Momo’s hand rose almost instinctively to his nose, checking that it was, in fact, still intact after her teasing observation.

“…Good,” he murmured under his breath, sounding faintly relieved before glancing back at her.

A small smile touched his mouth then—warmer, quieter than before.

“I appreciate your concern,” he said, his tone dry but gentle. “Truly. It would be a shame to lose something you seem to value so highly.”

He tried to hold it for longer, but there was no use. His smile curved into a smirk and there it was, the flirtatious tease he couldn't keep in.

Then, however, at her next remark, his expression shifted just slightly. Not dramatically, but enough. His ears flicked once, and his gaze lingered on her a moment longer.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, more plainly now, “whoever told you that your eye for such things is lacking was blind themselves....”

The words came out simple, matter-of-fact, but sincere. Then there was that damned grin again.

".. because clearly I'm very handsome."

A moment passed and then she spoke of aid, pride, and owing nothing, some of his usual levity gave way to something quieter. Momo understood burdens. Understood what it meant to carry too much alone simply because accepting help felt heavier somehow.

So his nod was immediate.

“Then… thank you,” he said, and for once, there was little teasing in it this time. “I mean that.”

When she turned toward her horse, however, his attention followed—and with it, a noticeable shift in confidence.

He studied the courser in silence for a moment, taking in its size, its strength, and the distinct impression that falling from this particular creature would likely be far less dignified than his earlier collapse.

“…I have traveled,” he answered carefully, rising to his feet (with some effort mind you) and dusting himself off once more. “By boat. Cart. On foot.”

A slight pause followed.

“But horses?” He glanced again at Forbítter, whose size now seemed even more significant the closer he looked. “Not… extensively.”

There was no fear in his expression, exactly.

But there was caution.

And perhaps the dawning realization that if he was going to preserve the pretty little nose she’d so graciously admired… he ought to be very careful about whatever happened next.

Still, after a moment, his grin returned—equal parts brave and doomed.

“…I assume you’re about to change that.”
 
The day rolls on. Late morn eases into midday, sun pressing down a little brighter, a little warmer, though the faltering breeze still brushes its icy fingers soft across the haughs and meadows. Those give way, after a little while, to woodland. Where once were pastures, there are now well-spaced stands of brazen-leafed beech and evergreen yew. They are stout, lichen-draped old things, whose gnarled branches creep not-so-high overhead. The road cuts into the earth a little here as the land climbs higher, and from those low walls of soil on either side emerge questing roots; tendrils sent out searching for more to claim, even as they cling greedily to the dirt already in their grasp.

The day rolls on; the Wayfarer strides further afield. So, too, does this little band below.

“’Forbs should be fine now ’e’s settled down some,” Osytha remarks, speaking close up behind Momo. They’re riding double upon her courser, foxkin safely stirruped and saddled while the knight uses Guffy’s cushion to form a sort of pillion. As for her wee boy, he seems quite happy to trot along beside them. Forbs’ gait is a gentle walk such that even Guffers’ silly short legs can keep up, and it leaves the lad free to put his nose to whatever catches a small dog’s fancy.

Osytha’s hands rest on her hips, ready to reach forward and assist with the reins or steady a listing passenger, as the need arises. “’E’ll mostly just follow the road now, so’s all you need do is keep ’im to task. Eyah — sithee, that young hawthorn over yonder? ’E’s goin’ to try an’ stop for a snack there. Just pull ’im away wi’ the reins, firm but gentle like… aye, that’s et, that’s et. ’Old ’im steady — lovely.” A smile unseen, yet still felt, lifts the woman’s tone. “Ee by gum! See that, Momo? You’re a natural.”

Day only seems to have grown more pleasant, to Osytha’s mind. Besides the change in scenery, there’s a new medley in the air here, too: earthy senescence, plus a fresher, mossy smell… and coiling through this shaded copse, collier’s careful smoke. She breathes it in deep, that old, familiar scent. It smells like childhood, spent reckless and headstrong, forging through these trees as though it were the Balewood itself, wielding mighty swords imagined out of sticks.

“’Tis mushroom season,” she says, somewhat dreamily. “Chanterelles, honey fungus, chicken o’ t’woods, poplar mushrooms, cep, horns o’ plenty, ox tongue… nuts, too. Plenty of beech, as you can see, an’ there’s hazel elsewhere in these woods where yon elm don’t crowd them out. But the Cistenere family, they tend quite a chestnut orchard. Folk are belike to ’ave started roastin’ them by now—”

The rambling voice at Momo’s back stops, abruptly. There follows a brief, thoughtful silence, and when Osytha speaks up again, there’s a bit of sheepishness in her words.

“Er… sorry. Forgot you might still be feelin’ a touch queasy.” She shifts around back there, trying to find if not a comfortable position, at least one that’s uncomfortable in new and interesting ways. “How are you holdin’ up, by the by?”
 
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By now, Momo had settled into the saddle with… perhaps more dignity than one might expect, given the deeply embarrassing start to his riding career.

That was not to say there had not been a learning curve.

There absolutely had.

At first, every unexpected shift of Forbítter’s broad frame had Momo stiffening like a startled cat, his ears shooting upright and his tail puffing on reflex whenever the great horse so much as snorted too suddenly. But as the miles stretched on—and, more importantly, as neither he nor his “pretty little nose” had yet been launched into the underbrush—he had gradually begun to loosen.

By the time Osytha guided him through steering Forbs away from his chosen shrubbery snack, Momo’s laugh came easier.

“Ah—no, no, my good sir,” he murmured to the horse, giving the reins a gentle tug. “I respect your ambition, but I fear your lunch must wait.”

When Forbs obeyed, Momo blinked, then glanced back over his shoulder with unmistakable surprise.

“Oh.”

A beat.

“I did do that.”

The pleased little grin that followed was entirely too genuine to be smug.

“Well,” he said, squaring just slightly in the saddle, “clearly I was born for this.”

Never mind that ten minutes earlier he’d nearly apologized to a tree root for assuming it was a snake.

As Osytha’s voice drifted on about mushrooms, chestnuts, and woodland bounty, Momo found himself smiling more softly.

She had a way of speaking about the world that made it feel lived in. Loved. Like every bend in the road had a memory tucked into it.

His ruby eyes wandered through the woods as she spoke, tracing the filtered sunlight through old branches, the moss, the curling roots, the distant smoke. Different from home… but beautiful in its own right.

Then came her sudden apology.

Momo’s ears flicked back once before relaxing, and he glanced down at himself as though checking for signs of imminent collapse.

“Mm. Still alive,” he declared after a moment, casual enough to suggest this was a notable victory. “Which, considering my recent history, feels worth celebrating.”

His hand drifted absently to his stomach.

“The nausea’s better,” he admitted. “Though I think my pride suffered more lasting damage than anything else.”

He cast her a sidelong look then, playful but quieter.

“Being dramatically incapacitated, fed trail rations, and escorted through the countryside by a capable knight is not how I usually prefer to impress people.”

A pause.

“Though, admittedly… it has been quite... pleasant.”

His cheeks warmed only slightly at that, but thankfully the woodland shade was merciful.

Momo adjusted his grip on the reins, more comfortable now, and gently steered Forbs around a thick root crossing the road.

“I think,” he continued after a moment, “I’m doing better than I have in a while.”

The confession slipped out easier than expected.

Maybe it was the woods. Or the horse. Or Guffers trotting along without a care in the world.

…Or perhaps the company.

Not that he was about to say that out loud.
 
“Well, clearly I was born for this.”​

Momo’s not doing too bad considering the kind of horse Forbs is, Osytha will own that. And if she’s sort of, ‘encouraged’ her steed to follow the foxkin’s commands via a surreptitious nudge against his flanks from her legs here or there, well… that doesn’t take away any from Momo’s achievements, does it?

“Clearly,” Osytha agrees, nodding along.

He speaks as though he’s feeling improved some, which is nice to see. Osytha had thought riding would work out easier on the man than walking, but it’d been an uncertain start in the saddle for him. Still, she’s glad he persevered. It’s finally paying off now he’s able to relax, to the point that he might even be enjoying himself. And it also meant she got to see his tail floof out when Forbs startled him a couple of times. Cute.

Bit by bit, Momo’s pleasant smile and warmth seem like they’re coming to him more easily, like he don’t have to force it so much. His downright cockiness, too, which just appears to be part of the Momo package. She supposes that’s good then, too.

“I think… I’m doing better than I have in a while.”​

Osytha stares at the back of his neck, in silence. Though, she’s looking more at her memory of him from just before, freshly spat out the wringer there on the side of the road. “It just… it changes you. The negative energy they’re made of… it lingers. It seeps in. With my father, it made him cruel. With me—”

What don hit maketh thee, Momoshiro? Thou never saidest, but, if this is helpende…

“I am glad to ’ear that,” murmurs Osytha.

The woods draw her eye again, half a mind still thinking of all there is to forage out there before the winter sets in. Past time for peaches, alas, but it will be apple and pear season as well as mushroom and nut. In fact, the timing may have worked out perfectly.

“I’ll say one more thing in that case, an’ then I’ll be done talkin’ about food. But, if you stay in town for a few days, odds are you’ll there for the harvest festival. ’S quite a feast, an’ much merriment… though, if’n you’d prefer peace an’ quiet when the time comes, we’ll just say you’re still feelin’ poorly. Your choice, either way.”

Osytha has… some mixed memories of the festival herself, as a child. She enjoys it a lot more these days, but, as something of a pariah way back then, it had kind of hurt. To see all the other kids and families mingling and getting on, while keeping a small but significant distance from Osytha and her mother. At least things changed after the old girl married Hroðgar, but Osytha supposes she still carries a bit of that lonely child within her.

“Say, Momo,” she begins, softly, still looking through the creeping woodland. “Is et alright if’n I ax — what’s your home like, this of year? Or… sorry. If that’s summat you’d rather not dwell upon.”
 
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Momo’s ears flicked back for just a moment at her question—not from discomfort, but from the sudden ache of fondness it stirred. His hands loosened slightly on the reins as Forbs carried them onward beneath the amber canopy, the gentle creak of saddle leather and the rhythmic clop of hooves filling the brief silence.

For a while, he simply looked ahead.

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than before—warm, touched through with something tender and distant.

“Aetochi…” he murmured, as if even the name itself was a place he could rest for a moment. “This time of year… it’s beautiful.”

A faint smile curved his lips, smaller than his usual grin but far more genuine. His tail swayed once behind him, slow and thoughtful.

“The mountains start to turn first. The higher ridges go all gold and crimson before the valleys catch up. Maple trees paint the slopes like fire’s crawling down them, and when the wind blows…” He glanced upward as another patch of sunlight broke through the branches. “...it sends the leaves spinning through the air like little dancing spirits.”

He chuckled quietly.

“My little sister used to chase them. She was convinced if she caught the red ones before they touched the ground, she’d have good luck all winter.” His smile deepened then, touched with something almost heartbreakingly soft. “She never did stop trying.”

For a moment, the teasing foxkin, the flirt, the exorcist burdened by shadows—all of that seemed to fall away, leaving only someone’s son… someone’s brother.

“In the villages, the air smells like cedar, smoke, and sweet rice. Families start preserving food for winter, hanging herbs, drying persimmons…” He paused, then added with a bashful little huff, “And my mother insists the entire clan help, which usually means my brothers find excuses to disappear while I get roped into carrying everything.”

His nose wrinkled playfully.

“I suspect it is because I am tragically reliable.”

The joke was light, but there was affection tucked into every word. His ears tilted slightly, and he leaned back just a fraction—not enough to inconvenience her, but enough that the warmth of another person there felt… grounding.

“It was loud,” he admitted. “Busy. Full of life. Training. Arguments. Festivals. Duties.”
A quieter breath escaped him. “But it was home.”

That last part came gentler. Not sad, exactly… but wistful.

For a few beats, only birdsong and hoofbeats filled the space between them.

Then Momo turned his head just enough that she might catch the softened edge of his expression.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Not rushed. Not flippant. Sincere.

“For asking.”

His fingers gave the reins an absent little adjustment as Forbs meandered onward.

“I think…” He exhaled through his nose, almost shy now. “I miss it more than I’ve been letting myself.”

Then, perhaps realizing the weight of that confession, Momo’s ears perked, and some of his usual warmth returned—quiet, genuine, and touched with gratitude.

“Though…” he said, giving Forbs’ neck an affectionate pat while glancing down fondly at Guffers trotting along beside them “Aetochi never had particularly fine traveling companions like these.”

His smile came easier then, small but sincere. He glanced back over his shoulder at her, as if to add something more, but seemed to think better of it and turned his gaze forward again.

After a few quiet moments and the steady rhythm of hooves along the road, he finally added, softer this time—

“I think any road feels a little less long with good souls beside you."
 
“Thank you. For asking.”​

Osytha slowly opens her eyes. The burning vista painted behind her lids, its taste imagined at the back of her throat, and the sounds of a child lost in the simple joy of chasing the wind; it fades away. She comes back here, plodding through Hræfn Leah’s bordering woods atop her horse. Momo’s face in profile ahead of her, a softness to his features same as she’d heard in his voice.

“Thank’ee for the tellin’,” she murmurs back. “’Appen I shall ax a little more about et when t’time comes. That viewsome description of yours notwithstandin’ — to ’ear you speak that fondly of home, I can tell you shared summat precious jus’ now.

“Your sister sounds like a delight. And your mother, a strong woman. Shame about your brothers, though I s’pose at least you turned out alright.”

Forbítter clops patiently along, rounding them about a hump of earth capped by one particularly old, thick-trunked elm. It’s brighter ahead of them now; a sharp end to this sylvan tunnel lies up there, and sunlight beats down strong in the open space beyond it. The land dips slightly out there, and wisps of woodsmoke make a thin veil of the air. But even so, the two riders can just start to see through the pinhole before them, the shapes of thatch and slate-shingled roofs sprawling across that sunny hollow.

“Took me leavin’ my own home to unnerstand just what I’d left behind,” Osytha continues, staring at the slow-approaching threshold. “Actually ’ad to, kind of, tek a couple of stabs at et. Anyroad… sounds like you’re findin’ your perspective out ’ere, Momo. An’ keep in mind, et goes in both directions. Those kin of yours back home? I bet they’re missing you in all sorts of ways, an’ all. Even those layabout brothers of yours.” Osytha leans a little aside and forward, getting into Momo’s periphery so he might catch her grin. “Especially them, if’n you en’t around to pick up the slack.”

Osytha swaps her gaze from the foxkin to that growing, blue window, and she leans back. Forbítter huffs a big, horsey sigh for reasons inscrutable to simple folk like the two-legs, and Guffy scrounges low to the ground on the other side of the path, his little nose shovelling through leaf-litter and debris like a boar digging for truffles. Good lads, the both of them.

“Our Forbs an’ Guffy are tough to beat, aye,” she concurs. “Havin’ a good companion at your side… that’s actually summat enshrined in the order’s code, you ken?”

Osytha’s gaze flicks forward, taking in first the spill of long white locks down Momo’s back, and then, the deep yellow haori he wears draped over one shoulder. Curiosity glimmers in her eye as she inspects the weave and depth of colour of his raiment up close.

“… is that summat you might consider, then — findin’ a companion? Either the rest of your time ’ere, or when you return to Aetochi?”
 
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Momo’s ears twitched faintly at her words, that soft gratitude in her voice settling somewhere warm beneath his ribs. For a moment, he said nothing. His fingers remained loosely woven in Forbs’ mane while the great horse carried them steadily onward, and his gaze stayed fixed ahead where the woods were beginning to thin. Sunlight spilled through the trees in fractured gold, painting his pale hair and robes in shifting warmth as they rode.

There was something about being listened to—truly listened to—that still caught him off guard.

Not the polite sort of listening. Not waiting for one’s turn to speak. But the kind that held what you said carefully, as though it mattered.

A small, almost bashful smile touched his lips.

“You make it sound much prettier than it felt in the moment,” he admitted softly. “At the time, I mostly just thought she was annoyingly optimistic.”

His tail gave a lazy sway behind him, betraying the affection threaded through the tease.

“But… she was. Optimistic, I mean. Painfully so. The sort of person who could probably smile at an avalanche and somehow convince it to be less aggressive.”

He huffed a quiet laugh beneath his breath, though it carried that familiar fondness again—the kind reserved for people who had left fingerprints on your soul.

“And my mother…” He paused, his expression softening further. “Yes. Strong hardly feels like enough for her. She held our whole clan together more times than I think any of us realized. My father was… formidable. Respected. Sometimes feared. But my mother?” He shook his head slightly. “She was the reason all of us remembered we were people beneath all that expectation.”

At the mention of his brothers, however, his grin returned more easily.

“Oh, they absolutely miss me,” he said with sudden confidence, glancing back just enough that she might catch the playful glimmer in his crimson eyes. “Though not for any noble reason. I would wager at least half of them are currently suffering terribly from the tragic inconvenience of having to do things for themselves.”

He let that sit for a beat before adding, with mock gravity, “A devastating burden, truly.”

The trees began to give way then, opening gradually toward that brighter stretch ahead, and Momo fell quiet for a few moments as he took in the sight of it—the curling smoke, the distant rooftops, the promise of somewhere lived-in and warm after road and reflection. It was beautiful in its own way. Different from home, but no less lovely for it.

Osytha’s next question, though, drew his attention back more fully.

Companionship.

His ears flicked once.

That playful ease in him gentled, not vanishing but settling into something more thoughtful. He looked down briefly at Guffers, who was conducting his leaf-litter investigations with the utmost seriousness, then to Forbs, whose patient steadiness had already earned no small amount of Momo’s respect.

“I think…” he began slowly, choosing the words with more care than usual, “for a long time, I assumed I was meant to carry most things alone.”

His tone wasn’t tragic. Just honest. A realization spoken aloud rather than a wound reopened.

“In my clan, strength was often measured by what you could endure. What you could shoulder without complaint. The burdens you could keep from becoming someone else’s.” He exhaled softly, gaze drifting upward through the canopy one last time before the open road claimed more of it. “And perhaps there’s value in that. But…”

His hand rose, almost absentmindedly, to scritch one of his ears before settling once more.

“…I think maybe I am beginning to understand there’s also strength in letting someone walk beside you.”

The admission came quieter, but no less sincere.

“Not to carry you. Not to fix you. Just…” He glanced back at her then, his smile small but warm enough to take any sting from the vulnerability. “To share the burden... and joy of life.”

Then, perhaps realizing just how earnest he’d become, Momo’s cheeks tinted faintly pink beneath his pale complexion.

“Aw crumbs,” he muttered, suddenly sheepish. “That sounded much wiser than I intended. We should all be very concerned.”

His tail puffed slightly before settling again, and soon enough his grin returned—lighter now, though still genuine.

“But… yes,” he answered at last, more directly this time. “I think I would like that.”

His eyes drifted briefly toward Guffers, then to Forbs, and finally somewhere just past Osytha’s shoulder, as though the thought itself was still a little too new to stare at head on.
 
Something Osytha has noticed — Momoshiro is using an awful lot of the past tense in speaking about his family. She rests her gaze on the back of his neck, and wonders if it’s simply because the memories he has just feel like they’re from that long ago… or if, perhaps, he has a few less souls waiting for him in Aeotochi than there once were.

“Mmm.” A thoughtful little sound, that. “Summat folk don’t allus unnerstand, is that ‘gentle’ don’t necessarily mean ‘weak’. An’ ‘hard’ don’t allus equate to ‘strong’. Everythin’ needs at least a little give, people included. Else you’re forcin’ summat to break. An’ that en’t allus the answer.”

World’s got plenty that’s broken as it is. Hate to see thee added to their number, Momo, though I do wonder if thou’rt not already partway there.

There are sounds, now, coming out before them. The occasional shout of people calling to one another, and yelling back. The high-timbred note of firewood split in twain. Someone barks with sudden laughter, and another voice quickly follows. Fainter than all that is heard a steady melody; a chorus rising in waulking song from somewhere further afield.

“Your mother ’ad the reight idea there, mekkin sure folks don’t forget to see ane another as people — to see theirsen that way, an’ all.” And I’ve seen what happens when they don’t; when it’s alright to cast folk aside like they’re worthless. Scared faces in the snow, leaving behind a trail of broken. The kind of broken that can’t ever be fixed. “Sharin’ the road, whatever form that teks… I reckon et has a way of remindin’ us of the same thing. Of ’elpin’ us realise where to draw that line ’twixt ’ardness and gentleness. An’, well, there’s nowt wrong wi’ bein’ able to go et alone… but loneliness? That’s a diff’rent beast altogether. Loneliness diminishes us.”

The last of the beech and elm yield around them, at last. And they stand above Hræfn Leah: glade of the raven.

This is the industrial hub of the settlement, and its communal centre. More farmsteads and outlying abodes stretch away, dotted amidst the crop fields, pastures, and orchards these common folk have carved out of the woodland. But in the clearing where it all started sits the village green, collared by a long, squat tavern, smithy, shared bakehouse, and sat next to a mighty old elm, the largest building here: the town hall. Most are simple cob-walled and timber structures, though the bakehouse, forge, and hall all boast brown limestone ashlar for their ground floor walls. Small houses cluster around this core, rising up and away with the lie of the land. Most have small vegetable plots behind them, or chicken coops, or the like. There's a brook running through town, and a watermill by the trees at the far end where that stream cascades down from distant mountains. And, at the highest point on the eastern edge, is an open shrine to the Eight. A switchback staircase winds its way up to that quarrelled plateau which stands slightly separated from the rest, and looking more tranquil for it.

It’s fairly quiet in the village itself — just a couple of souls treading the earthen paths, and a few more bustling distantly around the mill with carts of grain. But Osytha’s eye is drawn to a little cottage at the west end, right up near the treeline.

No smoke from the chimney there, Osytha notes. She mun be at home, then. Or out in the fields with most of the others.

“I’m likin’ your mother more’n more,” she remarks, guiding them down into the village. “Startin’ to see where you’ve getten all this ’ere wisdom from that you keep droppin’ on me. What’re they’s names, by the by? These family of yours.”
 
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Momo listened quietly as Osytha spoke, his crimson eyes drifting out across the village unfolding before them. The sounds reached him first—the laughter, the chopping wood, the distant singing carried softly on the autumn air. Then came the smells: smoke, earth, bread, livestock, damp leaves. Life. Simple and warm in a way that settled gently against the ribs.

For a while, he said nothing.

Her words about gentleness and hardness lingered in his thoughts longer than he expected them to. His ears twitched once amid the curtain of white hair as his fingers idly adjusted the reins. Somewhere deep down, a part of him recoiled from how accurately she seemed to see through him. Not completely—thank the spirits for that—but enough.

Enough to make him quiet.

As Forbs carried them down the winding path into Hræfn Leah, Momo found his gaze lingering on the little details of the settlement. The vegetable gardens. Laundry swaying in the breeze. Chickens wandering too confidently through the road. A child sprinting past one of the cottages with a wooden sword while another shouted after them. It felt… lived in. Worn comfortably by the people who belonged here.

A strange ache settled in his chest.

“I think…” he began softly, “people like your village understand something cities forget.”

His eyes followed the brook cutting through town.

“In larger places, everyone is always rushing somewhere. Chasing status, coin, duty, expectations.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Back home, my father used to say cities make it easy to become a stranger even to yourself.”

At the mention of his mother again, however, the smile deepened—warmer now, touched with unmistakable affection.

“My mother would adore this place,” he murmured. “She would absolutely force-feed half the village before the end of the week.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him, and some of that earlier heaviness eased from his shoulders.

“She’s very… persistent with acts of kindness. It’s honestly terrifying sometimes.”

Then came the question.

Names.

Momo’s expression softened almost immediately, and for a moment he looked younger somehow—not less burdened exactly, but closer to the person he must have been before all the shadows took root.

“My mother’s name is Sayuri,” he said. “And my father is Daichi Komori.”

There was respect in the way he spoke of his father, though gentler warmth colored the mention of his mother. His tail swayed lazily behind him as he continued.

“My little sister is Akari. She’s…” He smiled helplessly. “Far too good at getting away with things. Everyone in the clan spoils her. Including me.”

His ears flicked once.

“Especially me.”

A softer laugh followed that confession before he continued.

“My younger brothers are Renji, Kenta, and Hiroto. They’re insufferable. If I returned home tomorrow, they would absolutely pretend they hadn’t missed me at all right before trying to drag me into some ridiculous argument within the hour.”

But as he spoke their names, something inside him snagged unexpectedly.

He could remember them perfectly. Their voices. Their habits. The sound of Akari laughing. Hiroto’s terrible jokes. Kenta and Renji complaining while secretly helping anyway. His mother’s hands fussing with his robes before a journey. His father standing tall beneath the shrine lanterns.

Yet when he tried to picture their faces—

Nothing.

Not darkness exactly. Just… absence.

Blurred impressions where certainty should have been.

Momo’s smile faltered for only the briefest moment.

His tail curled tighter at his side.

A strange unease crept down his spine, cold and quiet, but he swallowed it immediately before it could fully surface. Exhaustion, perhaps. Stress. Too much time away from home.

Surely that was all.

He looked away toward the village before Osytha could notice the shift in his expression.

“I miss them more than I expected to,” he admitted quietly, voice softer now.

Then, almost immediately, he nudged the conversation elsewhere.

“But…” A faint smile returned as he rested a hand against Forbs’ neck. “I think you were right earlier. About roads and companionship.”

His gaze drifted across the village green again, lingering on the cottages and distant shrine.

“The journey feels less lonely than it did before.”

After a moment, his ears perked slightly and some of his natural curiosity resurfaced.

“What about you?” he asked gently. “You speak about this place like it matters to you.”

His eyes wandered toward the higher ridge overlooking the settlement.

“Did you grow up here? Or… is your order more your family now?”

Then, with the faintest hint of returning playfulness:

“And more importantly… which building contains the food you’ve been tormenting me with descriptions of for the last several hours?”
 
Osytha sniffs. “S’pose et’s got ets advantages ower city life,” she concedes. “Ets fair share of downsides an’ all, mind you. ’S a bit ’ard to lose yersen chasin’ your ambitions when a serf en’t allowed to ’ave any. Plus, they grows a special kind of bloody-mindedness aht ’ere. But… folk ’ere do look aht for ane another, I’ll grant ’em that.”

They mun, because all they have is each other. You’re often ane bad crop away from starvation, so you make sure your neighbour gets what they need. Because next year, the poor bugger who can’t feed theirsen might just be you.

Clip clop, clip clop. Down an easy path cut through the hill and turf. Forbítter takes them to a small wooden bridge over the stream, and thunks and creaks his way across it, before they start winding their way upward again toward the village green. Osytha spies young Hamish making a dash for the fields with his waster, off to make short work of a scarecrow or two. And chasing hard behind him, his little sister Brycget grizzling for her turn with it.

“So you’re the eldest, then?” She watches the bairns disappear, smiling faintly with the foreknowledge that they’re about to cause someone grief. “Sayuri, Daichi, Akari, Renji, Kenta, Hiroto… an’ Momoshiro Komori.”

“I miss them more than I expected to. “But… I think you were right earlier. About roads and companionship. The journey feels less lonely than it did before.”​

A little silence drifts in, after that. Osytha has just opened her mouth to break it, when Momo beats her to the punch.

“What about you?” You speak about this place like it matters to you. Did you grow up here? Or… is your order more your family now? And more importantly… which building contains the food you’ve been tormenting me with descriptions of for the last several hours?”​
​

She blinks at the back of his head, and then, laughs. When she does answer, there’s an impressed edge to her tone. “En’t you a sharp ’un? Aye, this is where I… were a child. The order’s become my family an’ all, that’s reight, but the ane I’ve ’ad from the get-go’s allus been ’ere. Welcome to Hræfn Leah, Momo.” She turns her head aside as the path takes them to that more level strip with the green, and they’re slowly plodding past the bakehouse on their right. But Osytha raises an arm to the west, and points out that little one-room hovel she’d been eyeing a moment ago. “See that cottage way over yonder? First few years of my life, that were home to mum an’ missen. ’S mostly jus’ used as an infirmary these days.”

Rather than continuing on, Forbítter begins to circle round the next building past the bakehouse — the smithy; a two-storey affair, with stout limestone walls for the first, cream-and-beech colombage for the second, and a sharply-peaked gable roof atop.

Osytha’s arm picks out a few other structures, next. “Folks’ll be flat out bringin’ the ’arvest in, but, much of et’ll be kept in the undercroft ’neath the town ’all there. The Raven’s Wing would’ve started usin’ some already, to brew ale, perry, an’ scrumpy. More grain’s bein’ milled up yonder, an’ of course, we jus’ passed the bakehouse. But et’s really goin’ to kick off day of the ’arvest festival.”

They reach the rear of the house, where the forge itself sits as a mostly open-walled attachment surrounded by a noise-reducing screen of carefully-positioned boxwoods. A little dark shape darts past them as Guffers bounds happily up to the back door, letting loose a couple of loud yaps. The horse finally comes to a stop here, and Osytha slides herself off from over his haunches.

The woman does a strange, bow-legged crab dance for a couple of seconds. “Eyah, mebbe I should’ve ridden side-saddle…” she mutters, rubbing some life back into her thighs. But, shortly, she steps over and offers up her arms to Momo. “Let me ’elp you down—”

The thump of footsteps, clack of a latch, and the back door swings open. A rather short, middle-aged woman with more salt than pepper in her over-the-shoulder braid, and clad in blue kirtle, dark-dyed petticoats, and a woollen shawl, takes one step past the threshold before her eyes widen on the two arrivals. Guffy bounces around her feet, largely unheeded for now.

“Æla! Min dieru mægeð! / La! My dear girl!” The woman begins to stride forward, her expression full of joy. “Ðú hast to us hámsíðest! / You have come home to us!”

Osytha glances over to her, before she finishes helping Momo off the horse. “Gea, gea — ƿes hal, modor… / Yeah, yeah — hi, mum…”

But when Osytha turns back around again, for all the older woman’s excitement, she has stopped herself a few feet shy of the knight and just stands there, her hands fidgeting with the front of her shawl.

Of course. Things are still a bit touch-and-go between them these days. The relationship has bounced back some, but even so, her mother never knows quite how much space Osytha’s going to need whenever she comes to visit. Some stays are better than others.

Maybe it’s down to speaking with Momo about his family, but today… today, holding onto that grudge just feels so pointless.

“Hider com… / Come here…” Osytha steps forward and opens her arms wide — and the woman almost throws herself into them, wrapping her daughter up in a hug of her own. “Hƿy grietst ðú? / Why are you crying?” Osytha laughs, softly, as they lightly sway one another. “Ic wæs hér ne’ðry ƿycum eodon. / I was here not even three weeks ago.”

Her mother leans back, clasping Osytha’s forearms and looking her in the eye, while she sniffles a bit. “Ic wite, gieta… stælst me, mæge ðú? / I know, yet… can you blame me?”

“Well, I’m here now,” Osytha replies, and plants a little kiss on her forehead. “Hush, now.”

Then they break apart, and both face Momo. The short woman wipes away her tears, though, she manages to give the foxkin a broad, welcoming smile beneath all that.

“This is my mother, Merifrith,” Osytha says to him, a wry little smile writ across her face, “You’ll be stayin’ ’ere wi’ us ’til… well, ’owever long you like, really. Why don’t you introduce yersen?”
 
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Momo had only just steadied himself after dismounting when the door burst open and the older woman hurried toward them with all the force of a storm long held back. The foxkin froze for a moment where he stood beside Forbs, one hand still resting lightly against the horse’s flank as he watched mother and daughter collide together in an embrace that felt years overdue rather than weeks.

Something in his chest tightened at the sight.

Not painfully. Just… achingly familiar.

The way Merifrith held onto Osytha as though reassuring herself she was truly there. The way Osytha, despite the sheepishness in her voice and posture, melted into it anyway. It reminded him of home in a way he had not expected. Of his mother fussing over him after long assignments. Of Akari hanging from his sleeve while pretending not to miss him. Of Sayuri trying to act composed while clearly relieved he had returned in one piece.

For just a second, he tried to picture their faces clearly.

He could remember every detail about them. Akari’s loud laugh. His brother's impossible stubbornness. The way his father always smelled faintly of cedar oil after training. His mother’s voice humming through the house in the early mornings.

But their faces…

The images felt blurred at the edges, like ink running in water. It felt... wrong.

Momo’s ears twitched downward ever so slightly.

A strange unease crept through him before he quietly buried it beneath a practiced smile.

By the time both women turned toward him, warmth had already returned to his expression. Perhaps not entirely effortless, but genuine all the same.

He placed a hand lightly against his chest and dipped into a respectful bow.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Merifrith,” he said softly. “I’m Momoshiro Komori… though most people just call me Momo.”

His ruby eyes lifted again, carrying that familiar gentleness that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

“And thank you… truly. For allowing a weary traveler to impose upon your home.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Osytha before returning to her mother. “Your daughter has been looking after me since I nearly lost a duel with the ground several hours ago.”

A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth then.

“The ground won, decisively.”

Guffers barked once as if in agreement, tail wagging furiously around everyone’s legs. Momo immediately crouched to scratch affectionately behind the little dog’s ears, grateful for the distraction from the lingering disquiet in his chest.

"No one has forgotten you, my friend," he whispered gently.

His tail swayed softly behind him as he rose again, glancing past them toward the cottage and the smell of hearthfire lingering in the air.

The warmth of the village settled around him slowly—the distant murmur of voices, the creak of the mill wheel turning against the stream, the scent of fresh bread and hearthsmoke drifting gently on the breeze.

For the first time in quite a while, the road behind him did not feel quite so heavy.

And yet, something still lingered at the edges of his thoughts. A faint unease buried beneath layers of memory, like a shape obscured beneath dark water. The harder he tried to ignore it, the more insistent it became, quietly pressing against the corners of his mind.
 
Meri glances at Osytha, a tinge of confusion in her smile now. The old girl’s never been too good with jokes; probably she’s wondering if she’s missed some sort of euphemism in there, or maybe she isn’t sure just how literally to take Momo’s dust-up with the ground.

Osytha looks over from where she’s tying Forbs to the smithy’s hitching post, and answers with a little shake of her head. “Momo’s jus’ that knackered an’ pined from t’gate,” she explains. “Reckoned we could put ’im up, ’elp get ’im feelin’ nicely again.”

“Of course!” Merifrith turns back to their guest, her smile redoubled, and offers him a curtsy in return. “Ah’m fain to meet thee, Momoshiro, an’ welcome. Now get thissen inside, an’ we’ll soon ’ave thee settled in. Come along now, love.”

Merifrith leads them through, holding the back door open for Momo, Osytha, and Guffy. There’s a little mudroom here, connected to the scullery on the right, and which also continues as a passage ahead. Merifrith stops long enough here to slip out of the simple clogs she’d donned to greet her new arrivals. “Ah shall mek fit a room for thee,” says the woman, as she looks pointedly at Osytha’s own travel-caked shoes, “but afore all that, ken this: tha’rt ne any imposition. Tha’rt most welcome ’ere, Momo.”

“She means et,” Osytha adds, unbuckling her shoes and sliding out of them. Guffy sniffs about the edges of the room intently, piecing together a mosaic of past journeys by the dirt yet left behind. “Mum ’as opinions about ’ospitality.”

“Tch, tha mek’st me seem— well, seem over-bearin’, ’appen.” Merifrith shoots a sheepish smile to Momo. “We’s a fairly easy-goin’ lot, ’ere. Um. Not really t’types to stand on formality, so… don’t be afeared to use t’space ’owever tha wish’st. Or to ax us for owt. What’s important is that tha’rt comfortable whilst tha’rt stoppin’ wi’ us.”

Next, Merifrith starts to lead them along the passage toward the front of the house. Cold stone quarrels, stalwart against mud and suds, give way to more cosy wooden flooring. The air grows a little warmer, too, as they draw in toward the soft growl and pop of a hearth.

“Everyone else in t’fields today, are they?” Osytha asks as they shuffle through.

Merifrith nods. “Aye, ’e’ll be reapin’ ’til tea-time. Ellie’s off ’til ’arvest is in, an’ all. Ah’ve jus’ getten Beth Weaver that far along, Ah’m staying close by in case Ah’m needed.”

“Spot of luck for us, then— wait, an’ where’s our Leofric?”

They round a doorway past the scullery into the kitchen, where a dozy little fireplace crackles away. Pots and pans, ladles and knives, tongs and chopping blocks hang off fixtures in the walls. A stairwell runs steeply down into the cellar below, while another door connects back through to the scullery. There’s a bench on the wall opposite the fireplace, bearing the long years’ scores and stains from many a meal prepared there. And smack bang in the middle of the room is a humble yet sturdy table, flanked by equally humble yet sturdy chairs.

“Leofric is… aht,” Merifrith replies, pulling back a chair for Momo. There’s a certain furtiveness in the way she avoids looking Osytha in the eye.

“‘Aht?’ What dost tha mean—” Osytha stops. A big, shit-eating grin starts to slowly spread across her face. “I see. ’E’s ‘aht’, is ’e? An’ who else jus’ ’appens to be ‘aht’ as of this moment?”

“Oh, whisht, nuisance child of mine. Mek thissen useful instead an’ put t’kettle on.” For Merifrith’s part, she herself goes and starts fetching the various other tea-making paraphernalia from about the kitchen. “But, aye. ’E an’ t’Baker’s eldest ’ave been courtin’ as of last week.”

Osy’s smile only turns more malicious. “Our Leofric an’ Timothy Baker, eh—?”

She receives a mock slap against the upper arm, and subsequently cowers as her mother raises the arm back up in threat of a second. “Sithee — tha shalt leave that boy alone, Osytha!” Merifrith scolds. “’Tis a tender enow age for a young lad already. ’E don’t need ’is big sister mekkin’ things any more difficult. Now, stop distractin’ me from us bonny guest.”

Osytha gingerly rubs her bicep. “Alright, alright. Shame on me for showin’ an interest, I s’pose,” she grumbles.

The little hint of steel which came over Merifrith softens the instant she turns back to Momo. “Now then, art tha parched? Ah’m mashin’ some tea if’n that teks thy fancy, but there’s also milk, small ale… even,” and here her tone turns almost scandalous, “a spot o’ wine.” Then the woman turns back to doling out leaves into the teapot. “But even t’water ’ere is good. ’Tis largely icemelt reight off of t’mountain, an’ t’village teks good care of us beck.

“Draught aside, though, what can we sort aht for thee first? Ah can get that room ready reight now if’n tha wish’st simply for a rest. Ah’s can cook some dinner if’n you’d prefer a meal afore owt else… oh, an’ we can ready a bath should’st tha be wantin’ a nice, hot soak. Or is there summat else we might do for thee? Please don’t be afraid to ax.”
 
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Momo hesitated just inside the doorway, his ears twitching faintly as warmth from the hearth washed over him. After days of roads, wind, and uncertainty, the cottage felt almost unreal in its comfort. The scent of burning wood mingled with tea leaves and fresh bread, wrapping around him in a way that reminded him painfully of home.

He slipped out of his shoes carefully near the entrance before following after them, crimson eyes wandering across the kitchen with quiet appreciation. It was lived-in in the best possible way. Worn floorboards. Old knife marks in the table. The sort of warmth that only came from years of people gathering in the same place.

By the time Merifrith pulled out a chair for him, Momo looked genuinely stricken by the amount of kindness being directed at him all at once.

“You’re both very generous,” he said softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Truthfully… more generous than I deserve after collapsing dramatically on the roadside.”

His tail curled loosely behind him before he quickly added, “But I should say now—I don’t intend to simply take advantage of your hospitality. Please allow me to help while I’m here.”

He dipped into another polite bow of his head, earnest and sincere.

“I can cook well enough not to poison anyone, I can clean, mend clothing, haul water, chop wood… and if you have spirits causing trouble nearby, that’s more or less my profession.”

That last part earned the faintest crooked smile.

“Though preferably after I’ve had a proper meal and stopped losing battles to basic terrain.”

At the mention of tea, however, his expression brightened almost immediately.

“Tea would be wonderful,” he admitted, and then after only the briefest hesitation: “And perhaps food before the bath. If I soak first, I may never emerge again.”

Osytha’s mother moved about the kitchen preparing everything with practiced ease while Momo finally lowered himself into the offered chair. The exhaustion in his limbs became much more apparent the moment he stopped moving. His shoulders sagged slightly. His ears lowered a fraction. He had been running on stubbornness for longer than he cared to admit.

Still, his eyes wandered curiously around the room as the conversation about Leofric continued, amusement tugging faintly at his mouth.

“You know,” he said lightly while glancing between mother and daughter, “this is remarkably similar to how my younger sister interrogates people.”

A pause.

“Actually, this is gentler.”

That warmth in his smile faltered for just a moment as he tried again to picture Akari’s face—and again, nothing came. The knot in his stomach tightened sharply. Had it always been like this? Had he simply failed to notice? How long had it been this wa—

Momo swallowed the thought before it could fully form. He shook his head once, subtle but firm, and forced the tension back down into the quiet corners of himself where it belonged. This was not the time for that. Not here. Not with people who had opened their home to him so freely.

His smile returned a heartbeat later, gentle and easy as ever, the expression settling back into place like a familiar mask. Only somewhere deep beneath it, in the darker reaches of his mind, something else smiled too.
 
“You’re both very generous. Truthfully… more generous than I deserve after collapsing dramatically on the roadside.”​


This yields another mildly befuddled smile from Meri over towards her daughter.

“Nay, that… that en’t a joke,” Osytha tells her. “Momo ’ere keeled reight ower tryin’ to unstick Eldræd’s cart from a rut.”

Merifrith’s hand goes up to her mouth, and her eyes wax with pity. “Tha puir dear!” she exclaims. “Aye — let’s get thee fed, an’ post ’aste!”

Spurred by Momo’s plight, she returns to the labours of her kitchen with fresh vigour. Cutting boards are positioned, knives selected, pots, primed. Meri scoops more nuggets of coke into the hearth and herds them about, stoking their flame in readiness of urgent culinary endeavours.

“’Tis gettin’ to be that nithern’ aht,” she murmurs to herself, moving onto her arsenal of ingredients. But then louder, after that: “Fair weather for soup. Dost tha care for haddock at all, love? Speak truth, now; et’d be nay bother at all to fix up summat else.”

There’s a certain similarity between the way Osytha responds to ‘haddock’ and Guffy’s reaction whenever someone mentions the word ‘treat’. “Haddock an’ bacon soup?” she says, hopefully. “We’ve some taters from Eldræd amongst us things…”

“Aye,” Meri nods. “Then be a dear an’ fetch ’em, for Ah’m sure theys’ll be ’andy whatever Ah’s end up mekkin. Then, go to t’cellar — Ah’ve dough proofin’ dowun there. Tek that next door and get et nice an’ warm. Once et’s abaht, oh, so tall?” and here a work-worn hand measures several inches between thumb and forefinger, “Then et can start bakin’. For there’s nowt as beats fresh-baked bread an’ hot butter to go along wi’ soup.”

Potatoes are fetched, vegetables prepped and sautéed. A bowl of water plus dish of sweet potato and mutton set out lovingly for the dog, whom Osytha bids stay while she busies herself at the bakehouse. A tray for tea is laid upon the table for their guest to tailor to his tastes, where aside the pot and cups is some lemon, a precious little sugar, and, typical of the barbarians here, milk. Then it’s just the three of them in the kitchen: Merifrith bustling and humming away between bench and hearth, Guffers licking his empty plate across the floor, and Momo, seated at the table in the middle of it all.

“Ah’ll ax our Osytha to warm that bath up for thee once she’s returned,” Meri informs him. But then, rather than going back to her soft humming, a quietude settles over the woman.

“There’s summat Ah’d like for thee to unnerstand, an’ Ah ’ope tha tak’st et wi’ thee once tha leavest us… whenever that may be.” Meri glances over her shoulder from where she’s cutting a few of those potatoes, and there’s her tender little smile wrinkling up her face. “Ah appreciate thy offer to ’elp, but, tha’rt tekkin advantage of nobody. Tha’rt welcome ’ere, Momo. Nay conditions. Nay expectations. Tha’rt welcome just as tha hast come to us.”

She turns back to dicing up those spuds. Guffy has finally found a stable position for his dish, having shepherded it into a corner of the room, and underneath the sizzle of the pot and whisper of keen steel through tuber is a steady rattle of porcelain against the skirting boards.

“So, if tha offer’st because tha feel’st obliged to try an’ justify bein’ granted food an’ a warm place sleep, Ah won’t allow et. Tha’rt worthy of all that an’ more already, love.” Her knife clunks down on the chopping board, and Meri brings it over to add into the simmering pot. Potato cubes hit the oil with an angry hiss, and she starts to stir them evenly through. Once more, she breaks away from her task to reassure the foxkin with a warm look. “Besides, if tha wert so far gone as to be faintin’ upon t’gate, nay work nor chores for at least a couple of days. Tha just rest up ’ere, an’ we’ll soon ’ave thee feelin’ hale an’ hearty.”
 
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Momo sat quietly at the table while the kitchen moved around him with the sort of practiced warmth only a lived-in home could possess. The crackle of the hearth, the steady rhythm of knife against board, the scent of onions and bacon softening in the pot—it all settled over him slowly, like a blanket he had not realized he’d been missing. Even Guffers’ enthusiastic struggle against his own bowl in the corner somehow added to it.

It felt… safe.

Dangerously so.

At Merifrith’s words, his ears lowered slightly beneath his white hair, and for a moment he found himself staring down into the steam curling from the tea rather than meeting her eyes.

“That’s… kind of you to say,” he murmured softly. “Though where I come from, if someone fails to do a task, they usually get handed less dignified work afterward. Mostly so they stop trying to impress people by attempting things they clearly shouldn’t.”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward faintly.

“I spent an entire summer banned from carrying rice sacks because I attempted to move three at once and nearly flattened my youngest brother.”

The memory rose unbidden after that.

Summer heat pressing through open paper screens. The scent of soap and river water drifting in from outside while cicadas screamed themselves hoarse in the trees. His mother kneeling beside a wash basin with sleeves rolled to her elbows, calmly directing household operations with the terrifying precision of a battlefield commander while Momo, much much younger and dramatically less wise, struggled to balance an overloaded basket of laundry twice his size.

He remembered her laughter most clearly.

Not mocking.

Just warm.

Patient.

“Slow down, Momo,” she had told him while rescuing half the basket before it toppled into the dirt. “You do not need to carry everything yourself to be useful.”

For a brief moment, the memory sharpened enough that he almost expected to see her face.

Instead—

Nothing.

The image blurred at the edges like ink dropped into water.

His smile faltered.

That same cold knot twisted again beneath his ribs before he pushed it firmly back down where it belonged.

Momo exhaled softly through his nose and looked back up toward Merifrith, gentleness returning to his expression with practiced ease.

“You remind me a little of her,” he admitted quietly. “My mother, I mean.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward the simmering pot, toward the bread being prepared next door, toward the simple lived-in comfort of the kitchen around him.

“She used to fuss over people exactly like this. Usually while pretending she wasn’t fussing at all.”

There was fondness in the words. Real fondness.

Then, after a small pause, his expression softened further.

“But… I understand.” His voice lowered slightly, more sincere now. “Truly. And I appreciate it more than I probably know how to explain properly.”

A beat passed before his ears perked again with quieter resolve.

“That said,” he added gently, “once I’m no longer a danger to myself or others, I would still like to help where I can. Not because I think your kindness needs earning…” he said softly, shaking his head once. “But because when people open their home to you, helping where you can just feels like the right thing to do.”

His smile returned more fully then, small and warm.

“And based on what I’ve seen so far, I suspect both you and your daughter possess the terrifying ability to win arguments through sheer force of will, so I’ll surrender the matter for now.”
 
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