Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Snufkin is late.

This in itself is not too odd as Snufkin tends to be late for most things. It’s part of his charm, or so he claims anyway when Moomin says it to him. Moomin thinks Snufkin could do with a little less charm to be honest as the way it is Moomin lets him get away with far too much.

Snorkmaiden also thinks he’s too soft on Snufkin, saying so with less and less fondness every season. Little My says Moomin is just soft in the head, so why not on Snufkin too by extension?

Little My shouldn’t really get an opinion, Moomin thinks. None the less, she gives it all the same.

‘If he’s any later he may as well pick up some lilies on the way.’

‘Lilies?’

‘For our graves,’ Little My says with a huff, flopping backwards onto the grass so she’s staring straight up at the sky. ‘Because we’ll definitely die of old age by the time he shows up.’

They’re sitting by the stream where it runs into the wood, further from the house and where the trees are a little closer together. It’s shady, which Moomin appreciates as he hasn’t quite shed his Winter coat yet and the Spring sun is particularly warm today. He might be nearly there though, with the rate Little My keeps reaching over to grab tiny fistfuls of fur and pulling it out.

‘You weren’t even invited,’ Moomin tells her grumpily, swatting at her as she goes to tug on more fur. ‘And stop pulling at me, will you!’

‘Not my fault you wouldn’t know a hairbrush if it came up and bit you.’

‘If you’re to be my hairbrush, you’ve bitten me plenty.’

‘Only when you deserve it,’ Little My says which is absolute rubbish as Moomin never deserves it. ‘This is boring. Let’s go to the tree without him! I’m hungry and fruit sounds pretty good right about now.’

‘If you want to go you can,’ Moomin tells her firmly, curling his knees up and resting his snout on top of them. ‘But I’m going to wait for Snufkin and then we’ll both go together. Just the two of us. As was the actual plan that you just inserted yourself into.’

‘Just the two of you, how original,’ Little My says sarcastically and she’s back to grabbing fluff off him. It tickles and makes him shiver. ‘Honestly, you see Snufkin more than you see your own girlfriend.’

Moomin frowns to try and hide how deeply hot his face goes, making his cheeks fluff up. ‘That’s not- don’t be ridiculous. I see them just the same amount.’

‘Poor Snorkmaiden if you think that’s better.’

‘What do you know about it anyway? You don’t have a girlfriend,’ Moomin says, thinking himself winning this argument but Little My just laughs.

‘If I did, I’d be sure to see her more often than you see yours.’

‘She wouldn’t fancy it anyway. This is a boys adventure,’ Moomin says and then instantly regrets it as it makes him sound like he’s about five. Little My laughs cruelly so she must also have thought so as well.

‘Why am I here then if this is a boys adventure?’

‘You weren’t supposed to be! You weren’t invited, remember?’ Moomin replies, ears back with frustration as he can tell her that until he’s blue in the face and she’d still stick around. ‘Anyway, you care so much about what Snorkmaiden’s doing why don’t you run off and bother her then?’

‘Bothering you is far more fun,’ Little My says as though this were obvious, rolling back up like a toy. She kicks her little feet against the grass. ‘Snufkin’s very late.’

Moomin jumps to his defence. ‘He’s just taking his time! He’s allowed.’

‘But you told him to meet you at ten and it’s nearly noon now, look!’ Little My points straight up at where the sun is high in the sky. ‘I think he’s not coming at all.’

‘Well,’ Moomin says, stomach sinking with disappointment as realises much the same. ‘If he’s not coming now then we’ll just do it later.’

‘Or we could do it with no Snufkin!’

‘I’d rather wait for him,’ Moomin replies and Little My scoffs at him. She stands up and brushes grass and Moomin fluff off her dress. ‘Even if he’s too late to do what we wanted, I’m sure we’ll think of something else to do.’

‘You sorry old sap,’ Little My says, shaking her head at him. ‘You shouldn’t let him get away with such bad manners, you know.’

Moomin tuts. ‘I don’t let him get away with anything.’

‘Mama was just the same with one of my brothers,’ Little My says, ignoring him and Moomin frowns at her, flicking his tail with impatience. ‘He got away with absolute murder, just because he was the littlest for the longest time.’

Something being very little and getting away with very much sounds more like someone else Moomin knows, if he’s to be honest and it likely isn't a brother and even less so to be Snufkin.

‘All she ever did when he was bold was shake her head and say, “Oh, sweet baby My-"' Little My suddenly stops, her eyebrows coming together. Moomin waits, but she says nothing else and when she still doesn’t after a little while, her face going quite red, Moomin realises what’s happened.

‘By my fluffy, white tail!’ he says, grinning and sitting up straighter so he might laugh at her better. ‘Have you actually forgotten your own brother’s name?’

‘Shut it!’ Little My snaps but it’s too late, Moomin is laughing. ‘I didn’t forget! It’s just slipped my mind for a minute, it’ll come to me!’

But it doesn’t seem to. Little My looks at her fingers, holding them up and curling them over and over as she evidently uses them to count. Moomin truly can’t stop laughing at her now. Oh, finally! Finally to have something to use against her!

‘Are you seriously counting?’

‘I’ve got thirty-five siblings and only two hands,’ Little My replies tersely, her cheeks all puffed up and red. ‘I’d like to see you give it a go!’

Moomin supposes he must concede that but he couldn’t imagine having something as important as a brother and not remembering said brother’s name.

‘I can’t believe you have to think about what your brother’s called.’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t, seeing as you never think at all.’

‘Oi, watch it,’ Moomin says, narrowing his eyes at her but she pays him no heed. ‘There’s no need to get nasty with me just because you’re getting as forgetful as you’re mother.’

Little My actually gasps and when she looks at him, she’s clearly livid. It ought not to be as funny as it is, but Moomin finds himself starting to giggle again.

‘What did you say?’

Now, perhaps a sensible troll would’ve apologised. Or backtracked in any other manner. Moomin has been accused of many things in his eighteen years and sensible has rarely, (if ever), been one of them.

‘Well, Mymbles aren’t known for their memory, are they?’

It’s Little My’s turn to puff up now, it seems. She's like one of the frogs down by the stream and the thought certainly doesn't help on the giggling front.

‘At least I can remember who he is at all, as opposed to you who’s always forgetting out of Snorkmaiden and Snufkin who you’re actually supposed to be coupled with,’ Little My says tartly and Moomin chokes, extremely offended and utterly mortified. He flushes all over and puffs up like a dandelion. More so as fluff blows off him after sticking up.

‘You- That’s not-! It isn’t like that!’

Moomin flaps uselessly as Little My smirks up at him, evidently pleased with having gotten the upper-paw here. 

'I'd say it'd be a fright to see what it's really like if what it seems is that shoddy an excuse,' she says archly and Moomin jumps to his feet, too uncomfortable to bear this conversation any longer.

'I'm going to go look for Snufkin,' he says, striding off with great purpose though he doesn't have much idea where to start. Behind him, he can hear Little My scurry after him.

'Maybe he's avoiding you!'

'No, he isn't,' Moomin says with a confidence he doesn't quite feel but he's hardly going to let Little My know that. He continues along through the wood, back towards the well-worn path that winds through it. Seems as good a place as any to start. 'He's probably just gotten held up with something. Or maybe he stopped to help someone!'

'Maybe he's just gone and found someone he fancies more than you,' Little My suggests unhelpfully and Moomin chews the inside of his cheek, not thinking of anything clever to say to that. 

He'd never admit it, but the thought had indeed crossed his mind already and he does so hate the unpleasant empty feeling he always gets in the pit of his stomach when thinking Snufkin might find anyone he'd rather spend his time with.

Mostly, Moomin tends to write off Snufkin's general wanting-to-be-aloneness as who he is and Moomin, for the most part, being a particular exemption. Moomin's most favourite thought in recent years is that he might be particular to Snufkin and any suggestion otherwise quite the opposite.

Moomin's ears twitch with the a sudden flurry of bird-song above them. It's a high, uneven twittering and he stops to look up to see what might've caused such a racket. Little My walks right into the back of him. 

'Oi!'

'Hush!' Moomin scolds, frowning up at the birds as they hop from one tree to the next. 'I'm trying to listen.'

'To what?' Little My asks, picking at her dress where Moomin fluff sticks. She follows Moomin's eye. 'Those nattering ninnies?'

Moomin raises his snout, a touch proud and he does his best to emulate the way Snufkin might say; 'You have no appreciation for nature, little one.'

'I'd appreciate it more when it's actually a song. This is just noise!'

'They're talking!'

'So what?' Little My says dismissively. 'Even if they are, not even worth it to eavesdrop when all it sounds like is a bunch of squeaky wheels.'

'Don't be cruel,' Moomin says, though he must admit she has a point. He watches as little finches swoop across from each other, tweeting loud and seemingly without tune to each other in a series of high pitched pips. 'I wonder what has them all in a tizzy like that.'

'Maybe there's a cat!' Little My says, grinning and Moomin looks down at her with what he hopes is a sufficiently disapproving look. She shrugs. 'What? Might be good for them to get a little fright every now and then!'

'There's something very dark in you, you know,' Moomin tells her but she just smiles up at him, in that self-satisfied way that likens her more to a cat than whatever might've given the poor birds a scare. 'I wish Snufkin was here.'

Little My makes a retching noise and Moomin groans with frustration, shoving at the bun on the top of her head with a paw. She wavers but recovers quick, turning her face to snap at him with her nasty teeth. 

'Ow!'

'Honestly, you're such a sad sack the way you pine after him like that,' Little My says with a nasty laugh, walking ahead of him. 'No wonder he thinks he can get away with anything where you're concerned.'

'Bugger off, that's not what I mean! I just meant because of the birds!

'Hmm,' Little My says, stopping to pinch her chin. 'I suppose his silly mouth organ would be enough to drown them out. And failing that, you'd probably do the job yourself.'

Little My puts the back of her hand to her forehead, throwing her eyes to the sky in a manner very reminiscent of Snorkmaiden when she's feeling dramatic. 

'Oh, Snufkin!' Little My says in a very insulting mockery of what she must think Moomin sounds like. Moomin grits his teeth; he definitely doesn't sound like that. 'You're so clever! Tell me again how you single-handedly rescued that field mouse from the jaws of boredom with one of your oh so funny stories! I promise I'll listen this time and not just stare dumbly at you like one of the fish on your hooks!'

She turns to Moomin, as if expecting a compliment for her performance. 

'Are you finished?' is all he asks and she pouts.

'What? No encore?'

Moomin ignores that. 'I'm just saying that if Snufkin were here he'd be able to tell us what all the fuss is about. He's good for talking to birds.'

'I suppose he gets a lot of practice talking to creatures with very little brain,' Little My says and Moomin supposes that's true, realising the implication of that far too late. Like in most of the horrid things she does, Little My does not apologise when he huffs with offence. 'What's got you interested anyway? Most days you can't be bothered with what's happening downstairs at Moominhouse, never mind a business all the way up in those trees.'

'I'll have you know I'm interested in lots of things! Upstairs, downstairs and even in trees. I'm a very interested Moomin,' Moomin says, trying to sound as important as he is. It never seems to work with Little My. 

Interrupting them, a little finch flutters down from the tree. She flaps about Moomin's ears, startling him and he waves a paw wildly to usher her along. She goes, finding a perch in the broom bush. She tweets loud and shrill, causing Little My to cover her ears. 

'Looks like your too interesting for your own good,' she says, kicking a small foot out at Moomin's ankle. 'You've gone and drawn them on us!'

'Maybe she's trying to tell us something?'

'So what if she is?' Little My says, heading off towards the path. 'Can't understand either way, can we?'

That is unfortunately true.

Moomin comes in close and tries to listen anyway. He tries to remember the way Snufkin crouches, how he hums patiently when a little bird fluffs up with the power of their tweeting. It doesn't help much though, as despite the ardent whistling coming from the finch, Moomin isn't getting even the foggiest idea what it might all be about. 

'Sorry,' he says and he is. The finch tilts her small head, beady eyes on him and Moomin sighs. 'Going to have to try your wing with Snufkin, if you can find him.'

At that, Moomin straightens up and looks out through the trees. 

It is not so unlike Snufkin to change his mind on something, and truly it is not even that unlikely for him to do so without telling anyone. If Moomin were to be honest, he thinks Snufkin rather prefers a decision made in privacy no matter how small. Doesn't make it any less disappointing. 

'Come on, you big oaf!' Little My calls from through the trees. 'No point being ignored all the way out here when you can be ignored in the comfort of the kitchen! Moominmama said there'd be pancakes!'

Moomin can't find it in his heart to say no to pancakes. Nor indeed can his stomach, which rumbles at once. His own little decision made, Moomin follows Little My back towards the house and wonders that whatever Snufkin might be doing, he might tell Moomin about it once he comes back.

*/

The sun is high in the sky and streaming warm, bright light through the leaves that speckle the wood like paint.

This means Snufkin is late.

Knowing this, which Snufkin certainly does, is not enough to hurry him along. It’s far too lovely to rush on this late morning. There’s birdsong and a nice breeze, leaves shifting like they’re singing along and Snufkin takes his harmonica out to join in. Music floods around him and Snufkin is thinking how very grand everything is this fine day.

He’s also thinking that Moomintroll will forgive him no matter how late he is which feels somewhere inside like soft butter on griddled bread. That is to say- pleasant, hot and runny in the middle. Snufkin plays his song a little faster, eager despite himself. Thinking of Moomintroll is always that good lately.

They have plans this morning. There’s a fruit tree Moomintroll is convinced he’s never seen the like of before and he wants Snufkin along to investigate. Never one to turn down fruit and certainly not one to turn down a mystery, Snufkin had promised to meet Moomintroll at the bridge this morning before ten.

An ambitious arrangement for someone without a watch to offer, but Snufkin fancies given where the sun is he isn’t too far off. Late, yes. But not terribly and in his defence, he has a rather good excuse.

In Snufkin’s smock pocket, he has a rock. A lovely rock though; slate and almost blue. Made from volcanic pressure that Snufkin had been intent on going back for once he’d spotted it up the side of a mountain path yesterday. He figures Moomintroll will like it and that had been more than enough reason to trek back that way just before dawn to find it again.

Armed with a present and that buttery feeling, Snufkin finds himself walking a little faster despite his efforts to enjoy the morning as it is. He wants to see Moomintroll quite ardently now he’s thinking of him and his song brightens like the sun above him.

Snufkin stops in his tracks when he hears something snap.

He lowers his harmonica, looking through the trees. It had sounded like a stick breaking, as though trodden on by some great boot. Snufkin is the only creature for some miles with any boots though.

He can see in the dark a good deal better than most and he scans where the trees are thick. It’s silly; more than really, as he’s hardly the only one to be walking through the wood so late in the morning- but Snufkin can’t help but feel something isn’t right. The hairs on his arms stick up and though he sees nothing, Snufkin has the strangest sense that something is staring at him.

‘Anyone there?’ he calls out, tipping his hat back a touch in case it’ll help. There’s a rustling, but from behind him and Snufkin turns on his heel, caught by surprise. Whoever they are, they’re quick. ‘Hello?’

Snufkin starts heading a small ways back, towards that noise and he keeps his eye out. Perhaps someone is hiding? Snufkin can’t think why; he doesn’t consider himself to be the most intimidating.

‘Don’t be shy, if you’re there,’ Snufkin calls out again and still gets no reply. He waits a long moment before shrugging to the quiet, turning his own way again. Whoever it was, they seemed to have moved along.

But Snufkin only takes two or so steps before that creeping feeling returns. One that gives him goose-pimples and the strangest but most certain kick in the gut that says Go! Run!

Snufkin gets a feeling like sometimes. Normally, it's the vague idea of rain coming his way or perhaps an unfortunate turn in the road ahead. Snufkin isn't sure he remembers the last time he's had such a feeling here in Moominvalley, of all places. Even the rain, when it comes, is rather nice in it's own way in the bowl of this place.

Snufkin frowns to himself, nervous and walking a touch faster. He’s not far from Moominhouse and perhaps whoever, (or whatever), is following him will be less shy once it sees Moomintroll. Moomintroll is such a friendly looking creature, after all. And also, not that Snufkin could ever say aloud, he thinks he might feel better himself about it all once he sees Moomintroll as well.

There’s another twig snapped somewhere behind him and Snufkin jumps, turning again and this time, there’s someone there.

Snufkin has never seen a creature quite like him before. He’s got something of Sniff’s nature about him; but if Sniff had been pulled through a taffy-stretcher. He’s a tall, loping someone with skinny arms on which the sleeves of a long, red coat are rolled up. And indeed, the creature is wearing a pair of scuffed up boots.

Snufkin has to tilt his head up a bit as the creature comes closer. He smiles down at him and Snufkin tries never to be one to judge too harshly but there is not a friendly thing in this someone’s smile.

‘Look what I found!’ the creature says, accent foreign to the valley and Snufkin recognises it as being vaguely Western. Thick vowels and short breaths, as though speaking with one’s mouth full. ‘Out here playing a charming ditty!’

Snufkin tightens his grip on the harmonica in his hand, uneasy. He starts when there’s movement from the left of him and another creature reveals himself.

This one is shorter, rounder and perhaps if there had been anything fair in him, Snufkin might’ve considered him a relative of Too-Ticky. But pale-haired as this creature is, he’s covered in what appears to be soot and it gives his teeth a menacing brightness when he smiles.

‘A songbird!’ this one says, coming close for a moment before going up to his companion and Snufkin wrinkles his nose. There’s a strong metallic smell from that soot.

‘A very little songbird,’ the tall one says, leering forward and Snufkin frowns. ‘Will you play us a song, little bird?’

‘I’m sorry, but it seems I’m all out of songs right now. Another time perhaps,’ Snufkin says primly, putting his harmonica away in his smock pocket. He tips his hat and goes to leave. ‘Good day to you, sirs!’

He only gets one step before the tall one slinks around him, quicker again than Snufkin might’ve thought and he teeters on the soles of his boots, nearly walking into him. The tall creature looms over him, still smiling.

‘Oh, don’t fly away so quick!’ he says and Snufkin ducks his head, hiding his face with the brim of his hat. ‘Be a shame when we just found you! Heard your tune in the woods, we did. Didn’t we, Fribs?’

‘Sure, sure,’ the evident Fribs says, coming up behind Snufkin. Snufkin recoils from both, feeling too closed in by them quite suddenly. ‘We love a good tune. We don’t get much by way of songs in our line of work.’

‘We’re Sneaks, see,’ the tall one says, shrugging passively. As he does so, something glints from inside his coat and Snufkin’s blood goes cold. A revolver, of all strange things. Snufkin doesn't care for such firearms, himself. ‘Can’t go humming when you’re a Sneak.’

‘Or singing.’

‘Or playing mouth organs like yours,’ adds the tall one, pointing a long, sharp finger down at Snufkin’s nose. He uncoils the rest of his fingers and holds his own whole paw out as though to shake. It’s big enough to cover Snufkin’s face. ‘I’m the Grusbler. And you are?’

‘Late,’ Snufkin replies coolly, going to move past them both. ‘Quite so, actually. My friend is waiting for me and I won’t keep him.’

‘Well, if he’s already waiting what’s another few minutes?’ the Grusbler says, reaching out and taking Snufkin by the shoulder. His hand is so large it stops Snufkin entirely with a firm grip. ‘I was hoping to run into a creature like yourself. Someone with a bit of worldliness to them ‘cause if there’s one thing we can rely on travelling folk for, it’s being prepared.’

The Grusbler raises his other arm, shakes it to get the coat-sleeve down again to his wrist. Snufkin flicks his eye quickly about them. They are very much alone in this part of the wood and his stomach knots unpleasantly as he realises this. Snufkin tries to shake the ill-feeling off though for surely, there’s no need to be dramatic when there’s not even any danger. But...

‘See, got a bit of string dangling,’ the Grusbler says, shaking his sleeve in Snufkin’s face so he does indeed see a stray red string hanging. ‘Love this coat, I do. Be a shame if I went and got it caught in some bramble and I tried pulling with my teeth, but I only went and made it worse. You wouldn’t happen to have a knife on you to cut it perchance?’

Snufkin frowns and considers his options. He likens himself to be a more helpful creature than not and there is no good reason for him not to help now. Odd a request as it may be.

Something has Snufkin holding back all the same. He’s met unsavoury characters a handful of times in his travels but there’s something incredibly jarring about this situation. On the one hand, Snufkin can’t help but feel this isn’t right. After all, what sensible creature need carry a revolver on their person?

But on the other, it’s Moominvalley. Snufkin has rarely met an unpleasant wasp, never mind any other creature and really, would someone terrible even get this far without someone else in the valley noticing them to be so, revolver or not?

Cautiously and with that in mind, Snufkin carefully shucks his pack around and puts it to the ground to get his knife from under his smock.

Once out of the scuffed leather sheath, he carefully holds it handle first towards the Grusbler, who takes it with an exaggerated bow of gratitude.

‘Thanking you kindly, little bird,’ he says and Snufkin bristles, not liking the way the petname sounds in the Grusbler’s leering tone. The Grusbler cleanly runs the knife through the string, severing and letting it fall to the worn grass of the path. But he doesn’t give the knife back straight away.

The Grusbler puts a long finger to the end of the blade, twirling the knife like a top between both paws and his dark eyes glimmer as he looks at it.

‘This is a fine knife,’ he says and Snufkin anxiously clenches his fists, not quite above asking for it back before the Grusbler asks; ‘Did you make it yourself?’

‘Yes,’ Snufkin answers, clipped with impatience. He’d found the wood caught in a river current and the antler bone under a hawthorn tree. Together, they make a stripe pattern that Snufkin is quite fond of. 

‘Such talent!’ the Grusbler says, grinning with pointed teeth. ‘A singer and an artist! How lucky we are to have met someone so accomplished, eh, Fribs?’

Fribs laughs from behind him and Snufkin deliberately doesn’t look. Instead, he holds his hand out expectantly for the knife.

‘Thank you,’ he says coolly, tipping his head back as though to seem taller. It doesn’t work. ‘If that’s all, I really must be on my way now. My friend will be worried for me if I’m any later.’

‘A knife as lovely as this, you mustn’t have any use for another, right?’ the Grusbler says, completely ignoring Snufkin and Snufkin bites his lip, thrown. The Grusbler eyes him, repeats himself much slower: ‘Right, little bird?’

Snufkin is very aware of how much taller the Grusbler is. He keeps placid. ‘My friend will be on his way.’

‘I thought you were meeting him?’ the Grusbler says, flicking a large ear with a gold looped earring on it. Snufkin tries to appear nonchalant.

‘I’m so late now, he’ll come looking for me,’ Snufkin says with a confidence he’s not entirely sure he feels. Truly, it’s far more likely for Moomintroll to think him busy or distracted and leave it be. But the Grusbler and his friend don’t need to know that.

‘No time to waste then,’ the Grusbler says to that and at first, Snufkin thinks he’s handing the knife back, the way he waves a paw- but then everything goes dark.

Snufkin yelps with the fright before the whole world tips over on him. He’s hoisted off his feet, losing his hat in the kerfuffle and wrapped in something rough and thick that blocks out the daylight. It takes a few moment to realise it’s a sack; burlap or hemp, something that scratches as Snufkin tries to right himself best he can in the tight space.

He’s against someone’s back, probably that foul-smelling Fribs creature and Snufkin gives out fierce, kicking his boots into him best he can. Both he and Fribs teeter and swing as he does, but he isn’t dropped.

‘Hey!’ Snufkin cries, trying to get a grip but the sack is too tough to tear. ‘Hey now, let me go! Let me go!’

‘Oh, hush now!’ a voice says, loud and Snufkin gets the wind knocked out of him when someone suddenly wallops him in the chest, right through the bag. It feels like he’s been hit with a large stick, or maybe even a pole. Either way, it winds him entirely so he flops in the bag. ‘Such terrible wailing! We can do better than that, can’t we? What happened to my songbird, eh?’

Snufkin tries to catch his breath, wheezing still from where he’s been struck. He’s jostled about; getting the impression the Grusbler has taken the bag now himself. Snufkin gives another kick, feels the bag swing like a pendulum.

That’s why the Grusbler had wanted the knife, Snufkin thinks desperately, furious at himself for falling for such a trick. If he hadn’t, he’d be out of this bag in a jiffy. He’d be running, to Moominhouse, to Moomintroll. As it is, the best Snufkin can do is squirm and kick. He tries to tug at the gathering over his head, tries to yank it from the Grusbler’s grip.

‘You better let me go,’ Snufkin wheezes, giving another kick. ‘You’ll be very sorry if you don’t!’

‘Oh, will I?’ the Grusbler says, laughing and Snufkin gives another feeble dig with his boot. ‘What will you do, eh? Got this bag special, you know. No Mumrik claws getting through this.’

A baffling thing to say, Snufkin thinks, as he’s never had anything even resembling claws but that has never mattered as he’s always had his knife. Again, Snufkin nearly cries out with frustration at his own foolishness.

‘Almost thought we’d wasted the money in getting it, hadn’t we?’ the Grusbler says, swinging the bag and Snufkin rolls around inside, completely disrupted by the momentum. ‘You were a tricky thing to find. Turns out for as much as folks be complaining, no one actually sees much of a Mumrik, do they, Fribs?’

The two heinous creatures continue to talk to themselves as the Grusbler slugs Snufkin onto his back. Snufkin tries to scramble for some kind of an escape, but he’s held fast. He starts shouting then, not above such desperate measures in so desperate a situation as this.

‘Let me go!’ he shouts, repeating himself frantically as he’s jostled. ‘My friend will come, you know! And then you’ll be in trouble, believe me!’

Snufkin doesn’t even quite believe that himself but if it’s one thing he can rely on, it’s Moomintroll and oh, Snufkin feels so deeply hopeless for one moment then as he thinks of how if he’d just been on time none of this might’ve happened.

Now, now, none of that, he tells himself sternly, steeling himself. Snufkin has been in plenty a jam like this over the years. Though… never one where he’d let his knife get snatched so easily, he must admit. But he’s got other things and if he has to rip the clips from his suspenders just for something then he will.

They can’t carry him far without anyone noticing though. This is Moominvalley! Nothing as dreadful as this ever happens and word will spread quickly.

But perhaps… not quick enough. Snufkin’s stomach seizes at this thought and kicks all the harder and shouts even louder, calling for help from whoever might be passing. He keeps it up, too panicked to be tired until the sack is dropped quite suddenly to the ground, cutting him off with surprise.

‘All right, that’s enough fuss,’ the voice of Grusbler says and Snufkin is already tugging on the bind of the sack over his head, trying to undo it. But it’s holding fast and Snufkin suspects they’ve tied it with rope.

He tugs harder, an unusual growl warbling up his chest. Snufkin isn’t one for growling but there’s frightful desperation brewing inside and just as volatile is a fierce and sudden anger that bubbles up along with it. He doesn’t realise just how frenetic he’s become until a hard boot hits him the side, stilling him.

‘He’s growling!’ the other says and though the Grusbler shushes him, Fribs continues; ‘I’m not carrying a growling Mumrik. What if he gets out? They can do damage, you know!’

'Don't be such a chicken!'

'I'm not! I'd call that just plain old common sense!'

'Well, there's only thing for it if you're going to play silly beggars like that-'

Snufkin huffs, giving up on trying to yank the top of the sack open and starts rustling up his smock. He'll have to fashion something sharp and quick. He doesn't know what they want with him and while he's normally someone happy to follow a curiosity along, Snufkin finds himself less inclined when the curiosity has him wrapped up in a terrible sack such as this. 

He needs to get out. He needs to run and he needs to run fast. 

Snufkin has just managed to fidget one of the clips from his suspenders off the fabric when the bag suddenly moves again. He jostles about, dropping the clip and before he knows which way is up, the bag is open and he tumbles out like something spilled. 

'Not much of a growl, truth be told,' the Grusbler says from above him as Snufkin tries to scramble the rest of the way out of the bag. 'Nor indeed much of a fight, but better safe than sorry, eh?'

'Oh, you will be very sorry indeed!' Snufkin says furiously, kicking his legs when a paw comes from nowhere behind him. 

It slaps over his mouth, shrouded in a cloth and Snufkin chokes, caught off-guard. The heady, acidic smell of valerian floods up his nose and Snufkin raises both hands to try and pry away the paw of what must be the Fribs fellow. Fribs catches him across the chest, pinning him close and Snufkin closes his eyes as he struggles. Snufkin tries tugging on what he can reach of the cloth, but it won't budge and he's held fast. 

Snufkin's head drops and it startles him, eyes opening only to fall heavy again. Suddenly, Snufkin is feeling like a candle snuffed out, everything turning a little darker. It's like the world is closing its eye on him. 

'There now,' a voice says and Snufkin realises too late that he's been released. He can't think very clearly, only able to focus on the soft grass. When had he fallen to the ground? 'That's better for everyone, innit?'

Snufkin doesn't think so. Not that he's thinking much of anything. All he knows is that something is very wrong, and his head is very heavy. He opens his eyes, blinking and rubbing them as he realises he didn't even notice he'd closed them again. 

'What... what have you done?' he manages and the world is tilting around him. The trees are sideways... no, he's sideways. No, he's being picked up?

'Nothing a nice kip won't fix,' the voice says again and Snufkin waves a hand, tries to bat the voice away. He's so incredibly tired. 

Everything is dark again. Snufkin is somewhere small, closed and rough to touch. It's the sack! Again! He pushes against it, tries to kick but his arms are too leaden to lift. His head lolls to the side, against the back of whichever creature is carrying him. He's swinging as they walk, eyes closing faster than he can notice them doing so. 

Snufkin needs to call for help but he can't quite find his voice either. He pushes again, one last shaky go before his hands fall limp against him.

Without meaning to, Snufkin is asleep and it all suddenly ceases to bother him.

Chapter Text

Not terribly early the next morning, Moomin stops at the campsite and frowns.

He bends down and touches the black dirt where Snufkin’s fire usually is. It’s cool to touch and when he brushes at it, no ash comes up at all. He looks at the tent; zipped shut. 

That’s… odd.

‘What are you doing?’ Snorkmaiden asks him, following over from she’s been picking flowers by the stream. 

‘Snufkin’s fire hasn’t been lit,’ Moomin replies, brushing the dirt from his paws as he stands. 

‘How can you even tell?’ Snorkmaiden says, not sounding all too impressed with Moomin’s sleuthing skills. He straightens up and adds some gravitas to his voice.

‘There’s no ash! And the ground is cold,’ he says but Snorkmaiden just gives him a quizzical look.

‘Well, it’s morning, innit?’ she says and Moomin deflates like a balloon. ‘He’s hardly going to need a fire yet.’

‘I don’t mean now! I mean it hasn’t been lit at all!’

‘Maybe he just didn’t fancy it?’

‘Snufkin’s not one for a cold dinner,’ Moomin says as it’s true, much as Snufkin likes to think himself nowhere near as precious as all that. ‘Not if he can help it. And I didn’t see any firelight last night from my window.’

Snorkmaiden snorts and Moomin flushes. ‘Come off it! No ash? You only know he didn’t light it because you were probably up half the night waiting for him, weren’t you?’

‘No!’ Moomin lies, high-pitched and this only seems to make Snorkmaiden laugh more at him. ‘But that’s neither here nor there! It’s odd, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe? I wouldn’t know what’s odd for Snufkin, really.’

‘I would.’

‘Well, yes,’ Snorkmaiden says, rolling her eyes. ‘You would. You spend so much time looking at him lately that I’m amazed Snufkin managed to wander off at all without you noticing in the first place.’

Moomin isn’t sure how exactly, but he’s about ninety-percent sure that’s not just a casual observation she’s making. Nonetheless, it is true and Moomin is trying not to fret over how he’s managed to lose Snufkin so early into Spring already.

‘Maybe I should wait for him.’

‘You spent all Winter doing that!’ Snorkmaiden laughs, reaching out for Moomin’s paw. ‘Come on, silly thing! He’ll be back before you know it with some fish or something.’

But Moomin doesn’t take her paw and steps away instead, closer to Snufkin’s tent.

‘This isn’t right,’ Moomin says, more to himself than anything but he looks to Snorkmaiden anyway. ‘He didn’t even leave me a sign as to where he might be.’

‘A sign?’

Moomin nods. ‘We have our own little system when we want to find each other. He leaves me flowers sometimes.’

‘Bully for you,’ Snorkmaiden says, a touch sour and Moomin glances over, baffled that’s he’s managed to tick her off already and they’ve only just had breakfast. 

She must notice as she ducks her head, smelling the flowers in her paws. Moomin hovers, awkward and unsure what to say. 

‘But like I said!’ he starts with, turning his back on Snufkin’s tent. ‘Nothing left for me to follow, so I guess he must be off on his own. I’ll look for him later. Now, what did you say you wanted to do today?’

Snorkmainden perks up then. She usually does, when allowed to make all the decisions. 

Moomin lets her lead him off the other direction, but he can’t stop thinking about Snufkin. Truly, Moomin finds he’s been thinking about Snufkin a lot more in recent seasons but today, the thoughts circle around one very specific question:

Where is Snufkin?

Much later, as the afternoon starts to burnish in the sky, Moomin still doesn’t have answer or even much of an idea for one.

Moomin is not worried. Worry implies something is wrong, of which there isn’t Moomin is convinced. For if something were wrong, Moomin would notice. Wouldn’t he?

He’s sitting out on the veranda, staring out at the campsite across the stream. It’s been empty the whole day, Moomin thinks. He’s been keeping as good an eye as he can manage with so much else to be keeping one out for.

(Namely, Little My, who is determined to pluck every stray bit of fluff right off Moomin’s back, it seems).

He flicks at her irritably when she pokes two small hands through the railing, popping up like a terrible jack-in-the-box from the bush by the veranda. She cackles, holding two clumps of white fur in her hands like prizes.

‘I’ll have enough for a pillow by the end of the day, maybe even an entire bedset!’ she says with a pride most undeserved. Moomin huffs down at her, not interested in her teasing right now.

‘Bugger off, will you!’ he snaps and Little My stops grinning at his tone. Moomin doesn’t care to apologise and pushes off from the veranda instead, heading down the steps to the grass.

There’s a heavy feeling, like a stone, right in the pit of his stomach and it’s been there all day. It really isn’t so unusual for Snufkin to be missing for a little while, every now and then. Even a long while, really. But Moomin can’t help but feel uneasy about the whole thing.

He doesn’t notice he’s walking back to the campsite until he’s half-way across the bridge. When he stops there, Little My comes up behind him, having followed him. 

‘What’s got your tail in a knot? You were snappy like a mousetrap just now and I didn’t half-deserve it!’

‘Have you seen Snufkin at all?’ Moomin asks and Little My scoffs.

‘What would I want to see him for? I’m still odd with him for ditching us yesterday.’

‘He didn’t ditch us,’ Moomin says, glancing at her disapprovingly. ‘He didn’t even know you were there to disappoint, remember?’

‘Oh, that’s true, I suppose,’ Little My says, brighter. ‘It was just you he didn’t fancy seeing! In that case, I’m thick with him on your behalf. Better?’

Moomin tuts, not even bothering to answer that. He continues to the campsite and stares down at the firepit. He’s certain it hasn’t been lit- and no matter what Snorkmaiden says, there’s no good reason for it not to have been.

Moomin puts a hand to his belly, grips there and tries to sort his thoughts out. They’re all tangled up suddenly.

‘I think I’m going to go look for him,’ Moomin says, decision made for one needs to be made, he thinks. ‘Can’t hurt, right?’

‘Unless he’s in trouble,’ Little My says blithely and Moomin goes stiff. ‘Might hurt you if he’s been gobbled up by a dreadful monster and you get eaten as well for your trouble!’

‘Snufkin hasn’t been gobbled up!’ Moomin says, more defensive than he ought really but he can’t seem to help it. ‘Firstly, there are no monsters in Moomnvalley, remember? And secondly, Snufkin is far too clever to get caught by one even if there were.’

That said, Moomin’s belly still churns uneasily like a thick, cold porridge. He knows he shouldn’t worry, not for Snufkin of all creatures who could not be more capable of… well, anything.

But Moomin looks at the empty campsite and his mind gets ahead of him, filling his head with all sorts of unpleasant ideas of what might’ve happened regardless of how clever Snufkin is.

‘What’s third?’

‘What?’ Moomin says, frowning and looking back to Little My. She holds up two fingers.

‘First, second-’ she raises another finger. ‘And now third. That’s how it works, right?’

‘Uh… well, um-’ Moomin struggles to think. He sighs, giving up and storming off. ‘Oh, forget it! I’m going to look for Snufkin. Are you coming?’

‘Finding someone is not as fun as losing them,’ Little My says to him, waving him off. Moomin really doesn’t agree with her on that.

Moomin walks down the path first, thinking it the most sensible option. He hopes to run into a creature or two, Snufkin being so friendly to them himself that they’re likely to know which way he went if they’d spotted him. But the path is strangely quiet. Not even the odd bush is rustling and Moomin begins to wonder if maybe he’s over-imagined how busy these woods actually are.

He goes a long while, still without meeting a soul, before deciding he may need to try something else. He stops in the wood and thinks.

If he were Snufkin, where would he go? Well, that’s easy! Towards the sea, Snufkin’s most favourite. But surely not even the beach is so distracting as to keep Snufkin overnight? And especially not without a tent against cold, sea air.

‘Where else though?’ Moomin wonders aloud, giving the trees another glance about and he asks, a touch pleading: ‘Unless someone else out here happened to see where Snufkin went?’

No answer. Not even a stray bird to whistle along to and Moomin sighs, wondering why the valley is so quiet all of a sudden today. He tries to shake the niggling thought Little My had planted yesterday that Snufkin is avoiding him for some reason or another, but it’s very hard to not to feel like Moomin isn’t somehow to blame when not even a field mouse will cross his path.

However, as is the way with such things truly, just as he thinks this someone finally happens upon him.

It’s a small creep, scattering about on his little furry legs and he takes Moomin completely by surprise when he scurries out from a bush. Moomin shrieks with the fright, gripping his chest and the creep shouts, too. They’re both fluffed up from the commotion and Moomin clears his throat, quickly trying to pat himself down as embarrassment floods through him.

‘Hullo, there!’ the creep says, eyes wide but friendly. ‘Didn’t mean to give you a scare, Mister Moomin!’

‘Y-you didn’t scare me!’ Moomin lies; terribly going by the way the creep tilts his head at him. Moomin coughs again. ‘I was just- you know, using my defensive instincts? We Moomins are known for them.’

‘Are you? I thought you were softer than all that!’

Moomin frowns. ‘I’m not soft.’

‘You look soft.’

‘So do you!’

‘Why wouldn’t I? I’ve got the fur for it,’ the creep says, tilting his head again and Moomin pinches the top of his snout, groaning.

‘Never mind,’ he grumbles, at least grateful for his fluff to have gone down. It’s so loose about him though he watches as the odd strands floats away on the light Spring breeze. ‘I’m glad to find you actually. I was looking for someone to ask.’

‘Ask what?’

‘A question! Just let me-’

‘Never been asked a question,’ the creep says, sounding uncertain. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘Why on earth would a question hurt?’ Moomin says, baffled and if he weren’t already moulting, he might pull his own fluff out with the irritation. ‘Booble’s wept! It doesn’t matter. Will you answer it or not?’

‘What happens if I don’t?

‘Well, you just answered one now and nothing happened. So if I’m unlucky, then nothing again and if I’m lucky, something that probably won’t concern you at all,’ Moomin says, confusing himself just then and going by the look on the creep’s face, he’s confused that poor creature as well. He starts again;  ‘Listen, have you seen Snufkin come through here?’

‘What’s a Snufkin?’

‘Not a Snufkin!’ Moomin says, rolling his eyes. ‘Just Snufkin!’

‘What’s Just Snufkin then?’

‘My best friend!’ Moomin says, desperately and wondering if it might’ve been better to insist Little My come along at the beginning. Frightful creature as she is, she does tend to get people to answer her a lot faster than this on things. ‘Snufkin is my best friend and I’m looking for him.’

The creep puts a small paw to its chin, considering. ‘Can’t be your best if you lost him, can he? I would never lose my best anything!’

‘I didn’t lose him!’ Moomin says hotly though all evidence points to the contrary on such. He sticks his snout up defensively. ‘Look, all I want to know is whether or not you saw him come through this way.’

‘What’s he look like?’ the creep asks, shrugging his narrow shoulders. ‘Don’t reckon I’ve seen Just Snufkin before, I’m afraid.’

‘He’s a Mumrik,’ Moomin says, thinking this more than sufficient for Snufkin is a rather singular creature and that is what he is. But the creep just keeps staring at him, clearly not understanding. ‘You know, like a traveller?’

‘A traveller?’ the creep repeats, sounding impressed. ‘You’ve got good taste in friends, Mister Moomin! No wonder he’s your best!’

Moomin puffs with a touch of pride. ‘Yes, well! I rather say I do, now that you mention it.’

‘But I don’t know what a traveller might look like?’

‘He might have a pack with him,’ Moomin suggests, picturing Snufkin in his head. He smiles, unable to help himself. ‘And boots, for going over hard rocks and other such things. Oh, and a hat!’

‘A hat?’ the creep says, sounding excited. ‘A pointed one?’

‘Yes!’ Moomin says, relieved. ‘Yes! So you saw him then? When?’

‘Not even an hour ago!’ the creep says, pointing out through the trees. Well off the path and where they grow close together. ‘He was sleeping under a sycamore tree just down that way, with his hat over his face!’

‘That’s him!’ Moomin says and he laughs, a knot he hadn’t realised had been wound so tight finally coming loose inside. He keeps laughing, the relief spilling over. Goodness, and he’s gone and worried for nothing! ‘Thank you so much! You say this way?’

Moomin follows the way the creep tells him, waving him a grateful goodbye and making his way towards Snufkin. Oh, Moomin is so relieved! How silly he’d been to go and imagine all that misfortune for no reason! 

Snufkin probably just got distracted, or perhaps just fancied some time alone. Whatever the reason, he’s almost found now and Moomin walks quickly through the shrubbery, suddenly very desperate to see him.

The trees are very close together this way. It’s closer to the less travelled and unruly old paths that lead up and over the mountains. Moomin gets some more fluff snagging in bushes as he makes his way through, hissing the odd Ow! as he goes.

Trust Snufkin to go and find the most cumbersome spot to nap.

Moomin stops when he sees sycamore leaves beneath his feet. He looks up and about, squinting at where the trees are dark together. He can’t see Snufkin or any sign of him, not even the top of his-

Moomin freezes.

There is indeed someone in a pointed hat  sleeping just a few feet ahead beneath the sycamore tree. But it’s not Snufkin and Moomin stumbles backwards, throwing himself behind and against the closest tree.

Moomin peeks around it, trying to get a better look while not being spotted. He’s never seen this fellow before and Moomin isn’t sure why, but he gets a bad feeling from him. The valley isn’t used to strangers, after all. Or rather, strangers coming in quiet like this where only a creep might see them.

Why would someone sneak into the valley through these old paths? Moomin thinks about it, frowning and unsure. He can’t quite see from here the type of creature the stranger might be, but he’s certainly not Hemulen or other gentlefolk. Moomin has never met someone who’s neither of those things and his hackles rise with an instinct.

Could it be… could it be this stranger has done something with Snufkin? Moomin puts himself back around the tree, chest tight with sudden fear. 

Snufkin wouldn’t let that happen, would he? Moomin isn’t sure but now he pictures Snufkin again, he can’t help but remember him being perhaps a touch shorter. Snufkin really isn’t too scary a someone and if an unsavory stranger wanted him, what could Snufkin do?

Moomin shakes his head.

‘Come on now, Moomintroll!’ he mutters to himself, putting a paw to his cheek. ‘Don’t be such a nervous nelly! What would Snufkin say?’

Something kind, no doubt. He never expects Moomin to be particularly brave, come to think of it. He’s not like Snorkmaiden in that way, expecting Moomin to swoop in like a storybook’s knight. Snufkin is more likely to be right next to Moomin on the situation of swooping in any which way. 

But it’s just Moomin now. And the stranger under the sycamore tree. 

Moomin is being ridiculous, thinking the worst like this. He’s a grown Moomin, isn’t he? Regardless of what Snufkin might say, on this Moomin is inclined to think Snorkmaiden has the right idea. He really ought to be braver. 

It’s that thought that steels Moomin to approach the stranger. He’s probably a perfectly normal fellow and maybe he might’ve seen Snufkin, so there is plenty of good reason to go talk to him. 

Moomin still hesitates. 

‘Come on,’ he says to himself, a lump in his throat with nerves. He frowns to himself. ‘Come on! Get a grip of yourself, Moomintroll!’

He doesn’t so much do that. But he does get one on a nearby branch from one of the bushes, struggling to break it off so it rather more tears off than snaps. Once gotten though, he holds it up to pull the stray leaves and twigs off.

It’s as long as his arm, a touch crooked but enough of a whip Moomin thinks that if the stranger proves his instinct right, he might be able to go and get a good swing in. 

Moomin lingers again, poking his snout around the tree he’s hidden behind to keep an eye on the stranger. Moomin’s never had to actually fight someone before, but he’s practiced loads!

(If one could call play-acting with Snorkmaiden practice, a nagging thought that sounds awfully like Little My points out). 

‘It counts,’ Moomin says to himself, gripping the stick and starting off.

Moomin sneaks up to the stranger, stick raised above his head and ready to strike if needs be. But his heart is practically crawling out between his teeth it's so far up his throat with the fear he's got, so his paws shake terribly.

Just as he gets close, the stranger moves and Moomin panics. He lets out a shrill yelp and swings wildly without thinking. 

It's all for nought, as the stranger is quite quick and startles Moomin entirely.

The stranger leaps to his feet and Moomin’s stick stops abruptly mid-swing. 

The force of Moomin's attack being stopped shakes Moomin down like a fruit tree and the stranger takes advantage of his unsteadiness. The stranger has the end of the stick in one paw, and when he pushes back along, he tips Moomin entirely off balance.

Moomin falls back on his rear with an oof! , staring up at the stranger who looms over him. 

Then, the stranger pitches the stick forward with speed back around and Moomin winces, shutting his eyes and raising his paws with a shout as he expects the stick to come down on him. 

When the strike doesn't come, Moomin peeks up at the stranger who has the end of the stick hovering just over Moomin's snout.

'Never let them see you flinch, little Moomin,' the stranger says, accent familiar though the voice is not. The stranger taps Moomin's snout once with the stick. 'Or they'll eat you alive.'

At that, the stranger tosses the stick away and steps over to where he'd been lying to pick up a raggedy satchel. He leaves Moomin sitting in the grass, heart thudding unpleasantly with the fright the whole thing has given him and a great deal of confusion. 

Moomin struggles to catch his breath, wiping at his face quickly as, mortifyingly, his eyes are watery. He gives the stranger a proper look, still unsure.

The stranger is tall, almost as tall as Papa but he appears even more so due to the lopsided hat that really is very like Snufkin’s, Moomin must admit. It’s not as well kept though, nor indeed are any of the stranger’s clothes on closer inspection. Moomin can see the odd uneven patch. 

He much older than Snufkin, too. Moomin can see as he reaches for the small satchel first and then a walking staff; it’s a long, straight pole and appears to be carved, taller than the Mumrik himself if only just. 

As the Mumrik adjusts his grip, Moomin realises that what he took for gloves at first glance is actually fur. Dark like coal, it goes up past where the frayed sleeves of the stranger's blue coat and Moomin can't stop staring now he's seen it. He's never seen anything like it before and he's about to say, when the stranger loops his satchel over his shoulder and turns to face Moomin again. 

Moomin freezes, thrown entirely as he gets a proper look of the fellow for the first time.

'I take it you thought me someone else,' the stranger says, scratching at his cheek. There are whiskers there, long and black. 'Not that my experiences of Moomins hasn't prepared me for your gumption, but I must say you're more the kind to offer a pawshake before a blow.'

Moomin can barely take it in. It's like a funhouse mirror at the merries or some other uncanny nonsense and the more Moomin looks, the odder it seems. The stranger's dark fur thins out on his neck, creeping dark to a pair of pointed ears but giving way to smooth, tan cheeks and a prominent, sharp nose that's sunburn red.

It's the nose, perhaps, that does it.

'You're Mumriken,' Moomin blurts out and the stranger glances at him, eyes a very unnerving shade of blue. 

'Know my kind, do you?' The Mumrik asks, leaning against his staff. 

'Just the one,' Moomin says, words struggling to catch up with his mind which is racing. ‘I didn’t know there were… others.’

‘Where did you think the one you met came from then?’ 

Moomin flushes, dipping his snout down like he might hide it. Truly, he’s never given where Snufkin’s come from much thought at all.

The Mumrik narrows his eyes. ‘That is a joke, little Moomin.’

‘Uh, right- I mean, of course!’ Moomin says, scrambling to his feet and deeply embarrassed again. ‘I knew that.’

Moomin pats himself down, desperate for something to do that isn’t meet the stranger’s eye. What had started as an ambitious act of bravery has turned rather awkward quite suddenly.

‘Have you lost something?’

‘No, no!’ Moomin says, going to wave the stranger off but when he turns back, he sees the stranger is offering the stick back to him. ‘Um…’

‘If it has you fretting as such, I shouldn’t have taken it from you,’ the Mumrik says and Moomin takes the stick, uneasy. The Mumrik looks about the trees. ‘I suppose you must have reason for wandering the woods with something to defend yourself with.’

'What? Oh, no- no! I’m sorry! I didn't- that is, I just- I thought you were someone else!'

The Mumrik turns back to him, whiskers twitching. 

'I'd gathered,' the Mumrik replies coolly. 'This other Mumrik you know, perhaps? Did they leave so terrible an impression?'

‘No, no!’ Moomin says quickly, the strange reverie he’s been stuck in these last few moments finally breaking. 'You didn't happen to see him run by, did you?'

'This Mumrik you're after?'

'I'm not after him!' Moomin says plainly. He stands straight, meets the Mumrik's eye and tries to give the presence of a grown Moomin that is not to be trifled with. 'He's my friend! Please, tell me you saw him?'

Moomin raises a paw over his own head.

'He's got a hat, like yours,' Moomin says, trying to explain. 'Not as tall as you though. But he has a fair face-'

Moomin falters here slightly; a peculiar time to be embarrassed and especially over something that happens to be true. Snufkin does have quite a soft face for a creature so well-travelled, Moomin thinks. 

Not that he'd know much either way, but one tends to notice these things about dear friends.

'And auburn hair,' Moomin adds quickly, realising too late his cheeks have fluffed again. 

'Auburn?' the Mumrik repeats, sounding very odd indeed all of a sudden and it cools Moomin's embarrassment right off. He frowns, confused. 

'Yeah, you know like orangey... red?' Moomin continues, not at all certain as he probably should be. If it's been a long while since Snufkin has washed it, (and it tends to be), it can even look brown now Moomin thinks about it.

'You're sure?'

'I know what colour Snufkin's hair is!' Moomin retorts, baffled and defensive as to why such a thing would need proving to a stranger anyway. 

Although, perhaps it is unusual for them? Moomin wouldn't know himself but while this stranger is most clearly a Mumrik also, there are few similarities with Snufkin in much else the more Moomin looks at him. 

Snufkin has no fur Moomin knows of nor whiskers either, and Moomin would definitely know for who looks at Snufkin more than he does? 

'Snufkin?' the Mumrik says and Moomin looks to him, feeling nervous about the far-off expression on the Mumrik's face. 'You know a Mumrik named Snufkin?'

'Do you know a Mumrik named Snufkin?' Moomin asks in reply, holding his stick close and eyeing the Mumrik warily. Now they're standing, Moomin is a lot more aware of how much taller this stranger is. 'Not a friend of his, are you?'

The Mumrik doesn't answer straight away. He looks down, eyes hidden by the wide brim of his hat and Moomin gets that eerie feeling again. Snufkin does the very same thing.

'I couldn't claim to be his friend,' the Mumrik says quietly, a paw nervously fidgeting where it grips the staff. 'But our paths have crossed. Some years ago now.'

The Mumrik suddenly springs to action; his coat flaps with the motion and Moomin makes a strangled noise from the back of his throat, caught off-guard once again.

He holds the staff out towards Moomin, a though in threat and crowds in close. Behind him, Moomin jumps when a long, black tail like a rope reveals itself from beneath the coat.

The Mumrik bares his teeth with his expression and Moomin whimpers, the bravado he had always imagined for himself failing quite spectacularly to muster once again. 

'Why are you looking for a Snufkin?' the Mumrik asks, accent slipping to a low trill. It makes the fluff of Moomin's pelt stand on end and he grips his stick tighter. 'Not many creatures looking for a friend arm themselves like this.'

Moomin looks down at the stick, very nervous.

'I don't know if this exactly counts as arming myself,' he squeaks back, wincing at the way his voice suddenly breaks. He clears his throat, forcing the manliest expression he can think of onto his face as he adds; 'But I wanted something in case he's in trouble.'

That’s quite true from a certain perspective. Moomin thinks it better not to admit that he’d planned on fighting this Mumrik now he can see how much bigger he is. 

The Mumrik deflates at once, his whiskers dropping as he eyes go wide and Moomin sighs with relief when he leans back.

‘You think he’s in trouble?’

‘I…’ Moomin isn’t sure he should say. He’s just met this Mumrik after all and even if he knows Snufkin, he said himself they’re not friends. ‘I’m not sure. I haven’t been able to find him.’

‘Is that so strange?’

‘We had plans,’ Moomin says, which sounds rather pathetic now he says it aloud as such. ‘And Snufkin isn’t the sort for breaking promises.’

‘Perhaps he’s moved along?’ the Mumrik suggests, ears drooping so he looks oddly sad. Moomin eyes him, wondering if all Mumriks feel the wanderlust at the same time. Like swallows and migration. 

‘It’s too early in the year for that!’ Moomin replies, a touch strained. The Mumrik frowns at him.

‘It’s not a seasonal thing,’ he says and at least that answers that, Moomin thinks. Perhaps Mumriks are very singular in how they know when to move or such. 

‘It is for Snufkin.’

‘Is it?’ The Mumrik sounds interested. 

‘And even if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t leave without telling me,’ Moomin says, knowing that for certain at least. ‘And his camp is still set up and all. Can’t go far without that, right?’

The Mumrik takes that silently, taking his chin between two long fingers and his tail flicking behind him. Moomin isn’t sure what to make of it; his own tail doesn’t move half as much, really. This Mumrik’s own is like a wriggling fish.

‘And I don’t know,’ Moomin continues, looking at the trees again in the vain hope Snufkin might appear. ‘I can’t explain it but there’s just something not quite right about it all. It’s just…’

‘A feeling?’ the Mumrik offers when Moomin doesn’t finish and Moomin nods, meeting his gaze again. ‘I see.’

Again, the Mumrik’s tails flicks and he taps his staff against the ground.

‘Tell me, little Moomin, if I were to say that a feeling came upon me this morning that promised misfortune, would you believe me?’

Moomin thinks about that a long moment. He thinks about Snufkin’s campfire, unlit for the whole night and not a sight of Snufkin since the day before yesterday. His stomach twists.

‘If I’d met Snufkin before you as I should’ve, no,’ Moomin answers solemnly. ‘But I haven’t and found you instead, so yes. I think I do believe you.’

‘Not a moment to waste then,’ the Mumrik says, adjusting his coat. On one lapel, a bright pin gleams and Moomin thinks he’s seen something like it before, though he can’t fathom where. ‘If my instincts are right, we need to move quickly. Where were you heading to find him?’

‘Towards the beach,’ Moomin says, pointing that way with the stick. ‘It’s where Snufkin likes to go when he wants to be alone.’

The Mumrik puts his staff over one shoulder, gesturing a paw for Moomin to lead the way. 

They set off, going through the bushes towards the older mountain path so it might at least be an easier walk. Once there, the Mumrik fidgets with his pin again and Moomin tries to think of a way to fill the uncomfortable silence. 

‘He likes the sea, does he?’ the Mumrik asks after a while, clearly meaning Snufkin and Moomin is almost relieved to have something to say.

‘More than anything, I’d think,’ Moomin answers but the Mumrik simply hums, which isn’t much to converse with and they fall into quiet again.

Moomin keeps leading the way, glancing to the Mumrik from the corner of his eye. 

The Mumrik is much taller than Snufkin really, now Moomin walks alongside him. His slender body lends itself to a loping walk, shoulders sagging and it's what makes him seem looser at first, Moomin thinks.

But it’s his eyes that Moomin keeps going back to. They seem to change colour in the shade of the trees, like Snufkin’s do. Night-eyes, Snufkin calls them and it must be a Mumrik affinity.

‘You’re staring, little Moomin. Has anyone ever told you that’s not polite?’

‘My name’s Moomintroll,’ Moomin says, nettled at being called little and embarrassed at being caught staring. ‘And I’m not staring.’

‘No?’ the Mumrik says, smirking; the only thing to describe the slanted smile he gives. It shows his teeth, with sharp canines. ‘Moomins must’ve acquired a new talent for their eyes from last I met one then. I suppose that explains you attacking me before. If you’re not looking far past your snout, very easy to mix folks up.’

Moomin scoffs, offended and decides at once that he doesn’t like this Mumrik very much. Something about his demeanour makes Moomin think the Mumrik finds him quite foolish- and Moomin gets quite enough of that, thanks for very much.

‘Are all Mumriks so very different from each other?’

‘Why? Are all Moomins very similar? How do you fellows manage if all blind like you?’

Moomin ignores that, steaming as he can’t think of anything clever to say back. ‘Snufkin doesn’t look like you at all, I mean.’

The Mumrik’s whiskers twitch.

‘You don’t think so?’

‘Well, I can clearly see you’re the same creature,’ Moomin continues, suddenly worried he’s insulted somehow. ‘I just mean- you know, Snufkin doesn’t have a tail. Not one I know of anyway and I know him pretty well.’

‘Well enough to know if he has a tail hidden or not in his trousers?’ the Mumrik asks, glancing over and Moomin gasps, scandalised.

‘Goodness!’ Moomin pats at his cheeks, sending white fluff everywhere as he does. The Mumrik gets some on his nose, which wriggles. ‘What a thing to say! No! No, that is not what I meant! Just Snufkin’s my friend, my best-friend and if he had a tail I’m sure I’d have noticed is all.’

The Mumriks laughs, a low rumbling noise. ‘I’m sure you would’ve. Anyway, having a tail is not something you need to be Mumrik.’

‘Is it the nose?’

‘The nose?’ the Mumrik repeats, sounding confused and Moomin waves him off. 

‘Never mind,’ Moomin replies in a hurry, thinking it best to change the subject. 

He’s never been one to brag, but Moomin fancies himself at knowing Snufkin best of anyone. Right now though, Moomin feels a little lost on the nature of Mumriks and what makes one or not. All he really knows for certain is that Snufkin is the best one he knows.

Moomin wilts as a wave of dread washes over him. He wants Snufkin found- and soon. 

‘So,’ the Mumrik says after another while of quiet. He moves his staff, balancing it in one paw as they walk. ‘Have you travelled with Snufkin long?’

‘Travelled?’ Moomin’s turn, once again it seems, to be confused. ‘I don’t travel with Snufkin.’

‘Then how do you know him?’

‘He travels,’ Moomin continues, waving a paw vaguely behind him. ‘And when he’s done travelling, he comes back here. He comes back every Spring.’

‘Done travelling?’ The Mumrik hums then, thoughtful. ‘Are you sure, little Moomin?’

‘Alright, I’m not little,’ Moomin huffs as it’s true and he says again; ‘My name is Moomintroll.’ 

‘Fine name,’ the Mumrik replies but Moomin doesn’t think it sounds like the compliment it seems. ‘Clear and to the point on who you are. Moomins are true creatures on that, I must admit.’

Moomin narrows his eyes. ‘And what are you called?’

‘You know what I’m called.’

‘But you must have a name, right?’

‘Must I?’

‘Well, Snufkin has one,’ Moomin says, getting that unpleasant self-consciousness again as he realises again he isn’t at all sure how Mumriken work. ‘Unless, that’s unusual?’

Moomin smiles then, a familiar warm feeling blooming despite the uneasiness of everything.

‘Snufkin would be special, I suppose,’ he says and the Mumrik stops walking then. When Moomin looks, he’s fidgeting with his pin again. ‘Mister Mumrik?’

‘Joxter,’ the Mumrik says and Moomin blinks.

‘Um. Bless you?’

The Mumrik rolls his eyes. ‘Thanks for the sentiment, but try giving those funny ears of yours a workout. I am the Joxter.’

Moomin ruffles. ‘You’re called the Joxter?’

‘That is my name, yes.’

That’s unfortunate, Moomin thinks as he’s sure he’s never heard such a terrible name. Whomever named Snufkin was clearly a much kinder creature. Or, knowing what he knows of Snufkin, Moomin wouldn’t be surprised if Snufkin had named himself. 

The Joxter nods, evidently finding the matter of names finished and continues along the path. Moomin hurries after him. 

‘And he is,’ the Joxter says then and Moomin doesn’t know what he means by that. ‘Special, that is.’

‘Who?’

‘Snufkin,’ the Joxter says in a tone that makes it clear that he thinks Moomin is being rather slow. ‘I only knew him a very small while, but that much I knew quickly.’

‘Oh,’ is all Moomin says to that, puffing up a touch with pride. ‘It takes a great deal of specialness to be his friend as well, I’ll have you know.’

On this, the Joxter does not look convinced and Moomin tries not to be insulted.  As they walk along, the Joxter keeps looking over his shoulder at the base of the mountain where it looms over the trees.

‘That’s a volcano,’ he says and Moomin follows his eye behind them, tripping at once over something. He lands on the path in a heap. ‘Goodness! Are you well?’

‘Fine, I’m fine!’ Moomin says, jumping to his feet and desperate to change the subject. ‘How did you know that’s a volcano? It’s dormant, after all.’

‘Look at the stones you landed in,’ the Joxter says, pointing with the end of his staff. Moomin looks down to see a variation of blue and grey stones. ‘Volcanic slate.’

‘Wow,’ Moomin says, bending to pick one up. ‘They’re beautiful.’

Snufkin would love this, Moomin thinks as he turns the stone one way and then another. Moomin rather fancies it himself. He has a collection of nice oddities in his bedroom that a stone like this would look splendid alongside. 

But Moomin’s mood cools as he thinks of Snufkin again. Rather, thinks of Snufkin’s missing again. He looks at the Joxter and finds him watching Moomin back. 

‘You look troubled,’ the Joxter says and Moomin puts the stone down, heading away down the path again. 

‘This feeling you said you had,’ Moomin says and they continue, anxiously wringing his paws. ‘About misfortune. You don’t happen to know what kind of misfortune, do you?’

‘It’s not something that can be read quite that easily,’ the Joxter replies, which Moomin can’t really understand but he takes it as a way of saying No. 

‘I should’ve heard something by now,’ Moomin says, looking ahead. ‘A song, or maybe some gossip from another creature. Snufkin isn’t one I tend to lose.’

‘That’s why it’s called lost,’ the Joxter says solemnly. ‘Because we are without by accident.’

‘Maybe, but I just think-’

Both of them stop, seemingly spotting it at the same time. Up ahead on the path, under the dark shade of the trees and completely without a Snufkin beneath it, is Snufkin’s hat. 

Moomin’s heart sinks. 

Chapter Text

Moomin drops his stick and picks up the hat, feeling like something is spinning very fast in the centre of his chest so he can’t quite catch his breath. 

‘This is Snufkin’s hat,’ Moomin says, turning it between his paws. 

It looks perfect, though it is pockmarked with laburnum seeds and bright yellow petals from the nearby tree. They curl like wood-shavings in the frayed wool; the hat must’ve been lying here for some time. ‘He doesn’t go anywhere without his hat.’

‘Then he must be close,’ the Joxter says, striding ahead of Moomin and looking about the path. ‘Where does this path lead?’

‘He doesn’t go anywhere without his hat,’ Moomin repeats, firmer and the Joxter turns. They look at each other and Moomin grips the brim of Snufkin’s hat very tightly. The Joxter taps his staff against the ground once. 

‘It’s just a hat, Moomintroll,’ he says and Moomin shakes his head, not sure where to even start to explain. ‘There are many reasons someone might leave it after them.’

‘Not Snufkin,’ Moomin says, fretful. The Joxter raises his chin and it makes him seem taller again. ‘He’d never say it, but I know he’d sooner turn back for it than admit to missing it in the first place.’

Moomin presses the hat against his chest, the dread sinking within as though through heavy mud. 

‘Something’s happened to him,’ Moomin says and he knows it to be true. ‘Something must’ve happened.’

The Joxter doesn’t say anything to that. Truly, Moomin doesn’t care for what the fellow might say at all anyway. He looks past him, down the path that’s half-carpeted in the yellow laburnum and dark shadows from where the evening is creeping in. 

Moomin doesn’t come this way very often, can’t think of the last time he did. He wracks his brain, tries to think of what treacherous thing could possibly lurk nearby.

They’re too far down the mountain for a cliff, Moomin reckons. But perhaps there is a branch from the stream, or a creek? Snufkin can’t swim all too well if at all, Moomin knows, despite his great affection for the water. Even so… 

Moomin looks back to the hat, picks off a stray seed. None of those things would explain why the hat is here, of all strange places. Snufkin wouldn’t have gone without it.

‘It has to be bad,’ Moomin says, faster and his breathing goes with it. Snufkin’s hat looks so much bigger when it’s on him, but looking at it now Moomin can’t help but think of how short and skinny a creature Snufkin truly is. ‘Whatever’s happened…’

Moomin turns on the spot, shouts out into the trees without much rhyme but certainly with reason.

‘Snufkin!’ he calls to the growing dark. No answer; not even a rustle from the bushes. ‘Snufkin, where are you? Snufkin!’

Moomin walks out a bit, through the underbrush and pushes some of the lower hanging tree branches from his sight. The worry is getting much sharper in his chest, poking out between his ribs where he can’t quite contain it. He pictures cliffs again, unknown rivers or maybe a terrible pit. 

‘Snufkin-!’

‘Hush, will you!’ the Joxter snaps and Moomin starts, having completely forgotten about him in everything. 

Moomin looks at the Mumrik over his shoulder, about to give out but he’s distracted at once when the Joxter just holds up a black paw. Moomin stares at it, then back to the Joxter’s face and a sudden but very hot anger floods him.

‘Don’t tell me to hush! Snufkin is-‘

‘I’ve asked you once,’ the Joxter hisses, interrupting Moomin. Moomin ruffles at once. ‘I won’t ask you the second time. Be quiet.’

Moomin is about to protest again, but something about the unpleasant rasp to the Joxter’s voice stops him. He swallows the angry words he had brewing and glances over to where he left the stick. Moomin suddenly wishes he hadn’t put it down.

The Joxter is looking up, walking slow and careful as though he were avoiding small things. His eyes are wide and his whiskers twitch as he breathes deep through his nose. Moomin watches, very uncertain. He takes a small step towards where he left the stick, eyes fixed on the Joxter. But the Joxter doesn’t seem interested in what Moomin is doing, instead more focused on the trees.

‘Is it always this quiet?’ the Joxter asks and Moomin doesn’t know what he means. The Joxter looks to him, points straight up. ‘No birdsong. No creeps nesting. Don’t you think that’s unusual for a wood like this?’

‘Uh…’ is all Moomin can think of to say, for now that he really thinks about it, the wood has been strangely quiet. He’d thought so himself and Moomin flinches, suddenly ashamed. The wood has been quiet since he set off and Moomin didn’t even think to notice why that might be. 

Stupid! he thinks, holding Snufkin’s hat close. Snufkin would’ve known at once that was not just unusual, but bad. He’d have seen it for the warning it clearly was, if things were the other way around. Snufkin would probably have found Moomin already, if Moomin were the one in need of finding and Moomin feels so devastatingly useless in this moment.

‘It takes a particular kind of creature to scare a wood into quiet like this,’ the Joxter says soberly and his tail rises behind him, then lingers. It rolls up the back of his coat and he’s suddenly quite still. 

When he says nothing else, Moomin asks; ‘What kind of creature?’

‘One with teeth,’ the Joxter answers and their eyes meet. Moomin’s breath runs out, going too fast to hold him up and he gasps quietly to try and catch it again. 

All sorts of horrid things come to his mind. Frightful things he’s read about in Papa’s storybooks; large, taloned birds that swoop like owls and contortioned serpents. Ridiculous, nightmarish things that can’t possibly exist here in the valley but Moomin can’t stop as the pictures of them come back to him. It’s impossible not to imagine Snufkin somehow ensnared. 

And then Moomin stops himself. He shakes his head, scolds himself aloud and the Joxter looks at him, perplexed.

‘No,’ Moomin says, more to himself and to his overactive imagination. ‘No, that’s not possible. There are no monsters here in this valley!’

The Joxter gives Moomin a strange look.

‘There are other things to be afraid of in the world than monsters, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says and Moomin’s dark thoughts are interrupted by the crackling sweep of the Joxter’s staff, the end of which he is now using to shift laburnum petals and other woodland debris from the path. His head is down, the wide brim of his hat covering his face and it stalls Moomin entirely for a moment. 

It reminds him so much of Snufkin, just now, and it takes Moomin entirely by surprise.

‘What- what are you doing?’ Moomin asks as the Joxter bends down, brushing his black fingers through the leaves. 

‘If something happened, there will be traces of whatever that something was,’ the Joxter says and Moomin is confused until he isn’t, finally catching up. He strides over, desperate for something to do. 

‘Are you looking for clues?’

The Joxter looks up at Moomin from the ground. With the sun behind him and so wide a hat, his entire face is in shadow and it’s made his eyes dark like soot.

‘Clues?’

‘You know,’ Moomin continues, too worried to be self-conscious. Had he not been, he might’ve noticed the disapproving look that comes across the Joxter’s face as he says; ‘Like in detective stories. Clues to find out what happened.’

‘Where on earth did you learn of such things?’ the Joxter asks and Moomin fidgets with Snufkin’s hat.

‘My Papa taught me about them,’ Moomin says and he gets an idea. ‘Perhaps we ought to go to the house! Papa is bound to have an idea of what to do.’

Truth be told, Moomin doubts this for Papa can’t be relied upon to find his own pipe if held in one paw but what his father is always good for at least a book that might help. Especially if Snufkin has run afoul of some unknown creature that’s between monster and not.

The Joxter stands, his paw coiled into a fist. Moomin gets that uneasy feeling again, prickling up the back of his neck. ‘And where is your house, Moomintroll?’

‘Moominvalley,’ Moomin says, pointing West past the Joxter’s shoulder. ‘In Moominhouse.’

The Joxter ducks his head quite suddenly. It hides his face and Moomin is caught once again by how striking a habit it is. He’s beginning to suspect this to be another Mumrik affinity, for how else is Snufkin to be so similar to a stranger? Moomin finds it less charming now though; not seeing the Joxter’s face makes Moomin feel as though he’s missing one half of the conversation.

‘If you think that best, then hats off to you,’ the Joxter says and Moomin jumps when the Joxter suddenly walks right past him, back up towards the volcano. ‘But I think I shall be just fine on my own.’

‘On- on your own?’ Moomin repeats, not following. He chases after the Joxter, who’s tail whips behind him as he goes. ‘What do you mean on your own?’

‘I mean that if you wish to go home to your parents, little Moomin, then you’d best do it. I can find Snufkin without you.’

‘Find-? Wait!’ Moomin says, angry again. He runs ahead, cutting the Joxter off with both arms thrown out. The Joxter stops and gives Moomin a considering look from beneath his hat. ‘Do you know where he is? Is that where you’re going?’

‘I know where he may be,’ the Joxter says and Moomin grits his teeth, not at all impressed. ‘All will be well, Moomintroll. I can find him.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ Moomin says and the Joxter blinks, surprised it seems.

‘Snufkin is my kind,’ the Joxter says and something flickers across his face, too quick for Moomin to guess what it might be. ‘At the very least, I mean. As long as I’m here, it’s my responsibility to find him. You don’t owe us that, Moomintroll.’

‘Owe you?’ Moomin has never heard a dafter thing in his life. ‘Snufkin is my friend!’

Moomin pulls the hat close to him again, presses it against his chest.

‘He’s my dearest friend,’ he says, quite sincerely and the Joxter tilts his head slightly, looking thoughtful. ‘If he’s in trouble, I won’t leave him to it. I won’t.’

‘He will be in trouble,’ the Joxter says and Moomin’s stomach turns at the thought. ‘It will require no small bit of bravery, I’d wager. Are you sure you’re up for that?’

Moomin bristles. ‘I can take it.’

The Joxter doesn’t look like he believes him but he says nothing else. They look at each other for a short while and Moomin resists going up onto his tiptoes, trying to seem bigger and more capable. Then, the Joxter taps his staff against the ground and Moomin jumps.

‘Dawn,’ the Joxter says and Moomin frowns, confused. ‘Meet me back at the sycamore you found me at dawn and we’ll head together then.’

‘Dawn?’ Moomin asks, nervous. ‘Why not now? If Snufkin’s in trouble we should leave now!’

‘It’s already been at least a day going by the sorry state of that hat,’ the Joxter says, nodding to it in Moomin’s paws. ‘Any benefit we’d have had in haste is already lost. We need to be clever now and for that we need to prepare.’

Moomin shakes his head. ‘That’s not good enough. If Snufkin needs me, then we’re going now.’

‘Oh?’ The Joxter tilts his face and Moomin can see his sharp teeth again. ‘And tell me, little Moomin, where do you intend to start?’

Moomin falters. He looks about the trees, the path- but the evening has come in fast like paint spilled. The shadows are thick between the trees and Moomin squints, as though it may help but it doesn’t. He can’t see a thing. Defeated, he turns back to the Joxter.

‘You’ll need me,’ the Joxter says, whiskers going taut. ‘If you want to help Snufkin.’

‘Do you… know what’s happened to him?’ he asks, taking a step back. The Joxter’s mouth goes very thin, as though he’s holding something back.

‘I have my suspicions.’

‘What are your suspicions?’

‘Dawn,’ the Joxter says again instead of answering that and Moomin stammers, trying to ask more questions but the Joxter raises a paw to stop him. ‘Bring only what you need.’

‘What do I need?’ Moomin asks him and the Joxter holds up his paw, each finger going up as he lists.

‘Something sharp,’ he starts with. ‘You Moomins haven’t got much of a sharp wit, never mind much else and believe me, you will be in want of it. I’d also bring rope, if you have it.’

‘Rope?’ Moomin repeats, catching the insult within that list too late. ‘Wait, I don’t-’

‘And Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says, stepping up to him and putting paw to Moomin’s shoulder. He grips very tightly. ‘If you are to come with me, then you must do so in secret.’

‘Secret?’ Moomin doesn’t like the sound of that at all.

‘I mean you must tell no one where you are going or why you must leave at all.’

‘What? Why?’ Moomin shoves the Joxter’s paw off him, suspicious.

‘If you care for Snufkin half as much as you want me to believe you do, you’ll listen to me on this,’ the Joxter says, a touch cruel and Moomin falls silent, stung. ‘We can’t afford to be undone by a large party of busy-bodies. If you tell your parents, would you have me believe they would let you go without someone insisting they come along?’

Moomin thinks of Little My, of Snorkmaiden. If they knew Snufkin were in trouble, they would want to come along. Mama would insist he let them and Moomin is suddenly very unsure of a great deal. He’s never been on an adventure without anyone before. He looks back down to Snufkin’s hat.

‘How much trouble is he in?’ Moomin asks the Joxter quietly, meeting his eye. The Joxter looks sombre.

‘I suspect a great deal.’

‘But you can find him?’

‘Yes,’ the Joxter says, so firmly that Moomin can’t help but believe him.

‘Fine,’ Moomin says, holding a paw out. The Joxter looks at it for a brief moment, before taking it in his own. ‘Swear you won’t leave without me.’

‘Not if you’re on time,’ the Joxter says and Moomin supposes that’s good enough. For Snufkin, it will have to be.

*/

Moomin can’t stomach his dinner, nerves making him ill and he pushes his plate away. Mama pauses mid-bite of her own, question in her eyes but Moomin simply looks away. He truly doesn’t think he could lie outright and so he’s hoping to avoid doing so altogether by staying as quiet as possible.

Little My has noticed.

‘Are you actually pining so terribly you’re going to starve?’ she asks him and Moomin starts, dropping his fork. Little My laughs at him. ‘Though I suppose there’s not much chance of that with an arse like yours.’

‘Little My, language,’ Mama says serenely as Papa coughs, looking far more displeased.

Moomin doesn’t have the will to think of anything to say back, his eyes constantly wandering outside. The Spring evening is very dark now and the fire is lit, crackling orange in the stove. He thinks about Snufkin’s hat, hidden upstairs in his room. No one would believe anything Moomin might say about why he has it.

‘You do look quite peaky, my sweet,’ Snorkmaiden says, putting a paw over Moomin’s on the table. Moomin can’t quite bear to be touched though, anxious as he is and he slips it away.

‘I think I’ll head to bed,’ Moomin says, standing abruptly and Snorkmaiden makes a soft cooing noise.

‘Why don’t I drop you up a cup of hot cocoa?’ she says but Moomin waves her off, stepping away from the table.

‘No, no. I’m fine,’ he says, desperate to get away. He wants to be in his room, he wants to pack his bag. Truly, Moomin is half-tempted to leave now altogether and wait under that sycamore tree until dawn anyway. 

‘You won’t get what he fancies into a cup,’ Little My says, unhelpfully and Snorkmaiden instantly scowls at her. ‘Unless you have Snufkin hidden away somewhere. Finally got that sick of him stealing your thunder, did you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about-’

‘Goodnight!’ Moomin says starkly and he bolts up the stairs, leaving everyone quite at a loss behind him.

Once in his room, Moomin locks it after him and leaves the key in just to put any peeping Little My off. He paces about, wringing his paws together. He needs to make a pack. But goodness, he isn’t sure what he ought to put in it. He needs something sharp, the Joxter said and that must be a knife of some sort. But all the knives are downstairs so it will have to wait.

And rope. Where does Mama keep such things? The basement? Moomin is desperate to start but has no idea how to without anyone seeing. He feels like he might burst, the dread is burning so hot inside of him. He looks at Snufkin’s hat on his bed and freezes.

Snufkin is in trouble. That Joxter said so and Moomin isn’t sure why he believes him, but he does all the same and Moomin’s brain is like a buzzy beehive, each thought faster than the last.

Snufkin’s been in trouble before no doubt, but not like this, Moomin thinks. He’s heard Snufkin’s stories of being caught in nets or chased by custodians, but something about this all just feels so very different. Moomin goes over and touches Snufkin’s hat, picking it up and doing something very silly.

He holds it to his snout and breathes. It doesn’t smell of much more than campfire and the green scent of the wood, but Moomin breathes deep anyway and tries to tell himself he can smell Snufkin. He tries to remember what exactly that smell is and as he does, his chest starts to ache.

‘I’ll come and get you,’ Moomin promises, as though Snufkin’s hat were to take such things in his absence. ‘Just hang on, Snufkin.’

Moomin jumps when someone knocks on his door.

He quickly shoves Snufkin’s hat under his bed, anxiously looking about as though there were something else to give him away and goes to answer. On the other side is Snorkmaiden, a steaming cup in her paws.

‘I said you were all right on the hot cocoa,’ Moomin says without thinking and Snorkmaiden tuts, rolling her eyes.

‘You’re supposed to say thank you, my darling,’ she says but Moomin still doesn’t say that. He doesn’t feel up to even pretending he might be able to drink anything, never mind hot cocoa. Snorkmaiden always puts too much sugar in anyway. ‘I wanted to check on you.’

‘Thank you,’ Moomin says, awkwardly drumming his fingers on the door. ‘But I really just want to head to bed.’

‘I also wanted to talk to you about tomorrow,’ Snorkmaiden says and Moomin’s blood goes cold.

‘How… how did you know?’

‘You didn’t think I’d forget our anniversary, did you?’ Snorkmaiden asks and Moomin stares, completely lost on what she could possibly be talking about. She notices. ‘But you did. Didn’t you?’

‘No?’ Moomin replies, clearly lying. Snorkmaiden doesn’t change colour, she’s too proper for that, but her fluff does ruffle and Moomin thinks that’s enough in itself. He’s in trouble. ‘I mean, not no. I didn’t forget, I just didn’t know- that is, wasn’t sure which anniversary you meant.’

‘How many anniversaries do you think a couple can have?’ Snorkmaiden asks flatly and Moomin scrambles to think of something, tail anxiously whipping about behind him.

‘Well, there’s the anniversary. Obviously,’ he says, stalling and Snorkmaiden’s frown gets deeper. ‘But also things like the first bark boat you sailed together! Or your first Spring day, or the first minnow you catch or-’

Moomin cuts himself off, realising far too late that he’s veered off completely into things Snorkmaiden would never do but he’s not in the best mind for any of this. He keeps resisting the urge to turn back, to look at Snufkin’s hat like it might somehow ease how worried he is. He’s back to nervously drumming his fingers.

‘Aww,’ Snorkmaiden says, which catches Moomin entirely by surprise. She’s smiling at him now and his confusion grows. ‘Aren’t you sweet thinking all those little things so important?’

‘That’s me,’ Moomin says, already stepping back into his room. ‘So why don’t we leave it for tomorrow and pick up on one of our other anniversaries?’

‘But I’ve already made plans for us tomorrow,’ Snorkmaiden says, pouting and Moomin doesn’t know what to do to put her off. ‘Moominmama and I even baked a cake! Your favourite, of course. And I was thinking we could go to the beach, I know you love it there and-’

‘I can’t!’ Moomin says, panicked and Snorkmaiden goes quiet at once. ‘I mean- Snorkmaiden, that sounds lovely. Really lovely, but I just can’t.’

‘Why not?’ she asks him, sounding very small. 

‘I… I think I’m going to try looking for Snufkin. Again,’ Moomin says as that much is certainly true. This time, Snorkmaiden does change colour and Moomin feels as though the floor could swallow him and it wouldn’t get him away fast enough. She turns a lurid, ivy green right across her snout.

‘Snufkin,’ she says balefully and Moomin’s throat stings as he his nerves tighten; he’s not in the mood for one of their rows right now. ‘I might’ve guessed.’

‘I won’t be gone long,’ Moomin promises quickly, anything for this conversation to end but Snorkmaiden doesn’t seem interested in that. Nor the promise either.

‘Oh, don’t you get it?’ Snorkmaiden says and she puts a paw to her snout, looking quite miserable. ‘I don’t care when you get back, it’s that you’re going at all.’

It’s Moomin’s turn to frown now as he doesn’t think that’s very fair. After all, it’s not like he’d known of her plans anyway, even if there wasn’t Snufkin to think of. But as Snufkin is all Moomin can think of, it doesn’t matter a jot anyway.

‘I understand you’re worried, but he wanders off all the time!’ Snorkmaiden continues, higher and Moomin winces.

‘I know, but-’ Moomin stops himself. He can’t tell her, the Joxter told him not. He stumbles and Snorkmaiden’s eyes are getting shinier. When she speaks, her voice is very little and her ears droop.

‘This is important to me, Moomintroll.’

‘It’s not as important as Snufkin,’ Moomin replies at once and the hot air between them snuffs out. It gets so quiet, Moomin can hear the wood of the house groaning and he realises he’s gone and said something he truly shouldn’t have.

‘Nothing ever is, is it?’ Snorkmaiden says, very quiet which isn’t like her at all.

‘I’m sorry, Snorkmaiden,’ Moomin says and he is trying to sound so. Snorkmaiden’s ears flick back, nearly against her head entirely and he knows he’s failed on it.

‘I don’t want you to be sorry, I want you to understand why I’m cross with you,’ Snorkmaiden snaps at him and Moomin’s own temper is beginning to raise its head now despite himself. ‘I want to stop feeling like the odd one out with my own boyfriend.’

Moomin knows he’s the one in trouble here but it’s very hard not to get cross himself with Snorkmaiden talking such rubbish. ‘Cop on, it’s not as bad as all that.’

‘Isn’t it? Go on then, what about me, Moomintroll?’ Snorkmaiden says to him, demanding tone back again and the green on her snout is fading fast. ‘Don’t you ever think about me the way you think about Snufkin?’

It’s a trick question, it must be and Moomin can’t help but answer; ‘But you don’t want that!’

‘Oh, strike me pink!’ Snorkmaiden wipes at her face, flushes suddenly and her whole body is just that; pink, that is and Moomin gasps.

She’s pink all the way down to her toes, to the very ends of her pretty hair. Snorkmaiden hasn’t changed colour like that in… oh, a long while. Moomin’s anger stumbles and he steps towards her, unsure.

‘That’s just the point!’ Snorkmaiden says, sounding more like herself as she rounds back on him. ‘Who are you to say what I want or don’t want? You never listen to me, never even ask me!’

Moomin thinks that is incredibly unfair.

‘I ask you what you want all the time!’

‘This isn’t about bark boats or picnics, Moomintroll!’ Snorkmaiden says, as though Moomin is being very stupid right now and missing something which he certainly can’t be, for what on Earth else could it all be about? ‘Do you even know how clever I am?’

‘Of course I think you’re clever,’ Moomin says, desperately wishing this conversation will just end. He’s confused and so very embarrassed. 

‘Gosh, you really don’t get it at all, do you?’ Snorkmaiden says and she sounds so very sad just now. It makes everything slow down quite suddenly and Moomin forgets this is supposed to be an argument he’s trying to win because more than almost anything, Moomin never wants Snorkmaiden to be unhappy.

‘I’m just so tired, Moomintroll,’ Snorkmaiden says, wiping at her eyes. She’s crying quite earnestly now and Moomin manages to put his paw to her shoulder. ‘I’m tired of every conversation I have lately being about Snufkin. Or you. Or you and Snufkin. Do you have any idea what it feels like to never have anyone talk about me?’

Moomin truly doesn’t know what to say. He feels they talk about her all the time; what she wants her wedding to look like, what she thinks of how stories end and what she likes best in the meadows. But standing here now, Moomin is quite sure this is not something he should point out.

‘Snorkmaiden, I…’

‘Forget it. I’m going to bed,’ Snorkmaiden says and she leaves, so quickly Moomin is left bereft in the doorway as she makes her way back downstairs.

Moomin stands a long while, head spinning too quick to really focus on any one thing and he goes back into his room, closing the door behind him. He hates to row with her, but it’s so very hard for it to feel important. Snorkmaiden gets cross, it’s what she does and just as fast she’ll be not-cross so why get so upset at all?

Moomin looks at his bed, at where Snufkin’s hat is hidden and that sick feeling is back. He can’t stop picturing it in his head; the horrible things that might’ve happened, the terrible danger Snufkin may be in. It makes his paws shake, the air in his chest feel thin. He puts a paw to his chest, feels his heart thudding so heavy.

He needs to get ready.

*/

Moomin stops halfway out the back door, the night very dark. There’s a chill and a mist, swirling around his lantern which he puts on the stoop as he looks back into the kitchen.

He has a knife, stolen from the top drawer. Rope, too, that he’d found in a trunk in Papa’s study. But now, something else has him stalling and he fidgets about with the strap of his pack, unsure. He heads back in, through the house to the living room and stops at the mantle, where Papa’s rifle sits on the wall.

Moomin has only ever fired the thing once or twice, and only ever with Papa to help him hold it steady. He doesn’t even know how the thing loads. But Moomin stares up at it anyway and wonders if it would be worth taking. The thought of using it turns like a screw in his gut, but there’s something new bloomed in the cracks of his fear for Snufkin. Something that scares Moomin a little in itself.

It’s been following him about all evening, breathing over his shoulder as he stole about the house in the dark getting what he needs. Moomin isn’t even sure it has a name, this new feeling. All he knows is that every time his mind wanders to some wretched beast putting their paws on Snufkin, it bursts inside him like embers cracking in the fire.

‘What are you doing?’

Moomin jumps, putting his paws over his mouth to cover the shout he nearly gives. He turns at once, squinting through the dark to see movement on the stairs. Little movement.

‘Nothing,’ Moomin says, all his fluff sticking up with the fright. ‘Go back to bed, My.’

‘You’re up to something,’ Little My says, poking her round head through the bars of the bannister. ‘Tell me what it is.’

‘I’m not up to anything.’

‘What’s the pack for then?’ she asks and Moomin puts his paws to it, self-conscious.

‘Nothing, I told you.’

‘You’re as rotten a liar as you are a boyfriend,’ Little My says, hopping the rest of the way through the bars and down onto the couch below. ‘That why you’re skiving off in the middle of the night? Running from the bother you caused?’

‘I’m not running from anything,’ Moomin says, not able to even think of Snorkmaiden right now. ‘Just go back to bed, My. Please.’

‘You’re normally more fun than this,’ Little My says as Moomin walks past her, back towards his lantern and the night. When he hears her small footsteps, Moomin sighs and turns, putting a paw up.

Like such a thing has ever stopped her before, but he chances his paw for it anyway.

‘I told you to go back to bed,’ he says firmly but she just looks up at him with amusement.

‘I’d sooner get told off by Muskrat than you,’ she says, crossing her short arms. Her smile dampens when she looks past him, to the open door and the lantern. ‘Where are you going in the dark?’

‘It’s a secret,’ Moomin says and instantly regrets it with the way Little My straightens to attention.

‘I love secrets!’ she says, running up to the lantern. She pokes it like it might reveal said secrets. ‘And I’m much better at keeping them than you, so go on then. Give it to me, I’ll keep it safe for you.’

‘I can’t tell you!’ Moomin says and Little My scoffs.

‘Can’t or won’t, you always seem to get those two mixed up,’ she says which Moomin can make head nor tail of but she’s already walking back to him. ‘I saw Snufkin’s hat in your room.’

Moomin’s cheeks fluff up at once. ‘What were you doing in my room?’

‘Seeing why you left it. What are you doing with Snufkin’s hat?’

‘I’m looking after it while he’s-’ Moomin stutters. ‘A-away.’

‘Away?’ Little My sounds dubious. ‘He can’t have gone far, his camp’s still outside.’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Are you going to meet him now?’

‘I don’t know. Don’t go in my room,’ Moomin says, scowling as he picks up the lantern but Little My’s eyebrows furrow together.

‘What do you mean you don’t know? Where else would you be sneaking off to if not for Snufkin?’

‘I told you, it’s complicated.’

‘Must be if you’re sneaking out without your girlfriend knowing. That why she’s thinking of chucking you? At this rate, I’d say leave her. You’d all be better off for it.’

‘It’s nothing like that! Look, just forget it,’ Moomin says and he heads out, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t get far before it opens again. He sighs, rubbing his snout as he looks over his shoulder to see Little My once again. ‘You can’t follow me. You have to stay here.’

‘And have you go on an adventure without me? I don’t think so!’

‘You don’t understand!’ Moomin says and everything finally boils over, quite suddenly. He goes hot and his chest feels heavy, as though sat on by stones. ‘This isn’t some game, Little My! This is important and I need to do it alone!’

There’s a very long quiet then. When Moomin finally forces himself to meet Little My’s eye, he’s surprised to see the thoughtful expression on her face. Usually, that means she’s thinking of some prank or another but something doesn’t feel right about that at this moment.

‘Snufkin’s in trouble, isn’t he?’ Little My says and Moomin freezes. If he weren’t so sick with the nerves of it all, he might’ve been impressed with her cleverness.

‘I think he is, yeah,’ Moomin replies and Little My makes a small huff, puffing up her chest. 

‘If he’s in trouble, I’m coming to help.’

‘You can’t-’

‘Bugger off, I can’t!’ Little My says, too loud and Moomin hushes her quickly, eyes scanning the house. ‘I know you think yourself so important, but Snufkin’s my friend, too!’

‘I know that, hush will you!’ Moomin says, waving a paw to try and get her to quieten down. ‘But I told you already, it’s complicated.’

‘How complicated can it be? Snufkin is in trouble, I will help get him out of it.’

‘I’ve already got a plan,’ Moomin says, thinking of the Joxter. Of his promise. ‘And I can’t take you with me.’

‘Why not?’

‘I… can’t tell you,’ Moomin says and their eyes meet again. Sometimes, Little My is so wretched a thing. And other times, like now, Moomin feels as though she sees much more than she ever lets on. ‘But I can tell you that I won’t come back without him.’

Little My seems to mull that over. ‘Do you promise?’

‘I promise,’ Moomin says, resolute on that. Little My walks up to him, holding her small hand up to him with her even smaller baby finger raised.

‘Swear it.’

Moomin bends down and links his own pinky with hers, careful not to squeeze too tight.

‘I need you to cover for me,’ Moomin says and Little My tuts, before smiling at him. All teeth.

‘Figures you’d need help with at least something,’ she says before heading back towards the house. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll cover for you.’

Moomin isn’t quite sure he believes her but he hasn’t much choice. He waits until she’s back in the house and the door closed before making his way again. He gets as far as the bridge, before looking back to Moominhouse again.

Moomin’s been away a handful of times, there’s no reason for this to be any different to then. But it feels distinctly different and his grip on the lantern tightens. He looks at Snufkin’s tent, the canvas scattered with some stray leaves. That terrible ache is back, coiled together like a weed with the worry.

‘I’m coming, Snufkin,’ Moomin says, continuing on his way into the wood.

It’s more awkward than he thought trying to find that sycamore tree in the dark. As dawn starts creeping in between the trees, Moomin starts to panic thinking he won’t find his way back on time and the Joxter will leave without him. What will he do then?

Look anyway, Moomin thinks as he trips over a root, nearly landing into the brambles. With or without a Joxter’s help, Moomin will find Snufkin. But as it is… he’d rather have the help.

Just as the sky starts to turn pink, Moomin sees a familiar bush and heads straight through it, calling out into the wood;

‘Mister Joxter! Are you here?’

Something falls onto his head and Moomin gives a rather undignified yelp of surprise, making good on previous stumble and turning over the grass. He lands on his arse, lantern rolling away and snuffing out in the kerfuffle.

From a tree, a figure drops like a cat. Moomin feels a spike of fear that only thaws slightly on recognising the lanky shape of the Joxter, who stands up only to lean against his staff as though even that is too much effort.

‘Let that bump be a reminder never to call me mister again,’ the Joxter says and Moomin huffs, not at impressed with that. The Joxter doesn’t even offer Moomin a paw up. ‘Have you everything you need, Moomintroll?’

‘You mean everything you told me to bring?’ Moomin asks, standing up and brushing himself down for all the good it’ll do.

‘At the very least.’

‘Then yes.’

‘Splendid,’ the Joxter says and Moomin stalls, on edge for the strangest thing. For the Joxter says the word with the very same cadence as Snufkin; it’s an eerie thing. ‘Never met a Moomin who didn’t fancy a list. Or indeed doing as their told.’

Moomin is very sure that’s an insult but he hasn’t the patience to unpack it. ‘What now? How do we find Snufkin?’

‘Finding him will be simple enough,’ the Joxter says, walking a little ways and pushing his staff out. He uses it to push apart some low ferns. ‘Getting him out of the grip of who has him will be trickier.’

‘And who has him?’

‘A creature with all the might of a pistol and none of the integrity,’ the Joxter says like that makes a bit of sense. He reaches into one of the pockets of his grubby coat and what he takes out makes Moomin gasp.

‘That’s Snufkin’s!’ Moomin says, desperate and he rushes forward, snatching the harmonica out of the Joxter’s paw. Moomin turns it about in his own but even in the half-dark, Moomin would know it anywhere. ‘Where did you find this?’

The Joxter doesn’t answer and when Moomin looks to him, he’s unnerved with the astute gaze aimed at him. The Joxter’s eyes are almost entirely black in this dark, but he has them narrowed with a scrutiny that makes the fluff on Moomin’s neck stand up.

‘You’re going to have to be very brave, little Moomin,’ says the Joxter and Moomin presses the harmonica to his chest, over his heart. ‘For we will be facing quite the creature.’

‘A monster?’

‘Worse,’ the Joxter says solemnly. ‘A Sneak.’

‘What’s a Sneak?’ Moomin asks, afraid.

‘A great deal of trouble.’

Moomin looks down to the harmonica. Thinks of Snufkin. Thinks of what Snufkin might do were he the one vanished and Snufkin left behind. Would Snufkin come for him, face a foe like such?

It doesn’t matter, Moomin suddenly thinks and he knows it to be true. Because even if Snufkin wouldn’t, Moomin would because Snufkin is Moomin’s friend and that is all that has ever mattered. His dearest friend, his…

‘Take me to Snufkin,’ Moomin says to the Joxter, standing up straight with determinationt. ‘If you know the way.’

The Joxter looks him over one more time, but then he nods. Just the once, before he starts making his way through the wood and Moomin walks after him, the harmonica tight in his paw.

Chapter Text

Snufkin is tied so tight he’s very sure he’ll get pins and needles soon. He wriggles about a little, but there’s no more give than there has been the hundreds of other times he’s tried it. His hands are tied with a rough rope behind his back, his ankles, too in front of him. 

This simply won’t do, he thinks and he glares at his captors with much prejudice.

The three of them are settled in a thicket, half-way up the mountain path. They’ve been walking a long while, into the third day now and Snufkin wonders where on earth they’re taking him.

It shouldn’t take this long to get out of Moominvalley, if that is their intention. Snufkin can’t help but feel they’ve been walking in circles. He’s spent most of these days in the sack, however, so it’s been very hard to tell for certain.

‘If you’re going to keep me so bundled up, why take me out of that wretched thing at all?’ Snufkin asks boldly, looking at where the hateful sack sits in a heap by him.

There’s not much to do when captured except be as cumbersome a hostage as possible, he feels. At least until such time that he can get away.

Or rescued, but Snufkin doesn’t think it wise to hang too high a hope on that. It's already been days with no sign of anyone, perhaps better to rely on oneself.

It shouldn’t matter; Snufkin has had to get himself out of all sorts of trouble before all by himself. But he’s not out in the world now, he’s in Moominvalley and somehow Snufkin can’t help but feel uneasy about it all. Selfishly… he’d thought someone might’ve noticed. 

‘Don’t want you suffocating, now do we?’ the Grusbler says, poking at his small fire with a knobbly stick. There’s coffee brewing over it. ‘What a shame that’d be with songs as sweet as yours, eh?’

Snufkin wishes he had his hat so he could hide. As it is, all he can do is turn away best he can. He’s not had a song since the day he was caught in their horrid trap, sadder than he has any right to be in the fact that his harmonica had slipped from his pocket in their rough handling of him that first day, lost.

Hasn’t stopped the Grusbler complimenting him with a sneer though.

Snufkin isn’t one for thinking such things, but he fancies it would feel pretty good all the same to stick his boot right into the foul creature’s knee. Or any other part of him he might reach, when given the chance.

‘How gracious,’ Snufkin says instead of all he’s thinking and he’s back to twisting his wrists about. The skin is rubbed raw there and he grits his teeth as the rope bites into him.

The Fribs creature stretches out, arms above his head though they don’t go very far, stubby as they are.

‘That and my back is aching from carrying your miserable pack! What does a little thing like you need that’s so heavy anyway?’

As he says it, Fribs reaches for Snufkin’s pack. They’d evidently decided to take it with them for whatever reason and Snufkin feels a sharp spike of displeasure as Fribs starts to undo the straps.

‘Hey!’ Snufkin growls; for the umpteenth time since this whole mess started. He’s not growled in seasons and now it’s near all his does. Fribs jumps. ‘You’d save your back the trouble if you left it behind! There’s nothing in there of interest to you.’

‘Says a creature who most certainly has something of interest,’ the Grusbler adds, nodding his long face and Snufkin scowls, disliking him greatly.

‘Got secrets, do you?’ Fribs says, back to undoing the straps but still glancing uneasily as Snufkin’s growl lingers.

Snufkin’s unhappiness only grows when Fribs tosses his rolled canvas away and opens the pack, filthy paws rummaging about at once. There’s a clatter and some clinking as he starts to unpack; Snufkin’s little cauldron, his bowls. A half-whittled thing that was to be a spoon, Snufkin having snapped his old one.

‘Oh! What’s this? A purse?’

Fribs sits back, admiring the bright purple pouch and Snufkin strains against his binds vainly. Fribs’ terrible grin vanishes once he tugs at the frayed ribbon holding the bag closed, frowning with confusion.

‘What are these?’ he asks, tipping the cards out into his other paw. The Grusbler makes a noise of interest, shuffling closer.

‘Well, oh well!’ he says, looking at Snufkin with such humour and Snufkin feels that growl crawling back up his throat again. ‘Have a bit of sight to you, songbird?’

‘Sight?’ Fribs asks, making a mess of shuffling Snufkin’s tarot and Snufkin feels a kick of sympathy; poor things don’t deserve all that. ‘Like fortune telling?’

‘I’ve heard some Mumrik have it all right,’ the Grusbler continues and Snufkin tuts, unimpressed. For one thing, he’s no fortune teller. ‘All sorts of folk think it good luck to have a Mumrik on their ship. That they spot storms before they come.’

Fribs snorts, clearly disbelieving this. ‘Didn’t see us coming though, did he?’

‘If you’re to call me fortune teller, then that’s your answer on that, for there’s no telling anything with you that could be described as a fortune,’ Snufkin says brashly and Fribs turns his confused look to him. Snufkin feels his first smile in days; ‘At least they have pictures for you to look at, as words seem a touch beyond you.’

‘Oi!’ Fribs says, shoving the cards haphazardly back into their pouch. ‘I’m not going to sit here and have you talk to me like that!’

‘You can stand on your head for all I care, I’ll talk to you how I like.’

‘You scut of a creature!’ Fribs says, getting to his flat feet and stomping over. He points a finger at Snufkin’s nose, to which Snufkin replies by baring his teeth. ‘I think I’d like you a lot better if you had that rag in your mouth!’

‘The feeling is entirely mutual.’

The Grusbler doesn’t seem to be listening to them. He puts his coffee down and hops to his own boots, walking over a small ways towards the bushes by Snufkin. Snufkin curls in on himself on instinct, not above biting if he has to but the Grusbler keeps going, right past him to a nearby knot of silverthorn bush. Snufkin watches him, confused.

The Grusbler turns, holding something in his paw and Snufkin’s heart stops.

‘What’d you reckon has fur like this, Fribs?’ the Grusbler asks, turning the clump of white fluff he has in paws one way and then another.

‘Could be Hemulen, couldn’t it?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ the Grusbler says, inspecting it closer. ‘This is far too fine and soft for a Hemulen.’

‘What else could it be?’ Fribs asks, seemingly losing interest in both it and Snufkin. He goes back to the coffee. ‘What’s it matter anyway? We’re done looping by now and we’ll be out of this valley by tomorrow.’

The Grusbler hums thoughtfully and he glances to Snufkin, who looks away far too late. Snufkin tries not to let anything show on his face, but his neck is burning. The Grusbler laughs, coming close and bending down. Even like this, he is much taller than Snufkin. Snufkin pulls back, keeping his eyes down.

‘Here I was, asking the wrong person when I’ve got someone as well-travelled as you,’ the Grusbler says and he holds the fluff out under Snufkin’s nose, forcing him to look back up. It tickles him and Snufkin tries to stop the sneeze that wells, but doesn’t quite manage so he makes a small squeak. ‘Where do you think this came from, little songbird?’

‘Rabbit,’ Snufkin says flatly and the Grusbler blinks his large, dishwater eyes. His long nose wrinkles into another unsavoury smile and Snufkin feels the tension coil inside of him.

‘And where’d you reckon a rabbit this white comes from?’

‘Magician.’

The Grusbler looks blank for a moment, before he laughs big and booming. Snufkin winces, put off by the bitterness of his breath.

The Grusbler sits down properly next to Snufkin, who shuffles away at once. He doesn’t get far though, for a long arm comes down around his shoulders and pulls him back. He strains against where the Grusbler holds him.

‘I bet you see all sorts of folk, worldly as you are,’ he says and this close, Snufkin tries not to breathe too deep for the creature also smells of that same metallic tang. ‘And I’d even go on to say you see better than just mangy rabbits.’

The Grusbler holds what is undoubtedly Moomintroll’s fluff up once again. Snufkin would know it anywhere, could never doubt. He looks at it, the worry increasing as he does; what on earth would Moomintroll even be doing this far from Moominhouse?

‘That friend of yours,’ the Grusbler says, leading. ‘The one you said would be after you should you vanish. Doesn’t happen to have a pelt like this, does he?’

Snufkin doesn’t answer, mouth firmly shut. Any thought he might’ve had in saving himself has been quite truly scuppered, for why else would Moomintroll come so close to the edge of the valley if not for him? Against his better judgement, a little speck of relief blooms, rooted up in something else equally tender.

Moomintroll is coming for me, Snufkin thinks and at once, a comfort comes from realising it. He should never have doubted and suddenly everything feels less terrible.

‘Not a note left to you, it seems,’ the Grusbler says and he drops the fluff onto Snufkin’s knees as he stands. ‘Better pack up, Fribs. I think we’ve led them on enough of a trail, let’s get out of here and back to business.’

‘What about my coffee?’ Fribs says miserably, not even having taken a sip from his cup. 

‘That fluff’s too well-kept to have been on that bush long. Whatever they are, they’ll be close.’

‘So what? We can take something that fluffy between the two of us, surely!’ Fribs replies, nodding to Snufkin with a frown. ‘Hardly anything as bitey as a Mumrik.’

The Grusbler stops, seemingly considering this which Snufkin finds oddly worrying. Then, even stranger, the Grusbler sits himself back down next to Fribs and crowds in close, muttering something too quiet for Snufkin to hear.

Fribs doesn’t look impressed by it, whatever it is and he says; ‘Oh, but do I have to?’

‘Don’t fancy an argy-bargy this far from the ship,’ the Grusbler replies and he reaches into his coat. Snufkin’s heart seizes as the Grusbler removes his revolver. ‘I’m sure you can handle it though. Just keep ‘em busy, eh?’

Fribs takes the revolver and just grunts in reply, stuffing it between his belt and trousers awkwardly. The Grusbler gets back up, striding over to Snufkin with a confidence that makes Snufkin’s stomach turn. 

‘Time to fly away, little bird,’ the Grusbler says, reaching down. He’s so tall, his long arm goes right behind Snufkin’s head and grabs him by the scruff of his smock.

Snufkin tries to kick out, but with his bound feet it doesn’t do much good. 

‘Looks like company’s coming.’

Snufkin panics, speaking without thinking; ‘Don't hurt him!’

The Grusbler blinks, glancing over to Fribs and back again.

‘There’s a him now, is there?’ the Grusbler says and Snufkin snaps his mouth shut at once, regret flushing hot through him. 'Your friend, is it?'

Snufkin doesn't give in to the bait, or rather tries not to. But there's an anxious warble in his chest, the uneven step of his heart beating too quick as he tries to think of something to do. For Snufkin cannot simply sit here, waiting for Moomintroll to walk into this horrid trap! 

Snufkin gasps, tries to stop it but the air feels thin. He pictures Moomintroll, his dear and lovely friend and the relief before starts to grow thorns of panic. What will Moomintroll do against such frightful creatures? Fight them? Snufkin has never seen Moomintroll in an honest fight in his life, not alone anyway and if he is to come- oh! Snufkin has been a fool! A careless, reckless fool and now Moomintroll shall suffer for it!

'Please,' Snufkin says, not above begging as the fright takes him. 'Please don't hurt him.'

The Grusbler grins, a lopsided and unkind thing.

‘Don’t you worry your pretty, little head about it. Fribs will look after your friend just fine. Won’t you, mate?’

Behind the Grusbler, Fribs grins and puts a paw over the revolver like a terrible promise.

*/

They’ve been walking until the sun is very high in the sky and have now settled at the base of the mountain. The trees all grow at an angle here and Moomin’s legs are very tired as the path has started to climb quite steeply, quite quickly. 

Truthfully, he’s never been up this side of the Lonely Mountains before. Snufkin prefers the North facing peaks and Moomin has only ever been here with Snufkin.

The Joxter also looks tired, which is at least some comfort. Moomin was beginning to think there was nothing normal in the fellow at all but now he leans himself again a mossy mound, panting.

‘Are you well?’ Moomin asks him and The Joxter rubs at his face, catching his breath.

‘Don’t walk much.’

Moomin frowns. 

‘Isn’t walking kind of what Mumriks do?’ Moomin continues, very unsure. He’s only known Snufkin, after all and he can walk seemingly forever. 

‘Not usually all in one go,’ the Joxter says to that, hoisting himself up onto the mound. He stretches out and in this, he resembles Snufkin once again. 

Moomin gets the eerie impression of the old zoetrope in his bedroom from this. Mostly, the Joxter is very much his own creature, but then he moves just like that and it’s almost an optical illusion. Moomin sees Snufkin though he probably oughtn’t.

Self consciously, Moomin wonders if Snufkin ever feels like this with comparing Moomins in regards to him and Papa. Moomin hopes not; fond of his father as he is, he also rather wishes to not be quite so like him.

‘Are we close?’ Moomin says, any and all thoughts of Snufkin setting his pelt itching with worry again. ‘To where these Sneaks are?’

‘No,’ the Joxter replies flatly, dropping his staff with little care and reclining back on the mound as if it were a soft sofa. Moomin rounds on him at once.

‘What do you mean No?’ he snaps, panicked. ‘You said you’d help me find Snufkin!’

‘And I will-‘

‘But you just said we’re not close!’

‘It’s not about being close, it’s about being clever!’ the Joxter replies, fixing Moomin with a stare. His blue eyes are so very unnatural, Moomin thinks, though perhaps it’s hypocritical of him. Moomin reckons his own eyes aren’t nearly as uncanny though. ‘They’ve been walking in circles.’

Moomin stammers, confused; ‘Who’s been walking in circles?’

‘The Sneaks.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘What do you think I had been doing before you showed up this morning?’ the Joxter asks him and Moomin flushes at once, knowing he’s being considered foolish again. ‘I was tracking and I tracked right up until I realised I was doing so in the wrong direction. My own fault, wasting so much time.’

The Joxter says this very solemnly, like doing so was a terrible failure which Moomin doesn’t quite understand. Not that Moomin understands much of any of this, truth be told, but he doesn’t want the Joxter to know that. He obviously thinks Moomin silly enough as it is.

‘They've walked in big, daft circles to try and make a trail that leads away from where they want to go. We’ll never catch up to them, but we can get ahead of them.’

Moomin has to think about that for a long moment, desperately trying to find the tail of it so he might make better know the head.

‘So… you think they’ll come through here?’ Moomin says, tentative and the Joxter blinks at him. Moomin feels he doesn’t blink very often. ‘Why would they bother with all that? Why not just leave?’

‘Sneaks tend to be all mouth and no trousers, when it comes down to it,’ the Joxter says, putting an arm behind his head. ‘They’d rather get out without a scrap if they can rather than fight their way through.’

‘You said they were dangerous,’ Moomin points out and the Joxter hums, tilting his hat over his face. That feeling of eeriness is back and Moomin looks away, too sick to his stomach with worry to bear the resemblance. 

‘They are. Very much so,’ the Joxter says and Moomin keeps looking at the trees, hopelessly trying to spot something of Snufkin in them. ‘They’ll want to avoid the fight, but if they get stuck in one they tend to fight very dirty indeed.’

‘But-‘ Moomin turning to look at where the path starts to climb. There are craggy rocks sticking out and it looks like an unpleasant climb. ‘Why come through here? Nothing ever comes through here.’

‘I came through here,’ the Joxter replies and Moomin bites his tongue on pointing out that while he may have, he’s also so odd a fellow it doesn’t lend much confidence. ‘And you can bet your arse those Sneaks did, too in the first place. Not a lot of ways in this valley where no one can see you.’

Not for the first time in all this, Moomin feels a burst of suspicion.

‘Why didn't you want anyone to see you?’ he asks, wary and curious in equal measure. The Joxter's face is hidden beneath his hat and it gives Moomin the chance to look at him some more.

He's so tattered, and frayed. Snufkin's a touch weather-beaten, it's true, but there's something careless to the marks and scuffs to the Joxter's coat. Moomin thinks it might've been a rather nice blue, once upon time, but it has come apart in many places and patched up with things that don't match at all. Snufkin is much more careful with his belongings, Moomin recklons. He's seen Snufkin stitch his smock with needling so small, Moomin hadn't even been able to see it.

'I simply fancied this way into the valley.'

Moomin doubts that very much. 'But why? There are easier roads.'

'Depends on what you're walking to, whether a road is easy or not,' the Joxter replies, bafflingly and Moomin wonders if the fellow speaks such nonsense on purpose. 'Or indeed where you're walking from.'

'Right,' Moomin says, lost on that and feeling self-conscious once again. It's an eerie thing, like much to do with the Joxter so far, but Moomin can't help but shake the feeling that Snufkin would know what he meant at once. Perhaps it's one more thing a Mumrik ought to understand. 

Again, Moomin wishes he knew more and promises to himself to ask Snufkin all manner of things once he's back. Safe, and sound, and preferably as close as Moomin can reasonably get him.

The worry is back, with teeth.

'I don't like this,' Moomin groans, rubbing his paws together anxiously and thinking of Snufkin; he's small little hands, particularly. 'It doesn't feel right, just- I don't know! What if they've hurt him?'

The Joxter's tail whips, hard. It slaps against the mound and startles Moomin entirely.

'He will be fine,' the Joxter says, sounding very sure indeed. 

'We don't know that.'

'Knowing something isn't as important as you might think.'

'Easy for you to say,' Moomin says to him miserably. 'You seem to know a great deal.'

The Joxter says nothing for what feels like a long time, before; ‘They’ll come back this way. Just you wait. And when they do, Snufkin will be right where he should be,’

Moomin still isn’t sure on any of that. He thinks of the many other directions, back through the trees the Joxter had turned him off as they made their way. But again, Moomin sits and wonders what other choice he has, if any at all?

It’s very quiet on this side of the mountain. Moomin sits against one of the rocks, making and unmaking up his mind. He feels idle, feels silly sitting around waiting for something to happen when Snufkin needs him. But every time he thinks of getting up and telling the Joxter off, of saying out loud that Snufkin needs him! Moomin realises that even if he were to set off alone, where would Moomin go?

Moomin wishes he knew more. About… well, everything. If he were the one missing and Snufkin the one looking, Snufkin wouldn’t need any help. He’d find Moomin all by himself with his own cleverness. 

Moomin feels many things right now and not one of them is clever. 

‘You’re a broody sort, aren't you, little Moomin?’ the Joxter asks him, catching Moomin by surprise. Moomin snaps to attention, bristling.

‘Stop calling me little,’ he says first, as that is only fair for a grown Moomin to ask. ‘And I’m not brooding either.’

‘No?’ the Joxter says, flicking his hat up so to look at Moomin with a sharp eye. ‘Sulking, perhaps?’

‘I’m worried!’ Moomin says, defensive. The Joxter’s whiskers twitch, up and down on his cheeks. ‘I’m worried about my friend. I feel… I feel useless, just sitting here like this.’

The Joxter sits up, considering Moomin it seems. It makes the fur of his pelt stand on end, so Moomin looks back to the trees.

‘Perhaps you are useless,’ the Joxter says and Moomin splutters, mortified by that and he’s about to say so but the Joxter keeps talking; ‘But friends don’t need uses. Sometimes it’s enough to simply be where your friend would like you to be. If you are Snufkin’s friend, like you say, then the best you can be is right here to meet him.’

‘And what are you then?’ Moomin retorts, glancing to the Joxter with much prejudice. ‘You’re not his friend. Does that make you the useful one?’

The Joxter goes quiet, tapping his long black fingers on his folded legs. 

‘I’m what’s needed,’ the Joxter says at last and his tail curls around him, like a snake. ‘Could hardly make your way here alone, now could you?’

Moomin ruffles, deeply unnerved by how the Joxter could know his thoughts so clearly,

‘How do you even know all this?’ Moomin asks sharply, starting bitter but ending up curious as he says it. He waves a paw about them. ‘About Sneaks, and what they may do.’

‘I was- an adventurer,’ the Joxter replies, stammering slightly. This catches Moomin’s interest entirely.

‘Were you?’ he asks and the Joxter nods, thick brows furrowed. ‘My father was an adventurer, too.’

The Joxter’s tail goes still. ‘Was he?’

‘He was!’ Moomin says, proud of Papa for it. ‘A very good one as well! He met a King and everything.’

‘That is impressive,’ the Joxter says though he doesn’t sound very impressed at all. Moomin chews the inside of his cheek, uneasy again. Being with the Joxter gets so quite easily. 

‘What about you?’ Moomin asks, trying to muddle through the sudden awkwardness. The Joxter blinks again.

‘What about me?’

‘What kind of adventures have you been on?’

The Joxter doesn’t reply at first and Moomin begins to wonder if he will at all, before finally the Joxter ducks his head a bit to speak. 

‘I travelled the ocean for a long time,’ the Joxter says, idly fidgeting with the brooch on his coat. He frowns; like Snufkin, it takes up his whole face. Mumriks have narrow ones, after all. ‘A very long time.’

‘How long?’

‘Years.’

‘What was it like?’

‘You grow to really look forward to meals,’ the Joxter says, which only confuses Moomin really. ‘Not much else to do. Storms aren’t as common as storybooks would have you think and the ocean is so very big. The sky even more so, and when they’ve nothing but each other for company it can turn even your humour blue.’

That doesn’t sound anything at all like the ocean voyages Papa has described from his youth and Moomin can’t help but wonder if, somehow, the Joxter was adventuring wrong. 

‘Snufkin loves the ocean,’ Moomin says, and he scans the trees, as if Snufkin might somehow appear when spoken of. ‘Is it a Mumrik thing? To find your way to it even if you don’t like it?’

‘Not particularly,’ the Joxter replies, seeming uneasy on his seat and he starts to move. ‘I was looking for something.’

‘Did you find it?’ Moomin asks, interested. 

The Joxter ducks his head, hat hiding his face. ‘No.’

‘Oh,’ Moomin says, awkward again. ‘Sorry to hear.’ 

‘It may find its way back to me yet,’ the Joxter replies, before he goes very still, very suddenly. He jumps to his feet, boots stomping as he lands on them and it catches Moomin off-guard.

The Joxter is looking up, along the top of the trees it seems and Moomin watches his eyes change colour. They get brighter almost and he frowns, looking very thoughtful indeed. Moomin suspects this to be another Mumrik trait- for there’s no one more so than Snufkin, who looks… very similar, now Moomin thinks of it again. He keeps circling back it, like a record.

‘Stay here,’ the Joxter says, which is definitely not happening and he takes up his staff.

But before the Joxter can stride off as he intends, Moomin steps in front of him.

‘I don’t think so!’ Moomin tells him and the Joxter blinks at him. ‘You’re not going anywhere without me.’

‘How certain of that, you sound,’ the Joxter says, sounding most unimpressed so Moomin puffs up his chest a bit. The Joxter raises one bushy eyebrow. ‘There’s smoke a little aways, I’m going to have a look. You need to stay here.’

‘I’m not staying here if you think that smoke leads to Snufkin,’ Moomin says, an edge he wishes wouldn’t show so much to his voice straining.

‘And what if Snufkin comes through this way?’ the Joxter says, harder than Moomin expects and it makes his ears go back with instinct. The Joxter glances at them briefly. ‘The Sneaks that have him will have to eventually and if one of us is not here to stop them, what then?’

It’s a good point but Moomin doesn’t want to hear it. He struggles think of something, paws anxiously fisting then not. ‘What if I go?’

‘I’m not sure that’s wise.’

‘I don’t think it wise you going off on your own either,’ Moomin says as he very much believes it. Not that the Joxter seems the sort of fellow to care one way or another over what someone else might think.

‘I’m only going to look. I’ll be back if it’s nothing.’

‘And if it’s not nothing?’

The Joxter’s face goes tight. It makes his whiskers very straight, like pencil-ends. Looking at them now, Moomin can see they are quite grey at the end. Then, the Joxter swings his own satchel around and starts digging through it. Moomin looks at it; it’s as old and poor as the rest of him, the leather almost crusting off it’s so creased in places.

‘Here,’ the Joxter says, taking Moomin’s paw in his own and slapping something into it. Moomin stares, incredulous, at the small thing which turns out to be a pocketwatch. The door of it is missing though and the chain seemingly lost as well. ‘Take this and if I am not back in twenty minutes, follow me. I’m sure even you could smell your way to a fire. One wonders what else that big nose of yours could possibly be for, truly.’

Moomin bites back the first thing he has to say to that. ‘This watch is broken.’

‘It works fine.’

‘It says it’s ten past eight,’ Moomin points out, knowing this to be quite impossible as it is too bright in either direction for this time to make any sense. The Joxter rolls his eyes.

‘Hardly matters. It ticks and can therefore count minutes so who cares if the hour is wrong?’

‘Why would you keep a watch that’s broken?’

‘Time according to watches matters so very little, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says which Moomin most definitely does not agree with. 

‘Then why have a watch at all?’ Moomin asks him and the Joxter simply shrugs. Moomin sighs, scolding himself for expecting a plain answer. This Joxter fellow hasn’t made an ounce of sense since showing up, after all.

‘Twenty minutes,’ the Joxter says, patting the watch and walking off into the woods. Moomin stares after him, uneasy.

Moomin checks the time on the watch, seeing that the littlest hand is indeed ticking so he figures he may as well time said twenty minutes. Moomin frowns, groaning to himself as he notices that the Joxter’s paw was evidently quite filthy. Hard to see on black fur, but on Moomin’s own there is a collection of dusty fingerprints.

‘Typical,’ Moomin says miserably, shaking his paw to try and get the dirt off.

Moomin anxiously checks the watch. The minutes go by so very slowly, Moomin is beginning to worry the watch might be broken entirely after all. He doesn’t settle, going from pacing the width of the small path, to leaning against the mound, to going as far as the edge of the wood and straining to see the Joxter through the trees.

Or Snufkin and on thinking of him, Moomin lets himself sink down to the ground.

It’s hard not to feel useless. Impossible, really and Moomin’s eyes water. He wipes at them for all the good it does, but the tears persist. Moomin can’t stop thinking over it all and kicking himself at every turn. If only he’d noticed sooner, if he’d been faster! Or cleverer, or maybe even braver, or-

‘Oi, oi! In trouble, lad?’

Moomin looks up, mortified at having been caught crying. He scrambles to his feet as someone walks towards him from the wood, but when he looks up, all thoughts vanish at once. Moomin can’t even give the stranger a good look, as he’s too busy staring down the barrel something he’s never seen before.

The stranger smiles; a short and filthy creature, in overalls that hang in odd places as if pinched from a creature twice as tall but half as wide. He raises the small pistol in his paw, the end of it pointed quite squarely at Moomin’s snout.

‘Because if you weren’t,’ the stranger says, pulling the trigger back with his thumb. ‘You are now.’

Chapter Text

When they were younger, Moomin had never been very good at Cops and Robbers.

It had been Little My’s favourite, but only because she was so very ruthless a robber. She used to kill Moomin every time; she’d get him in the back of the knees with a stick, or right between the eyes with her slingshot and a very hard acorn. In Cops and Robbers, Moomin’s Inspector died every time.

‘You just need to be cleverer,’ Snufkin would say, never as sympathetic as Moomin felt he ought to have been.

‘Easy for you to say, you’re the cleverest one here. Can’t I just shoot her first?’

‘Inspectors don’t shoot people,’ Snufkin would remind him, patting Moomin’s paw gently for they would have this conversation every time. ‘They’re the good guys, after all.’

Moomin would laugh then. ‘You don’t think there’s one good thing about Inspectors. Or any copper, for that matter.’

‘Well, that’s why it’s pretend, isn’t it?’ Snufkin would smile at him then; that slanted one that showed the only sharp tooth he has, canine and narrow. ‘And in pretend, Inspectors don’t shoot the robbers because that isn’t the right thing to do.’

‘What is the right thing to do then?’

‘I told you already,’ Snufkin would say, still smiling. ‘Be cleverer.’

Moomin had always thought he would be cleverer. He’d even practiced sometimes, writing out grand plans he would be sure to remember should he ever find himself facing down the wrong-end of Little My’s slingshot once again. He’d be very brave, very daring even in this great cleverness.

And Snufkin would surely have been impressed- had Moomin ever managed it. But he never did; Little My still used to get him every time. Turns out, dodging a bullet didn’t leave a lot of room for being clever one way or another.

Now, Moomin stares down the very wrong-end of something else entirely and he is not clever. Nor daring, nor indeed brave for he is rooted quite firmly to the spot, unable to look any which way but at the narrow circle of where the end of the pistol stares back at him.

‘You are now,’ the stranger says, a fuzzy shape of nothing for Moomin can’t even look that far. Moomin watches, with the same disquieting slowness that tends to come from terrible dreams.

Then, everything suddenly speeds up as Moomin acts without a single, blessed thought.

With a shout, Moomin startles and throws a paw out in a wide, frantic and careless arch.

His paw collides with the bulk of the pistol, knocking into it so hard it makes an audible clack! The pistol veers up and towards the sky just as it goes off, the whole world exploding with the dreadful bang it gives.

It’s loud- louder than anything Moomin might’ve imagined and it rings in his ears. The stranger cries out something, but it sounds so very far away and the bright panic that’s ravaging through Moomin pushes ahead with a force unknown, both paws out and Moomin puts all his strength into it.

He and the stranger collide in a heap. The other is so much shorter that Moomin topples him easily, but he has no control and goes over himself. They both tumble down the path, one after the other. The world spins and there’s a pain, somewhere, as the inside of Moomin’s head feels like a loose stone rattling about inside of him as he goes down.

Moomin lands against something, which hits his back like a wall. Moomin clutches his head, tries to right himself and nearly topples back over in his haste to get back to his feet. His vision swims and he blinks, tries to make sense of everything as the world slowly comes back to focus.

The stranger lies a little ways from him, having rolled further and he isn’t up yet. Moomin’s eye goes straight to his paws, but he sees them empty. As though squeezed, Moomin’s throat goes very tight and he can’t catch his breath, suddenly more afraid of a pistol he can’t see.

Moomin moves forward, before a pain violently rolls against the inside of his skull and he sways. He throws a paw out, meets the top of the craggy rock that he’d landed against and tries to take a breath. He doesn’t get long, choking as he sees movement in the corner of his eye.

Moomin shoots upright, stumbling back as he sees the stranger get to his feet. Moomin watches as he pats at himself, turning wildly as he looks for what Moomin couldn’t see either. As he does, his beady eyes meet Moomin’s and they both freeze, a moment of sudden quiet coming down on them.

Clever, Moomin thought he would be. Brave, daring-

Moomin runs.

He runs down the path, ducking clumsily as the stranger goes to grab at him as he passes. Moomin teeters too far for a moment, is terrified he’ll fall but he doesn’t. The stranger shouts after him, no more clear than before and Moomin makes a brash decision.

Moomin jumps off the path, over the small bushes and into the wood proper. The path is unkempt at best, from years of disuse, and the surrounding foliage grows large and spiralled. Moomin curses as something suddenly stings, his paw meeting thorns as he pushes through, trying to clear a way for himself. He doesn’t stop though, a fear unlike any he’s ever had thudding against his heart out of tandem.

His breath is getting thin, the work of crawling through clutching bushes and sharp trees more than expected but Moomin doesn’t stop pushing forward. He flicks his ears behind him as he goes, trying to hear the sound of that other creature somewhere back there-

‘Booble’s wept!’ Moomin curses, panicked and to himself just to let something out as he feels he’s bubbling up and over like a kettle. The words are choked, tapering out into a high-pitched cry of panic as his foot catches in a root and, once more, Moomin is sent down.

He crashes to the ground, a loud crack echoing from one of the unfortunate bushes he lands on as he goes. His snout hits first and Moomin rolls over at once, clutching at it with both paws. It stings all the way up, making his eyes water.

‘Bugger, bugger, bugger,’ Moomin swears, over and over and with an increasing panic that has his teeth chattering as though cold. He wipes at his eyes and tries to look around him, but this part of the wood is as unfamiliar as it is overgrown. He can’t make any sense of it.

His ears twitch uselessly and he strains to hear something over the din of his own desperate breathing and the dull ring that still lingers. He rubs at them, as though he might wring the panic out of himself by it.

Something rustles, too close and Moomin jumps back to his feet, feels the blood rush about his head as he does so too quickly. His eyes keep watering and he sees stars for a brief moment, but it’s enough to have him panic as he struggles to see what’s coming towards him.

Moomin backs up, meets the bristles of a briar and hisses hard through his teeth. He squints best he can, but the trees are so thick together he can’t make much out. The world is so incredibly small around him, dark and sharp where the wood tears at him. Moomin turns every way, can’t make sense of any of them and the air is thin.

I can’t get out, Moomin thinks, then panics. I can’t get out!

Moomin casts about for something, anything, to throw or hit with. There’s rustling again, closer than before and Moomin is starting to shake now, rattling about with a fear that scalds. He tries to break a branch but the thorns bite, puncture right through and he swears with the pain of it. Too loud and he slaps the paw over his own mouth, terrified he’s outed himself.

Staring at the thorn that pricked him, the thought comes to him then, strange and ill-fitting around everything he’s ever been taught.

But Moomin swings his pack around, tosses about the odds and ends he’s brought until he gets a grip on the kitchen knife. Just as he gets a hold of it, the bushes part to his left, a twig snaps and Moomin rounds at once, knife aloft.

He nearly drops it when he sees who comes through the trees, a weakness sweeping that makes his knees shake.

‘Snufkin!’

Moomin runs to him, free paw outstretched before the light shifts as he gets closer and he freezes, realising his mistake.

‘Moomintroll!’ the Joxter says, rushing forward and stopping when he sees the knife. The Joxter’s demeanour changes at once; he stands up straighter, looks over Moomintroll’s head and the paw on his staff tightens. He reminds Moomin vividly of one the toy soldiers he had as a child in this moment.

‘There- there was-’ Moomin struggles to think of the words to explain. The Joxter looks back to him, bares his teeth.

‘I heard the shot,’ he says to him and Moomin sags, relieved for he truly didn’t think he could say it aloud. The Joxter eyes Moomin carefully. ‘Are you hurt?’

Moomin shakes his head, unable to say much else. His heart in his throat, beating frantically there so he struggles to catch his breath still. He tries to look elsewhere, but his eyes keep coming back to the Joxter. He almost made the same mistake twice but… but Moomin had been so certain, just then, that it had been Snufkin and the deep, black disappointment burns like a coal.

The Joxter crowds in close then, so much so Moomin can smell what might be cloves and something else distinctly more musty. The smell cuts through the fog of fear then and Moomin feels as if he's just woken up from something.

Moomin near collapses forward, knees going out from under him as though cut. The Joxter rushes forward, puts a paw to Moomin’s shoulder and catches him. Only when he holds Moomin steady does Moomin realise how badly he’s been shaking.

Moomin meets the Joxter’s eye, is unsure of the soft way his whiskers droop.

‘It’s all right to be afraid,’ the Joxter says, quietly as though telling Moomin some secret. He squeezes Moomin’s shoulder a touch and Moomin can feel a hint of claws.

‘I- I’m not afraid,’ Moomin replies, wishing he sounded surer on it. ‘Did you find Snufkin?’

The Joxter’s mouth turns. ‘No. Found a campfire. They left it lit on purpose, I’d say. To get me to look.’ He hisses then, hackles rising and Moomin starts. ‘And I fell for it.’

Before Moomin can say anything to that, they both freeze from the sound of someone coming through the wood. Moomin leans towards the Joxter without thinking, knees shaking when the thicket splits, revealing the same foul creature from before.

Moomin’s eye goes straight to his paw, sees the pistol found and clutched there once again. Moomin squeezes his paws into fists, terrified.

‘Oh, you’re gonna get it, troll!’ he shouts, the jumper under his overalls dragging where brambles catch. He tries to get loose, waving his pistol high in the mayhem.

The Joxter moves too quick for Moomin to stop him and Moomin sways, suddenly unmoored.

The Joxter swings his staff and it hits the Sneak, hard. There’s a stomach-turning crunch when the staff meets the Sneak’s face and Moomin flinches. The Sneak goes down at once, swatted like a fly and Moomin is tempted to cover his eyes, but once he looks again, he can’t look away despite the shock it gives him.

‘Joxter!’ Moomin drops the kitchen knife, paws reaching like he might stop him, but Moomin stops himself. ‘You shouldn’t-‘

‘Never been one for should or shouldn’ts,’ the Joxter replies tightly and Moomin’s protests wither.

The Sneak is on the ground, one paw to his nose which is spurting blood. The other paw fumbles, patting the ground frantically for his pistol. The Joxter steps close; he puts his boot down over the pistol and then kicks it, far into the bushes with his heel.

‘I pride myself on being a lazy enough sort of chap,’ the Joxter says, lilting as though joking but there is nothing of humour in his stance. His tail is very high behind him, lifting the ends of his coat up. ‘But even I draw the line at letting a bullet do the work for me.’

The Joxter’s tail puffs, bristles out like a bottle-brush as he brings his staff back down. The narrow end of it hits the Sneak in the shoulder, pushes him down further into the ground and he yelps, coughing and Moomin suddenly feels quite faint. Such things had always seemed so daring in books- right now though, Moomin doesn’t feel very daring at all.

Truly, all he feels is very ill.

‘Ger-dis off me!’ the Sneak sputters around where he’s holding his nose, trying to push up against the Joxter’s staff with his other arm. The Joxter releases and twirls the staff, taking a step around as he does and hits the Sneak in the back of the head. ‘Oi!’

‘Well, I did take it off you,’ the Joxter says and as he turns, Moomin can see him properly. It makes his pelt stand on end quite suddenly, the expression on the Joxter’s face. ‘And I’m nothing if not accommodating.’

‘Schupid mumrik bas-’

The Joxter reaches down and grabs the Sneak by the back of the jumper collar and drags him up. The Sneak goes with a strangled noise, spitting blood as he goes and Moomin jumps. The Joxter tosses the Sneak against the trunk of the nearest tree, swoops down close to pin him there by a paw to the shoulder.

The Joxter crowds in towards him, almost nose to nose with claws out and they poke holes through the Sneak’s jumper.

‘You took something that doesn’t belong to you, Sneak,’ the Joxter says, low and his voice grates with a growl. The Sneak glances over the Joxter, to Moomin, but the Joxter’s growl deepens and the Sneak looks back to him. ‘Tell me where he is.’

‘Don’t- don’t know who you’re talking abo-sh,’ the Sneak replies, sounding like his mouth is full and the Joxter’s tail flicks behind him, thumps against the ground like a fist.

‘Tell me,’ the Joxter says, teeth bared. Moomin is once again struck by how sharp they are. ‘Where he is.’

The Sneak doesn’t answer still, pinned to the tree. He coughs some, spits more and Moomin feels a retch in the back of his throat. He steps closer, paw out and then back again. Moomin unsure what to do- only that something about this doesn’t feel right at all.

‘I’m not one for asking, Sneak,’ the Joxter says to him, harder again and Moomin nearly steps away from him. The Sneak scoffs, then winces as the Joxter pinches with his claws.

‘Nah. Why would a Mumri-sh ask for someding when dey can steal it, eh?’

‘You’re the only thief here,’ the Joxter replies coldly and he raises his other paw, still clutching tight to his staff. The top of it hovers near the Sneak’s face, which has him lean away at once but the Joxter holds him fast. ‘Tell me where he is. The one you took.’

‘Bugger off,’ the Sneak says and the Joxter twists his paw. The Sneak grins then, teeth turned orange by the blood that runs down from his nose. ‘Ain’t you Mumrish supposed d’be de soli-dary d-ype?’

‘And what would you know of it?’

‘I know dis is a lod of bodder for one so small.’

The Joxter’s claws tense, pull bigger holes in the wool.

‘Real easy to lose liddle folk like dat, you know,’ the Sneak continues, starting to laugh some and Moomin has never seen so repulsive a creature in his life. ‘You oughtn’t have been so careless with him in de firs’ place.’

Somehow, Moomin can sense what the Joxter will do before he does it. The Joxter releases the Sneak’s shoulder, pulls his paw back with the claws still out and Moomin moves with the same surety he might have to catch Little My before she falls from something she ought not to have climbed in the first place.

He bursts forward, reaching out and catching the Joxter’s paw by the wrist. The Joxter is taller, but so much slighter than Moomin and his lean body rattles as he meets the force of Moomin’s halt, falling backwards to his tail and staring up at Moomin with eyes wide and wild.

‘Don’t!’ Moomin cries and the Joxter hisses at him, sending Moomin’s ears back and flat with instinct. ‘You can’t hurt him anymore!’

‘I very much can,’ the Joxter replies, nose wrinkled with a frown that has his whiskers sticking out. ‘And he deserves it a hundred times over and more again if I thought my claws would hold for it!’

‘You shouldn’t!’ Moomin pleads, desperate and not for the first time. The Joxter scoffs.

‘And why shouldn’t I?’

‘Snufkin wouldn’t!’ Moomin says and he doesn’t know why it should matter at all what Snufkin would do- but it always has to Moomin. It always has. Moomin thinks of him now, of how Snufkin might look if he were to stumble upon them now.

For the first time since this whole mess has started, Moomin feels the smallest touch of relief that Snufkin is indeed nowhere to be found.

‘Snufkin wouldn’t bear this,’ Moomin says for it is true. The Joxter’s claws recede somewhat, the dark of his pupils blooming. ‘And I won’t hurt someone like this, even a Sneak. Not when I know it’ll hurt Snufkin, too.’

This seems to strike something, though the Joxter’s hackles don’t go down quite yet. He stops, nose flared and chest rising in short, frantic breaths as though the Joxter is holding something back. Moomin gets the distinct impression he is holding something quite significant back.

But the Joxter says nothing else. Moomin feels the give in his body and lets him go. The Joxter near flops back down to the ground, ducking his head so his hat hides him from view. Moomin turns to the Sneak, who’s no longer laughing.

‘You took Snufkin,’ Moomin says to him and the Sneak glances at him, but seems more concerned with the Joxter. ‘You did. Didn’t you?’

‘What’s it to you what we did or didn’t take?’ the Sneak replies, speaking a bit clearer now as he wipes at his face. ‘Could just be passing through and you’ve gone and attacked me for no good reason.’

‘If you’re not going to say anything helpful, I might as well take that useless tongue out altogether,’ the Joxter spits, with so much venom even Moomin recoils but the Sneak just snorts, almost goading.

‘G’way with that, Mumrik!’ the Sneak says, spitting out some blood. ‘You’re as soft as this here fellow’s pelt. You’re not killing anyone.’

‘I didn’t say it would kill you,’ the Joxter replies and Moomin steps between them, unable to bear anymore talk of the violence.

‘Enough!’ Moomin pleads, more to the Joxter than the other and the Joxter ducks his head, as though deferring but Moomin doesn’t buy it for the moment. ‘This isn’t helping!’

Moomin watches as the Joxter looks up, mouth half open to say something sardonic no doubt when the Joxter’s face shifts. His eyes narrow, teeth out again and he lunges forwards. Moomin shrieks, caught off-guard and the Joxter takes him by the shoulder and shoves him. Moomin crashes into a bush, watches with complete confusion as the Joxter raises his staff up high.

He brings it right back down on the head of the Sneak, who had pushed off from the trunk. This time, the Sneak goes down in a heap like a sack filled with something heavy and dull, and he does not get back up again. Moomin scrambles, mind spinning with what he fails to make sense of.

‘What- why did you-?’

‘Never turn your back like that, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says, kicking the Sneak’s elbow with the toe of his boot. The Sneak doesn’t move; it appears he’s out cold. ‘Not unless it’s to a nice kind tree or a softer bed of grass. Something that won’t sneak up on you.’

‘You said you wouldn’t hurt him!’ Moomin says, pathetically and he tries to get out of the bush. He’s not very graceful for it, one paw vanishing where the leaves are thin and he teeters. The Joxter turns up his nose.

‘I said no such thing,’ the Joxter says, watching Moomin struggle a touch more before coming over. He grabs Moomin by a strap of his pack, hoisting him out of the bush with ease. ‘And even if I had, he won’t be hurting until he wakes up. Now give me the rope you brought.’

Moomin considers saying more, but truly he can’t think of anything reasonable to say. He puts down his pack and fishes out the rope, retrieving the knife from where he’d dropped it to let the Joxter cut what he needs. The Joxter cuts just enough to tie the Sneak’s wrists together behind his back. He does not move him, leaving the creature lying with the side of his face pressed into the dirt.

‘It feels wrong to just… leave him here like this,’ Moomin says though the Joxter doesn’t seem all too concerned.

‘He’ll be fine,’ the Joxter says, before adding in a darker tone; ‘They always are.’

The Joxter moves to the underbrush, turning as he gets back to his feet and Moomin jumps backwards.

‘What are you doing with that thing?’ Moomin asks, looking at the pistol in the Joxter’s paws. The Joxter turns it one way and then another, Moomin nauseous the whole time.

‘Can’t leave it here, now can we?’ the Joxter replies, before he turns the pistol again and flicks a finger. It comes apart with a click and the round middle of it sticks out. The Joxter tips it like a cup, letting little silver bullets fall to the ground by his boots. ‘He can keep the bullets. Maybe if we’re lucky he’ll do the world a favour and swallow them.’

Moomin groans, deeply disturbed by that altogether but the Joxter doesn’t seem to care. He snaps the pistol back together as easy as he took it apart and shoves it into the drooping loop of his satchel.

The Joxter waits for Moomin to swing his pack onto his back once again before he starts making his way back through the wood, leading them both out. Moomin recognises it now as the way he came before, if only for the terrible mess he’d made in trying to run. As he thinks of it, Moomin’s blood goes cold and he focuses on his feet. The danger has passed, but…

‘We shouldn’t have to go far now,’ the Joxter says, hopping over a root as they make their way back to the path. ‘If he came this far just to get rid of you then where he left Snufkin can’t be far behind.’

‘You think he left Snufkin somewhere?’ Moomin asks, hearing himself he sounds too hopeful.

‘Unless we’re very unlucky and there’s more than one of them,’ the Joxter replies and that snuffs Moomin’s hope out at once. The Joxter must notice, for he adds; ‘But even if there is, we’ve got an advantage.’

‘We do?’

‘This,’ the Joxter says, patting his satchel. Moomin sucks in a breath.

‘But it doesn’t have any bullets in it.’

‘Perhaps, but the other won’t know that. If there is another to scare.’

They make it back to the path, the Joxter stopping long enough for Moomin to right himself. He brushes at where his fur is matted in whorls of loose strands, the shedding caught and tangled with stray twigs and leaves.

Moomin feels almost dizzy, like when he’s held his breath for too long underwater when swimming as he frets with his fur like it matters a damn. His thoughts can’t settle- that creature they’ve left, that Sneak and his pistol and its bullet that very nearly went through him-

Moomin bends over then, clutching his stomach as it threatens to empty itself as the weight of everything comes crashing back down upon him.

‘Bugger it,’ is about all he manages for a moment, before the misery eases off some. He takes a deep breath, looking up to see the Joxter is watching him blandly. ‘Aren’t you- aren’t you at all bothered by all that?’

‘What is there to be bothered about?’

‘That!’ Moomin retorts, waving frantically behind them to where they left the Sneak. ‘This! This whole thing!’

‘Bothering won’t help, one way or another,’ the Joxter says and Moomin stalls, completely thrown by the utter nonsense that is. ‘And we seem to be so close to the end of it, why worry at all at this point?’

That, if at all possible, makes even less sense and Moomin puts a paw to his head as if to tug his own fur out.

‘Why worry?’ Moomin repeats, getting tense once again. ‘Because that horrid creature had Snufkin! What if he’s hurt him? What if he used that- that-?’

Moomin can’t even bring himself to say the word pistol aloud. The Joxter taps his staff once against the ground, the closest to anxious Moomin has seen of him yet and then, it’s over as the Joxter leans against it, as though bored.

‘He won’t have hurt Snufkin,’ the Joxter says and though his tone is gentle, Moomin is drawn once again to his tail. This Joxter doesn’t seem to have much reason over it, for it gives him away every time as it gives a nervy twitch. ‘Not like that. He needs him, after all.’

‘Why? Why would he need him?’ Moomin asks and the Joxter puts a paw to the brooch on his collar, twiddling it between two fingers.

‘To sell him, I imagine,’ the Joxter says and it is so horrific a thought, Moomin’s jaw drops.

‘Sell him?’ he repeats, aghast. Moomin puts a paw to his chest, over that sharp, aching feeling that has burned since discovering Snufkin gone that first morning. ‘No. No, that is not happening. I won’t let that happen.’

‘It won’t come to that, we’ve already-‘

‘Snufkin is not a thing that can be sold!’ Moomin continues, not listening. He squeezes his chest, heart tight like a rope inside. ‘Or bought! He’s too special, too important! No, I won’t let them. I won’t.’

The Joxter meets his eye, stares a very long time. So long, Moomin blinks two or three times while the Joxter doesn’t seem to at all.

‘He’s very dear to you, isn’t he?’ the Joxter asks after their long quiet. Moomin’s heart skips, right on the edge and he freezes.

‘He’s… he’s my best friend,’ Moomin replies, weakly.

The Joxter watches him a moment longer and Moomin, once again, has the strangest sensation that somehow the Joxter can see right through him; can see every anxious thought rattling around Moomin’s head similar to how a cat might watch fish in a clear stream.

‘Quite,’ the Joxter says at last and Moomin feels embarrassment creep, though he’s not entirely sure why. Then, the Joxter stands straight and tosses his staff at Moomin, who curses in surprise and struggles to catch it. ‘I need a smoke.’

Moomin manages to catch the staff, though it’s so nimble and knobbly a thing it makes his paws feel quite clumsy. Fitting enough, for a creature like the Joxter, Moomin thinks as the Joxter pats himself down, seemingly searching for something. From inside his coat, he pulls out a battered pipe and an even worse snuff tin. He fills the chamber and bites down, holding the pipe in place as he replaces the tin and pulls out matches.

‘Is now really the time for a smoke?’ Moomin asks, rudely but he’s past caring. The Joxter shrugs, popping his mouth on the bit and Moomin stops, a sudden grief holding him as he is, once more, reminded vividly of Snufkin. Moomin holds the staff tightly. ‘We need to find Snufkin.’

‘We will find Snufkin,’ the Joxter says firmly, through a cloud of purple-ish smoke. It billows in Moomin’s direction and makes his eyes water; whatever it is, it’s fouler than Snufkin’s tobacco which is certainly saying something. ‘Of that, you have my word.’

‘Then we need to get moving!’

‘Not until you get yourself together,’ the Joxter says plainly and Moomin stammers, thrown.

‘What?’

‘I’m not walking into a fight with someone still shaking off the last one,’ the Joxter says, taking another puff of his pipe. ‘If that means losing ten or so minutes, then so be it. I’ll get them back, if I have to. But going too quick?’ The Joxter lets out the smoke through his nose. ‘You’ll get us both killed. If we’re lucky.’

‘How is that lucky?’ Moomin asks, stupidly but he’s not thinking much this last while.

‘Only in comparison that to be unlucky would be to get Snufkin killed with us,’ the Joxter says, tilting his head so his hat hides his face. Smoke rises up from below like steam from a pot. ‘And I refuse to let that happen, do you hear me?’

‘I won’t let anything happen to Snufkin!’ Moomin says to him fiercely.

‘Oh?’ the Joxter says from beneath his hat, with more smoke curling around him. ‘Tell me then, little Moomin, do you intend to catch him safe and sound with your paws shaking like so?’

That hits Moomin like a blow and he looks down at where he’s holding the Joxter’s staff to see he is still shaking. The length of the staff warbles with his unsteadiness. ‘I… I…’

The tears are back; hotter, more insistent and Moomin feels a profound and devastating sense of failure. Moomin tries to hold them, tries to swallow around the thickness in his throat but it’s no use. The despair comes and he curls in to himself, wondering what rotten luck Snufkin has to have been saddled with a friend so utterly useless.

Snufkin would’ve been so brave. Would’ve been so clever, just as he’s always told Moomin to be. He’d never have let himself get snuck up on like that, Moomin is convinced. The fact Snufkin hasn’t rescued himself yet ought to be proof enough that Sneak was worth his salt in danger.

Moomin would be dead right now if it wasn’t for the Joxter and that is a very sobering thought indeed. Moomin isn’t sure what he had expected; wandering off before dawn with the vague intention of rescuing Snufkin, but what did he know of rescues? Or bravery or any of those noble things required? This isn’t some game! Or some natural mishap to navigate. This is threat, and violence and villains- what does Moomin know about those at all?

Truly, standing here with the Joxter and seeing him for the creature he is, what does Moomin even know of Snufkin to begin with?

I know I’ll get him back, Moomin thinks desperately. It’s a beacon in quite the mire of misery, but at least it’s something and Moomin feels that certainty with every bone in his body.

Moomin takes a better grip of the staff, moves it around and tries to hold it in a manner he thinks reminiscent of the illustrations he’s seen in Papa’s book. It still quivers in his shaky paws, but it’s giving him something to focus on. ‘I bet it took years, didn’t it?’

‘What did?’ The Joxter grumbles around his pipe, folding his lanky legs so he flops to the path to sit.

‘Learning to fight at all,’ Moomin says, trying to remember how the Joxter had moved his staff before. ‘Did you find someone to teach you?’

The Joxter laughs and in doing so, his hat tilts back and a great cloud of smoke erupts. ‘I wouldn’t take instruction from a map, never mind a teacher. You’re a pistol, Moomintroll.’

Moomin is pretty sure that’s not a compliment and really, all it does is remind him of the real pistol sitting heavy and foreboding in the Joxter’s satchel.

‘How did you learn then?’

‘Learn what?’

‘How to fight like you do!’

‘The same way any creature pokes about their onions in trying to know them,’ the Joxter says, tapping the side of his piper chamber with a slim finger. ‘I got into many fights. Lost most of them, too.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Moomin says, disappointed though he won’t say. It’s not the grand story he’d been imagining, nor indeed the comfort he needs. Out of the two of them, Moomin desperately needs to think one of them knows what they’re doing.

‘Quite true. Truer again as I’d rather lose a fight to begin with,’ the Joxter replies, getting his pipe smoking again. ‘Such a terrible drag to win one. Suddenly everyone wants to know your business.’

Perhaps Moomin should’ve known better than to think the Joxter could offer any kind of solace. He’s barely known the fellow two days and each one has been as unpleasant as the last. 

‘Are you sure Snufkin isn’t hurt?’ Moomin asks, for he can’t stop worrying about it. The Joxter tenses, tail going still.

‘Never does to be sure of anything, Moomintroll,’ he replies, sounding thoughtful. ‘How much worse we feel when proven wrong. But I sincerely doubt he is badly hurt.’

‘But what if he is?’ Moomin doesn’t want to think about it, but his head fills with all sorts of terrible pictures anyway. 

‘Then we’ll come back and break the paws that hurt him,’ the Joxter says, almost reasonably when it’s anything but. 

Moomin swallows thickly. ‘Snufkin wouldn’t want that.’

‘So you’ve said,’ the Joxter says to that, pipe starting to burn low again. The Joxter taps one of his knees. ‘Is he really so precious?’

‘He’s not precious,’ Moomin snaps, though it’s not very true. Moomin tries swinging the staff himself, feels a tension swell inside him at the brief whistling noise it makes as it goes.

‘What is he like then?’ the Joxter asks and Moomin isn’t sure why, but the question gives him pause. He watches the Joxter, the casual slump of him and feels the strangest niggle.

‘You’ve met him, haven’t you?’ Moomin says and the Joxter glances to him, blue eyes narrowed.

‘It’s been many years. What I remember has probably long grown out of him.’

‘Right,’ Moomin says, though he isn’t convinced. Moomin fidgets with the staff, thinking. ‘He’s very brave. Braver than me.’

‘Brave isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, little Moomin,’ the Joxter says, tipping the last dregs of his pipe out onto the path. He stands, putting his boot over the ashes. ‘Often, all brave is, is someone getting into trouble they needn’t have.’

‘That’s Snufkin,’ Moomin says, mostly to himself. ‘He’s always getting into trouble, not that he ever sees it that way.’

The Joxter makes a soft noise, something that might’ve been a laugh. ‘A mumrik is won’t for that, I think.’

‘You’d know better, I suppose,’ Moomin says as the Joxter comes up to him, retrieving his staff. ‘Are we going?’

‘Are you ready?’

No, Moomin thinks but it matters very little. He can’t bear this waiting any longer and he’s as ready as he will ever be.

But first-

‘Can I ask you something?’ Moomin says and the Joxter tilts his head, like a bird and Moomin tries to focus on that nagging thought, the one that presses like a splinter.

When the Joxter says nothing else, Moomin takes it as a Yes.

‘Why are you helping me?’ Moomin asks, watching the Joxter very closely. For as different as they are, the Joxter and Snufkin are so plainly the same creature and Moomin watches and wonders if he might see as clearly as he might see something on Snufkin’s face.

‘I told you,’ the Joxter replies slowly, whiskers going taut. ‘It is my responsibility.’

‘Why? Just because you happen to be here?’

‘Is that not reason enough?’

‘Is it your reason?’

‘Do you want my help?’ the Joxter replies, a touch terse and that thought Moomin has takes further root. ‘Because I don’t need yours.’

‘You’re not finding Snufkin without me,’ Moomin says to him, meaning that more than anything.

‘Then let’s find him together, as we said we would,’ the Joxter says, before he strides off down the path, leaving Moomin behind.

Moomin watches him go, trying to fold his thought down into something smaller. Something that doesn’t nag at him quite so much, but it’s very hard to manage. Perhaps it’s everything that has happened; the violence and the dreadful threat the Joxter has shown himself to be capable of, but whatever it is, it has inspired something that weighs very heavy. Something Moomin isn’t sure how to ignore.

Doubt.

Chapter Text

The Joxter leads the way, back towards the start of the mountain and Moomin watches his slender back, thinking.

There is so much to think about, after all. Snufkin, mostly; though Moomin is often thinking of Snufkin, it’s just now the thinking is rather more along the lines of worrying. And if the worry is all used up, then it supposes that the thinking left would be for the Joxter. As really, Moomin is thinking a great deal more about him.

Moomin can’t help but shake the eerie feeling that something isn’t right about the Mumrik. That terrible violence he’s shown still makes Moomin nervous, his heart beating just that little bit faster.

What kind of creature could behave like that? Could ever consider it almost reasonable?

Snufkin would never, could never be capable of such a thing, so Moomin discounts it on being a difference of nature between Moomins and Mumriks. The difference of which Moomin has never really considered, until these last few days but now it seems like quite the difference indeed.

If it matters at all, Moomin thinks bitterly. Even if this Joxter fellow isn’t all he seems, what is Moomin to do about it? Tell him to jog on? If it weren’t for him, Moomin would be dead and what good is he to Snufkin then?

That feels like missing a step, every time, and Moomin’s stomach drops with a chill.

The Joxter glances over his shoulder, blue eyes sharp and Moomin looks away, afraid his suspicions might show somehow. If one could call them as such, for truly they don’t have much shape to be anything other than an ill-feeling. But Moomin’s last ill-feeling had proven right, and that’s a hard thing to ignore.

‘Perhaps a puff of my pipe?’ the Joxter says, catching Moomin off-guard. When Moomin frowns with confusion, the Joxter adds; ‘It might ease those twitchy nerves of yours before we get any further.’

‘I don’t smoke,’ Moomin replies, a touch tersely. The Joxter watches him, eyes uncannily bright under the brim of his hat. 

‘Wise decision,’ the Joxter says, looking ahead again. His tails swishes, the end curled over like a hook. ‘It’s a dreadful habit, I must say.’

‘Why keep it up then?’

‘It was work enough to start in the first place. Far too much again to even think about breaking it now.’

Moomin feels he ought not to be surprised by now at the ridiculous things that come out of the Joxter’s mouth, but on this he finds something else sticking out; ‘You sound like Snufkin.’

The Joxter’s tail straightens out, hanging almost down to the ground.

‘Oh? How so?’

‘He always says it’s too much bother to quit either,’ Moomin says and he’s trying to sound cool about it, but the sudden fondness that floods him makes the words surprisingly heavy. 

‘He smokes?’ The Joxter stops, seemingly interested and Moomin nearly walks into him. ‘I’d have thought him too young for such a habit.’

‘He’s not that young at all,’ Moomin says, thinking of Snufkin. It pulls inside then, like a muscle and Moomin puts a paw to his chest. ‘Maybe you wouldn’t think it to look at him, as he’s not the tallest. But he’s gotten quite grown up in other ways. Much more important ways.’

‘I suppose so,’ the Joxter says, sounding thoughtful. ‘He must be his own creature in every right by now.’

Moomin finds that an odd thing to say, and struggles to think of an answer; ‘Snufkin’s always been his own creature. At least as long as I’ve known him.’

‘And how long is that?’

‘Years,’ Moomin says, heart heavy with memory. It weighs on his chest like a stone. ‘Since I was a child, if just ending so. He must’ve been much the same, now I think of it. You know, I…’

Moomin trails off, suddenly mortified.

‘I don’t know how old he is,’ Moomin says, stopping in the middle of the path as that thought hits him. He rubs at one of his ears anxiously. ‘I never asked him. What kind of friend never asks?’

‘To most friends, age matters very little,’ the Joxter says but that’s no comfort and Moomin ignores him.

‘I don’t even know when his birthday is,’ Moomin says, staring at the ground and a hollow laugh comes, disbelieving and miserable; ‘I just always sort of assumed it must be in the Winter, or close to it, for Snufkin never celebrates it with us but-’

‘Maybe he doesn’t know it himself?’ the Joxter offers and Moomin rounds on him, a frightful emotion coming up from the bottom of the worry that’s churning hot inside of him.

‘Who doesn’t know their own birthday?’ Moomin says, eyes watering. It’s not about the birthday, or how old Snukfin may be- it’s about Moomin. And how little he knows; about Snufkin, about Mumriks, about how to help this dreadful, horrible situation. ‘Buggering, buggering hell!’

Moomin has cursed more these last few days than he has possibly ever, but goodness, it’s all he can think of to do. He wipes at his face, furious at the Joxter seeing him as such but his eyes won’t stop tearing up all the same.

Annoyingly, the Joxter only steps closer and Moomin turns his back to him, trying to save face.

‘Take a deep breath, little Moomin,’ the Joxter says, perhaps thinking himself kind but Moomin winces at being called little once again. He’s not a child, not anymore but what has he to show for it? ‘You’re no good upsetting yourself like this-’

‘I’m no good at all!’ Moomin retorts, glaring at the Joxter over his shoulder. The Joxter has a paw outstretched, but he pulls it back. ‘How can I call myself Snufkin’s friend? To have known him forever, and yet have nothing to show for it?’

‘You have plenty!’ the Joxter snaps and Moomin jumps, alarmed. The Joxter’s whiskers are out, the hint of his teeth, too and he grips his staff tightly. ‘You had him, didn’t you? And he, you. Has had you all this time!’

‘But- but-’ Moomin stammers, completely thrown by how fierce the Joxter looks.

‘What is there to but about?’ the Joxter says, before he suddenly withers, falling back on his staff as his whole face falls. Moomin tries to gauge his expression, but the Joxter ducks his head to hide his face with his hat. ‘What does it matter if he’s five or fifty, or if you know one way or another? He’s dear to you, and you are coming for him. What else could possibly matter?’

Moomin doesn’t have an answer for that. An uneasy quiet comes upon them; Moomin struggling to think around the guilt and misery and the Joxter seemingly finished. Moomin looks at him, tries to figure out something in the way the Joxter curls in on himself, like the edge of a page.

‘I just wish I was better,’ Moomin says at last, for it’s true and all he can think of to say. The paws the Joxter has on his staff tighten, just enough for Moomin to see a hint of claw.

‘We all wish we could be better for the ones we love,’ the Joxter tells him, face still hidden. ‘But truly, all we can be is what we are.’

‘Poor Snufkin,’ Moomin says, almost a joke but there’s no humour between the two of them.

‘So it would seem,’ the Joxter replies after a moment, but Moomin isn’t paying much attention. He’s too busy thinking of Snufkin now; thinking of all the small things he’s always noticed but never mentioned.

Bizarrely, Moomin thinks of Snufkin’s waist; the way it tapers in like the narrowest part of an hourglass. He wishes he knew the rest of Snufkin’s shape, knew of the other delicate parts of him. Moomin also thinks about how when he finally gets Snufkin safe into his paws, he will trace that narrow place out like a promise to shield him better. 

An ache, newly felt this last while, returns again.

‘Have you ever..?’ Moomin starts talking before thinking and then stops. The Joxter tilts his head, showing his face again and Moomin asks anyway; ‘Have you ever just felt like things are so bad you can’t possibly make them good again?’

The Joxter‘s eyes narrow. ‘Often. More so, the older I get.’

‘Did you ever manage it? Fixing whatever went wrong?’

‘I’m still trying to,’ the Joxter replies, sounding as sad as he did angry a moment ago. ‘But I have to believe I will fix it. And you must believe you will fix this, too. If for nothing else, then you must for Snufkin.’

Moomin can only nod to that. It’s so very much, in every way, and all as tangled as the worst of Snufkin’s fishing wire. Moomin can’t find the end of it, but he pulls along and the shivering panic of everything finally begins to settle.

The Joxter, strange as he may be, is right. Snufkin needs Moomin to come for him, and that is enough.

‘We should move on,’ the Joxter says, starting to walk again and Moomin hurries after him, wiping at his face once more.

‘Where? Back to wait at that pass?’

‘No point waiting,’ the Joxter replies, staff hitting the ground with a hard thump as he walks. ‘If that Sneak managed to find you there without Snufkin, he must be hidden past it already.’

Moomin struggles to make sense of that. ‘You think so?’

‘That, or if there is another Sneak, they’ll have taken Snufkin through while we were busy,’ the Joxter says, more bitterly and Moomin follows, about to say something but the Joxter cuts him off; ‘But please, don’t go fretting again!’

‘And how am I to manage that?’ Moomin asks him, the path beginning to clear to the rocky face of the mountain. 

‘However you can. What do you do with your nerves, if not smoke or the like?’

‘I- I’d read, I suppose,’ Moomin answers, thoughts still on Snufkin. ‘Or Snufkin tells me a story. He’s really good at stories.’

‘He seems to be good at everything, if you’re to be believed,’ the Joxter says and Moomin stalls, blushing quite suddenly and the embarrassment catches him by surprise. 

‘No, no! I just mean- I mean, he’s not good at everything!’ Moomin says, putting both paws to his cheeks like it might hide how the fur there is starting to stick up from where he’s hot beneath it. ‘He’d tried the old piano in Papa’s office once and was pretty rubbish. His hands were too small, and he was very odd about it, actually. Even though I told him it didn’t matter, his hands are fine the way they are.’

Now Moomin has started talking, he finds he can’t quite stop. He’s been thinking of Snufkin so very much, has missed him and worried more about him these last few days than about anything else ever. The wretched mess of fear and affection inside is flooding out now, like the river after too much rain.

‘And he always burns coffee,’ Moomin continues, the memory so vivid he can almost smell it. ‘To the point he thinks it’s actually supposed to taste that way, but he just doesn’t pay attention. His kettle doesn’t have a whistle, you see. You’re supposed to watch it, but he never does. Gets too busy whittling, or singing. Sometimes, he’s too busy doing nothing. Just sitting there and looking at stars.’

Moomin stops, his voice catching as a chill hits him.

‘What if we fail?’ he asks, more to himself than the Joxter but the question has taken root, desperate to be asked all the same.

‘We won’t,’ the Joxter says, sounding quite sure. ‘If he’s half as clever as you would tell me, he’ll have worked out how to keep himself steady until we get to him.’

‘And what happens when we do get to him?’ Moomin says, fretful. It’s so hard not to give in to the terrible misery of it,the way it bites. ‘How will I ever let him go after this?’

The Joxter slows down, waiting for Moomin and he to be shoulder to shoulder. This close, Moomin gets the strong waft of whatever the Joxter smokes and something more acrid. Moomin tries to resist leaning away, but it’s difficult and self-consciously, it only makes him worry about how he may be smelling himself.

Of all the odd things, but Moomin looks down at where there is dirt on him and feels a dull stab of displeasure all the same.

‘Who says you have to let him go?’ the Joxter asks him and Moomin would laugh, if all this weren’t so very awful.

‘You don’t know him,’ Moomin says and the Joxter tenses, as though he might say something but doesn’t. Moomin rubs at his neck then, remembering; ‘Though I suppose you’d know some of it, being a Mumrik yourself. Snufkin’s not the settling down sort.’

‘Nothing about that says you have to be letting him not-settle down on his own,’ the Joxter replies, sounding almost kind and Moomin looks at him, askance. This close, the Joxter almost looks like another creature entirely, Moomin can see his face so well.

‘He travels alone,’ Moomin says, trying not to sound bitter. But everything is beginning to sound bitter lately. ‘You might’ve guessed that. You’re travelling alone.’

‘Not by choice,’ the Joxter says, sadder than expected and Moomin blinks, surprised.

‘I didn’t think there was a choice,’ Moomin replies thoughtfully, thinking of Snufkin. Of his firm insistence against Moomin ever joining him, whenever asked. ‘Did you travel with someone?’

‘Lots of folk. Then one, then none at all,’ the Joxter says, eyes out ahead as they start to climb the mountain path. ‘Friends can be like that, you see. Often more the way of a candle burning down it’s wick than anything else.’

‘How so?’

The Joxter doesn’t answer that. His angular face is in profile and Moomin finds himself staring, feeling the strangest sense of deja-vu. If such a thing were possible, with someone he’s never met. But the long, sharp line of the Joxter’s nose and the unkempt knots of his hair feel familiar all the same.

‘What happened to them?’ Moomin asks, trying to read the far off look on the Joxter’s face. ‘The others you’ve travelled with?’

‘The same thing that happens to most,’ the Joxter says, with a roll of his shoulders and it’s like whatever memory he’d been lost in is shrugged off just as easy. He looks to Moomin, eyes round and strange once again. ‘How about a story?’

Moomin frowns, baffled. ‘What- a story?’

‘Like Snufkin might do,’ the Joxter says, whiskers twitching as he does. Moomin watches, wondering what it means when they move like so. ‘I’ve gathered quite a few in my years. Perhaps I have something to bore you at least, if not lull you as we go.’

‘Stories about you?’ Moomin’s ears perk up, morbidly curious.

‘Hold your whist!’ The Joxter waves a paw, as if to wave off Moomin’s suggestion entirely. ‘I’m not so interesting as all that. No, no. How about a legend?’

Moomin doesn’t give his answer one way or another on that, still considering but the Joxter seems to take it as permission to continue.

‘Here’s one I heard many years ago,’ the Joxter starts, eyes still ahead as they make their way. ‘About a king whose children were turned into swans.’

‘Doesn’t sound like a very nice story,’ Moomin points out, though truly he’s paying more attention to the path than anything the Joxter is saying. ‘What happens in the end?’

The two of them stop, a small ways past where they had been waiting earlier and find themselves at a fork in the path. One goes through a cluster of trees, all leaning almost entirely on their sides against where the mountain climbs, and the other spindles off steeper, with rocks. Looking at it, Moomin is sure no creature would hazard taking it.

‘He dies,’ the Joxter answers quietly, almost whispering. He stops, holding a paw up and Moomin falls silent at once.

Something about the Joxter seems… off. Not that Moomin knows him so well as to truly know one way or another, but Moomin thinks he knows a funny turn when he sees it. 

The Joxter’s face is turning, slow and careful between both ways. His claws are out proper now and his tail is straight as a rail. Moomin thinks he might be trying to spot tracks, and glances to his own feet like he might do the same. But Moomin can’t see any, or indeed anything of meaning, in the craggy stones and dried dirt of the path. 

‘Which way, Joxter?’ Moomin asks, giving up on guessing himself.

‘I… I’m not sure,’ the Joxter answers and Moomin feels his chest go tight with worry at once.

‘Can't you see anything? Any tracks or signs, or-?’

‘Hush!’ The Joxter drops his staff, putting both paws to his head quite suddenly. Moomin steps back, frightened. Fear has never come as easy as it has done today. ‘I’m getting Forebodings.’

‘You’re- what?’ Moomin hasn’t even the faintest notion what that means.

The Joxter doesn’t explain himself further. He almost looks unwell, as if a dreadful headache has just come upon him and Moomin starts to panic. What will he do if the Joxter suddenly drops down sick on him? Or worse? 

Moomin eyes him, half-ready to catch the Joxter if he needs to, but the Joxter seems to shake himself out of whatever strangeness took him. The Joxter bends down to get his staff, fidgeting with the odds and ends of his coat. That brooch, again, and then he turns to Moomin.

‘I don’t know which way to go,’ the Joxter says and Moomin feels a hot spike of anger.

‘What do you mean you don’t know? You’re the one who told me you knew how to find Snufkin!’

‘I know, I know!’ the Joxter says, baring his teeth and Moomin steps back at once. ‘It’s just- you see- oh!’

The Joxter turns about anxiously, facing one stretch of the fork before the other.

‘Look at those wee shrubs there,’ the Joxter says, pointing to said little bushes where they grow out of the side of the mountain. Now Moomin looks, they look a little worse for wear. ‘They’ve been pulled on by someone with a load on their back, why else might someone need to hold steady? And there, boot marks, I’m sure. Not many local creatures with a pair of boots, nor indeed so large a pair.’

Moomin looks at the ground the Joxter is talking about and can’t see anything himself to suggest a boot, big or small. But if there is indeed a step there, and one made by a large creature, then that snuffs out Moomin’s hope of it being Snufkin. He has such little feet; such little everything really.

A terrible knot twists in his gut.

‘There’s another one. Another Sneak,’ Moomin says and the Joxter makes a small noise of confirmation. Moomin strides forward. ‘Then let’s go! They must’ve come this way, right?’

‘Yes, but…’ the Joxter says, and he looks out the other way. The narrower, more awkward looking path that splits off in the opposite direction. ‘But there’s something about the other way.’

‘What about it?’

‘A feeling,’ the Joxter says, unhelpfully and Moomin is very tempted to shake the fellow in the hope that some little bit of sense comes out at least once. ‘I have a feeling about that other path.’

‘What kind of feeling?’ Moomin asks, looking now himself. He’s impatient, antsy to get moving now he knows a way to go and Moomin doesn’t fancy this pussyfooting about. Not when Snufkin is in trouble, not with another one of those foul creatures with him!

‘A bad feeling,’ the Joxter answers, before turning to Moomin quickly. He takes Moomin by the shoulder, holds tightly there. ‘We should take both.’

‘What? No!’ Moomin says, shoving the Joxter off him. ‘There’s no time for both! Not when Snufkin needs us!’

‘Then we should take one each,’ the Joxter says and Moomin could cry with the unusual anger he suddenly feels.

‘You mean split up?’ he asks and when the Joxter simply nods, Moomin flushes at once so all his fur stands on end, right down to his fingers. ‘That’s ridiculous! We can’t do that!’

‘But-!’

‘No!’ Moomin snaps, practically shouts and the Joxter freezes at once, eyes very wide. ‘I can’t do this on my own. I thought-’ Moomin flinches, ashamed of himself. ‘I thought I could but now I know I can’t. Not against creatures like that. I’m not like you, I’m not good at fighting. Or clever for- for clue-spotting or whatever it is you do. Snufkin needs… he needs someone like you.’

On saying it, Moomin feels a keen jealousy through the helplessness. He looks to his own paws, the fur so very soft. Snufkin has always said so, and Moomin’s stomach seizes with the memory of Snufkin taking one in his pink hands, pushing the fur the wrong way so to tickle.

‘You’ve got such gentle paws. Soft, like a nice goosefeather,’ Snufkin had told him once, picking stray dandelion seeds off where they had stuck between Moomin’s fingers.

When Moomin had huffed, and said his paws were not so girly as to be gentle, Snufkin had laughed. Had traced a round circle in the palm of Moomin’s paw with his longest finger. Moomin remembers vividly how cracked the skin around Snufkin’s nail had been, the dirt like coffee stains on his knuckles.

‘I happen to like gentle,’ Snufkin had said and he’d been so close, the edge of his hat had gone over Moomin’s own head. Like they were both hiding, somewhere secret. ‘No one wants to be held by rough paws, now do they?’

Moomin closes his paws now and tries to swallow the stone of dread that sticks in his throat. Snufkin has always thought such lovely things of Moomin, and Moomin has never felt more foolish than right now for all the times he’d preened and thought himself so brilliant just because Snufkin had said so. 

What good is any of that now? Now that Snufkin needs him?

‘So please,’ Moomin says, anger vanishing as the sadness blooms. He meets the Joxter’s eye, looks at the clear blue of them. ‘Please, just help me get him back.’

‘Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says and Moomin has to look away then; that peculiar sensation that the Joxter can somehow look through him is too strong. 

‘I’m not an adventurer,’ Moomin says through his teeth. ‘Not like you are and I need you to help me get him back because I can’t… I can’t…’

Moomin doesn’t know how he was going to finish that sentence. Perhaps that’s all there is to it; he can’t.

‘Snufkin is very lucky.’

Moomin snaps back to the Joxter, confused. The Joxter is watching him, a strange expression across his angular features. Moomin can’t read it at all.

‘To have someone like you,’ he continues and Moomin’s confusion only grows, baffled as to why the Joxter is being so kind. ‘Someone who loves him like this. I hope he knows it.’

‘Loves him?’ Moomin repeats, quite dazed. ‘I… I suppose…’

Moomin says the words again, in his head and just to himself. Now he thinks of it, Moomin is sure he’s never said it to anyone but Mama and Papa before.

‘And Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says, putting his paw to Moomin’s shoulder once again. ‘Try to believe me when I say I understand, but I need you to trust me. We need to take this path.’

The Joxter points down the narrower one with his staff. Moomin follows the line of it, stares at where the path tapers off a steep incline before looking back to the Joxter. Moomin wants to believe him. He does, but… But why would any creature take that path when the other is so much easier? Why should they take the risk at all when the Joxter himself admits there are footprints going the other way?

‘Then take it,’ Moomin says, making up his mind. ‘I’m taking this one.’

The Joxter’s expression flickers, whiskers twitching. ‘Are you sure?’

‘We don’t have time to do both together,’ Moomin says and the Joxter frowns, but doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he just steps back and the paw at Moomin’s shoulder drops, held out now to Moomin who looks at it.

‘Then I shall see you on the other side,’ the Joxter says and Moomin takes his paw. The Joxter grips tight, tighter than Moomin expects and that cold worry from before returns, wedges between Moomin’s surety and doubt like a splinter.

The Joxter turns then and runs down the narrow path, tail swinging behind him and Moomin watches him go, feeling like something unmoored. He feels the anxiety swell inside but pushes it down and turns, making his way down the wider path.


*/

@asocialsnickerdoodles

*/

Snufkin wakes to something he doesn’t see very often- a ceiling, wooden and one line of timber after another.

He sits up at once, then regrets it as everything spins quite unpleasantly. His stomach rolls, a cloying fragrance stuck to the back of his throat and he tries to swallow around it. Valerian, still lurking then and he groans, displeased. It’ll wear off soon enough, but he fancies clearing it all the same. Force of habit has him reach for his pack, but all he meets is empty air.

Oh, Snufkin thinks miserably as everything starts to come back to him, most unwelcome. That’s right.

Snufkin looks around him and finds he’s sitting somewhere he has found himself on more than one occasion; a cell, it appears. Not as sturdy or indeed as unpleasant as a jail cell, but a cage is cage as far as Snufkin is concerned. He gets to his feet, putting a hand over where his temple throbs with protest and then approaches the bars.

They are thick and wooden, much like the rest of the place. Truly, they resemble an arbour or other garden fence than true bars, but when Snufkin grips them and gives as good a pull as he can manage, they stay firm like metal ones all the same. He gives it another go, just for good measure, but nothing budges.

‘Hmm.’ Snufkin steps back, considering the small square space. No window, no door. Seems the only way in or out of this place is through the bars, which must open somehow.

Suddenly, the whole place tips and Snufkin stumbles, caught off-guard. He steadies himself against one of the wooden walls, hearing a deep groan from somewhere above. A ship, Snufkin realises, recognising the shape of the place now. He’s locked in the brig of a ship!

‘How on earth?’ Snufkin thinks aloud, going back to the bars. He tries to see as far out them as he can, but the space between is too narrow to let much of him through.

From what Snufkin remembers, that wretched Grusbler had been walking East with Snufkin on his back, towards the Lonely Mountains. The sea is to the West and Snufkin feels a cold stab of panic, right between his ribs.

It would’ve taken the better part of a whole day to get back that far from where they were. How long has he been out? What tricks has that Grusbler pulled? And what about Fribs and-?

‘Moomintroll!’ Snufkin cries, the memory hitting like a blow. The panic goes hot very, very quickly and desperate, Snufkin pulls at the bars again.

Moomintroll had been so close before, he must’ve been to leave his fur caught in the bushes and Snufkin curses his own foolishness. And oh, how foolish he’s been, how very foolish and now Moomintroll is in danger!

‘Oh, Moomintroll,’ Snufkin says, unusually fretful. He steps away from the bars, only to ram back against them with his shoulder. ‘What have I done? What have you done? Following me like this!’

Daft, feckless troll! Snufkin thinks frantically, throwing himself against the bars once again. His shoulder gives out fierce, bony as it is and it hits the wood rather hard. What is Moomintroll thinking? Coming after him like this?

Snufkin collapses against the bars, overcome with a helplessness that has his knees trembling. Moomintroll shouldn’t have come and Snufkin feels guilt at once for ever wishing that he would. Moomintroll is too brave, Snufkin knows, to back down from a fight he feels to be right. But usually, Moomintroll has Snufkin there to help him and Snufkin kicks the bars with frustration at his impotence.

Who will help Moomintroll now? He’s too brash and worse again, too good and lovely to ever comprehend just how much trouble these foul creatures are and Snufkin wishes with all he has to be where Moomintroll is.

Even if it is to be trouble, at least they would be in it together and Snufkin would be able to do what he so desperately wishes; keep Moomintroll safe.

Snufkin lingers in his misery, just for a moment before he straightens himself up. He wipes at his face, clears his throat and faces the bars again. There’s no point losing his head, not now. Moomintroll needs him, wherever he may be and Snufkin can’t let his own silly worries get in the way of that.

‘All right then,’ Snufkin says to the bars before him, hands on his hips and considering. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

It doesn’t take much looking with the clear head he’s now given himself to see there’s a lock to the bars. The door is so wide as to take up the whole space, but on the far right side is the lock; flat, but with a rather large keyhole. Most cells are for creatures bigger than Snufkin.

Snufkin undoes his scarf and pulls his smock over his head, yanking at the buttons as he does. Once free of it, Snufkin turns the smock inside out and starts fishing for safety pins. He’s sure there’s one at least, holding some patch together.

‘There you are!’ he says, finding one in replacement of a button down by the end. He bends it loose, looking over himself for something else he might use as leverage. 

He’s out of pins, and so surrenders one of the clips of his suspenders. It takes some pulling and bending, and one good stomp of his boot, but he manages to get the thing relatively straight. 

‘You’ll have to do,’ Snufkin says to it, replacing his smock and scarf on himself, and now armed with both the pin and clip, he gets to work on the lock. 

Locks are such flimsy things, really. Snufkin isn’t sure why most creatures even bother with them as he hears the gears click. He steps back, pocketing his pin and clip, and pushes the door with all his might.

It’s dreadfully heavy, but once it starts to move it swings wide. Snufkin gasps, so relieved he feels his eyes water. He runs at once, down the narrow corridor to where it bends sharply, leading to another door. This one, thankfully, isn’t locked at all. 

Snufkin puts his hands to the wall as he slips out, trying to be quiet but the ship tilts again. There must be strong waves, Snufkin supposes but the ship’s hull must be too thick for them. He can’t hear any water, nor indeed smell it either. Snufkin has always had a rather keen nose and he wrinkles it now, trying to catch a whiff of salt that might lead him out. 

Up ahead, Snufkin hears a voice and he throws himself against a nearby barrel, holding his breath.

‘- when that skiver gets back, there’ll be Hell to pay for keeping me waiting,’ comes the voice, gruff and unpleasant. Snufkin feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise with loathing; the Grusbler.

Snufkin doesn’t dare move, not even to risk a quick glance. He stays still and he listens to the heavy fall of the Grusbler’s boots on the floor as he passes. He tries to ignore the iron feeling of fear that grips him, but it’s a firm grip to breathe around. Breath held, Snufkin listens to the Grusbler pass, then inches his way around the barrel.

The Grusbler will see at once Snufkin isn’t where he should be, once he turns the corner and Snufkin doesn’t wait long enough for him to do so. Snufkin bolts, runs as fast as he can down the corridor in the opposite direction. He hears a commotion behind him, but doesn’t stop. The Grusbler will have seen him gone, if not running altogether and Snufkin doesn’t have time to gawk over it!

He runs until he meets steps, wooden and for creatures much taller than he. He has to use his hands to help himself scramble up them fast enough, for his ears prick to the sound of boots behind him, then a voice terribly familiar;

‘Hey! Where do you think you’re going, little bird?!’

Snufkin gets to the stop of the steps, meets a scuttle-style slab at an angle. Snufkin throws both his hands against it and it rattles on its hinges, but doesn’t open. Snufkin panics at once, gritting his teeth and he turns to his side, frantic. He throws himself against the door again, with all his body and it crashes open, sending him tumbling through in a heap.

Snufkin rolls across wood with sunlight overhead. He throws a hand out, stops himself and gets to his feet. He teeters, head still a touch dizzy and his shoulder aches. Snufkin looks around, sees he’s standing above on what must be the quarter deck. The sky is grey, shrouded in a thick but bright fog that makes the world feel very small at once.

‘Now, now then…’

The Grusbler’s voice comes from the dark of the door Snufkin just fell through and Snufkin steps back at once, hands in small fists that he knows are no good. The Grusbler walks up from below deck, as tall and terrible as Snufkin now knows him to be.

Snufkin’s heart is beating very fast. He casts his eye about quickly; he sees masts, but no sails. The ship is mostly steady, no wind; they can’t be moving yet. Possibly still moored to the pier, not that Snufkin can see for this fog.

I need to get to the pier, Snufkin decides, looking back to the Grusbler again. Snufkin can’t swim, or certainly not well enough to swim against or with the tide. Running is his only shot.

The Grusbler smiles as he comes to the quarter deck, almost friendly.  The quarter deck is too high up to jump from, and the steps are on the other side… Snufkin will have to go through the Grusbler if he wants to go at all. Though it seems the Grusbler isn’t all too bothered that Snufkin is out and Snufkin feels a tiny bit of confidence; he’s underestimating me.

Snufkin always does like to exceed someone’s expectations.

‘What now then, songbird?’ the Grusbler says, rolling a large paw. ‘Nowhere to go.’

Snufkin doesn't even answer him; all his thoughts are focused on getting off this ship, and getting to Moomintroll before that Fribs wretch does.

Something pains at once and Snufkin frowns, more determined. He can’t let his mind go to such dark places, not when Moomintroll needs him and Snufkin raises a hand towards his scarf.

‘Why not come back down with me, eh?’ the Grusbler says, throwing a crooked thumb over his shoulder towards the door.

‘Where’s the other one? The Fribs one?’ Snufkin asks, looking to distract but desperate to know all the same. The Grusbler’s smile falters, just slightly and it turns Snufkin’s blood cold at once.

‘Worried, are we?’ the Grusbler asks, stepping closer and Snufkin steps back, one hand to the end of his scarf. ‘Bout your fluffy friend?’

Snufkin’s heart stops. ‘What did you do?’

‘Me? Not a blessed thing.’ The Grubsler shrugs, closer again.

‘And what about your friend?’ Snufkin asks, the last word coming out from between his teeth. They’re bared with an instinct rarely felt, and a growl is starting to brew.

‘Now, now,’ the Grusbler says again, placating. His paws are up, fingers long and sharp at the ends. ‘No need to get yourself in a tizzy.’

Snufkin tugs on the end of his scarf, feels the knot at his neck slowly give as he does. The Grusbler doesn’t notice.

‘Why don’t you come on down with me?’ The Grusbler smiles again, showing his yellow teeth. ‘Before you go and get yourself hurt-’

‘I wouldn’t worry about me,’ Snufkin says, yanking his scarf the rest of the way.

It helps sometimes, to be so little. Everyone always aims so high.

Snufkin moves quickly. He pushes off the back of his heels, then drops with his scarf pulled taut between both hands. He slides across the wood of the deck, towards the Grusbler’s boots as he makes a mad swipe, which goes right over Snufkin’s head. The scarf catches across the front of the Grusbler’s shins and Snufkin lets the momentum of his slide to pull it forward.

The Grusbler tips at once, giving a shout of surprise but Snufkin doesn’t bother to look. He lets the scarf go, jumping to his feet and runs towards the steps. His mind runs faster, ahead of him- he’ll get to the pier, back to the valley, back to Moomintroll-

Something grabs Snufkin by the ankle and Snufkin cries out, frightened.

It knocks him entirely off balance, falling forward and then back as the Grusbler’s large paw circles around Snufkin’s narrow ankle like a manacle and just as hard. Snufkin spins on his free foot, waves his hands to try and stay upright.

‘Not so fast!’ the Grusbler says and he’s not smiling now.

Snufkin kicks best he can but the Grusbler grips tight, so tight the leather of Snufkin’s boot bites. Thinking fast, Snufkin shifts his weight to his captive foot and kicks hard with the other, right into the side of the Grusbler’s head, which meets with a satisfying thump!

The Grusbler lets Snufkin go at once, clutching his head and Snufkin stumbles backwards, unprepared for the sudden release. He goes to step back, put distance, when suddenly the whole floor vanishes from beneath him.

He’d gotten so far, almost to the top of the steps and Snufkin had gone too far, putting a foot to where the steps drop and he falls. It’s Snufkin’s turn to shout now, stomach swooping as gravity flips him like a coin. He rolls down the steps, hitting his head as he goes and puts both hands out to try and stop himself.

Snufkin hits the lower deck with a crunch.

It’d turn his stomach if not for the pain in his wrist; which is far more absorbing. Snufkin rolls over onto his back, eyes watering as he looks at his right hand. 

His wrist is swelling, turning a fierce red under the skin and he touches it lightly with his other hand, only to wince. He pushes down a little more, gritting his teeth and bites off the sound he makes before it gets too far. 

It may be broken.

‘Oh, dearie me,’ a voice says from above and Snufkin snaps his head up, seeing the Grusbler standing at the top of the steps, looking over. ‘Little songbird has gone and hurt his wing.’

Snufkin scurries to his feet with fear, putting his hands back for leverage with habit and immediately collapsing again as he puts weight on the injury. He capsizes, falling down onto his side and groaning.

He starts again, tears streaming from the pain he’s caused but this time he gets to his unsteady feet. He bolts towards the edge of the ship, towards where the pier must be. Snufkin will jump if he has to. But when he gets to the gunwale, he nearly falls over it with the shock.

There’s no pier. Nor indeed any ocean. 

It’s not fog, Snufkin realises as he stares down at the clouds, streams and streams of them that roll like a river but where they pull apart like sugar-floss, Snufkin can see the green tops of trees and great blue mirrors for lakes. 

They’re flying. It’s an airship.

‘No,’ Snufkin says, tears coming fast and hot now as his hand pulses hot and painful. ‘No, no, no…’

Snufkin backs away, heart racing. He pulls his injured hand in close to himself, looking around the ship for something to help him. He sees now that what he thought were masts have no sails at all, and instead are pumping a thick, grey steam. Chimneys, Snufkin realises and he curses himself for his carelessness.

‘So then,’ the Grusbler says, walking down the steps slowly. Snufkin tries to stare him down, growl weak but present as he tries to keep his distance. ‘What now?’

There has to be a way out, Snufkin thinks desperately. A lifeboat, a- a parachute! Anything! Snufkin looks around, frantic. He sees mooring lines, like for any other ship. Sees the door to what must be captain’s quarters. Sees a rope ladder thrown over the side of the opposite gunwale. A ladder that must lead somewhere.

There!

Snufkin looks to the Grusbler again and both stop, seemingly curious to what the other may do. Snufkin blinks through the tears that still water, holds back a hiss as his hand throbs again. There’s only one chance.

The Grusbler’s face twitches, teeth out again. ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you...’

Snufkin runs to the ladder. The Grusbler jumps the rest of the way down the steps; Snufkin can hear the jangle of his boots and maybe keys as he lands. Snufkin makes it to the opposite gunwale, looks down to see the ladder vanishes into a cloud. It could go nowhere, or it could be the only way back to Moomintroll.

That’s enough for Snufkin.

Snufkin throws himself over the gunwale, crying out as his hand protests. He can’t use it; so all his weight is on the left. It makes climbing awkward, and Snufkin’s boots misses one of the rungs as he goes down. He nearly falls entirely, into the nothing, but holds fast.

The Grusbler is shouting after him and Snufkin feels the ladder shake with the weight of him following. Snufkin will need to be faster and he tries to be, head suddenly swimming as the pain in his wrist threatens to take him entirely.

‘Come here, you little-!’

A paw swings down from above, the Grusbler making a grab for him and Snufkin ducks down, trying to climb faster.

Just when Snufkin starts to worry it’ll all be for nothing, that he can’t possibly go any further, the ladder stops and Snufkin’s feet swing off nothing. Snufkin looks up, sees the Grusbler so very close and makes a brash decision. He lets go on the ladder and lets himself fall.

He doesn’t go far, landing on both feet to hard ground. Snufkin might’ve wept with relief, had he the presence of mind, but as it is, all Snufkin can do is what he’s been trying to do since waking up.

He turns through the cloud that swirls around him, sees the hazy outline of a rocky path down what must be the side of a mountain- and runs.

Chapter Text

Moomin is beginning to think he’s made the wrong decision.

He’s been walking a while, a longer time than he thought he would be before seeing anything. The trees have thinned out considerably, barely any at all and half the path has started to taper off, steeper and steeper. Now, it’s quite narrow and pressed tight to an edge that creeps closer the further Moomin walks.

He stops, just for a moment, to peer over it. It’s a long way down and Moomin’s stomach swoops, like when one misses a step in the dark. Phantom falling, perhaps and Moomin backs off quickly towards the other side against safe rock.

The side of the mountain looks like the spines of Papa’s old books, cracked and all in lines. Moomin misses Papa instantly then; he would know what to do, Moomin is sure. Would’ve matched the Joxter as much as anyone, in nothing else but sheer gall of which both seem to have plenty.

But it’s not Papa, Moomin thinks as some clouds pour over him, thin and low like fog. It’s silly old you.

He looks behind him, back the way he came.

There’s no sign of the Joxter following. Or indeed anyone else, which ought to be some comfort but Moomin is thin on comforts today. He pulls at the strap of his pack nervously and wonders, not for the first time, if he ought to take the knife back out. And once more, Moomin decides against it.

His paws would shake too badly to hold it proper anyway.

Moomin takes a breath, feels his chest strain where the air is very cold as it goes in. He starts walking again, further up. He keeps his eye careful, looking at shrubs and the trees, what few there are. Stops every now and then, to look at branches and see if they are clues.

It doesn’t help much; Moomin doesn’t know what to look for and even if he did, it’s starting to get dark.

Higher up he goes. The clouds are getting thicker and Moomin sticks to the wall of the mountain, one paw against it so as not to lose his way. He must be near the top, or at least something of a peak but it’s so hard to tell. Moomin hasn’t been up this one before and none of it is familiar.

Moomin stops once or twice, considers turning back to see if he might find the Joxter again, if that might be better with the night coming, but decides against it. The Joxter said himself that someone large and with something on their back must’ve come this way- what else could it be but Snufkin and this horrid Sneak?

The image of Snufkin thrown over a Sneak’s back is too easy for Moomin to imagine and it makes his blood boil hot, right through the chill. Moomin knows himself how easy Snufkin is to carry, how easy a thing he is to move. The idea of something as wretched as a Sneak doing the same burns a hole in Moomin’s gut.

It distracts him, thinking of it now. Thinking of Snufkin, and what is and was and what may be should Moomin fail and he walks faster, anxious and angry with no way to balance either. He walks with purpose, with eyes misty- and puts his foot right into it.

He knows he’s done something wrong that moment, feels the bulk of what might be root against the edge of his foot before everything snaps into action around him.

The ground erupts and Moomin shouts with fright, stumbling forward as it catches around his ankle. Then, it throws him into a swell of dry dirt and leaves that rise up to meet him and he tumbles about, tail over head in confusion.

It takes a moment for Moomin to realise he’s upside-down. It had all happened so very quickly! He tries to right himself, and ends up falling about as his paw goes right through whatever has him.

‘What the bloody Hell-?’

It’s a net! Moomin realises, staring up at where the edges of it come together far above him, hooked over what appears to be a particularly narrow rock that juts out. Moomin struggles, panicking.

What’s a net even doing here? This far up such a random path? Moomin gets the right way up at last, paws and feet losing themselves through the narrow gaps of the net as he goes.

The net swings terribly, suspended as it is though Moomin realises he is only a bare few inches off the ground. Not that it helps much, for the rope is very thick, like the kind for boats.

‘No, no, no,’ Moomin says, getting his paws to it and pulling. He tries to pull the gap wider, but the rope is rough and he can almost feel the horrid bristles pricking through his fur. ‘Come on! Give!’

He pulls harder, strains his arms best he can but nothing budges. All it does is tip him over again and the net swings, scraping at the dirt. It’s a trap, it must be and Moomin remembers the Joxter at once, the strangeness that took him before.

‘He knew,’ Moomin says to himself and his paws tighten on the rope. Somehow, the Joxter had known something would go wrong on this path. ‘That stupid codger knew!’

Unbidden, the thought that the Joxter has somehow tricked him rises and that hole of anger inside Moomin grows teeth. He groans with frustration, with helplessness and presses his head against the net.

What if Moomin’s already met this other Sneak? Moomin winces, trying to shun the thought. But…

Would the Joxter have fought that other fellow so terribly if they were in cahoots? Do creatures like that care one way or another to begin with? Moomin wishes he knew more, wishes a lot of things.

‘Snufkin,’ Moomin says, just to say it. Just to try and centre himself, like he might were Snufkin here. How easy it is, to be brave when Snufkin is here.

What would Snufkin do? He’d get out of the net, Moomin knows and so that’s what he must do. It doesn’t matter what the Joxter is or isn’t- all that matters is Snufkin and if a trap has been laid, it must have been to keep Moomin from going further. 

‘Which means you don’t want me getting to the top,’ Moomin mutters bitterly to a foul creature who can’t hear him. But just as he says it, his ears prick and he freezes.

There’s someone coming down the path towards him. He can hear footsteps, quick and uneven. They’re skidding on the loose dirt, Moomin can hear and he fumbles with his pack but it’s hard; the net swings and he keeps losing his balance.

Moomin puts a foot out the bottom of the net so his toes scrape the ground, trying to keep it somewhat steady so he can get the knife from the pack- but then someone is revealed through the mist.

It’s the third time he’s thought it, but now Moomin knows it’s no mistake as the figure becomes clear; Moomin knows him at once.

‘Snufkin…’

Snufkin stops where he is. He stands there, terribly disheveled and everything Moomin has wanted for days. No hat, no scarf and his left arm crossed over his chest to guide along the rockface. His hair is sticking to his head with damp, and his eyes find Moomin’s. They’re big, dark; Moomin has ached to see them.

Snufkin’s mouth moves but he’s still too far and too quiet for Moomin to hear. Not that it matters anyway, as Moomin’s ears are nearly ringing with the relief suddenly coursing through him. His heart is throwing itself against his ribs, bursting with the desperation of seeing Snufkin at last. 

‘Moomintroll!’ Snufkin calls out, taking a step forward, then another, and another. He’s running down the path. ‘Moomintroll!’

‘Snufkin!’

Moomin wants to run, throws himself against the net but it only swings around him so he has to struggle to stay upright once again. Moomin pulls at the rope, tries to force his way out but he’s making a bags of it, for his eyes won’t move off Snufkin. 

Snufkin, who’s running so fast he’s nearly tripping over his own feet. Snufkin, who is so much smaller now than he’s ever been. Snufkin, who Moomin needs to hold as quickly as possibly. 

Moomin has never seen Snufkin run like this before and he can’t stop calling his name; Snufkin, Snufkin, Snufkin! He’s running so quickly, eyes fixed to Moomin, but it’s not fast enough and Moomin strains frantically to get free, to run and meet Snufkin where he comes. 

But he’s stuck fast and Snufkin makes it on his own. He throws himself against the net just as Moomin sticks his arms through it. It’s a mess, a crash of recklessness but Snufkin is finally, finally, in Moomin’s paws.

Moomin hugs Snufkin through the net, presses him as close as he can and twists his fingers into the wool of Snufkin’s smock so it bunches. Against the rope, Moomin presses the side of his snout to what he can reach of Snufkin’s face; Moomin just needs to touch him, needs to smell him and feel him and know he’s real.

‘Snufkin, I can't believe-!’

‘Moomintroll, you silly fool!’ Snufkin says, which is so far from what Moomin expects to hear, it nearly makes him laugh. One of Snufkin’s hands goes through the net, pulling insistently at the fur of Moomin’s chest. ‘You can’t know how worried I have been! What dreadful things I’ve thought!’

‘Worried?’ Moomin repeats, baffled. ‘You’ve been worried about me?’

‘Foolish, feckless thing!’ Snufkin continues, holding so tight he’s pinching but Moomin doesn’t care. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Coming for you,’ Moomin replies as Snufkin pulls away slightly so they can look at each other proper. 

Moomin can’t stop looking, may never stop looking. Snufkin has never been more perfect than now and Moomin wants to never forget it. 

‘You shouldn’t have come,’ Snufkin says, more frantic than Moomin has ever seen him. Moomin tries to hold him better and his heart folds, like a secret, at the way Snufkin lets him. ‘You have no idea what kind of creatures these are.’

‘Believe me, I’ve got a fair one, alright,’ Moomin says bitterly, thinking of the Sneak from before. Moomin moves his paws, goes to hold Snufkin’s hands. 

Snufkin hisses, flinching as Moomin touches the right one and Moomin starts, worried.

He looks at Snufkin’s hand, and instantly feels the most unusual but powerful anger at what he sees. It hits him like a stone. 

When Moomin asks, the words shake; ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing,’ Snufkin replies, certainly lying for his wrist is three times as big as it ought to be and redder than a berry. Snufkin looks at the net. ‘We need to get you out of this, we don’t have much time!’

‘It’s not nothing!’ Moomin snaps, paw going to Snufkin’s face. His whole cheek fits in the palm of Moomin’s paw and Snufkin stops, perched there like a bird. ‘Did they hurt you?’

Snufkin’s mouth parts, eyes searching. ‘No. Hurt myself trying to get away.’

‘That’s as good as them hurting you,’ Moomin says and that anger burns, pulls the lips from his teeth. Snufkin puts his good hand to Moomin’s chest, cool and familiar. 

‘I’ll be fine,’ Snufkin tells him, but Snufkin always tells him that. When the fishing hook gets caught on his finger, when Snufkin’s boot slips on a stone; I’ll be fine, Moomintroll. 

‘I don’t want you to be fine, I want you to be safe,’ Moomin says, because it’s true and because he can’t stop it. It slips past his sense and Snufkin blinks, slow and thoughtful. 

‘Me?’ Snufkin says, tilting his head. Letting Moomin carry more of his weight and Moomin would carry Snufkin on his back, against his chest- he’d carry him anywhere. ‘What about you? You’re stuck in a net.’

‘I don’t care,’ Moomin says for he doesn’t, squeezing his fingers around Snufkin, holding him dearly. ‘I’d get stuck in a hundred nets if it meant finding you.’

Snufkin closes his eyes, just for a moment, and Moomin feels something turn inside him like a page. He needs to be closer, and leans forward, best he can against the rope that holds him back, to press both it and his snout to Snufkin’s other cheek. 

‘You’ve found me,’ Snufkin says, quiet and Moomin takes a breath, let’s it rattle down his ribs with relief. ‘And now we need to move. Quickly.’

‘Wait, I-’

Moomin has no idea what he wants to say, only that something must be said. He pulls back, feels the way the fine fur of his face drags on Snufkin’s skin. There’s something urgent and unusual inside of Moomin just now; he struggles to think around it.

‘Moomintroll, we have to leave,’ Snufkin says, serious again. He steps away, so to look at the net better but Moomin clutches to his smock, refusing to let Snufkin go far. ‘We need to get you out of this. He won’t be far behind.’

‘Who?’ Moomin asks and his teeth frame the question. ‘The creature that hurt you?’

Snufkin glances at him, eyes narrowing at once. 

‘It is not a fight we will win, Moomintroll,’ Snufkin tells him, somehow knowing what Moomin is thinking as he always does. He says it firmly like he might if this were any other adventure Moomin was about to choose unwisely in.

Moomin doesn’t feel unwise, however; whatever he feels inside him, looking at Snufkin and thinking of the harm done, feels more righteous than any brashness before might have.

Moomin’s paws twist in Snufkin’s smock, the wool wrapping like a bind. ‘I won’t let them hurt you. Not again.’

‘It won’t come to that,’ Snufkin says but Moomin doesn’t care what it comes to. He can’t see past what has come already; the swollen damage of it.

Snufkin puts his good hand to Moomin’s cheek.

‘Moomintroll, please.’

Moomin looks at him, meets his eye. He always wants to look Snufkin in the eye, never noticed until just now how rarely he manages it. Without his hat, Snufkin’s face is almost someone else entirely. He has longer lashes than Moomin does and they clump together in places, uneven and brown.

‘This isn’t like you,’ Snufkin says, softer. He leans close and for one radiant, bewildering moment, Moomin thinks Snufkin is about to kiss him. Moomin has never thought such a thing before- but it bursts brilliant and heartstopping just now.

‘I know…’ Moomin starts, thrown by this. He keeps glancing at Snufkin’s nose, how very near it is. ‘I just- I can’t bear to think of you hurt.’

‘It’s nothing, nothing to worry about,’ Snufkin says, insistently lilting the way he does when trying to convince Moomin of anything. He’s pulling away again, hand moving to the thick rope. ‘But if we don’t move soon, we’ll have plenty other to-’

The ground beside them erupts.

Dirt pelts the pair of them and the odd stone, too. There was a bang, almighty and ringing. It startles both of them and Moomin’s arms go further through the net, both paws on Snufkin’s waist to hold onto him. Snufkin presses against the rope, catches it tight between them as he tries to get closer and they both look to the ground; a deep, narrow hole has appeared there.

‘I didn’t have to miss,’ a voice says and Moomin looks over Snufkin’s shoulder to see an unfamiliar creature. He’s tall and unpleasant looking; narrow-nosed and with mudbrown fur. And at the end of one long arm, is the black barrel of a pistol. ‘So consider it a bit of courtesy.’

Moomin doesn’t think he’ll ever be prepared for this sight, the second time as frightening as the first but all he can think of to do is grip into Snufkin, who’s trying to turn in Moomin’s paws and face what must be the other Sneak. 

‘Stop right there,’ Snufkin says to the Sneak, getting his back to Moomin’s chest despite Moomin’s best efforts to hold him steady. ‘Don’t come any closer.’

‘Or what?’ the Sneak asks, waving his pistol about. Moomin pulls on Snufkin instantly, feels the way he’s shaking.

Snufkin is afraid, Moomin realises. Moomin isn’t sure he’s ever seen Snufkin afraid before.

‘Got some more tricks up those sleeves of yours, do you?’ the Sneak continues, tone leering. He swings his wrist, so the pistol points down to the ground and walks towards them, slowly. ‘Better be careful, eh? Don’t want to go breaking the other wing.’

Moomin grits his teeth and something warbles in his chest, deep down like a cough and it rattles out of him. Snufkin startles, glancing quickly at Moomin over his shoulder and only then does Moomin realise he’s growling. Moomin is sure he’s never growled before in his life.

The Sneak stops.

‘Looks like you were right though, weren’t you?’ the Sneak says, tilting his head to see Moomin better. ‘Your friend did come after you in the end.’

‘Don’t,’ Snufkin says, snapping back towards the Sneak and throwing his good hand out to try and cover Moomin. It doesn’t do much; Snufkin’s arm is too skinny for someone like Moomin to hide behind it.

‘Don’t what?’ The Sneak rolls a shoulder, raising his pistol and Snufkin is shaking again. ‘Only taking a gander at your fellow there. Determined creature, if he managed to get around our Fribs.’

‘Don’t hurt him,’ Snufkin says, as firm as anything he would say any other day and were it not for holding him, Moomin mightn’t know how scared he is at all.

Snufkin is as brave as he always is and Moomin’s heart is suddenly full, swollen like a sponge, with the affection he’s held for Snufkin since… always. Goodness, Moomin has adored him always and how can it only be now to realise such a thing?

‘You can’t have him!’ Moomin says, fretful but certain. He holds tight to Snufkin, addresses the Sneak eye to eye and not one part of him shakes. There’s no time to be afraid. ‘I don’t care who you are or- or what you are! But you’re not having him!’

The Sneak’s unruly eyebrows raise. Moomin is surprised himself, but it’s very hard to focus on that. He needs to get Snufkin away, somehow. It’s all Moomin can think of. 

‘You need to run,’ Moomin says, quietly into Snufkin’s hair and mostly thinking aloud. Snufkin’s hand balls, punches Moomin sharply through the net.

‘I will do no such thing,’ Snufkin replies, hushed and tense. 

‘You have to!’ 

‘No!’ Snufkin snaps, louder and he digs his heels in more to the ground beneath them. ‘I will not leave you.’

‘You two are rather sweet,’ the Sneak says and they both look to him. He shrugs, as though this were any other conversation but Moomin can’t stop looking at the pistol. ‘Anyone ever tell you that?’

Neither of them answer him. The Sneak walks towards the edge of the path, where the drop is. He looks over it and then lets out a low whistle. 

‘Awfully long way down,’ he says, glancing over. He meets Moomin’s eye, long nose wrinkling as though in thought. ‘You’ve come a pretty mile or two, haven’t you?’

Moomin doesn’t answer him. He’s thinking of this net, of the thick ropes and the knife in his pack. If he tries to get it, the Sneak will see and what then? Will he shoot? What if he shoots Snufkin-?

Moomin won’t let that happen. He needs to think! 

‘Have to wonder though,’ the Sneak says, taking Moomin’s silence as the chance to speak some more it seems. He starts making his way towards them, Snufkin shuffling but Moomin doesn’t let him move far. ‘How a soft and fluffy creature like yourself managed it. All by your lonesome.’

Moomin thinks of the Joxter and, somehow, knows not to mention him. The Sneak eyes him and Moomin holds his breath. 

‘Can’t see Fribs helping you out, after all.’

‘Fribs?’ Moomin has no idea what that means.

‘Don’t tell me you missed him!’ the Sneak says, looking genuinely surprised. He raises the paw with the pistol to about his chest. ‘About ‘ere high. Maybe not as genteel as yourself, but he’s got his own way with words.’

The Sneak is clearing joking, which only serves to turn Moomin’s stomach. The bile of loathing he feels runs up the back of his throat, hot and deeply unpleasant but he swallows it down. He understands what the Sneak is saying now.

‘If you’re talking about that other one,’ Moomin says, loudly and more brash than he feels. Snufkin glances at him again, eyes narrowed. ‘Then yeah, I met him! You should pick better friends, you know!’

‘Met him?’ The Sneak stands up straight and abruptly, he is a very different creature. He’s so very tall, and so very ugly, Moomin thinks; a truly beastly thing. ‘And you got this far still?’

‘Moomintroll…’ Snufkin says his name like a warning- but Moomin ignores it. He’s thinking about the net again, his knife and how to get the latter through the former before that pistol goes off.

‘Strike me pink,’ the Sneak says, starting towards them again. His pistol rises and Snufkin goes tense in Moomin’s paws. ‘Actually, colour me very impressed! Fribs ain’t the type for letting just anyone by. But then again, he’s never been the most careful. Thought I was doing him a favour, lending him my favourite tommy but just goes to show, don’t it? Want something done, set the net up and come take a look yourself.’

‘I’m not afraid you,’ Moomin says boldly, even if not entirely true and Snufkin tries to shush him. Moomin ignores him again as the Sneak comes closer. 

‘Now, you see the best part about having one of these?’ The Sneak holds his pistol aloft once more so the barrel points straight up. ‘Is that it really don’t matter if you’re afraid of it or not. Not as nice as my other one, but a gun’s a gun, innit? However you feel about it, that fluffy pelt of yours ain’t much good against a bullet.’

The Sneak points the pistol towards him, teeth showing and Moomin freezes, with no idea of what to do- 

‘No!’

Moomin isn’t expecting it, cries out as Snufkin pushes out of his grip with a sudden burst. Snufkin steps too far forwards, Moomin’s paw swiping at the air to try and get him back. 

‘Don’t, please.’ Snufkin says this so seriously, striding so he stands halfway between the Sneak and Moomin. 

Moomin pulls at the rope of the net, now very frightened. Everything seems bearable, even this, when they’re together but now Moomin feels a great part of himself unravelling. 

‘Snufkin, what are you doing? Just run!’

‘You need me for something,’ Snufkin says to the Sneak, ignoring Moomin. Moomin stares at his back, heart sick with how very short and scrawny Snufkin looks with that monstrous creature standing so tall ahead of him. ‘Promise not to hurt him and I’ll come with you.’

The Sneak lowers his pistol, looking to Snufkin. ‘That easy, eh?’

‘That easy,’ Snufkin repeats but Moomin won’t bear it.

‘No!’ he shouts, straining for the rope to budge but it won’t. Snufkin doesn’t even turn. ‘Not that easy! Not easy at all! Snufkin, get back here!’

‘And I should trust you, should I?’ the Sneak asks, looking only to Snufkin. His pistol drops entirely, but it’s cold comfort. ‘Haven’t shown much by way of manners. Made a terrible mess.’

‘No more mess,’ Snufkin says which sounds like a promise of something. Moomin won’t have Snufkin make any to a creature like this and, shamefully, he’s starting to cry. He’s never cried so easy as he has these last few days.

‘Snufkin, stop!’ Moomin pleads. His arms are shaking, all of him is shaking and the net quivers with it. ‘Please, please stop!’

‘I’ll come,’ Snufkin continues, like Moomin’s words mean nothing to him and Moomin cries out, a desperate whine pulled out of him like a splinter. ‘No more fighting. No more running.’

‘Well, that does sound mighty easy, alright,’ the Sneak replies, before he waves his pistol again in Moomin’s direction. Snufkin side-steps, nimble as always so he stands in front of it again. ‘Your fellow doesn’t look best pleased though.’

‘A minute,’ Snufkin says to that, turning slightly. ‘Please. Just give me one.’

The Sneak looks between Snufkin and Moomin, eyes narrowed before he eventually shrugs in acquiesce.

Snufkin turns proper then, and everything Moomin is planning to say vanishes. All he can think about is the way Snufkin looks in this moment; how can someone be so important, be known so very long… and yet surprise Moomin so horribly?

This isn’t a game! Moomin wants to beg Snufkin to understand that. This isn’t like all those times they’ve had before; those many, many other times when Snufkin has been brave or clever, has saved the day. Moomin doesn’t think Snufkin is being any of those right now and he’s certainly not saving anything.

‘Snufkin, stop it!’ Moomin’s voice cracks and warbles, close to shattering. ‘Please, please don’t do this.’

Moomin wishes he knew what Snufkin is thinking, tries to guess but he’s never been good at it. Not like Snufkin, who always seems to know when the other way around.

Moomin wonders what Snufkin can see now, if he sees anything at all. If he can see all the ways Moomin is begging him not to do this.

Snufkin walks back to Moomin, stopping just short of where Moomin’s paw reaches for him. Moomin pushes forwards, stretches out his fingers. They just brush at Snufkin’s chest, the wool bristling there.

‘You can’t,’ Moomin tells him, resolute. ‘I won’t let you.’

‘Moomintroll.’ Snufkin says his name like a scold and it only serves to upset Moomin more. ‘You need to listen to me now.’

‘Don’t,’ Moomin warns. Snufkin purses his lips then, small and pink, and in the curve of someone trying to soothe. Moomin is not soothed.

‘You did your part,’ Snufkin replies, answering a question Moomin doesn’t ask. ‘Let me do mine now.’

Moomin just stares, thinking of nothing but Snufkin. Stares at the uneven colours of his face; brown, red and dark spots that might be freckles. Moomin wonders how he’s never noticed them, is suddenly afraid of all the things he never knew at all.

Snufkin meets Moomin’s gaze and holds it, like a rope. The sun is gone now, behind the point of the mountain and Snufkin’s eyes shift as they always do in the dark.

‘You don’t know what’ll happen if you do this,’ Moomin says, blinking to clear the hot tears still brimming. It makes his lashes stick.

‘No, but it’s not something I care to know.’

‘How could you say that?’ Moomin struggles to speak; everything is so terrible. ‘How can you not want to know?’

‘I know you will be safe.’ Snufkin inches closer. His good hand goes to Moomin’s paw, like he’s trying to put Moomin off. ‘Can’t knock that.’

‘But I won’t know about you.’

Snufkin almost smiles. Moomin has always been able to tell.

‘If there was something I could do about that, I would,’ he says, quieter again. Moomin’s heart tips inside, a cup too full and everything spills down his ribs like a gutter. Pools deep in the pit of his stomach.

‘Snufkin,’ Moomin starts, but doesn’t know what he wants to say. Truly, there is so very much.

‘I wonder if I would’ve told you,’ Snufkin says, soft and baffling. ‘Had we the chance to be different.’

Moomin turns his paw, links their fingers together before Snufkin can stop him. ‘T-told me what?’ 

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Snufkin replies, his thumb coiling under Moomin’s paw. The nail of it scrapes, right in the divet of Moomin’s palm. It pushes the fur there backwards. ‘Things aren’t different.’

Snufkin goes to move, but Moomin tightens his hold.

‘No, no.’ Moomin shakes his head, like that might convince Snufkin when nothing else has managed it yet. ‘No, I won’t let you. I won’t let you go.’

‘You never do,’ Snufkin replies and this time, he does smile. Moomin throws his other paw out, gets it around Snufkin’s wrist. ‘Moomintroll, it will be all right.’

Moomin can’t see how it possibly could be. Snufkin strides forwards then, catching Moomin by surprise and his paws lose their grip. Snufkin presses close through the net, presses the rope against Moomin’s pelt with his small body. His cheek is against Moomin’s snout, lips close.

‘Be brave, my friend.’

And then Snufkin is gone.

He pushes away on the heels of his boots, light-footed and too quick for Moomin to stop him. Moomin’s paws grasp uselessly, but Snufkin is already too far and he walks up to the Sneak, who’s grin is the most sickening thing Moomin has ever seen.

Moomin bares his own teeth, could roar with the anger he feels at- at- at all of it, but his breath is too quick and unsteady. He can barely call Snufkin’s name, though he tries for it’s all he can think. It skips, like a rock, over and over and Moomin watches, impotent, as Snufkin goes up to the Sneak once again.

‘He’s looking a bit antsy,’ the Sneak says, gesturing to Moomin. Moomin growls again, the loathing he feels fervent. ‘How do I know he won’t come running after you? He’s come this far.’

‘We’ll be gone by the time he gets out of that net,’ Snufkin says coolly and he looks over his shoulder to catch Moomin’s eye. ‘There’s nothing sharp about a Moomin.’

‘So it seems,’ the Sneak says, reaching down to grab Snufkin’s shoulder. Snufkin tenses, but he goes when pushed ahead. 

‘Snufkin!’ Moomin shouts, the name bellowing in the open space of the mountain but Snufkin doesn’t turn around again. ‘Snufkin, dont! Stop!’

Snufkin doesn’t stop. 

‘Snufkin!’ Moomin sinks to his knees, the motion sending the net swinging again as his foot lifts from steadying. ‘Snufkin, if you do this, I will never forgive you! Never!’

The cloud swells up at the top of the path and swallows Snufkin and the Sneak like a wave. Moomin rocks, pulls at the rope and everything swings around him. He falls over, lands on his back against the bottom of the net and stares at where it comes together above him. He’s crying quite earnestly now, but it cuts off as his back bounces off his pack.

Moomin quickly turns himself around, swinging his pack to get his paws on the fastening. He pulls the kitchen knife from it and immediately puts it to the rope.

Moomin isn’t sure what he was expecting- something like the stories he’s always been told, perhaps. He puts the knife to the edge of the rope and drives it down, expects it to cut cleanly but it doesn’t. The knife slips more than anything, right off the rope like it barely did anything at all.

‘Come on, come on!’ Moomin grunts, panicking. There isn’t time for this nonsense! Moomin uses one paw to hold the stretch of rope between loops taut, and drags the knife against it with the other.

This fares better, but not half nor even a quarter as quick as Moomin needs it to be. He keeps glancing up, frantically scanning the foggy cloud to see if Snufkin would somehow come again, like he did before. Rescued himself, it had seemed and isn’t that just a dreadfully Snufkin thing to do? All Moomin has managed is to lose him, again.

The despair hits then and Moomin sags, knife scraping unpleasantly against the scratchy fibres of the rope. He tries to breathe around the feeling that plunges through him, but it is so big a thing. Moomin shuts his eyes, pushes the knife against the rope with each unsteady breath.

He can’t fall apart. Not now, not with Snufkin so close. Stupid, stupid Snufkin!

‘I’m coming to get you,’ Moomin promises him, looking up again at the path ahead. He gets back to cutting the rope, finally feeling it begin to give way. ‘And when I find you, I am going to kill you.’

Moomin is half-sure he means that, too. He’s so focused on Snufkin, on the frightful need to get back to him and pull him from the mouth of this terror, that Moomin almost doesn’t notice he’s cut the rope through at last. He stares at it, stunned for a moment.

He moves to the next loop.

Moomin worries he’s taken too long as he finally manages to cut enough that he can rip the net the rest of the way. He falls out of it with no grace, too eager but he’s back to his feet quick enough. It is quite dark now and Moomin rushes to the rock face, keeping a paw to it as he runs.

He trips, quite a few times, but manages to keep going. The path feels like it’s getting narrower, but perhaps it is only Moomin’s fear that has him thinking the edge is coming closer the higher he goes. He can’t see ahead, the night and cloud too thick together to lend him any idea. But he’s confident there can only be this way, and this is the way Snufkin took.

Who knows how long it’s been? Moomin pushes aside the distraught thoughts that it has been an hour, quite sure it’s barely even made half of one but it is so very hard to tell! In this dark, with no watch, nothing but-

Moomin’s paw slips off the rock-face, into a startling nothing and he falls through the darkness and right into something. Or rather, someone. 

The other someone goes down, Moomin being so large a creature. He cries out as they hit the dirt and Moomin throws a fist, with much prejudice. It hits something soft and there’s the wheeze of breath caught. The other goes down and Moomin scrambles to get right, unable to see clearly who he’s stumbled upon but he pulls his paw back for another swing.

‘Moomintroll! Wind your neck in now, it’s me! It’s me!’

It still takes a moment, unfamiliar as he still is, for Moomin to recognise the Joxter’s voice and in doing so, Moomin stalls. He only now realises he’d almost forgotten the fellow entirely, given everything else.

‘Joxter?’

‘Who else?’ the Joxter says and Moomin hears him get to his feet. He grabs Moomin by the elbow and pushes him back the way he came. It’s a little brighter in the dusk light and Moomin looks at the rock-face, sees they are in the mouth of what appears to be a cave.

‘Let me go!’ Moomin pulls himself free, near tripping again over his own feet in his anxiousness. He starts back up the path proper, the Joxter following close behind.

‘What is it?’ the Joxter asks, taking Moomin by the shoulder again. Moomin tries to shrug him off, but the Joxter holds fast and shoves him in the other direction abruptly. ‘Careful! You nearly put your foot in a divot there-’

‘I don’t care!’ Moomin snaps, for he doesn’t. He’d fall in a hundred divots if it meant getting up this mountain faster. He puts his paw back to the rock-face, jogging through the misty cloud. The hard fall of the Joxter’s boots and the clip of his staff are behind Moomin as he goes.

‘What is it?’ the Joxter asks, sounding concerned. Moomin quickly wipes at his face, eyes wet but doesn’t answer; he keeps moving. ‘Moomintroll, tell me what-’

‘It’s Snufkin!’ Moomin says, furious quite suddenly that the Joxter somehow couldn’t tell that much. And to think Moomin thought him so clever before!

The sound of the Joxter’s boots stop, though Moomin doesn’t.

‘He was- he was-’ Moomin struggles to say any more, the air thin and cold as it is. But even so, there is a frightful lump in his throat, hard as coal and near-impossible to speak around; fear. ‘He was right here, right here and I…’

Moomin can’t bear anymore and so doesn’t. He throws himself ahead, feet striking the hard path and kicking small pebbles as he goes with desperation. He needs to get to the top, for where else is there to go? And they can’t be very far, Moomin thinks madly. They must be just ahead, they must, they must, they must-

Moomin is suddenly shoved against the rock-face. It hurts and he glares at the shape of the Joxter, who has him pinned there with one sharp paw. And sharp it is, for Moomin can feel the hint of his claws through his pelt.

Under his hat, the Joxter’s eyes catch the faint dusk light. Tiny, round circles that flash like coins in the black of them.

‘Snufkin was here?’ he asks and something in the tone of his voice has Moomin quite still. ‘What happened? Where is he?’

Moomin frowns and shoves the Joxter’s paw off him; the claws scratch as he does, but Moomin doesn’t care.

‘He was here, and then he left with a Sneak,’ Moomin says, voice shaking but he keeps going as the Joxter’s expressions shifts; ‘There was a net, a trap. I walked right into it, like some- some- oh, it doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter because they can’t be far!’

‘But what happened?’ the Joxter asks, voice tight. 

Before Moomin can answer any further, the air pulses as though during a storm. Moomin’s fur rises, straight up from his pelt and the ground beneath the both of them shakes. They stumble, caught off-guard by a wash of air that pushes down the path. It blows the cloud away, leaving everything clear. 

‘Snufkin…’ The Joxter’s voice is suddenly quiet and steps away, eyes going very wide. He drops his staff. ‘Snufkin!’

The Joxter runs. 

He’s too fast and bolts up ahead, swinging around the corner at the other end that winds up. Moomin hurtles after him, desperate to keep him in sight but then Joxter is too quick on his feet. Moomin’s paw scrapes on the craggy surface of the rock face, but he daren’t move away. Without the clouds, he can see now just how narrow the path has gotten.

When Moomin finally turns the corner himself, he looks up and forgets about the Joxter that moment.

It’s the lip of a wide cliff, but it’s what lurks just over the edge of it that has Moomin stunned. There are lights upon it, casting everything in a lurid yellow glow and Moomin has never seen the like before. If it weren’t for the Snork and his own those years ago, Moomin mightn’t recognise what it is at all, but even so, it is so different in design it mystifies him anyway.

There is no balloon, not that Moomin can see. Peculiar and bewildering as it is, this airship looks like a small tug-boat, with a large chimney at its centre. There’s noise from it, booming and whirring from an engine somewhere. Moomin stares, dumbfounded by the very existence of such a thing, and his sense only returns to him when he spots movement just ahead. 

‘Joxter!’ Moomin shouts after him, for the Joxter is pacing from one end of the cliff to the other, tail a blur behind him as he does. ‘Joxter, be careful!’

Moomin calls for him to be so as the Joxter is perilously close to the edge. His hat is tilted back, for he is clearly looking up at the airship. Moomin’s brain finally catches up and he, too, looks to the airship.

Snufkin. Snufkin must be on it, and when Moomin realises this, everything else ceases to matter.

Just as Moomin runs forward, there is a great, quaking crank that echoes. It shudders the ground, much like before and Moomin teeters. He looks at the Joxter, who is thrown backwards from a gust that flows up from under the airship. Moomin keeps going, eyes up and feels the bottom of his gut drop like a stone. The airship is rising, quickly.

As it rises, Moomin sees there are what appear to be sails, styled almost like wings beneath. They open wide, wider still and Moomin thinks the airship must be taking off truly now. He makes it to the Joxter, staring up at the airship and panicking, near hysterical. He casts about for something, anything, to grab but the ship is too far from the ledge. And even if Moomin were to jump, there is nothing to throw a paw to.

‘No!’ Moomin acts before he thinks, flinging an arm out as he sees movement. It hits the Joxter in the chest and Moomin feels the blood-chilling lurch of nearly falling. He can see the dark, deep drop, but then he’s falling the other way, swung right by his tail. He takes the Joxter with him.

‘Snufkin!’

Moomin doesn’t hear Snufkin’s name for what it is yet, for the Joxter’s voice sounds like something tearing. It’s a horrid, wailing noise and Moomin rolls over to see him, claws into the dirt in his haste to get back to his feet. He’s going to try and jump again, Moomin thinks and once more, he reaches and grabs the end of the Joxter’s coat.

The Joxter falls backwards again, almost tail over. His hat falls from his head and is blown back somewhere by the force of the wind the airship makes, revealing knotted tufts and wayward curls. He turns himself over, goes to move again and Moomin jumps to his feet.

‘Snufkin!’ the Joxter bellows, teeth showing in the streaming light. Moomin catches him around the waist this time, sending them both back down to the dirt.

‘You can’t!’ Moomin has to shout over the vivid hum the airship emanates. ‘You won’t make it, you’ll fall!’

‘Let me go, you bastard!’

‘Stop it, please-!’

Both of them are silenced by a loud, harrowing dirge from the airship. Moomin winces and lets the Joxter go, both paws to his ears as they sting from the noise. He glances at the airship, sees how far it has drifted through the clouds and recognises what must be a horn of some kind.

The distance between the airship and the cliff is vast now- even for the Joxter, it seems, who upon standing, falls immediately back to his knees.

He sags forwards, one paw to the dirt and the other outstretched, like he may somehow reach over the terrible gap that has swollen between them and the airship. His long, black fingers are strained outwards, claws and all.

‘Snufkin…’ is all the Joxter says, his crooked edges from uneven curls to the patched seams of his coat flapping uselessly in the wind. Moomin gets to his feet, looks over the crumpled form of him to where the airship flies, up and up.

Moomin watches it go, watches it take Snufkin with it and his world shrink around him.

Chapter Text

@wholemleko

It’s a long time, staring out into the darkening sky, before the Joxter moves.

He gets to his feet, quite unsteady and Moomin steps forward to help. But the Joxter flinches away from him, something like a growl spat out between his teeth. Moomin stops, paw still outstretched.

The Joxter meets his gaze, eyes black in the dark and shiny like oil. He’s crying, Moomin realises with a start. Moomin’s paw drops.

The Joxter doesn’t say anything, just stares and Moomin does the same, taking him in. Without his hat, and a staff to arch his body against, the Joxter stands quite tall now. He looms over Moomin, not by much perhaps but enough for him to look up some. The Joxter is all sharp edges from this angle; the points of his whiskers to where his stubbled chin tapers in like an arrowhead.

Moomin waits for him to say something, waits to be told what they are going to do.

The Joxter starts walking away.

‘Hey!’ Moomin calls after him, jogging to catch up for the Joxter walks quite fast. ‘Hey! Wait for me!’

The Joxter doesn’t. He bends down, sweeping his hat up with a clawed paw; they tug on the wool brim of it as he replaces it on his head. He keeps going, back down the way they came and Moomin hovers, looking back over his shoulder at the clouds but there’s nothing to see. He follows the Joxter.

‘Joxter!’ Moomin puts his paw to the rock-face. Turning off from the cliff puts what little light of the sky there is back behind the peak and Moomin blinks, trying to make sense of the dark. ‘What are we going to do? What can-?’

Moomin chokes on what he was going to say when a strong arm suddenly comes under his snout.

Moomin hits the rock-face hard, the second time worse than the first as a sharp rock sticks him in the back. The Joxter had turned so quick and Moomin hadn’t been paying attention. Now, the Joxter stands with his body pressed so close Moomin can smell him again, and he has Moomin pinned with the length of his arm against his chest.

‘What happened?’ the Joxter asks him with his teeth bared. His breath makes Moomin’s nose wrinkle; acrid from pipesmoke. ‘Tell me.’

‘I-I…’

‘Tell me, because I wish to understand,’ the Joxter continues, hurried and furious. He cuts through Moomin’s answer before he can think of it. ‘How Snufkin was here, close enough for you to find and you couldn’t keep him?’

Moomin’s paws come up to push at the Joxter’s arm, but the Joxter’s claws stick him, quite on purpose it feels as Moomin is sure the thumb has drawn blood. He tries to shuffle, but the Joxter holds him fast, stronger than Moomin anticipates.

‘You said you walked into a trap,’ the Joxter continues, the words fraying as he barely opens his teeth to say them. He’s so close Moomin is near cross-eyed trying to keep his gaze, the black of his eyes glittering. Something seizes in Moomin’s chest, a sudden realisation of danger.

‘There was- there was a net,’ Moomin manages to get out and the Joxter’s whiskers rise, his hackles with them. Moomin is starting to shake, despite himself. ‘I got caught in it.’

‘And where was Snufkin?’

Moomin doesn’t get the chance to answer that, for the Joxter is moving again. He pulls back only to throw himself against Moomin once again, both paws to Moomin’s shoulders and pinning him. Moomin cries out, tries to shove but the Joxter digs his claws in.

‘Tell me how he was here.’ The Joxter’s voice is almost unknown to Moomin like this, the near musical cadence he’s gotten used to these last days vanished. ‘How you saw him and yet did nothing to stop this?’

‘Stop it!’ Moomin has both paws to the Joxter’s chest, starts when he feels how hollow the coat he’s wearing is; the Joxter is thinner than even first thought.

‘I ought to throw you from this ledge,’ the Joxter says and Moomin’s blood goes cold. ‘See if your air-head would have you float.’

‘Do you think this is what I wanted to happen?’ Moomin snaps, suddenly just as angry; with the Joxter, with himself, with everything. Moomin grits his teeth. ‘Because it isn’t! Could never be!’

Moomin shakes his head, eyes closed and his breath is coming too quick. There’s a frightful, roiling horror inside him as he thinks about it all, anxiety bubbling over. Moomin can hear Snufkin in his head so very clearly in this moment, knowing his voice and the way of his words so intimately.

Be brave, Snufkin had said and Moomin wishes desperately to be. Roots around inside of himself like he might find courage hiding behind the great jumble of feelings that scatter about, displaced by all that has happened. 

‘What’s it matter what you wanted?’ the Joxter says to him, pressing tight against Moomin’s throat and Moomin lashes out, thoughtlessly shoving back against where the Joxter is.

‘Who are you to even say this to me?’ Moomin says, furious and they both stumble across the path together. ‘Snufkin is my friend! My- my…’

Moomin trails off, distracted entirely as the Joxter casts his eyes down, tightly shut and leaking.

‘He was right here…’ the Joxter says and he crumples forward, sagging against Moomin and it’s Moomin’s turn again to do something. His frustration loses to habit and Moomin moves both paws, catching Joxter beneath the arms. ‘Right here… and I lost him.’

Moomin doesn’t know what to say. The Joxter sinks lower again, falling forwards so his forehead comes to Moomin’s shoulder. Holding him like he is, Moomin can feel how the Joxter shakes. 

Then, as quickly as he’d fallen, the Joxter pulls himself back up. He pushes off Moomin, turning away at once so his hat hides his face, though it matters little for Moomin can’t unsee how distraught he seemed before. They stand apart, the chill mountain air giving fog to their breath. Moomin’s chest heaves, and he puts a paw to the shoulder the Joxter has clawed.

He can’t see all too well, but his paw comes away dark much the same.

‘You hurt me,’ Moomin says, thinking loud more than anything. He looks at the Joxter, at the way he stands like there is a fight in him still. Moomin curls a fist, ready this time. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘Why would you let Snufkin go?’ the Joxter retorts, but his voice is swollen with tears. Moomin narrows his eyes, every doubtful thought he’s ever had coiling together so the ends tangle up.

‘I didn’t let him!’ Moomin says to that, fist rising with the words but with the Joxter’s back to him, it feels wrong. Moomin shakes his paw out, like he might shake the uneasy anger that lingers. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

‘So it seems,’ the Joxter replies tartly and he’s walking again. Moomin follows without hesitation.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Nothing that concerns you,’ the Joxter says and he stops, head down. He bends once and when he rises again, he has his staff, retrieved from where he’d dropped it before. 

‘If it concerns Snufkin, it concerns me,’ Moomin says resolutely and the Joxter rounds on him, the end of his staff coming up under Moomin’s snout in threat.

Hunched over like this, the Joxter resembles some wild, hungry thing. Moomin tenses but not with fear; strangely, Moomin feels like his fear has finally run out. There’s something distinctly different brewing now and it soaks up Moomin’s misgivings, wrings them out and Moomin sets his teeth against it.

‘And what do I care for you and your concerns?’ the Joxter hisses at him and Moomin glances at the staff. It’s quivering, unsteady. ‘Neither has a grip good enough, of you nor you of it.’

Moomin bats the Joxter’s staff away and tries to hold back his surprise that he seems to catch the Joxter off-guard with the action. Moomin stands straighter, meets the Joxter’s eye.

‘I don’t care what you think,’ Moomin says, pausing for the briefest moment as he realises it to be true. ‘I only care about what you can do. You got us this far.’

‘And what good was it?’ the Joxter replies, face shifting again. There’s something desperate in how wide his mouth goes, the angry way his teeth look as he speaks like this. ‘All I did was lose him again.’

‘But this can’t be it!’ Moomin pleads, stepping forward and the Joxter steps back, shoulders dropping. ‘There must be something else!’

‘And so what if there is?’ the Joxter says coldly and Moomin falters, hurt despite himself. ‘It will have little to do with you.’

‘What do you mean?’ Moomin asks but the Joxter is already turning away, walking ahead with purpose. Moomin rushes after him, the moon unveiling itself from the clouds to cast them both in a dull glow.

‘I mean there are many things at play here, troll. And your chips are not so much down as they are cast off the table entirely.’

Moomin doesn’t even try to make sense of that. ‘You’re not going without me.’

‘I’ve come far enough without you,’ the Joxter says, bizarrely and something finally breaks.

‘No, that’s it!’ Moomin snaps furiously, his shaky courage inside giving way to the familiar and hot anger. The Joxter stops, his shoulder angling back towards Moomin. ‘I am sick of this. This- this roundabout nonsense you talk!’

Moomin waves his paw uselessly to convey what he means even though the Joxter’s hat is still down over his face, so he certainly can’t see but Moomin’s frustration is too much to contain regardless.

‘Do you even want to help or do you just think this is some clever game you can win?’ Moomin says, flushing so hot all his fur stands on end. ‘Because this isn’t a game! My friend is in danger, it’s not fun!’

Moomin cuts himself off, mortified by the sudden emotion that rocks through him and his eyes start watering. He looks away, not wanting the Joxter to see.

‘You think I’m playing a game?’ The Joxter tilts his head and Moomin sees his chin, the edges of his whiskers.

‘I don’t know what you’re doing,’ Moomin confesses bitterly, an exhaustion flooding him as he says it. ‘Only that you care so very much and I can’t see any reason for it.’

The Joxter makes a huffing noise, breathy and impatient. ‘Moomintroll-’

‘No!’ Moomin says, not wanting to hear it. ‘You know, I don’t care if you don’t actually give a toss about Snufkin because I do! And I’m going to get him back no matter what, whether you’re here or not! So if you’re only here because you want to relive your sodding glory days, then off with you because I’m sick to the teeth of you putting me off with these riddles!’

The Joxter turns suddenly and Moomin startles, backing away quickly as the Joxter sweeps in close. He wipes at his eyes quickly as the Joxter surveys him from beneath his hat, a very strange expression on his face and bright eyes narrowed. Moomin gets a very cold feeling; like he’s just said something he oughtn’t, which is ridiculous as Moomin has said nothing that isn’t true.

‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’ the Joxter says, voice quiet and Moomin’s anger is cooling fast under the fierce look in Joxter’s eyes. ‘Putting you off? Think I’m trying to derail your little mission, is it?’

‘I-’

‘Don’t trust me to lead the way? Fine then,’ the Joxter says, flippant but hard. He rolls a paw at the wrist, off in the vague direction behind them. ‘Run away through the dark and see where that takes you.’

Moomin stammers. ‘I’m not saying I know the best way! I just-’

‘I don’t need you to find Snufkin,’ the Joxter says and Moomin’s words falter entirely. The Joxter’s outstretched paw curls into a narrow fist, his whiskers sticking out stiffly. ‘But you need me.’

‘Why do you even care?’ Moomin asks because he wants- needs to know. He needs to understand because he already feels so useless, so completely and utterly helpless that Moomin just can’t take walking any more blind than he already is.

‘I only want to help Snufkin, you know that.’

‘No, actually I don’t know that!’ Moomin despairs, tears leaking again. ‘I don’t know a single, bloody thing about you! All I know is the day you showed up, Snufkin was taken and if that’s all there is to know then it’s not a great start!’

The Joxter considers him, dropping the arm with his staff entirely. His expression shifts, the anger bleeding out of him quite quickly like a wound. Moomin watches, unsettled by it without entirely understanding why.

‘How do I know I can even trust you?’ he asks, quiet and suspicious.

‘You can,’ the Joxter replies and he sounds genuine, but then how would Moomin ever know the difference?

‘But how do I know that?’ Moomin pushes and he can’t stop the sting in his eyes now, no matter how much he wipes at them. He’s hot all over and feels like the terribleness of everything is simply too much to bear any longer. He feels he could collapse to the ground and if he were to, he may never get back up. ‘How do I know anything? I didn’t even know Snufkin was in trouble in the first place and now it’s all my fault this has happened!’

The Joxter doesn’t say anything for quite some time. The clouds roll, revealing more of the moon and the light catches the Joxter’s eyes. It flares there, like the end of a matchstick and the way he stands, the familiar slope of his body is too much for Moomin to bear looking at.

‘It’s not your fault,’ the Joxter says eventually but it’s no comfort to Moomin now. A dark paw reaches for him and Moomin flinches away from it. ‘None of it. I shouldn't- I... You can’t have known.’

‘But I knew something wasn’t right,’ Moomin says, words strained. ‘I knew it from the beginning and I did nothing, just waited around like that would make a difference. I should’ve started looking straight away and then I might’ve found him in time, I could’ve helped!’

‘You won’t help Snufkin thinking about should’ves or could’ves,’ the Joxter tells him tightly. ‘All we can do now is just that, what we can do now.’

‘Oh, bugger off, will you!’ Moomin says, gripping the fur of his cheeks and tugging just for a moment, just to ground himself. ‘This is exactly what I’m talking about. The daft things you say, honestly! Do you think it makes you sound clever?’

‘I see you’re angry-’

‘I’m not angry!’ Moomin snaps, clearly so but past caring. He rounds on the Joxter, his own tail swishing. ‘I’m scared! I’m scared because what if I can’t find him? What if I fail? Snufkin needs me to be there, he needs me to help and I have to because if I don’t- if I don’t-!’

Moomin is cut off by a hiccupping breath, his panic finally seizing him.

‘I can’t lose him,’ Moomin says and isn’t that just the terrible, selfish truth of it? Moomin can’t even look up from the forest floor, crushed as he is. ‘I wouldn’t… be able to bear it.’

It’s another long while before the Joxter says anything. He gives Moomin the time to gather himself together, which Moomin does though it’s rather like trying to catch sand with a net. He’s quietly grateful all the same, angry as he still is, when the Joxter makes no mention of how silly he must look with the sniffling.

The Joxter steps to the rock-face, leans against it and sinks to the ground like a marionette. Moomin watches him, cautious but the Joxter simply lays his staff down and fidgets in his own pack. He pulls out what looks like a misshapen candle, melted too much on one-side but thicker than most. The Joxter sets it on a nearby rock, lighting it with the matches from his pocket.

Orange light swells, round like a loaf and when Moomin still doesn’t move, the Joxter gestures to the space next to him. Moomin hovers, unsure what to do with himself before finally walking over and sitting himself down.

Moomin follows the Joxter’s gaze up. The sky is clear and many stars glitter above them, uneven like the flickering candlelight.

‘I know how you feel, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says at last, once Moomin is confident he’s not going to cry any further. He glances over to the Joxter, his black tail is like rope between them.

Moomin snuffles. ‘No offence, but I really don’t think so.’

‘Oh,’ the Joxter says with a great sigh. ‘But I very much do. I’ve been where you are. Truly, it’s rather I am here again.’

The Joxter says nothing further. He simply leans back against the rock-face, tipping his hat back and gazing straight up.

Moomin stares despite himself- the Joxter so vividly reminds him of Snufkin sometimes that it aches.

‘I lost someone,’ the Joxter says at last. Moomin looks at him, but the Joxter is only staring at the sky. ‘So long ago now and yet it still hurts much the same.’

‘You never found them again?’

‘I thought I was close,’ the Joxter says, frowning a little and Moomin is confused. ‘But then, I have thought so many times only to be lost again. I think my heart simply cannot take it any longer, that once more it will finally give out like an old engine.’

Moomin isn’t sure why, but the uneasiness that the Joxter carries around with him suddenly feels very heady. ‘Who did you lose?’

‘I haven’t been honest with you, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says, dropping his head and looking to Moomin. Moomin leans away, suspicious. ‘Indeed, I have not been honest much with myself either. Tell me, Moomintroll, if I were to confess to you a secret- would you keep it?’

‘I… think that depends on the secret,’ Moomin says, very unsure now of where this is going. The Joxter raises a paw and fidgets with the brooch on his lapel.

‘I’m afraid it doesn’t depend on anything but whether or not you tell me that you’ll keep it.’

‘If it’s yours to begin with I’m not going to be able to keep much.’

‘Consider it sharing then.’

‘Sharing your silence,’ Moomin points and the Joxter hums thoughtfully. ‘Is that what you’re asking me to do?’

‘Yes,’ the Joxter replies firmly, meeting Moomin’s eye and all traces of finicky doubt are gone. Moomin goes still, feeling as though he’s been caught in a snare. ‘What isn’t said can’t be heard by the wrong creature, do you understand me?’

Moomin glances around the empty path. ‘Who do you think might hear?’

‘If you swear to keep it as secret as I have, no one.’

‘And if I don’t?’ Moomin asks and the Joxter’s eye goes hard.

‘Then I shan’t tell you a thing,’ he says and Moomin believes him. ‘And we may be cursed to have this moment again and again until we find Snufkin, if our frustration doesn’t tear us apart before then. But you asked me why I’m doing this and I will tell you but only if you tell no one else.’

‘Is it really so important?’

‘It’s the most important thing in my life,’ the Joxter says and there’s something about his tone that makes Moomin believe him. For once, there is nothing of the shimmer jovialness the Joxter swaggered with before and refreshing as that might be any other time, right now it only serves to make Moomin more nervous.

But nervous or no, Moomin knows the Joxter is right. If Moomin doesn’t learn the truth now, they may as well part ways and loath as he is to admit it, Moomin needs the Joxter and his uncanny tracking if he is to have any hope of finding where Snufkin has been taken. Snufkin must come first.

‘Alright then,’ he says with a sigh, reaching a paw out as if it’s one thing his father taught him it’s to seal a promise with a shake. The Joxter looks down at the extended paw, nose twitching. ‘You have my word.’

The Joxter takes Moomin’s paw but does not shake. ‘Do you swear it?’

‘I swear.’

‘On what?’

‘What?’ Moomin says, thrown and the Joxter frowns, tightening his grip and Moomin thinks he can feel the slightest hint of claws with it.

‘If you’re going to swear, it must be sworn over something dear. Something you could never be anything but true to.’

Moomin tries not to get too flustered by all the faff and he feels that same impatience from before brewing, but he stomps it down. It won’t help and instead he tries to think of something, something to swear his fealty on and really, there can only be one.

‘On Snufkin,’ Moomin says and the Joxter’s face flickers, but he keeps Moomin’s gaze. ‘I swear it on my friendship to Snufkin.’

The Joxter squeezes Moomin’s paw very tightly and shakes once. ‘Couldn’t ask for better than that.’

The Joxter moves away then and starts, bizarrely, fidgeting with his brooch again. Moomin watches, perplexed, as the Joxter unpins it and holds it for a moment, seemingly contemplating something as he stares down at it. Now it’s in his paws, Moomin can get a proper look at it.

It’s a dull brass colour, oval and suspended from a matching pin. It’s engraved with flowers Moomin doesn’t recognise and truly, now he’s looking at it, it seems too feminine and delicate a thing for a creature like the Joxter to have in the first place. Moomin wonders why he never noticed before.

Then, the Joxter presses a claw to the edge of it and it pops open. It’s a locket! Moomin realises.

‘I took this from someone very dear to me,’ the Joxter says, showing the now open locket over. Moomin leans close and peers at it. What he sees makes his stomach drop.

It’s a curl of hair. Auburn, almost orange in the candlelight and spiralled in on itself like a fern leaf. Moomin feels very cold inside as he stares at it, thrown by how strikingly familiar it is and he tries to contain the way his heart is thundering as all manner of things run through his mind. He looks to the Joxter, who is watching him right back, blue eyes narrow.

‘What… Who..?’ is all Moomin can manage; for he suspects what and deeply fears who.

‘The Mymble,’ the Joxter says and Moomin actually squawks with the shock, spluttering over his words as it’s so far from anything he might’ve thought.

‘The- the Mymble?!’ he repeats, baffled and that horrid lurch of dread kicks him again in the tummy. ‘You know the Mymble?’

‘We were lovers,’ the Joxter says, like this makes any more sense when it most surely doesn’t. Moomin shakes his head, struggling to keep up. ‘When we parted, I took this with me.’

‘Right,’ Moomin says, dragging the word uneasily. ‘I don’t… I mean, is that- is that your secret?’

Moomin thinks it’s really not much of one, for if every creature the Mymble took as a lover were to think of themselves so seriously then the world would be a very solemn place indeed. But the Joxter remains so; solemn, that is. He stares down at the locket, touching the curl with the pad of a finger.

‘It’s part of it.’

‘I don’t know why you wouldn’t want anyone to know you’ve- that you- well, knew the Mymble.’

‘You misunderstand me, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says quietly, closing the locket again. He closes his paw around it. ‘We have something between us, you know. Something rather singular.’

Moomin thinks about that for a moment before-

‘Oh!’ Moomin isn’t sure why he should but he does feel foolish all the same; they’re still in love. He worries he may have offended. ‘Right. I see.’

‘I wonder if you do,’ the Joxter says strangely. ‘But you know the colour, don’t you?’

‘What colour?’

‘Of the hair,’ the Joxter says and Moomin frowns, so very confused.

‘Well, I thought I did,’ he says, very unsure. ‘I thought… It’s silly.’

‘Less so than you think,’ the Joxter says and he presses his closed paw over his chest. His tail is twitching and whiskers, too. Now Moomin looks, the Joxter seems very nervous. ‘The thing between us- we- well. We had a child, you see. The Mymble and I.’

The Joxter’s tail suddenly flicks, thumping against the ground and Moomin feels that dread again. The same, deep certainty he’d felt when the Joxter’s claws had pierced him. Something Moomin isn’t quite sure he’s figured out yet but he’s close. Like something on the tip of his tongue and Moomin chews his lip, anxious with how unsteady the Joxter appears to be.

‘How strange,’ the Joxter says, slightly breathless and he laughs but there’s no humour in it. ‘I think of him every day, you know, but I can’t even remember the last time I spoke of him as my son, if I am to be honest.’

Moomin gets to his feet, too on edge to bear sitting any longer. He looms over the Joxter, who looks up at him from under his hat. There’s not a trace of the usual coolness to his sharp features now. Rather, the Joxter’s expression resembles a nut cracked open and such clarity rocks Moomin to the core.

‘Who-’ Moomin swallows thickly. ‘Who’s your son, Joxter?’

The Joxter opens his mouth but says nothing. His eyes are shiny and for some bizarre but thorny reason, it only serves to make Moomin angry all over again.

‘Joxter, who is your son?’ he asks again, more firm and the Joxter curls inwards, shoulders rising as though Moomin has scared him when Moomin knows full well he could never manage such a thing.

‘You said yourself,’ the Joxter says, tail flicking again. ‘Snufkin has a very fair face. Fairer than any Mumrik has a right to be, truly.’

‘No…’ Moomin says, shaking his head. ‘No. No, it can’t be possible.’

Moomin walks away, only to turn around and walk right back, suddenly furious and truly not sure why though it boils over inside anyway.

‘You’re not his father,’ Moomin says, adamant and he’d laugh if this weren’t so awful. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Why would I lie?’

‘I don’t know!’ Moomin replies, near hysterics. ‘But this just- you can’t expect me to believe it!’

The Joxter frowns, shows some teeth once again. ‘Nonetheless, it’s still true.’

‘But it doesn’t make any sense! Snufkin doesn’t have any parents!’ Moomin says, waving a paw manically and the Joxter bristles, all the fur of his cheeks and whiskers standing on end.

‘Of course he does! Everyone does and his father is right here,’ the Joxter replies, that slight hiss to his voice returning and this only serves to rile Moomin up further.

‘He would’ve told me,’ Moomin says, sure of at least this much. ‘If the Mymble was his mother, Snufkin would’ve told me.’

‘And how is he to know?’ the Joxter says, a brief anguished look on his face. ‘He was so young, I’d be surprised if he remembered anything of his mother at all.’

‘Snufkin was found in a basket!’ Moomin says as it warrants saying. This is all Moomin’s ever known, all Snufkin has ever told him. Snufkin wouldn’t have lied to him. Surely… surely, he wouldn’t have? Moomin feels a seize in his chest. ‘He was found alone in a basket and known no parent before or since!’

‘Known or not, a parent he has!’ the Joxter replies, face flushing so his nose burns. Moomin feels his own hackles rise.

‘And where have you been all this time?’ he throws back, emotion running ahead of him. ‘Not a word of you or anything like it the whole time I’ve known Snufkin and suddenly, here you are? Just when Snufkin might be in need of you?’

Moomin laughs and doesn’t recognise it in himself. It sounds mean even to his own ears and he wonders, briefly, where he learned to be such a way. Grief has made him rude, he thinks before everything catches up with him again. Who cares, after all, about being rude to a creature like this?

‘I’m not buying it. This is a trick.’

‘It’d be a rotten trick!’

‘It is! It’s a rotten thing to say,’ Moomin replies to the Joxter furiously. ‘A really rotten thing to say you’re something when you’re not.’

‘How dare you?’ the Joxter hisses back- and it truly is a hiss now, no other word for the way he spits the words between sharp teeth. ‘Spare me the folly of trolls, you wouldn’t know sense if it came and bit you on the arse.’

Moomin ruffles, offended. ‘Alright then! You say you're his father, fine. Bully for you. Doesn’t answer my question of where you’ve been this whole sodding time because it wasn’t with Snufkin!’

‘We were… separated.’ The Joxter starts that strong but his voice fades towards the end, eyes askance. Moomin fumes.

‘What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘It means we were together and then we weren’t.’

‘So you abandoned him?’

‘Never,’ the Joxter says fiercely, leaping to his feet. ‘I lost him.’

Moomin scoffs. ‘Is there a difference?’

‘I’ve spent every day since we’ve parted looking for him!’

‘And what a bang up job you did, eh?’ Moomin says furiously and uncaring for the cruelty of it. ‘You were only late by- oh, I don’t know, the odd decade? Or two. More? Do you even know yourself how old your son is?’

‘Watch yourself, troll,’ the Joxter retorts, pointing a paw and his claws are out again. Moomin is feeling so hot with it all he’s almost tempted to goad Joxter to try it. ‘You know nothing about it.’

‘And you know nothing about Snufkin!’ Moomin replies, pointing right back. ‘Why should I believe you? It’s ridiculous, and cruel! Yes, that’s what it is! It’s cruel to claim to be someone’s father, someone who isn’t even here to say otherwise!’

‘He’d know me!’ the Joxter says but as it comes out, his voice wavers and he doesn’t seem very sure at all. ‘If he saw me I- I am sure he would know.’

Moomin doesn’t want to believe that, but everything has gotten very muddled up in a short space of time. He doesn’t want to think Snufkin has lied to him or has ever done so but now he isn’t so confident. Perhaps Snufkin does remember, perhaps it’s simply a painful memory? Moomin tries not to take it to heart, that if that is true then Snufkin decided Moomin was not worth sharing this sorrow with.

No, Moomin scolds himself with a wince. That isn’t fair. There’s plenty he doesn’t tell Snufkin and probably plenty Snufkin hasn’t told him. It’s not fair to be this upset and goodness, it isn’t even about him! It’s about Snufkin, who’s not here. Snufkin, who’s in trouble. Snufkin, who told Moomin he had been found in a basket and No, Moomintroll, it really isn’t so terrible, don’t look so sad! I don’t even remember it myself. It’s simply what I’ve been told.

Snufkin, who gave himself up to keep Moomin safe; always doing what he always does and looking out for Moomin first.

Moomin is shaking. He notices as he stares down at his paws and sees them quivering. He glances over to the Joxter, whose slight chest is heaving and his whiskers stick out like thorns. Moomin has had a few arguments in his life, but all with the Joxter this last while feel entirely like something more serious.

Moomin chews on his next words very carefully, cautious now the flare of anger has passed.

There’s something all off-kilter in the Joxter’s way of holding himself now. He seems tense, constricted in places and his tail is flicking anxiously behind him. Moomin has thought it before, but again he is struck suddenly by how very much like Snufkin the Joxter is.

Moomin feels a swooping, cold feeling in his stomach as he notices it again. The horrible lurch of realising something terrible must be true.

‘Are you really his father?’ Moomin asks anyway, trying to seem stern but he’s failing. He knows it because the first thing he’s feeling looking at the Joxter’s face is pity. ‘Quite truly, cross your heart?’

The Joxter raises a paw and crosses over his chest with a finger. ‘As true as anything could ever be. I am his father.’

Moomin lets out a long breath, as though he’s been running and honestly? It feels like he has. He flops back down to the ground, bending his knees and plopping his snout between his paws. The Joxter hovers for a moment, tail still swishing, but he eventually folds himself back down as well. They sit across from each other, glancing over but not quite saying anything.

Eventually, Moomin breaks the silence to ask what he desperately wants to know; ‘Why didn’t you say anything before?’

The Joxter fidgets with a pebble, poking at it and then digging it out of the dirt with a claw. He spends so long at it, Moomin thinks he might not answer at all, but the Joxter finally replies;

‘It’s rather complicated, you see.’

‘I don’t doubt that,’ Moomin sighs and the Joxter ducks his head, hides his face with his hat. Moomin has to look away. Now he’s seen it clearly, it’s too much to look at the Joxter and see so much of Snufkin in him. ‘And you don’t think Snufkin knows?’

‘I… like to think he might. If he saw me,’ the Joxter says again, claws out into the dirt for a moment before receding.  ‘But no, I don’t think he does. Everything I’ve learned about him over the years seems to tell me he thinks he has no parents.’

‘That’s certainly what he told me.’

‘Yes,’ the Joxter says, hat shifting but he still doesn’t show his face. ‘He told you he was found in a basket?’

Moomin nods, realises the Joxter can’t see him and adds; ‘Yes. Washed upstream one day, apparently.’

‘I put him in that basket,’ the Joxter says and Moomin takes a sharp breath, that anger from before smarting again like a bruise. The Joxter must sense it, as he continues hastily; ‘Not to lose him. Not like- I had no choice at the time. Or felt I had no choice.’

‘In what world is the choice to send your kit away in a basket better than simply keeping him?’ Moomin asks tersely.

The Joxter looks up then, eyes in shadow from his hat. ‘A darker one than you’re used to, little troll.’

‘And what of everything since?’ Moomin thinks about Snufkin. About that faraway, not quite sad but certainly not happy look he gets whenever he lets something slip about his childhood. ‘Even if you tell me you didn’t send him away forever, you never went after him, did you?’

‘Of course I did!’ the Joxter snaps in reply, catching Moomin off-guard. ‘Don’t speak of what you couldn’t possibly understand, Moomintroll. I’ve been searching for Snufkin since the moment I lost him. But…’

The Joxter’s agitation abruptly palls and he retreats, sinks lower to himself and hides his face again. He reminds Moomin of a wave, washing in and out of the shore.

‘At first, I thought him drowned,’ the Joxter says and there’s something in his voice that speaks of a place better-forgotten. It startles Moomin in that moment, how reminded of Snufkin he is once again. ‘The boat I’d left his basket in had run aground. Everything inside had been lost and the river so treacherous I thought he couldn’t possibly have lived. But even thinking that, I had to find him. Even if only to have buried him.’

The Joxter stops then, takes a moment. Moomin lets him, quite unsure really. He’s rapt in his attention but apprehensive all the same; it feels like prying open the cover of someone’s personal journal, or sneaking looks into a drawer usually locked.

‘I walked along the river and found the basket. Unharmed and carried to shore,’ the Joxter continues, less mood to his voice. ‘But it was empty. I knew he had either rescued himself or someone had found him. I tracked him for days, didn’t sleep until I crashed to the earth with my own exhaustion.’

‘But you didn’t find him?’ Moomin asks the obvious and the Joxter’s hat shakes.

‘Not at first,’ the Joxter replies quietly. ‘Goodness, it was all so long ago. I heard of an orphanage that might have him and set my way to it, but at the same time… or perhaps a little after, it is so hard to remember for certain. Either way, I ran into some foul creatures looking for a Mumrik.’

‘Looking for Snufkin?’ Moomin says, ears perking up and he starts to put things together but the Joxter shakes his head again.

‘No, not Snufkin,’ he says, looking up and meeting Moomin’s eye. ‘Me. They were searching for me.’

Moomin frowns. ‘Why were they looking for you?’

‘Because they think I killed someone.’

It goes very, very quiet then as the two of them stare at the other.

‘And…’ Moomin swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. ‘And did you?’

‘No,’ the Joxter answers firmly, sincerely. ‘No, I did not. But the Hemulens who think I did sent these creatures after me. They proved- well, difficult to shake.’

‘Why didn’t you just tell them you didn’t do it?’

The Joxter blinks, then throws his head back and laughs. It catches Moomin entirely off-guard and he fluffs up with the surprise.

‘Oh, bless your simple snout,’ the Joxter says and Moomin’s surprise slips right into offence. He lies his ears back but the Joxter pays no heed. ‘What Sneak hired with Hemulen gold cares about a thing like that? They were hired to find a Mumrik and bring him back. They didn’t care which Mumrik or indeed if the one they needed had even committed the crime in the first place.’

Moomin mulls that over. ‘So what did you do?’

‘I did what any sensible creature in my position would do,’ the Joxter says, though he sounds bitter. ‘I ran. A Sneak’s not an officer, Moomintroll. There are no manacles or paddy-wagons. If they catch you and you try to run, they’ll break what they can to make sure you can’t run any which way. Better not to get caught in the first place.’

‘But what about Snufkin?’ Moomin asks and the Joxter’s face crumples.

‘By the time I’d shaken them off my tail, he was gone again,’ the Joxter says, fidgeting with his brooch again. A nervous habit, it seems. ‘He’d started travelling by then and it can be hard enough to guess where I’m going next myself, never mind a Mumrik all on his own. I kept looking and when the Sneaks came close, I’d do my best to lead them away.’

‘They kept looking for you?’

‘Oh yes,’ the Joxter says with a hiss, teeth bared. ‘Hemulens have deep pockets, Moomintroll. And a murderer is something worth paying for if it means justice to them.’

‘So, all this time you and Snufkin have just been... missing each other?’ Moomin doesn’t mean to sound flippant, as there’s certainly nothing about any of this that could possibly be stomached as simple, but he isn’t sure what else to say.

‘That’s one way to put it,’ the Joxter replies, sounding quite tired. ‘The world is so very large, after all. I did my best and-‘

The Joxter stops suddenly, taking a quick breath that seems to shake him.

‘And it wasn’t very good,’ he finishes, paws back to the ground. ‘Nowhere near good enough for what Snufkin deserves, I know.’

‘You seem to know more than he does,’ Moomin says without thinking and he feels a stab of guilt when he sees the Joxter wince as though struck. ‘Sorry, I didn’t- I just- bugger it, anyway.’

‘Bugger indeed,’ the Joxter says in agreement and they sit quietly again. A shadow crosses overhead and both of them look up. An owl hoots, landing on a nearby tree that hangs bare and crooked. The Joxter tenses, moves closer and Moomin frowns.

‘None of that explains why you didn’t just tell me who you were to begin with,’ he says, trying not to sound as accusing as he feels he has a right to be. ‘You told me you didn’t know Snufkin.’

‘And I don’t,’ the Joxter replies, quieter with his eyes scanning the rock-face. ‘I don’t have the right to say I do after so long. Anything I might remember of him may long be out-grown.’

Moomin wants to say that’s complete and utter hogwash but truly, the Joxter speaks a great deal of that and why should that change just because of this? Moomin tries to temper his annoyance.

‘But you’re still his father, aren’t you?’ Moomin points out and the Joxter inches closer again, strangely. ‘You could’ve said at least that much.’

‘If I’d done that, you might’ve told your father.’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘He would not have let you come with me,’ the Joxter says and he’s looking jittery again. Moomin is beginning to tell and he steels himself, wondering what other unpleasant truth the Joxter is about to share. ‘If your father had known I was here and speaking with you, he’d have turned that kitchen knife on me faster than you nicked it.’

Moomin leaps to Papa’s defence; ‘My Papa would never do that to someone in need of help! How can you even say that? You don’t even know him!’

The Joxter looks at him and Moomin stops, heart suddenly sinking.

‘Unless… you do,’ he says and the Joxter sighs. Moomin puts his snout in his paws, feeling a touch dizzy. ‘You do, don’t you?’

‘Well, it is perhaps a matter of perspective.’

‘Don’t even-‘ Moomin rounds on him, pointing an accusing finger and the Joxter shuts up. ‘Don’t even try me with any of that nonsense. It’s a simple yes or no question.’

‘If you are to reduce it to that, then I must say yes,’ the Joxter says, whiskers drooping and Moomin closes his eyes, groaning with exasperation. ‘But I haven’t seen him for many years. Since before you were born.’

‘I can’t take much more of this,’ Moomin laments, practically wails really he’s so overcome. They sit in this particular revelation for a while until something bobs back up to the surface. Another unpleasant thought in a string of them; ‘Wait… does that mean Papa knows about Snufkin?’

Moomin looks back to the Joxter, who goes very still. Truly, that’s enough of an answer and Moomin thinks he may genuinely cry all over again just from the sheer shock of it all.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Moomin says, shaking his head. ‘All this time, he knew such a terrible secret and never said a word.’

‘I’m sure he had his reasons,’ the Joxter says and it’s bitter, extremely so to Moomin’s ears. When he looks, the Joxter’s whiskers are taut and his teeth are showing. ‘That troll has always had such a very great sense of self-importance.’

‘Hey!’ Moomin snaps, not at all impressed. ‘Whatever his reasons, he didn’t keep a secret you weren’t keeping yourself!’

The Joxter says nothing to that, which Moomin takes as a win for himself. Moomin is angry as well, indeed he’s angry about a great deal of things at this moment but he can’t stomach for the Joxter to be angry with Papa. Even if he may deserve it, Moomin thinks miserably to himself and he’s back to sulking.

So Papa knew. And if he knew, Mama knew. Shamefully, Moomin suddenly feels remarkably alone. Deep down, he knows he can’t know everything his parents are or have done, but he’d always thought they’d treat him as an equal member of the family.

Right now, Moomin wonders what else his parents may keep from him and it’s a very sad thought in itself. It is tangled with the fact that all this time he’s also known so very little about Snufkin while they knew everything, and truly Moomin feels as though he may never eat again he’s so sick to his stomach over it all.

‘Everyone knew,’ Moomin says, more just to say it aloud like it might somehow make more sense. ‘Everyone but Snufkin. Why didn’t you just tell me? We’ve had all this time and we’re so far from home now, who could I have told by now?’

‘Not until I thought I could trust you,’ the Joxter says and Moomin splutters, more offended by this than anything.

‘Of course you can!’ he says, fluffing up again. The Joxter shushes him, which only serves to annoy him more. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Careful,’ the Joxter says, hushed and he points up. ‘You never know who might be listening.’

‘Who could possibly be listening?’ Moomin asks, exasperated. ‘There’s no one here but you and me!’

‘Just because you can’t understand the birds doesn’t mean they don’t understand you,’ the Joxter says, which might’ve sounded reasonable from any other creature like Snufkin or even Papa. As it is, the Joxter just sounds loonier that ever. ‘I had nothing- have nothing but your word that you are Snufkin’s friend. And your word has proved to be more than enough!’ he adds quickly when Moomin goes to interject again. ‘But if the Sneaks we’re chasing hear chatter of this, what do you think they’ll do?’

An icy lump sinks in Moomin’s gut, though he answers; ‘I don’t understand.’

‘They’ll be stuck with a Mumrik who serves no purpose to them, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says darkly. ‘And maybe normally that wouldn’t have mattered. But if they hear I’m close then what’s to stop them ditching the one they’ve got for the other, eh?’

‘Ditching…’ Moomin repeats but the Joxter is still talking, venom for these Sneaks abundantly clear.

‘I won’t let anything happen to Snufkin,’ the Joxter says then with a ferocity that gives Moomin goosepimples under his pelt. ‘Not now. Not when we’re finally so close to getting each other back.’

‘Have you… have you ever told anyone?’ Moomin asks, struggling to understand and the Joxter tenses, whiskers twitching. ‘I mean, in all this time have you just not told anyone you’ve been looking for your son?’

‘Couldn’t risk it,’ the Joxter replies and he’s back to his brooch, tapping it with a finger. ‘What if those Sneaks had heard, had thought themselves clever in finding Snufkin to find me? There was so much to think of and all of it so terrible.’

‘And they found Snufkin anyway,’ Moomin says miserably and it’s the Joxter’s turn to fluff.

‘I didn’t know,’ he says, slowly but then faster. Desperate. ‘I didn’t know they were following me, I should’ve! I was careless, so very careless but… but it had been so long without a word at all and then to hear that Snufkin might be here, in this valley of all places…’

The Joxter trails off and Moomin panics entirely when he notices that the Joxter appears to be crying. Or at least very near it. It’s enough to disconcert Moomin as much if not more than anything else has so far, which is quite something as the last few minutes have gone up and down faster than Little My on the hammock.

‘You can’t know...’ The Joxter’s voice is breathy like a sore throat. ‘Couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to lose- to lose…’

The Joxter doesn’t finish but Moomin doesn’t need him to. Truly, Moomin thinks there is a great deal of this he shouldn’t be hearing to begin with but he also feels that the Joxter has gone a long time with nothing said at all. It feels cruel, almost, to refuse him.

But sitting here, in the small orange bulb of their candle, Moomin is reminded vividly of being very small and ushered out of the room by his parents, hearing their murmured words long after he was supposed to be asleep.

Is this what it sounds like? Moomin thinks, risking a look to the Joxter again. The fellow has both arms over his knees, his head down with eyes steady on a nothing in the air. The things older creatures talk that seemed like nonsense then?

The world feels much colder for it, Moomin thinks and then he realises; he’s never seen grief before. He’s read about it, heard of it in passing but seeing its face is something else entirely. Something so sad ought not to be so familiar.

They sit together, Moomin thinking for there is so much to think about now. He thinks of Snufkin, of the Joxter. Of Papa at home and all the secrets that have grown up around Moomin without him knowing. He’s afraid of what other things he may uproot. 

‘He was so very small,’ the Joxter continues, and Moomin blinks, thoughts interrupted. ‘The wee thing could fit in my pocket. Slept there, a few times. I could feel his little heartbeat.’

The Joxter raises a paw, as though to show Moomin something. Moomin looks at it, where the fur thins out at the centre of his palm, at the ash-coloured pads of his fingers. At once, Moomin’s chest pulls inwards, like water down a sink, with a sense of melancholy that isn’t his own.

‘Like something on fire,’ the Joxter says, quieter. He drops his paw. ‘That’s what he was. A tiny, brilliant fire. Burned me inside and out, loving him.’

The Joxter glances over.

‘Perhaps you’ll know that, should you have a child of your own some day,’ the Joxter says and Moomin can only shrug to that, having never thought of such a thing. ‘Nothing could compare to the love I had for my boy. It filled me all the way up, to my ears. From the moment I saw him, I just knew. I knew that…’

The Joxter rubs at his whiskers quickly and Moomin looks away, pretending he doesn’t notice.

‘I knew then that nothing would ever be good enough,’ the Joxter says, a depth to his voice that only makes Moomin more unsure of what to say. ‘And I’m not talking knick-knacks or houses, or such silly things. I mean that there would never be a happy too happy for him. That’s what fatherhood is, you see. You would pull the sun down, if you thought it would keep them warm.’

Moomin thinks he understands that, but he can only assume. He’s thinking of Papa, of course. Of the love Moomin only now realises he has taken for granted all this time.

‘What will you say to him?’ Moomin asks and immediately regrets it. He’d been curious, been thinking and hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but before he can apologise, the Joxter is answering him.

‘All the things you want to say to someone who suddenly left you. That I miss him,’ the Joxter says, still so quiet. His eyes close and strangely, Moomin is reminded of the bellows by the fireplace back home as they do. ‘That all the air washed out of my lungs the day I lost him. How I’ve never been able to inhale fully since. And I’ve missed him. Oh.’

The Joxter coils tighter in on himself, pulling in like stitching and the needle goes through the softest part of him.

‘I may never stop saying it,’ the Joxter says, into his knees so Moomin can barely hear him. ‘I miss him so much I am sick to the teeth with it. I cough it out. Leave it after me everywhere I go.’

Moomin doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he finds himself struck quite silent by the honesty the Joxter offers. He ruffles, self-conscious of the ugly feeling that washes over him then. Suddenly, Moomin quite feels he’s cheated Snufkin out of something. He imagines this moment, retold and wills himself to remember it clearly so he might tell Snufkin as honestly as the Joxter has told him. 

‘And what about you?’ the Joxter asks and Moomin takes a moment, not expecting the question. He looks over and the Joxter is staring up at the sky, the light of the candle catching in the corners of his eyes in the bent shape of a bean.

‘What about me?’

‘What will you say to Snufkin, when you see him?’

‘Oh.’ Moomin stalls, unsure. ‘I… I don’t know what you mean.’

Moomin turns up to the stars, too and feels the certainty turn inside like a corner, floorboards of a thought unusually walked along creaking under the new weight.

‘You love him,’ the Joxter says, as plainly as one might comment on the stars. It hits Moomin in his ribs. ‘Don’t you?’

‘I… Yes. I think I do, yes,’ Moomin says and he’s shaking. Rattling about as something comes loose that ought to have held on better. ‘And I didn’t even know it, until I saw him and realised that I might never again. Still might never.’

Moomin puts a paw to his chest. New habit, old wound; he tries to feel where the dreadful, heavy knot of longing sits for it struggles to breathe around. Moomin wonders how he’s never noticed how little he breathes until Snufkin is there to let him. 

'Does that even make sense?' Moomin asks, more to himself than anything. 'To feel that way for so long and not even know it.'

'Sometimes, it can feel like the more honest we are with someone, the further it takes us away from them,' the Joxter replies, sounding so sensible despite the nonsense. 'That can be very scary, when the honesty stands between you and who you think you are. Who you ought to be.'

'Snufkin always says I ought not to be anything, other than myself.'

'Much the same point, then.'

Moomin doesn't think so, as he can't quite understand what the Joxter is saying to him. 

'Perhaps love can only be understood from that distance and to come any closer is like surrender. But I've loved from a distance all my life, walked to the very edges of it and back again. And do you know what I've learned?'

Moomin shakes his head.

'I've learned that I never lost anything from loving it,' the Joxter says and Moomin turns to him again, watches the candlelight turn in his eyes like brass. 'And neither will you.'

Moomin's breath catches, heart thudding beneath his paw. 'How can you be sure?'

'Because love is something you have to choose to leave behind you, Moomintroll,' the Joxter says gently, as though he knows how unsteady Moomin is inside and worries about blowing him over. 'It's like any choice in life. Often difficult, rarely easy. But always a decision you have to make for yourself.'

'That seems pretty selfish.'

'Perhaps it is. That doesn't make it bad.'

'I don't want to be selfish,' Moomin says, and he sounds like a child. Even to his own ears. 

'For Snufkin, you have to be. For a little while longer,' the Joxter tells him, kinder than Moomin feels his deserves. 'Selflessness is more a luxury than old stories give credit for, you know.'

Moomin sits quiet then, for a long time. Every time he thinks he might say something, he falters and simply thinks some more. 

'I'm going to get Snufkin back,' Moomin says finally, just for want of saying it. Ever since this started, it is the one choice Moomin finds himself making over and over. Moomin meets the Joxter's eye. 'And Snufkin is going to get you back.'

The Joxter blinks, as though surprised. 'You sound quite certain.'

Moomin is. 'I've been told I can be quite stubborn.'

The Joxter's mouth twitches.

'How like a Moomin I used to know, you sound,' he teases. He watches Moomin closely, that same way that makes Moomin think the Joxter can see right through him. 'Your father raised you well, I'd think.'

Moomin reckons Papa did. Mama, too. He thinks of both of them, thinks of home and, again, of Snufkin. Everything, always coming back to Snufkin, who was never raised at all. 

'I think Snufkin will like you,' Moomin says, speaking before thinking. The Joxter goes tense and Moomin worries at once if he's over-stepped. 

'You think?' the Joxter asks, almost a whisper.

'Yeah, I do,' Moomin says sincerely, before he laughs. It's not quite more than a breath, really, and indeed not very funny but it slips out much the same. 'You're the only person I've met who talks more rubbish than he does.'

The Joxter doesn't laugh, but something seems to uncoil. Moomin watches as the Joxter sags, much like the candle. Moomin reaches over and puts a paw to his shoulder. Holds the Joxter steady, as his head dips and his face is hidden once more by his hat. Moomin looks and wonders at how very small, yet strange, the world truly is. 

They will have to move, Moomin knows. There must be a plan, and no doubt the Joxter will tell him, but Moomin holds his questions back. Instead, he sits and holds the Joxter's shoulder and lets the night curl dark around them and their candle. Moomin has spent much of his life waiting, after all, for one thing or another. He can wait for the Joxter to stand. 

After all, it seems the Joxter has been waiting, too. 

Chapter Text

When Moomin wakes, he doesn’t know where he is.

It gives him a start, and it’s a long moment before he recognises the empty sky ahead and the bare path around him. This only serves to distress him though, for while it’s early yet going by the brushstroke pink through the horizon, it’s morning all the same and Moomin casts a look for the Joxter.

Whom he finds a little ways down, sitting on a large rock by the ledge. His booted feet hang off, over the nothing and Moomin can’t see his face with the position of his hat. But he can see smoke, which rises up from beneath in circles that break apart as they float.

‘Joxter!’ Moomin gets to his feet, stops to look down at where their candle has burned. It’s melted nearly all the way, wax split through the loose pebbles. ‘What- when did I fall asleep?’

‘Does it matter?’ the Joxter replies and he tips his pipe out over the ledge. Embers fall, brilliant and orange, carried by the wind. ‘You needed to sleep.’

‘Yes, it matters!’ Moomin says, fraught. He steps into the middle of the path, trying to make sense of it in the approaching daylight. Up the slope, there’s the cave the Joxter had come from the night before. Looking at it now, Moomin supposes that must’ve been where that other, narrower path led.

The Joxter slides from the rock. ‘You seem to be confusing mattering with something else, little Moomin. You ought not to waste any time fussing over where things sort.’

Moomin is not nearly awake enough for any of that.

‘There’s nothing to be confused about. Something either matters or it doesn’t, and sleeping through time we could’ve spent chasing that ship down matters!’

‘And how would you have chased it?’ The Joxter sounds more curious than anything, but Moomin bristles all the same.

‘I’d have thought of something,’ Moomin replies tersely, though he struggles to do so presently.

He pats himself down, considers the melted candle again before deciding it simply isn’t worth taking. He looks down the path, back down the way they came and feels, quite suddenly, unmoored. From up here, Moomin can see quite far across the valley, all the way to the sea. The thought comes too quick to stop.

‘Goodness,’ he sighs, eyes up now to the bright, blue sky. Clouds roll overhead, and the great emptiness of it opens like a mouth. ‘The world felt so much smaller last night.’

‘The world tends to, at night. The dark can fold the world up better than any envelope and send it anywhere,’ the Joxter says and he takes his staff up from it rests against a stone. He starts down the path, Moomin following.

‘What if they’re too far away?’ Moomin asks, for much as he doesn’t want it to, the question burns. ‘Up by the Moon, or the stars?’

Moomin glances upwards again, but it is too late past dawn to see a hint of either stars nor Moon.  It doesn’t soothe him.

‘I read in one of Papa’s books about stars, you know. Some astronomers say they’re so far away, that by the time you’d make it to even the closest one, you’d have no one left to tell. It takes so long, that all your children and your grandchildren would’ve grown up and died without you.’

Moomin’s talking as it’s all there is to do and the terrible nerves must go somewhere, but he realises too late how tactless he’s been until he sees the way the Joxter’s shoulders hunch. Moomin ruffles all the way down to his toes.

‘I- sorry. Wasn’t thinking.’

‘It’s an airship, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter replies, not acknowledging Moomin’s apology and he wonders if that’s better or not. ‘At the very least, it needs air, so we can safely assume they won’t go so far as all that. Stars haven’t a breath between them.’

‘Must be how they stay up so very high,’ Moomin says. ‘Nothing holding them down.’

‘Nothing to tempt them down either,’ the Joxter replies and they keep walking, back down towards the valley. ‘When you’ve never laughed, it’s very easy not to fall for a smile.’

‘Perhaps they haven’t cried either,’ Moomin says, the world brightening as the sun rises truly. ‘I suppose they couldn’t bear it, living as long as they do.’

‘Is it so bad to cry?’ The Joxter looks over his shoulder again, but walking as they are, Moomin can only see his stubbled chin.

‘Snufkin always tells me I ought not to cry so very much,’ Moomin says to him and there’s the kick of hurt. He thinks of Snufkin, only yesterday; Moomin had started crying at once. ‘Or he used to. Before.’

Moomin doesn’t realise how quiet he’s gotten in his thinking until the Joxter asks him; ‘Before what?’

‘Oh, just-‘ Moomin falters, strangely self-conscious of being in love despite admitting so easily the night before. Everything seems much more sensitive in the day. ‘When we were younger. I guess I cried too easy.’

‘Does Snufkin not cry?’

‘Not really,’ Moomin says, thinking about it now. ‘I only remember seeing him cry once, really. Ages ago, back when we first met.’

The memory floats up like a bark boat, carried on the very familiar stream. Moomin had liked Snufkin so very much, so very quickly then. He’d been so unusual a creature, pink and brown. So bald as well, like the pad of some gentle creature and Moomin didn’t think it possible then to like anyone just for the way they say a word.

‘There was a comet,’ Moomin continues, lost to the memory. ‘And the ocean had dried up, like a sponge rung out. I’d only known Snufkin a small while, but the moment he saw the sea was gone, he cried. I’ve never seen him cry like that since.’

Only when he says it, does Moomin realise how true that is. He’s seen Snufkin tear up, a pawful of times, but never cry like that again. He’s certainly never cried like Moomin has over the years, never even looked like he might all those times Moomin had sobbed when they were younger, when he’d ask Snufkin to stay. All those tears shed for nothing, for Snufkin has never said yes.

Perhaps it oughtn’t, but thinking about that chills Moomin right through like a cold rain.

Thinking as he is, Moomin doesn’t notice the Joxter has stopped walking and he nearly goes right through him. Moomin manages to step around at the last moment, shoulder to shoulder now and he looks at the far off expression on the Joxter’s face. There’s a seize in Moomin’s chest, a fist closing over something small as Moomin wonders if he ever looks like Papa the way the Joxter looks like Snufkin.

‘He didn’t cry all too often as a kit either,’ the Joxter says, and his paw goes to the brooch. Taps the round edge of it with his finger. ‘Sometimes I… I would wonder if he was doing it on purpose. Broke my heart to see him cry. Truly at times I thought I couldn’t bear the sound, that I was sure to  crumble down and cry with him, it was so sad a thing. But whenever he’d fall, or scrape or do any manner of things that would make most small ones cry, he would hold it like a breath. And I would look at him and wonder if he was deciding not to cry, like it were any other thing one might decide not to do.’

‘Sounds like Snukfin,’ Moomin says and the Joxter hums, whiskers flicking with it.

‘He would look at me sometimes. Head up on my chest, chin digging in,’ the Joxter continues, quieter and his paw moves to his chest, fingers pressing between the gap of his coat. ‘Look at me so serious, like he was grown and knew all manner of things. And I couldn’t help but wonder what other hurts he would hide from me as he got older.’

The Joxter’s paw closes, as though to hold something but he just drops it. Moomin can’t help but follow the motion, looking at the dark fur of the Joxter’s paw and how the strands flare out over his knuckles.

‘What useless wondering,’ the Joxter says, a little harder. ‘I wasn’t there for him to hide anything from in the end.’

‘But you would’ve been,’ Moomin offers, trying to be kind but the Joxter just hunches in on himself further. ‘Had things been, you know, different.’

‘Tell me, Moomintroll, how much do you think a would’ve been is worth?’

‘It’s got to be worth something,’ Moomin says, thinking of Snufkin. Of meeting him that first time and all the things that could’ve been different. ‘Otherwise why do we think of them so very often?’

‘Is everything you think of often worth something?’

‘Most things,’ Moomin says and he means Snufkin. He usually does. ‘It would be very sad, I think, to only think of things that don’t matter at all.’

‘Do you think so?’ the Joxter asks him and their eyes meet again. The Joxter’s are so foreign, clear like water but Moomin can see no more of what’s he thinking than he can in Snufkin. Perhaps it’s another Mumrik affinity, to hide so easily. ‘I used to spend so much of my younger years thinking of nothing at all, least of all anything that mattered.’

‘And were you happy?’

‘I think it was the happiest time of my life,’ the Joxter says and he’s gone again, mind off to some other place and Moomin is beginning to be able to tell now. There’s something in the way the Joxter’s gaze slides off him, like the page of a book turning. ‘What’s another way to say what might’ve been, Moomintroll?’

Moomin shrugs, thinking of an answer to that, but neither is he given much of a chance for the Joxter starts walking again without another word.

‘To say it never happened at all.’

‘I… I suppose,’ Moomin says to that, never having thought of it that way before and it settles quite heavy on his shoulders. They walk until the trees start to rise up to meet them and the sun hangs like a lantern, yellow and warm.

It is a very long while of quiet before Moomin asks; ‘So, where are we going?’

‘To get help.’

‘Papa?’

The Joxter stops just to give Moomin a withering look. ‘I think not. I know where that airship is heading, but it didn’t appear very large. Not likely able to store enough coal to bring it all the way. It’ll have to stop, and where it stops is where we must be. It can’t be allowed go further.’

That sounds ominous. ‘Where’s it going to stop?’

‘That’s where our help comes in,’ the Joxter says, walking off again. Moomin rushes up behind him.

‘Who’s going to help with that?’

‘The only other creature in this valley who knows where that airship is going,’ the Joxter says and Moomin thinks, before it comes to him. The displeased noise he makes is entirely thoughtless, but it burbles out of him anyway and this time when the Joxter looks over his shoulder, his eyebrows are raised.

‘Do you really think that horrid Sneak is going to help us?’ Moomin asks, hating this plan.

‘You make it sound like the fellow will have a choice,’ the Joxter says and Moomin thinks of the last time they were with the Sneak.

Moomin looks at the Joxter’s paws, where one holds the staff and remembers his claws. Moomin has no claws himself and unbidden, the memory of Snufkin’s word from yesterday come to his mind; There’s nothing sharp about a Moomin. That had never felt like a failing before, but now Moomin looks at his own and wonders.

‘Are you going to hurt him?’ Moomin asks and one of the Joxter’s raised brows arches.

‘Are you going to stop me if I were?’

Moomin isn’t sure, truth be told, and the Joxter seems to understand as much from the silence.

‘Snufkin won’t like it if we hurt him,’ Moomin says as they make it to the bottom of the mountain, back to where they had started to begin with, the sun very high now it has taken so long. Moomin is struck at once from the memory of that Sneak catching him here, pointing his pistol and a tightness pulls in his chest.

It’s a terrible stumble then, like his thoughts are tripping and catching onto the next in one heap, one after another. He thinks of the pistol, the fear. He thinks of Snufkin- the shape of him between Moomin’s paws and how utterly helpless he’d been in trying to keep him there.

‘We won’t have to hurt him,’ the Joxter says but Moomin is doubtful on that. ‘And even if we do, I’m sure Snufkin will forgive you.’

Moomin catches what isn’t said. ‘Not you?’

‘What else are parents for?’ the Joxter says, stopping as they enter the wood again. He looks about the trees. ‘Forgiveness is something a child should never have to consider, and if they do, that is a failing on our part.’

‘I’m sure he’d forgive you anyway,’ Moomin says and the Joxter goes still again, tail hovering just off the ground. ‘Even if you feel you don’t deserve it. If you give him the chance.’

‘I’d give him the sky, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter replies with an emotion so heavy it’s like the words are sinking. ‘And anything else he would ask me for.’

‘Then you should ask for the chance,’ Moomin tells him, feeling bold. ‘You ought not to come so far and not even do that.’

The Joxter doesn’t answer him, but Moomin is confident his words are being considered.

Something rustles through the trees and both of them look, Moomin’s ears moving before his eyes. He can’t see much, through the thickness of the growth, but the Joxter must for he starts to move towards the noise. Moomin goes after, swinging his pack around to get the knife. Just in case.

They don’t have to go far before things start to look familiar, but they stop much sooner than Moomin thinks they should and the reason for such becomes quickly apparent, for the Sneak isn’t where they’d left him.

It appears he’s wriggled most of his way, if the dirt on his already filthy clothes is much to go by. He’s still bound by the rope, around the ankles and round the middle, and when the Joxter and Moomin happen upon him, he looks up and swears. Loudly, and coarsely, and in such a string that if Moomin were a Snork, he reckons he’d have turned blue himself.

‘Now, now,’ the Joxter says, stepping around the Sneak. He puts his boot down on the Sneak’s back, before he can slide further away. ‘You shouldn’t sound so happy to see us, think how my poor head won’t fit under my cap!’

‘Don’t reckon a Mumrik needs help thinking well of himself,’ the Sneak grumbles back, spitting out some grass that gets stuck to his teeth. He glances to Moomin. ‘How’s your pelt, troll?’

Moomin glares down at the Sneak, hating him immensely and not at all used to such a thing. His paws meets the handle of the knife in the pack and just as quickly as it came, that hate goes out like a candle snuffed. Moomin has never wanted to hurt anyone before and the thought he might now scares him. He lets the knife go.

The Joxter, as expected, has no such qualms and he moves his boot to roll the Sneak over onto his back with a hard nudge. The Sneak swears again and Moomin looks down at him, seeing just how unfriendly a creature he looks. He’s not so imposing as the other one, but Moomin finds he dislikes him just as much.

‘Whist, now!’ The Joxter says to him, bending his knees and leaning against his staff as he considers the Sneak down his nose. ‘Tell me, you feeling helpful per chance?’

‘Ain’t feeling much with this rope tied tight as it is,’ the Sneak replies, giving another wriggle to show how restricted he is. The Joxter’s expression turns bored.

‘Well now, can’t have that,’ the Joxter says and nods his head down to the rope. ‘Could offer you a paw, if you’re willing to part with a wee favour for me.’

‘I don’t do charity.’

‘Good. I’m not offering it,’ the Joxter replies, reaching out and fisting his paw in the Sneak’s overalls. He drags the Sneak up, so they’re almost nose to nose. ‘Your airship. Where’s it stopping for coal?’

The Sneak laughs. ‘Who says it’s stopping?’

‘It’s that or drop out of the sky with the short, little chimney it has, so why not try answering me again?’ The Joxter says and his paw twists, claws out this time. The Sneak grits his yellow teeth.

‘So you saw the airship,’ the Sneak says, eyes flicking to Moomin briefly. ‘But here you are, back again.’

‘Come here, we got on so well the first time,’ the Joxter says, lilting like a joke though Moomin knows there’s not a drop of humour between the three of them. ‘Seemed a shame to leave you behind.’

‘But no shame in losing your little one, is it? The Sneak asks and Moomin steps forward just as the Joxter’s tail hits the dirt with a hard thump in warning.

Moomin walks towards the Joxter, reaching for his shoulder. ‘Joxter-‘

‘You see, I was lying out here all night,’ the Sneak continues and there’s a glint in his eye not too dissimilar to the look Little My gets when she notices a joke is starting to sting. ‘Thinking long and hard about why some stranger would have such an interest in our bounty to go to all this bother. Especially an old codger like yourself. Weren’t that hard, putting the pieces together.’

‘You ought to be careful, Sneak,’ the Joxter hisses, and it is a one the way the words splinter between his teeth.

‘You should take your own advice, Mumrik,’ the Sneak says, grinning now like this were funny. The Joxter bares his teeth. ‘Not every creature can go round saying they lost their kit twice, can they?’

‘Brave words from someone in danger of losing a few things himself,’ the Joxter says and he drops his staff, free paw now coming to the edge of the Sneak’s face with his claws out.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ the Sneak goads, though his eyes the Joxter’s claws beadily. ‘I see it now, he’s near the head off you. But he’s not all one or the other, is he? You ought to have done a better job. What good’s a Mumrik with no claws?’

‘Joxter!’ Moomin snaps, for the Joxter’s paw twitches like it may strike but the Joxter holds himself, with what looks like enormous effort. ‘Don’t listen to it!’

‘And back here again to me’ the Sneak says. ’Missed the boat, did you?’

The Joxter hisses again. ’No more than you did.’

‘Don’t need the boat, do I? Got my legs.’

‘Splendid job they’re doing, too, crawling as you are,’ the Joxter says with a jerk of his chin and Moomin is getting that sense that things are going to turn very unpleasant, very quickly if one of them doesn’t let up.

‘You’re Fribs, aren’t you?’ Moomin asks, remembering the name from the other Sneak and this seems to catch everyone by surprise. Both the Joxter and the Sneak look over, equally frowning.

‘Might be,’ Fribs says in a manner that makes Moomin sure he is. ‘What’s it to you, troll?’

‘We need your help,’ Moomin says and the Joxter makes a choked noise of contempt, which Moomin ignores. ‘And we’re not leaving until we get it.’

‘Tough luck on it,’ Fribs replies, shuffling like he may get away some but the Joxter holds him fast.  ‘Told you already, I ain’t in the giving mood.’

‘But you don’t want to stay tied up out here, do you?’ Moomin says, gesturing to the trees with a paw. ‘There’s nobody living all the way out here and you’re not going to untie yourself.’

‘You saying you’ll untie me?’

‘Yes,’ Moomin says and the Joxter huffs, dropping Fribs at once so he falls back to the dirt with a grunt.

‘Moomintroll, no,’ the Joxter says, stepping up to Moomin. ‘You can’t possibly think that wise.’

‘You said yourself we need him,’ Moomin points out and the Joxter’s expression darkens, if possible. Moomin hovers, unsure if the Joxter will push him but he doesn’t so Moomin looks back to Fribs. ‘If I promise to let you go, will you help us?’

‘How about you let me go and then I help you?’

‘The Moomin is kind, but not stupid,’ the Joxter cuts in, voice like ice. Moomin blinks, caught off-guard; but it’s oddly comforting to know the Joxter doesn’t think him stupid.

‘Yeah,’ Moomin adds then, with a bravado he doesn’t quite feel. He tries to puff up his chest to seem bigger to Fribs. ‘That’s my offer. Tell us where the airship will land next, and we’ll let you go.’

Fribs grunt and fidgets about on the dirt, as though testing the bind of the ropes once more but it’s as fruitless as it has evidently been since the day before. Moomin reckons he could probably get himself free, eventually, but they’re offering a fast out and he tries to temper his impatience; he wants an answer, wants to move and get Snufkin back as quickly as he can.

‘Righteo, then,’ Fribs says at long last, flopping on his back and he looks at Moomin upside-down. ‘I’ll tell you where the airship lands.’

‘You will?’ Moomin can’t help but be surprised by how easily the Sneak gives in, but he’s too eager to question it. This eagerness is caught quite literally by the Joxter, who grabs Moomin by the shoulder as he moves to bend.

‘Hold your whist, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says and Fribs sighs, as though impatient himself. Moomin realises he must be quite uncomfortable, which if Moomin is to be honest, does give him the smallest bit of savage pleasure. The Joxter stands over Fribs again. ‘And how are we to know you won’t be sending us on a merry little goose-chase?’

Fribs grins, turned around and unpleasant. ‘Looks like you’ll have to trust me, guv.’

‘I’d no sooner trust my own pipe to smoke itself,’ the Joxter says and Moomin is still trying to wrap his head around that when the Joxter looks to him. ‘We’ll have to take him with us, Moomintroll.’

Moomin gapes. ‘Now who isn’t being wise? I’m not bringing that- that-‘ Moomin gestures vaguely in Fribs’ direction. ‘Thing anywhere near Snufkin!’

The anger is quite sudden and just as strong for it, like a bad fever and the idea of bringing this Sneak back towards the other, and to Snufkin, makes Moomin’s skin crawl under his pelt. Fribs seems to dislike this plan just as much, for he’s cursing again before speaking.

‘Are you mad?’ he says, sounding worked up. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you!’

‘Then lie out here and rot,’ the Joxter snaps and Moomin truly believes he would have the Sneak do that, if things were to be different. Fribs seems to sense as much, for he quickly adds; ‘But you're the ones saying you need me!’

‘We do,’ Moomin says, bitter about it himself. ‘You said it yourself. We need to get to the airship before it gets to wherever it’s going.’

Moomin hasn’t asked why, but he can guess given all the Joxter told him the night before. He thinks about cells and other unpleasant things, walls and bars that would be as devastating to Snufkin as anything. Moomin remembers the rotten swell of Snufkin’s wrist then, imagining unbidden his slim wrists in manacles. Who’s to say where he’ll end up will be any kinder than the Sneak he’s with now? Moomin hates the thought of it and flinches, like he might run from the idea entirely.

The Joxter seems to be thinking himself, though Moomin can’t guess as to what. His bright eyes are watching the Sneak, whiskers sticking out and Moomin marvels at how still he can be, being a creature with so many parts to keep track of.

‘Moomintroll said we’d let you go if you help us,’ the Joxter finally says and he bends his knees, down closer to the Sneak who leans away like he might get away. ‘He’s a creature of his word, so I won’t have him break it. But if you want to help us, then you’re going to guide us to where we need to go.’

‘Guide you?’ Fribs splutters. ‘What would you have me do? Dawdle after you on a leash?’

‘Certainly better than lying out here, all alone,’ the Joxter says and Fribs seems to be considering that. ‘At least you’ll make use of those legs you’re so fond of.’

Moomin looks between the two of them, waiting to see what Fribs might say. Perhaps he’ll weigh up his options, out here in the wood? He’s certainly the worst creature here in the valley, so Moomin knows he’s in no real danger. But… what will they do if he says no?

‘And what happens to me after you untie me, if I were to come along?’ Fribs asks, very slowly and all his attention now on the Joxter. The Joxter stands up and shrugs.

‘To say I couldn’t care less would be too kind still. We’ll go our separate ways and if I never see you again, I’ll consider it too soon. How’s that?’

Not too great, if the ugly expression of Fribs’ face is anything to go by. But he’s ugly anyway, Moomin thinks miserably, so perhaps he can’t help it.

‘Even if I believed you,’ Fribs says, which tempts a squawk of displeasure from Moomin because truly! What a rich thing to say! But he’s ignored; ‘Unless your furry friend can shed us a boat, we’ll never catch up with on foot.’

The Joxter moves, shoulders drooping then like he’s taken a weakness but before Moomin can reach for him, he shakes himself out of it almost by force, it seems. ‘Then we follow it to its destination.’

‘You’ll be too late by an age before you even make it half-way,’ Fribs says and Moomin had thought it would be bad, but hearing it put so bluntly feels like a kick between the teeth.

‘We won’t!’ Moomin says, determined. He goes back to his pack, thinking ahead. ‘We won’t be too late. And wherever that airship is going, that’s where I’m going.’

Moomin gets his paw on the knife and pushes past the Joxter, getting down to take the edge of the knife to the rope at Fribs’ ankles. He gets to it, bringing the blade against the rope and starting to saw.

‘You say we need a boat to get to it?’ he says, the thinner rope cutting cleaner and faster than that of the net.  He looks up, meets Fribs’ eye and remembers the look on Snufkin’s face yesterday. ‘Then I will get us a boat.’

*/

‘I have a bad feeling,’ the Joxter says as they make their way towards the beach.

The rope from Fribs’ ankles has been repurposed to, indeed, become a lead of sorts. The Joxter holds one end, and the other is tied quite tightly to the rope that still binds Fribs’ arms to his sides. He walks with the whole length of the rope stretched, as far behind them as he can get but it hardly matters. Moomin knows the Joxter has one ear on him under his hat.

‘Not feeling too peachy myself, but we haven’t got much choice, do we?’ Moomin says, eyes darting around.

It had turned into another brilliant Spring day, fading now into an equally fine evening and they’re in the part of the valley Moomin knows best. Which means he’s quite nervous someone will come across them, even so close to sunset.

‘You said yourself we have to get to Snufkin before that airship gets where it’s going.’

‘Your father won’t be happy with you stealing his boat.’

Moomin feels his fur fluff, but ignores it.

‘It’s not his to steal from,’ he says with a sureness he ought not to have. ‘But I don’t think there’s any bit of this he’s going to be happy about anyway so what’s one more.’

‘Not his?’ the Joxter repeats and Moomin’s flush gets worse, so he hopes the Joxter won’t notice. ‘Now that is a shame. The only bit of fun in this whole thing of a robbery would’ve been at least robbing him.’

Moomin gives the Joxter the same disapproving look he usually reserves for Little My. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Of course I do,’ the Joxter says, and it’s the brightest he’s sounded in a while. ‘The first of your father I met was the lock on his door. After I’d picked it.’

‘You picked his lock?’

‘You make it sound so personal,’ the Joxter says, rolling his shoulder and Moomin rolls his eyes for good measure. He’d think typical were he not so very fraught presently.

‘There,’ Moomin says as they clear the trees at last, pointing out across the beach to where the Adventure is roped to the jetty. ‘There’s our boat.’

The Adventure is always in good nick, ready for departure at any given time so it’s an easy job to get the Joxter and Fribs down into it. Once that’s done, the Joxter instantly crowds Fribs up agains the mast.

‘Sit,’ he says and Fribs wrinkles his nose.

‘I don’t wanna sit!’

‘Wasn’t a suggestion,’ the Joxter says, using the end of his staff to knock Fribs on the side of the knee until he does as he’s bid. Once sitting, the Joxter takes the lead of rope and uses it to bind Fribs to the mast as Moomin starts to work his way around the cleats, undoing the fastenings.

Once the mainsail is pulled down, Moomin pulls himself back up to the jetty when suddenly, his stomach rumbles. He puts a paw to it, equal parts surprised and embarrassed. He tries to think back to the last time he ate and realises with a shock how long it’s been. Moomin has never forgotten about food like that before.

‘Are you well?’ the Joxter asks, for naught surely as with ears like that he must’ve heard. Moomin tries to wave him off.

‘We ought to eat something,’ Moomin says aloud, thinking more than anything. He hadn’t thought to pack anything and he kicks himself now for being so foolish about it. He looks at the small boxes towards the hull of the Adventure. ‘There won’t be much here, if anything at all.’

‘How about this?’ the Joxter says, rummaging in his pack for a moment before throwing, bafflingly, a whole potato. Moomin just catches it; it must’ve been in his bag a while, there are bright white roots growing out of it. Long ones.

‘What-?’ Moomin starts plucking the roots off. ‘Why do you have this?’

‘It’s a potato,’ the Joxter says, taking Moomin’s confusion for something else and Moomin frowns.

‘I know what a potato is.’

‘Oh?’ The Joxter shrugs, settling down against the ropes on one side of the boat. ‘It’s terrible effort, you know, keeping track of what grows where.’

Moomin considers the vegetable, ’Who doesn’t have potatoes?’

‘A sorry place. Frightful things can happen to a country without potatoes.’

‘Right,’ Moomin says, unsure where to even begin on that. He looks about the Adventure once again. ‘How am I supposed to cook this?’

The Joxter makes a low noise. ‘Cook it? Why would you want to cook it?’

‘You mean you don’t?’ Moomin asks, mildly horrified. The Joxter shrugs. ‘Are you telling me you eat potatoes raw?’

The Joxter is looking at Moomin now like he’s the mad one, which quite ridiculous.

‘You know,’ Fribs says from where he’s tied to the mast. ‘I really am beginning to wonder how either of you even got this far.’

‘Shut it!’ Moomin snaps and he tosses the potato down into the boat. It’s come this far, from goodness knows where- rolling about the hull won’t do it any harm.

‘You are right though,’ the Joxter replies thoughtfully. ‘A mind unfed is a mind undone.’

‘That’s what Snorkmaiden says,’ Moomin replies, before stalling entirely. He realises with a swoop in his gut, not unlike falling, that he hasn’t thought of her once since all this started and that has him ruffle up at once.

‘Who’s Snorkmaiden?’

‘She’s my- a special friend of mine.’

The Joxter tilts his head, showing his eyes which narrow in Moomin’s direction. ‘A special friend?’

Moomin is suddenly finding it quite hard to speak, as though his throat is closing up.

‘Yeah, like... you know. Just special,’ he manages to squeak out, mortified and anxious, which is making for a terribly nauseous concoction. The Joxter keeps looking at him, like he can see every single uncomfortable thought running through Moomin’s head.

‘You must have more charm than under all that fluff than you let on,’ the Joxter says to Moomin with a tone that suggests great sarcasm. ‘To acquire so many special friends.’

‘You don’t have to sound so surprised,’ Moomin says through his teeth, offended and the Joxter frowns. ‘I’m more than capable.’

The Joxter’s face tells Moomin that he very much doubts that, which only sours Moomin further so he says nothing else and focuses on the task at paw.

‘And what of Snufkin?’ the Joxter asks and Moomin freezes. ‘You said yourself he was your best.’

‘He is,’ Moomin replies, nervous.

‘But not special?’

‘It’s not- it’s not like that. It’s complicated.’

The Joxter doesn’t reply to that and Moomin is relieved to have that particular conversation dropped, even if only for now.

Moomin bends to kick the gunwale, pushing the heft of the boat out further into the water. It catches the tide, the sail blooming from the wind and Moomin jumps from the jetty. He makes his way to the tiller, the Joxter seemingly deferring entirely as he settles against the hull. He’s even taking out his pipe.

‘So, this is the plan then?’ Fribs asks as the Adventure starts to carry, the water making hollow noises where it crashes against the bow. ‘Just sail after the Grusbler, and then what?’

‘Ah. That’s the other one so,’ the Joxter says, muffled as his pipe is balanced between his teeth as he rustles with his snuff tin. ‘I’m assuming he’s the brains of this whole endeavour.’

‘Is he the tall one?’ Moomin asks, both paws holding tight to the tiller. He grips so hard his wrists start to ache. ‘With brown fur?’

Fribs looks at Moomin with a frown. ‘You met him then?’

‘He’s the one who took Snufkin,’ Moomin says and that anger is back. Moomin wonders if he’ll carry it with him always, it comes so easy lately.

‘This Snufkin I won’t hear the end of?’ Fribs asks, indifferent and Moomin seethes further.

‘Yes. That Snufkin,’ he says, the boat hitting a wide wave and it tilts. Moomin catches sea-spray on his pelt. ‘That’s his name. The one you took.’

‘His name weren’t all that important,’ Fribs says and before Moomin can retort, the Joxter interrupts with the loud scratch of a match as he lights his pipe. This catches Fribs’ attention; ‘You named your kit Snufkin?’

‘I did,’ is all the Joxter says, taking a deep breath of his pipe. His slight chest rises with it, the split of his coat like the crust of bread. When the Joxter says nothing else, Fribs keeps going.

‘Barmy name for a child, guv.’

‘Don’t call me that again,’ the Joxter replies sternly, blowing a long stream of smoke. It vanishes into the sea air at once. ‘We may all be stuck together, but don’t think I can’t make it considerably more unpleasant for at least one of us.’

Fribs takes that warning for what it is and indeed shuts up. He settles back against the mast, head up and Moomin finds his eye straying back to him when not watching the compass. He doesn’t realise how much though until the Joxter sits down next to him on the other side of the tiller. Moomin starts, having missed him getting up entirely.

‘You’ll bite through your chin, grinding your teeth like that,’ the Joxter says, quiet for just Moomin to hear. Moomin doesn’t have the mind to be so.

‘You’re one to talk,’ he replies tersely, trying to focus on steering the Adventure North-West as advised. ‘You looked like you were going to bite that Sneak’s head off altogether.’

‘Still might,’ the Joxter says and he pushes his hat back, off his head entirely. The string catches around his throat, but Moomin is struck by how careless an action it is still. Without the string, it could’ve blown out to sea.

It’s a silly thing- so very silly- but Moomin is reminded of Snufkin’s own hat. Snufkin has no string, being too careful a creature for real need of it, Moomin supposes. But Moomin finds himself staring as the Joxter considers the retreating shoreline.

The shoreline of Moominvalley, where Mama and Papa are. Where they must be waiting, if not searching already if Little My hasn’t headed them off for it isn’t like Moomin to wander without a note. And Snorkmaiden, who must be so worried. Who may be thinking Moomin has taken off on purpose, has left her after their silly row and-

The guilt hits him, tumbling between the spokes of his ribs and Moomin can suddenly bear it no longer. Not to himself, which has never before now seemed so small and prickly a place.

‘Snorkmaiden is my girlfriend,’ he blurts out and the Joxter at least has the kindness to keep staring out to sea, which helps. ‘But it’s not- I like her very much. I’ve always liked her. But it’s… She’s not like Snufkin.’

It’s the closest Moomin can get to admitting to any of it, and really it’s not very close at all but Moomin finds himself faltering all the same. He thinks about Snorkmaiden, and the look in her eyes the night he’d left. Somehow, though he wonders if perhaps it is wishful thinking of him, Moomin thinks she’d know about it all before he did.

Nothing ever is, she’d said of Moomin’s insistence that nothing is more important than Snufkin. Not for the first time, Moomin wonders if his honesty had been cruel. Of all things he could be to her, Moomin wishes never to be cruel to Snorkmaiden.

‘What’s she like?’ the Joxter asks and if he is trying to distract Moomin, it doesn’t work for it just makes him feel worse.

‘She’s wonderful,’ Moomin answers, meaning it quite sincerely. ‘More than that.’

‘Friends can be wonderful things.’

‘If she’ll still be my friend,’ Moomin says miserably, for he knows it with the certainly one always knows horrible things that things for he and her shall be very different once he gets back. ‘She may not forgive me.’

‘Maybe not,’ the Joxter says, which isn’t what Moomin wants to hear at all even if it’s true. ‘But you can’t know for certain. Only she can.’

‘I don’t know what my life would be like if she wasn’t in it,’ Moomin says and when he tries to imagine it, it’s a very sorry place indeed. The thought, inevitably, has Moomin imagine what his life may be like without Snufkin if he fails and…

Moomin can’t bear it. Right now, thinking such dark and wretched thoughts, Moomin is quite sure he understands what the Joxter had said last night about heartbreak.

‘But I can’t give up on Snufkin,’ Moomin says and he paws at the strap of his pack, thinking of Snufkin’s harmonica, tucked safely inside. ‘I won’t give up.’

‘I know you won’t,’ the Joxter says and Moomin is heartened, even if only slightly, that the Joxter takes his word for it. Moomin feels he has so little else to offer.

Not for the first time, Moomin is struck by the idea that Snufkin deserves so much better.

Daft troll, Snufkin would say, for Moomin knows Snufkin would never hear a word against him. Unless that word is Snufkin’s, who could always deliver criticism with a smile so sweet you nearly asked for seconds.

Moomin has always been certain of Snufkin, in ways he never has been with anyone else. Even now, as Moomin sits with all he had never known, that certainty holds.

‘What-?’ Moomin stops himself, wondering if whether he should at all and he hopes the waves might swallow the question. But the Joxter hears, because of course he does and he turns to give Moomin his full attention. Looking at him like this, Moomin can now see that one of the Joxter’s whiskers is shorter than the others.

‘Something else to say, Moomintroll?’

‘It’s nothing,’ Moomin lies, but he knows the Joxter won’t believe him. He sighs when the look the Joxter gives him says as much. ‘I wanted to ask you something but I wasn’t sure I should.’

‘A question that ought not to be asked is likely all the better for it.’

Again, Moomin is struck by the Joxter’s particular breed of hypocrisy disguised as nonsense but he elects to ignore it.

‘What was Snufkin like? Before… when he was little?’ Moomin asks for he desperate to know.

All these years, he’s not thought to know Snufkin anymore past what he’s seen. Snufkin has always seemed so sure of himself, that truly Moomin had never given any thought of Snufkin being a child at all. The idea of it makes Moomin feel as though there’s something small, and cold, right under his sternum and he hopes knowing at least some of it may thaw it.

The Joxter doesn’t answer for a few waves, each one rocking beneath the Adventure as they sail. His pipe starts to go out, but he doesn’t seem to care.

‘Fussy,’ the Joxter says at last and Moomin doesn’t mean to, but he laughs. It catches them both by surprise.

‘I’m sorry, I just- it’s so silly,’ Moomin says, trying to curb it. ‘But you said it and I just knew it to be true. Because he’s not that different now, really. He’ll roll through mud, sure but he’s got such funny ways of doing things and you better believe he’s not likely to change them anytime soon.’

‘You seem to know him well,’ the Joxter replies and Moomin’s laugh snaps, like a twig, at the dull tone of the Joxter’s voice. The Joxter seems to notice himself and looks sheepish. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not fair of me.’

‘What isn’t?’ Moomin asks, though he thinks he knows.

‘So much time lost,’ is all the Joxter says and Moomin swallows around his discomfort. Unkind as it may be, Moomin finds himself so terribly delicate that it is hard not to catch on the sharp sides of the Joxter’s grief. ‘What I wouldn’t give to know him at least a half that you do.’

‘But you will,’ Moomin says, trying to be chipper. ‘Once we get him back, you’ll have all the time in the world.’

‘A part of me is happy, you know,’ the Joxter says and his ears twitch, the edges point-tipped and dark with fur. Every edge of the Joxter is smudged like charcoal. ‘To know there are things he hasn’t grown out of. For years, my biggest fear was he would be so different that even if I’d met him, I wouldn’t recognise him.’

Moomin can think of no one he knows as well as Snufkin. ’Are you- are you nervous?’

‘For what?’

‘About meeting him.’

The Joxter blinks. ‘I’m terrified.’

Moomin is afraid, too.

‘Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says, taking his pipe from his mouth. ‘I wonder if I could ask something of you.’

‘Oh!’ Moomin tries to guess what that might be, but finds he can’t. ‘Sure, yes. What is it?’

‘You won’t like it,’ the Joxter says with a sigh and Moomin nearly weeps with the frustration that suddenly washes over him at hearing that. Goodness, what else can there possibly be? ‘But it is something I must hold you to.’

‘What is it, Joxter?’ Moomin asks, anxious. The Joxter taps his pipe.

‘You swore to me last night, on your friendship to Snufkin, that you would keep my secret,’ the Joxter says and Moomin frowns, confused. He looks at Fribs, who certainly seems to either not be listening or very good at pretending not to be. Moomin reckons he can’t be held accountable for a stranger’s guess. The the Joxter adds; ‘I would ask you to hold that promise to me.’

‘I will,’ Moomin replies at once, but the Joxter just watches him, eyes reflecting the bright, blue colour of the ocean around them.

‘Then you shall keep it from Snufkin also.’

‘What?’ Moomin jumps, pushing at the tiller. It’s too heavy to move without real effort, but the Adventure teeters with the sudden commotion. ‘Are you kidding me? Why would I do that?’

‘There’s so much to it!’ The Joxter says, sounding strained. ‘As you know, more or less given everything I’ve told you, at the very least. I need to explain myself, I need the chance to do so. So rather, that’s what I’m asking you for.’

‘The chance to explain yourself?’

‘Just the chance,’ the Joxter says, distant again. He reminds Moomin of the sea himself, wavering in and out like that. The Joxter’s pipe is still smoking, but he doesn’t put it to his lips again. ‘You said I ought to ask for one.’

‘Yes, but…’

Moomin isn’t sure how to say all that’s come to mind. It feels wrong to keep a secret from Snufkin; Moomin never has before, not anything. And to keep this, of all things? Moomin is still thinking about it when the Joxter starts speaking again.

‘I want to tell him,’ the Joxter says, with a soft sureness to it that’s almost lost to the rush of water around them. ‘I’ve waited so very long to do it. Please, Moomintroll. I would like to tell him myself.’

And what is Moomin to say to that? It’s all so terribly messy, tangled up together like the roots of some bush that ought not to have been in the garden in the first place and Moomin thinks of all he’s been told, all the Joxter has confessed and how unfair it is to begin with that he’s heard it all first.

‘Fine,’ Moomin says at last, but he’s still thinking. ‘But you have to keep mine for me, too.’

Moomin can’t bear to say it aloud now, how he feels about Snufkin, and he hopes the Joxter understands what he means. It feels dreadfully fragile, too soft where it’s new to be as large as it is in Moomin’s heart. A forest of sorts has sprouted there, growing tall and Moomin can’t think of taking an axe to any of it, even by mistake.

‘I will,’ the Joxter promises and Moomin isn’t quite sure he believes him, but given how little he has at all, it will have to do. ‘But you will tell him, won’t you?’

‘I…’ Moomin steers the boat as it turns slight off-course. ‘I just want to get him back first.’

‘I want him back, too,’ the Joxter replies and Moomin knows but can’t think of anything to say to that, the valley pulling further from them like bark peeling from some great tree.

Chapter Text

Snufkin is running through the wood.

The trees are so much taller, and so much larger than he remembers. They stretch so that he can’t see the sky at all. His eyes are good in the dark, but there’s something he can’t make out. It’s moving through the brush, chasing after him. Its footsteps hit the dirt out of tune to his boot-falls.

He has never been so little, he thinks and each thorn is as big as his own knife. They grab the edges of his smock, making holes. He tries to pull away but his hands are too small. He’s not strong enough and whatever chases after him is coming closer.

Snufkin throws out a hand and it’s caught at once. By something warm, something that holds his whole hand as though he were the smallest of birds.

‘Hush now, my darling.’

He’s pulled along, through the dark, by someone he doesn’t know. But they hold his hand gently in this strangeness, and Snufkin knows he’s safe. The trees aren’t so big, the dark not so scary. He isn’t alone, with his hand held like so.

‘Hush now.’

Snufkin wakes with a wince, fingers trying to close over a hand that isn’t there.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, nor indeed rolling over during it to be on his broken wrist as such but now his whole arm throbs and feels very, very hot. He gets to his feet, quite unsteady and pulls the sleeve back. Even that seems to hurt, and he looks at the state of himself.

Oh, it really is quite ugly, Snufkin thinks of the misshapen lump his right hand has become. Purple, even a touch blue in places.

Ugly, indeed but Snufkin thinks he might’ve borne ugly. What truly nettles is that his hand is also quite useless. He tries to wriggle his fingers, but it lances hot up his arm like a dreadful burn every time he tries.

Defeated, he walks from one edge of the cell to the other then; but the four corners don’t stretch any further than they have the numerous other times he has since ending up back in it. While not unexpected, the disappointment crawls in all the same. He goes back to tracing the small squares between the beams of the doors with his good hand, searching for cracks he knows aren’t there.

That rotten Grusbler has hammered the door shut now, three or four long nails right above the lock. Snufkin taps the flat tops of them with a finger and considers. Awkward, yes. Impossible, no. Snufkin can work with anything, provided it’s not impossible. And after all, he’d made no promise to the Grusbler on coming with him that Snufkin would remain so.

But it’s not the door, nor indeed the cell, unpleasant as it is. It’s the after which has Snufkin pull away again, hesitating.

He’ll get the door open and then what? There’s nowhere to run, Snufkin knows, and with a frown he looks to his broken wrist. It needs a splint, at the very least and even if he were to get one, it won’t give him the strength to fight. Or steer a ship as large as this, not that Snufkin has much experience steering a ship half as little either. Moomintroll is always the one at the helm.

Snufkin has been trying very, very hard not to think about Moomintroll at all but he’s never been all too fair at that.

Snufkin ought to brace himself better against it; that affection so usual to him now. It sweeps over him often still, a tide too great. Washing up about his boots, up again. Snufkin’s lungs are full of it, the way he feels about Moomintroll and Snufkin shuts his eyes, tries to picture shutting it all out entirely. It won’t help, after all. A feeling can’t unlock a door, nor unbreak a wrist.

But, oh, Moomintroll had sounded so very unhappy when Snufkin had left him in that net. Surely, Snufkin thinks Moomintroll has never been so angry ever and there is a pull of a terrible thread when Snufkin remembers.

What if those are truly to be their last words? Perhaps Snufkin ought to have been sweeter, kinder- ought to have been all manner of things different if that was all he is ever to say to Moomintroll again.

Perhaps he ought to have said it aloud, this treacherous thing that cups in his heart like a mushroom, even if just to have said once at all.

‘Oh, stop!’ he says to himself, shaking his head. ‘Now is not the time to be morbid.’

Despite saying so, Snufkin does feel the situation could very quickly become the time to be morbid should he not think of something. Turning his back to Moomintroll’s tears is not as unfamiliar as it feels now, Snufkin reminds himself. And angry as Moomintroll is, he will forgive Snufkin when he gets back, no matter what he may have said otherwise.

He has before anyway, always does once Snufkin comes back and on that Snufkin has centred the compass for so terribly long. After all, Moomintroll has always been the one to hold Snufkin’s promises. Snufkin imagines Moomintroll laying each one out, like a stone from the shore, on his windowsill, if promises could be collected like so.

And if Snufkin doesn’t come back…

Suddenly, the ship lurches and Snufkin topples, not expecting it. Down to only the one arm, there’s not much to balance himself with and he teeters back on his heels until he hits the wall. The cell really is so small, Snufkin thinks miserably and he blows at the hair in his eyes.

The ship groans around him, that creaking rush of the wind around it dwindling and the teetering shudders slowly. Snufkin frowns up at the ceiling; it seems the ship has stopped flying, for now.

Snufkin turns his head, presses his ear to the wood to see if he might hear something else. Some sign that something, just once in this whole bothersome mess, might help.

But as seems to be the wretched habit of everything so far, Snufkin is quite without. The only help that’s come at all in this, Snufkin left after him on that mountain and the breath catches in his throat, thinking of Moomintroll once more.

Snufkin is aware, should he never see Moomintroll again, it won’t matter at all if he’s forgiven or not as it would be quite impossible for Snufkin to know one way or another. However, the thought that he might not be makes the horrid smallness of this cell feel all the worse.

When confident that the ship shall not toss him about once again, Snufkin pushes away from the wall and back up the door, for nothing else but to stare at the nails going through it like they might move somewhat. It’s not long of this though before there’s noise, up ahead on the corridor and Snufkin’s skin prickles at once with displeasure, for there’s only one horrid person it could be.

The Grusbler strides down the hall with all the bluster of one so unpleasant. The ceiling of the brig is not as tall as Snufkin imagines it might be on a proper boat, or an even grander airship, and the top of the Grusbler’s frayed ears run along it. It makes him seem so larger, and Snufkin is already resentful enough for the fact.

The Grusbler comes right up and bends low, looking at Snufkin through the grid of the cell-door.

‘Ahoy there,’ he says and Snufkin thinks he may never have disliked anyone so much in his life. ‘How’s your wing, little bird?’

Snufkin bristles, loathing it every time the Grusbler calls him that.  He bares his teeth rather than say anything to it.

The Grusbler tuts. ‘What’s got you so tight-lipped, eh? Thought you’d fancy some company.’

‘I prefer my own company,’ Snufkin replies, tart but also true. The Grusbler tilts his snout, eyes narrowing.

‘Here now, no need to be short with me,’ the Grusbler says, before looking at Snufkin down to his boots and back up again. ‘Though perhaps you can’t help it.’

‘Seems to be much I can’t help,’ Snufkin retorts. The Grusbler laughs, as though Snufkin is being funny.

‘I’d be in a right pickle if you could,’ the Grusbler says, grinning with his yellow teeth. ‘You nearly got us in a whole bunch of trouble, running off like that before.’

He rubs under his snout, against the small chin there in a manner he must think looks pensive. All it really does is give Snufkin a look at how dirty his claws are; discoloured and stubby, with black dirt beneath.

‘Good thing for your friend, eh?’ The Grusbler grins then and Snufkin glares, disliking him greatly. ‘Who knows how far down that mountain you’d have gotten. I’d have had to start all over again.’

‘Start what again?’ Snufkin asks bitterly. ‘Are there other poor creatures you want to stick in sacks?’

‘Ah no, don’t you worry. You’re quite special.’

‘Colour me flattered,’ Snufkin says with immense irony. The Grusbler puts a paw on the cell-door and Snufkin steps back at once, cautious.

‘You must be hungry, right? You ain’t eaten since I’ve had you.’

This is true, though Snufkin deigns to admit such. Truthfully, Snufkin can go as long as a few days without food if he must, resilience built up from the vagabond living he is so bound to but his stomach feels terribly empty now. He’s not even had his pipe to curb the appetite, and that might be the worst of it. Daft as it is, Snufkin does hanker desperately for his pipe.

‘I’d offer you bread, if you promise not to bite the finger off me,’ the Grusbler suggests and Snufkin grits his teeth, refusing to make any such promise. He’d rather go hungry if it meant making the Grusbler miserable, any which way. ‘How you feel about that?’

‘I’m not hungry,’ Snufkin says and he goes to move away entirely, to hide in one of the carefully mapped corners of his silly cell. But the Grusbler is faster. He put his paw through the bars of the door, grabs Snufkin by the shoulder and Snufkin hisses, pain instant.

‘Tut. You’ve gone and done yourself some damage, haven’t you?’

Snufkin tries to wrench himself free, but the Grusbler’s paw is too large and gripping too tight.

Snufkin shows his teeth again, first for whatever small threat they may offer but then just to curb the noise that shoots out of him as the Grusbler tugs him forward, catching him off-guard. Closer now, the horrible smell of him is stronger and Snufkin cringes.

‘You really ought to watch yourself better,’ the Grusbler grins, all menace.

‘I’d have done better watching around me,’ Snufkin says miserably, for it’s certainly true. His bitterness over his own stupidity in getting into this mess stings more than anything.

‘Maybe so, but it took near an arm and a leg to find you in the first place. Least you owe me, I think,’ the Grusbler says, letting him go as quickly as he took him and Snufkin leans away some, but doesn’t move in case the Grusbler touches him again. The Grusbler meets his eye; yellow and unnerving. ‘Besides, those looking for you won’t care if you’re a few posies short of a full garden.’

This catches Snufkin’s interest, as he cups his good hand over the terrible swell of his broken wrist. ‘And who is that?’

‘You mean you don’t know?’ The Grusbler does sound surprised, dark eyebrows rising. Then, he grins. ‘I suppose it don’t matter much to you and your like. You bang about so much, see so many people and places, must all blur together after a while.’

Snufkin waits, breathing hard through his nose from the throbbing pain. The whole arm feels as useless as what’s actually broken, after being handled so.

‘Or maybe,’ the Grusbler says, lilting and he’s leaning close again. So much so, his snout nearly goes through one of the grids of the door. ‘It just weren’t you at all.’

‘What wasn’t me?’ Snufkin asks, deeply curious at once to know what started this unpleasantness.

‘A murder,’ the Grusbler says and Snufkin is so shocked by this, his jaw actually drops.

A murder? he thinks, completely thrown. Snufkin shakes his head. ‘I know nothing of such unpleasantness.’

‘I’m certain you’d like me to think that,’ the Grusbler says, laughing again. What an awful noise, Snufkin feels. ‘But your lot is always about trouble, ain’t you? What’s one trouble to another, when it’s all you do?’

Snufkin resents the implication immensely. ‘A murder is not the same as a bean pinched.’

‘Oh, so you admit to pinching beans, is it?’

‘I admit to nothing,’ Snufkin retorts, skittish with nerves though he’s trying to contain them. ‘Except that I know nothing of this horrid murder you seem so set on.’

‘All’s I know is what I was told,’ the Grusbler says, rolling his scrawny shoulders. ‘The Earl of some posh town, way to the West was shot in an attempted robbery some years ago. They caught all but one. A Mumrik fellow, who it must be said, rather fits your description.’

The Grusbler tilts his snout again.

‘Though maybe short of a few inches,’ he says and Snufkin frowns to cover how his stomach turns with jittery tension. ‘But you know what Hemulens are like. Dogs with their bones, and all that bunk. Could’ve been ten years, or ten centuries, they’re not going to let something like that go. So, that’s where yours truly comes in.’

The Grusbler steps back to bow down low, like a gentle-creature of much better breeding and Snufkin stares, utterly revolted.

‘Pretty penny they have out for you, too,’ he continues, something sinister in how jovial he sounds about it all as he straightens back up. ‘You left quite the reputation behind you.’

‘So you’d have me believe,’ Snufkin replies, quieter than intended but it’s hard to think of anything to say at all to such complete, and horrid, nonsense.

‘The Hemulen Sergeant that gave me the job said you left scars to the lads who caught you. Nasty thing, a Mumrik’s claws.’

‘Caught me?’ Snufkin repeats, knowing he must sound quite silly but he has never been so perplexed. Instinctually, he tries to curl his hands like he might feel where he knows no claws grow. He’s always cut his nails as short as they’d go.

‘That’s right. See, they got you once already for it, I’m told. But you slipped away. Or at least…’

Here, the Grusbler stops to lean against the door. He meets Snufkin’s eye again, and it is not often that Snufkin feels himself to be as weak a thing as a creep, but he feels it now. Truly, he feels as little as the Grusbler keeps calling him.

‘Someone very like you,’ the Grusbler finishes, teeth flashing.

It’s Snufkin’s turn to laugh, though it’s more high-pitched and uneasy than anything funny. But truly, everything the Grusbler has said so far has done nothing but inspire more disbelief.

‘You can’t possibly think I was the one who did these things!’

The Grusbler hums, watching Snufkin closely. ‘You see. That right there’s rub, little bird. Don’t matter much at all what I think. All that matters is what the Hemulens who paid me think, and all they’re going to think is I got them a Mumrik.’

‘Even if it’s the wrong one?’

‘Well, who’s going to tell ‘em otherwise?’ the Grusbler asks, waving a paw about the brig. ‘Your word against mine. And who’s going to trust a word out of you?’

‘And what then?’ Snufkin says, brashly but he’s never been one for manners at the best of times and certainly not to one like the Grusbler. ‘You hand me over to these brutes and then- what?’

‘I get paid,’ the Grusbler says, like it is to be that simple but Snufkin knows it cannot be. ‘And they do to you what Hemulens like to do to murderers.'

Snufkin feels a sudden weakness, knowing exactly what that is. He steadies himself, quite shaky but he manages it just about. The Grusbler is too close to the cell not to notice how deeply affected Snufkin is, and going by the pleased noise he makes, the wretch enjoys it.

‘I hear, that in the big towns like that they got jails that go underground. Under rivers, even. Down so deep, and dark, that the sorry sods who get sent there go quite mad with it,’ the Grusbler says, inching closer again and Snufkin looks away, fixes on a knot in the wooden wall. ‘That you can be put down there for so long, you can forget what the sun feels like. Or the wind.’

Snufkin can think of nothing more terrible and his eyes water just at the notion of such a place. His wrist hurts, his chest is tight- and he is so dreadfully alone in this small, horrible cell. There’s nowhere to retreat from the ghoulish things the Grusbler hisses at him and it makes Snufkin feel like there’s pins and needles from the inside-out.

‘I suppose that’d be the worst, for something like you,’ the Grusbler says to him. ‘Maybe you’d be lucky for the noose, after all.’

Snufkin sucks in a quick breath, refusing to be afraid. Or rather, refusing to look at it for it seems the fear will come whether he wants it to or not. He tightens his hold on the bruised wrist, feels the squishy give of where it’s tender and flinches at once from the pain of it. The fear dims, in the wake of something tangible.

Fear won’t help him, Snufkin knows.

‘You’re funny little things. Mumriks,’ says the Grusbler. ‘Lonesome sort, you know. Awfully hard to get a whiff of when in need of one, for didn’t seem to be anyone who knew one of you to begin with.’

Snufkin wouldn’t know much about that; the only Mumrik he’s ever known is himself.

‘I was even beginning to think your lot didn’t have friends at all,’ the Grusbler continues and Snufkin keeps his eye on the knot, blinking to clear the sheen off them. ‘Only heard about you by chance, would you believe it?’

Snufkin thinks it to have been a very rotten chance. But then, the rotten ones always come true.

‘They said you were small, the farmer that told me you’d passed though their place on the way to that valley, but you’re more than a touch small, aren’t you?’ The Grusbler says and Snufkin feels his shoulders creep unbidden, as though trying to make himself more so. ‘Must be why you had to go and shack up with larger folk. I was worried, I’ll admit it, when you said you had a friend coming.’

Snufkin thinks of Moomintroll; of that net, and the desperate look in his eyes when he’d pleaded for Snufkin not to leave him. Snufkin’s heart bends like a branch underfoot, close to a break. He’d had no choice, Snufkin knows, but oh! How endless the regret feels all the same.

‘Though really, I worried I’d miss the chance at a better bounty,’ the Grusbler finishes and Snufkin snaps back to look at him, horrified by such a statement. ‘Awfully nice pelt on your friend. Almost a shame to leave him after me.’

Snufkin takes a harsh breath. ‘You are vile.’

The Grusbler laughs once more; that stark noise without an ounce of warmth. ‘No need to be nasty, songbird. I’m paying him a compliment, after all.’

‘He wouldn’t want anything from you, least of all your compliment.’

‘Too good for it, is he?’

‘Infinitely,’ Snufkin says stoutly. The Grusbler’s eyes goes keen, like the point of a very sharp hook.

‘My, my,’ he says and Snufkin flushes at once, knowing he’s given something away. ‘You are keen on him then, aren’t you?’

Snufkin recoils at once, caught.

‘Takes someone very special to do what you did, I suppose,’ The Grusbler says, putting a paw into the pocket of his coat. ‘Shame to undo a grand gesture like that by going back on it.’

‘Leave him out of it,’ Snufkin growls, teeth bared and for the first time in his entire life, he thinks about using them. ‘Don’t even think about him.’

‘I won’t!’ The Grusbler raises his other paw, crossing over his chest. ‘Cross my heart, I won’t give the fellow a single thought. So long as you hold up your end.’

The Grusbler removes his paw from his coat, holding what looks like a small, round loaf of bread.

‘I’d hate to get this far and have nothing to show for it,’ he says, poking the loaf through the cell-door. Snufkin doesn’t even look at it, appetite quite vanished.‘So, what so you say? You scratch my back, and I won’t scratch anyone at all, yes?'

Snufkin doesn’t say anything to that. He’s suddenly never felt so hollow and there simply isn’t a word left to him. It’s not like he has any choice anyway.

‘We’ve got a few hours,’ the Grusbler continues, taking Snufkin’s silence as invitation it seems. ‘Gotta give Fribs at least a decent shot of catching up to us, and we need the coal. This old girl flies, but you get what pay for, don’t you? Though, maybe you wouldn’t know. Not in the business of paying.’

The Grusbler hovers a moment longer, before letting the bread go. It hits the floor with a soft thump.

‘Keep your strength up, eh? I’ll even get you something to tie that poor arm up with.’

Snufkin listens to him leave, the hard hit of his boots until there’s nothing. Nothing but Snufkin, and the future that has now never seemed shorter.

*/

@ascocialsnickerdoodles

*/

There’s night, and there’s night on the sea which Moomins feels is a very different kettle fish entirely.

He can’t see anything past the waves that hit the Adventure as they come. The water is black, blacker than Moomin always remembers it being and it catches him off-guard when the wind sweeps it, spraying him as the stern drops. All they have is the green glass of the hurricane lamp, which casts everything in the strangest glow.

Moomin glances to the Joxter, who is curled into the other corner of the seat by the tiller. He makes such an odd shape like so; Moomin is reminded of a bread loaf, especially with the Joxter’s hat tilted down like it is to make him quite round indeed. Moomin feels a jerk of frustration in his gut.

He doesn’t understand how the Joxter can sleep. Moomin has been feeling the way a wasps nest sounds for hours now- never mind steering the Adventure, on top of it which has certainly been no picnic. While not stormy, the waves aren’t kind either this far West.

Anxious, Moomin casts over both sides of the boat, unsure exactly what he’s looking for until he spots it.

‘Is that it?’ Moomin asks, squinting against the wind. He thinks there may be a light, out to the West. He looks to the compass, wipes at the water on it to see they’re still on the course the Sneak has given them.

‘Is what it?’ Fribs says, sounding as unpleasant as Moomin finds him to be. Though, if Moomin is to be reluctantly fair to him, the way the Joxter has Fribs tied to the mast has him looking quite the wrong way. ‘Not going to be turning my head, am I?’

‘Uh. Right. It’s a light,’ Moomin replies feeling unjustly embarrassed. He looks back out towards that flicker in the distance, but the Adventure bounces too much on the waves for him to keep a good eye on it. It vanishes, swept behind clouds. ‘At least, I think it is.’

‘Is it a periwinkle light?’ Fribs asks and Moomin stops what he’s doing to cast his confusion in the Sneak’s direction.

‘Like the flower?’ Moomin replies, baffled and Fribs bangs his head against the mast.

‘No, you berk!’ Fribs snaps and Moomin huffs, deeply offended. This Sneak has the most awful language! ‘Like the colour! It’s blue, innit?’

Moomin only has the faintest idea, as he’d have reckoned periwinkles to be more on the purple end of things. He looks back out across the waves, spying the light again. It comes and goes, every few moments and Moomin nearly stands as the realisation hits him.

‘It’s a lighthouse!’ He says, relieved to finally see the end of this. To finally see the place where Snufkin is.

‘But is the light periwinkle?’

‘I… have no idea,’ Moomin says and both he and the Sneak make a noise then of equal frustration. When Moomin glances at the Joxter, he appears to still be asleep. Moomin thought he’d be more… well, just a good deal more of everything, really.

‘Well, is it blue or not?’

‘I guess it could be?’ Moomin hasn’t the foggiest idea. This far away, the light just looks like a light   to him but perhaps the bright glow of their own lantern isn’t helping. ‘Maybe more of a turquoise? Maybe?’

‘Maybe?’ Fribs repeats, sounding alarmed. ‘Either it is or it isn’t! The turquoise lighthouse is a different sodding place entirely, you know!’

Moomin panics a touch hearing that and he looks out again, trying to spot the light’s colour again. He leans forward, over the gunwale like it may bring the coast somewhat closer. It doesn’t, but the Adventure drops suddenly from a wave that doesn’t crash. From this, the Joxter finally seems to rouse with an unhappy trill.

‘Awake then?’ Moomin asks, uselessly for he can clearly see the Joxter is unfurling himself like a displeased cat. The brim of the Joxter’s hat tilts back, leading Moomin to a pair of blank eyes. Moomin’s sarcasm does not seem to be appreciated.

Moomin points out across the gunwale.

‘Say, what colour do you reckon that light is?’

The Joxter blinks, just once but it seems to pull whatever was left to the sleep off him. He gets to his feet, swaying easily with the Adventure and showing no sign he may topple over. Moomin eyes him anyway, half-jealous and half-concerned he’ll vanish into the waves. Moomin really doesn’t fancy going in after him if that’s to happen.

‘That’s it,’ the Joxter says, sounding quite certain. He leans over the tiller, both paws resting on its edge and his eyes fixed out at that light. Moomin frowns.

‘You’re that confident it’s periwinkle?’

Moomin supposes it’s only fair to assume, for he knows the Joxter has night-eyes. But even so, the light is terribly far yet-

‘The Mymble had a periwinkle girdle,’ the Joxter replies and Moomin splutters at once, definitely not expecting such a response. He’s mortified, and feels the fluff of cheeks stick right up. ‘I’d never forget.’

‘Oh, oh! Alright!’ Moomin says, trying to end that particular turn of the conversation as quickly as possible. If Moomin had gone his entire life without knowing that the Mymble owned such a thing, he thinks it may still not have been long enough.

Moomin sets course for the light, trying very hard not to think about the Mymble nor her undergarments. It becomes easier as the waves ease, the closer they get. A lighthouse does indeed reveal itself, not as tall the one Papa took them to all those years ago but a touch wider. And this close, the light it swings does indeed seem quite blue.

Moomin stares up at it as he steers the Adventure along the current that forms to the coast, thinking of Snufkin. Moomin isn’t sure how he knows, and perhaps he doesn’t at all and it is simply wishful thinking, but Snufkin is here. The certainty that hits brings something too shallow yet to be grief on its coattails, but Moomin feels it none the less.

Apprehensive, Moomin wonders when he’ll stop promising Snufkin he’s coming and finally say Snufkin, I’m here. He holds the words in his mouth, just behind his teeth. He has never missed Snufkin so much… and he’s had plenty of practice.

It doesn’t take long to find a pier, ramshackle as it may be, a little ways down the coast. Moomin gets the Adventure in, telling the Joxter to jump up and get a rope fastened; which he does, to Moomin’s surprise though he tries to hide it. The pier tilts, one of the supporting beams evidently sinking and the path at the other end is greatly overgrown at the edge of a dense wood.

Once the boat is tethered, Moomin walks over to Fribs.

‘Alright,’ he says, paws on his hips and trying quite hard to look imposing. ‘Where to from here?’

Fribs scoffs, sooty cheeks bunching. ‘No way you’re finding it on your own, troll.’

‘Then you’ll bring us there,’ Moomin replies firmly, not in the mood for any more games.

‘And why should I? What have I gotten for my first help getting you this far, eh? Sweet fanny adams, looks like.’

‘You said you’d bring us to the airship,’ Moomin points out and Fribs snorts, before spitting and Moomin rankles at once, disgusted.

‘And you said you’d untie me. Looks like we’re both stuck.’

‘Only when you’d bring us to where we needed to be!’ Moomin says angrily but Fribs just keeps chewing his lip, shoulders shrugged like he were waving off any old job.

‘Can’t be walking me about here tied up,’ Fribs says to him. ‘People will think I’m a grass, bundled up like this with you two following after me like a couple of inspectors.’

The Joxter hops down from the pier. ‘Then we’ll untie you.’

Both Fribs and Moomin look to him, equally surprised it seems. The Joxter tilts his chin, eyes very narrow and the dark, dark colour of something burnt as he watches Fribs from under his hat.

‘Or at least some of you,’ he says, teeth showing. ‘Once you get us through to where we need to go, you’ll be out of our fur and all the better we’d be for it.’

Fribs looks worried at once. ‘What’d you mean… some of me?’

The Joxter grins. ‘Don’t worry. You can keep your legs.’

That doesn’t make Moomin feel much better than it seems to make Fribs feel. Moomin steps closer to the Joxter, going to tug on his coat before thinking better of it. Not for the first time, Moomin feels there really is rather something untouchable about the Joxter altogether.

‘We can’t just let him go,’ says Moomin.

‘I didn’t say we’d let him go,’ the Joxter replies blandly, sauntering over to Fribs who recoils at once as though the Joxter has already done something unpleasant. He starts to work on the rope that has Fribs tied to the mast. Fribs seems to know better than to try anything, for he sits quite still as the Joxter goes about whatever it is he’s trying to do.

When the Joxter steps away again, he has one of the lengths of the rope stretched from his paws down to where it is tied quite soundly around of Fribs’ wrists. The knot is so big and complicated, it’s almost the size of Fribs’ wrist altogether.

‘What- what did you do?’ Moomin asks, though he can see as much but it rather seems too simple to work. The Joxter turns and holds his free paw out. Moomin hesitates, quite unsure, but he slowly offers his own paw in return and the Joxter starts tying the other end of the rope to it in the same manner.

‘Neither of can go very far without the other like this, now can you?’

‘With just the one knot?’

‘Yes, but it’s a wee bit stronger than your normal one,’ the Joxter replies, tugging a bit too tight and Moomin grits his teeth where the fur pulls under the rope. ‘I did sail for many years, remember. I know a thing or two about knots.’

‘Right,’ Moomin says, trailing off before something clicks together at once. ‘Wait. When you say you sailed, did you- did you sail with Papa?’

The Joxter’s eyes meets Moomin’s, dark still and as shiny as glass. ‘He was one of us, at the time. But I sailed for many more years after, much alone.’

‘You were on the Oshun Oxtra,’ Moomin realises aloud and the Joxter pauses, paws hovering over his knot. His head ducks, eyes vanished beneath the brim of his hat and Moomin’s tongue sticks in the back of his throat, suddenly thinking he’s gone and said the wrong thing.

‘I suppose it’s only fair he’d tell you about it all,’ the Joxter says after a brief silence. He gets back to his knot. ’Twas certainly the grandest of adventures.’

‘Not all, if he left you out,’ Moomin says, wincing at his own tactlessness again and wondering how he can say anything at all the rate he’s sticking his own foot into his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I just… I mean, he talked about the others. The Muddler, and Hodgkins. Even the Mymble, but…’

Moomin is suddenly at a loss, not at all sure how one might end such a ridiculous sentence. It cracks like a bone, the horrid feeling that comes when Moomin remembers the terrible secretness of it all. Of Snufkin, of the Mymble. Of the Joxter, whom Moomin had never thought to be hidden at all.

‘I’m sure your father had his reasons,’ the Joxter replies, sounding quite bitter indeed and Moomin feels the urge to come to Papa’s defence, but finds he can’t think of how to even start. ‘He was always very good at thinking of those.’

‘I’d love to know them,’ Moomin says at last, for it is true. The Joxter pulls his knot together, pinching again and Moomin hisses, surprised.

‘I find there is little point in looking for reason, little Moomin,’ says the Joxter quietly. ‘For there really never is a good enough one that makes a sadness less heavy.’

It’s the oddest thing, but an apology blooms and Moomin has to catch himself before he gives it. Not so much that he thinks the Joxter won’t hear it, which he likely won’t, but also Moomin thinks it’s rather not his apology to give in the first place.

He thinks of Snufkin. Of how singular he is, and how alone he must’ve been as well. To think, Papa could’ve said so much all those years ago. Moomin wonders what might’ve been different, if anything at all.

He watches the Joxter step away, picking up his staff from where it had rolled on the deck and wonders whether Snufkin would have ever come to Moominvalley, to Moomin, in the first place if he’d had a family to begin with.

Moomin has always, proudly, considered himself, Mama and Papa to be Snufkin’s family. Now, he wonders if it might have been selfish.

‘Right then,’ the Joxter says, bringing Moomin’s attention back to the present. The Joxter has his staff and he uses it to poke Fribs in the shoulder, who had been inspecting his knot perhaps a tad too closely. ‘Get to it. If we can make it to the airship before the sun is proper high, I think we’ll be doing well.’

Getting off the Adventure with something as awful as a Sneak tangled up to him is difficult, and more so for the Joxter offers no paw of help, but Moomin manages to get onto the pier with Fribs after him. The three of them walk ahead, right into the dark of the wood and Moomin looks back behind him. He has no night-eyes, is not even sure if Fribs does and he wonders if he ought to bring the hurricane lamp.

‘You’ll be fine without it,’ the Joxter says to him, bumping Moomin’s shoulder gently and Moomin jumps, perturbed to how the Joxter knows so easily what he’s thinking. ‘The path is clear enough, and the sun will be up soon.’

‘I’d hate to see your idea of messy if this is clear,’ says Moomin to that, for this wood is twice as unruly as the furtherest parts of the one in Moominvalley and half as friendly. Even the trees look sinister, black and thorned.

When there’s no smart comment back to that, Moomin gives the Joxter a quick once over and frowns. He’s standing quite still, whiskers straight and when the light from the lighthouse passes over them again, it shows a far-off look to his eye through the stripes of shadow from the trees.

Not for the first time, Moomin reckons he looks ill.

‘Joxter?’

The Joxter doesn’t answer, still staring off into the nothing. Moomin debates giving him a small shake, when Fribs comes up the end.

‘Oi, what’s wrong with him?’ He asks and Moomin doesn’t like how interested Fribs seems in that at all.

‘Nothing’s wrong with him!’ Moomin snaps, though he doesn’t know that. He just doesn’t want Fribs to not-know it either. ‘He’s just… thinking.’

‘Thinking?’ Fribs sounds very doubtful of that.

Just when Moomin worries he won’t be able to come up with anything clever enough to convince Fribs otherwise, the Joxter comes quite out of whatever took him. The light passes over them again, Joxter looking to Moomin at the moment it does so his eyes flash like coins.

‘Take out your knife, Moomintroll,’ he says then, like this were perfectly reasonable and Moomin splutters.

‘What? Why?’

Moomin asks, but the Joxter doesn’t answer him and Moomin huffs, because of course. He ought to expect it by now and he swings his pack around, trying not to get tangled in the rope between himself and Fribs. He takes out the kitchen knife, the shape of it so unusual still and replaces his pack on his back.

‘Good,’ the Joxter says and he pats Moomin on the shoulder, clear eyes flicking briefly over it to Fribs and back again. ‘Keep going with Fribs. I’ll be back.’

Moomin panics. ‘You’re leaving?’

‘Quite,’ the Joxter replies blithely and he does indeed turn to do so. Moomin reaches for him.

‘Wait, wait! Why? You can’t just go!’ Moomin’s voice is getting higher, but he doesn’t much care. ‘What about Snufkin?’

‘I’ll be back quickly, don’t worry,’ the Joxter says over his shoulder, hopping off the path and through some knarled bushes. ‘But there’s something I must do. I’ll be right behind you!’

‘No, no! We should wait, or go together-‘

‘There’s no time!’ The Joxter says, mysterious as anything and then he’s gone, into the dark and Moomin is left with Fribs, feeling much like something caught in a stream too strong for it and swept away.

‘I…’ Moomin tightens his grip on the kitchen knife, very aware of Fribs standing behind. ‘Buggering hell.’

‘You ought to get better friends, troll,’ Fribs says and Moomin growls to himself, miserable and completely perplexed with Fribs’ smart-arse comment a slap to the burn.

‘Yours left without you, too,’ Moomin replies tersely, turning to Fribs and pointing vaguely ahead with the kitchen knife. ‘So I guess we’re in the same boat. Now, bring me to Snufkin and then we can finally be rid of each other.’

Fribs pulls a face, but he doesn’t complain again.

Moomin follows Fribs as he leads him through the wood. The sound of the ocean is ever present, and though Moomin can’t see through the thick, needled trees he figures they’re heading along the coastline. As the Joxter said, it’s not as dark as Moomin had feared but he steps carefully anyway.

He stays behind Fribs, but can’t bring himself to hold the knife awfully high. The idea of tripping, of it slipping ahead or such… it turns Moomin’s blood cold.

The longer they walk, the more nervous Moomin gets of the Joxter’s absence. He looks through the trees, hoping to see movement and half-afraid he might, lest it not be the Joxter at all. He imagines all sorts of sinister folk; more Sneaks, perhaps. Or villains as equally wretched.

Moomin tries to think of Snufkin instead, but that feels less like the needle of a compass so much as a needle slipping through the thimble and into a soft finger.

‘That Mumrik bloke’s a few nuts short of a chestnut tree, ain’t he?’

Moomin bristles; mostly because he was thinking much the same himself. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

‘You really think that?’ Fribs asks, looking over his shoulder to Moomin. ‘Don’t seem too smart leaving you alone with me.’

‘I’m tougher than I look,’ Moomin replies, perhaps a touch sharp. Fribs makes a noise that suggests he doesn’t quite believe that.

‘Not as tough as him though, right?’ he continues and Moomin huffs, nettled. ‘You trolls are gentile like, the Hemulen sort.’

‘We’re nothing like Hemulens!’ Moomin says, deeply offended by this. Fribs doesn’t seem to notice.

‘Not much like Mumriks either, looks like.’

There’s a long moment of quiet then as Moomin seethes sourly.

‘He really the other one’s papa?’ Fribs asks then, and Moomin blinks, thrown.

‘Why do you care?’

‘Just nosy,’ Fribs says, a bit too easily. He snorts then. ‘What’s that make you, then? The son-in-law?’

Moomin flushes at once and is actually pleased it’s so dark. ‘I don’t see how that’s any of your business.’

‘Ah, right!’ Fribs says and he waves the paw attached to the rope, causing it to swing between them. ‘Not sealed the deal, then. Probably better off, you know. Mumriks don’t seem the homely type.’

‘Snufkin’s my friend,’ Moomin snaps then. ‘You don’t know the first thing about Snufkin. I don’t even want you thinking about him, got it?’

‘Touchy,’ is all Fribs says to that, but he does shut up and for that, Moomin is grateful.

Fribs stops suddenly, turning his head towards the left rather quickly. ‘Hey, troll?’

‘What?’ Moomin asks, stopping, too and eying the Sneak cautiously.

Fribs points. ‘Speaking of the devil… Ain’t that your friend?’

Moomin’s heart stops.

‘What’d you say his name was-?’

‘Snufkin…’ Moomin runs at once, over-taking Fribs and into the bare patch of trees he seems to be looking through. ‘Snufkin!’

The moment he steps into the emptiness, Moomin knows he’s made a mistake. But before he can do anything about it, something hits him right in the back of the head- and it hits him hard.

Caught entirely by surprise, Moomin trips over his own feet and topples over into a bush. He drops the knife and gets stuck in the sharp briars, paw to his head where he was struck with what felt like a rock. He tries to right himself, but his eyes swim with tears.

‘Hey!’ he shouts, manic with the fear that seizes inside of him as he struggles to get back upright. ‘What are you doing?’

‘No way I’m banging about any longer!’ Fribs says, but Moomin can only hear him from where’s stuck. The rope on his wrist tugs, helping him somewhat but as Moomin manages to sit up, he sees it was certainly not a purposeful endeavour.

Fribs stands a little aways, with the kitchen knife in one and Moomin throws a paw out, wildly and without much thought but Fribs isn’t coming any closer. Instead, he’s focused entirely on the rope, which he is quickly sawing through.

‘Sorry, troll!’ he says, though he sounds anything but. The rope cuts, this line of it from the Moominhouse basement much thinner than it probably ought to be. It doesn’t take much for him to cut through. ‘But you’re on your own!’

And with that, Fribs runs off in the other direction, vanishing almost at once into the dark and leaving Moomin alone.

Moomin cries out, just for the frustration and fear to go somewhere other than the rolling in his gut. It takes a few good pulls against the thorns, but Moomin gets himself free and to his feet. His head swims for a moment, but he doesn’t take long to get right and Moomin looks around.

Moomin sees the rock he was hit with. Only…

‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,’ he says, recognising the potato from the Joxter’s pocket before. Fribs hadn’t even bothered to pull half the roots off it and Moomin has to take a very deep, long breath.

When he feels certain he won’t just collapse from the sheer ridiculousness and misery of it all, Moomin tries to get his bearings again. Almost at once, his deposition leaves him again. He’s utterly, and completely, lost.

‘Bugger,’ he says, before gritting his teeth against the breath that starts to come too quick. Suddenly, the air feels very thin. ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger!’

Moomin sinks down to the ground, despondent. He’s alone, and lost. And Snufkin, wherever he is, gets further away every moment. Moomin is sure he’ll weep, the failure is so great.

‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’ Moomin punches the dirt. How could he have fallen for something so clearly a trap? How will he ever get Snufkin back? He’s not brave, like Snufkin. Not clever, like the Joxter. He’s just… nothing…

No, he thinks to himself but goodness, it’s a hard thought to have. No, he can’t give up. Even if he has to walk this entire place twice over, Moomin will has a promise to keep.

‘Moomintroll?’

Moomin looks up and sees- the Joxter.

And quite suddenly, Moomin has never been angrier in his life.

‘Where were you?!’ he says, furious. The Joxter seems unfettered, which only serves to annoy Moomin further. The Joxter walks over, sticking his staff into the ground to lean against it.

‘What are you doing on the ground?’

‘What am I- what am I doing?’ Moomin stands up. ‘You’re the one who buggered off! What were you thinking? Leaving me with that Sneak! He hit me and escaped!'

Moomin steps forward only to turn right around, for he’s suddenly not entirely sure he may not just kick the Joxter’s staff out from under him. He heads back towards the bush he fell in and kicks at that, just for good measure. It doesn’t exactly make him feel better, but it doesn’t hurt either.

‘Is this what he hit you with?’ The Joxter asks and Moomin glances over to see the Joxter is holding the potato. Moomin storms over, snatching it out of his paw. ‘Wee bit soft, don’t you think?’

‘Not when it hits you on the upside of the head,’ Moomin says bitterly and he tosses the potato off into the trees, as far as he can with much prejudice. ‘And he wouldn’t have had it at all if not for you.’

‘Perhaps. Wouldn’t have had it either if you’d eaten it.’

‘Oh, alright! I get it, okay!’ Moomin snaps, teary again. He grips at the fur on his cheeks, tugging until it hurts. ‘I was stupid! And careless, and I didn’t eat the buggering potato and now our only chance of finding Snufkin is gone! Is that what you want to hear?’

‘You’ve got your father’s mouth,’ the Joxter says and Moomin sighs, dropping his snout into his paws. ‘Come, have an orange and feel better.’

‘Have a- what?’

Moomin looks up just as the Joxter throws an orange to him, which he catches by the tips of his fingers. ‘Did you… just leave to get food?’

‘Not quite,’ the Joxter says, reaching into his own pocket and taking out another orange. ‘I left so that Fribs would feel brave enough to escape. But I figured some food couldn’t hurt.’

Moomin, truly, has no idea what to say to that. His jaw has dropped, but not one word tumbles out of it.

The Joxter punctures his orange with a claw. ‘You have questions.’

‘You knew?’

‘I had a feeling,’ the Joxter replies, like that explains anything. ‘He was going to trick us, Moomintroll. He was going to try and lead us on a wild goose-chase, by which time the airship would’ve left. Now, we can follow him right to it.’

‘You left me with him to get attacked on purpose?’ Moomin squeezes the orange in his paw and is very, very tempted to try and knock the Joxter’s hat off with it. And if he misses and hits the Mumrik’s nose, well…

‘I knew you’d be alright,’ the Joxter says, peeling his orange. ‘Or at least, I could see the chances where you wouldn’t be weren’t quite as high. Hardly matters now. We have what we need.’

‘And what’s that?’ Moomin asks, still very unhappy.

The Joxter tears his orange, peeling away a slice and popping it into his mouth.

‘The path to Snufkin.’

*/

The Joxter must see more than Moomin can, which ought not to be surprising at this point. He walks through the wood with purpose, Moomin watching closely when he stops the odd time to touch a stray branch, or the dirt. The ocean is getting louder again, and the trees are starting to spread with more space between.

‘We’re very close,’ the Joxter says and he stops, taking a deep breath through his nose. ‘Do you smell that?’

Moomin tries himself and smells, faintly, the distinctive scent of smoke. Someone, somewhere close, is burning coal. ‘The airship? Are they taking off already?’

‘The scent isn’t strong enough for the engines to be lit right now, but they were lit not long ago,’ the Joxter replies and Moomin steps up beside him. He glances over, but the Joxter’s hat is titled so he can’t see the Joxter’s eyes. ‘They must be stocking their coal.’

‘Then we don’t have long.’

‘No.’

But the Joxter doesn’t move. Moomin waits, but not for long before he puts a paw to the Joxter’s arm. The Joxter looks down at it, face more hidden.

‘It’s almost over,’ Moomin says, perhaps more wishful than intended but he keeps going. ‘And then you and Snufkin will be together.’

‘Almost over,’ the Joxter repeats, tone strange. ‘To think, after all this time.’

Any hint of the Joxter’s sureness from before seems almost gone and Moomin hovers, uncertain how to smooth out the rough edge that bristles in the hunch of the Joxter’s shoulders. Moomin thinks he understands, at the very least, but truly… he cannot imagine how the Joxter must be feeling.

The Joxter starts off again, Moomin behind him.

They keep going, before the Joxter pulls Moomin down to almost his knees. They crouch, walking awkwardly through the bushes for Moomin’s snout doesn’t lend itself to being so low. But as they move, he sees it through the trees. Without thinking, he starts to rise but the Joxter taps him with his staff.

‘Not yet,’ he whispers and Moomin heeds him.

The airship is anchored down in a large clearing, not quite on the edge of the coast but close by the sounds of the waves. There’s a small cart, laden with coal parked underneath it and some Hemulen looking fellow shovelling from it into a large pail. A rope ladder hangs down the side of the airship, and at the bottom, are the Sneaks.

Moomin’s hackles rise at once at seeing the Sneak from before; the one who hurt Snufkin. The Grusbler, Fribs had called him and Moomin’s teeth clack together on the growl he tries to hold back. Fribs is talking to him, quite animatedly it seems and he waves Mama’s kitchen knife about as he does. The Grusbler doesn’t seem to be saying much at all.

‘What do we do?’

‘We need to get onto the ship,’ the Joxter says and Moomin wonders how exactly they’ll manage that. Unless the Joxter intends for them to fight.

Moomin clenches his paws into fists. If fighting is what it takes, then he will.

‘Come, let’s go around the other side.’

And just like that, the Joxter starts making his way through the bushes. Moomin looks between him and the airship, unhappy to be letting the Sneaks out of sight but not left with much choice. He follows the Joxter, right around through the wood under they’re at the back of the airship.

The Joxter waits for Moomin to come back up to him before pointing. ‘Do you see that lifeboat?’

Moomin does, a small thing that hangs off the side of the airship and covered with tarpaulin.

‘We need to get onto it.’

The Joxter moves first, lighter on his feet and Moomin rushes after him. His heart is in his throat, stuck like a stone and hard to swallow around with nerves as they get closer. Moomin is trying not to be afraid, but he can’t stop thinking of the Sneaks, just on the other side.

Once at the airship, the Joxter stops to hold his staff out to Moomin. Baffled, Moomin takes it and the Joxter looks up at the underside of the lifeboat. He bends his knees and jumps- quite high! Higher than Moomin would’ve thought, but the Joxter gets his claws into the bottom of the lifeboat, hanging from it like a fruit.

He swings himself up, pulling on the tarpaulin to get into the lifeboat. Once there, he leans back over with the tarpaulin over his head.

‘Come on, Moomintroll.’

He holds a paw down.

‘Hang tight to the staff and hold it up to me.’

It’s not as easy as the Joxter makes it sound. Moomin tries to hold on tightly, but the Joxter doesn’t seem strong enough to pull him up all the way. He grunts and Moomin’s legs flail a bit underneath him, but the Joxter topples backwards and the force of his fall helps tip Moomin the rest of the way.

They both get under the tarpaulin and the Joxter tucks it back, shrouding them in complete dark.

‘You’re heavier than you look, little Moomin.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Moomin groans, arms surprisingly tired from hanging off the staff. ‘What now? Onto the airship?’

The Joxter hums quietly. ‘Not yet. If we run here, they’ll catch us. They know this place better, and likely have friends.’

‘Bully for them’ Moomin says miserably. ‘What are we doing then?’

‘We’ll wait for the ship to take off,’ the Joxter says and Moomin wishes he could see him, just to know the expression of his face. ‘Once in the air, the Sneaks will be busy keeping it there. Then, you slip aboard and find Snufkin. They’ll be keeping him in the brig, which is most certainly down the door just below the top deck. Find him, get him and bring him here.’

‘To the lifeboat?’ Moomin’s nervous. ‘But I don’t have any idea how to fly something like this!’

‘You won’t have to,’ the Joxter replies and he takes Moomin’s paw in the dark. He pulls Moomin along the boat, towards what must be the bow. There, he guides Moomin’s fingers along until he meets glass. ‘There’s a compass. I’ll set it for Moominvalley, and the lifeboat will fly itself there. That’s what it’s for.’

‘But… but what will you do?’ Moomin asks and the Joxter lets him go.

‘Even if we fly away, those abhorrent creatures will give chase,’ the Joxter says and though Moomin cannot see, he hears the hiss beneath the words and know the Joxter is baring his teeth. ‘I’m going to make sure that they won’t be able to.’

Moomin doesn’t know what that means, but it’s not as comforting as he thinks the Joxter wants it to be. He wants to trust the Joxter more, but… well, the Joxter hasn’t given him as many reasons to do so as he has reasons for Moomin not to.

There’s a shuffle as the Joxter moves again, closer to the side of the airship, Moomin thinks, though it’s so hard to tell.

‘He’s right here,’ the Joxter says and Moomin blinks, looking at where he thinks the Joxter to be. ‘To think, we have never been closer.’

Moomin swallows around the unease that stings still. ‘Is this going to work? This plan?’

‘Well, you know what they say of the best laid plans of mice and men.’

‘We’re neither of those things.’

‘Then I think it’s safe to assume our plan should work,’ the Joxter says in what he thinks may be a comforting tone.

Moomin sits in the dark with him, before leaning over to the other side of the lifeboat. He slips his paw under the tarpaulin and reaches, not far at all until his fingers skim the wood of the airship’s hull. 

‘It feels wrong to just sit here,’ Moomin says, thinking of Snufkin. ‘Snufkin’s right there.’

‘We need to be clever, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says, but there’s something to his voice that has Moomin think he feels much the same way despite it. ‘We cannot come this far to lose him again. I—‘

The Joxter takes a breath.

‘I cannot lose him again,’ he finishes, so clear and assured that Moomin thinks he must be trying to sound braver on purpose. ‘And more than that, I will not have him hurt. Not by these- these foul creatures or anything else in this world. We have one job. Save Snufkin.’

‘Then we will. We’ll save him, Joxter,’ Moomin says, with the only surety left to him.

They both start at the sound of boots above them; the Sneaks are back on the airship. Fribs is louder, still complaining about his misfortunes at the hand of the Joxter, it seems and Moomin holds back a tut of impatience. That fellow really is the worst.

‘If they got this far then they can’t be long behind you, Fribs,’ another voice says and Moomin seizes with loathing at hearing the Grusbler again. ‘We should move on.’

‘You said you wanted to leave after noon, to avoid the sun!’

‘I’d rather sun than whatever caught you. If that other Mumrik of yours is half as much trouble as you say, then we need to be gone and fast.’

That’s all Moomin can hear, despite twitching his ears best he can but the tarpaulin presses them almost flat. There’s the sound of the Sneaks moving about, then nothing, but the unmistakeable groan of an engine turning. Not long after, Moomin can start to smell smoke. The furnace is lit.

‘Are you ready?’ the Joxter asks him as the ship starts to rise. Moomin’s stomach swoops with it, and he is incredibly aware of the empty space growing beneath them.

But none of that changes the answer.

‘I’m ready.’

Chapter Text

Moomin isn’t sure how he feels about flying, for certain, but he knows he doesn’t much like the feeling of rattling about the lifeboat as it bounces against the airship where it floats.

Moomin knows they’ve been up some time, for the sunlight is bleeding through the tarpaulin. Moomin also knows he and the Joxter had been waiting, though it seems not for much longer.

‘He’s going to check on the furnace,’ the Joxter says, pressed close to the side of the lifeboat that’s against the airship. ‘Once Fribs is down there, we should be able to sneak into the brig without the Grusbler noticing.’

‘Are you sure? Won’t he see from the helm?’

‘Not if we stick to the wall, and not if we’re fast,’ the Joxter replies which isn’t much comfort. But then, nothing he says is ever much comfort.

The Joxter pushes his hat off his head, letting it hang on the back of his neck as he pokes through the tarpaulin to get a better look. Moomin wrings his paws, equal parts anxious, afraid and eager. They’re so close to Snufkin now, Moomin thinks. The need to see him beats like a second heart.

‘Now,’ the Joxter says, suddenly tugging the tarpaulin back more. ‘The Grusbler is checking the sextant on the other side. Quickly!’

Moomin follows the Joxter so much so, he nearly trips over himself entirely as he climbs the gunwale. The sunlight is quite blinding, after so long under the tarpaulin, but Moomin holds the end of the Joxter’s staff like a guide straight up to the wall. They both press against it and Moomin worries if the Grusbler will hear him, his breathing is so quick.

The Joxter pulls his hat back up. He waves a black paw in a rolling motion, letting Moomin know before he makes his way towards the doors down to the hull, which have been left open.

The Joxter pauses there, edging slowly forward to make sure there’s no one unpleasant waiting for them. Then, he rounds through the door and brings Moomin with him.

They both stop on the steps within, the Joxter reaching back to close the doors behind them so they’re in some dark again, though the corridor through the hull is lit with oil-lamps.

‘We won’t have long. Not long at all, really,’ the Joxter says, hushed. He looks about them, eyes astute. The corridor splits in two directions. ‘The brig will be on the left.’

‘What makes you say that?’

The Joxter doesn’t answer him and Moomin is so frightfully nervous, all he can do is tut to himself for thinking the Joxter would in the first place. The Joxter steps forward, towards the left turn. His eyes are focused on something down that way Moomin can’t see.

‘I’m going to the engine room,’ the Joxter says, instead of anything reasonable. Moomin frowns.

‘What about Fribs? What if he sees you?’

‘He won’t see me,’ the Joxter replies, like it’s quite obvious. ‘Here, take this.’

The Joxter holds his staff out. Moomin stares at it, perplexed.

‘I- I don’t know how to use that,’ he says, weakly but the Joxter shoves it into his paws anyway.

‘I won’t have you with Snufkin and nothing to protect yourself with.’

‘Well, you said yourself that we’re not going to get caught, right?’

The Joxter just gives Moomin a flat look then. Moomin sighs, holding the staff in the best approximation of how he sees the Joxter hold it. It’s far more cumbersome than he makes it look, Moomin thinks.

‘The compass is set, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says gently, almost kind. He puts a paw to Moomin's shoulder. ‘There is nothing left to do now but get back to the lifeboat. Do you understand?’

‘And you’ll meet us there?’

‘I will.’

‘Do you promise?’ Moomin asks and holding back his own flinch at how childish he sounds, for he wants the Joxter to promise. Truly, Moomin isn’t sure he could do this without it.

The Joxter keeps Moomin’s eye a long time before saying; ‘I promise. Now go.’

They split then, the Joxter slinking off towards the right and leaving Moomin to go left.

Moomin is so terribly nervous, keeps walking though he isn’t at all sure any of it leads to where he needs to be despite what the Joxter says. He’s shaking, right down to his tail and it makes him jumpy all over. Suppose he turns this corner and Fribs is there? What is Moomin to do then?

He stops when he reaches the end of the narrow passageway, raising the staff across his body in a manner he reckons he saw the Joxter use, though it’s very hard to know for certain presently. Moomin twists his fingers around it, fur slick with the way his palms are starting to sweat. Moomin wants to be ready, for whatever he may find.

When he finally gets the courage to go further around the left corner, however, his readiness fails him entirely for down at the other end of the passageway is a cell, and in the cell is-

‘Snufkin,’ Moomin says and he drops the staff. ‘Snufkin!’

The clatter has the small, green ball of Snufkin look up at once and their eyes meet; the gaze is so known to them both, perhaps they wouldn’t know how to look any other way. Looking at Snufkin now, in this wondrous, dreadful moment feels the way it does to put his foot in the boot-prints Snufkin leaves after him in the rain.

Snufkin gets to his feet, unsteady it seems but his eyes never leave Moomin’s. Moomin is moving at once, beckoned by the expression of Snufkin’s face as he fears he may always be, even without a terrible tragedy to escape from. As he runs, crosses this short distance, Moomin wonders how he’d ever doubted the love inside of him for what it was.

‘Moomintroll! How on earth-?’

Snufkin looks a fright, eyes wide and dark beneath. Moomin’s throat stings with worry, but he looks at Snufkin best he can for any further damage. There seems to be none; his injured arm is even wrapped now, in a rag of some sort but nothing suitable like a sling or splint. Moomin’s worry catches fire at once and flares into anger.

But Snufkin is too quick for it. His good hand shoots through the bars of his cell as Moomin hurtles himself against the brig. His paw meets Snufkin’s hand where it sticks through and their fingers link. Moomin curses himself for never holding them as often before. He wonders if it may jinx their luck, but promises to do just that from now on all the same.

Snufkin can’t seem to look away, even to blink. ‘You cannot be here, how is it even possible?’

‘Doubt me, did you?’ Moomin says, trying to jest in an effort to hide how his eyes are instantly watering. His voice changes, soft with the feeling Snufkin gives him; ‘Ye of little faith, Snuf.’

‘But how? How can you be here?’ Snufkin asks, ignoring Moomin’s joke and breathless. He presses his forehead against the bars, as close as he can and it’s a wretch to even be this far. Moomin puts the other paw to his face.

‘Doesn’t matter. I’m here.’

Snufkin turns his cheek, lips almost to the meat of Moomin’s paw.

‘Oh, Moomintroll.’ The way he says Moomin’s name feels the way a bottle uncorked sounds. ‘I ought to be cross with you, I really should. How stupid you are, to be here.’

‘You didn’t think I’d let you go that easy, did you?’

‘I wish you would have,’ Snufkin replies with a sigh, almost sounding disappointed. Moomin would roll his eyes for it, were it not for every other frightful emotion he already has brimming. ‘But you’re here now.’

‘Don’t sound too delighted.’

Snufkin takes a breath, short but full and his slight chest rises like a tide with it.

‘Moomintroll… If only you knew what a fool you make of me.’

Moomin frowns. ‘I don’t think you’re a fool.’

‘Moomintroll. My dearest, Moomintroll,’ Snufkin says, so easily it’s as though he’s called Moomin such always. Moomin wonders if he’s ever said it before, in places far off to people unknown. ‘I’ve been one for so long and made the decision as fast as a heartbeat.’

‘That does sound like you,’ Moomin says and he, daftly, wishes he could smell Snufkin more. The brig is too much in itself though, with wood and coal, so Moomin is left wanting.

‘Never gladder to be a fool, if I’m yours.’

‘I’d have you faster than that heartbeat,’ Moomin says at once, reckless. Snufkin blinks, slow and Moomin wishes at once to know what Snufkin sees in him at this moment.

‘You came for me,’ is all Snufkin says though, quiet but his eyes are the hard, dark colour of something long burning. Moomin feels his chest has been spitting embers this whole time.

‘Always,’ Moomin says desperately and Snufkin’s mouth twitches; maybe he would’ve smiled, were they anywhere else. ‘I will always come for you when you need me.’

They need to be faster than this, Moomin knows but the thought is buried so very far down under the weight of this moment. Moomin knows Snufkin is rarely a creature for promises unless he is very certain to keep them, but Moomin has never been more certain of anything than now. How suddenly and deeply he aches.

‘I thought…’ Snufkin’s eyes go shiny. ‘I was so sure I’d never see you again.’

‘You ought to know better than that,’ Moomin says and tries to smile, to seem blithe but it just comes out as a sigh. ‘Take more than all this to be rid of me.’

‘I don’t want to be rid of you.’

‘I hope not. I think I could bear anything but that.’

Snufkin closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. It moves the fur on Moomin’s paw.

‘I feel badly, for what happened,’ Snufkin says to him and Moomin worries if he’ll have any tears left in him, for they come so easily he may run out. ‘Back on that mountain.’

‘Don’t think about that now.’

‘But what happened to never forgiving me?’ Snufkin asks as his eyes open again, gaze searching. Moomin swallows an uneasy laugh; not from humour, for there is none but the strangeness of everything is giddying much the same.

‘Yeah, well… I’m rescuing you. Not forgiving you. Different thing.’

‘I suppose so.’ Snufkin holds Moomin’s eye with his own; sternly, and full of emotion. ‘Will you forgive me anyway?’

Moomin licks his lips. ’Are you sorry?’

‘No.’

‘Course you’re not.’

It would be funny, if not so terribly in-character. Moomin blinks, eyes stinging and wonders at the creature in front of him. Oh, how ferociously angry Moomin is again when he thinks of how easily Snufkin had left him on that mountain. How foolish, Snufkin had been. How selfish, too. Two wretched things for someone to be, when in love with…

Moomintroll rubs his thumb along Snufkin’s face. ‘I forgive you’ he says, meaning I love you.

‘Do you?’ Snufkin asks him, quieter again. Almost whispering.

‘I’d forgive you better were you not in this cell,’ Moomin replies, bashful of his admittance and nervous of Snufkin seeing through it. ‘And we don’t have long.’

‘We never do,’ Snufkin says sadly and Moomin feels the weight of that deeply. ‘He’s nailed the door.’

‘What?’

Snufkin pulls away, though Moomin refuses to let go of his good hand. Snufkin nods downwards, giving Moomin cause to look himself. He sees the lock for the door, flat and square. But more worryingly, he sees the ends of a better handful of nails sticking out from the wood on its other side.

Moomin is so furious, it scalds him inside out. ‘Should’ve figured there was a reason you hadn’t gotten far. When I see that Grusbler, I’m going to-'

‘You’ll do nothing!’ Snufkin says sharply, his own anger catching Moomin off-guard. They share a look, Snufkin’s frown deep as a trench. ‘I won’t let you. What if you get hurt? He’s a beastly thing!’

Moomin ruffles at the implication he couldn’t hold his own and lets Snufkin go. ‘Not sure how much say you get.’

‘Plenty, I’d think. I’m the one in the cell.’

‘Not for much longer,’ Moomin huffs and he rolls his pack around, already starting to fish about for something he can use to pry the nails out. ‘Either way, the Grusbler deserves any bad turn coming his way.’

‘On that we agree, but I won’t risk you for any bend of it,’ Snufkin says firmly and Moomin glances up at him and stalls at the look on his face. ‘Not when I thought you lost and only just returned to me.’

Moomin has never thought about it before, for it is so often the other way around, but he suddenly finds he doesn’t like Snufkin to look so scared like this. Not for him, if it can be helped.

‘Well, you didn’t lose me,’ Moomin says and he has to restrain himself from trying to hold Snufkin again. He needs to open the cell; more than anything, that’s what matters now. He goes back to the pack. ‘Not now and certainly not later, if we get this sorted.’

Snufkin makes a thoughtful noise then. ‘I can help somewhat. I’ve a clip in my pocket.’

‘What good is a clip?’ Moomin pushes some napkins aside from the bottom of his pack, wondering why on earth he’d packed them; it seems so silly now.

‘For the lock. Least I can do is get that open for you.’

Moomin frowns at that and looks up again. ‘I’ll get you out, Snufkin.’

‘Of course you will,’ Snufkin replies lightly, but he’s fishing about the pocket of his smock with his good hand anyway. ‘Have you found something for the nails?’

Moomin hasn’t and it nettles more than it should. He stands up, looking about them and only as he does it, does Moomin truly remember where they are. He kicks himself at once for his foolishness, for not thinking ahead to how he would get Snufkin out of this foul place. Moomin clenches his fists to ease the static of anxiety that spikes and keeps looking.

‘How about this?’ he asks, spotting something by a barrel. On picking it up, Moomin feels an unpleasant kick in his gut. ‘Oh.’

Snufkin pauses in his lock tampering. ‘Well. At least be grateful you found it before the Grusbler did or this whole thing would’ve been far more awkward.’

Moomin isn’t sure how comforting that is, for the manacle he’s found is as rusted as it is unpleasant. Truly, it looks like it would be too wide for Snufkin’s small wrists, were it closed but Moomin can’t bear the thought of Snufkin near it either way.

With it open as it is, Moomin reckons he can use its flat edge to get some leverage on the nails.

And he gets some… but not a lot.

‘Perhaps I ought to-'

‘I can do it, Snufkin!’ Moomin snaps, harder than he ever wants to be but he is starting to panic now. The Joxter said he wouldn’t have long and who knows much of that precious time has already ticked by? Moomin nearly weeps when he gets the first nail free.

The second and third come easier, or perhaps Moomin is just that embolded. But on the fourth, things stopper and Moomin’s patience starts to fray in earnest.

Snufkin isn’t helping, adore him as Moomin does.

‘Hmm. No, no, you ought to try it this way!’ Snufkin suggests, poking his good hand through to try and twist the manacle around in Moomin’s paws. ‘You’re just driving it in further like this, you know!’

‘Who is doing the rescuing here?’ Moomin asks, exasperated but he does as Snufkin suggests all the same. He’s so desperate now, he’d almost sing in the hope of wooing the nail into slipping out.

‘I don’t see why we can’t do it together,’ Snufkin replies flatly, missing Moomin’s irritation entirely and Moomin breaks down then, surprised by the laugh that bursts. Goodness… what a terribly Snufkin thing to say.

Snufkin doesn’t seem to appreciate the apparent levity.

‘Moomintroll, are you well?’

‘Snufkin, I-' Moomin catches himself, almost too late but the confession lingers on his tongue like a pill unswallowed. He looks to Snufkin and meets his eye, wonders how it’s ever possible to be so full of love for someone. ‘You’re… a really bad damsel in distress.’

Snufkin flushes and frowns, the perfect image of bright pink dissatisfaction.

‘Glad to hear it. I certainly don’t want to get any practice in being a good one.’

Moomin can practically hear the minutes ticking by, but he only has the nail half out. Frustrated, Moomin chucks the manacle away to where it bangs about somewhere in the corner. Snufkin reaches through to him, touching his shoulder and it soothes more than Moomin deserves.

‘Buggering hell!’ Moomin curses and Snufkin tuts, which really only serves to annoy him given everything. ‘Don’t you dare say to watch my language.’

‘I’d never say such a thing,’ Snufkin replies mildly and Moomin puts a paw over the hand on his shoulder. Squeezes Snufkin’s fingers so hard he feels the small bones shift. He stares at the door, at its hinges and thinks.

Then, he notices. The hinges are wide against the wood, but now he’s looking… a few are missing the odd nail already.

‘Right,’ Moomin says, feeling bold. ‘Enough pussy-footing around. I have an idea. Stand back.’

‘Stand back?’

Snufkin asks but does as he’s bid regardless. He steps all the way to the back of the cell, which isn’t far but it’s some. Moomin puts both paws to the door, giving it a hard jiggle. The lock rattles- indeed, the whole door does and Moomin feels a small surge of relief.

‘Alright,’ he says, bracing himself better and trying to get a good grip. He takes a breath, deep and steady, and then pulls.

The door gives out fierce, with a groan that doesn’t sound all too healthy but if the thing were to drop dead, Moomin would cheer. As it is, it gives up some fight against where he pulls. But there is the unmistakeable sound of wood splintering, so Moomin lets go only to brace himself against the door and try again.

On this second try, there’s a mighty crack! and the door is instantly heavier in Moomin’s paws, now being released to his hold entirely as the hinges break away at last. Moomin stumbles under the weight, but manages to get the door leaning the opposite way it’s meant to before slipping around it.

Snufkin stands in the cell, eyes round as pebbles and mouth slightly open. His pinkness hasn’t faded, quite obvious with the garish lantern light.

‘Well,’ Moomin says awkwardly, looking to Snufkin with nothing between them at last. His breath is quite short now, and not from the heavy lifting. ‘Not very elegant, but got the job done.’

Snufkin is moving before Moomin even finishes the sentence. He throws himself at Moomin, most unlike him but Moomin wraps both arms around him at once, one paw even getting into Snufkin’s hair behind his head.

‘I’ve got you,’ Moomin says to him, pressing his snout to the side of Snufkin’s head and breathing him in. His heart stops. ‘Oh, I’ve got you.’

Snufkin says nothing, but his hand fists into the fur of Moomin’s chest and he buries his sharp nose right into Moomin’s neck. Moomin goes hot all over at once; it’s not- Snufkin doesn’t know it for what it is, he’s sure, but to have Snufkin’s nose against him turns a corner in Moomin’s heart he didn’t dare to before all the same.

‘Moomintroll,’ is all Snufkin says, his mouth moving against Moomin’s clavicle and shifting the fur there. Moomin shivers and his grip tightens. He feels the strands of Snufkin’s hair between his fingers and fists the back of his smock, so Snufkin presses so close as to near fit under Moomin’s snout entirely.

Moomin would keep him here always, were he able. Wonders if he could tempt Snufkin back to it, when all this is over-

‘We have to move,’ Moomin says though he’s loath to let Snufkin go at all. Snufkin nods, nose prodding and it spills a tingle down Moomin’s shoulder like rainwater from a flower overfilled. Something new is growing, alright.

‘Yes. Quite right,’ Snufkin says, finally pulling away though he seems as reluctant as Moomin is. Moomin’s paw lingers as he slides it from Snufkin’s hair to his cheek. Moomin feels he could look at Snufkin every day, for many years, and never be full of the sight of him.

He nearly says so, but Moomin holds it back like all his secrets today. It seems so small, when the danger is so large. Moomin aches, suddenly and deeply, for the quiet life of Moominvalley. The gentleness of home, where love is the biggest thing to happen at all.

How desperately Moomin wants to get Snufkin back there.

They say nothing, but Snufkin does lean forward so Moomin’s paw holds his cheek more proper for a moment before they part. Moomin reaches for his pack, replacing it on his shoulder. Then he takes Snufkin’s good hand again, leading him down the passageway and only stopping to retrieve the Joxter’s staff.

Snufkin presses against his shoulder, eying it. ‘Where did you get such a thing?’

‘I-' Moomin stops, mortified. In everything, he had somehow forgotten. ‘It belongs to… my friend.’

‘What friend?’ Snufkin presses, sounding suspicious.

‘Couldn’t come for you alone,’ Moomin replies, dodging the question. When they reach the corner, Moomin chances a look around and it seems the coast remains clear. ‘I’ve had someone helping me.’

‘Who? Someone we know?’

Moomin hates to lie and tries to think of a way around it. ‘Not exactly.’

Moomin squeezes Snufkin’s hand as he leads him towards the door. They take care going up the steps, Moomin having to help Snufkin for he’s quite unsteady with only the one hand. They linger at the top, Moomin pushing the door slightly to try and get a good look out.

From what he can see, the deck seems as empty as before.

‘Alright, I’ve got a plan,’ Moomin says, whispering now and his heart is beating very quickly. ‘There’s a lifeboat on the starboard side. That’s how we’re getting away from here.’

‘Can you fly a lifeboat?’ Snufkin asks, sounding more impressed than nervous but Moomin doesn’t have half the confidence himself presently.

‘Don’t need to. It’s got an automatic compass, it’ll fly itself. We’ve already set it for Moominvalley.’

‘You and your friend?’

Moomin bites his lip. ‘Yeah. He’ll meet us at the lifeboat.’

Moomin pushes the door open a little more, edging forward. He’s scared to push it too far, scared of what may be waiting but they’re close now, so very close to getting away and it’s that thought that steels Moomin’s nerves at last.

‘Are you ready?’ He asks Snufkin, turning briefly to look at him. Snufkin nods, just once, but certain and that’s all Moomin needs.

He bursts out the door, paw gripping Snufkin’s hand tightly as he pulls him along. The sun is brilliant, almost blinding but Moomin blinks through it and heads straight for the lifeboat. Snufkin’s boots are much louder on the deck than his own feet, but he doesn’t slow down.

They come up towards the gunwale quick and Moomin sees the tarpaulin move. He expects the Joxter, doesn’t even think for the barest moment that it might not be until the tarpaulin lifts itself, and someone else entirely crawls out of the lifeboat.

Moomin stops at once, Snufkin running into the back of him as the Grusbler reveals himself, tall and horrid. Moomin is struck dumb, aghast as the Grusbler slinks out from the lifeboat and back up onto the deck. He looms there, head tilted the way a bird might when spotting a hapless worm.

Moomin’s heart feels as hapless now as a creature even smaller.

‘So it’s you then?’ the Grusbler says, nose up so Moomin can see every one of his sharp teeth in the grin he has. It turns his stomach. ‘You’re the one who let the little songbird out of his cage. I was wondering what all the racket down below was.’

Moomin throws himself more forward, free arm out to shove Snufkin behind him proper as he goes. The Grusbler raises a bushy eyebrow at him and the best Moomin can do is bare his teeth back.

Moomins aren’t like Mumriks or other travelling sort- Moomin doesn’t have a sharp thing on his body but his hackles rise anyway. Snufkin has his good hand on his shoulder, gripping tight.

‘You know,’ the Grusbler drawls, coming closer. ‘Someone really ought to teach you a thing or two about sneaking about, chum. Thought I’d give you a freebie, by hiding out here for you once I heard the door break underneath me.’

Moomin is trying very, very hard not to be afraid but his paws are shaking. He raises the staff with other paw, hoping the Grusbler can’t see how it wobbles.

‘We’re leaving,’ Moomin says, as firmly as he can muster but it still sounds very unsure. Moomin has never noticed before how high his voice is. ‘He’s not who you’re looking for. You’ve no right to take him.’

The Grusbler makes a humming sound. ‘Doesn’t matter who he is so much as what. And what he is, I’m afraid, is going right back where you found him.’

‘No,’ Moomin says, louder and he stands up straighter. He bends his arm, trying to touch Snufkin and press him closer. The Grusbler laughs.

‘No?’ he says, laughing again. It’s a barking, mean sound. ‘By the Groke’s frozen knickers, you’ve some brass neck on you, don’t you? Did you hear that, Fribs? Little creature says No.’

Moomin doesn’t get a chance to react. Someone taller than him and just as heavy swings into the side of him. Moomin spins on his heel, caught off-guard as Fribs appears, seemingly from nowhere. The foul creature reaches out with a filthy hand and snatches Snufkin by the arm. Moomin panics.

‘No, stop-!’

‘Moomintroll!’

Fribs spins Snufkin right around, who gives a shout of surprise as he’s sent flying across the deck, feet stumbling. Moomin reaches out, but he’s too far to stop it as Snufkin soars past him and right into the Grusbler’s outstretched paw.

The Grusbler snatches Snufkin by the wrist, his injured one and Snufkin yelps from the pain of it. Moomin has suddenly never been more angry his life.

‘Stop it!’ he roars, a bellow from somewhere previously unknown. The Grusbler stares, surprised and Moomin pleads; ‘You’re hurting him!’

Fribs hovers and Moomin glances to him, staff up defensively with an instinct. But Fribs doesn’t come any closer- if anything, he’s stepping away and Moomin can’t help but look to Snufkin again.

‘He hurt himself,’ the Grusbler replies blithely and he tightens his grip. Snufkin hisses, eyes shut and his good hand flies up to try and pry himself out of the Grusbler’s grip. Moomin’s anger burns hotter and he raises the staff, clutching it tight in both paws. The Grusbler glances at it. ‘Oh, I see.’

Moomin is breathing very quickly, chest heaving and he watches Snufkin. Snufkin is watching him back, eyes wide and Moomin can see he’s afraid. He can see how pale he is as well and Moomin can’t bear being this far. He feels like something about to explode, like gunpowder in the chamber.

The Grusbler squeezes Snufkin’s wrist and Snufkin flinches, but doesn’t let out another sound. The Grusbler seems disappointed.

‘Protective, aren’t you?’ the Grusbler says to Moomin, tugging Snufkin closer to himself and Moomin growls.

‘Get away from him!’ he shouts, moving forwards but then the Grusbler just yanks Snufkin against him. Snufkin gets paler, but stays silent and Moomin stops. Tears bloom and Moomin isn’t shaking anymore; suddenly, he’s never felt so helpless in his life. ‘Please, stop! You’re hurting him-'

‘If you’re so worried about him, you’d best let us put him back in his cage safe and sound, hadn’t you?’ the Grusbler says and Moomin has never felt like this before in his life. He imagines swinging this staff into the creature’s face, imagines breaking a tooth or two and it’s not enough. Moomin is afraid that if he starts swinging, he mightn’t stop.

‘If you don’t let him go, I swear I’ll-'

‘Oh, you swear, do you?’ the Grusbler says, cutting Moomin off. He’s so tall, so imminently wicked as he laughs and Moomin knows he thinks Moomin no threat at all. ‘Swear on what? Your bonnie garden back home? You gentlefolk wouldn’t know a fight if it came up and bit you.’

The Grusbler grins again, bends down towards Snufkin though his beady eyes are fixed on Moomin. Snufkin recoils away and Moomin growls again.

‘And this fight will bite you, little one,’ he says, leering and Moomin can’t stand it. He doesn’t want that- that beast touching Snufkin, doesn’t want him near him and simply can’t bear it any longer.

Moomin moves without thinking. He launches himself forward, swinging the staff so it might hit harder when he brings it down-

The world stops. Moomin sees stars as a bright pain bursts across his face. His eyes water and his balance is entirely thrown, sending him crumpling down to the ground in a heap and the staff rolling away. He can hear Snufkin shouting, just, as his ears are ringing and when he tries to open his eyes, he finds they’re watering.

It takes him a long moment to realise what’s happened, but when he’s finally able to see clearly, Moomin looks up and Fribs there. He’s been punched, Moomin realises as Fribs shakes out of the offending paw. Moomin has never been punched like that before in his life.

‘Don’t hurt him!’ Snufkin is saying and Moomin doesn’t register that at first as truly it sounds nothing like Snufkin at all. He sounds so afraid.

‘Just teaching him a lesson, is all,’ the Grusbler says and when Moomin tries to get back up, a boot comes in hard and fast to his stomach. He gasps, winded and falls back down. ‘You know, now I look at him, your fellow looks a bit of a cloud. Don’t you think?’

‘Please.’ Snufkin is begging and Moomin looks up from the deck to him. Snufkin is watching him with tears streaming and Moomin’s heart seizes in his chest at the sight. ‘Please, please don’t hurt him.’

‘Wonder if he floats like one,’ the Grusbler continues, ignoring Snufkin who’s starting to stutter No, no, no. The Grusbler stands up straight, yanking Snufkin with him which cuts him off with a gasp. ‘We’ll find out together, won’t we? Fribs!’

Fribs gives another kick to Moomin’s stomach and Moomin cries out, hurting like he’s never hurt before. Snufkin is shouting, the Grusbler laughing and Moomin needs to get up! He needs to get up, he needs to fight!

He looks up at Snufkin, snout throbbing and then, Moomin can’t look anywhere else. Can’t think about anything else- just Snufkin, caught in the Grusbler’s grip and begging.

I failed, Moomin thinks and the thought devastates. He reaches out, helplessly as Fribs just kicks his paw out from under him. Moomin is crying this time but it’s not from the stinging in his face, or the ache of his gut. Moomin feels a black, bottomless hopelessness open beneath him because he had promised to bring Snufkin home and he’s failed.

Snufkin is still fighting. The Grusbler moves, wrapping his other long arm around Snufkin’s waist and hoisting him up as though he weighs nothing. Snufkin kicks out his legs, leaning over the arm that holds him with his good hand outstretched to Moomin.

‘Moomintroll!’ He’s crying, pleading. ‘Moomintroll, get up! Run!’

Moomin can’t let them win, he can’t let Snufkin down.

‘Not…’ Moomin tries to push himself up, sucking in a breath and coughing as the taste of blood catches him off-guard. ‘Without you.’

‘Forget me! Just go! Go!’

‘I won’t!’ Moomin replies, voice straining he shouts it so loudly.

Snufkin stops his struggling, stunned and staring as Moomin manages to get to his knees. Moomin meets his eye, tries to think the things he’s been thinking for so long as loudly as he can in the vain hope Snufkin might understand.

‘I won’t lose you.’

Another tear rolls down Snufkin’s cheek, drops from his chin. ‘Moomintroll…’

‘Aww, that’s sweet, innit?’ the Grusbler and Fribs laughs. Moomin is teetering, head spinning but he tries to focus. He’s sore all over, head feeling like someone’s hammering a stiff nail right between his eyes. ‘Don’t worry though. He’s not going anywhere.’

Moomin makes a fist, swallows the metallic taste in his mouth and meets the Grusbler’s gaze through the haze of tears.

The Grusbler grins. ‘Shame about you though.’

Fribs steps towards him, fist raised and Moomin tries to think of how to stop it. He needs to hit him back, needs to push him, needs to get up!

But then-

It happens so quickly, Moomin doesn’t realise what’s truly happening until it is.

Fribs startles, tripping over his own feet and landing back onto his rear with a shout. Moomin stares, forgetting all about the pain as he watches the Joxter land on his boots and hands, like a bizarre cat, seemingly dropping from one of the long boat ropes that come down from the airship’s chimney.

He reaches out with a dark paw, taking the staff up from where Moomin has dropped it.

‘Joxter…’ Moomin says, quiet and full of awe as the Joxter stands, unfolding in one fluid motion. With his hat, he seems nearly as tall as the Grusbler. He stands firm between Moomin and the others, his tail still as a rod.

The Joxter swings the staff in a threatening arc, holding it against his side as if ready to strike. 

‘And who the blazes are you supposed to be?’ the Grusbler asks, eyes wide and it’s the first time Moomin has seen anything but that slimy smirk on his face.

‘Why, the one who stops you, of course,’ the Joxter replies breezily. He points the end of his staff towards the Grusbler, voice dropping and whatever ease to his voice is blown away, for every word is ice; ‘Let him go.’

‘Don’t think I will, stranger,’ the Grusbler replies tartly, taking a step back and bringing Snufkin with him. The Joxter takes the same step forwards.

‘I wasn’t asking you, Sneak.’

Moomin gets to his knees, watching Snufkin solely as he does though Snufkin doesn’t watch him back. He’s only looking to the Joxter, pale as starch and he reminds Moomin of a clock stopped, for not even his tears are falling anymore. His eyes are fixed on the Joxter, bright as a moon and Moomin has never seen an expression like this on Snufkin’s face before.

Moomin wonders, unbidden, if Snufkin recognises just who’s come to save them at all.

‘And I ain’t offering,’ the Grusbler replies, showing his own teeth again. Moomin gets to his feet, rushes forwards but is stopped at once by the Joxter’s paw, which he throws out. The Grusbler looks between them. ‘So, what’s the plan then? You two knuckle-heads think you have it in you to fight your way out?’

The Grusbler tugs Snufkin up a bit, the movement seeming to break Snufkin from his shock. He gives out, kicking his legs once again but the Grusbler takes him by the bad wrist with his other paw, gripping there so Snufkin yelps.

‘Because me thinks I got a bit of a bargaining chip here,’ the Grusbler says between his yellow teeth and Moomin makes a fist, desperately wanting to punch every one of them out.

Moomin growls, furious and he’s not alone, for the Joxter raises his staff at once with both paws. He holds it steady, but when Moomin glances at his paws he can see the claws are out.

‘Let him go,’ the Joxter says again, words laced with venom. The Grusbler grins, though it’s not as easy a thing as Moomin has seen so far. Moomin thinks, perhaps naively, that the Grusbler might just be scared.

‘Or what?’ the Grusbler taunts, letting Snufkin’s wrist go. Snufkin cradles it to his chest best he can, with the Grusbler’s other arm around his middle. ‘You’ll give me an old clap round the ear with your walking stick there? Then what? Bang me and Fribs in the cage for the journey home, is it?’

‘I don’t have a cage for you,’ the Joxter snarls, sounding unlike anything Moomin has ever heard before. ‘But I’d dig you a grave. I won’t tell you again, Sneak. Let him go.’

There is nothing but dark promise in those words and the Grusbler doesn’t seem to have a reply for it, his face turning sour. Fribs comes up close to him, both fists raised but he looks more alarmed than anything. His beady eyes flick between the Grusbler and the Joxter, bouncing on his feet like something bobbing.

‘What should I do, Grusbler?’ he asks, voice wavering but he raises his fists much the same. Moomin looks to Snufkin, who meets his eye. When he does, Moomin feels something click together in his chest, like the buckle of a shoe and somehow knows before he does it, what Snufkin is about to do.

Snufkin goes tense, tucking his chin, before opening his mouth wide and biting right down on the Grusbler’s arm, that one canine Moomin knows so incredibly well sinking right through the sleeve of the Sneak’s coat.

The Grusbler gives shriek of his own and throws both arms out instantly, dropping Snufkin like a hot coal. Snufkin rolls on the deck, arms tucked in and as quickly as he was let go, he’s back on his feet again.

‘Snufkin!’ Moomin runs around the Joxter, paws out to take Snufkin into them. Snufkin sinks against him, good hand right to the side of Moomin’s face. ‘I’m so sorry, I should’ve-'

‘No, no,’ Snufkin says, shaking his head. Shaking all over, really Moomin can feel now that he’s  holding Snufkin against his body. ‘No sorries.’

‘You nasty little beast!’ the Grusbler roars, making them both jump. Moomin presses Snufkin to his chest, baring his teeth against where the Grusbler scrambles with his coat. ‘Oh, I’m well tired of playing silly beggars with you, ‘bout time you take your medicine!’

Moomin’s blood goes cold as the Grusbler pulls out a pistol from the inside of his coat, aiming straight for him. He twists, getting Snufkin behind him and raises his paws, like it may somehow stop what’s about to happen.

The Joxter’s staff comes right against the Grusbler’s snout, sending him crashing down to the deck. The Joxter is light on his boots, side-stepping the mess of where the Grusbler sprawls and putting himself firmly between the Sneaks and Moomin with Snufkin. His back is curved over his staff, tail as thick and spiky as a bottle brush.

‘That’s close enough,’ the Joxter hisses furiously. Fribs runs to the Grusbler, trying to help him up but the Grusbler pushes him off. When he gets to his feet, his yellow eyes are on the Joxter and burning.

‘Not nearly, I’d say.’ The Grusbler reaches into his coat pocket and takes out a knife; it flashes in the daylight as they pass through some clouds, and Moomin recognises it as Snufkin’s own. ‘I reckon we can get a whole lot friendlier.’

The Joxter moves first, unwilling or perhaps unable to stop himself. He pivots forward on one foot, lighter than one might think in his boots and comes up along the Grusbler’s side, staff swinging. The Grusbler waves the knife, knocking the staff as it comes and there’s a horrid thunk! as the blade and wood make contact.

The Joxter slides under the Grusbler’s arm, righting himself with a twist. For the first time, Moomin gets a look at his face and Moomin knows then that Snufkin couldn’t recognise a thing in the Joxter’s face, for he doesn’t himself; the Joxter’s teeth are out, even the faint pink of his gums and his nose wrinkled with the force of his growl.

The Grusbler turns, jumping back as he does and he raises the knife. ‘You know, I ought to have recognised you! The resemblance is pretty uncanny, ain’t it, Fribs?’

‘Watch out’ Moomin cries as Fribs runs for the Joxter, spurred on by the Grusbler’s words. The Joxter doesn’t need the warning though, dropping to his paws and kicking one of his lanky legs out. He knocks Fribs’ ankle out with one kick, sending him tumbling.

‘Get to the lifeboat, Moomintroll!’ the Joxter shouts as he rights himself, looking to Moomin. ‘Take Snufkin and go!’

‘No!’ Moomin replies, fraught. ‘We can’t go without you!’

The Joxter doesn’t get the chance to reply, for the Grusbler charges at him with the knife. The Joxter rolls over, snatching his staff back up and blocking the knife before it plunges into him. Moomin moves forward, instinct to help but he stops himself, feeling the way Snufkin grips him tightly.

‘Moomintroll, no!’ he says and when Moomin looks to him, his eyes are wide with fear. ‘Don’t be reckless!’

Just as he says it, Snufkin’s eyes move away from Moomin to just over his shoulder. Snufkin uses his grip to suddenly drag Moomin to the left, pushing himself forward. Moomin watches in panic as Snufkin rushes ahead, letting Moomin go to land one, solid punch to Fribs’ face. It hits him in the nose, sending Fribs reeling back.

Snufkin jumps away from him as quickly as he’d hit him, back to Moomin’s paws.

‘What happened to don’t be reckless?’ Moomin says, horrified as Snufkin shakes out his left hand with a wince.

‘I told you don’t be reckless!’ Snufkin replies reasonably, despite how quite insane the whole thing was. ‘Which is very different!’

Fribs rubs at his face, swearing profusely. His watery eyes go to Moomin, who steps forward with both paws raised into fists. ‘Oh, you’re going to get it now, troll!’

‘Not if I give it to you first, you wretch!’ Snufkin says, which is awfully bold for someone with only one hand going for them and they just nearly broke it. Moomin loves him so desperately in this moment it nearly startles him.

When Fribs moves again, Moomin is ready for him. He catches Fribs’ fist as it comes towards him, surprising himself with the strength that comes. He nearly topples, but Moomin manages to pull Fribs by the fist and throw him in the other direction. Snufkin holds him by the shoulder, keeping him right as Fribs goes head over heels in the other direction.

Both Moomin and Snufkin look over when there’s a shout of pain from across the deck.

The Grusbler is on his back on the other side, lying quite still as the Joxter runs from him, towards Moomin and Snufkin. Snufkin presses to Moomin’s side, as though afraid the Joxter may show them the same curtesy Fribs has.

‘We don’t have a lot of time,’ the Joxter says as he comes up to them, gaze shifting to Snufkin. As it does, his momentum fails. Suddenly, he resembles something like a tent with its pole snapped by the way his knees wobble.

‘Joxter…’ Moomin starts, but truly, he doesn’t know what to say as the Joxter and Snufkin look at each other for the first time… in goodness knows how long.

The Joxter lowers his staff, as though his arms were taken to a weakness. Perhaps they are, Moomin thinks, as the Joxter’s face splits like a wound. Any viciousness from before is quite vanished, bleeding out of him and when he blinks, his eyes go the same, mournful dark Snufkin’s do in the night.

‘Snufkin…’ the Joxter whispers, whiskers twitching. Moomin glances to Snufkin, sees the frown that brews on his face. ‘I…’

Pressed together as they are, Moomin can feel the hurried rise and fall of Snufkin’s chest against him. Like the beat of a small bird’s wings.

‘I’ve… I’ve never seen another like me before,’ Snufkin replies, hushed and maybe daunted. ‘Are you Moomintroll’s friend? The one who’s helped him?’

Moomin looks at the Joxter just see his heart break. It splinters his expression, the way glass goes pale before it shatters.

‘I…’ The Joxter’s paw, which had been slowly reaching, drops like a stone. He curls his fist inwards, as though peeling his own feelings back. ‘You don’t know me?’

Snufkin frowns. ‘Ought I?’

Moomin watches them, wonders what to say, what possibly can be said in the wake of such a thing. The truth of it simmers, between his teeth and Moomin wonders if he were to open his mouth at all, would it escape like steam.

He doesn’t get the chance either way, for they’re all caught off guard by a clattering against the airship. Moomin jumps away from the noise, pulling Snufkin with him and looks over just as the Joxter runs past.

Fribs is at the gunwale, by the lower end of where the lifeboat is tethered though he doesn’t stay there long, for the Joxter sticks his staff out ahead of him, hitting Fribs in the gut. Fribs doubles over, wheezing but there’s a metallic groan, and then the scrape of wood on wood.

Moomin watches with horror as he realises that Fribs has pulled one of the release levers, and the bottom half of the lifeboat drops.

‘No, no!’

Moomin lets Snufkin go and rushes to the gunwale, to the other lever and grips it with both paws just in case it gives way. It doesn’t, thankfully, but the lifeboat is hanging at an angle now, just close enough to hop into. Moomin wonders how long the second clutch will hold.

Snufkin comes to Moomin. ‘Moomintroll, we have to go.’

‘We’re out of time,’ the Joxter says, appearing next to Moomin again and making him jump. Snufkin eyes the Joxter warily, and the hand that goes to Moomin’s wrist clutches tight there. ‘Get into the lifeboat, now. I’ll hold them off while you do.’

‘And then you’ll jump in with us?’ Moomin asks and the Joxter glances at him, before his eyes settle on Snufkin again. That same, unfathomable expression that Moomin has seen so often now. ‘Joxter?’

‘Put Snufkin in the lifeboat, Moomintroll.’

‘Joxter, wait-'

‘Put him in the lifeboat!’

‘Stop it, I don’t need to be put anywhere!’ Snufkin interrupts and the Joxter freezes. ‘I’m not a child.’

‘No…’ the Joxter says, eyes fixed on Snufkin’s face. ‘I don’t suppose you are.’

‘If you are Moomintroll’s friend, then I won’t let him leave you behind!’ Snufkin says and Moomin can’t look away from the Joxter’s face. The sadness that blooms there before he turns his mouth into a hard line with teeth.

‘Then I am not his friend,’ the Joxter says and his ducks his head to hide his face with the brim of his hat.

Moomin opens his mouth then, forgetting his promise for he can’t bear the cruelty of the silence any longer but then the Joxter is pulled away from both of them by Fribs with a shout.

He isn’t thrown far, Fribs clearly looking to hurt him more than anything. But the Joxter crashes into the deck with a horrid whack that leaves him groaning, hat knocked off his head and his satchel swinging off his shoulder. It unbuckles and scatters the contents everywhere. Something hits Moomin’s foot.

Fribs turns to Moomin and Snufkin. ‘You know, you really just ain’t worth the trouble, Mumrik.’

Moomin lets go of the lever and drops down, grabbing the revolver that hit his foot, the one the Joxter took from Fribs before. He raises it with both paws, heart pounding so much in his ears he can barely hear the desperate noise of protest Snufkin makes.

‘Stay away!’ Moomin shouts, trying to keep the revolver steady but it feels so much heavier than he could’ve thought. It swings madly, but Fribs stops like a clock all the same.

‘Now, now!” Fribs says, holding his paws up quickly and jumping back. ‘No need getting hasty!’

Moomin keeps the revolver aimed best he can as he tries to nudge Snufkin with his shoulder. ‘Snufkin, get in the boat. Get in the boat now.’

‘Not without you!’

‘Snufkin!’ Moomin is nearly crying with desperation. ‘For once in your life, will you just do as you're bloody told and get in the boat?’

Snufkin still doesn’t move and Moomin groans with frustration, giving one paw away to try and get a hold of him. He makes a fist in Snufkin’s smock.

‘I’m right behind you,’ Moomin says, wishing so terribly he could look at Snufkin but he refuses to take his eye off Fribs. ‘I’m always right behind you.’

Snufkin pushes his face into the back of Moomin’s neck, so close Moomin can feel his lips move against his pelt.

‘You better be.’

Snufkin moves then and Moomin keeps one ear flicked behind him, listening to Snufkin clamber over the gunwale, as he tries to steady the revolver with both paws again. Fribs hasn’t moved, but that panicked look from before is fading from his face. Moomin jerks the revolver forward, like it might make it more threatening.

‘W-we’re leaving,’ Moomin says, stuttering with the way his chest is heaving. ‘And you are never coming near us again. Ever.’

Fribs’ gaze flicks to the revolver and then, to Moomin’s horror, he starts smiling.

‘That what you think, is it?’

Fribs takes a step forward. Moomin shakes the revolver.

‘Don’t come any closer!’

‘Or what, chum?’ Fribs asks as he does so anyway. Moomin puts a finger to the trigger. ‘You and I both know you ain’t got it in you to use that thing.’

Moomin looks down at the revolver himself; the unusual shape of it, the way it feels in his paws compared to Papa’s big rifle. They’ve only ever shot cans with that, Moomin thinks and what a strange thing to remember now. No one ever thought Moomin had been any good.

He lowers the revolver.

‘Moomintroll!’ the Joxter’s voice is fraught, alarmed and when Moomin looks, he sees the Joxter is pointing upwards. ‘The lifeboat, quickly! We’re almost out of time!’

‘Time for what? None of you are going anywhere!’ Fribs shouts, before Moomin can reply but Moomin doesn’t look at him, he looks at where the Joxter is pointing. The chimney isn’t smoking, Moomin realises and his heart stops.

Then, the airship tilts.

It does so in the opposite direction at such an immense speed, that Moomin loses his balance and falls. He hears Snufkin shout his name as he rolls down the deck, head spinning as he goes. Moomin loses the revolver in the mayhem, but someone starts to slide down past him.

Moomin slides until he lands against a warm body. Moomin cries out with fright, but the Joxter grips him tight by the shoulder.

‘Hang on,’ he says again, more urgent as the airship takes another turn. He cannot see, cannot make sense of it all but it feels the way a sycamore leaf falls, Moomin feels. Moomin raises his head and looks across the deck, looks for Snufkin.

Snufkin is in the lifeboat, though he’s clutching tightly to the gunwale of the airship. His eyes meet Moomin’s across the deck and Moomin’s eyes water. They’re so close…

The airship begins to steady some, its winged sails catching on the drag but Moomin can feel the lurch in his gut; the airship is starting to fall.

‘What did you do?!’ someone roars and Moomin looks as Fribs stumbles to his feet, heading back towards the door down into the hull. He vanishes through it, nearly falling with each turn of the airship.

As suddenly as it had wronged, the airship’s angle starts to right itself and both Moomin and the Joxter slide apart from the motion. Moomin leans on all fours for a moment, trying to hold down the horrid swirling in his stomach. 

‘We need to go,’ the Joxter says, getting up and holding a paw out to Moomin. Moomin stares at him, caught by how different he seems without his hat. How much more like Snufkin, and yet all the more different.

Moomin looks at Snufkin, who’s still in the lifeboat, thank the stars, though he seems to be trying to pull himself back over the gunwale, but failing. He mustn’t be strong enough with just one arm.

Moomin is dragged to his feet by the Joxter then, though it’s not much better given how the airship sinks through the clouds. Moomin wonders if it’s his own panic that makes it feel like the drop is getting steeper each terrible moment.

‘You know,’ a voice says and Moomin freezes. ‘Even for the likes of your kind, this is quite the mess.’

Moomin and the Joxter both look up, to the upper deck where the Grusbler stands at the helm. Moomin realises with the same, ice-cold kick in his blood that the airship hadn’t righted itself. The Grusbler walks towards the railing, paw revealing itself from his coat pocket. He points his pistol down at the pair of them.

The Joxter immediately goes in front of Moomin, shoving him. He's lost his staff.

‘Never let it be said I’m not an opportunist,’ the Grusbler says, grinning. He’s so dark in colour, Moomin can’t see for sure but the side of the fur on the side of the Grusbler’s head is matted as though wet. ‘You want the little one so badly? Take him then.’

Moomin frowns, confused. The Joxter visibly tenses.

‘But you,’ the Grusbler says, pointing his pistol firmly at the Joxter. ‘You stay.’

‘No!’ Moomin says, rushing forward but the Joxter’s arms hits him.

‘Lifeboat, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter orders, the wind blowing his unruly hair in all directions. ‘Go now. You won’t get another chance.’

‘But-' Moomin looks at the Joxter’s back, then across the deck to Snufkin, who’s watching from the lifeboat. ‘You can’t! You can’t give up now! What about Snufkin?’

‘He made it this far without me,’ the Joxter says, and the dreadful gasp he makes then sounds like a laugh pulled inside out. Like a wound. ‘He can make it the rest of the way.’

‘No…’

‘Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says, looking over his shoulder. When he meets Moomin’s eye, Moomin can see he’s crying. ‘You promised me you would save Snufkin. So please, save him.’

Moomin stands, irresolute and horrified. ‘Joxter, I-'

‘If you do not go on your own, I will throw you into that boat myself!’ the Joxter hisses and Moomin jumps back. Still, he hesitates, but when Moomin looks to Snufkin again, he realises with the horrible, heavy weight in his chest of something inevitable that the decision is made.

‘Joxter, I’m- I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sorry, too,’ the Joxter replies, back still turned though the hiss is gone from his voice. Moomin reaches out, his paw hoovering just behind the Joxter’s back. Then, Moomin runs.

Snufkin reaches out for him the moment he’s close enough.

‘Moomintroll!’ Snufkin cries, teetering in the kerfuffle as the airship shudders once more, causing the little lifeboat to clatter against it. ‘Come here, please!’

Moomin doesn’t come. He turns over his shoulder, looks at the falling ropes from the chimney and the clouds rushing by. Looks up to see the Joxter making his way up towards the top deck; his shoulders are down, paws up. There’s nothing of a fight in him.

Moomin grips the gunwale so tightly his knuckles crack. A warm hand comes down upon them.

‘Moomintroll?’ Snufkin calls, less sure and Moomin looks back to him.

The compass is set, the Joxter said so. The Joxter wouldn’t lie about that. Not about keeping Snufkin safe, Moomin knows. It has always been the one thing they could agree on.

‘Snufkin…’ Moomin says, fondly for he is. Has been for so wretchedly, wretchedly long.

Moomin moves his paws. He can’t stop thinking about the compass, set for home.

‘Moomintroll, hurry, please!’

When Moomin looks at Snufkin’s face, he can see it so clearly in the brilliant colour of Snufkin’s cheeks, the scrunch between his eyes, that Moomin wonders how he ever could’ve thought Snufkin hard to read before.

Right now, Moomin can see that Snufkin knows exactly what he’s going to do. Moomin wonders if Snufkin will forgive him.

Snufkin rushes forward, reaching up for Moomin’s face.

‘Moomintroll-'

Moomin acts with that desperation he thinks he’s been feeling ever since finding Snufkin’s hat abandoned that very first day; that grief for a chance he worried he’d missed, the longing for a love unknown. He lets go off the gunwale, reaches back and takes Snufkin steady by the cheek. 

It’s over so quickly Moomin is suddenly deeply afraid he’ll never remember it. But he uses the momentum of the falling airship, the surprise in Snufkin, to take the chance on something he’s ached to do for so incredibly long. 

His nose hits Snufkin’s and Moomin goes hot all over. His eyes sting and his heart is a thundering machine in his chest; it’s an engine burning too hot, the reel of a fishing rod spinning too fast. Kissing Snufkin is what Moomin has wanted to do for years and each one feels like a step taken towards this moment. 

And just when Snufkin goes still, just when his head starts to tilt and press closer as he realises what Moomin is giving him- Moomin pulls the second lever.

Snufkin shouts, hand outstretched above him towards Moomin as the lifeboat is released entirely. It falls straight down like a stone, the wings erupting out of it as it goes like a dragonfly. It catches on the speeding wind and blows away, too far for either of them to reach the other now. There is too much sky between.

‘Moomintroll!’

Snufkin stumbles backwards into the lifeboat, unable to get a steady grip with his good hand. He falls to his rear, safely within and Moomin gasps, all the breath rushing out of his lungs as the grief punches through him watching Snufkin fly away.

‘I’m so sorry, Snufkin,’ Moomin says for he deeply is, not that Snufkin can hear him. Moomin doesn’t wait for the lifeboat to vanish; there’s no time for that. 

So he turns his back to the sky, eyes up on the top deck. Moomin can’t see the Grusbler or the Joxter from where he is, they must be too far on the other side. Moomin wipes at his eyes, tries to get the desperate wail of Snufkin’s voice out of his ears where it rings like a large, brass bell.

But Moomin kept his promise, and he’ll be damned if he won’t let the Joxter’s keep his, too.

Chapter Text

Moomin thought he would feel different. Like all those stories he'd read, all the little love songs Mama would sing; the idea of love had seemed like it would've changed Moomin from one thing into another, a magic unto itself.

But Moomin doesn't feel different. Not even his snout tingles. It's like it never happened at all, and the wretched wrongness swells open as the sky because all that is truly different is that Snufkin is gone.

Moomin has never thought, in a thousand thoughts, that he would ever send Snufkin away. 

But he has, and there’s nowhere to go, now that the lifeboat is gone. Nowhere but to where the Joxter is, and Moomin knows there isn’t a more dangerous place to be.

The airship is the unsteady of a small boat in too big a storm and when Moomin glances to it, he sees the chimney still isn’t lit. The engine isn’t running, and if it were not for the sails the airship would’ve fallen by now. Moomin knows things are starting to go very wrong around him. 

Moomin just needs to save the Joxter before whatever time there is falls out from under them entirely.

But he can’t face the Grusbler with nothing but his paws, so Moomin starts to stumble across the deck. He’s almost on his knees, sliding as the airship tilts too far one way, or then another. He has his paws out with a frantic speed to toss the debris about for something to arm himself with.

‘Come on, come on!’ he says as the clouds start to roll over, pouring through the deck like milk spilled. The airship is getting lower every moment and Moomin needs to be faster!

Something groans, and it reminds Moomin of the creaking of a great tree before it falls. He looks up, only for the airship to suddenly spin as though it hit a cloud too thick. He rolls across the deck, into the ropes that have tangled together in all the havoc.

Moomin throws a paw down to try and stop himself. It goes right into the ropes and hits something hard. Moomin’s stomach turns leaden, his paw twisting around to pull the ropes apart some and get at it. When he pulls the pistol out, the pistol they’d taken off Fribs all those hours ago, Moomin thinks, suddenly and bizarrely, of the look on Snufkin's face before he vanished into the clouds.

If Snufkin were here- but Snufkin is not, Moomin reminds himself firmly. There's no one left to save them but Moomin himself.

Moomin pulls the pistol to his chest and looks behind, up the steps towards the quarter-deck. There is only one way to go and it is up, to where the Joxter is.

Moomin wonders how he could ever have called all other things he felt before fear, when now as he gets to his wobbling feet, the true meaning of it crashes down on top of him like a wave.

Moomin gets down low, half from the need for stealth and half from the thought that climbing the steps proper puts him too precariously close to being thrown off the airship altogether. Moomin keeps his eyes fixed ahead, quite sure that if he were to glance over, he’d lose his mettle entirely. Moomin’s lost enough, but to lose his nerve would be the end of it and Moomin cannot allow it to end here.

Climbing the steps, Moomin isn’t quite sure what he’s expecting until he makes it to the top and doesn’t see it.

He is expecting to see the Joxter in a fight. But what Moomin sees instead of all such things, is the Joxter slumped against the planking right in front of him, looking for all the world like someone defeated.

‘No…’ Moomin says, so quiet. Barely a word. But the Joxter’s ear twitches and he turns at once. When his eyes meet Moomin’s, the colour drains from him like a sponge wrung out.

The Joxter’s mouth opens, and for a moment, his chest caves in as though struck. He stares at Moomin and for the first time, Moomin feels a stick of doubt over his recklessness. It had seemed like no choice at all before, but now Moomin bites his lip as an excuse threatens to escape him.

What excuse could he possibly give, Moomin thinks as the Joxter stares at him. Moomin has been stuck with him long enough now to recognise the curl of his lip, the way his whiskers go taut. The Joxter is furious and it bleeds from him. 

Moomin inches forward, only for the Joxter to slap his tail to the floor. Moomin stops, heart in his throat.

‘I’d say you’re more trouble than you’re worth.’ The Grusbler’s voice comes before his boot, as steps into Moomin’s sight. Moomin drops down quickly, sliding down a step in his rush to be hidden. ‘But the brass on your head is enough to cover even the bodge you made of our engine and then some, so I guess it works out pennies, don’t it?’

The Joxter doesn’t answer that. Moomin waits, wonders if the Joxter is even listening at all. He looks down to his paws, at the pistol. It feels heavier every time he thinks about what he may have to do with it.

If Snufkin were here-

But Snufkin isn't, Moomin thinks. Forces himself to think it again and again.

‘Shame about your sprog, though,’ the Grusbler continues and Moomin flicks his ear, trying to gauge where he may be. ‘He’s so silly a thing, it’s a wonder he hasn’t been gobbled up by some hungry beast already.’

Moomin seethes quietly, heart pounding in his chest. He needs to move, needs to do something- Joxter must be tied down somewhat, and that must be why he can’t fight. It’s up to Moomin all the more now.

‘What’s the matter, eh? Cat got your tongue?’

‘Leaves me wanting, perhaps I’ll take yours for the time that’s in it,’ the Joxter replies, all teeth it sounds. ‘Which won’t be quite as long as you think and at least I’ll die with a full stomach.’

The Grusbler clicks said tongue. ‘You know, I actually think I like you better quiet.’

‘The feeling’s mutual.’

There's the sound of more boots and the scrape of something on the wood.

‘I hope they make a pelt of you,’ the Grusbler says, sounding irritated. ‘Keep some Hemulen warm and be some good to someone. Considering the thorn in my side you’ve been, the sooner you’re gone, the happier I’ll be to get this whole mess behind the lot of us.’

'How confident you are, for a creature's whose ship is sinking.'

The Grusbler huffs. 'My ship is just fine for what I need, I say.'

‘I’d say your head was in the clouds, were it not for how quick we’re falling out of them,’ the Joxter says and before the Grusbler can reply, the airship shudders around them. Moomin can feel the wood of the steps starting to tremble beneath him.

The Grusbler swears and Moomin hears him stomp away, perhaps back towards the helm. Moomin pokes his head back up, looking to the Joxter.

The Joxter is staring right at him and Moomin’s stomach turns, his bravery almost wilting in the face of such clear displeasure. But it's a short-lived thing, for just as quick Moomin remembers how foolish the Joxter was at all to get them into this to begin with.

The Joxter can be as angry as he likes and tough luck about it, Moomin thinks, glancing over to the Grusbler where he stands at the helm with his back to them.

Moomin crawls up onto the quarter-deck, scooting across it on his knees as quick as he can to the Joxter. Moomin reaches out to him with one paw, tugging on his coat and ignoring what sounds suspiciously like a small growl coming from between the Joxter’s teeth.

‘You complete and absolute fool,’ the Joxter hisses, with so much venom Moomin nearly flinches. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Rescuing you, obviously,’ Moomin says, getting angry himself now with how unhelpful the Joxter is being in letting Moomin see where he’s tied down.

‘You didn’t come all this way to rescue me! Where’s Snufkin?’

‘Gone,’ Moomin replies and he meets the Joxter’s eye then, stares into that unnatural blue of them. ‘I sent him away.’

The Joxter’s whiskers droop. ‘And you stayed?’

‘I told you,’ Moomin says firmly. ‘I’m rescuing you.’

‘It’d be a lie to say I don’t know where you get your lunacy,’ the Joxter says, still sounding quite wrong about it. ‘But even your father wouldn’t have been so careless about it as this.’

‘You’re the one being careless!’ Moomin snaps and the Joxter hushes him quickly. ‘You made a promise, didn’t you? You owe it to Snufkin to keep it!’

‘Moomintroll, you don’t understand,’ the Joxter says gravely as Moomin pokes him at with new vigour. He pulls the Joxter over a touch, away from the planking. ‘There’s no way back from here.’

‘There’s always a way… back…’

Moomin stops his looking, sitting on his heels as he realises that there’s nothing- nothing- holding the Joxter where he is at all. Moomin looks to his face, stunned and waiting for some explanation. The Joxter shakes his head and Moomin’s heart drops, like a stone, right down to the bottom of him.

‘You were never going to fight,’ he says and the Joxter’s whiskers twitch, his eyes going dark. ‘Joxter… what have you done?’

There’s a loud boom! from below them, the airship veering widely in the other direction with such force, like some great boot has kicked it. It goes through the clouds at such speed Moomin can barely see through them as they wash over, his body starting to slide but for the Joxter gripping him with claws.

Someone is shouting through the commotion, roaring even and as the cloud begin to part, Moomin looks across the quarter-deck to see the Grusbler struggling with the helm, head bent so close to the voice-tube next to it that his nose is nearly vanished into it entirely.

‘Fribs!’ he howls, both paws and one boot on the helm to try and hold it steady. ‘Fribs, will you open your ugly ears and answer me!’

Moomin rolls over, tries to get himself somewhat right as the Joxter holds him with one paw and behind them to the planking with the other. It would be easier, he knows, if he let go of the pistol but Moomin won’t. If anything, he holds it closer, one finger finding its way to the trigger.

The Joxter gets to his feet, pulling Moomin up with him and they both try to hold steady against the planking. The airship is rattling louder than the wind around it, so much so Moomin half fears the flooring will give way entirely.

‘You?!’

Moomin looks to the Grusbler, who’s staring at him with much the same look the Joxter gave, if the Joxter were even more angry about it all. He kicks about, knocking the lock for the helm between spokes and steps away. He wobbles, but stays upright and Moomin grits his teeth, refusing to back down this time.

‘Me,’ he says back, the Joxter’s paw on his shoulder tightening.

‘How is it even possible for any few creatures under the sun to be as vexing as you lot, eh?’ the Grusbler says, and he does look vexed, indeed. His thin lips drawback, like some beast’s jowls and Moomin can see every one of his sharp, yellow teeth.

Moomin raises the pistol. ‘That’s enough from you!’

‘Oh, is it, child?’ the Grusbler growls, his snout tilting down as his eyes narrow. ‘Seems hardly fair, considering how much the two of you have done, I’ve barely the chance to stick my oar in!’

‘I’m warning you!’ Moomin shouts, though it sounds like a weak warning even to his own ears. The pistol wavers, between the spinning of the airship and the dreadful way Moomin’s heart is starting to skip with fear in his chest. ‘You’ve lost, alright? Just let us go!’

The Grusbler barks a laugh. ‘Go? And where you going to go? Unless you got a pair wings under that fluff of yours?’

‘Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says, dark and cautioning in Moomin’s ear. ‘Please, you can’t use the pistol-‘

‘I can!’ Moomin says, eyes watering with something frightful. Moomin lets go of the planking, nearly falls but doesn’t. He stands firmly between the Joxter and the Grusbler. ‘And I will, if I have to!’

‘Strong words from something so soft,’ the Grusbler says to that. His paws twitch and Moomin watches, perhaps too much as he can’t settle on one thing. He looks at the Grusbler’s face, his paws, his boots, his teeth-

Then, the Grusbler bends his back. The look in his eyes strikes Moomin as he realises, with the terrible, bone-deep certainty that only comes when faced with something awful; that the Grusbler is going to hurt them.

The Grusbler pushes forward with speed, faster than Moomin is ready for and Moomin, with much less thought than he ever imagined possible, pulls the trigger.

The pistol clicks, but it doesn’t go off. The chamber is empty.

Moomin’s blood goes cold. He can’t move, can’t even breathe for the devastating reality floods up inside of him like water. He stares, the singular moment stretching like an eternity as the Grusbler comes towards him with a paw raised.

The Joxter jumps in front him, hitting the Grusbler right in the waist with his body and they are both sent tumbling the other way. Moomin watches, too struck and reeling still, as the Grusbler lands on his back. He gets his paws on the Joxter’s shoulders, tossing him aside like a rag-doll.

The Joxter is thrown right against the helm, his back hitting the spokes. The stick of the lock moves, but doesn’t come loose. Somehow, seeing that is what pulls Moomin out of his disbelief.

Moomin drops the pistol, letting it hit the deck and skitter away with the motion of the airship. Nausea hits, quite threatening to make good on itself as Moomin realises what he’d nearly done. What he would’ve done, had the pistol been loaded at all.

‘Joxter… Joxter!’ Moomin calls, but the Joxter is too distracted to hear for him.

The Grusbler reaches down and fists the front of the Joxter’s coat, dragging him up by it like a sack. How slight and useless the Joxter looks, when held like this.

‘You know, I think I’ve had quite enough of all this hullabaloo,’ the Grusbler growls, loud and furious. ‘Rather be done with the whole lot, I think.’

‘At least we agree on that,’ the Joxter hisses back, bending his knees. He then kicks out, right at the Grusbler’s chest who drops the Joxter at once with a shout.

‘Oh, I’m going to throw your wretched arse over this boat!’ the Grusbler threats, throwing a fist out that catches the Joxter’s shoulder as he tries to right himself. The Joxter skids across the quarter-deck, back towards Moomin who catches him.

‘Joxter!’

Moomin holds the Joxter tightly, feeling another swoop to his stomach as the airship gets caught in some updraft that has it bob.

‘I- I should’ve warned you,’ the Joxter says, breathless. ‘The chamber-‘

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Moomin replies, for it truly doesn’t.

The Grusbler looks at the pair of them, tall and horrible. Moomin has never loathed anyone more, and madly wonders if the feeling is so strong it may be the last one he has. The morbid reality of everything is starting to sink in.

‘Once you’re gone, Mumrik, your fluffy friend is next,’ the Grusbler says, paw reaching down towards his side. ‘Maybe he’ll land on you, eh? On the way down.’

The Joxter struggles to get up, leaning heavy on Moomin as he does.

‘I wouldn’t be much bothered with all that, myself,’ the Joxter retorts, almost haughty. Certainly more so than Moomin feels anyone in this situation ought to be. ‘Why not just let this airship do the falling for us?’

‘I daresay it would take the pleasure out of it,’ the Grusbler says to that, teeth out. Under his coat, Moomin can see his pistol holstered. ‘And this late in the day, best a bloke can hope for is at least that, eh?’

Moomin can feel the Joxter getting ready to pounce again, feel it in the shape of his body like the tremors of the airship around them. Moomin is faster though, pulling on the Joxter’s shoulder to throw him behind as Moomin rushes forward.

The Grusbler reaches for the pistol just as Moomin comes close. But Moomin is finally faster and he shoves the Grusbler with all the strength he has, which given the precarious nature of everything is rather too much as they both go rolling across the quarter-deck in a heap.

Moomin glances over to where the Grusbler lands, at where the hateful creature pulls himself back up. Moomin isn’t quite so quick to do it, never more aware of his own roundness than now as the airship rocks him.

‘The day you decided to leave your sweet, little garden, troll,’ the Grusbler says to him, frightening with how he looms. ‘Was a big, big mistake.’

Moomin bares his own teeth as he gets to his knees. ‘Not as big a mistake as the one you made.’

‘Oh?’ The Grusbler tilts his head, like some large bird spotting a worm. ‘And what mistake was that then?’

‘Taking my friend!’

Moomin pulls his paw back into a fist, pushing onto his feet and swinging. But the Grusbler steps back as he comes close, so Moomin misses. The Grusbler grabs his outstretched arm, twisting hard against his pelt and then Moomin is being flung in the opposite direction.

He hits the helm with a very hard whack, snapping the pole of the lock entirely.

The effect is instantaneous. The helm spins like a wheel in mud, so fast the handles near blur as Moomin looks up at it with horror. The airship starts to spin, slow for a brief moment and then not very slow at all the next.

Moomin throws a paw to the helm with desperation, but he struggles to get a grip and mostly his fingers are knocked about by the spokes. He feels sick to his stomach from the swirling movement, going so fast now his feet are nearly raising from the quarter-deck altogether.

‘Moomintroll!’ The Joxter’s voice cuts across the mayhem. ‘The helm!’

Moomin would roll his eyes for so obvious a thing, were it not for how immensely afraid he is.

Moomin’s paws are bruised, he knows, from the beating they take trying to get a hold. The airship is spinning so fast now, Moomin can feel the drag starting to tug him away. He puts one paw down to the floor, to the fastening of the helm and tries to keep himself steady by it.

When Moomin finally gets a hold on a spoke, the weight of the helm is so much it actually pulls him up with the spin. He’s on his feet too quick, and almost about to be flattened down in one rotation before his sense kicks in.

Moomin grabs the helm with both paws, groaning under the pressure that resists him at once. He can feel every pound to this airship under this helm, and indeed there are so many Moomin is quite afraid he shall lose this fight entirely.

The airship’s spinning starts to reduce, though the speed seems too caught up to consider losing the race. Moomin desperately pushes with his weight against the direction the helm seems intent on going, trying to make her right. It feels like trying to push a mountain over.

‘Moomintroll!’

The Joxter appears, right to his side and Moomin could weep with relief as the Joxter puts both paws to the helm as well, following Moomin’s lead in trying to get it somewhat steady. The airship shudders beneath them, as though protesting.

‘Come on, Moomintroll, come on,’ the Joxter says, with more confidence than Moomin feels at this moment. ‘We can do it, we can get right her right, come on.’

Silly as it is, it is comforting for the Joxter to say such things and Moomin does indeed feel the airship beginning to stop its frightful turning, though the falling sensation is not eased at all. Perhaps at this rate, Moomin thinks, the best they can hope for is too not crash too horribly.

‘That’s it, that’s it,’ the Joxter says gently, he and Moomin working in tandem as the helm’s pressure starts to ease. ‘You’re alright, you’re alright.’

‘I’m really, really not,’ Moomin says to that, though perhaps it’s obvious. When he glances to the Joxter, he near smiles at Moomin.

Then the Joxter is gone, dragged away from the helm by the Grusbler with a shout.

‘Joxter!’ Moomin cries, turning to help but the second one paw leaves the helm, it starts to resist him again. Moomin swears, forced to try and put it right once again. It is much harder with just himself. He looks over his shoulder to watch, helpless.

The Grusbler has the Joxter thrown to the planking. The Joxter gasps when he hits it, winded it seems. It looks hard for him to get to his feet. Moomin tries to move again, but the helm keeps him tethered. If he lets go, the airship is bound to throw them all off. It’s going too fast now.

Then, the Grusbler turns away from the Joxter. Instead, he faces Moomin and Moomin’s breath vanishes, caught in that frightful glare.

‘I think,’ the Grusbler says to him, growling and wicked. ‘You’re rather in my way, troll.’

The Grusbler throws his coat back, reaching for his pistol and taking into his paw. Moomin watches, frozen. He could let go, let go and see what will happen but Moomin finds he can’t. Finds himself more afraid of the fall. Or perhaps there is just too much to be afraid of at all.

Moomin thinks of Snufkin. Thinks of him so deeply, and completely, it could almost be called a peace.

But then Moomin sees the movement, just flicks his eye to see the Joxter come up to the Grusbler with force. He hits the Grusbler in the side, swinging to put himself between the wretch and Moomin.

The Joxter is forcing the Grusbler back, back towards the planking and Moomin inches away, only for the helm to creak its want of moving. Moomin stays, impotent in watching as the Joxter wrestles against the Grusbler’s grip on the pistol.

‘You bastard!’ The Grusbler is roaring, as unpleasant as any foul beast. ‘Will you not be finished until you’ve cost me every shred of my patience?’

‘You’ve-‘ the Joxter’s words are the rasp of someone beyond fury. ‘Cost me more than you could ever possibly understand.’

The Joxter pulls a paw back and plunges it into the folds of the Grusbler’s coat.

‘I hope wherever you land,’ the Joxter growls, even the curls on his head rising with his fury. ‘You see no patience again.’

And with that, the Joxter starts to push. He pushes the Grusbler backwards, and backwards. The Grusbler is trying to fight against him, but whatever strength the Joxter has seems doubled solely by his will to do it. The Grusbler is caught off-guard, tumbling on his heels with each step the Joxter forces him to take.

Moomin calls the Joxter’s name, dreadfully afraid the Joxter will go too far but the Joxter pays him no heed. He just keeps pushing, right up until the Grusbler’s back hits the planking.

‘Stop, stop ! You’ll throw us both!’ the Grusbler shrieks, sounding for the first time afraid himself.

The Joxter doesn’t stop though. Instead he bends his knees and throws himself upwards, paws turning in the swirl of the Grusbler’s coat as he pushes the Grusbler right over the edge of the quarter-deck, out into the nothing.

The Grusbler wails with a bone-chilling fright as he goes, his pistol going off with a bang! as his paws wave wildly, trying to grasp what isn’t there to save him.

Moomin chokes, his chest compressing between two equal weights of horror and relief.

The Joxter sags against the planking, seemingly overcome and he sinks to his knees. Moomin struggles to speak, everything so incredible and terrifying, but his voice slowly starts to come back to him through the shock.

‘You did it, Joxter… Joxter, you did it!’ Moomin cries out to the Joxter where he still leans, a giddiness overcoming him that Moomin is quite tempted to call madness. ‘You-'

There’s a high-pitched whistling from below them and Moomin just looks down before, for the second time, a noise erupts like the Grusbler’s bullet but if it were echoed by hundreds. The airship drops, so quick Moomin is nearly lifted entirely but the sails do their job, if barely, at catching its drag.

On the lower deck, Moomin sees the chimney start to lean, before it breaks away entirely. Horrified, Moomin watches it roll across the deck and off the airship entirely. There’s a hole in the middle of the airship and beneath his fingers, Moomin can feel the helm go as light as the wood it’s made from.

Moomin steps away, stares as the helm doesn’t move. The steering is gone, Moomin realises. And Fribs… Moomin knows with a cold certainty that anyone down where the engine was is gone, too. Everything is gone. The Joxter’s sabotage, whatever it may have been, has finally torn the engine out completely.

The airship is falling without anything left to save it, Moomin knows. It cannot be helped now; the only thing keeping it from dropping entirely are the sails, but it’s too much strain. They are going to crash.

‘Joxter, ‘ he says, before starting to panic. Moomin turns and runs to the Joxter, dropping to his knees before him. ‘Joxter, what do we do? What do we do?’

‘I…’ The Joxter seems quite out of breath, dazed even. Moomin wishes desperately he wouldn’t be. ‘There’s nothing we can do…’

‘No, no!’ Moomin is starting to feel his eyes sting again. ‘I refuse to believe that, there must be something! There must be!’

‘Moomintroll.’ The Joxter moves to put his back against the planking, chest heaving. ‘You should never have come back…’

‘Well, I did, so-‘ Moomin stops at once, eye drawn to where the Joxter has a paw clutched tightly to his side. 

Quite suddenly, the world threatens to break.

There’s blood, that much Moomin can see immediately. It’s thicker than Moomin has ever seen, and so nightmarish he struggles to grasp that it’s blood at all. Moomin has only ever seen a cut; a scrape, the prick of a needle. This is very much not that.

‘No, no, no.’ Moomin reaches without thinking, grazing the Joxter’s paw but he pulls away when the Joxter hisses.

Blood pools between the Joxter’s dark fingers, matting the fur there.

'What's- what's happened?'

The Joxter doesn't answer. Moomin stares at the clutch of the Joxter's paw, how his claws slip in and out with every heave of his chest. Moomin tries to remember anything Mama has ever said of a cut, tries to think of something but there's no kitchen, no sink, no Mama with a kind word. There's nothing, nothing at all but still Moomin says-

‘I can fix this, I can.’

He puts his paws forward, unthinking but desperate. 

‘Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says, sounding weary. He reaches with his paw, gripping Moomin’s wrist. It marks. ‘There’s no fixing this.’

'Shut up,' Moomin retorts sharply, having never meant it more. He pulls the Joxter's other paw away from the wound, just a little but it's enough for the blood to pool some. His coat is staining, spreading out like something blooming. 'You can't do this. Not now, what about-?'

Moomin can't even say it, but they look at each other then. The question lingers and Moomin's paws are wet, so wet it threatens to reach the skin beneath his pelt. 

'He looks just like her,' the Joxter says, smiling and strained. Moomin frowns, not following. 'Did you notice?'

'Joxter, I-'

'He'll be bright as her, you know,' the Joxter continues, paying Moomin no heed it seems. 'In every- ahh. Every way that could matter.'

The Joxter starts to sag. Moomin pushes back, tries to get him back up but the Joxter yelps with pain at once. Moomin's panic grows. 

'You can't do this,' Moomin urges, like it may somehow help. 'We came all this way!'

'To save Snufkin,' the Joxter replies, eyes straight to Moomin's and deep as pools. 'You sent him away?'

Moomin nods.

'The poor child,' Joxter replies, weaker and the words fade under the roaring air. 'Always being sent away...'

‘Don’t say that!’ Moomin shouts, tears coming proper now. ‘Honestly, you- you’ve always said the silliest things.’

Moomin pulls away to take the pack from his back. He wrenches it open and looks for something sensible, something to help. He should’ve been cleverer! Should’ve brought Mama’s kit, some bandages! Anything!

As it is, Moomin keeps rummaging with one paw and wiping at his eyes with the other. In the corner of his pack, shoved there in a clump, he finally meets something soft.

Perhaps it would’ve been funny, had it not been all so terrible, when Moomin pulls the napkins he’d brought from home out of the pack. As it is, Moomin is already folding them onto each other, hoping they may help.

‘Here,’ he says, wincing as he pulls the Joxter’s paw away for a moment to press the napkins against the wound. 

The wind rocks them, Joxter hissing as Moomin lands too hard against him. Moomin can barely hear anything now as the world starts rushing down around them. There's so much going wrong and Moomin doesn't know how to help any of it!

Moomin takes the Joxter’s paw, pressing it firm on the napkins.

‘Hold these here. Hold them tightly, and do not go to sleep!’

It's such a ridiculous thing to say. But all Moomin knows is what he’s read in books, what Papa has said in his stories. None of it feels helpful now. None of it feels like much of anything in the wake of such awful madness.

The Joxter closes his eyes despite Moomin’s words, tilting his head back to rest on the planking. Moomin panics.

‘Come on!’ he shouts over the roar, getting a paw to the Joxter’s shoulder. He glances at where the Joxter is holding himself; there’s blood, oh goodness, so much blood! 

‘M-Moomintroll…’ the Joxter manages, eyes just opening. ‘It’s no use.’

‘Stop talking that nonsense,’ Moomin says, gritting his teeth as he tries to think of something. ‘Come on, Joxter! You need to- here, take my paw!’

The Joxter does but weakly and Moomin tries not to look at where he’s bleeding. It’s starting to come through the napkins and Moomin has never seen anything like it. It turns his stomach, makes his throat close up. 

‘I should’ve told him…’ the Joxter says before he winces, curves in on himself and his breath turns ragged. He shakes his head. ‘No, no. Better not. Spare him the grief.’

‘Shut it. Snufkin is going to hear everything and you’re going to do it yourself,’ Moomin replies resolutely, like speaking it into existence might make it come true. ‘We’ve got to go, come on!’

But the Joxter doesn’t move. 

‘You can’t give up,’ Moomin says, anguished. He tries to pull both himself and the Joxter up but the ship’s angle makes it difficult not to topple back over. The Joxter is heavy. ‘Not now. You’ve come this far!’

The Joxter laughs and Moomin seizes. There’s blood in his mouth. ‘I’ve let him down again...'

'Please, just-'

'And taken you with me.’ The Joxter feels heavy against Moomin, heavier every moment. 'Your father was right all along.'

‘Stop being so stupid!’ Moomin says, steeling himself and he gets upright, the Joxter leaning heavy on his shoulder. ‘Nobody’s letting anyone down, or leaving anyone behind!’

Moomin starts them moving, away from the gunwale but walking feels so unsteady. The airship is bouncing as it falls, or feels like it is and the odd step is too light, like the air is slipping beneath them and Moomin is very afraid they may be blown off entirely. 

‘We just need to get out of here,’ Moomin says fiercely though there's nowhere to go. Nowhere but down. Moomin keeps moving. ‘We need to get you home. Mama will know what to do. She’ll know how to help.’

The Joxter laughs. ‘A child does think his mother knows best but I don’t think it’ll help me now, Moomintroll. Nothing to help this…’ 

‘I’m not a child,’ Moomin says and they both waver as the ship rattles again, a swooping in Moomin’s gut. ‘And don’t talk that rubbish.’

Moomin gets them both back up to the helm. It may not have anything to steer, but it’s the only thing on this ship that’s bolted down and Moomin intends to make use of at least that. He leans the Joxter against it, urging him to at least try keeping his wits about him. It doesn't seem to be doing much good.

Moomin rushes over to the side of the quarter-deck, pulling on the ropes that were once tied to the chimney. He gets what he needs and makes his way back to the helm. There are no clouds left to roll through, but the airship is starting to gain speed in its descent; they must be nearly to the ground.

Throwing himself against the helm, Moomin starts to bind the Joxter and himself to the helm best he can. He ties the knots his father taught him, and tries not to think of the ground as it rushes up towards them.

Once they’re tied down, Moomin nudges the Joxter so his eyes open.

'I told you do not go to sleep!'

The Joxter laughs; or wheezes. Hard to say. 

'Moomintroll,' he says, so quiet Moomin has to try very hard to hear him at all. The wind is so strong now it nearly pushes Moomin's ears flat against his head. 'Moomintroll, I'm sorry-'

'Don't,' Moomin snaps, not wanting to hear it. 'You're not sorry. You're never sorry and you can't start being sorry now!'

Somewhere below them, wood is splintering like cannons and Moomin seizes with fear, terrified the airship will split in two before they even hit anything.

‘You want to go and die tragically, fine!’ Moomin continues despite it, with a surety he doesn’t feel but wills to be true. ‘But it won’t be like this. We’re going to get home, we’re going to see Snufkin and you don’t have any say in it, do you hear me?’

Moomin shuts his eyes and grits his teeth, trying to block out the horrid swirl of the sky as it zooms past them. In this blinking dark, Moomin thinks of Snufkin. Of the look on his face, the shape of his hands. Thinks of how angry he is, how much he'll give out. Only Moomin won't be there to hear it.

The thought sinks in Moomin's stomach like the ship; Moomin realises he won't be going back to Moominvalley. There's no way back, there can't be and Moomin starts crying. All his tears fall upwards, his cheeks left dry.

He left Mama behind, left Papa and Snorkmaiden. Moomin can see how sad they will all be, sees how angry, too and if Moomin were to take anything back, it would be Snufkin; just for a moment, just to tell him how sorry Moomin is for all that is coming. And for all that came before, too-

'I- I never told him,' Moomin sobs, clutching tight to the Joxter and to the helm, to anything left around him. 'I never told anyone anything that could've done us all so much good!'

There's no one left to comfort Moomin in this, but if they were they'd be too late.

The ship crashes into the sea with a mighty boom like thunder.