Chapter 13. The Lovers in the Trees

It was hard to say how long they’d been watching him.

Not just today.

But for years—perhaps even decades. Waiting. Hoping.

Now, their time had come again.

They were called the Holokons. Spirits, some said. Monsters, others whispered. Creatures of mirage and madness—those who see past the veil.

But above all…

They were in love.

RICK was the first to reveal herself.

She coiled downward from the tree like dark silk unraveling from a spool—long, sinuous, and smooth, with a body carved in velvety black and coral-pink ribboning like brushstrokes. Her underbelly, flushed with soft rosy pink, shone against her black fur like the inside of a blooming seashell.

Down her arms—long and winged—stretched fading hues of plum and violet, sharp at the edges like ink spills. She wore a ceremonial kimono, the sleeves long, draping with elegance—ringed with silver jewelry and looped charms that clinked like wind chimes. Her claws were dipped in blood red. Her mane? A sweeping ocean of dark violet curls, adorned with blackened feathers and sticks of incense left unburnt.

Her eyes, sharp and almond-shaped, glowed with a heated orange, like dying coals. But there was affection in them.

Terrifying, and yet soft.

She smiled. Wickedly.

Like someone who remembered every kiss Ydoc ever gave her, even if he no longer did.

And yet—she kept her distance.

“I won’t touch him…” she whispered to no one in particular. “He forgot. I know. But oh…” she tilted her head, her tongue flicking slightly from her lips, “I remember everything.”

High above her, lounging like a cat in a cradle of boughs, was Felinkin.

Where Rick was dark and vivid, Felinkin was pale shimmer and plum wine. His scales were soft lavender, fading into spectral white at the chest and throat. Feathery tendrils fell around his cheeks and shoulders—ornamented with tiny pastel hearts, painted like stars across the tips of his long hair.

His long tail curled in a gentle, spiraling rhythm, tipped with velvet arrow-like fins. His wings were more decorative than functional—thin and semi-translucent, fluttering more for drama than flight.

He wore little, save for charms across his wrist and hips—adorned with bells, bangles, and a voice that never stopped singing.

Right now, he hummed beneath his breath. The words rode the wind.

He looked down at Ydoc, his voice silencing gently.

“…He really doesn’t remember, does he?”

“No,” Rick murmured, her gaze softening. “But it’s alright. We’ll wait. We always have.”

They didn’t speak to Edwards.

Not once.

Not even a glance.

Only Ydoc.

Only ever Ydoc.

And from the way the forest itself held its breath, it was clear:

The Lovers had returned.
-----
[No More Resets]

Ydoc tried not to look.

He really did.

But how could he not?

They moved like silk pulled through water—fluid, slow, teasing. Each motion was deliberate, like the way lovers move when they know you’re watching. He didn’t remember them—but his body did.

There was something achingly familiar in the way Rick held her hands clasped before her chest, in the way her long tail circled near his legs but never quite touched. Like a parent keeping a child close… but not too close. Not yet.

“You look pale,” she said, voice like midnight tea.
“Do you remember to eat when he’s not looking?”

Ydoc almost answered.
But he couldn't. Edwards was right there.

Felinkin, meanwhile, let out a long, pleased hum.

From his perch in the tree, he rolled onto his stomach, wings draped dramatically over the branch. The thin hearts in his hair glimmered as they caught small fairy lights drifting lazily in the breeze. His smile was sly, amused—but never cruel.

He began to sing again.

“I know, maybe you're not quite ready
To loosen your hold
On the safety blanket…”

His voice was that of a young man who never got older—fragile and beautiful, like someone who still believed in love songs and summer nights.

Rick coiled closer, her robe whispering across the grass.

She was tall. Too tall. But she hunched now, curling herself smaller to not frighten Ydoc. Her claws pressed gently into the earth as she studied his face.

“You look tired…” she said again, almost to herself.
“You always looked tired, even back when you smiled.”

They shared a glance between them, Felinkin and Rick.

Something old. Something painful.

Then, in a whisper like wind on glass:

“It’ll be different this time.”

“Yeah,” Felinkin echoed. “He’s closer now. The dreamer’s waking. There won’t be any more—”

“Resets,” Rick finished for him.

Her voice was colder now. Dreadful.
Not at Ydoc.
At Edwards.

The moment soured.

Edwards' claws bit into Ydoc’s arm, sharp and fast like a snake striking. A tight yank, just enough to make him flinch.

The bruise would be dark by nightfall.

Ydoc gasped.

"Ow—Edwards!"

Rick saw.

She heard.

Her head tilted—slowly. Then, a single blink.

And though she never raised her voice, the wind chilled as she spoke.

“How many times do you plan to hurt him before you admit you’ve never been the protagonist?”

Her words didn't land.
Edwards didn’t even turn.

He could no longer hear them. Not really.

“What a prick,” she muttered, folding her arms, fire in her throat.
“He’s chewed on this story too long. Now it’s just ash in his mouth.”

She looked back at Ydoc.
Gentler now.

“It’s okay,” she said, softly. “You’re almost free.”

And behind her, Felinkin sang again—this time quieter, nearly a whisper:

“Just don’t close your eyes again…”

---------

[I will give you my best shot]

Rick’s voice dropped to a purr, arms folded, watching the fading shimmer of the trees.

“You know…” she mused, tail curling delicately through the grass.
“The Lady of the Divide is playing tonight.”
She glanced toward Ydoc with a warm, knowing smile.
“Your favorite band.”

The way she said it—so matter-of-fact—like she knew.

Felinkin let out a high, delighted clap, wings flapping in excitement.

“Ooooh~! I love their stuff!”
He spun theatrically in the air, twisting his long body into a spiral before landing—lithe and too close beside Ydoc.

His tail flicked. His clawed fingers curled.

“Caaaandy,” he cooed in a sing-song whisper, reaching into his sash and pulling out shiny wrapped sweets, shaped like glassy fruit and jelly jewels.

Ydoc barely had time to blink before—

Slip.

Felinkin’s large, delicate hand grazed his chest as he tucked a few candies into Ydoc’s coat pocket.
One hand alone could’ve covered half his chest—his warmth, his heartbeat.
Ydoc froze.

He hadn’t said Felinkin could touch him.

But the touch didn’t feel wrong.

It was familiar. Too familiar. Like old warmth under new skin.

Felinkin leaned close—too close—his lips just beside Ydoc’s ear.

His voice came not as speech, but song. Barely louder than a breath:

"I think that you're worth keeping around
I think that you're worth holding onto
It's gonna hurt like hell
But you're gonna be well
I'll give you my best shot…"

His breath was warm.

It smelled like candy.

Sweet. Bright. The kind of sugar that sticks in your memories.
The kind you beg for as a child.
Soft chews and lollipops and ribbon-wrapped caramel...

Ydoc’s throat tightened.

He didn’t know why he wanted to cry.

He didn’t know why his chest felt full and hollow at once.

Rick, still watching from her place, smiled wider.

Not cruelly. Not smug.

Like a mother who saw her boy’s heart stir for the first time in years.

“You were always sweet-toothed,” she whispered to herself.

Behind them, Edwards growled low.

Something between a hiss and a swear.

He turned sharply on his heel, tail flicking with scorn, and began walking ahead—too fast, too annoyed.

The trail toward the festival was waiting.

But for once…
Ydoc didn’t follow right away.

Felinkin, still beside him, didn’t ask him to stay.
Didn’t ask him for anything.

Just whispered:

“They’re playing your song, love.”

And for once—
Ydoc believed it.

----

[Hatred as deep as the roots of the Oldest Tree]

Rick’s smile faded into a flat, disappointed line.

She slithered a half-circle around her partner, tail trailing behind her like silk.

“Felinkin,” she scolded, voice soft but firm, “that was not slow.”

The words were clipped, motherly, as if she’d said them a thousand times before.

Felinkin, unbothered, crossed his arms with a proud huff, puffing his chest like a sulky serpent peacock.

“That was my slow,” he declared, tail flicking with flair.
“If I was going fast, I’d have drowned him in kisses and ruined his lipgloss.”

Rick pinched the bridge of her snout, sighing through a patient laugh.

“Maker spare me from romantics with wings.”

She slithered close to him, gently brushing his cheek with her scaled hand.

Then turned toward Ydoc—her posture warm, reverent.

“Forgive our play, sweetling,” she cooed, her tone turning honeyed, heavy with affection.
“We remember you better than you remember us. And it’s so hard not to reach.”

Felinkin bowed dramatically, spinning midair and dropping into a coiled pose on a branch above.

“We’ll be watching from the crowd!” he grinned, tossing a piece of candy from one hand to the other.
“Do clap if I blow you a kiss~!”

Rick gave a soft shake of her head—then placed one hand over her heart, and the other over her eyes.

A gesture. A farewell. A promise.

“We’ll see you soon, Dreamer.”

They vanished upward—disappearing among the high branches, as if the trees themselves had parted to take them in.

Then.

“May the Hound kill them all.”

A whisper, low. Venomous.

Ydoc froze.

The words had teeth. More than a curse—more than bitterness. It was malice.

He turned sharply—eyes wide.

“What?”

Edwards didn’t meet his gaze.

The fox’s body had already turned, walking faster than before. His tone flipped, cheery and bored.

“Huh? Didn’t say a thing.”
He waved a hand lazily in the air, voice too casual. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

Ydoc stared at him.

Something in the air had changed. Not in the Divide—but in him.

A moment ago, the world had shimmered with softness.
Now it pulled away, like a lover growing cold in the sheets.

Edwards chuckled.

“Besides, there’s a beer stall. Or ale. Whatever. I’m getting something.”

He didn’t look back.

Ydoc followed… but slower now.

Beer. Ale. He hated the stuff. Bitter. Foamy. Made his tongue feel like sandpaper.

But more than that—

He hated the look Edwards had just made.

That smile.

The one that didn’t reach.

The one that knew exactly what he said—

And would never admit it.