Chapter Text
Somewhere deep within the clouded annals of history, a young girl named Sara found herself walking through the Unknown: Wirt’s dying dream.
It was a place made of in-betweens: crumbling leaves and half-remembered tales, pumpkins sagging into the soil, a name said wrong, half of a horseman once, and then the other half, which sang in a forlorn baritone.
All the world was gold. Not the living gold of summer, but that final kind, the gold that clings to the world before it fades. The trees, the soil, even the air were steeped in dim, stubborn light. Somewhere, crows called. Frogs croaked low in the brush, like old men agreeing with themselves.
She could not remember how she had come to be there, only that she had walked for a long time, and that the path refused to end.
She didn’t know she had stepped into someone else’s dream. Not at first. Though she did decide she must be asleep after several days of speaking with black cats, skeletons, and turkeys large enough to block out small houses.
Either that, or she had gone crazy. A mix of studying too long for her early American history exam and the guilt of—
Stop it. Don’t think about that.
The idea that this place might belong to Wirt came to her the day she met the Woodman.
“These woods are no place for lost children.” He’d told her this when she came upon his cabin. He was a distraught man. Always muttering about “The Beast” and his “mournful melodiesss.”
This proved to be frustrating. She’d just been asking for directions, not an Edgar Allan Poe monologue.
Which, in hindsight, should’ve been her first clue of whose subconscious she wandered into.
He’d asked her where her home was.
“Glenwood, by the highway.”
The Woodsman had looked at her like she’d spoken a foreign language.
After that, there’d been a loud noise.
Someone banged on the cabin door. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound was loud and sudden in the quiet room.
Sara jumped. The Woodsman's hand went straight to his axe.
"Open up!" a girl shouted from outside.
The Woodsman scowled. "Not at this hour, Beatrice."
"Open up!" she’d shouted again, forcefully. "You promised you'd tell me everything you know about Edelwood! You owe me!"
The Woodsman sighed. Then he opened the door a crack. "Stop your shouting child."
"You promised!" said Beatrice. "For Wirt!"
Sara's breath caught thick in her throat. Her heart gave a painful jump.
"Wirt?"
He stiffened. "Stay quiet."
She didn't. "Did you say Wirt?"
There was a pause. The fire popped.
The Woodsman's eyes narrowed.
Outside, the girl called, "You know him?”
Sara stood up. "He's in the hospital," she said, “Back in my hometown…how-how do you know him?”
The Woodsman threw the door open wide, crisp air rushed in.
The girl outside looked around Sara's age. She had red hair and a pale, freckled face that was flushed from the cold. Her coat was a soft blue, the color of bluebird feathers.
“Beatrice," said the Woodsman, "come in this instant. You'll draw the Beast here."
There was a rustling noise outside.
The Woodsman's eyes widened.
He turned to the girls. "Stay put," His voice had gone urgent. "Both of you."
“Wait—" Beatrice's face screwed up.
“Stay inside!" he barked, snatching up his axe and lantern.
The door slammed behind him.
The cabin went still.
Beatrice exhaled sharply, rubbing her arms. “Great. Just what I need—a night in with Captain Paranoid out on patrol.”
Sara regarded her uncertainly. “Is he like… crazy, that Woodsman guy?”
“Ha. Unfortunately not. Just broody,” Beatrice replied, waving a hand. “Always muttering.”
Sara frowned. “But he said something about a Beast.”
At once, Beatrice’s expression changed. Her eyes darkened.
“I guess it’s time to rip the bandage off,” she murmured. Her voice was quieter now, touched with grimness. “There’s no other way to say it, lady… he’s real.”
Sara stared. “What—”
“Been trying to pry Wirt loose from him for ages,” Beatrice went on, her tone bitter. “Not exactly easy.”
Sara’s breath caught. “But Wirt’s back home. He fell in the river a month ago and—” she stopped herself. “He’s… here?”
Beatrice stepped closer, the firelight flickering soft against her face.
“You’re from his world, aren’t you?”
Sara’s brow furrowed.
Beatrice’s eyes searched her.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “Oh no, no, no.”
Sara took a step back. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”
Beatrice’s voice was low, careful, “What’s your name?”
“Sara.”
Beatrice froze. Her mouth opened, then closed again.
“Sara,” she repeated, as though the name itself were an omen. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
She pressed a hand to her forehead, muttering to herself.
Then—
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
A sound from above. On the roof.
“Cheese and crackers!” Beatrice cried, “He was right!”
Then, the noise came again, louder this time, a deep scraping, like talons raking the planks apart.
Sara’s pulse thundered in her ears. “What’s going on?”
But Beatrice did not answer. Her eyes were fixed upon the ceiling, wide and wild.
Then, a crack. A tear.
Wood splintered as something immense forced its way through.
Sara gasped as the ceiling opened to the night.
Beatrice seized her arm, pulling her to the corner. “Move, fool!”
Through the gaping wound in the roof descended a shape: vast and alive with darkness. It was a bird, or something once meant to be one: its feathers black and slick as ink, its form too human in the wrong places, its face a grotesque parody of both.
Its head tilted too far back. Its eyes were like twin blue lanterns burning through the dark, brilliant and bright.
A sound escaped it then: a wet, rattling breath that built and broke into a scream. It was the echo of every guilt Sara had buried, every memory she had tried to strangle.
Her body locked in terror. She could not move. Could not think. Could only feel the scream moving through her.
Beatrice shoved her toward the door. “Go!”
They burst into the night, the earth beneath them breaking in roots and briars.
“Children!” the Woodsman cried from somewhere in the dark.
But they kept going.
The forest swallowed them, their footfalls quick, frantic.
Branches tore at their clothes. Roots clutched at their feet.
“Keep running!” Beatrice shouted, her voice small against the roaring wind.
Sara obeyed, lungs burning, eyes stinging.
They ran for what felt like an eternity, until the woods broke open into a clearing: a wide space lit by a faint, flickering light. There, half-buried in ivy, stood a building that might have once been a farmhouse. Its roof sagged; its windows glowed weakly.
The sign creaked as it swung: The Wayward Soul’s Rest.
Beatrice did not knock. She pushed the door open and pulled Sara inside.
The air within was thick with warmth and pipe smoke. Behind a counter stood an innkeeper, a stout man with calm, knowing eyes and a pipe clutched like a relic between his teeth. Coins changed hands.
“Come on,” Beatrice said at last, her voice low and urgent, jerking her head toward the staircase.
Sara followed, her legs trembling beneath her.
The room they were given was small and square, two narrow beds pressed against the wall. A single candle guttered on the windowsill, its flame long and thin, bending with every breath of wind.
Sara’s voice came out small and shaky. “What was that thing?”
“I’m not really sure,” Beatrice said quietly. “It’s not a bird. Trust me, I know birds. It’s just…something that shows up whenever Wirt starts slipping too far.”
“Slipping?”
“Yeah.” Beatrice sighed, “When he stops talking and…being there.”
Sara felt her stomach twist.
“He’s between things. The Beast wants to keep him like that. Awake enough to know what’s happening, to chop Edelwood. But, too lost to do anything about it.”
Edelwood. For the lantern the Woodsman was talking about?
Sara’s hand tightened around the candle. “Okay—okay and you’re trying to help him?”
Beatrice looked away. “Trying.”
Sara was silent for a moment, deciding. Then–
“I want to help too.”
Beatrice’s eyes lifted. In them, for a fleeting second, Sara saw something like recognition, a flicker of memory, or fate, or both.
“I thought you would. Okay. I was headed his way. You can come with.” Beatrice sighed, “But first we should get some rest.”
Sara obeyed. She settled beneath the quilt. Though her body ached too deeply to sleep, her thoughts wound in restless circles, chasing the echo of the creature’s cry, the mention of Wirt, the image of his still, pale face in the dim hum of a hospital room.
So, Wirt had been here, within the darkest depths of this nightmare, all along.
It was all so surreal. Take it or leave it, and so she took it: the ache, the monsters, the boy who hadn’t woken up. Not just the pushed-down idea of him but the full weight of him, the way his silence always lived inside of her.
What would a better version of her do? The brave one, the one who didn’t flinch under fluorescent hospital light? The one who, back in the waking world, would’ve visited him every day.
But she’d only visited him once. It was all she could stand. She probably still couldn’t visit again. Not when the whole reason he was there was because—
Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it.
Maybe she should just accept that there isn’t a ‘better her.’
So, don’t try to build a brave soul if you can’t. Build a more solid hope instead. You want to save him? Keep believing he’ll be okay. That we can both wake up from this nightmare.
However long ago it was now, she’d been in a hospital room watching a sweet boy who wouldn’t open his too-wide eyes, and while she had watched his shallow breathing and the pulse point on his neck he had been here all along, somewhere between the forest and the machines.
She’d been in a hospital room watching a sweet boy and his little brother who had also been watching him with the same sort of focus that she had, and it made her want to cry but she didn’t. He was sitting in a chair too big for him, swinging his legs and telling stories about Jason Funderberker.
For some reason.
According to Greg, Jason had debated current events in the mud with him for hours the previous day, and then ate a bug.
Which was probably a lie, but to be honest she wasn't sure. With Jason you never really know.
Greg had gone on a tangent after that, raiding the lollypop jar in the corner and throwing out different 'rock facts': Did you know that spiders have eight eyes so they can see where each leg is going? Did you know that fog is just the ghosts of dead icicles? Did you know that my new favorite wrestler’s real name is Dwayne Johnson?
He was too cheerful for the situation. Wrappers were everywhere, bright and crinkling. She didn’t know if he didn’t understand what had happened fully or if he was just trying very hard not to.
A few weeks before that, Wirt had been forced to read a poem aloud in English class. It rattled around in her head now. The first line in particular—“I dream I am walking in a forest that almost remembers my name.”
She’d told him she’d liked it afterwards and he’d gone red and clutched the paper harder. She’d wanted to touch his hands then, just to steady them. She’d wanted to touch his lips.
She probably could have if she’d had more courage. It was easy to tell he liked her too. She kept trying to get him to do something about it…great person to pick for that plan Sara.
His poem had pretty clearly been about being an outcast. Which didn't make much sense to her, everyone at school liked him just fine.
"Hey Wirt! You going to the Homecoming game?"
"Hiili Wirtttt. I liked your poem toooo!"
"Oh...uh, thank you Jason Funderberker."
He had hurried away.