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"Harder!" growls the Beast, its eyes wide and gleaming. "Faster!"
"Have patience," the Woodsman puffs. "I work at my own pace."
"Put your back into it," the Beast demands.
The Woodsman raises the axe again and buries it in the trunk of the tree.
"If you want to have a turn, be my guest," he says, pulling the blade free with a hard tug.
"I prefer to watch," the Beast says.
The Woodsman continues his work, steady as ever, and he can feel the Beast’s electric eyes roving over his back.
“I don’t mean to rush you,” drawls the Beast, “but the snow is falling. Soon you will not be able to make your way home.”
The Woodsman glances dismissively at the growing carpet of white. “I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure,” the Beast says.
The lantern draws flickering shadows on the tree trunk as the snow glides past.
“It wouldn’t even be an issue,” the Woodsman adds, “if I didn’t have to go so far to find an edelwood tree.”
“Growing tired of your duties?” the Beast asks, mocking.
The Woodsman shakes his head, clearing snow from his brow. “Just sick of the commute. And I doubt it does you much good to watch me walk for miles at a time.”
“You'd be surprised.”
The Woodsman coughs. “Either way, the edelwood trees have been getting harder to find. There’s fewer than there used to be. It just makes me wonder...”
He keeps working while heavy flakes swirl above his head.
“Wonder what?” prompts the Beast.
"Whether this is a sustainable method of forest management," says the Woodsman.
The Beast scoffs. “These are my woods,” it says. “I do what I like with them.”
"But if I keep cutting down the edelwood trees, as you insist,” the Woodsman says, “soon there may be none left."
“There are plenty still to go around,” says the Beast, dismissive. “The woods will provide.”
"A forest isn't an endless well to drink from,” the Woodsman chides, and then he pauses. “What is an edelwood tree, anyway?"
The Beast blinks at the apparent non-sequitur, and then says in its gravelly voice, "It is the tree that keeps the lantern lit."
"Yes, I know that much," says the Woodsman. "But what is it, taxonomically? Is it a distinct species?"
"I am no botanist," the Beast says, sounding peeved.
"Because it looks a lot like an oak," the Woodsman goes on. "It has leaves like an oak and it grows acorns. The only way to distinguish it is by the gooey black sap that coats its trunk. Which makes me wonder if an edelwood tree is just an oak tree that's contracted some kind of fungal malady."
"This is none of your concern," the Beast says sharply, which either means that it doesn’t want him to know or is embarrassed to admit its ignorance.
“If it’s the sap that’s important,” the Woodsman muses, “perhaps we can harvest that and leave the trees alive.”
“It is not your place to speculate,” growls the Beast.
“It’s just that I’m a woodsman,” says the Woodsman. “It’s my job to know things about trees.”
"It is your job to cut down trees when I tell you to," says the Beast.
The Woodsman continues to work, and the Beast continues to watch. The wind is howling now, to accompany the whispering snow. The Beast tilts its head and then begins singing along.
“Tra-la-la!” sings the Beast. “Tra-la-la!”
It has a beautiful, sonorous voice, but the Woodsman can’t stand to hear it.
"Would you stop that?" he snaps.
The song comes to a halt.
"I was merely trying to help you keep time," says the Beast, sounding bizarrely hurt. “To speed up your process.”
"It's distracting," the Woodsman says shortly.
He continues to work in silence, but soon the quiet begins to get to him. He can feel the Beast’s eyes, as always, on his back.
“Why do you watch me so closely?” the Woodsman asks. “It’s kind of creepy.”
“I must make sure that you are on task,” says the Beast.
“I’m sure I’ve proven by now that I don’t need baby-sitting.”
“Perhaps,” admits the Beast. “But that’s not the only reason. It is also a matter of professional interest.”
“You find me interesting?”
“It is a pleasure to watch you work.”
The Woodsman leans on his axe for a moment, pondering that.
"You should head back," says the Beast. "Before the snow blocks your way."
"I will head back when I'm ready," says the Woodsman, taking up the axe again.
But despite his persistence, the snow is gathering around his feet and making him slow. And soon it is falling so thick that he can hardly see the axe in his hand.
"Enough for today," he relents. "I'm going home."
He turns and scoops up the lantern, then begins tromping through the snow. But the woods are a sheet of white, and its features are indistinguishable in the gloom. Before long, he is hopelessly lost.
He stops to lean against a tree.
"Need help?" asks the Beast, close behind as ever.
"What help can you be?" the Woodsman asks.
"I know every inch of these woods, even with my eyes shut. I can guide you home."
The Woodsman doesn't answer, but when the Beast strides ahead of him, he follows.
The Woodsman studies the Beast as it walks. With his gaze, he traces the sinuous shadows of its arms and the soft fluttering of its cloak.
After a few minutes, even the Beast’s form is obscured from view.
"I can't see you through the snow!" the Woodsman shouts.
The Beast does not reply, but instead begins to sing.
"Tra-la-la!" comes the voice from ahead. "Tra-la-la!"
The Woodsman follows for what feels like hours. He can feel the cold seeping into his bones, and his boots become heavier and heavier, until he can hardly take a step forward. He sinks to his knees in the snow, letting his head sag against his chest.
The singing stops. Strangely, he finds that he misses it. The snow around him is like a warm blanket, and he sinks into its embrace. Then he feels pressure under his arms, hoisting him upward.
Despite the movement, his eyes begin to flutter shut, and he dimly notes that he is being rearranged and pressed against a solid human frame. The world disappears except for a pair of gleaming white orbs above him.
“Tra-la-la,” the Beast sings quietly as it walks.
"Your voice is lovely," the Woodsman says hazily, as darkness slides over him. "So dark and deep. It makes me want to stay here forever."
"I thought you didn't like my singing," says the Beast, sounding amused.
"Only because it comes from your stupid mouth.”
That is the last he remembers of their snowy trek.
When he awakes, he is curled up on the floor of his cabin, near the hearth. His coat and boots have been removed, and he is wrapped in a heavy blanket. The lantern is at his side, and the fireplace crackles before him.
He slowly sits up and looks around the room. There is a shadow in the corner with glowing eyes.
“Beast?” asks the Woodsman, and the shadow steps forward.
“I am here,” it says.
"You brought me home," says the Woodsman wonderingly.
“Are you warm?” asks the Beast.
The Woodsman shakes himself further awake. “Yes, warm enough.”
"I will depart, then," says the Beast, and the Woodsman feels an inexplicable pang at the thought of being left alone. At the doorway, the Beast stops in its tracks, as if sensing his pain. "Unless..."
"Unless?" asks the Woodsman as the Beast trails off, watching him.
The Beast’s eyes gutter like a candle flame. "Perhaps there is more I can do to keep you warm."
“Oh?” asks the Woodsman. “Oh.” He shrugs the blanket off his shoulders and begins unwrapping it. "Could be worth a try."
The shadow crosses the room, and before long, the Beast is upon him.