The admin replied again and said: “I know. Don’t. You don’t want to get into that.”
The second message, from an account with no posts and an alphanumeric nonsense username was this:
Crown
Heart
Feather
The Owl King is coming.
THE SON OF THE FORTUNE-TELLER walks through the snow, talking to the moon.
He asks her to show him which way to go or to give him a sign or to let him know, somehow, that everything will be fine even if it is a lie but the moon says nothing and Zachary trudges on, the snow clinging to the legs of his pajamas and falling into his shoes.
He complains that she should be doing something instead of just glowing there and then apologizes, for who is he to question the actions or inactions of the moon?
The woods do not seem to be getting any closer no matter how far he walks. He should have reached them by now.
Zachary knows, despite the presence of the stars and the moon, that he is still far below the surface of the earth. He can feel the heaviness looming above him.
After what seems like a very long time with no progress he pauses to sort through his bag for anything that might be useful. His fingers close around a book and he stops searching.
He takes out Sweet Sorrows. He doesn’t open it, he only holds it for a moment and then places it in the pocket of his coat, to keep it closer.
The bag free of all of its books suddenly feels heavy. The remainder of its contents seem unnecessary.
None of these objects are going to help him. Not here.
Zachary drops the bag on the ground, abandoning it to the snow.
He loops his fingers through the chains around his neck, with their key and sword and a compass currently incapable of pointing him in any direction.
He holds on to them as he continues walking. Lighter now with only his book and his sword to carry.
He wishes Dorian were actually here. He wishes it almost more than he wishes he knew what to do next.
“If Dorian is down here somewhere I want to see him,” Zachary says to the moon. “Right now.”
The moon does not reply.
(She has not replied to any of his requests.)
As Zachary walks his thoughts keep returning to the place he left behind and the imaginary party within it and the way it felt to see this story he has found himself in seep into his normal life and fill the empty spaces.
There are footsteps approaching. Someone running, the sound muffled by the snow. Zachary freezes. A hand grabs his arm.
Zachary rounds on the person behind him, pulling the sword from the scabbard to keep this new delusion at bay.
“Zachary, it’s me,” Dorian says, holding his hands up defensively. He looks just as Zachary remembers, from the longer hair to the star-buttoned coat, except moonlit and covered in snow.
“Where does the moon go when she’s not in the sky?” Zachary asks without lowering the sword and he knows from the smile that he gets in response that this is not a fantasy, this is the real person. Here but not here. Standing with him in the moonlit snow and also somewhere else but actually Dorian. He knows it down to his nearly frozen toes.
“An inn that once rested at one crossroads that is now down here with the rest of whatever this is,” Dorian says, waving a hand around at the snow and the stars. “I’m there now. I think I might be asleep. I was looking out the window at the snow thinking about you and then I saw you and then I was out here. I don’t recall leaving the building.”
Zachary lowers the sword.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he says.