Chapter 28. The Cold

The stars blinked into view overhead, cautious and few at first. The great bonfire had finally burned down to a gold-crackling pile of logs, and many of the lanterns swayed on their final breath of oil.

The festival had not ended with a bang, but with a slow, meandering goodbye.

Ydoc stepped lightly over the trodden grass, the once-muddied field now dappled in ash and candy wrappers. His boots made little sound. His coat—still marvelous, still too much—fluttered faintly at the hem as the wind pushed him, gently, to pause.

He breathed in.
Took stock.
Measured the world by direction, memory, and dread.

To the West
The trees thickened.

Dark and endless, the Divide loomed like a black tide held back only by torchlight and tents.
That was where he saw it—that thing in the fog. That twisted, low-bodied wolf with eyes like hot coals and a mouth full of slurs. The memory made his arm sting again, ghost-pain blooming from nothing.

Not going there tonight.
No.
The forest didn’t want him right now.

To the South
A road.

Mostly flattened grass now, wet with dew and wheel marks.
That was where the town folks had come and gone—neatly dressed, carrying pastries and babies, their boots never quite dirty.

Somewhere far down that road, the lights of Deep Lilac Town would be starting to turn on.
Streetlamps glowing.
Radios humming old love songs.

Was that home?
Had it ever been?

To the East
A crooked path led into another clearing.

Tighter trees. Smaller fires. Colored streamers still tied to the branches from days before.
The smell of herbs, wine, and dog fur drifted faintly.

That was the trail to Hook Hill—the vardo town.
A gypsy camp that lived year-round on mud and magic.
He remembered the name from stories, but had never been.

Ruby might’ve gone there.
Leon too.
But he didn’t want to disturb their peace. Not now. Not when they were already… strained.

And so, here he stood.

Center of the wheel.

The festival, if it could still be called that, was a half-forgotten dream now.

Gone were the fireworks and spinning dancers.
Gone the marching songs and watermelon races.
What remained was what always lingered—those who couldn’t leave yet.
Those who wouldn’t.

The Remaining Folk
They looked different in this light.
Dimmed. Realer.

The circus troupe were still here—clowns and acrobats, sword-swallowers, a man who'd danced on stilts that now leaned against a wagon like tired bones. Their makeup smudged, their glitter dulled.

They moved like carnies between worlds, rolling up rugs, counting coins, passing flasks.

They watched, too.

Still watched him.

And now, without the crowd to hide behind, it was harder to pretend he didn’t notice.

Scattered between stalls were a few traveling salesfolk, too.

A woman with copper bangles wrapping up unsold bone charms.
A halfling boy taking down a sign that read “Moonpies, 2 for a Kiss!”
An older catfolk man with one eye and a hundred furs trying to peddle the last of his combs.

Ydoc caught the cat’s eye once.
The man blinked… and simply looked away.

“Boy,” Ydoc mumbled aloud to himself, voice dry.

“Doesn’t seem like a great place to be right now…”

A breeze curled the edge of his coat.
Somewhere behind him, a clown laughed too loudly at something not funny.

He sighed.

And not the light kind.

The kind you do when you’re finally alone—even in a crowd.
-------
[The Glitter in the Trees] 

The world had quieted.
The clowns were folding canvas.
The last of the sellers had whispered their goodbyes.

And Ydoc… remained.

He had not planned to turn north.
He had promised himself he wouldn't.

Because that was where the Divide thickened—
Where the woods grew tall and gray.
Where his memories ached.

But—

A tune called.

Soft.
Slow.
Somewhere between the branches, from nowhere in sight, someone had begun to play.

The guitar had a hush to it. Not strummed for performance—but coaxed like an old friend awake.
There were claps too—gentle and echoing, like a forgotten audience somewhere just beyond the veil.

His boots twitched.
His heart beat in rhythm.

“No.”
He said aloud.
“No, not now—”

But his foot betrayed him—tapping once, then twice.

A voice joined the chords.
Young.
Male.
Familiar.

So very familiar.

It broke him.
Not from pain—but joy.

Because something smiled.
Somewhere inside him.

“Where did that smile come from…?”

The Song:

(When the feeling leaves you
It moves so slow)

It floated through the trees like cold breath.

(Like the loose change from your front pocket
You don’t even feel it go)

Ydoc turned.

North.

Even if it hurt. Even if it ached.
The song demanded no obedience. It simply was.

(When the bitter creeps in
To bite you whole)

He shivered. But it wasn’t from cold.
Something had bubbled up in him—some ache that longed to be touched.

(A spectre unreflected, oh
It keeps you cold)

Then—

Bubbles.
Soft and opalescent.

They drifted down from the canopy like stardust made wet.

One passed in front of him, catching a flicker of gold—then blue—then purple.

He reached for it… but it popped just shy of his palm.

Another passed his ear. And for a brief moment—

He heard laughter inside it.

High.
Feminine.
Or was it just the wind?

No—he knew that sound.

Somewhere behind the trees, someone was blowing bubbles.

Each one floated like a memory not quite caught.
Like a promise not yet fulfilled.

And still—
The voice sang on.

Still soft.
Still hopeful.

Come back, it seemed to say.
Or remember.

Ydoc stood frozen.
In the middle of a clearing.
Under a sky bruised with twilight.

He didn't know if the voice was his,
Or someone else’s.
Or someone he had forgotten to love.

But the trail north—toward the Divide—
Now seemed more open than ever.
------------
[The one who stayed.] 

There is a creature in the north.
Not a beast, nor a boy.
Not a spirit, nor a soul.
But something in between.

The wind doesn’t move him.
He moves with it.

Slender, slight, almost floating—his paws barely press into the snow, and yet his passing leaves perfect little birdlike claw prints.
As if he danced across the powder in half-steps and giggles.

And gods, he giggles.

Not aloud—no.
His laughter is felt. A sparkle in the leaves. A sway in the canopy. A tap-tap of icicles falling in a pattern that can’t be natural.

He is draped in pelts not his own. Great swaths of grey and black fur across narrow shoulders.
But his own fur—beneath the finery—is white. No, not white.

Silver. Like milk frozen over a thousand winters.
It shines blue when the moon peeks out.

And that tail—a monstrous, fluffy thing—trails like a comet behind him.
He wraps it around himself like a cloak when he hides. Or uses it to dust snow off fallen logs before he lounges in theatrical sorrow.

Because oh—he’s always performing.

(You paved your Hades
With precious stone)

He steps lightly on the branches above Ydoc, just out of sight.
And from there, lets fall a cluster of tiny red berries. Plop. Plop. Plop.

They land in a line.
Leading… nowhere.

Or perhaps—everywhere.

He waits. Watching to see if Ydoc will follow.
His tongue peeks out—a playful grin.

(Made an heirloom to patricians
And the rich alone)

His legs are long and stilted.
Each step looks like a puppet learning to waltz—delicate, almost clumsy, but never truly out of rhythm.

His fingers are gloved in shadowed fur, the claws barely hidden, always twitching.
Not threatening—just itching. To poke. To tease. To touch something warm.

(Well, I'm not quite ready
To turn to bone)

When he pauses behind a tree, you’d think he was part of it.
His fur, the bark. His silence, the hush.
He becomes the woods.

Until his crystal eyes peek out.

And there they are.

Two perfect frozen moons.
Silver on silver. Blue on blue.
They glisten with a love unspoken.

He sees Ydoc.
He does not move.
But the emotion—so thick, so open—it radiates across the snow.
Not lust. Not joy.

A longing.
Old.
Quiet.
Beautiful.

(To petrify the shred of life
I'm holding onto)

He shifts—slowly now.
No longer playing.

He stands in profile—like an old painting of a noble child banished to the woods.
The wind tugs at his cloak.
But he stays still.

(There's no peace to upset
That spirit's flown)

He looks down. His foot taps the snow.

One… two…

And the music pauses—
But then—

(This ossified philosophizing's
Getting old)

A bubble bursts beside his face.

He smiles.
And disappears behind the trunk again.

Ydoc is left standing—his heartbeat caught in his throat.

The snow is untouched now.
But his heart knows.

The north is calling.
And someone is waiting.