Chapter 43. On Bird tail and far away.

The giggles trail like autumn leaves—
Vexira still wiggling her butt in snow pants as if that’s how you say goodbye in the Frost Realm.
John, ever the gentleman of buttons and mystery, bows deeply, hat in hand, kazoo in teeth, and promises:

“I’ll be at the pumpkin harvest! There’s a contest this year!”
“Biggest gourd wins a dance with the cider maiden!”

“What if it’s a girl who wins?” Vexira hollers.

“Then she gets two dances!” John calls back, skipping like a child puppet into the hedgerow.

They walk for only a minute, but the energy shifts.

Ahead, beyond thick golden leaves and the smell of warm clay, rise the glimmers of stone—large, towering, soft-edged as if polished by time and memory.

But Ydoc isn't looking yet.

He’s slow. Thoughtful. His eyes glance back—
To where John had been. To where laughter bloomed and vanished like smoke in the cold.

“Why did I know him?” Ydoc asks softly.
“And how are we friends?”

A moment of rare softness passes. Even Vexira stills.

Froosta, still small and bundled at Ydoc’s side, squints up toward him. He tilts his head, voice gentle:

“I think…”
“You always knew who needed you. And who you needed.”

Vexira mutters something about how that’s sappy as shit but doesn’t argue.

Froosta continues, walking ahead slightly as he gestures with his mitts.

“Your past is like one of those festival books. With all the pages.”
“We’re just… turning them real slow.”

Ydoc raises a brow. “How big of a book?”

“Bigger than me,” Froosta chirps. “Smaller than Vexira.”

“HEY!”

“Or maybe bigger than both of us. By a mile.”

Ydoc huffs a little laugh.

“A cursed novel. With a bad editor,” he mumbles.

Froosta smirks over his shoulder.

“Oh no, it’s been edited by a poet. You know, the kind who cry at birds and don’t use periods.”

Vexira grins, finally catching on.

“Then I’m the plot twist that nobody expects! And Froosta’s the sad chapter with too much kissing.”

“I only kiss when I mean it!” Froosta huffs.

The three continue, leaves crunching beneath their feet.

They walk under hanging golden vines and glowing lantern fruit, light growing in gradients of sunset orange and lilac.

And there, just ahead—

A clearing where the wind holds its breath.

A place not yet described.

The Stone-Hedge waits.
     

“Oh look,” Froosta snickers, tugging Ydoc’s sleeve,
“We’re describing the Stone-Hedge now.”

“Wow! What riveting prose!” Vexira gasps in mock awe, puffing her chest.
“Next you’ll tell me about the color of the sky—what is it? Orange? Red? Mmm, groundbreaking stuff.”

          Excuse you kids.. can I get back to the story?

"sorry..." Froosta  snickers once more, like a caught child in a cookie jar.

The air holds still, like a held breath.
The light shifts subtly, as if passing through unseen glass.
And the world grows quiet, not with silence, but with purpose.

The area is wide, not a perfect circle but a lived-in one—like a child’s drawn moon, slightly crooked and all the more charming for it.

The ground is golden, brushed with dry fall leaves that do not rot, only shift with time.

There are stones—so many stones.

They sit in rows like audience members, waiting to remember what they forgot.

Each row follows a pattern:

Two small stones

One large stone

Repeat.
And every fourth set ends with a giant stone—one that glows faintly, as if it’s holding its breath underwater.

The materials are mismatched, almost defiant:

Common granite, cracked and mossy

Streaked marble like frozen milk

Deep purple slate with quartz veins like lightning

Unfamiliar metals, shimmering dull gold or soft pink—ore that doesn’t belong to this land, maybe not to any land

But it’s the giant stones that demand attention.

Their surfaces shimmer with a patina of faded green and blue,
As if someone once painted stories onto them and time tried—but failed—to wash it away.

Some show hands holding seeds.
Others show open mouths singing into the earth.
One, barely visible, shows a figure split in half, holding both sun and moon.

The rest of the stones are either:

Unearthly white, coated in just enough dirt to remind you they came from somewhere, or—

Glinting with a faint rainbow sheen, like oil on water, catching color when the light hits just so.

And from the center, the ground slopes down just slightly, as if the world is bowing here.

“...I like this place,” Ydoc admits quietly.

“That’s because it’s your genre, silly,” Froosta hums.
“Mysterious ruin, ancient stones, dreamy vibes? Hello?? You’re the book boy.”

“I thought I was the book boy,” Vexira mutters, flopping dramatically onto a small stone with a huff.

“You’re the violent poetry book with pressed flowers and a dead butterfly in the middle,” Froosta teases.

“Oh. Fair.”

They laugh—but only briefly.
Because in places like this… something always waits.
Not with teeth or claws.

But with questions.

(While Froosta and Vexira babble in the distance)

“—Oh! Oh! This one looks like a volcano with legs!”

“That’s not a volcano, that’s clearly the birth of a realm, see the spiral—”

“Pfft, it’s a frog in a hat, Froosta, come on!”

Their voices blend into background color, gentle brushes on the canvas of the moment.

Ydoc doesn't answer.
He steps further into the circle, toward one of the stones with a blue-green shimmer that refuses to sit still under the light.
A wind glides past his shoulders—not cold, not warm.
Just... present.

And then—

A piano.

Not loud.
Not leading.
Just existing, like wallpaper with a rhythm.

The kind of music played at a party where everything matters, but no one speaks of it.
Soft, graceful chords.
Each note holding a glass of something old and sweet.

                                                                +++---Dream with me----+++

There are no mortals here.
No sahash, no foxfolk, no kitsune or kobolds.

Only the Holokons.

Creatures of ink, mist, threads, and shining masks.
Some tall like trees, some short like teapots.
One walks on hands, another hovers just above the stone.

Laughter sounds like leaves brushing windows.

The party is elegant and surreal.
Tables without legs.
Cups that refill with whatever you wish you’d asked for.
Dancing that feels like floating.

And amidst it all—

A hand.

Rough, warm, large—like worn leather and stitched seams.
It cradles Ydoc’s face with affection that speaks volumes in silence.
And then—

A kiss on the cheek.
Slow. Heavy. Brotherly.

The kind of kiss you remember when everything else is gone.

And the smell—

Bubble gum.
Sweet oranges.
The sticky-fingered joy of a fall carnival stand.

                                                       +++---Don't Go...Stay with me...---+++

Ydoc blinks.

Froosta is explaining something about Holokons being the builders, and how no one knows why they made these stones.

“It’s either the end of the world, or the start,” Froosta shrugs.
“...Or a giant raven with a crown. I dunno, I read it once on a gum wrapper.”

Vexira is entranced.
She’s practically hugging a boulder with a faded image of something resembling wings on fire.

But Ydoc…

He’s still breathing in the scent of a memory.

And in his chest, something aches.
Not in pain.
But in reminder.

They are getting closer to the party.

Closer to whoever kissed him.
Closer to the song still playing in the leaves.

Closer... to

 The Crown of Stars.
 The House In The Woods..