Private Home Away From Home

[Osytha]

“Ah’m fain to ’ear et, love. Et’s allus easier to ’elp a body when theys actually allow thee to do so.”

Merifrith wins a little downtime with the soup bubbling away, and finally takes a seat for herself. She pours out some tea, and adds a little squeeze of lemon to the brew. Now she’s no longer bustling to and fro, just sat across from Momo for a still moment, it’s easier to get a proper look at her. The face is rounder than Osytha’s; not quite so tall, and perhaps it had been a little softer than her daughter’s in Meri’s own youth. That nose, though, is much the same — Roman and standing proudly forward. And her eyes, they share that cool, overcast blue, as the rain-succoured sea.

The mug comes up. Meri closes her eyes and breathes deep with a contented smile, and when they open again, there’s a soft sparkle upon them. “Once tha’rt feelin’ well enow recovered, though, an’ if that’s t’reason tha shold’st wish to ’elp… aye, that Ah can bide. For et would be an act of kindness, an’ Ah’ll nivver stand in t’way of kindness.”

Guffy finally accepts that his meal has been completely and utterly eliminated, and after scrounging around fruitlessly for unnoticed scraps on the kitchen floor, he goes to a little cushion Osytha has laid out near the fire. Meri watches him snuffle at the pillow before turning a few circles, then, lies down, curling up and nestling in deep. He huffs a very big sigh for such a small dog, and closes his eyes.

“Three sacks of corn!” Meri exclaims, smiling down at Guffers. “That’s nay mean jag, e’en for a grown lad. An’ keelin’ ower in tryin’ to ’elp a stranger shift ’is cart. Tha strike’st me as a fair conscientious man, Momo. Even when tha causest trouble, tha’rt lendin’ aid.”

Merifrith takes a little sip from her cup. The restorative powers of a good cuppa are immediate and visible to the naked eye; the woman’s entire frame just relaxes, and her expression turns nothing if not contented.

“Aye, a spot o’ dinner then a hot bath,” she nods, opening her eyes, “an’ when tha’rt finished there, Ah’ll ’ave made a bed up for thee, wi’ a warmin’ pan to get et nice an’ toasty.” One more sip, and then it’s back to the cooking pot for her. “We en’t too fancy ’ere, but by gum, tha shalt find we’s ken a thing or twa ’bout bein’ cosy…”

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

The afternoon passed in a warmth Momo had almost forgotten how to accept.

Lunch came first, and Merifrith had not exaggerated the restorative properties of soup, fresh bread, and a home determined to feed him back into existence. The haddock was rich and smoky beneath the creaminess of the broth, the potatoes soft, the bacon salty in exactly the way comfort food ought to be. By the time Osytha returned from the bakehouse smelling faintly of flour and woodsmoke, Momo had already lost the battle against a second helping.

The bath afterward nearly killed him outright.

Not from danger.

From comfort.

Steam curled thickly through the small washroom while heat soaked deep into muscles that had apparently spent the last several weeks preparing to revolt against him personally. Somewhere during the process of scrubbing road dust and lingering exhaustion from his skin, Momo became dimly aware that he had been more tired than he realized. The sort of tired that settled into the bones. The kind people carried quietly until they suddenly stopped being able to.

By the time he emerged again, clean and pleasantly warm from the bath, his eyelids already felt heavy with exhaustion. He’d changed into a lightweight yukata of dark charcoal-gray, the fabric loose and breathable after days spent traveling the road. Along one side ran subtle square spiral patterns woven into the cloth, understated but elegant in the firelight. A muted mustard-yellow obi sat tied loosely at his waist, more comfortable than formal.

His hair, usually restrained in several uneven ties that looked more improvised than intentional, had been gathered back instead with a single yellow cord fashioned almost like an aiguillette. Most of the long white mane spilled freely down his back, though one bound section had fallen over his shoulder. Every so often his fingers drifted toward it absently, idly turning the cord between them without realizing he was doing so.

Merifrith had prepared a bed for him in what had once clearly been Osytha’s room. That fact alone drew a quiet smile from him the moment he stepped inside.

It was not difficult to imagine.

The room carried traces of her still despite the years. Small things. Worn shelves. Old carvings near the windowsill. A faded scrap of ribbon tucked beside a mirror. There was practicality here, but also life. Personality. A history lived honestly.

And the bed—

The bed was warm.

Actually warm.

The warming pan had turned the blankets into a small miracle.

Momo sat down once, purely to appreciate it for a moment.

That was his mistake.

The next thing he knew, darkness had teeth.

He stood in snow up to his ankles.

Wind screamed through dead trees somewhere beyond sight while blackened paper charms twisted from branches like hanging corpses. The air smelled wrong. Rot beneath incense. Blood beneath winter.

“Momo.”

His mother’s voice.

Somewhere ahead.

He turned sharply, heart lurching.

Shapes stood beyond the snowfall.

Six figures.

Familiar.

Waiting.

Relief struck him so hard it almost hurt.

But when he tried to move toward them, the snow deepened. His feet dragged. The world stretched impossibly long between them.

“Momo.”

Again.

Closer now.

The figures did not move.

He squinted through the storm, trying desperately to make out their faces—

—and couldn’t.

Not one.

Not his mother.

Not Akari.

Not any of them.

Only blurred emptiness where their features should have been.

Panic seized him.

No.

No, no, no—

He knew them.

He knew them.

So why—

Something smiled behind them in the dark.

Tall.

Crooked.

Watching him through the snow with far too many teeth.

Then the figures began sinking slowly backward into the black.

“Momo,” his mother called one final time, voice distant now. “Remember.”
A sudden flash—blood smeared across trembling hands, bright and wet in the glow of roaring firelight.

He lurched forward—

—and woke with a sharp breath, sweat clinging cold against his skin despite the warmth of the room.

Darkness greeted him.

For several long seconds, Momo simply lay there staring upward while his pulse hammered against his ribs.

The house around him creaked softly in the evening stillness. Somewhere below, faint voices drifted up through the floorboards alongside the occasional crackle of a hearth. Wind brushed lightly against the shutters.

Safe.

He was safe.

Slowly, his breathing steadied.

A glance toward the window told him several hours had passed already. Full night now. Perhaps eight or nine by the look of it.

Momo rubbed tiredly at his face before pushing himself upright, silver hair thoroughly disheveled from sleep. The warmth of the blankets tried valiantly to reclaim him immediately.

Tempting.

Dangerously tempting.

But sleep no longer felt particularly inviting after that dream.

So instead, after a quiet moment gathering himself, Momo rose and padded softly toward the door, intending to head downstairs in search of water, tea… or perhaps simply the reassuring sound of other pe

 

[Osytha]

“… some rust in Wendall’s field.” A man’s voice from downstairs. Speaking soft, a baritone rumble with a hint of hoarseness. “’Ad to burn a fair patch, to be safe, but there’s some as set aside for thee at t’cottage. What with Beth’s time bein’ so close by.”

“Tha’rt a godsend, ’ave Ah ivver told thee?” And that’s Merifrith, her light tone seasoned with age. Something clicks and clacks rhythmically beneath the voices, which seem to be coming from the kitchen. “Ah’ll pop ower tonight an’ mek up some tincture.”

“Tonight? Might et ne bide while mornin’—?”

The fellow’s voice cuts short as Momo appears in the doorway, and three faces turn his way from their seats at the table.

Merifrith, he already knows; the gentle little woman is knitting away at something baby-sized while a cup of tea steams in front of her. But the others… the second figure is a man of similar age to Meri, tall and a bit lanky, with a sort of tough, ropey musculature. His blond hairline is receding into a dramatic widow’s peak, and dark eyes sparkle beneath his bushy brow from where they had just been regarding a small cup of something pungent. The third, meanwhile, is much younger — can't quite even be twenty — and has a bit of column A, and a bit of column B: the proud Merifrith nose, slightly-wavy chestnut hair already showing a couple strands of white, but the older fellow’s jarrah irises and tall, lean frame. There’s a couple of small books open on the table before the lad, and he seems to be transcribing from one into the blank pages of the other.

“Momo, love!” Meri exclaims, her face lighting up. She lays her work down and stands, bustling immediately over to the hearth. “Please, ’ave a seat. What can Ah fix for thee — supper, a cuppa… summat else?”

The other two also stand up. “Eyup, me duck,” the older fellow says to him, and extends a hand forward. “Welcome to us ’ome. Ah’m Hroðgar — Meri’s other ’alf, an’ blacksmith to these parts. An’ this is our lad, Leofric.”

Leofric gives Momo an awkward teenager’s brand of shy little nod. “’Ow do…”

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

Momo paused in the doorway for a moment, blinking against the warm glow spilling from the kitchen. For a heartbeat he simply stood there, listening. The nightmare still clung to him in tatters. Smoke. Fire. The sharp copper scent of blood. A distant scream carried across darkness. The images were already fading, retreating into that unreachable place dreams always fled to upon waking, but they had left their mark all the same. His skin still felt damp with sweat beneath the yukata, and his heart had not entirely settled into its normal rhythm.

Then the familiar sounds of the household began to assert themselves. The crackle of the hearth. The scrape of chair legs against wood. The quiet murmur of conversation. The scent of tea and supper hanging in the air.

Little by little, the lingering unease loosened its grip.

"Good evening," he said softly.

Merifrith's face brightened the instant she spotted him, and she was already halfway to her feet before he had taken two steps into the room.

"Momo, love! Please, have a seat. What can Ah fix for thee—a supper, a cuppa... summat else?"​

The foxkin couldn't help but smile.

A few hours of sleep had done wonders for him. The exhaustion that had nearly folded him in half at the village gate had retreated, leaving behind only a lingering heaviness in his limbs and the pleasant disorientation that followed truly restful sleep. He still felt tired, but it was no longer the sort of tired that threatened to bury him.

"A cup of tea would be wonderful, thank you."

As Merifrith immediately set about seeing to that request, Momo's attention shifted toward the two unfamiliar faces seated at the table.

The older man rose first.

"Eyup, me duck. Welcome to us 'ome. Ah'm Hroðgar—Meri's other 'alf, an' blacksmith to these parts. An' this is our lad, Leofric."​

Momo stepped forward without hesitation and accepted the offered hand. Hroðgar's grip was strong and roughened by years of honest work, and Momo returned it firmly despite his comparatively slender frame.

"It is an honor to meet you, Master Hroðgar."

There was no politeness for politeness's sake in the words. The sincerity came naturally.

"And thank you for allowing a wandering stranger into your home."

Hroðgar looked like the sort of man who would rather spend a day repairing a broken plow than talking about himself. Momo found that reassuring.

His gaze drifted toward the younger man.

Leofric offered a shy nod that seemed to carry all the awkward uncertainty of youth.

"'Ow do..."​

Momo inclined his head politely in return.

"And it is a pleasure to meet you as well, Leofric."

A flicker of amusement touched his expression.

"I have heard nothing but good things so far."

The statement was technically true, though the foxkin was careful not to elaborate on precisely which things he had heard. Judging by the slight flush that immediately threatened Leofric's ears, the young man already suspected enough.

Momo mercifully spared him any further embarrassment and moved toward the table.

Settling into one of the chairs, he took a moment simply to observe.

The room felt alive.

Not grand. Not luxurious.

Lived in.

The books spread before Leofric. Merifrith's knitting resting nearby. The gentle disorder of a kitchen actively used rather than maintained for appearances. Every worn edge, every repaired surface, every scuff in the floorboards told a story of years spent beneath this roof.

It reminded him of home. Not because it looked the same. Because it felt the same.

His gaze settled briefly on the books in front of Leofric before shifting back toward Hroðgar.

"So you're the blacksmith."

There was genuine interest in his voice.

"Osytha mentioned the forge earlier. I've always admired smiths. There is something reassuring about people who spend their days making things that last."

Then he nodded toward the open texts scattered across the table.

"And what about you?" he asked Leofric. "Scholar? Scribe? Future village elder?"

The teasing was gentle, inviting rather than mocking.

As Merifrith busied herself preparing tea, Momo found himself relaxing further into his chair.

For the first time in weeks—perhaps longer—Momo felt strangely at peace. His gaze drifted toward the hearth, watching the firelight dance and flicker across the room's wooden surfaces. The sight stirred something deep within him, and with it came another memory. Akari laughing. Or at least, he knew she had been laughing. He remembered the sound of it clearly enough, remembered the warmth that always seemed to follow her wherever she went, remembered how it felt to be near her. Yet when he tried to picture her face, there was only emptiness. The image dissolved before it could fully form, slipping through his grasp like water through open fingers.

His smile faltered for the briefest moment as a knot tightened low in his stomach. Again. Just like before. How long had this been happening? He couldn't say, and somehow that uncertainty frightened him more than the missing memory itself. His fingers curled subtly against the edge of the armrest before he forced the thought away. Not now. These people had welcomed him into their home with open arms. He would not repay that kindness by bringing shadows to their table. A moment later, the smile returned as naturally as breathing, warm and easy, revealing nothing of the unease lurking beneath.

Momo looked back toward the others.

"So," he said lightly, rescuing both himself and the conversation from darker roads, "what exactly have I missed while I was asleep?"

His eyes flicked toward the empty seat where Osytha ought to have been.

"Where has my knight in shining armor gotten to?"

 

[Osytha]

“And what about you? Scholar? Scribe? Future village elder?”​

It’s not just the nose and hair — Leofric has also inherited his mother’s penchant for a nervous flush, judging by the way awkward colour is flooding into his face.

“Um… nay,” the lad mumbles, as he and Hroðgar return to their seats. “I jus’… like readin’…”

“Our Osytha’s been teachin’ ’im ’is letters,” Meri remarks from her busy little spot at the bench. Porcelain clinks and clanks with the familiar percussion of tea-making amenities. “She oft brings summat for Leofric to practice on whene’er she stops by.”

“I’m actually, um, ’prenticed to dad as a— a blacksmith.” Leofric’s voice is soft, maybe even as soft as Meri’s, and he seems more comfortable staring at the table than into Momo’s eyes. “But I does enjoy t’work.”

Hroðgar grins a little as the cup comes up to his lips. “An’ lucky for us. ’E’ll mek a fine smith ane of these days — Hræfn Leah shall be in good ’ands.” Father takes a sip of his draught while Leofric’s bashfulness only appears to deepen at the compliment, and then the smith continues on, “Speakin’ of… if’n tha hast any need of us skills there, Momo lad, do tell. We’s mostly farriers, but we does all sorts of jobs, really.”

A low, warning screech begins to issue from the kettle, and Meri takes it from the fire. A fresh tray of tea is laid upon the table in short order, let to steep. “Jus’ tell us when tha’rt feelin’ ’ungry,” she urges Momo, joining them all at the table again. Her tick-tick-ing of knitting needles picks back up; it looks like a very small, very cosy onesie is coming together in green and tawny wool over there.

“Where has my knight in shining armor gotten to?”​

That tip-tap noise stops for a second. Meri’s expression falls into something… sad? Worried? Yes, certainly something anxious there; easy to see where Leo gets it from. Hroðgar notices it as well, like he knew just how she’d react to Momo’s question, and the man puts a comforting hand upon his wife’s knee.

“She ’ad to go investigate summat,” the smith explains to Momo. “Word came in that ane of Jenny Rifemont’s ahtlyin’ fields was torn up reight fierce, by some big beastie perchance. Fair close to t’road tha camest in by, truth told.”

“Why’d she ’ave to go?” Meri wonders aloud. “There’s s’posed to be twa of ’em if’n they does owt. Why’d she go by hersen?”

“Hey now, my flower.” Hroðgar gives that knee a little jostle. “Our gel’s jus’ ’avin’ a gander. If there’s summat aht there, Osytha’s goin’ to wait for t’order to send another body afore they goes any further. She said so hersen—”

He’s interrupted by a distinct creak and thud from the back door, and the mad scramble of tiny claws against woodwork. No sooner has Meri shot up from the table before Guffy gallops in, bounding and leaping and snuffling and licking from person to person, while the sounds of someone kicking off their shoes reaches them from the mudroom.

“Osytha?” Merifrith steps over to the doorway just as footsteps sound along the corridor — and then there she is; the woman in question, blinking against the kitchen’s light and warmth as her blue eyes rove across the gathered faces.

“’Eyup,” Osytha says to them.

Meri’s hands rest themselves on her daughter’s arms, and she gives the younger woman a fretful scan up and down. “Osytha love — what ’appened aht there? Art tha hurt—?”

“I’m fine, mum,” replies the knight, smiling back before breaking the embrace to head toward the fire. She brings her hands up to catch a bit of warmth radiating out from that hearth. “All nicely, I swear. Just a mite starved.”

Hroðgar uncorks an earthenware flask and begins to pour out a dram of something amber into another cup. “An’ what learned’st tha?” he asks, tone more serious than it was before. That potent smell fills the room, and he pushes the fresh vessel over to Osytha’s side of the table for her. “Owt we need be concerned ower?”

“’Ard to say,” Osytha replies with a shake of her head. “There were summat mighty big aht in t’field, that’s for sure. But there en’t any trace of Blight left, if’n that’s even what et were. Nor any other odd traces in t’Shroud.” She briefly rubs her hands together, then sticks them back toward the fire. “In fact, et’s like it appeared reight there in Jenny’s paddock, ’ad a good thrash about, then up an’ vanished just as mysteriously…”

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

Momo had been listening quietly while the family spoke, content for a time to simply exist within the warmth of the kitchen. The crackle of the hearth, the scent of tea, the easy familiarity shared between parents and children—it all felt pleasantly foreign and strangely comforting at once.

At Osytha's arrival, however, his attention sharpened. He watched the concern pass between her family members, watched the way her father immediately shifted from welcome to business, and listened carefully as she described what she had found.

Or rather, what she had not found.

At first he simply listened.

Then she mentioned the location.

The road.

The field.

Something clicked.

His ears twitched sharply.

"...Wait."

The word left him before he quite realized he had spoken.

"I think that's where..."

A faint crease formed between his brows as memory surfaced. Not a pleasant memory, necessarily, but a vivid one. Brilliant scales flashing beneath daylight. Torn earth. A creature that got close to besting him. He had to pull his trump card to bring it down.

His gaze shifted to Osytha.

"I was there."

The room suddenly seemed a little quieter.

"Well... not there when you investigated. Earlier." He rubbed the back of his neck. "That was where I encountered a particularly troublesome spirit. The Rainbow Dragon."

The title still sounded silly spoken aloud but that's what it looked like so that's what he called it.

"It had been terrorizing local farmers, cattle, horses, etc. I offered to look into it. I lured it out by leaking my own spiritual (Shroud) energy, flaring it so to speak, like a beacon. One moment the skies were empty, and the next..." He gestured vaguely. "Dragon."

His tail flicked behind his chair.

"It had been awhile since I fought it, but I figured there might still be some residual energy left behind, a glimmer here and there. Very interesting."

His gaze drifted briefly toward the fire before returning to Osytha.

"Most things leave something behind. A footprint. A lingering impression. Spirits do it. People do it. Even places can. If you know where to look anyway."

Momo paused before offering Osytha a small, apologetic smile.

"I apologize. I was the reason you were called out there. I never did check in with those that requested my help. Need to let them know all is well."

His smile faded and he narrowed his red eyes.

"I'll go back out with you tomorrow. There's still something bugging me about this whole thing."

 

[Osytha]

Four sets of eyes — three of them politely blank, one much lower down and still possessed of its usual, baseline excitability — regard Momoshiro carefully as the exorcist fills in some gaps for them.

Osytha’s silence lasts a couple seconds after he’s done, a pronounced quiet astride the balmy murmur of the fire. Until she blinks, and glances back into its flames.

“Yon Rainbow Dragon, eh?” Her demeanour is distant, and slightly wondrous. “Sounds like quite a thing to behold…”

Hroðgar gives a little hum. “Word is that crops ’ave been stricken summat terrible sou’ of t’woods this year. Jenny said ’er dogs ’ave been actin’ that strangely, an’ all. Goin’ mad to herd their ships away from empty fields, that sort of thing.”

Osytha nods, gently, then turns her face to Momo. “To be honest, I’d kenned et were thy ’andiwork,” she tells him with a put-upon little sigh. “Din’t glean t’specifics, mind you. But Guffers an’ I followed your trail easy enow back to where we met upon t’road. After which, et weren’t ’ard to put t’pieces together given what you’d already told us.”

Osytha turns from the fire, and carefully scoots back an empty chair as she takes a seat. Her hand wraps itself around the cup before her, and she shakes her head disappointedly at the foxkin.

“Bugger,” Osytha laments, with a rueful smirk. “I reckoned I’d get to see you squirm at least a little bit, but ’ere you go fessin’ up reight aht t’gate. You are no fun at all, Momo.”

Meri’s needles still once more. “Osytha!”

The knight cackles a bit. “Eyah, sorry! Sorry. Still, t’look on your face for a moment there… well. I does appreciate you explainin’ things, nonetheless.” She peers down into her cup. “Fact is, well — I en’t a weaver, so often I mun rely on tools to observe t’Shroud. I don’t ’ave an instinct for et, so… could be I jus’ missed summat, perchance.”

Happen so. But Osytha doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

“Ah dursn’t much care for t’thought of tha goin’ aht there so soon,” Meri says to Momo, worry stamped all across her face. “Tha canst ne be well enow recovered… but, if tha’rt owt like my Osytha, I ken tha shalt find little rest as long as this plagues thee…”

Osytha nods, and looks over to Momo. “Alright; we’ll go ’ave us a gander on t’morrow, but only that — nay pushin’ yersen, Momo. Doctor’s orders. But I was meanin’ to get you aht an’ abaht afore you yode stir-crazy, anyroad.” She finally lifts up her cup, gesturing with it in his direction, and adds: “A little excursion et is, then. ’Ere’s to your continuin’ verticality, Momo.”

“An’ to thy nose,” Hroðgar joins in, smiling and raising his own vessel at Osytha.

“Ta, dad,” she grins back at him. “To thy hairline, an’ all. Cheers.”

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

Momo stared at Osytha for a moment, thoroughly betrayed.

The expression lasted all of three seconds before a reluctant laugh escaped him and he shook his head.

"You already knew?"

His tail flicked once behind him as he sank back slightly in his chair.

"Here I was thinking I'd managed to preserve at least a little dignity."

A glance toward Guffers immediately informed him that no such dignity had survived the encounter.

"Though I suppose collapsing in front of the lady knight rather undermined that effort."

The warmth of the room made it easy to laugh about now. Easy to sit there among these people and pretend the world was a simpler place than it often proved to be. For a few moments he allowed himself that luxury.

When Osytha spoke of the Shroud, however, his smile softened into something more thoughtful.

"You might have missed something," he admitted. "Or you might not have."

His fingers traced absently around the rim of his cup. He wanted to offer something to reassure her.

"I'm no traditional Weaver. The Shroud has never been my specialty. Spirits, though... those I understand." He turned the cup slightly between his hands. "Sometimes they leave traces so obvious that anyone can find them if they know where to look. Other times the signs are far subtler. They're still there, but unless you know exactly what you're searching for, you'll walk right past them. Even a seasoned Weaver."

His ears lowered slightly as he considered the field again.

"But that's what troubles me. A manifestation that large should have left scars. Not necessarily physical ones. Spiritual ones. Echoes. Residue. Something..."

His gaze drifted toward the dancing firelight.

"Instead it sounds like it was.. erased."

The notion clearly bothered him.

After a moment he exhaled and let the concern go for now. There would be time enough to investigate tomorrow.

At Merifrith's concern, Momo offered her a reassuring smile.

"I promise I won't do anything reckless."

A pause.

Then his eyes slid sideways toward Osytha.

"...At least nothing more reckless than following a knight into the wilderness to investigate a potentially dangerous mystery."

The grin that followed made it abundantly clear he understood exactly how little comfort that promise provided.

When Osytha raised her cup, Momo mirrored the gesture. He contributed nothing further to the toast beyond a warm smile and a dip of his head. For a moment, as he sipped his tea, the conversation faded into the background. His eyes settled on the hearth, and something distant passed behind them—thoughts wandering roads far from Hræfn Leah.

After a moment, Momo blinked and drew himself back to the present. The firelight, the voices, the warmth of the room all returned at once. His gaze drifted around the table, lingering briefly on each of them in turn—Merifrith with her knitting, Hroðgar with his easy steadiness, Leofric hunched over his books, and Osytha beside them all. There was a quiet fondness in his expression as he looked upon them, as though committing the moment to memory.

Then, before anyone could ask what occupied his thoughts, he set his cup down and rose from his chair.

"Excuse me for a moment," he said softly.

A small wave accompanied the words before he crossed the room and stepped outside.

The cool evening air met him immediately, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and distant fields. Momo drew a slow breath into his lungs and released it just as gradually. Above him, the heavens stretched clear and vast, countless stars scattered across the darkness like flecks of silver dust.

His crimson eyes wandered among them, searching for nothing in particular.

The laughter and warmth behind him spilled faintly through the walls of the cottage. It should have been comforting.

Instead, it stirred an old unease.

For a little while, sitting at that table, he had almost managed to forget. Almost managed to imagine himself as something ordinary—a traveler sharing tea with good people in a quiet village.

But ordinary lives had a way of suffering whenever his path crossed them for too long.

His fingers tightened briefly against his sleeves.

A dragon that didn't belong. Missing memories. Nightmares. The growing sense that something unseen was following just behind him, waiting patiently for the moment he stopped looking over his shoulder.

No. Whatever shadow had attached itself to his journey, these people deserved no part of it.

The thought settled heavily in his chest as he stared up at the stars.

Behind him was warmth, family, and safety.

Ahead lay the road.

Somehow, he had always known which of the two was meant for him.

 

[Osytha]

Things continue on a while as they were in the kitchen. Warm, richly-scented, and draped in the lulling drone of small, mundane things; needles click, a pen scribbles, embers tut and grumble. Soft teasing hangs on the air, the kind of jabs which only those intimate with one another feel comfortable trading. Mostly between Osytha and Hroðgar, though quiet Leofric comes in with a couple well-placed witticisms from out of the blue, and all the more devastating for it. Don’t let that timid demeanour fool you; he’s a bit of a dark horse, our Leo. One can never tell when that silence is shyness or when he’s just biding his time.

Merifrith, of course, is the first to worry. Osytha notices her mother cast an anxious glance toward the doorway; Momo’s been gone for some time, longer than one usually needs for the unspoken reasons that a body oft makes their excuses for in these situations. But, maybe it’s something else. At the very least, Osytha should check that someone’s actually explained what all the bits and bobs are for, or that no-one’s used up all the consumables and left the poor man stranded.

“I’ll go see if ’e’s fallen in,” she assures Meri. Osytha downs the last of her apple brandy, then shuffles around the table. But she stops behind Leofric long enough to put her hands on his shoulders, lean in close, and murmur, “Proud of thee, boyo.”

The lad’s cheeks immediately burn to scarlet, and Osytha’s off and grinning again before Meri can start on scolding her. She slips into her shoes by the back door, then steps outside. Alone, this time; that cushion by the fire had been calling Guffy’s name, and he’s perfectly content to stay curled up back in the kitchen.

Osytha sees the foxkin as soon as she opens the door. He’s just standing there aback of the house, staring up at the sky. The night has a cold burn to it, the kind as makes your nose run. Crisp, sharp air with the ever-present hint of smoke — like good whisky. Across the village green, light and noise spills soft out from the Raven’s Wing. Half the Leah up and celebrating that the end of harvest is in sight, the other half, having an early night so they can stay on top of whatever work’s required to keep it that way. The revelry is nothing compared to what awaits them all the night of the festival, but it’s lively enough yet, with a chorus of voices rising up in song atop notes of cittern and Altalusian smallpipes.

“Ah’ve been a wild rover for many's the year
An’ Ah’ve spent all me money on whisky an’ beer
But now Ah'm returnin’ wi’ gold in great store
An’ Ah nivver will play the wild rover no more”​

Door clunks shut behind her, easy but solid. Osytha steps light over scythe-shorn grass to beside Momo, hugging her arms about herself, and joins him in staring out to the endless deeps.

“Sorry for teasin’ you back there,” she tells him, quietly. Even with that background noise of merriment, there’s a tranquility to the night. It demands the respect of hushed tones. “I en’t actually upset. Rather t’opposite, in truth — I’m allus fain to learn summat new. You’ll be doin’ me a reight favour, goin’ back aht there wi’ me on t’morrow. Thank’ee.”

“An’ et's no, nay, nivver—”
*THUMP* *THUMP* *THUMP*
“—No nay nivver, no more
Will Ah play the wild rover
No nivver, no more”​

“I’ll leave you be if’n you wish, only, I never got to ax whether you’re feelin’ any better.”

Her gaze comes down. Settles, as it so often does without her even thinking it, on the dark little house over at the edge of town.

“If et’s all a bit much for you, we can set you up in t’owd cottage,” Osytha goes on. “Be nice an’ quiet there, an’ et’s a cosy little bield. Give you a bit more privacy, an’ all.”

She turns her head to face him. Tries to find what there is to find in the man’s face, in his eyes. Red doesn’t always show up under moonlight, but when enough of them are shining, when the colour is bright enough… poppies and pheasant’s eye, I see you.

“But, first… are you doin’ alreight there, Momo?”

---

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

For a long moment, Momo didn't answer.

The cold air filled his lungs and left in a slow stream as he continued staring upward. Above them, the stars scattered across the heavens in impossible numbers, sharp and brilliant against the darkness. Back home, he had always found comfort in them. They were constant things. Reliable things. Lately, even that certainty felt harder to hold onto.

The distant song from the Raven's Wing drifted across the village green, carried on laughter and pipe music. Warm sounds. Living sounds. The sort of sounds that belonged to places where people felt safe enough to sing after sunset.

When he finally glanced toward Osytha, there was a faint smile on his face.

"You don't need to apologize. Besides, if anyone earned the right to tease me, it's probably the woman who nursed me back to health."

The smile lingered for a moment before softening into something quieter. His gaze wandered toward the distant lights spilling from the tavern windows, thoughtful now.

"And I meant what I said. I'd like to help tomorrow if I can. Not because of the dragon, or whatever happened in that field, but because you seemed concerned enough to ride out there yourself. You strike me as the sort of person who doesn't worry easily."

He folded his arms loosely against the chill.

"As for feeling better..." A small breath escaped him. "Physically? Much. Your mother's cooking and your family's hospitality could probably revive the dead."

There was humor in the remark, but only a little. His eyes dropped to the grass beneath their feet, and for a few moments he watched the moonlight silvering the blades.

"Mentally is harder to answer."

The admission came quietly. Not dramatic. Not burdened. Just honest.

Silence settled between them again, companionable and unhurried. Somewhere across the village another burst of laughter rose from the tavern, followed by the steady rhythm of boots thumping against floorboards. Momo listened to it for a moment before speaking again.

"I've spent most of my later life moving. Roads. Rivers. Shrines. Villages. Always somewhere else waiting beyond the horizon." A faint laugh escaped him. "I used to think that was freedom. Maybe it still is. But sometimes I wonder if I've been walking for so long that I've forgotten how to stop."

The words drifted away on the night air. The distant song carried on.

No, nay, never...

His gaze followed the sound for a time before settling on the small cottage at the edge of the village. The one Osytha's eyes seemed to find whenever she wasn't paying attention to where she was looking. Something in his expression softened.

"No," he said gently. "I think I'd rather stay where I am."

His eyes returned to hers.

"Your family has been kinder to me than they had any reason to be. I'd like to enjoy that while I can."

For just a moment, something darker flickered behind his red eyes, passing like a shadow behind a lantern flame before disappearing again.

"Truthfully..." he said, quieter now, turning his gaze back toward the stars, "I don't think I came outside because I needed privacy."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I think I was afraid I was starting to feel at home."

The confession lingered between them. Then he shook his head and let out a small, self-conscious chuckle.

"And for the record?" He glanced sideways at her. "I'm alright, Osytha."

Not perfect. Not entirely truthful, perhaps. But closer than he had been in quite some time.

"Thank you for coming to check on me, but how are you doing?"

 

[Osytha]

“Truthfully... I don’t think I came outside because I needed privacy. I think I was afraid I was starting to feel at home.”​

There’s a faint little huff of amusement from beside Momo after he says that.

“Ah, don’t you fret now,” Osytha assures him. “Mum likes to hum t’same couple bars from a song for days on end. Leo’s allus leavin’ ’is dishes aht. Dad’s a rowdy drunk. An’ I… well, I’m me. We’ll soon ’ave you beggin’ to be on your way, you’d best believe et.”

But humour fades to something else when Momo asks his question. The words land, and they pin Osytha’s gaze on him for a few moments longer. When it does free itself at last, she turns it back skyward.

“’Ow am I?” she repeats to the stars.

Osytha hasn’t actually stopped to consider that for a while now. She’d just assumed all was more or less gradeley, but no, a little introspection always reveals more lurking right under the surface.

Out here, speaking softly under the night… another thing Osytha realises, is that she doesn’t feel the need to pretend at anything. Not when speaking with Momo.

“I’m scared,” she tells him; voice hushed, but pitched steady. “I allus get a bit scared comin’ home. Mum, dad — they en’t growin’ any younger, an’ et’s gettin’ harder not to think about t’day I rides in an’ someone just… en’t here anymore.”

More and more as days, weeks, months; years go by, Osytha is realising how much she’d taken Merifrith for granted when she was younger. It was only once she hit the demands of Astenvale, and later saw how it gets even tougher out in the world beyond, that she began to understand what she’d turned her back on for all that time. And now these years feel like they’re pouring between her fingers too fast, much too fast. Too many new whites in her mother’s hair every time Osytha makes it back. Too much stiffness in the woman’s joints that wasn’t there before.

And even so…

“T’fact is, though — odds are et’ll be my turn first.” The gambeson whispers, lightly, as Osytha’s arms tighten about herself some more. “Lots of knights who was better’n me ’ave died younger. But… you saw ’ow mum were cryin’ when we got ’ere? Well, she allus cries. Whenivver I comes ’ere, I’m scared et might be t’last time, aye. But I’s downright terrified of what that’s goin’ to do to ’er.

“Funny thing is — I’m scared to leave t’order, too.” A soft laugh at that. “I made an oath, aye, but us Knights do a lot to protect t’peace around ’ere. Won’t say we nivver get things wrong, but still. I feels they’re all safer wi’ me aht there doin’ my thing instead of hangin’ around ’ere. I dursn’t even ken what I’d do if I wasn’t a Knight. Guess I’s scared of that, an’ all. Findin’ aht there’s simply nowt more to me than this.”

The stars look pretty, twinkling away. Those moons, too, are never without their majesty; even when the Blight swells to their enigmatic tides, the lunar bodies are quite something to behold. Yet, Osytha finds her eyes drawn back to the dancing meadows, crimson even under moonlight.

“So I’m fain I met you today,” she tells him, and that gladness is something he can hear in her voice. “Things like that ’elp make et all feel worthwhile, you ken? I’s also fain et meant you was able to meet ’em all. An’ besides that, et’s… jus’ been nice, havin’ you around.”

She smiles. “Whoever ends up by your side aht there, I reckon they’s goin’ to be lucky to ’ave you, Momoshiro.”

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

Momo listened without interruption.

The first thing he noticed wasn't what Osytha said. It was the surprise. The way she had repeated the question back to him. The brief pause afterward. The subtle uncertainty that had crept into her voice, as though nobody had asked her that in quite some time—or perhaps nobody whose answer mattered.

His eyes drifted upward alongside hers, following the stars while she spoke. He remained quiet all the way through it, letting her thoughts unfold at their own pace. Some people needed solutions. Others simply needed room enough to be heard.

When she finished speaking of her parents, his expression softened.

"I think that fear means you're fortunate."

His voice was gentle.

"Not because it feels fortunate. It sounds miserable, honestly. But because there are people in your life whose absence would leave a wound that deep."

His gaze settled on the distant lights of the village.

"I understand it, though. Every time you come home, part of you is waiting for the world to have changed while you were away. Waiting for a door not to open. Waiting for a familiar voice not to answer."

A small smile touched his lips.

"But from what I've seen today, your family adores you. Not politely. Not dutifully. Truly. Your mother nearly adopted me within twenty minutes and I've known her for less than a day. I can only imagine what she's like with her actual daughter."

The amusement faded into something more thoughtful.

"And as for being afraid you'll go first... that's not an irrational fear. You're a knight. You put yourself between danger and other people. That's part of what makes you who you are."

His eyes lowered briefly.

"I've known warriors and soldiers. Priests. Exorcists. Travelers. Good people. Some of them didn't get the years they deserved."

There was a quiet honesty in his voice that suggested experience rather than theory.

"But Osytha..." He turned toward her fully. "If that day comes decades from now, or tomorrow, or anywhere in between, your mother will grieve because she loves you. Not because you failed her. Not because you made the wrong choice."

A faint crease appeared between his brows.

"You can't protect her from loving you. And you certainly can't carry responsibility for every sorrow she might someday feel."

For a moment he simply watched the moonlight catch in the edges of her hair.

"And for what it's worth," he added with a faint smile, "I think you're dramatically underselling your odds. You seem absurdly difficult to kill."

The attempt at humor lingered only briefly before the conversation turned to her fears about leaving the Order. That earned another smile from him, warmer this time.

"There," he said, pointing lightly in her direction. "That. The fact that you immediately assumed your worth might begin and end with being a knight."

Momo shook his head.

"Osytha, I know you're not fishing for compliments, and I know you well enough already to know that isn't what this is. But people aren't jobs or their duty."

His gaze drifted toward the cottage.

"Your mother isn't just a healer. Your father isn't just a blacksmith. Leofric isn't just an apprentice."

His eyes returned to hers.

"And you're not just a knight."

The words came easily now.

"You're the woman who stops for strangers on lonely roads. The woman who worried more about a collapsed traveler than arriving home. The woman who teaches her brother to read and remembers to bring him books."

A small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

"You're the woman whose entire family visibly relaxes when she walks through the door."

His shoulders rose and fell in a slight shrug.

"Take away the armor and the title and the oath and all I'd lose is a description. I'd still recognize you."

For a while there was only the distant music and the whisper of wind moving through the fields.

Then she spoke again.

“So I’m fain I met you today. Things like that ’elp make et all feel worthwhile, you ken? I’s also fain et meant you was able to meet ’em all. An’ besides that, et’s… jus’ been nice, havin’ you around.”

“Whoever ends up by your side aht there, I reckon they’s goin’ to be lucky to ’ave you, Momoshiro.”​

Momo blinked.

The foxkin opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

For perhaps the first time all evening, he genuinely had no idea what to say.

A faint flush immediately betrayed him beneath the moonlight, spreading across his cheeks and climbing toward the tips of his ears. He looked away so quickly it was almost suspicious, one hand coming up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck.

"Well..."

Brilliant opening.

"I..."

Wonderful. Excellent work, Momoshiro.

For several seconds he stared stubbornly toward the tavern lights as though they might provide some form of rescue. Eventually a quiet, embarrassed laugh escaped him. When he finally looked back at her, there was something unguarded in his expression. Something honest.

"I don't think you realize how much that means to hear."

The humor faded.

"I spend most of my life passing through places. A few days here. A few weeks there. Long enough to help someone. Long enough to know their names. Then I leave. Usually that's how it's supposed to be."

His eyes drifted toward the stars again.

"But every now and then, you meet someone and it doesn't feel temporary."

The admission came quietly.

"You make the world feel smaller in a good way. Less lonely."

His gaze found hers once more.

"No matter where I end up after this, I'm going to remember... you."

The smile that followed was soft and entirely genuine.

 

[Osytha]

It’s is the first time Osytha’s admitted all this. Until today, she’d just believed that searching for the answers to such doubts, or ways to palate the hardtack of these fears — that would be something she’d have to do alone. Didn’t know how to even begin telling anyone else about them all.

Now here she is with Momo, and putting it all into words has somehow become the easiest thing in the world. He’s not family, and he’s no Knight of Anathaeum. A stranger she’s known for less than a day. Yet… maybe they recognised something in one other, despite all that. Because he doesn’t at all feel like a stranger to Osytha.

Uncanny, how he can see her more clearly than she can see herself.

“You can’t protect her from loving you.”​

Of all the things Momoshiro says to her then, that’s the bit which blindsides Osytha. “You can’t protect her from loving you.” Why does that unsettle her so? The words linger aback of her mind, like some presence watching over her shoulder. Now she knows it’s there, she can’t ignore it.

Though, not the only thing Momo says which cuts close to the bone. “And you’re not just a knight;” she’d been agreeing with that very sentiment only hours before as they rode into Hræfn Leah. How easy it is refuse oneself the same grace which one extends to everybody else. Physician, heal thy sen. Truth is, Osytha has found she’s able to shed that mantle from time to time. It started coming to her after the Lie. And if she’s even more honest about it, those times she can forget that she’s a Knight? They might be the times she feels most like herself of all.

Times like now. The way she feels so very seen by Momoshiro, it makes Osytha more aware of herself, too. Somehow makes her seem more real. He’s shining a light on parts of her she’d not thought to look at before. Or simply had not wanted to. Yet, even if they’re ugly, uncomfortable pieces of herself, she feels more whole now to have them back. Makes her wonder how many other things she’s lied to herself about.

The Lie… when Merifrith admitted to it. How surprised was Osytha by that point, really? “You can’t protect her from loving you.” No, she supposes she can’t. But a part of her feels like it’s been trying to. Pushing her mother away with one arm, while the other wants to hold on…

Who’s she actually upset with, here?

“Ah went to an alehouse Ah used to frequent,
An’ told t’landlady my money was spent.
Ah ax ’er for credit, she answered me ‘Nay,
such a custom as yours Ah can ’ave any day’.”​

Revelry continues to spill from the tavern, though the verse crack partway through; sounds like dozens of voices trying, with mixed success, to keep it together as one of their rosined number makes a fool spectacle of themselves. Could be Mathilda’s deep enough in her cups to suddenly believe she can juggle (she can’t), or Ol’ Trev is doing the ‘kegs dance’ again…

It hardly registers to Osytha. Her eyes are on the foxkin, as he looks back at her in a tender moment. Waits to see how his next words will cut to the heart of things. Again.

“I don’t think you realize how much that means to hear. I spend most of my life passing through places. A few days here. A few weeks there. Long enough to help someone. Long enough to know their names. Then I leave. Usually that’s how it’s supposed to be.​

“But every now and then, you meet someone and it doesn't feel temporary. You make the world feel smaller in a good way. Less lonely. No matter where I end up after this, I'm going to remember... you.”​

​

Momo holds her in his smile. Even when she glances down, the woman still feels that cardinal gaze gripping her. It’s hard to meet, though. Not because she isn’t glad to hear those words. She is. It makes Osytha very glad to hear the man speak her own feelings back to her. But as much as it’s a comfort, it’s not without its sadness either. And she can’t quite find it in her to smile, the way he is.

“Aye,” says Osytha, with a softness to match his own. “Et’s barely been a day, yet… I reckon I’m goin’ to miss you. When you go.”

Might be in a couple of days. Might be a lot longer than that, depending on whether they both leave Hræfn Leah at the same time and by the same road. Sooner or later, though, they’ll part ways. Komori Momoshiro can’t stay here, any more than Syr Osytha could leave everything behind.

Slowly, she does lift her head back up to him. Sees how his sharp features can hold such gentleness. That spill of white locks, tall ears and expressive tail; all humming with moonlight. How warm, the red of his gaze.

Osytha searches his eyes. “Momo…”

… sees his weariness. Running so deep that an afternoon nap and bit of soup have likely only scratched the surface. Remembers, then, why she brought him here in the first place. Osytha means to ease his troubles; not add to them. Man had only stepped out here to enjoy the stars in a bit of peace and quiet. Let him at least have that.

She does find a smile for him, then. An apologetic little thing, before she looks away and falls silent so Momo can return to his thoughts, if he wishes it.

Doesn’t leave his side, though. Maybe he’ll not feel so lonely if she’s still there, for the man has had more than his share of loneliness already. And like Osytha had said, it’s just nice to be around him. Why not enjoy that while she can?

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

Momo was quiet for a long time.

Not because he lacked an answer. Quite the opposite. There were too many of them.

The music drifting from the tavern continued somewhere beyond the darkness. Voices rose and fell. Laughter followed. Life carried on in its ordinary, unremarkable way while they stood beneath the stars speaking of things neither of them seemed willing to discuss with anyone else. When Osytha finally admitted she would miss him, something tightened unexpectedly in his chest. His gaze lingered on the village lights, watching them flicker softly against the night.

"Yes," he said at last.

The word escaped him before he could dress it up into something clever.

"I think I'll miss you too."

There was no humor in it. No attempt to soften the admission. Just the truth.

The foxkin lowered his eyes for a moment and smiled faintly to himself. "It is strange. I've crossed kingdoms. Lived among people whose names I can barely remember now. Shared roads with travelers for months at a time. And yet..." His tail shifted lazily through the grass behind him. "Sometimes one day matters more than an entire year."

The silence that followed felt comfortable. Easy. Neither of them seemed in any hurry to fill it. For a while they simply stood there beneath the stars, listening to the distant singing and watching moonlight spill across the village rooftops. Eventually the song from the tavern changed. Then changed again. Lamps disappeared from windows one by one as villagers drifted home. The chill deepened. Somewhere nearby an owl called into the darkness.

At some point Momo found himself yawning. The realization seemed to surprise him.

A laugh escaped his throat.

"I believe your mother was correct," he said, rubbing at one eye. "A very nostalgic experience for me."

The smile he offered Osytha was warm.

"Thank you, again. For stopping on that road today."

The words carried more weight than they appeared to.

With one final glance toward the stars, he turned back toward the house. Toward the warmth waiting inside. Toward the smell of tea and woodsmoke. Toward the family that had somehow begun to feel familiar in the span of a single afternoon. For once, the foxkin did not argue with the feeling.

---

Sleep came easier that night.

Not perfect. Not peaceful. But easier.

Dreams still found him, as they always did. Fragments. Memories. Half-remembered fears. A flash of blood illuminated by firelight. The distant sound of screaming. Akari's laughter. His mother's hands folding laundry beneath a summer sun. The images drifted through his mind like pages torn from different stories and stitched together incorrectly. He reached for them instinctively, trying to hold onto something familiar.

Akari laughed again.

Or he knew she had.

He remembered the warmth of it. The comfort. The certainty that hearing it had once brought him.

But when he tried to picture her face, the image dissolved before it could fully form.

Again.

Always before he could see her face.

Momo stirred in his sleep. Something twisted painfully in his chest. Then the dream shifted. The fire vanished. The blood vanished. Even the laughter faded away. For a little while there was only the sound of wind moving through tall grass beneath an endless summer sky.

Morning arrived before he was ready for it.

A knock sounded somewhere beyond the door. Then another. Followed shortly thereafter by a familiar voice, muffled through wood and stone and carrying far more enthusiasm than any reasonable person should possess at this hour. The smell of breakfast drifted faintly through the room. Birdsong echoed beyond the window.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, Momoshiro woke without immediately reaching for his katana.

The realization lingered only briefly before reality reasserted itself.

A torn field.

A vanished dragon.

A mystery waiting beyond the village.

His eyes opened slowly. He stared up at the ceiling for several long moments before groaning and dragging a hand across his face. Sometime during the night, he had apparently lost a wrestling match against the bed. The blankets were twisted into hopeless knots around his legs, one pillow had somehow ended up on the floor, and the other was trapped beneath his shoulder. His white hair had escaped its tie entirely and sprawled in every direction like a snowdrift caught in a storm, while his tail had commandeered most of the remaining mattress for itself. The bed looked less slept in than survived. Momo lay there for another second, blinking at the aftermath, before letting out a long sigh.

"Five more minutes."

Silence.

"...Ten."

Another pause. He blew a bit of hair away from his face.

"Fiiiiine."

Then, with all the enthusiasm of a man marching toward his own execution, the foxkin pushed himself upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Investigation awaited.

 

[Osytha]

Busy busy busy; up at sparrow’s fart to get Forbs fed and ready before Osytha’s even had a bite of breakfast for herself, plus, she’d also wanted to catch Driwethen before the fellow headed out to the fields. Had a little something to arrange for Momo.

She thinks he’ll be chuffed.

By the time she returns, Hroðgar and Leofric have already gone on their way; the harvest is as ripe as it’s going to get, and the weather doesn’t work its schedule around people’s leisure. Every able body will be reaping from dawn to dusk until such day as they come home with the corn mother amongst their ranks. So, it’s just Merifrith in the kitchen there, already on the task of frying up an couple of eggs, a slice of black pudding, and herbed, buttered ox tongue mushroom. A loaf of maslin bread sits out on the table, already half-vanished from the men’s efforts.

“Welcome back, love,” Meri says over her shoulder. “But don’t tha gost runnin’ off again afore tha hast ’ad some scran. Sit down for a spell, will’st tha? Besides, Ah’ve been… meaning to talk to thee.”

“Oh, aye?” Osytha tops up the kettle and puts that on. In truth, its heavy cast-iron body rarely has the chance to fully cool off in this household. “What’s all this abaht, now?”

“After breakfast. Speakin’ of, there’s a bit for t’wee lad there on t’bench. An’ some baggins for tha and Momo, should you be gone for a while.”

Osytha spots a small dish of carrot and tripe there; presumably that one’s Guffy’s. And next to it, a couple of parcels wrapped up in thick linen squares. Once she sets the dog’s food down, and the kitchen is filled again with the sound of a wooden dish being shepherded across the floor, she peels back a corner on one of the bundles to reveal—

“Beech-cakes?” she exclaims. Face lighting up at the tantalising sight of a nutty edge peeking out. “Why mother, what did I do to deserve such kindness—”

“Leave off!” Meri barks. Doesn’t even have to turn around; Osytha’s hand freezes halfway through the act of breaking off a piece of the thin cake. “Those is for later. Don’t go spoilin’ thy appetite now.”

Grumbling, reluctantly, Osytha tucks the cloth black into place. Then looks up at the sound of approaching footsteps, to find a very dishevelled Momoshiro in the kitchen doorway. Behind her, Meri scoops the fry-up onto a trencher and brings it over to the table.

“Eyup, me duck,” Osytha greets him, smiling broadly. Her look of excitement at the sight of breakfast being served quickly yields to one of hurt and confusion, as Meri puts the plate down in front of Momo. “Rough night, was et?”