The snow was falling harder now. If he squinted, Charles could faintly make out the great glow of the Emerald District seated high on the hilltop that formed the heart and peak of Lutz. Below it ran the narrow streets and stalls of Commerce Way and the Silver Fox District. These were the homes of prominent merchants, lawyers, officials, and bankers. All frequent customers of the Boulier’s renowned restaurant, the Oak & Owl. Charles knew those streets well, and they knew him. He could expect a dozen warm invitations to tea or supper any time he found himself there, and many more if Father or Grandfather were with him. Silver Fox gradually bled into vast spiderwebs of Inner Suburbs that housed men of common trades and their families. Eventually, they descended to the Outer Suburbs, where the children rarely attended school and the sight of nobles was unheard of. The people who lived in those grimy, grey-brick alleys did not come to the Oak & Owl; they did not want to subject themselves to the humiliation of being turned away at the door.

But these woods were further from the shining hilltop than the lowest and least of the suburbs. The land the cottage was built on had a name as well, one that bordered taboo to speak.

Men called it the Dross. Outskirts beyond the city where almost everyone refused to tread. To live here was to live apart, severed from all protection of law or community. It was close enough to see the town’s lights and, on occasion, hear the roar of festivity, yet far enough to know those things were a world that was not your own, one separated by an immense wall that could not be seen with the eye, but built from the judgments and prejudices of the human heart. Charles became distracted. For a while he gazed at the Emerald District and endured the freezing winds without a word. He had done it thousands of times back then. He wondered if he had the same longing on his face now.

He found what he was searching for little more than a stone’s throw from the cottage, at the clearing by the old well. That was where they had greeted visitors in those days, or the seldom few that came down from the town to see them. It was a quiet, pretty place. More importantly, it was not the cottage, which was anything but pretty. When he arrived, he found his younger self was conspicuously absent, but that was quickly explained: Charles noticed a patch of snow soiled by spilled broth and bits of steaming vegetables. In my haste, the deep snow tripped me, he remembered. I had to go back and refill the bowl. What had happened after that, he could fully recall.

The silhouettes of two adults cut against the woods.

Alestria’s Square, the grandest plaza in Lutz, had been built around statues of Roten and Roesha, Alestria’s mortal champions and perhaps the most famed lovers in all of history. The pair had been captured in brown bronze, forever holding each other in a close embrace. Charles was reminded of them now.

A woman with a curtain of full blonde hair—hair so very much like his own—leaned against a man shrouded beneath a pale hood. Her silhouette was small and fragile compared to his. Her eyes, a rich green. Her name was Juliette Monet. A proud daughter of Dreya.

Dreya had earned the title ‘Emerald of the North’ due, at least in part, to the tendency of its children to bear green eyes far more commonly than those of other lands and nations. It was a trait Dreyans took for normalcy in their homeland, and a rare novelty that drew stares and whispers outside it. The moment he was born Juliette’s son, Charles had been all but assured those green eyes.

His head started to hurt again.

Another memory came: a peaceful evening of him and Mother reading by the dwindling fire, their favorite fablebook strewn across her knees as she held him close. Look! he remembered shouting, pointing excitedly at a worn drawing of the pixie queen Anafaria lounging on her throne of flower petals. It’s you! It’s you, Mother! You’re a pixie, just like the story!

She had laughed at that. Someone must have forgotten to give me my wings. Well, if I am a pixie, she’d said, lightly tapping the end of his nose. Surely you are the brave adventurer I am to guide on their journey.

“Mom…”

Charles raised his hand, then slowly let it fall. What was the point of calling for someone who could not tell you were there? Who could not hear your voice or see your sadness? His heart sank.

The two spoke softly.

“How long…”

“My name…”

Charles stepped closer.

“...he suffers…”

“The snow is worsening. Perhaps...”

Their words were muddled, but just as Charles came near enough to hear they suddenly kissed, then just as suddenly broke away. With a quiet adieu, the man in white kissed her once more and took his leave, beginning what would be a steep trek into the woods to the base of the hillside before climbing upward into the bowels of the town, a trail of his sunken, snowy footprints gradually winding toward the distant light of the Emerald District. In a flurry like this, his pale cloak was the perfect camouflage. At a hundred feet he melded into his surroundings. That was no doubt intentional. Along the way, he would reconvene with a servant, possibly several, who had followed at a protective distance for most of his long descent to the Dross. They would see to it that he returned to his family’s manor in subtlety and secrecy. If they did their job well, not a soul would notice that he had even been away. What was going through the shrouded man’s mind right now? What was he thinking? How was he feeling? As always, Charles could guess at little and be certain of even less.

Father...

“Father!”

It was the other Charles who had yelled. The little boy was following the trail of footprints, a fresh batch of the stew cradled close to the chest, with nothing short of desperation in his eyes. Thanks to his stumble earlier, he had arrived later than he’d meant to, and now the person he wanted to see most was already leaving. He struggled to catch up, even as the silhouette faded into the distance. The icy wind blew so strong, it whipped the green hood from his head.

“Charles, stop!” Juliette shouted. The boy did not stop. He kept right on. But his attention was split between the path ahead and his bowl. Keeping it level on uneven ground was no easy thing. He nearly missed a step and buckled over, but ignored and doubled his pace.

In the end, he made the same error as before: too much haste, too little regard for his footing. His tiny ankle sank down, then caught. Boy and stew hit the snow. Hard.

When his mother tried to raise him, he yanked at her grip.

“Let go of me!” he said. Tears of frustration stuck to his cheeks. “Let go!”

“Charles Louis Monet,” Juliette said calmly. Her tone was like dark clouds massing on the horizon. His mother might have a pixie’s face, it was true. But pixie fables are not all smiles and sunshine. Provoked, they could be dark and fearsome as any dragon. Even at fifteen, Charles stood up straight and closed his mouth almost exactly like his younger self. “I will not let go. What if I had lost sight of you? Where do you think you’re off to in this weather?”

“With Father!”

Juliette softened, but she did not release him. “How many times must you be made to understand, Charles? You cannot go with him.” She sighed and wiped away his tears. “Now, now. You mustn't cry over spilt stew. Your Father can have some during his next visit.”

“I don’t want to wait so long!” the boy said indignantly. “He never visits once the snows come. Not until they’re gone. The stew...I was going to show him...I wanted to ask…” He pressed his fingers together nervously, a habit his older self had abandoned at some point.

“To ask?” Juliette said.

“...to ask if he would stay with us this time.”

“You must never ask him that, Charles. I have told you.”

“Why not?”

“Do not sulk. You know why.”

The boy sniffled. “Because...because he is ashamed of us?”

“No,” she said, brushing snow and leaves from his hair. “It’s because your father is an important man. His time is very precious, but he gives us as much as he is able. He cares for you, Charles. You must remember that. Goodness, look at you. You’ve gotten all dirty again.”

“Momma?” the boy asked quietly. “When can we be with him again?

“He will return when the snow thaws,” Juliette said. But her son shook his head.

“Not that way,” he said. “I mean...when can we be with him all the time?”

Juliette’s face fell a bit at that. “Oh, Charles...I do not know.”

“How come?”

“It is not so simple for us. I know it is not easy, but you must bear it for now. Someday you will understand.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. Whatever qualities her son was capable of demonstrating today, patience and understanding were not among them. He pulled at her grip again, and this time he freed himself.

“You always say that!” he shouted in a way only a child beyond restraint can. “You say it’s not simple! You say that you don’t know! But that’s a lie, isn’t it!?

“Charles, I-”

“You do know! The answer is never! We’ll never be a real family!” He was getting angrier. Even less retrained. Rather than cooling off as he vented, the boy only seemed to burn hotter with every word. “Boys and girls are supposed to be with their parents! Both of them! That’s how it is with normal families!”

“There is no such thing as a normal family!” Juliette shouted back. “I am trying my best, Charles. I do all that I can, but some things are beyond our control. This wears away at me, too. You must not think only of yourself!”

Charles did not remember the details of what had happened between him and his mother on this day, and he did not need to. He knew his former self well enough to recognize what was coming. Sadness. Bitterness. Lingering resentment. Unfulfilled wants. Shame. So much shame. An eruption was about to come out. Once released, it could not be taken back.

“I hate you!” he saw himself scream through the tears. “It isn’t fair! I wish you weren’t my mother!”

Juliette recoiled as though she’d been struck.

“I’ll prove my worth!” the boy vowed. “I’m going to show Father...I’ll show everyone that I’m worthy to be his son! I swear I will!”

The boy ran in the direction of his father’s footprints and left his mother alone. Juliette Monet was a strong woman. Her iron composure held...for a time. But when her son was no longer in sight, when she was left alone, the first of the cracks began to form in her armor. She wrapped her arms around herself.

Charles watched his mother shatter and start to sob quietly.

...I said that?

Silent tears fell from him, too.

He was torn between the urge to curl up in the snow and lay there until he was dead, and the urge to hoist his younger self by the collar and scream sense into him until his lungs gave out.

Ultimately he did neither. He ran to his mother. Good sons comforted their mothers when they were crying, didn’t they? They didn’t make them cry in the first place. Anyone with a shred of decency or sense would know that much. He could not tell her everything would be alright if he was dead, and he could not tell her how much he had missed her if he selfishly chased after the past.

“Don't listen to him, mom! He doesn't know what he's saying. He doesn't understand!”

He pulled her close so she would be shielded from the cold...

Or so he tried. Just as they had when he came in contact with his younger self, his arms phased straight through his mother's body. He coudln't feel her. Only the harsh wind. He could no more hold or comfort her than a spirit from the afterlife.

No!

There was a sound that split his ears, like the groan of a giant. The world began to fade away. The woods. The looming shadow of Lutz and the light of the Emerald District. The footsteps of himself and Father.

“No! No!”

Juliette was the last to disappear. Her golden hair dissipated into the wind like the light of everflies scattering in the dark. Her green eyes and the tears that fell from them grew transparent. Charles was able to see right through her.

“Don’t go!” he pleaded. “I’m sorry!”

It was in vain. The last of Juliette’s light vanished, and her warmth was gone. Each of his calls grew more fragile than the last, until his spirit was so shattered he could barely make the words leave his mouth.

He was alone.

“Please don’t leave me, mom,” he whispered. “I’m not strong enough on my own.”

This couldn’t be how things ended. He would not accept it. What had happened afterward? What could he do to right this wrong? His only answer was the surge of the wind, and the echoes of his own voice it brought with it.

“Go away!” he shouted. He clutched his face and knelt in the snow. His head split with pain. “Take me away! I don’t want to be here! I don’t want to see this!”

This wish was granted. The wind ceased.

When Charles opened his eyes again, the harsh snows and the forests were gone.