genuinely does not recall. Winter is rather forgetful in his old age.

Though Winter does have a conversation with new frost. About some important things. 

“Heed me,”

Wirt sighs, “Okay, yeah?”

The Beast repeats, pointing at him with a claw. “Autumn is mine.”

“Okay??” Wirt wonders if this means that autumn will be coming sooner than later.

It does not.

Autumn will come when the Beast so wills it, when the soil itself (Enoch) agrees it needs an edeltree, and not a moment sooner. And Wirt, if he knows what's good for him, will steer clear. “Enjoy summer.”

“Hard to do that when I'm literally starving.”

“You would not be starving if you did not drown the trees.” 

“Whose fault is that?” Wirt laughs.

The Beast regards him. “Pushing back, are you?”

Wirt doesn't freeze, how he normally would've. It's much too hot for that in the peak of summer. He simply shrugs. “I mean, it is your fault.” And then he leaves the Beast to grandstand in the trees by himself, watching Wirt go. He blinks, one eye at a time, and wonders if he's finally done with that sniveling child. 

Visiting Pottsfield in summer is a bohemian affair, the flowers and moss have shifted, given way to new crop outfits. 

Instead of pumpkins there are melons, of all varieties. Wirt smiles at them. But in not keeping attention where he's going, he manages to smash a watermelon with his foot. Giggling alerts him, and he whirls around, nearly toppling in doing so. But it's worth it, really, because he sees Anna laughing, writing down his folly.

“Are you well?” She calls out to him.

He shrugs. “Who's to say if any of us are.”

A nod from Anna: “I imagine we are.”

It brings a smile so scorching on Wirt's face, it chases some of the shadows away. 

Lorna has hunted down Ophelia, though unfortunately the Beast simply tells her that if he can't kill Wirt, that means she can't kill Ophelia either. 

“My life is in shambles!” Lorna bemoans. Why doesn't anyone understand her plights.

The Beast cannot help her there. His life is in shambles, as well. And you don't see him trying to solve that through murder.

Ophelia winks at Lorna, hiding behind the Beast for protection. To the Beast, in a whisper: “Since when do you have a kid, old friend? Never thought you'd be the type.”

The Beast cants his head, left, then right, rustling as he does so. “My life took a lot of strange turns when you left to go exploring, Ophelia.” 

“No shit!” Ophelia wheezes out, slapping her hands together. “ You're getting married! Who would've thought you were capable of settling down?”

The Beast cannot simply wave such a thing off. It is a monumental thing. He turns to Ophelia and says to her: “It pleases me to have you here for the ceremony.”

“Don’t get it twisted, old friend. I had to come back either way, for your wedding or not.'' She draws up her sleeves and shows her arms to him, her skin thinner and thinner, ''I can feel my own skeleton clawing from under the layers of skin and meat, warning me that I've been away for too long.” To Lorna, to teach her: “Every Lantern Bearer leaves their bones in Pottsfield.” Then she elbows the Beast and laughs, near cackling:  "The way I see it, your union has always been destined. Even when neither of us knew the cat and the maypole were one and the same.”

He swats at her, then, and she ducks out of the way with practised assurance. Perhaps he is a creature of habit, to be read so easily by someone who has not seen him in a long while.

Lorna, meanwhile, crosses her arms at her chest and expects some form of restitution for her angst. 

The Beast simply hands her the Lantern to hold, showing his favour for her instead of Ophelia. “I am not worried about you, at all.”

“You worry?” Lorna scoffs. Why does everyone challenge him in summer? Should the Beast take it personally? “I didn't think you had the capacity for that, Turtle.” but she accepts the Lantern all the same. 

The Beast cups Lorna's head between his claws. She stares at him, bewildered utterly, trying to understand what's come over him. Truly in summer he is strange. “I am not worried about you. You have managed to come out on top every time someone has tried to push you down or hold you back. Unlike most I know, you are the only one who has not waited to be given a title, or to have it revealed to you, but have, instead, simply taken what you thought would suit you. It is that boldness that makes me safe in my certainty for your future. Whether you want to be a Lantern Bearer, or if when one of the witches pass, you'd like to take on that mantle, it will be because you will it.”

Lorna clasps a hand over one of the Beast’s claws. She leans further into his embrace. “I thought it would be simple, waiting for you to die, and then just you know, do what's expected.”

“Hm,” the Beast runs his hand upwards, into her hair. She closes her eyes and hums, alongside him. 

“All of these figures in my life, you, Auntie, Adelaide, everyone - it's strange realising that none of you really knew what to do with me. That it wasn't as simple as growing up and having something lined up for you.” She chuckles. “You aren't worried for me, but I am.” Harrowing. Horrific realisation. “I don't know what I'm going to do with myself. I don't even know who I am…”

The Beast laughs straight at her. To add salt to injury. Lorna rips out his embrace and points in accusation. Before her words of reproach come, he speaks over her: “Lorna, everything is made up. It's a preference, an aesthetic, a way to be that you enjoy for the moment and cultivate until you decide to be rid of it. There's no set rules for anything. To imply otherwise would just be a lie. We changed the Accord because it didn't suit us. We made the first Accord because not having it suited us less than making some rules up for appearance's sake.”

“So if nothing's real then what's the point?”

“To make it your own and enjoy it.” 

Lorna laughs, because the sentiment is so simple, yet why would she have expected it to be any more complicated than that? 

Off to the side, Ophelia awkwardly asks: “You mind bringing me to the witches, Lorna?” 

Lorna continues laughing, “Sure.”

The Apothecary Witch and Whispers greet Ophelia like a long lost friend, regaling her of tales and expecting many in return. 

“We thought you'd died!”

“Ah,” Ophelia chuckles, gesturing to the Apothecary Witch, “I'm more wondering how you've managed to live for so long, yourself!” 

The Apothecary witch shushes her: “I do not want that old tree to remember, traveller, oh! We changed our names after the Accord, as the only witches to remain, and I think he's completely forgotten about his promise to, well, the opposite of unearth me.” Laughter, from all three of the older women.

“I rather think he knows exactly who you are,” Whispers nudges the Apothecary witch, “but you have made yourself much too invaluable with your elixirs to kill off.” 

Lorna sits beside them, ignoring Whispers’ looks her way. 

They speak of strange and stranger things to have come and yet to come, riveting to someone who may not have grown up to these tales. Lorna blinks, curiously. 

They speak of Adelaide. Because Ophelia does not know anything about this witch, least of all about her role in the first Accord's making. It is strange to learn about someone you thought you knew. It is stranger, still, to hear no disdain or reproach come from Whispers, when she holds her sister’s name in her mouth.

Lorna sees it for what it is, an olive branch. She, too, extends one and sits there without any cruel comments.

“You know he taught your aunt how to sing.” Ophelia gestures to Whispers, who is flushing beet red to be singled out like this. 

“Our Singer, the most mellifluous of witches.” The Apothecary witch teases. 

Whispers tells them both to shut up and so they do. But then they begin miming singing motions and fall over one another. Whispers is redder than any beet, now, trying to put a stop to them to no avail.

Lorna laughs. ‘’I didn’t know you could sing, Auntie!’’

Hearing her niece laugh makes Whispers smile. ‘’I don’t anymore, no. But it made me happy, each time I’d hear your song.’’

So, Lorna sings for them. 

The nights are shorter. But seeing the Beasts in broad daylight is still an uncomfortable affair for most. One such fellow runs to the Tavern, sitting outside it on some of the chairs and tables, so he may bathe in the Queen's merciful sun rays. Each day of sun is a gift. Each day of warmth is a reason to be loyal to her.

“The Queen shall protect us, he is her most hated foe.” He says, rubbing his hands together, trying to shake off the fright. 

The Tavern Keeper sets down his drink, filled with ice. “Heard they made up.”

“Oh no.” he accepts the drink and downs it. “Who told you that? Was it one of the witches? You can't trust a word they say, they like to invent stories, that Whispers the most.”

“Yeah,” the Tavern keeper says, polishing a glass with a rag. “My source is the Spook, herself, armed with her glasses of true sight and her book of facts. If the Queen trusts her words, then why shouldn't I?”

Soon enough, on a random day like any other, The Beast sings an edeltree into the centre of Pottsfield. Summer swoons. Autumn catches her.

With the end of summer, or rather by entering Autumn, there is much work to be done. Everything planted is now to be picked; everything arranged is now to be seen; and everything courted is now to be married.

''Beloved,'' Enoch whispers, so as not to spook the Beast, overwhelmed as he is surrounded by so many folk and so much fanfare.

''Hm?'' It does not sound like a sound, but rather a whisper of the wind, rattling through leaves on a treetop.

''It has come to my attention that, well, it will seem rather mismatched, our seating arrangements.'' Enoch does not quite know how to phrase this gently.

The Beast does not allow him any semblance of such an endeavour, cutting to the chase instantly. ''You are asking who will sit on my side of the wedding, are you?''

Deflating with relief, the maypole sways in a dance. ''Yes,'' he says, happy to get the matter brought up by someone capable of handling it. ''Who will be on your side? I would think young Wirt and Lorna, but who else?''

''The Queen has insisted she be on my side, in lieu of your treasonous, dastardly machinations.'' The Beast says this nonchalantly. ''I managed to dissuade her from this, of course, so she will be the officiant.''

Enoch goes through several different stages here. First surprise, then quickly anger, then confusion, then finally: ''I would have thought the Unknown-''

''Yes, yes,'' the Beast fans this away, ''the Unknown shall speak through her, I imagine. It is important for her to feel important, fading from summer as she is.''

''You are much too kind to her.'' Enoch says, befuddled. ''What a strange notion, I would have thought you enemies since day one.''

''She knew me long before I met you.'' The Beast says. Enoch cannot refute it.

So they go back to the matter at hand. ''Who will you call to sit at your side, who are your allies if not your family or friends?'' Enoch already anticipates this will be difficult, if he manages five folk it will already be a miracle.

The Beast lists them. Though he says that some of these are his enemies, but that he will be at fault for not inviting them. Enoch's head whirls. Why would anyone invite one's enemies to a wedding? ''Well, I do not expect, they will show up. But I am under obligation to invite them.''

''What kind of twisted hospitality law do you live under?'' Enoch has, faultily apparently, thought the Beast beyond the laws of hospitality. Uncaring or otherwise ignorant of them.

The Beast shrugs. ''Fret not, fret not, I have the highest form of security put into place if they do decide to come and cause mayhem.''

Wirt looks at the frog constables. They're giving him a mean, frog eye, and batting their baton at their webbed hand. A lesser man surely would have gulped, or ribbited in fear. Wirt, being neither lesser man nor frog, just sighs. ''I'm here to vet the band?''

Apparently the frogs have seduced the Beast by song once and so he wants them at Pottsfield. How this is supposed to work isn't anyone's problem but Wirt's. It's at times like these that he wishes they hadn't drowned that project manager.

The band's all right. Wirt, on his walk back, runs into Anna, who's just going on an errand of her own – she's to suss out what traditions the Beast has for the wedding. The ones at Pottsfield are all straightforward, but the ones from the forest remain unknown to them. This must be rectified. She peers through her opera glasses at Wirt.

Wirt wonders how he looks through them. He straightens out, so he is taller. A curl of a smile graces her lips when she catches him doing that. Nothing is said on that front.

Anna, instead, interrogates him about the Beast's ways. ''In Pottsfield, weddings are a common affair. What about in the forest? Has the Beast said anything about his expectations? Or yours?'' It is a little strange to talk to someone who's never known Wirt to be a lost soul, but has instead always seen him as a beast of the Unknown. In Anna's knowledge, there have always been two.

It is because of this myth she has cultivated that Wirt is gentle when he speaks to her, because this might be the first time someone does not bring up the clarinet, or Jason Funderberker, or romantic poetry, or even Greg. Because they do not know any of these things. All they know is what Wirt has, in turned, cultivated himself. Such a freeing notion, to be known how one prefers, not how one's been marked. ''Um,'' he does not know how to phrase this, ''well, I don't think I've ever had a chance to go to a beastly wedding. So, I guess it's just what the Beast wants.''

''Does he have a name?'' Anna wonders.

Wirt shrugs. ''I think that is his name.''

''But yours is Wirt?''

''Yeah.'' Wirt smiles. ''I know it's a little strange.''

Anna rolls her eyes, scoffing. ''Until you hear the Queen's name, nothing's strange, trust me.''

Wirt laughs. Anna joins him in his laughter. They continue walking, chatting, gossiping. She writes down whatever Wirt says. Even the things that should be of no interest to the Queen at all.

With the band secured, and the decorations well underway, there's talk of catering. Of dietary restrictions.

''Lorna did ask me if she could eat someone.''

''To the bone.'' Enoch draws the line. ''No further.''

''Well, of course, she's not a witch.''

Thus the talk of dietary restrictions ends.

As this is a historic event, unfortunately, the witches are to come, as well. Enoch does not take this lightly. He will have security on them the entire time so they do not leave with any bones. The Beast attempts to distract him with a serenade, but Enoch will not take things up to chance.

Wirt is security, only because the Beast told him he can't just come to the wedding and enjoy himself, but has to actually do something. At the mention of Lorna probably coming and just enjoying herself, the Beast says she's his best man.

(The Beast enters the room where Lorna is in. ''I am in need of a best man.''

''I'm your guy.'' Lorna points at herself.

The Beast nods. ''Excellent.''

And then he leaves.)

''Fine,'' Wirt says, raising his hands in the air, ''I'll watch over the lantern and be security. Who else is on the detail?''

''Some girl named Anna, I do not believe you know her.'' The Beast says, with a handwave.

So, Anna and Wirt are vetting any new arrivals and counting the amount of bones in case of any unseemly bone-theft is to occur. The ceremony is coming along nicely. Pottsfielders are much better at the party management side of things, whereas Wirt feels like he and Lorna are about to pass out any second just from the sheer number of people. Not very extroverted, any of them. Keen to take to the forest as quickly as they can.

‘’What traditions did he finally ask for?’’ Wirt asks Anna, who knows everything one needs to know on the ground.

She smiles, wiggling her eyebrows. ‘’Wouldn’t you like to know?’’

‘’I, uh, would, yes?’’ Wirt boggles. He tilts his head to the side, and the antlers come along with him.

It seems to cheer Anna on more, for she wrinkles her nose at him, and hides the bottom of her face with her notebook.

Beatrice kidnaps Wirt. Or rather she tells him to come with him if he wants to live. Lorna’s standing behind Wirt, with Beatrice’s axe, and is threatening to chop him down as kindle.

Wirt sighs. ‘’Is this a tradition of his?’’

‘’A tradition would imply it’s happened before.’’ Beatrice says, ushering Wirt closer and closer. Lorna swings. ‘’This is more of a request of his.’’

‘’Whatever the bride wants.’’ Wirt shakes his head and follows Beatrice.

Once they tell Wirt what’s needed of him, he just puts his head in his hands and sighs. ‘’Wouldn’t it have been easier if he did that something old something new thing?’’

‘’He found out that was more than three things and gave up.’’ Lorna explains. ‘’Said he couldn’t be moved.’’

Wirt nods. ‘’Yes, he does tend to favour threes.’’

So now, after they dress him up, Wirt stands in front of the Pottsfielders. They clap and cheer at the sight of them. Lorna stands on his right flank, Beatrice on his left. They’re laughing, too, merry and swaying. Lorna slaps Wirt on the back and says: ‘’As you can see the bride is as merry as merry can be!’’A nudge. Wirt smiles, and gives a little showman bow. More cheers erupt. ‘’What will you give for the Beast?’’

Beatrice swipes the axe through the air, laced with magic. The Pottsfielders look on in marvel, never before seeing a magic that is not innately against them. This is a cause for celebration, indeed, that the Beast’s union with Enoch will prove more fruitful than any Witch Hunter primed for attack. ‘’But don’t be mistaken, o pumpkins!’’

‘’I haven’t yet changed out of my summerwear dear, quite a lot of melons still around!’’

‘’Pottsfielders,’’ Lorna draws their attention before they can get stuck on technicalities, as all dead are want to do, ‘’this is the mighty Beast of the Unknown, the Scourge of Winter, the Death of Hope himself, do not insult him by playing coy. Bring out your best offers and we will see if they are true.’’ She lifts up a contract, scribed by her hand. 

Beatrice throws the axe, making sure it flies between some of the Pottsfielders and doesn’t hit them (lest there be scandal afoot). They scream in both fear and delight. ‘’Yeah, we won’t give him to you for cheap, oh no!’’

‘’Well, I think a golden comb ought to be enough, to teach him how to look the part of our Enoch’s fair bride!’’ A voice says, older than most. Agreement from the Pottsfielders.

Beatrice can’t help but laugh such a pitiful offer off. She waves her arms at them and says they can do much better than that! Standing side by side with Wirt, Beatrice lifts up his claws, and says: ‘’This is the soul-render, you’re talking about, folks! We will only accept serious offers, nothing less and nothing more. If you won’t treat the Beast with the respect he’s due, well, we’ll take him back into the forest and you can explain to Enoch why that is!’’

‘’Fine, you drive a hard bargain,’’ another voice from the crowd of pumpkins and melons says, ‘’we’ll throw in a spool of silver thread, too!’’

Lorna narrows her eyes. She puts a hand over her eyes to block out the sun. ‘’Hmmm,’’ she hums pensively, and roves her eyes over the crowd, ‘’is that all you’ve to say? One simple golden comb and a handful of silver thread for a specimen of such beauty and grace as is our bride? Some would argue that the Beast is the Queen of the Cloud’s most hated brother, a royalty of his own right. I’m sure you can do better than that.’’ Then she rattles the contract, taunting them with its unsigned form. 

Clamouring from the Pottsfielders. They huddle together and think. Lorna winks at Wirt. Beatrice leans and asks if this is going okay, if they won’t ruin the bit. Wirt asks what the ‘bit’ even is. They simply shush him, telling him to play the part of Turtle.

‘’Okay, fine!’’ They all shout, half in unison, half in outrage, and throw up their hands into the sky, without a single cloud hiding the scorching star, ‘’we’ll throw in the sun itself for such a bride!’’

‘’Sold!’’ Lorna shouts before the Pottsfielders can get a better look at the bride they’re buying. Beatrice shoves Wirt into the fray, and the two negotiators run away, giggling like crazy for a job well done. The magic of the contract sings around them.

‘’Now wait a minute,’’ a voice booms, among many, as they check and inspect Wirt and find that he can’t sing at all, ‘’you’ve sold us the wrong bride, come back here!’’

‘’If you think we’d ever let the real Beast deal with your nonsense, you don’t know him at all!’’ Lorna laughs, wickedly, kicking off into a sprint with the marriage contract between the two families. Beatrice weaves protection over them both with her magic, so no arrow of bone or thrown vegetable can deter them from getting the contract to the officiant herself.  

The side where the Beast’s family is to sit is a lot sparser than the densely populated side of Enoch’s, which is the entire village of Pottsfield. Wirt contemplates sitting down on the Beast’s side, but he’s to stand and make sure no funny business (only hilarious business allowed) transpires this fine day. Anna, too, stands beside him. She peers through her opera glasses and reads the room. They’re all rather impatient.

An older Pottsfielder jumps through the curtains and hisses at them both, alerting them of a great horror: ’’The Maypole’s empty. I’ve just been putting the finishing touches on him, carrying on about what a wonderful occasion this all is, and been rather taken aback, you see, to have good Enoch speak so sparsely. I had assumed he had jitters!’’

Anna and Wirt both lean in, so as not to let the other guests know that the groom is missing. ’’What happened next?’’

’’Well, I accidentally knocked into the maypole, you see, and you’ve got to believe I did not anticipate it would simply topple down – usually Enoch’s a lot more sturdy – it happened as I was changing out his ribbons, for the new ones all of us worked hard on making. Oh and they are wonderful, let me tell you, Poet and Spook, they’re wondrous and amazing and everything we ever could have hoped for. Enoch’s oh so happy, and we’re thrilled for him, we are.’’

Wirt and Anna turn to one another. The old Pottsfielder’s not going to get to the point any time soon. Going on and on about the new ribbons, fashioned out of a quilt speaking of Pottsfield’s long history, interwoven with every image of the Beast, from his first appearance in their history to his most recent.

’’I can’t imagine when Enoch could have slipped out, I can’t.’’ A shake of a pumpkin head, full of seeds, rattling about with bones. ’’Ahh, not a very good omen, I tell you. Not very good, at all!’’

Anna whispers to Wirt, tugging him along, ’’I imagine he’s gone to see the Beast.’’

’’Isn’t it bad luck for the groom to see the bride?’’ Wirt ponders, rubbing his chin with his hand.

’’I wouldn’t know, really. These two do tend to do things backwards and call it the right way for them.’’

So, without raising alarm, they tell the old Pottsfielder that this is a beastly tradition and nothing to worry over. The Pottsfielder is mollified, though he has quite a few things to say on the nature of beastly wedding traditions, and how certainly it’s important to make the Beast feel welcomed, but it doesn’t give him the right to change Pottsfield’s big day.

’’It’s the Beast’s big day.’’ Wirt defends his poor mentor, away who knows where. In the forest, perhaps, being hunted by a curious cat, needing to be caught to be brought into the village and made an honest eldritch creature.

’’Peh!’’

Anna and Wirt chuckle. Though, they do split up in order to find both Enoch and the Beast.

Anna finds them, using her opera glasses to suss out their whereabouts. They’re speaking to each other, Enoch on his shoulder, playing with the decorations the Beast has put up on his antlers, baubles that no one but they understand. He hits one with his paw and it sings a note.

The Beast admonishes him playfully, calling to attention bad luck for the catgroom to see the beastly bride. Or what have you. His flippancy with tradition is exactly why Enoch begins purring, uncaring entirely for whatever his villagers are doing in the wake of his disappearance. As they haven’t yet organized a cat hunt for him, he imagines they’ve a little more time.

Claw by claw by claw, the Beast collects some flowers for a bouquet, putting the damned thing off until the last minute. Enoch inquires about what they mean, and the Beast shrugs. ’’I gathered some from the pasture, another from my forest, a few from Pottsfield, and the Queen gifted me a handful from summer, preserved to last until winter.’’ He jingles the bouquet now, and the rustles make a new sound, one that he won’t hear for long, once he tosses it and gets rid of it.

Enoch’s words hold a weight to them, and it’s different when he’s speaking here, with only the Beast and the Unknown as his witness. ’’I did not believe this day would ever come.’’

The Beast moves, and the baubles rattle with the wind, like chimes, calling forth an omen that will serve them well into their future. He chuckles, petting along the cat’s back and tail, curling it on the end. ’’Those who wait are rewarded, aren’t they?’’

’’Isn’t that what we tell the lost souls so they don’t lose hope too quickly?’’ Enoch gives him a cheshire’s grin.

’’A modicum of truth to be found in each saying, even the ones we’ve invented for other purposes.’’

’’Quite right, my beloved neighbour,’’

’’Not a neighbour for long.’’ The Beast’s eyes glow. Enoch’s do, too.

Anna sketches them, hiding behind trees distinctly not edel. She does not breathe, she thinks, so they do not notice her. But her hand moves, and she gives them two pages in her book. This is the book of facts, and above all, it is fact that Enoch of Pottsfield and the Beast of the Unknown love each other.

Wirt’s been reciting his poetry in front of the wedding attendants until either the Beast or Enoch show up. Anna’s missing, now, too, and he has a gut feeling she’s found the two lovers.

’’I’ve uh, written some new material, too.’’ He’s going through his many scribbles, hidden under his fur, within the crevices of his body.

Lorna stands at the Beast’s side, curious why Wirt is doing this. ’’Do you need help?’’ She mouths.

And he nods, awkwardly, beckoning her to come up here. Lorna does. They start doing bits.

’’Does anyone have an occasion?’’

’’Wedding!’’ A Pottsfielder shouts.

’’A little on the nose, but sure!’’

Beatrice, soon, comes up to help Lorna out. She sees her entire family sitting in the crowd (on the Beast’s side, specifically, so they can fill up the Beast’s side) cheering her on and giving her thumbs up.

It’s at least four bits and seventeen wedding-related prompts (the Pottsfielders have a very one-track mind) later that Enoch and the Beast return.

Lorna’s looking at the Queen of the Clouds, hovering on her cloud in between the Beast and Enoch. She’s peering right through her and can’t quite put her finger on why it is that the Queen does not feel like herself. There’s something ancient here, far older than the two young lovers getting married.

It’s an incomprehensible language, just something that Lorna feels inside her bones, in her heart, in her blood. Those who can be, are moved to tears; those who can’t be, are moved to something else.

Something that isn’t meant for their ears, but they are witnesses to anyway, spills from between the Beast and Enoch. 

It is a wondrous thing, bathed in magic of old, older than any witch, than any spell, than any Pottsfielder. Wirt feels it coursing through them, lingering in the air, and then ripping straight into the soil beneath their feet and plummeting further, further, until it reaches every crevice of the Unknown.

There is a shift, felt, underneath one's ideas and one's notions of what is and is not the Unknown. What is and isn't Pottsfield, what is and isn't the Beasts' domain. A ripple, a new idea, shifting the old one away, ushering it like one would something out of date. Gently, it brings forward, centre fold, what might in a time become so well-known people will wonder how they ever could have believed the Unknown was so divided. With so many pieces at play simultaneously.

The fences of Pottsfield feel redundant. And have they ever felt this way before?

Wirt blinks, looking towards them now. He sees the Pottsfielders look in their direction as well. They feel like an eyesore, like they have no reason to be there. Because the forest stretching around Pottsfield is now the same as Pottsfield, or has it always been the same? Wirt does not know how to articulate this. There's a chill running through him, reminding him of a time he has not experienced nor truly felt in a long, long while. Too long, sometimes, not long enough, at other moments. A shudder, a staccato of a breath.

It's autumn but has it always been this warm? Such a change, or perhaps not a change at all. It dizzies him. He leans back and slides down, holding onto the lantern today so the Beast does not have to think about it. They've both come a long way since Wirt was never allowed near it.

Enoch looks at his villagers and laughs it all off, their uncertainty, or their never before more certain certainty in a more uncertain thing: ‘’Now, now,’’ his voice booms and calms them all, including Wirt, who can’t keep his eye off of the fences, ‘’I see you all must be wondering what to do.’’ Then a tilt, further, and further, and further down, until the pumpkin nearly touches the ground itself, and a ripple in that maw, from claw incisions, ‘’I think you know exactly what needs to be done.’’

The Pottsfielders surge for the fences, screeching, their bones jumbled, grabbing hold of any tool on their way they can. One by one, they tear out each fence, rip it apart, and feel whole. Wirt joins in, drawn to the fences as well as Lorna is, with a shrug to her shoulder, but a desire to enact some sort of chaos. He opens the flap of the lantern and sets some of the fences on fire with their flame. Beatrice joins Lorna, and the two talk and giggle more than actually get through fences. This is a more monumental thing to the Pottsfielders than it is to the Beast’s side of the family, as it were. They have no traditions, no compulsions, in regards to weddings. So all they do is help if asked, and if not, they loiter around and laugh. 

Dirt continues to pile up. Their garments caked with mud and moss and rocks. Wirt sees Lorna bend down and throw a handful of mud straight at Beatrice, hitting her dress. 

‘’Hey!’’ Beatrice takes off her axe and hits a fence piece, toppling it down, when Lorna’s hidden behind. A shriek from Lorna, playful. When she crosses between where the fence once stood and where the Beast’s forest always laid, Lorna feels no difference anymore. 

No warning lingering in the air, to behave, to be polite, because if you do not remember your manners, Enoch will certainly not extend you any mercy. There is a safety now, an understanding that only Turtle’s always given her. It expands, drenching Lorna full of it wherever she goes. This may be a day of love for Enoch and Turtle, but Lorna will be remiss to say she does not feel it for herself today, either. 

Only once the entire fences have come down do the festivities continue. The Pottsfielders would not have accepted it any other way. 

The Beast tosses the bouquet into the crowd of guests.

It bounces off one of their skeletal hands, too smooth to grab onto, then boinks a pumpkin atop its head, flinging itself straight through four slippery melon juice hands, all until by sheer accident (or rather fate, as some like to call such things), the bouquet finds its victim on the Beast’s side.

The Apothecary witch shouts, in utter, utter glee that it isn’t her. Whispers starts laughing, choking back any words she has, especially at the victim’s expression of disbelief. All she’d done was fling her arms up and catch it, nothing more natural than that. Without any intention of holding it. Beatrice and Lorna start applauding and hollering.

Ophelia glances at the bouquet, her face drawn up in surprise. ’’Now this is what I call a wedding.’’ She lifts the bouquet up and waves it at the Beast. ’’You saboteur!’’

The Beast laughs at her, shouting over the venue. ’’You shouldn’t have come back, if you did not want this to happen!’’

’’You did this on purpose, old friend!’’

’’I would never!’’ The Beast laughs, a little too long. Enoch chuckles, wrapping him with his ribbons and keeping him closer and closer.

The Pottsfielders get over their surprise at seeing someone not of their village catch the bouquet. When they peer more closely at Ophelia, they realise that no one else but she could have caught the bouquet.

’’Oh, wonderful, it should be someone like you!’’

’’Why, yes, now that I’m looking at you, your bones are ready for burial!’’

’’See, I told you, the bouquet does not lie.’’

’’The one who catches it will be buried next!’’

With this out of the way, the celebrations fully begin.

Beatrice begins swinging Lorna in a circle, their dresses billowing underneath them, creating flutters like bluebird wings flapping in the night sky. Lorna laughs, barely managing to hold onto her marvelous hat, with a hair pin made of chiselled bone. On the third spin, their faces brought closer and closer, their breaths intertwining, she throws the hat into the ether and immerses herself in all sensation. Their laughter spins together, creating an image of immortalized joy. Soon, Lorna takes the upper hand and moves her hands so she spins Beatrice next, until she's dizzy, until the only thing she can make out is Lorna's devious face, rippled with mirth. She smiles, toothily.

Whispers and the Apothecary witch dance, not nearly as fluidly as the young do, but with enough care to show that they approve of this day. Because what else is a dance but magic in motion?

Maybe Martha raises her watermelon head up at Wirt, pretending like he does not exist. She moves on to dance with suitors much more fanciful and to her taste. Pottsfielders mix and mingle, throwing up bones, holding off on burying their loved ones so they may see this momentous occasion. New arrivals join this revel, with dirt in their joints, with rocks between their toe bones. But they dance as if possessed by the merriment of this fine day. Never a finer day, indeed!

Ophelia dances with the Pottsfielders, her skin half off. They call her indecent for it, but she simply says that she's an eccentric, making their bones crackle with laughter. They toss her up, and begin to tear more and more of her skin off the longer they dance together.

The Queen brings forth heinous clouds, and with a laugh, she sends lightning down into Pottsfield. Cheers erupt from them all on the ground, goading her on. She moves her arms like a conductor from the sky and orchestrates a song, a melody, a gift for this fine day, the likes of which no orchestra can ever accomplish.

Enoch, inside the Maypole, donned with a pumpkin, new, with glistening ribbons, also newly crafted and adorned with care and meticulous labour, grabs hold of his Beast. His eyes are a bright beacon, blinding perhaps to anyone but him.

''Enjoying yourself, are you?''

His Beast scoffs, in lieu of a warm laugh he would never allow himself in public. There will come a time for such things soon, once they've revelled long enough. ''For today, yes.''

It is more than Enoch could have ever hoped for. He twirls his Beast closer and closer. What a moment of triumph this must be, that his Beast allows this dance. The light in his eyes softens, and it is only something he does for Enoch. What a gift. Better than any Enoch has ever gotten.

All of the rousing revelry and roughhousing fades into the background as these two giants articulate their love for one another. A wedding, now, it seems like something neither would have entertained. But as it's happening, as it's happened…this shift, this monumental change it could not have been anything but destined. An eternity to find one another, another to fall in love, and countless more to follow. How will they change? Will they look forward to it or will they scorn it?

It does not matter, not when they will do it all together.

Wirt holds the lantern to his chest, and stays off to the side. Near a wall lined with flowers. He snorts, slightly, at how on the nose this feels. But before he can articulate his romantic woes, he spots Anna looking through her opera glasses, looking away, scribbling everything she sees down.

She's been delegated the task of making sure this wedding goes down in written history. So it must be perfect. Wirt coughs, awkwardly, trying to get her attention. Then when she furrows her brows and scribbles more intensely, Wirt blushes and wonders why he'd ever try to distract her from her important job. So, he simply looks straight ahead, his spine rigid, his hold on the lantern vice like.

Finally, once she's written everything down of note (or of note to the Queen, in any case), Anna turns to him and smiles: ''Did you say something?''

''Ah, no, no.'' Wirt falters. The lantern burns him in reprimand. So he nearly drops it, throwing it from hand to hand in awkward gesticulation. ''Ah, well, er, would you like to dance?''

Anna smiles. A blush creeping up her own face. She giggles, unable to believe it herself. ''You'd like to dance with me?'' With a little bit of cruelty all girls in the Unknown afford themselves, she winks. ''I thought you were spoken for?'' A nod in Maybe Martha's extravagant direction. She's in the middle of some very complicated dance and is being cheered on by a lot of folks. When she catches Wirt's eyes, she immediately turns her head in the opposite direction. Yes, Wirt really did fumble that.

''I'm,'' a crack, in the shadows, revealing a level of insecurity he really wishes he could get rid of, at least in death, ''uh, well, I'm single. So, um. Well.'' Extending a hand towards her, and then rushing through the next part. ''I'd be delighted if you'd dance with me, Miss Anna. I think about our chats and strolls through the forest often.''

Anna folds up her opera glasses and puts them in her dresses' pocket. She extends her own hand and meets his own. It isn't him that pulls her into a dance, and it isn't her either. Both of them rather scared. Nervous in the face of so much love around them. What they're building feels small, inadequate in light of Enoch and the Beast's union.

A gust of wind pushes Anna towards Wirt, just as Wirt has to avoid a bone being thrown at him to move closer to her. Once that expansive distance disappears, Anna breaks off into a fit of laughter. Wirt joins her. Their hands meet one another and hold.

Around them songs of joy blossom. The crops of a labour of love are ripe for harvesting.

Chapter Text

It’s a long autumn. No one wants a long autumn. A long summer, yes, to combat the long winter. A long spring, yes, to ensure a recovery from a long winter. But a long autumn is a laborious autumn, in preparation for a long winter. No one wants a long autumn.

*

For some inexplicable reason, everyone thinks it’s Wirt’s fault for this being a long autumn. Villagers glare at him, and it feels reminiscent of something long thought forgotten – Wirt remembers imagining glares and people disliking him all his youth. This is no work of an imaginative, anxious mind.

These villagers are glaring at him. Beatrice’s brothers and father are holding pitchforks, working folk they’ve become in autumn, forever tied to their role until the...call? of winter comes. Wirt does not know how winter in the Unknown comes. This is the Beast’s domain and so he must know, that has been his duty so he is to blame. Not Wirt. Wirt’s new!

Yet more villagers, the Queen’s loyal servants on land both dream and waking, corner Wirt. They poke at him and prod, calling to attention that he’s been slacking. And in autumn, you do not slack. In autumn, all runs like a – to forgive the turn of phrase  - well oiled machine.

*

There’s an anticipation building in everyone. It’s not going well.

Especially because there is neither sight of the Beast nor of Enoch. The Queen’s taken them somewhere with her best cloud, offering them a well needed change in scenery. On their departure, the Beast did tell Wirt something: ’’Winter will ask more of you than you’ve been willing to acknowledge.’’

At the time, very cryptic (not unusual, and rather tame as far as the Beast’s laconic responses went), but now, when Wirt understands the burden has befallen him to bring Winter to the Unknown. It’s...horrifying to say the least. And he cannot even speak to the lantern and hope the Beast speaks back, because Lorna forbids him, saying how he’s earned his honeymoon and won’t have anyone ruin it. Especially not with any trifles.

It’s at this point that Wirt and Lorna begin fighting. Not physically, Wirt knows Lorna won’t stand a chance then, but he also knows he won’t stand a chance against Beatrice – so they begin their verbal lashes. He needs guidance, information, it’s not a trifle to be stuck in autumn! Whatever Enoch’s part was, he’d done it before leaving for the honeymoon, ensuring that Autumn could end. So now if it’s still autumn when they return, they’ll know it was all Wirt’s inadequacy to blame. ’’Don’t you understand?’’ Wirt’s pleading.

Lorna does. But she keeps the lantern close to her chest all the same. ’’Then you’ll just have to figure it out.’’ Without nearly as much cruelty as she usually imbibes within her words, Lorna sighs. ’’I think you’re overthinking this. You’re a beast of the Unknown. Winter’s what you do.’’

’’I’ve been doing a lot of other things, thank you very much.’’ Wirt means fighting for winter back from the witches, figuring out a murder mystery, helping Beatrice and the Queen bring summer, fighting pirates, being security on a wedding. He’s been doing a lot of things.

Lorna wiggles her eyebrows, and shimmies in place, holding the lantern mockingly as she dances. ’’Oooh, a lot of things.’’ She means Anna.

Wirt turns on his heel and leaves. He doesn’t know why he ever thought Lorna would treat this situation seriously. Summer child, thawing to the touch.

*
The witches shrug. They don’t have any words of wisdom to offer him. Autumn is a numb affair to them. They might as well go hibernate

’’You hibernate?’’ Wirt boggles.

The Apothecary witch shrugs. ’’Not really. Usually we have the Beast to keep us company in these chillier months. And more lost souls coming by to guide his way. In Autumn, we can still have any bones trapped in edeltrees.’’ A dejected sigh. ’’I don’t know if his catgroom will let him help us anymore.’’

’’Wirt will help us, won’t you?’’ Whispers asks.

Well. Hard to deny any ask coming from Whispers. Wirt is no better. He nods. ’’Any bones found in my trees are yours.’’

’’His are all bad.’’ The Apothecary witch bemoans, cupping her head in her hands. ’’It’s like he always does it halfway.’’

Wirt sputters, offended. ’’What’s that supposed to mean!’’

’’All of your trees’ roots are barely deep enough to hold the tree! That’s why they all filled with water and fell over easily. Last summer, the one before this one I mean, all of the Beast’s trees remained firmly planted in the ground, even underwater.’’ She scowls at him, crossing her arms now. To Whispers. ’’This is suicide, Whispers!’’

’’It is not.’’ Whispers gently placates. She tries to mediate peace, but Wirt’s pointing a clawed finger at the Apothecary witch, demanding more answers, and she’s spitting pure venom at him, one of her elixirs on her tongue. Whispers can’t wait until they all part ways. Beatrice ought to be trained well enough to survive on her own from now on. They’ve all gone stir crazy together like this. 

’’If the Beast had any issue with my trees he’d have said so!’’

’’He doesn’t have an issue with them because he only cares for the oil. We have a problem with them because you’re skimping your end of the deal! Bones are ripest to pick once they’ve stayed in an edeltree for a few good haunts.’’ The Apothecary witch is raising to her full height, barely meeting Wirt’s chest, but it still makes him take a step back. Age is the only thing Wirt’s learned to respect in these parts. One doesn’t get to be a certain age unless one has earned it. These witches have seen the golden age crumble, have known the Beast before he’s known the Maypole and Cat are one and the same. Wirt would be wise to listen to them. ’’Your trees all fall way before that. They’re ripped out of the ground by erosion, or they’re spat out by the Unknown after you’ve taken a handful of oil. You may bring the trees up, but your trees do not survive . Take the tree of this Turn, it is the Beast’s design. Any of yours would not have made it long enough to bring summer.’’

Wirt flounders, drawing back. He looks away, begins toying with his hands. ’’Well he didn’t tell me-’’

’’Does everything have to be spelled out to you?’’ The Apothecary witch continues. Whispers attempts to mollify her with a different potion, but her witchy companion is not having it. ’’You’ve been giving half of yourself to these trees, you’ve been giving half for everything you’ve ever done while here! It’s an insult.’’ Whispers is now trying to command the Apothecary witch to be silent, but the Apothecary witch is sticking nearby moss balls and napkins in her ear. She’s going to say her piece! Though now she’s yelling, on account of not being able to quite hear herself: ’’AN INSULT, I SAY!’’ Pointing at Wirt, who’s slowly becoming mortified. ’’THE BEAST HAS BEEN WAY TOO PATIENT WITH YOU.’’

Wirt snorts. And grimaces. ’’Yeah right.’’

But she doesn’t hear him at all. Now she’s climbing furniture to be at eye level with Wirt. ’’OR PERHAPS HE’S DONE YOU A DISSERVICE! IN TEACHING YOU ENOUGH TO ENSURE HIS SURVIVAL, BY MAKING TREES WELL ENOUGH TO BRING SOME OIL. DO YOU KNOW FOLK THINK YOUR TREES ARE THE ONES WITH THE FACES, BECAUSE THOSE ARE THE ONLY TREES THEY CAN FIND. YOURS PERISH IN A FORTNIGHT.’’

’’A little longer than that.’’ Wirt grumbles.

’’A FORTNIGHT! WE’VE BEEN USING YOUR TREES AS KINDLE AND THEN FOR CRAFTS, BECAUSE THEY’RE WEAK AND MAGICALLY INEPT TO USE FOR SPELLS!’’ The Apothecary witch is at her limit. ’’YOU’RE INEPT! HOLDING YOURSELF BACK, THINKING ONLY HOW TO GET THINGS DONE FOR THE SAKE OF MOVING PAST IT. YOU’VE NEVER ACCEPTED IT.’’ She blows air his way, and Wirt stumbles not having expected it. It causes more uproar from the Apothecary witch. ’’ROOTLESS! ALL OF YOUR TREES ARE ROOTLESS, BECAUSE YOU’RE ROOTLESS.’’

Before more abuse can come his way, Whispers asks him to leave. It’s currently the kindest thing she can do. Because she agrees with her fellow coven sister completely, but simply doesn’t want to bury him.

*
Wirt tries to rectify this. And now, when he does make a tree, he makes sure to check on it each day to see how long they’ll last. True enough, none of them last long enough to have the body inside rot away, to leave bones charged with magic for the witches. A fortnight was generous, Wirt blushes deeply under the fur. They barely make it ten days. He had never bothered paying attention until the sole responsibility of feeding the lantern befell him.
*

He studies the Beast’s trees. But they yield no result. He has always escaped his knowledge, too far gone from anything familiar to grab onto. 

*
Anna and he stroll through the Unknown, looking at the trees and trying to brainstorm what it could be, but neither know. 

*
The Queen says it’s all very obvious to her. Wirt’s not giving himself whole to the process of creation. When she grins, it’s with the same razor sharp teeth that monsters have. ‘’Where’s your mettle, boy?’’

‘’I think I’ve shown enough mettle for a lifetime.’’ Wirt’s itching under the bark, twitching, ‘’Just because I don’t relish in causing despair doesn’t mean I’m not giving it my all.’’

‘’That’s not the issue here.’’ The Queen circles him on her cloud. Anna’s in the tree line, away, only near the Queen when summoned. She watches, fretting for Wirt’s sake. Without the Beast to take the Queen’s attention, Wirt may need help - but can she help him against such a powerful foe? 

Though, rest assured, Wirt does not need any help. He is one of these creatures. Whether he likes it or not. Whether he’s accepted it or not. ‘’Oh?’’ Wirt asks, with a near sigh. ‘’In what way will you tell me I’m inept, your majesty?’’

The Queen narrows her eyes, discerning whether that’s a joke of his or not. “I think you've buried the known inside of you. It’s rotting, Poet.”

Even more cryptic answers! Thanks Beast 2.0 from the sky!! 

Wirt leaves only when the Queen does. Else it would be rude. Anna follows after him, pensive, as if she's found a clue.

*
Days later, he happens upon Pottsfied, while he’s waiting for Anna to come back from some of her duties. She’s holding some yarn and crocheting tools in her arms. Wirt doesn’t bring it up until she does. While they’re strolling through the flourishing village of Pottsfield, always a lovely affair in Autumn, Wirt stumbles upon a skeleton hanging off of Maybe Martha’s arm. 

She greets Anna amicably enough, but when it comes to Wirt she doesn’t deign to even look in his direction. This would be fine, Wirt’s no stranger to awkward interactions, but something additionally happens that truly cements this as one of the worst moments in his life. 

‘’HeLloO, WiRt,’’ says the skeleton on Maybe Martha’s arm. 

Wirt runs away before he can even think about saying hello to the skeleton of Jason Funderberker. 

*

Even Jason Funderberk’s here, great. Just in time to see Wirt be an absolute failure. Again. Great. He doesn’t think about turning back to see if Anna’s following him until he’s made it to the House with the Broken Mill. 

Beatrice is looking at the House with the Broken Mill with Lorna.

Lorna’s peering at it. They’re both studying it intently. ’’I think we can knock that wall down. Make an outdoor kitchen.’’

’’Sure, yeah, I think I could get my dad to bring us some building supplies and paint. You want a more open floor plan?’’

’’No, no, that’s a nightmare to heat in the colder months.’’ Lorna shakes her head.

Wirt’s raising his hand in order to be called on for his question.

Beatrice finally calls on him. ’’Yeah, Wirt?’’

’’Who said you could move in, Bea?’’

Lorna gives Wirt a look much deadlier than any the Beast has ever given him.

Wirt recoils utterly, floundering. ’’Lorna, I’ve known Beatrice longer than you have, this is how we talk to one another.’’

Beatrice bursts into laughter. She lugs Lorna closer, kissing the top of her head and melting her frost away. To Wirt. ’’I finally got the all clear from my coven sisters I can leave the coven and strike out on my own.’’ She brings Lorna even closer, eliciting a fair number of giggles from the young maiden. ’’So I’m moving back home. That was my house first , you know.’’ With a wink to Wirt, Beatrice says: ’’If we’re cramping your and Anna’s style, you guys can take Adelaide’s old house in the pasture. Her windows are already antler friendly.’’

Wirt grumbles, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. 

*

More attempts to bring winter to the Unknown follow, but they all fail. Wirt doesn’t exactly know what he’s doing.  

*
Anna sends some souls his way. With the Queen sated and resting, she doesn’t need nor want many. Enoch hasn’t got any use out of the souls while they’re alive, nor do the witches really. 

Wirt finds himself standing in front of a pair of sisters. The older one’s shielding the younger from Wirt. He turns his head to the side, the antlers coming alongside him. They’re shivering in fear, at the sight of him. Only because they don’t know the Beast that’s not here right now. 

The older one sends the younger to run. Anna’s in the treeline, giving Wirt a look, barely discernible, she blends in with autumn colours so well, and the murky skyline. He shakes his head, there’s no need for her to run after the younger one. 

It’s the older one he wants, anyway. The younger ones don’t despair as knowingly. It’s always been the older ones who understood the futility of what they were doing, the disappearance of hope as it slid past their fingers. Children didn’t. They thought there was another game to play after losing this one, and so they did not despair, not even in their last moments. 

Wirt regards the older sister, with a hammer in her shaking hand, aimed at him. Will she swing it? Probably. But Wirt won’t give her the chance. He closes the distance quickly and knocks the weapon out of her hand, clattering it onto the frosty ground (no snow, no snow no matter how much he tries to bring it to the Unknown). Nothing he does is ever reminiscent of the winter he lost all hope in. 

It’s a struggle with this one. She’s fighting him until the end. Not quite despairing at all. ‘’Giovanna! Giovanna, run! Don’t stop. He’s it and you can’t get tagged,’’ there are are fat tears trailing down her cheeks, avoiding Wirt’s gaze as she struggles, and tries to wiggle out of his merciless hold, ‘’Giovanna,’’ she calls out to her younger sister, closing her eyes and whimpering, holding a terrible cry deep in her chest, ‘’please, don’t turn around. Please don’t come back for me. Leave me if it means you win.’’ 

Wirt tosses her to the ground, surprising her. He turns in the direction of the younger sister and turns her into an edeltree instead. The wails of the older sister follow after him. 

*

‘’My dear, child.’’ The Queen’s mellifluous voice comes, alerted to the presence of this morsel by Anna, her loyal servant. She runs a hand through the older sister’s hair and down her tear-stained cheek. It is above an edeltree that they are. ‘’Is there anything I can do for you ?’’

It’s a tale as old as time itself. 

*

Wirt does not care to hear the Queen’s trickery. He leaves the forest, and has to stop near the waterfall when Anna catches up to him. She does not ask him about what happened. Nor does she ask him what he thinks the Queen will say to trick the older sister out of her soul.

*

He’s the one that breaks the silence first. ‘’What?’’

Anna shrugs her shoulders. It isn’t her place to say anything. ‘’You hunt as you do. I don’t know the first thing about it.’’

Wirt wants to snap. Perhaps he would have before this turn, if it were winter and he were skin and bones and soul altogether in one. Now it seems so arbitrary to do so. As if he really ought to know better. And he does, in a way. ‘’I made a tree, that’s all that matters.’’ He’s growing weary, having to do it all by himself. The lantern’s wicks burn faster with there being two. And the Beast has no intention of labour on his honeymoon, even though he’s married Enoch. Who by all accounts ought to be the biggest labour endorser in these parts. 

‘’I hope it is what you wanted.’’ Anna says. She has a canny way of asking questions without asking them. 

‘’We’d usually split them…’’ Wirt divulges, ‘’he’d go after the younger ones and I’d go after the older ones, if there was a pair. I - I never saw them together.’’ Now as he recollects, Wirt imagines the Beast did that on purpose, to spare him the reminder of his own hunt.

Anna nods. ‘’You’ll know how to react better next time.’’

Wirt nods. Then again. 

*

The edeltree of the younger sister falls after two days. Wirt’s going to go insane. 

*

The only respite he has from this torture is when he’s with Anna. 

Wirt and Anna are walking around the forest. All of the leaves have fallen off. But yet...it is not winter, still. The river courses clearly, and yet, it is not winter yet. People are looking at Wirt as if it’s his fault it isn’t winter yet and not the Beast’s! Like, tell whatever grievance you’re about to air out to Wirt to the Beast’s face why don’t you!

’’They’re terrified of him.’’ Anna says, sitting on a pine. She’s got her book of facts out and is writing things down. What are the indicators of winter, she’s asking people around.

’’Wouldn’t you know?’’ Wirt asks her. ’’Didn’t your father come with you in summer?’’

’’He’d hunt geese around the winter bend, I remember.’’ Anna scribbles down. She taps her pen to her lip and thinks, narrowing her eyes. ’’My mother would put on perfume she normally wouldn’t, something stronger to combat the cold of winter. We’d drink hot chocolate indoors, huddled around the hearth.’’ A ghost of a smile plays across Anna’a face. ’’What do you remember of winter?’’

Wirt turns to her, his expression despairing. Anna grimaces, leaning to apologise for bringing painful memories up. 

It’s in winter that Wirt lost his brother. It’s in winter that Wirt’s soul became lost. It’s in winter that Wirt thought he would die. ’’I think it’s despair that brings winter...I do not recall if the Beast was starving, he confided in me that before Lorna and I came, that souls of interest to him were sparse. He would space it all out, playing the Woodsman and feeding off of his despair.’’ Then he remembers that the Woodsman is Anna’s father, and he backtracks, quickly. ’’Sorry, that was insensitive to say.’’

Anna nods, her lips thinned into a line. Neither a smile nor a frown. There’s something serious about her. ’’Do you think it would help if you told me about him?’’

’’Who, Greg?’’ Wirt doesn’t talk about Greg often, but surely he’s mentioned him a handful of times.

’’No,’’ Anna shakes her head. To make sure Wirt feels comfortable, Anna closes the book of facts and tosses it into her apron pocket upfront. She places her elbows on her thighs and cups her head, leaning forward. ’’Do you want to tell me about Wirt?’’

’’I mean I am Wirt.’’ He chuckles, awkwardly, ’’I’m an open book.’’ Then he shuffles, from foot to foot. ’’Ask me whatever you want!’’

Anna heaves a serious sigh. ’’Okay, I’m going for the hard hitting question first,’’

Wirt steels himself for something horrible. ’’Go ahead!’’ A lot shakier than before. ’’I’m an open book!’’

Anna leans in, and drops her voice, as if she’s about to ask Wirt for his deepest darkest secrets. Wirt gulps. Anna continues scrutinizing him. Sizing him up, measuring him and not revealing at all what she thinks of him. Finally she asks: ’’What’s your favourite colour?’’

Like a balloon, Wirt deflates in utter, utter relief. Anna laughs. Wirt begins reciting poetry under his breath. It’s all rather romantic. Once he calms, he asks her, point blank: ’’Is this because you’ve taken up crocheting?’’

’’I would like to make you a scarf, because that’s the extent of my skills.’’ Anna smiles, raising her nose and wrinkling it. ’’Besides, the skeletons have no use for clothes, they’re experimenting with new vegetables so if I want clothes I have to go make them myself. Luckily, a lot of these old bones remember how to craft and sew.’’

Wirt sees her copper hair, and the deep brown of her eyes. She truly is of Enoch’s stock, just as much as she is the Queen’s, summer and autumn manifested, combined, melded into a girl. Surrounded by sunlight and fallen autumn leaves. ’’I think sunset orange.’’

Anna nods. Then without missing a beat. ‘’Aren’t you going to ask what my favourite colour is?’’

Wirt sputters. ‘’Of course I would have!’’ Then, floundering, totally thrown out of tact by Anna’s nefarious girl-skills. ‘’What’s your favourite colour, then?’’

Anna pretends to be offended, puffing her cheeks out at him. ‘’I’m not going to tell you. You didn’t ask on your own, I had to force you.’’

‘’You’re worse than the Beast when he’s in his moods.’’ Wirt sighs. But before he can apologise, Anna bursts into laughter and tells him she’s teasing. 

‘’My favourite colour’s green.’’ 

*
It reminds him of another time. The Beast’s eyes are blue, yellow, pink, and white, intertwining. Wirt’s aren’t those. Yet another way to differentiate them. But by the time you’re within vicinity to see the particular difference in eye colour, it might be too late. Wirt certainly doesn’t know why their eyes are this way. And the Beast doesn't care to know. His working theory, and only because Wirt demands to be told something in order to be mollified, is that the soul from the lantern bleeds back into them when they’re emotional. And Wirt, on account of being who he is, is emotional quite often. His eyes, however, are not the Beast’s. 

They’re a much more subdued shade of silver, interwoven with lilac, and finally just a dash of green. 

*

They talk more often about Wirt than they do about the coming of winter. It's a relief for Wirt, to have at least one person in the Unknown not try to hasten him or call him lacking.

So he tells her about the clarinet, and she in turn tells him how back before they came to this side of the Unknown, her father would insist a girl ought to know how to play the piano. To spite him she'd picked the trumpet. 

Followed now a harrowing recollection of wind instrument torture from both Anna and Wirt. 

At the end they laugh. 

Wirt hasn’t thought there was anything that could bring joy to someone when talking about the old Wirt. The failure. The one who killed his brother and then himself. 

‘’Should I blame myself for my father’s death?’’ Anna asks him, cutting him off before he can go on another downward spiral about what Wirt did back then, and how no matter what he changes or how much he transforms he’s still that horrible, awful, pathetic, weak, ugly, awkward -

‘’What?’’ Wirt halts, looking at her. She looks miserable, waiting for his decree. ‘’Of course you shouldn’t. That had nothing to do with you.’’

‘’Ah.’’ Anna’s eyes spark to life. ‘’But it did! He went in service to the Beast looking for me, thinking I’d gone outside. It’s all my fault!’’

‘’I see what you’re doing.’’ Wirt narrows his eyes. ‘’It’s not the same thing at all.’’

Anna shrugs her shoulders. ‘’Sure, if you say so.’’ 

*

More opportunity comes. 

More trees come. 

More trees fall. 

Even Lorna asks him if he wants to speak to Turtle. She means it apologetically, as if she feels silly for ever thinking he could bring about winter without his help. 

‘’No need.’’ Wirt bites out a lie. ‘’I think I’ve got an idea.’’

*

Not once does Anna doubt him. 

*

It’s something he never thought he’d have. 

It’s something not even Jason Funderberker can take away from him. 

*

Ugh, why is he still thinking about Jason Funderberker. He didn’t even marry Sara. Sara married some guy she met at college and then fronted a rock band for a few years. Last Jason Funderberker heard she was on a hot air baloon race to see the whole world in a certain number of days. She's living such a cool life. Way cooler than if she’d ever listened to Wirt’s tape. Of course Sara never would’ve gone for a guy like Wirt. If she was out of THE Jason Funderber’s league after all then that means  - okay no, no, he really needs to stop spiralling like this. 

There’s literally two lost souls in front of him right now that need his attention. 

Wirt watches the older brother crawling towards his younger sister, desperately trying to shield her away from the Beast. Him . With there not being two currently, all of the lost souls have defaulted to calling him the Beast. Truly, simple creatures. 

Slowly he trails after them. He’s been following them for weeks at a time, biding his time. Lying in wait to see how long it’ll take them to lose hope. The younger one's scared, because her older brother’s scared at the sight of Wirt. He’s lifting a pitchfork, having taken it earlier from Pottsfield. A thief on top of it all. Perhaps the witches will take this one after all when Wirt takes his soul. 

It’s…so futile. Wirt sees it clearly, the blades of the pitchfork aimed his way. His eyes hold it for a moment, a beat, not of a heart but of music. ‘’Oh.’’ A moment of understanding dawns on him. And he smiles, near wryly. At the older brother. ‘’No matter what I did, the Beast would’ve won.’’ 

Because Wirt knows he’ll win against this brother and his younger sister. It’s always been the case. No one in the history of the Unknown has ever made it back. Has ever bested the Beast. Because if the Beast doesn’t get them, the Queen will. If Enoch doesn’t claim them, the witches will. 

It’s always been the case. Wirt’s shoulders sag in something like relief . Absolution of guilt in another way. 

If the Beast doesn’t trap them in a nightmare of despair, the Queen will give them false reprieve in a dream. But they won’t have made it back. It’ll all just be a lie. 

Just a matter of choice, in which lie to give in. 

‘’I can make it quick.’’ Wirt asks the older brother that which the Beast never asked him, ‘’Aren’t you tired ?’’

His hands on the pitchfork waver. He turns to look at his younger sister, her eyes wide, likening him to a hero. 

Wirt knows exactly how he feels. ‘’She will not think any less of you. She is tired, too. And would rather be with you than alone.’’

The clatter of the pitchfork on the autumn floor. Frost covered. Cold. Colder than any ground in autumn has any right to be. 

They embrace. Brother and sister. Wirt watches them, hears their whimpers, and comforts. 

True to his word, Wirt makes quick work of it. He watches the way the older brother’s fingers lose their hold on his younger sister, as life drains out of them both. It is too cold to offer comfort. It is too cold for them to know what it is they were running from. 

A peaceful death. One not spent in solitude. There is no song to keep them company, but Wirt hopes they do not mind his words. They are all he has. Just as all they have is one another. 

Anna slips out from the treeline and takes a hold of his hand in hers. She is so warm. When she breathes, her breath is visible. It takes his own breath away. 

Wirt stands in front of the edeltree, intercrossed with lines of poetry, lines taken straight from the lives of the lost souls gifting it life, intermingling with roots going deeper than they’ve ever gone. They have to, in winter, to truly take root. Wirt turns to Anna, and finds that he’s found his roots in her. Always something that’s come easily to the Beast. It is Wirt’s trees who have drowned, filled with water and canted and fell. It is Wirt’s trees who have always been second best, never as sturdy or as frightening as they should be.

It is no longer Wirt’s trees who have someone to measure up to. They are simply his design and a different matter entirely. This winter is unlike any winter the Unknown has, for a lack of a better word, known. Perhaps because it comes from the newest arrivals, or perhaps because it comes from a necessary change, one that feels welcomed fully, embraced in winter’s arms, cradled in the harsh frostbite of icy wind.

A howl of a wind, newer than any the Queen knows, springs to life. It rushes through the villages of the Unknown, ushering a new age. The Queen does not stop it, the Old Wind does not get in its way, they simply watch as Wirt stands in front of the edeltree, his hands outstretched towards the sky. Nothing has been more obvious to him than this. Nothing more natural. As much as he hates to admit it, but the Beast is right to say he’ll simply know when he brings winter.

There is a monumentality here, a triumph in Wirt’s soul. Wherever it is, in the Lantern. He hopes it burns, because only that which burns can withstand such a cold. Words spill past his lips, under the fur, under the bark, under something which he chooses not to name. There is a power in that, too, in not knowing. He’s spent the better part of his life in the Unknown wandering like a lost soul, then being forced into a role he did not understand but wanted to so badly. He would lose himself in wanting to know, in having to know, and he would look at the Beast choose not to tell him things on purpose. Though, in retrospect as he allows winter to dance around him, to guide him into a state of deep, profound unknown, Wirt figures that the Beast doesn’t know half the things he alludes to perhaps knowing. Nothing is exact with him. Always fluid, like that oil.

Wirt has spent one leg in the known this entire time, clinging to it still, to the being he used to be, to the lost soul that, for better or for worse, lost . He had not bested the Beast, he had not won safe passage back for his Greg, he had not mustered up any courage to speak to Sara. It has never made any sense to him, why he’d been burdened with becoming the Unknown’s executioner, the Unknown’s favourite plaything, Winter itself, the Beast of the Unknown. All titles that he refused.

Now as he sees the frost trailing up the edeltree, embedding in the cracks of the cursive lettering, by his own hand, he imagines, and yes, when he squints a tad, it is his writing. It’s always been his writing. Wirt feels his own feet curl with the roots of the edeltrees. No wind can knock him down. Especially not one of his own making. Wirt turns to Anna. She holds onto her cloak with gloved fingers (always believing he’d bring winter, always dressing for it in preparation), her teeth chattering, her smile wide with awe. She turns to him and says: ’’You’re amazing, Wirt!’’

She hands him an orange scarf to donn. Even he ought to dress for Winter’s arrival. So he wraps it around his own neck and loves the contrast of its warmth and the cold outside. 

The wind doesn’t sing when it travels through the villages, through Pottsfield, through the cracks and knicks between bones, through the few trees left with leaves…it whispers…it recites…it inspires. 

It isn’t a song. No matter its harshness or comfort one may be anticipating. It’s always been a song, hasn’t it? Never has it been a thought until now, or an idea, something sculpted together by careful consideration, by observation, by an understanding of how the world works. A song comes naturally, almost flippantly, especially to those who have sung for as long as winter has.

This is not a song anymore. Perhaps next winter it might be, but with the way the Beast favours autumn, Wirt doubts it. He closes his eyes and listens to the poem winter recites. He wonders if it’s visible to anyone but him, if Beatrice might hear it and know it’s him, if Lorna might use some of it for a song to compose, if Anna likes it.

He is no longer so deeply affected by not knowing. Sometimes there’s a beauty in the unknown, because by not chasing after it, it’ll come to him when he least expects it. Anna trudges through the snow, to circle the edeltree, her warm laughter rippling through the ice. Wirt circles the edeltree in the opposite direction, so when they meet, they’ll meet in the centre of it. And any centre where they meet will be theirs.

What a relief to not know, to instead discover.

Anna’s eyelashes have frost hanging off of them, snow. She blinks. Her gloved hands find his.

’’Thank you,’’ Wirt says to her, unable to stop himself, and he delights in the way her smile grows, so deeply for him, for who he now is and not for who he might’ve been had he known better, for accepting him before he accepted himself, ’’for believing in me.’’

She shrugs, playing coy. Her cheeks are red, and the wind has nothing to do with it. ’’You act as if there was any other option that made sense? A Beast of the Unknown has always brought winter to the Unknown.’’ She gives him a wink. And he laughs, spurring the wind on harder.

*

Winter in the Unknown can last for as long as the witches permit it.

Spring in the Unknown can last for as long as the Queen permits it.

Summer in the Unknown can last for as long as the Harvest King permits it.

Autumn in the Unknown can last for as long as the Beasts permit it.