Chapter 41- But What Part Do We Play? The Fool?

The snow hasn’t stopped, but it’s thinner now—like it’s falling out of memory more than sky.
And just ahead, between the jagged trees and glittering frost-veins, the world shifts.
The snow gives way to gold.
The cold leans toward warmth.
Leaves begin to appear beneath the white, like forgotten pages waiting to be turned.

They are walking—slowly—toward the Realm of Fall.

And nestled in Ydoc’s arms, like a child in a lullaby, is Froosta.

He’s curled up.
Not clinging anymore.
Just content.

His tail drapes across Ydoc’s elbow. His breath is soft.
His smile?

Bright.
Like a lantern in fog.

His eyes are closed, but they shine beneath the lids—soft beaming headlights of comfort and devotion.

Ydoc says nothing.
He keeps walking, forward gaze firm.

But Vexira?

She watches them with narrow eyes.

Not hateful. Not angry.

Just… tense.

She crosses her arms, then uncrosses them. Kicks a stone. Flicks a leaf.

Finally—

“Y’know,” she says too loud, “he makes that face with everyone. You’re not special.”

Ydoc doesn’t flinch.

He just shifts slightly, adjusting Froosta’s weight with a gentleness that says you are very special, actually.

Then he speaks, without looking back.

“Why are you still following us?”

Vexira’s laugh explodes like a victorious trumpet.
It rings through the trees.

“HA! You noticed! I knew it!”

But her smile—her eyes—don’t match the tone.

There’s a tightness to it.
A crack in the glittering mask.

And then she says it.

“I’m following you because…”
“Froosta is the only one who’s never beaten me.”

Her voice drops.

“And now you haven’t, either.”

The words hang in the air like a knife that forgot to fall.

Ydoc blinks.
He doesn’t know what to say.

Froosta’s tail gives a nervous flick.
He stirs slightly, shifting his arms, as if trying to politely disengage from the moment without getting up.

Vexira walks faster now, kicking frost with each step.

“You want honesty?”
“I hate this cold. I hate you, Froosta. And I hate that I don’t know how to be anything but the girl who makes noise.”

She spins once, arms wide.

“But even I know…”
“The only reason I’m still here—is because no one else left the door unlocked.”

Ydoc doesn’t respond.

He just tightens his hold on Froosta, whose breathing has changed.
Gentler.
A little sad.

And then—

“You okay?” Ydoc asks him softly.

Froosta nods against his chest, muffled:

“Mmhm. I just… don’t like when the snow talks like that.”

--------

They’re closer to the edge now—
The snow is melting under the weight of gold.
Each step forward reveals more leaves, more soft bark, more warm wind that smells like old cider and evening rain.

But Vexira has stopped walking.

She stands near a hollowed birch, hands tucked into the sleeves of her frost-threaded gown.

Ydoc glances down at Froosta, still nestled in his arms.

Froosta shakes his head gently, whispering:

“Let her be.”

But Ydoc looks up.

“What did you mean, back there?”
“‘Beaten.’”

Vexira’s smile twitches.
It’s not smug. It’s not proud.
It’s fragile.
Like a mask that’s forgotten how to glue itself back on.

She shrugs.

“It’s just what works.”

Ydoc narrows his eyes.

“Explain.”

She sighs, steps away from the tree, kicking a root like a bored child.

“Physical violence. It’s the only way to make me go away.”
“If you hit me hard enough, I get the message.
Otherwise, I stick. Like glue.”

Her grin returns. Bitter. Glinting with teeth.

“Froosta knows.”

Froosta winces and tucks his face deeper into Ydoc’s coat.

Vexira folds her arms.

“You wouldn’t believe how many people tried.
Teachers. Lovers. Ritualists. My own siblings.”
“They all gave up. Too exhausting. Too much mess.
They figured: let her scream in the snow.”

Her voice drops.

“...At least she’s out of the house.”

Ydoc’s mouth tightens.
He says nothing.

Vexira turns away.

“My mom’s a good tree, okay? A really good tree.
She makes apple pies in the spring, and her bark smells like vanilla.
But…”

She trails off, then glances over her shoulder.

“I’m the fortieth child.”
“There’s only so much love to go around, you know?”

Silence.

A warm wind picks up.
Somewhere ahead, a single golden leaf breaks from a tree and drifts toward them.

Vexira catches it.

She crushes it gently between her fingers.

“But Froosta?”

Her voice is small.

“He never hit me. Not once. Not even when I deserved it.”

She glances at him, smile curving shy and uneven.

“I thought he was supposed to be my boyfriend, you know?”
“I made a whole dress from pine-needles and everything.”
“Tried to kiss him behind a frozen lake when I was seven.”

Froosta groans softly into Ydoc’s chest.

“Stopppp—”

“But turns out…”
“He’s more like—my weird immortal guardian relative.”
“He’s been around my whole life. Every part of it.”
“He always comes back. Even after I mess up.”

Ydoc says nothing.
But his grip on Froosta tightens—just a little.

Vexira brushes the gold flakes from her fingers.

“I’m still awful. Still loud. Still clingy.
But he let me be me anyway.”

Her voice fades.

“And that’s why I followed him.”

The snow drifts have thinned.
No longer blinding white—just soft patches like forgotten thoughts dotting the ground.

Ydoc watches her.

                       ===---The Snow That Hides the Bruise---===

Really watches.

Not the frost-laced shimmer she puts on like warpaint.
Not the dramatic posing, or the smile meant to dazzle.

He sees the extra layer of powder across her arm—thicker than the rest.
Snow used like makeup.
A bruise, hidden.

He notices how her silver pine-strand hair—so elegant, so perfectly arranged—has always covered the same side of her face.
Always falling just so.

She doesn’t meet his gaze.

And gently, Ydoc leans down, setting Froosta to the ground.

“I’ve got a question.”

His voice is calm.
Sincere.
A slow warmth in a freezing room.

“Why hate Froosta…”
“If he clearly loves you?”

Vexira laughs.
But it’s not playful.
It’s the kind of laugh that has nowhere else to go.

“Because he doesn’t love me like he loves a man.”

She smiles—but only for show.
It trembles at the corners.

Then the smile fades.

She turns slightly away, arms folding, posture stiff.
Her body stays in a casual shrug.

But she doesn’t look at him.

Five seconds.

Ten.

And then she says it.

Quiet. Like a thread that might snap if pulled too hard.

“I’m… sorry.”

Not dramatic.

Not tearful.

Just honest.
Exhausted...  Like she is sorry for simply existing. For taking up space.

The mask doesn’t fall.
But it slips.

Enough for Ydoc to see the girl underneath.

A silence follows.

And then—like a ripple through the still snow—

Froosta lifts his voice, soft but sturdy.

“Hey—”
“The party’s not far now.”
“I can smell the cinnamon cider. It's coming from just past the border.”

He points ahead where the trees start to shift in color, bark turning brown-gold, leaves rustling just barely.

Ydoc nods.
No words.

Just a step forward.

He walks.

And behind him—
two sets of footprints follow.
One light and fluffy, bouncing to keep up.
The other slow, measured. Each step a little heavier than the last.

But still walking.

The snow ends suddenly.

Not with a melt.
Not with a fade.

But with a wall.

A line of warmth, rising from the ground like a soft horizon.
One step across it, and the air changes.

Froosta pauses as his paw presses against it—
and shivers, not from cold, but from release.

Ydoc steps forward.

And passes through.

The world beyond blossoms.

Gone is the white-blue silence.
Gone is the hush of snow.

The Realm of Fall is alive.

The wind is no longer sharp—it’s gentle, and it smells like cinnamon, woodsmoke, and pumpkin spice left too long in the oven.
There’s a touch of roasted apples in it, and something like old parchment, the smell of a library’s forgotten corner.

Leaves—everywhere.

A thick blanket, dry and rustling with every step.
Deep, crunchy browns, spotted with glowing yellow and hints of orange-red.
But among them—

A few leaves shimmer.

Enchanted by Divide magic—semi-translucent, thin like paper soaked in tea.
Their veins pulse faintly with wilted green, others streaked with soft ghostly blue.

They move on their own, gently tilting like windchimes in no wind at all.

And the sound—

There is sound now.

From far off—like just beyond a grove or two—children are playing.
High laughter, yelps, singing voices that rise and fall like autumn leaves dancing through air.

Invisible.

But vivid.

It’s like a park, somewhere far but not far enough, filled with pure joy.

“Do you hear that?” Ydoc whispers.

Froosta nods beside him, his ears tilted toward the sound, eyes wide.

“It’s the Festival of Folly,” he says.
“This is where the Holokon kids play until dusk… then sneak home pretending they didn’t.”

Vexira doesn’t speak.
But her shoulders relax.
Just a little.

Ydoc doesn’t smile.
Not quite.

But his expression softens.

They step forward—into a realm not meant for sorrow, but not ignorant of it either.

And the leaves keep falling, quietly, like blessings.