going to the pasture

Greg is here. Greg is here.

He's a little taller now, maybe a little less round, but that's his brother right there (and Jason Funderberker and Beatrice, observes the tiny portion of his mind that isn't completely fixated on Gregory Christopher Whelan). He's right there, approaching with something like uncertainty on his face, but there's a tentative smile pulling at his lips and he's here.

Wirt strides towards him, drops to his knees. Then the brothers are holding each other in the tightest hug they can manage.

"I missed you," Greg whispers in his ear.

Oil-black tears are running down Wirt's face; caladium and woodbine sprout where they hit the ground. "I missed you too," he chokes out. He can't believe that Greg is here, that they're together again, that—

Greg shifts position ever so slightly. The teapot on his head brushes against one of Wirt's antlers.

The new Beast's blood flash-freezes in his veins. His inhumanly long fingers spasm against Greg's back. Oh no. Oh no. He is suddenly and painfully aware of his appearance, of the fact that Greg has seen him, of the fact that Greg knows.

He shifts to his more human form as quickly as he can. It will give him a horrible headache if he stays like this too long, but he doesn't care.

The sound of a sharp breath reminds him that he and his brother aren't alone. Beatrice is standing at the edge of the clearing with a vaguely familiar dog by her side, and Jason the frog is sitting by Greg's side, staring up at him with thoughtful eyes. They saw him too; they know just as much as Greg.

He swallows hard, suddenly very afraid.

Greg, too, remembers that there are others present. "You've gotta hug them, too, Wirt," he insists. "Hey, your branchlers are gone!"

"Yeah," Wirt mumbles, deciding not to comment on the bizarre new word. He scoops Jason against his chest for a brief embrace, glances askance at Beatrice.

Beatrice sighs and walks towards him, her arms open. "Come here, you ridiculous fool."

He's taller than her now, Wirt can't help but notice. The observation causes a tiny spark of satisfaction that is quickly swallowed up by anxiety. He's glad to see them—of course he's glad to see them—but they know what he is now.

Oh no oh no oh no. They know.

Is it too late to run?

"Okay," Beatrice says, backing out of his embrace, "as much as I hate to be that person, someone needs to ask you what the heck happened, Wirt."

His stomach churns. "Yeah," he mumbles awkwardly, "yeah, I should probably explain that."

"It would be appreciated, yeah."

Wirt squirms a little, averting his gaze to lay eyes on his Lantern. Should he pick it up? No, no, that would be just delaying things—which, come to think of it, he's doing right now. "This… this might take a while."

"That's okay," says Greg, plopping into a seated position. "We've got time. You're not getting rid of us that easily, brother o'mine!" He hugs his frog to his chest and gazes up at his brother expectantly.

So Wirt tells them: the long months of denial, why he'd come back, even his conversation with Enoch that spring when he'd learned about the faceless edelwoods. He tells them everything except how he'd once made a tree from a mortal man. He knows that he should probably mention it—a murderer like him doesn't deserve their affection—but the thought of their entirely justified reactions makes him want to vomit. He can't. He just can't.

Fortunately, the news that it's possible to make edelwoods without hurting anyone distracts his audience from any secrecy that might have shown in his features. "Did you figure it out, Wirt?" demands Greg.

Wirt sighs heavily, which is answer enough.

"But it doesn't matter anymore," Greg announces.

The teenagers stare at him in confusion.

"Your branchlers are gone!" he exclaims. "You're human again, so you don't have to burn trees and stay in the Unknown for the rest of your life. You can come home."

Beatrice looks at the Dark Lantern. Its light is soft and steady and proof that the boy is wrong.

Wirt's heart breaks a little. "Greg," he says, as gently as possible. "Remember what I said about learning how to shapeshift?"

Greg's face crumples, and Wirt knows that he is the worst brother—no, the worst person—in the world. "So you're still a tree wizard?"

"Not what I would call it, but yes." He taps his fingers against the Dark Lantern. "He who snuffs the flame must—"

"Shut up, Wirt, I'm trying to think," Beatrice interrupts. Wirt glares at her, but she just rolls her eyes.

…at least this means she's not afraid of him.

"Listen, Wirt, is there any way to make someone else take the job?"

Greg perks up immediately. "Yeah!"

"Technically yes," Wirt snarks. "It's called 'dying,' and I'd rather not."

Greg deflates. "Ah, beans."

Beatrice is still frowning. "But how would you know? You just admitted that you don't know a whole lot about this whole 'Caretaker of the Forest' thing. What makes you so certain that you can't become human again? I did." Her eyes widen. "Adelaide."

"What about her?" Wirt asks, befuddled.

"She had those scissors, remember? And she pretty much admitted that she worked for the Beast right before I killed her. Maybe she has some artifact or forbidden tome or something that could make you human again."

"Yeah!" Greg exclaims.

Jason nods. "That seems like a good idea to me."

Wirt nearly jumps out of his skin, gawking at the amphibian as though he'd sprouted a second head. "Holy smokes. I understood that."

"You did?" exclaims Jason.

"Can you teach me?" Greg begs.

He can't, because he belongs to the Unknown and Greg belongs in the other world, but his brother looks so hopeful that he says, "If I can figure out how I'm doing it, yes." Because talking to trees makes sense with his power set; talking to frogs, not so much.

"But did you even try to find a way out?" Beatrice demands. "Other than denial back in your world, I mean."

"No." Wirt shakes his head. "There isn't one." He knows it in his bones, in the same way he knows the sun will rise and set and rise again.

"How would you know if you haven't looked?"

"How do trees know to bloom in spring and shed their leaves in the fall?"

Beatrice snorts. "Yeah, no. We're going to Adelaide's."

His brother is acting funny, even by Wirt Standards, which are different from the standards of a normal person. He's paused outside the door of the inn in Rambler's Holt, staring into the room where they're going to get supper with a weird expression.

Greg tugs at his hand. "Come on, Wirt. I'm hungry."

Wirt steps inside, turning his head to the side as he does so. Greg frowns up at him, wondering if his branchlers are really gone or if they're just invisible. Wirt would get stuck in an awful lot of doorways if his branchlers just turn invisible.

"Would you believe that this is the first building I've been inside in months?"

"Seriously?" exclaims Beatrice.

"Seriously," Wirt agrees. "Not since—spring, I think, when Enoch invited me in for tea."

Beatrice scowls. "That dumb cat could have saved us a lot of trouble if he'd just told us you were the Caretaker. To think that my entire family's been jumpy for months just because of you."

Wirt flinches like she's punched him (Greg has never been punched by Beatrice, but he's willing to bet that it hurts. Beatrice is really strong). "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "And… I'm sorry for that time I spooked you in the forest. I was, yeah. I was trying to work up the courage to go talk to you, but then you saw me and I sort of panicked."

Beatrice snorts. "Of course you did." But then, weirdly, she smiles. "You're still you."

"I hope so," Wirt says, ducking his head. Greg notices that he's grown out his hair; he has a little ponytail now. Well, that makes sense. If he's been running around in the woods all these months, he obviously hasn't had time to have a haircut. Maybe Greg can give him one if he finds a pair of scissors. Maybe Greg will be really good at giving haircuts and will open up a barber shop one day.

"Who else would he be?" Greg asks. They don't answer.

The nice waitress comes over and takes their supper orders. Beatrice frowns at Wirt as the lady leaves, though Greg has no idea why. Wirt just shrugs. "I don't actually need to eat anymore, and I can't eat meat at all. I think that I might have some sort of photosynthesis now? I'm really not sure."

"What's photocinnamon?"

"It's called photosynthesis, Greg, and it's basically how plants eat sunlight."

Greg frowns, confused. "But wouldn't you know if you were eating sunlight? What does sunlight taste like anyways? Is it good?"

"…I have no idea."

Greg nods. "Then you can't have photocinnamon, because you'd know what sunlight tastes like if you did. Oh yeah." He reaches up and runs his hand along the side of Wirt's head. He can finally do that now because Wirt's sitting down and he's way too tall for Greg to check otherwise.

"What are you doing?" Beatrice asks.

"Checking for invisible branchlers, of course!"

"Could you quit calling them branchlers?"

"Nope!"

Wirt sighs and rolls his eyes, but he's smiling.

Greg can already tell that this is going to work out just fine.

Beatrice wakes to a pair of glowing white eyes staring at her out of the darkness. She goes completely rigid, heart in her mouth.

The eyes dim before going out completely. "Sorry," Wirt mumbles in his new voice, obviously chagrined.

Beatrice flushes. "Why are you not asleep?"

Wirt draws the Dark Lantern out of his satchel. There's a questioning look on his face, like he's asking if it's okay. Beatrice decides to pretend that it's just a normal lantern instead of his soul. She nods.

"I don't actually need to sleep anymore," Wirt sighs. He looks away from her, out the window, into the night.

"Yeah." Beatrice pushes herself up. On the other side of the bed, Greg snuggles into his frog. "Listen. Wirt."

"Mm-hm?"

She searches for the words, but it's hard when she doesn't have any idea what she even wants to say. Is it a question? A comment? Sympathy, sarcasm, something else? She finally settles on, "Are you okay?"

He sighs heavily, the sound like wind in the leaves. "Mostly. Homesick, but, I like it here too. It's not nearly as terrible as I expected, except—" He looks over to his brother. "—for all the ways it is…. You know, a year ago, I'd never have expected to miss him so much. I hope he doesn't take it too hard when he has to go home."

"You might be going with him," Beatrice points out.

"…maybe," Wirt mumbles, plainly unconvinced. "Beatrice, someone has to take care of the forest. Someone has to be the Beast, or this entire world will… unravel. The stars will dim, the trees die, the rivers dry to dust."

"I get it, Wirt," she interjects before he can spin an entire poem about it. "But why does that someone have to be you?"

"Because I already gave up my soul."

Oh. That was, unfortunately, a much more valid argument than the vague nonsense about destiny she'd more than half-expected from him. "Well… we can figure out a way to get it back."

"With a pair of scissors?"

Beatrice's flush isn't just from embarrassment anymore, because was he not even going to try? "Or we'll find a book or something."

Wirt's eyes widen to perfect circles. "Do you know if Rambler's Holt has a library?"

"You need to wear shoes in the library," the lady says, glaring at Wirt's bare feet.

"Oh, sorry." Wirt digs around in his satchel; he's pretty sure he has his old boots in there. (He's also starting to wonder if his bag is somehow bigger on the inside. Can he do stuff like that? Maybe the books could tell him.) His hand brushes against hard leather and he pulls out a pair of shoes. "One second."

The librarian is clearly displeased, but Wirt's following all the rules, so she can't do anything.

The four of them spread out. Wirt finds a promising-looking tome and starts to skim it. Nothing. The second book turned out to be a history of all the horrifying things that the Beast could apparently do. It went a long way towards explaining why everyone was so afraid of him (them) but did not help with his current dilemma, so Wirt sets it aside after noting that most of these events occurred quite a while ago. Maybe the Beast had grown weaker as the centuries passed.

By the time lunch rolls around, they've found exactly nothing. By supper, they're forced to admit that the library is a dead end.

Adelaide's house it is, then.

Their first day back on the road is cut short by a summer storm. Beatrice suppresses a curse, because of course it hits when they're probably miles from anyone's home.

"Okay, the turkeys have to follow the path. Do we want to keep going until we find a building or wait it out under the incomplete coverage of the trees? I vote we keep going."

They agree. Conversation returns to one of Greg's many stories, but Beatrice notices that Wirt looks kind of uncomfortable. He keeps glancing up at the branches overhead, which are meager protection at best.

She wonders what he did all those other times he was stuck out in the rain or even the snow. He hadn't been inside for months, he'd mentioned that first meal together.

"There might be something—no, forget it. The rain's kind of nice."

"Maybe for you, but I do not like being wet."

"Is it a magic umbrella?"

Wirt gazes at a spot somewhere between the two human residents of the cart. "I can make a canopy. I think I can, anyways. With, you know." He shrugs.

"Cool!" exclaims Greg.

A shy smile flits across Wirt's face. He glances towards Beatrice, who shrugs, and Jason, who croaks. The frog must have agreed, because Wirt closes his eyes, tilts back his head.

Above them, leaves and branches weave together into a protective shield, unraveling as soon as they've passed.

"Whoa," breathes Greg, eyes saucer-wide. "That's so cool!"

Wirt can't respond—apparently this trick takes a lot of concentration—but he smiles brightly, nothing shy about it.

(One hand drifts up to rub at his temple, but his face is free of pain. Beatrice takes in her friend's cheerful expression and lets it slide.)

Uncle Endicott is just as much fun as Greg remembers him, and Auntie Margueritte is pretty cool too, and Fred the Talking Horse is really funny. It's also nice that they get to sleep in real beds tonight. He loves traveling in the Unknown, but he'd forgotten how stiff he could get sleeping on the ground. Pillows that aren't leaves are fantastic.

The only bad thing is that Wirt's disappeared somewhere. Greg knows in his head that his brother hasn't left again—he promised—but he can't help but be a little scared, so he's going to go find him.

If Greg were a magic tree person, where would he go? Probably the garden.

Sure enough, Wirt is sitting among the camellia with his eyes closed. He must hear Greg come in, because one eye peeks open. "Hey, Greg." He pats the ground beside him in invitation.

Greg sits down. His brother's cloak—black and long, not blue like it had been on Halloween—is warm from the sunlight. "What're you doing?"

"Just thinking. What about you? Have you eaten Endicott and Margueritte out of house and home yet?"

"Nope! Gotta save room for breakfast." Greg pats his tummy for emphasis, and Wirt laughs.

They're quiet for a moment, watching one of the weird chickens—no, they're called peacocks—through the glass. Finally Wirt says, "It's funny, don't you think?"

"The bird?"

"What? Oh. No. I was actually talking about how we've sort of reversed our roles. Last time, I was a lot more focused on getting us back, while you were more content to stay. Now it's the opposite."

Greg huffs, because how was he supposed to know that? "Well, that was before I saw how scared Mom and Dad were back on Halloween and how sad they are with you gone." It's a good thing that his trip here isn't going to last any time at all, just like how on Halloween they spent two weeks here and got back the night they left.

Wirt flinches even though Greg hadn't meant for it to hurt, he was just saying facts. "I'm sorry. I just… I probably could have proven it, you know? I wasn't as strong there, but I still had some power. Plus the glowing eyes. But I was scared. I should have just faced my fears and told them."

"You can tell them everything when you get back. We can bring them to the Unknown to meet Beatrice and everybody else. It'll be fun."

"Maybe."

"No maybes, Wirt." Greg wags a finger at him. "Face your fears!"

Wirt holds up his hands like he's surrendering. "Okay, okay. I will."

"Good." Greg leans in closer to tell him a secret. "I was kind of scared to meet the Caretaker even though we thought you were friends, but then it turned out that you were the Caretaker, so everything turned out good in the end."

His brother slumps. "Oh. That's… I mean, that was really brave of you, Greg. Good job." He gives him a thumbs-up before very obviously changing the subject. "I'm looking forward to seeing the ferry again now that we can pay and don't have to worry about being thrown into frog jail. What about you?"

Greg decides to go along with it. They'll have plenty of time to talk about all the other stuff after they get to Adelaide's old house.

Wirt is different now.

It isn't just his height, or his spidery hands, or the fact that she knows he's hiding glowing eyes and antlers beneath a human facade. It's not the Lantern-soul that he's tucked into his satchel and only feeds when he thinks they're not watching. It's the way he walks, the elegant soundless glide. It's the way he looks like he belongs in the forest, how he tilts his head in a manner reminiscent of his predecessor, how she sometimes catches him humming eerily familiar melodies. How he looks at Greg like they'll never see each other again and does everything in his power to be the best brother possible, whether it's trying to teach him Froggish or indulge his game or accompany his songs on the clarinet.

But at the same time, he's still their Wirt: overdramatic, a poetic streak a mile wide, a bizarre combination of stubbornness and surrender. Skittish, too, as evidenced by his reluctance to get off the ferry.

"Adelaide's dead," she reminds him. "Now come on, get in the cart." She still can't believe that the frogs allowed the turkey cart aboard their ferry, but she's not going to complain. The cart has saved them quite a bit of time, both because the turkeys are surprisingly fast and because Greg is less likely to go wandering off than when he's walking.

Wirt looks at her solemnly. The light catches oddly on his eyes, making them much brighter than they ought to be. "It's not that. Remember what I told you about sick, corrupted places in the forest? There's one up ahead, and I think it's centered on Adelaide's house."

Beatrice frowns. She remembers a nasty sense of unease from both her visits to the pasture, but she's always chalked that up to her trepidation over dealing with a witch. Maybe there was more to it than that. "Is it dangerous?"

Wirt cocks his head slightly, gaze distant with thought. He's forgetting to blink again; Beatrice will have to remind him again if he keeps that up. "No, it's not," he finally says. "Some are, but this one—Greg, quit splashing the turkeys!"

"But they want a bath."

"No they don't," Beatrice assures him. "Besides, it's going to rain soon. They'll get plenty wet then."

"Oh. Well, they looked like they wanted a bath. Sorry, turkeys." He pats them on the head.

Wirt smiles fondly. "Well, let's go, I guess."

They reach Adelaide's old house in no time at all. Wirt keeps grimacing and glaring at their surroundings, his eyes agleam, but he says nothing about the corruption around them. Beatrice imagines she can feel it, a vague sense of unease in the very air. Even Greg is a little more subdued than usual.

The cottage is empty. The books, the yarn, even the bed is gone.

"Burglars!" Greg exclaims.

"I don't think so," Wirt replies. He's sniffing the air like a (Beast) dog, and he crouches to press his hand against the spot where Adelaide had died. "It looks like someone cleaned up the, uh, puddle. It was a while ago, too—at least I think so. Maybe Whispers came to clear out her sister's things."

"So not burglars."

"I don't think so, no."

Beatrice has never met Whispers and Lorna, but the brothers have told her all about their encounter with the witch and her ward. It's not like they had much else to do on the cart rides, and recounting his adventures is a good way to keep Greg out of trouble. A detail niggles at the back of her head, but they're almost in sight of the cottage before she remembers.

"Say, Wirt…." She trails off. They haven't exactly discussed his status as the new Beast/Caretaker/whatever-he-is. This, though, they'll probably have to talk about. "This is the lady who eats black turtles, right?"

"Yeah," Wirt confirms, shuddering.

"Well," she prods, "is that going to be a problem?"

"I don't think so," Wirt replies, looking vaguely confused. "They're creepy, but they're not that creepy. As long as she doesn't eat one in front of us, I'll be fine. Greg too. He loves turtles."

Beatrice suppresses a groan, because of course he's clueless. "Seriously? Haven't they been following you around since you got back?"

"They did at first," he admits, "but eventually I told them to leave me alone. Would you believe that it actually worked?"

This time, she lets the groan out. "Wirt. The black turtles were the Beast's minions. Pretty sure that means they're yours now."

He goes still and quiet in that strange new way of his, embarrassment flitting across his face. "…Oh. That explains a lot. Maybe I should try to save—"

"Whoa!" Greg yells. "It's a deer skull!"

"What?"

"Cheese and crackers, it is."

The deer skull, antlers and all, is perched atop a thick oaken pole. Other bones are bundled on other, smaller poles, bound together with twine and leaves. They're arranged in a rough circle around the house, and Beatrice has no idea what this could possibly be about.

"You got rid of the flesh-eater, right?" she inquires.

Wirt doesn't answer. He's stepped out of the cart and is staring at the bizarre construction with an intense concentration. He's still not blinking. "Whispers and Lorna are the only people in there, probably. I think I'd be able to sense a flesh-eating spirit. But… are you sure we really need to ask them about Adelaide's things?"

Beatrice manages to not sigh. "Yeah."

Her friend grimaces. "Right. Greg, can you hand me the bell? I'll go in first, and if…." But then he trails off, an expression of mixed agony and guilt on his face.

"Wirt?"

He snaps out of it. "Yeah. Sorry. Can you two wait in the cart while I go up and knock? I can run pretty quickly now, and I will run if something goes wrong. They don't have kids with them."

Jason and Beatrice exchange confused, mildly suspicious glances.

"Why would they have kids with them?" Greg demands.

Wirt flinches, stricken. "No reason. Just—yeah. I'll go and knock, ask Whispers what's going on. If it's safe, you three can come too."

"Remember to blink," Beatrice orders.

"Yeah, okay."

The second Wirt passes the creepy circle of deer bones, he erupts into a sneezing fit so loud that the doors fling open almost immediately. An old woman with a huge pale head stares at him in confusion. "Who are you, and why have you come here?"

He gets his sneezing under control enough to reply, "I'm Wirt. We met last—achoo—autumn."

"Oh!" The crone's face lights up. "I remember now! You've grown quite a bit since then, young man. Come inside, come inside. You too," she adds, noticing the turkey cart.

Beatrice suppresses a grin as she passes the deer bones. She has a feeling she knows what they are, now.

They spend a few minutes making the necessary introductions, assuring each other they're all doing fine, receiving tea from Lorna. Beatrice is trying to figure out how to ask for access to Adelaide's things without revealing why they need them (or that she was the one to kill her) when Greg asks, "So what's with the weird bone fence thing?"

"It's meant to protect us against the Beast," explains Lorna, making the ward-evil sign. (Greg looks at his brother, who has finally stopped sneezing, with a rather dubious expression.)

Beatrice can't help it; she snorts a laugh. She knew it. Wirt glares, miffed, but she assures the other girl, "Somehow, I doubt you're in much danger from him, even without the wards."

"You don't understand," Lorna protests, "he's gotten stronger lately."

Wirt shudders slightly. "What makes you say that?"

Whispers takes over the narrative. "Less than a month ago, he turned a powerful witch to edelwood on the threshold of his own home."

"What?! Beatrice cries.

"No!" yells Greg—

-but they're both looking at Wirt for confirmation or denial. Wirt, whose face has drained of color only to fill with guilt and shame, who is clutching his teacup so hard that it shatters in his hand. Black blood and tea drip onto the table.

"No," Greg says again—begs, really—but he can read the truth on his brother's face just as plainly as Beatrice.

Wirt swallows. "Greg, I—"

Greg flinches away from him.

Wirt's heart breaks, and with it his control over his form. The antlers and eye-lights are back, glaring proof of what he has become.

Lorna screams. Whispers bellows. She grabs the nearest weapon—the teapot, still half-full of scalding liquid—and throws it at the new Beast's head. "Begone, Beast! Leave this place!"

Wirt stands, his shoulders hunched, as small as a man his height can make himself. Tea isn't the only dark liquid gathering in his eyes.

Whispers has a broom. She jabs it at him like a spear; he scitters backwards towards the door. "Get away from my Lorna, you monster!" Jab, jab, and Wirt is out the door, twisting his head so that his antlers fit through. "You aren't welcome here!"

A tear rolls down his face, as black and thick as oil. "I know."

And then Wirt the Beast is gone.

You turn one person-just one-into a tree, and suddenly everyone is freaking out. And things were going so well, too.

In other words, poor Wirt. Also poor Greg, who is probably in the middle of a flashback right now. Poor everyone.

I have a lot of the next fic in this series written already. It just needs a lot of editing. If I'm lucky, it could (no guarantees) be up by the end of the month.

Almost forgot-insert disclaimer here.

-Antares