gone to the tree

Somehow, Wirt manages to escort the O'Sialias all the way home, make sure they're all safe in their own beds, before it all catches up to him. He runs, fighting back dark tears, the world blurring around him.

When his shaking, gasping sobs finally cease, he leans exhaustedly against a tree, blinking the last drops of oil from his eyes. He sits, resting his chin upon his knees. It's only now that he realizes where he is.

The Pilgrim scowls. Anger flickers behind his breastbone.

"This is your fault, you know," he spits.

The Beast doesn't answer, of course. He's frozen, sleeping, unless Wirt awakens him, and Wirt has no intention of doing that. That won't stop him from venting, though.

"Why couldn't you have just not murdered people?" Wirt demands. "It really isn't that difficult. I've done it all my—"

He crumples then, because that's not true. He can blame his predecessor for many things, but one edelwood is Wirt's fault entirely, and it's his fault that he got impatient and went into Kenningdole when he knew it was a bad idea, and he's the one who completely ruined this innocent family's lives.

Maybe the villagers were right when they completely rejected him. All he ever does is mess up, destroy all he touches. He wouldn't even be in this situation if he hadn't been such a terrible brother.

Perhaps it would be better to just… stay away from people. His presence inspires nothing but suspicion, fear, and angry mobs; only in situations of direst desperation do people even tolerate his presence. Beatrice is the only person in this world who doesn't look at him with at least a hint of wariness in her eyes, just waiting for him to snap and become a Beast in truth. She is the only one whose scent remains completely free of fear, and that's just because she knows how utterly pathetic he is. Everyone else is just scared, so very scared of him.

And he can't blame them.

Wirt is dangerous. He can turn people into trees, he can destroy their weapons with a thought, he can bring the seeds in their bellies to horrible life. There are tales of the Beast eradicating entire towns that had offended him, ringing them in with nettle and thorn, quenching their fires, turning their food to rot.

Wirt can do that, too. He feels it in his bones.

So, yes, it would be better if he just walks away. He rises to his feet, fully intending to do just that, when an objection occurs to him. He groans, hides his head in his hands.

He can't leave the O'Sialias. They are known to be his associates now. They're actively in danger from people who would do ill to the Beast's heir. People will hurt them to get at him, and some of those people will be witches, or groups, or freaking lynch mobs. Deadly people intent on harm. The O'Sialias will need protection, and Wirt is the only one who can give it.

Well, maybe. He tried once before to imbue something with his protection, but that was an object rather than a location and he's not certain if it actually worked. It probably didn't. And he's pretty certain that blessing a place is different than enchanting a thing.

He thinks of Whispers. Perhaps he can pay or convince her to place a protection spell on the property. He'd have to use the turtles to send the message, though, as he doesn't want to risk leaving the O'Sialias long enough to run there and back.

(Legend has it that the Beast could step into one shadow and out of another, traversing miles in moments. Trees and turtles both claim that this is true. If Wirt weren't so utterly terrible at every aspect of his job, he could appear right on the witch's doorstep, maybe even bring her back in a single heartbeat. But he's an awful Caretaker, bumbling from mistake to mistake with ruin dogging his footsteps.)

So he should go find a turtle or two, send them off to Whispers as quickly as possible. Okay. Even he can probably do that much without messing up again.

Wirt closes his eyes, casts his mind into his forest. It's dawn; nocturnal animals are retreating to their lairs, diurnal creatures blinking awake, crepuscular ones going about their usual routines. The trees slumber all around him, dreaming slow happy dreams of sunlight and growth. The old grist mill stands at the corner of his awareness, its inhabitants all aslumber.

Only one turtle, though. She's sleeping at the base of the edelwood, the first faceless one that he ever created, cuddling up against its roots, a snowdrop at her side. Actually, there are quite a few snowdrops at the foot of the tree, awake and alive and silently tinkling with happiness at his presence.

Flowers in the snow, sheltered by a living manifestation of his actions. They're beautiful little things, their petals a stark contrast to the edelwood's reddish bark. Delicate, graceful, living.

Wirt kneels down to touch one. The small life hums beneath his fingers. He looks up at the edelwood, so much taller and stronger, and remembers the night he created it. He thinks of the hopelessness that had almost drowned him, had almost given the Beast a way to return. But… he'd gotten through it, and then he had created this faceless edelwood on his first try.

The Pilgrim comes to a decision. He will send a letter to Whispers, yes. But there is a song that might (would) imbue this land with protection, and even if he doesn't get it right the first time, he can always sing it again.

He will try.

Title comes from "Come Wayward Souls." I like it because it has so many meanings in the context of this fic.

So Wirt is still in a pretty bad place, but now he knows better than to run away again. Soon he'll come up with a frankly ridiculous plan that he'll dislike about as much as the poor people of Kenningdole, but if it works...

Once again, thank you to everybody who has contributed to this world. You're fantastic!

Happy New Year, friends.