The Woodsman is damn tired. Tired of the fuss and the pointless running from place to place; from there, where no one’s left to wait, to where no one is waiting. He’s tired of the hollow, obsolete hatred, which isn’t worth a shit anymore. Of the endless, empty war, which is being fought only for the demonstrative delimitation of the sides, to show the “goodies” and “baddies”, while there’s no need in sides at all, and there’re no longer any sides, they all are of the same kind now, stuck on the same slippery bank, and the river’s flow carries not the corpses of their enemies, but their own shed shells, pale and swollen. The flies crawling over the moist eyeballs have no requirement in glamour: the flies are allowed to be hideous, as the corpses − to be, well− dead. The Woodsman can’t die. Not because that’s how it works here, but because he’s a coward. And he’s sick and tired of this cowardice, which he constantly tries to drink away, and wash down, and black out, but all in vain, all’s just getting worse and fouler.
He’s miserable and tired of it. Tired of the contemptuous way the others look at
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He gets up, and comes closer, and when Grendel, drunk as a skunk, blocks the way, he says that one part of truth which is considered to be the most deceitful one here. He says: “I just want to talk.” And Grendel just wants to fight, because he’s overly offended by life, as he has always been, and by those who open their mouths too wide in his hearing. The Woodsman knows he can’t beat Gren up, if he decides to transform, and he will definitely decide so, he just needs a good reason, and Bigby’s presence is more than enough; that’s why Woody doesn’t step in. Woody counts on Bigby’s conscience, on the fact that, perhaps, he is exhausted after their yesterday scuffle and fed up to the throat with the forthcoming one. He doesn’t count on his status of the town’s sheriff, because the fables don’t give a damn about the lawmen. Such lawmen, at