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“I know that each one of us travels to love alone,
alone to faith and to death.
I know it. I’ve tried it. It doesn’t help.
Let me come with you.”
Yannis Ritsos. "Moonlight Sonata." 1956.
There was a storm on the horizon, and Snufkin could feel it—had felt it since supper. The air, thick and full of static, set his fur on end, left his joints aching. The world thrummed, beckoned him, and as soon as its shadow had settled over the valley, Snufkin had slipped away unnoticed and allowed himself to be led where it wanted him.
He inched his way along, the dying undergrowth crunching underfoot as he laid paws over the bark of every tree he passed, anchoring himself to the world.
Eventually, his feet brought him to the coast, and the grassy cliff where the Moomins once dried their cod, back when the family still cared much for fish. Moominmamma couldn't stomach it now. Snufkin no longer caught more than he needed, and went on his fishing trips quite alone.
He was unsure why, of all places, he had to be brought here. But instincts such as these were rarely denied. He pressed his paw to a pair of trees twisted within another, and lingered there, savouring that last moment before a discovery. The bark peeled in narrow feathers, scratchy under his fingertips. He couldn't help but think of the neck of some old bird, stranded in the earth, reaching for the sky.
Snufkin took the last step around it, paw falling away as he broke from under the canopy. As soon as he had done so, all hope of the relief he'd been chasing left him, and Snufkin's stomach dropped. A tingle ran across his skin, just shy of an itch, like a hovering touch. Snufkin tensed. He knew that feeling well.
Turning his head, he met the pair of eyes he'd been dreading. There, on the large boulder, right at the edge of the woods, sat Moomintroll, still and silent, the earth baring its roots at his feet. Snufkin stood unmoving, betrayed of the solitude he'd been hoping to find, staring back into the familiar eyes of his old friend—if Snufkin could even still call him that. Truthfully, he did not much know what to call him these days.
This was them now, distant, avoidant. These new roles had gone as unspoken as everything else. Snufkin still did not know why he'd shied away from him, only that he had stuck with that impulse decision. The day Moomintroll had docked at the jetty, Snufkin had felt such a downpour of emotions, and known not what to do. So he had done as a Snufkin does: he'd packed his camp and gone looking for the nearest place where Moomintroll would not find him. Moomintroll hadn't gone after him. It hadn't taken long for Snufkin to realise that he wouldn't be. It had been a painfully lengthy and strangely lonely time since Moomintroll's return to the valley.
Snufkin did not know what he'd expected Moomintroll to do once they inevitably ran into each other again, but faced with him now, all Moomintroll did was stare, as though in wait. For what, Snufkin could not tell. Apology, he would not give, if that was what he wanted. Snufkin believed he'd already paid the price for his forgotten letter.
"Have you come looking for fish?"
Snufkin jolted at the unexpected voice, the timber of it cutting through the tense air. When had Moomintroll last spoken to him? He could not recall, but Snufkin's pulse sped at the sound of his voice, stuck somewhere between recognition and disorientation, in that tender spot he could not yet make sense of.
He looked up at the cage in question, finding himself no longer able to look at Moomintroll. The silhouette of it stood starkly against the sky, high up on its hill. Even from there, Snufkin could tell it was very much empty.
But here he was. Not for the fish, but for something. Moomintroll and that empty cage were the only things waiting for him. Standing there with Moomintroll was out of the question, and Snufkin was tired of running away with his tail between his legs—too tired to have walked all this way only to give Moomintroll the privilege of knowing that he'd gotten under his skin.
Snufkin kept his eyes forward as he started the arduous climb forward, one heavy boot in front of the other, clutching at his hat so the winds wouldn't try to take it. The world beyond came slowly into view.
When he reached the top, he stopped next to the cage and gripped one of the wooden bars. A bit of rope still remained inside, blowing gently. The door was latched, but not locked—never locked. Snufkin gazed into the emptiness inside with unease, the absence wrong, as though the unoccupied space had left an unseemly gap in his memory. He wondered what belonged in there, now.
He turned his attention to the impending storm. The clouds were ghastly, the shape of something torn violently. They moved worryingly quick, like waves, a glow concealed just behind them, more omen than anything hopeful. The sea was restless beneath it, the horizon between them blurred, and it seemed that the very world ended right where the coast did. The storm wouldn't be for another few minutes, perhaps, but the wind thrummed into his ear in warning.
A gust struck him harshly, and he spun around with it to face a horizon far worse. One could see Moominhouse up on its hill from there, just past the treeline, lit but for the top window.
Snufkin did not feel cold often. His body was made to adapt to it. But in that moment, he felt a cold the likes of which he could not overcome. The warmth pushed to his skin as he stood still, and was expelled out into the air until he matched the breeze that hit him. Come Summer again, perhaps he would thaw. But for now, Snufkin had to resolve himself to missing the warmth.
He extended his paw out towards the house, holding it flat so as to cover the sight completely. The light shone through the gaps between his fingers, and for a moment, Snufkin could pretend it was a star, and nothing else. It was as though Moominhouse had never been there at all, only a wide and free expanse of green. He lowered his paw, and there it returned, for all appearances the same as it had always been, but Snufkin knew it not to be so. He could not find the comfort in it like he once had. It loomed now, more than it beaconed.
His gaze dropped, and fell to where Moomintroll had stood up, still watching him. Snufkin was filled with trepidation. Don't, he thought. Just don't. Not now. I don't need you now, of all times.
But that did not stop Moomintroll from moving forward. These days, Snufkin no longer pretended that Moomintroll could hear him. Even if he somehow could, he had never listened. Snufkin supposed he hadn't either. The wind shifted on him and his chest grew heavy as lead. He could scarcely breathe. It was the sea air, he told himself. That was why he felt this way. He'd smoked so much in the last year that his lungs were disagreeing with it now. Nothing else.
Moomintroll met him, up on that hill. He'd gotten somehow even taller, Snufkin noticed, now that they stood close. He hadn't realised it. He'd hardly gotten a chance to be this close to him until now. His coat was already growing thicker, the wispy ends of it shivering in the wind.
Moomintroll took hold of the same bar, just above Snufkin's own paw, and Snufkin mentally dared him to let his paw slip down and touch his. He didn't know what he would do, if he did, only that he'd get angry—angrier than he already was. But Moomintroll did no such thing.
When Snufkin finally brought himself to look at his face, he found him staring over his hat, out to sea.
"There is a whole world out there," Moomin spoke, awed.
Snufkin's jaw tightened, still unable to parse how he felt speaking to him so suddenly, as though nothing had happened. "Yes," he agreed, tentatively. "Larger than you even know. You'd never get to the end of it."
Moomin's eyes flicked down to meet his and Snufkin felt all at once trapped. It was too much, having him so close, too much to be looked at. He was just barely holding it all together. It would take so little to have everything spilling over.
Moomin, none the wiser, only smiled. "I'll have a lot of things to see before I catch up to you."
You shouldn't be trying to, Snufkin thought, resentment taking over quite suddenly. He didn't know what Moomintroll wanted from him, but Snufkin did not like any of this.
"She's got tired feet, the world," he warned him, hoping perhaps he could dissuade him. "There is so much walking to do. It is not a burden for the handsome."
The words had slipped out of him before he'd considered his mistake. Moomin laughed—honest to Booble laughed, as though he'd been told a joke. Snufkin stared at him with unease, ears ringing with it as he waited for him to stop.
Those eyes settled softly back onto him with the tailend exhale. There was something heavy just behind his drooping lashes, something Snufkin had been running from for a very long time, without ever truly managing to escape it. It still nipped at his heels, even now.
"Don't mock me," Moomin scolded, breathily, "you handsome creature."
Snufkin turned away abruptly, pale. Something inside him twisted like an ankle, and for a moment he feared he would be ill. "Don't be daft," he rushed out. "I am only telling you."
"Oh, I see," he heard him tease, "you're jealous."
Snufkin bristled, head snapping back to him in disbelief. Jealous? Jealous? "Of your brash head," he spat, fingers clenching around the bar. What a thing to say. What game was he playing at? "Have you lost all the chickens in the coop?"
"What if I make a better traveler than the great Snufkin?" Moomin went on with amusement, minding him not. "What will people say then?"
Snufkin was getting quite upset now. If Moomin was trying to salt the wound, he'd succeeded. "You've grown a rotten nerve. Here I worry for you and you will hear nothing of it."
Moomintroll did not even have the decency to pretend that he was taking it seriously. "Sorry, sorry," he chuckled, that frustrating grin still there beneath his nose, reaching all the way to his eyes.
Snufkin dropped his head, hiding beneath his hat. His paw shook helplessly where it clutched the brim as he stood there, torn between anger and sorrow. He bit the inside of his cheek, if only to still himself. He should have gone. He should have gone the moment he'd realised Moomintroll was here. He could not do this. Not like this. Not now.
And then, Moomintroll said something quite strange. "I'm glad I finally understand you."
Snufkin pulled his hat up, expecting more farce, but the other wasn't looking at him anymore. He had gone right back to staring out into the distance, a spark in his eye like Snufkin has never seen before. Snufkin's anger melted away to make way for the new wave of grief that overtook him.
"You know, it's embarrassing," Moomin spoke with a timid chuckle. "All that time… I was so certain I knew you by the book. I was so certain… You put up with me all those years but I understood not the slightest thing, did I? I didn't know what I was missing."
Snufkin's mouth soured. He couldn't speak. It wasn't what he wanted to hear—what he would have ever wanted to hear. The words were so at odds with what Snufkin had been hoping from him.
But Moomintroll did not seem to think he'd said anything wrong, smile growing just a little prouder. "But I understand you now. I finally do."
Snufkin wondered with dread what manner of creature Moomintroll mistakenly believed himself to know.
"Why are you here, Moomintroll?" he demanded, barely able to hold back the hurt in his voice.
"I wanted to be alone," Moomin responded easily, familiarly. It sounded almost rehearsed. He did not sound like himself.
"I meant—" Snufkin stopped himself short, too frightened that were he to say it, Moomintroll might decide that there was indeed no reason to be there at all.
Moomin's eyes slid over to him, lingering for a moment, before he faced Snufkin head on, curious. "One needs to come back, don't they? That's what you said."
To the sea with what I've ever said, thought Snufkin. To the sea with it. Those words had been for him alone, a promise to hold himself to. They had never been for Moomintroll. They had only been cover for the things Snufkin had never managed to say.
Moomintroll should never have returned. He'd already torn Snufkin open. He ought to have let the wound fester, for it was what he deserved. It hurt more than he'd ever thought to see him again, and Snufkin could only stare at him uselessly.
"I don't think I've said it…" Moomin carried on seriously, stepping dangerously over the line. "You've hardly given me the chance. But I've missed you."
Snufkin did not wish to hear it. If he'd missed him, he would have come back when they were still themselves, when there was still anything left to find. But Moomin had fed them to the birds and come back open-armed to the scraps. Snufkin would not give him what little was left of himself.
And so, he turned abruptly, stumbling down the hill.
Moomintroll caught his arm. Of course Moomintroll caught his arm. Snufkin nearly laughed, a horrid, miserable laugh, coming from someplace he'd been trying very hard to bury. How predictable it was. As much as he'd been dreading it, a small, selfish part of him had also hoped he would do just this.
"Don't go," Moomin pleaded, an ironic imitation of who he used to be. Snufkin ought to have been the one saying it. He ought to have said it a long, long time ago, if he'd only known then who would leave him.
He strained against the grasp and did not look back.
"Snufkin, be kind," Moomin implored. "It's a lovely night. Look how grey the skies are. You do so love a storm."
Snufkin certainly had, once. He wasn't entirely sure if he did anymore. Things out of his control did not seem so wonderful these days, so much as they seemed frightening. His paw balled itself into a fist, and Moomin's own loosened, and slipped just so down his wrist as Snufkin tilted forward, threatening to leave entirely. Snufkin did not know what to do.
He looked back at Moomintroll, shrouded in the dull light, big blue eyes gleaming through like steady waters. Moomin blinked at him, imploring through his gaze. He tugged, just a gentle tug, enough to put him straight on his feet again. Snufkin hesitated, only for he had to. It was a rotten game that Moomintroll was playing, and Snufkin had lost the fight from the start. He truly could deny him nothing. Certainly not when he missed him so terribly.
Snufkin didn't like it when Moomintroll had a hold on him like that.
Only that he did.
Only that he didn't.
Only that it had become very difficult to distinguish between the two. Time and time again he had succumbed to it like a fool, openly allowing Moomin the chance to tighten knots around him. Those knots had gotten tricky over the years. Snufkin had tried pulling against them every which way and only found himself dangerously entangled. He couldn't pry them, no matter how hard he tried. Even now that Moomintroll had let go of his end of the rope, Snufkin was still trapped in the discarded netting.
"Watch the storm with me," Moomin asked of him. "You've got nowhere to be, and I've got nowhere to be…"
Snufkin dropped his head. "Why?"
"I thought you of all people would like the idea."
Snufkin shifted on his feet, turning slowly to face him. He stood even shorter on this slope. It was a difficult task to navigate on such unsteady ground, but Moomintroll had not seemed to think of it when he'd chased after him.
"Why would you want to?" Snufkin clarified apprehensively as he glanced up again, the words rolling uncertainly on his tongue.
Moomin cocked his head, the act not unkind. "Why wouldn't I? I haven't had you to myself for even a moment."
The air in Snufkin's lungs caught on the way up as his chest constricted. Moomintroll had little right to use those words—not now, and perhaps not ever.
Moomin tugged again, just a light persuasion. Snufkin did not know why he raised his other paw, but Moomin took it as though he'd been expecting it, large fingers slipping over it like a mitten. There was no turning back. It should have been shameful how easily he succumbed, but Moomin's thumb stroked against his skin, and the simple gesture left Snufkin, for the first time in months, almost feeling wanted again.
Almost.
"You've left your bedroom unlit," he said, for he did not know what else to blame him for. There was too much.
Moomin's thumb slowed curiously. "I can't leave the lamp unwatched when I'm out," he answered reasonably.
"No, I suppose not," Snufkin agreed, though the resentment grew in him. Moomintroll should have been in his room, where he was meant to be. He should have kept the light on, and Snufkin should have been able to look at it and call it home. He couldn't do that, if his window was dark. He couldn't do that if Moomintroll was gone.
The storm rumbled in the distance, encroaching steadily upon the moment. Moomin still looked at him. Snufkin did his best to avoid the gaze. He did not know what to make of what he saw.
Where had he been when Snufkin had needed him?
No, not needed, Snufkin reminded himself. He did not need him, never had. But he wanted him. That was the worst of it. Snufkin should have known by then how to give him up, but staring the loss of him in the face, he never could bring himself to truly hold strong. Heartache and hunger went paw in paw, after all, and Snufkin had felt perhaps lonelier than he'd ever been.
"I'm sad that I missed your tune," Moomin said then.
Snufkin let loose an ugly snort, despite himself. "My tune?" Of all things to concern himself with, Moomintroll would think of his tune. If only he knew. "There was no tune."
"Why not?"
Snufkin just shook his head. He thought to take out his harmonica, just to free his paws, but it wouldn't do any good. The only songs he carried now were not for Moomintroll's ears. And anything old? Well, that was out of the question.
Before Moomintroll could push any further, Snufkin told him, "You don't need it. You already know I am here."
"That you are," Moomin agreed, voice soft. "Can't I have it anyhow? We're still reuniting."
Snufkin did not much believe this to be a reunion.
"What do you think will come of this, Moomintroll?" he asked him, frowning down at their joint paws. "Do you intend to come back for a song every year? Is that how you see yourself?"
"You could. Why can't I?"
"There is not enough time for that. Not if you have the world to see. You can never get very far when you have to return."
Moomintroll's paws squeezed his. "Maybe it's not the world that I want to see right now."
Snufkin huffed. What a thing to say. "You would sacrifice the world in exchange for a song you won't get, or a storm you could have seen anywhere else?"
"Or for you, rather."
Snufkin looked up. Moomin's eyelids drooped with affection beyond words.
"There's always time to go back to it," he explained, "but you're right here, right now. I can't squander a rarity like that."
The muscles in Snufkin's face pulled taught, but he did not say what he thought. Moomintroll had squandered it once already. But that was Snufkin's knowledge to carry. He hoped Moomin never found out what he'd gone through. He couldn't begin to understand how much of Snufkin had molded around him, and how hollow that had left him when he'd gone.
"You cannot have everything you wish for, Moomintroll."
"I'm not asking for everything," Moomin said, pulling one of his paws closer to himself. Snufkin moved with it. "Only this. I don't want to see it alone."
"The storm?"
"That, and all the rest." Moomin angled his snout towards one of his paws, and for a moment, Snufkin thought he were about to kiss it. "I wouldn't be so alone, if I had your song."
Snufkin did not know what to say to that. He could not play. He had no song for him, nor anything else to give him. And so, he said nothing, simply brought his gaze to the dark skies.
As he did so, a few light drops fell upon his nose where his hat could not cover him. "Storm's here," he said.
Moomin took another step down the hill, even closer, and Snufkin went very stiff. "What are two old friends against a storm," he said, so confident. Snufkin knew not how to argue.
Moomin glanced over his shoulder, before turning back to face him. He grinned, and pulled. Snufkin let himself be ushered back up to the cage, where they could watch, side by side. Moomin's own nose wiggled as the rain hit it.
"I don't know if you remember," Moomintroll started suddenly. He still held one of Snufkin's paws, hanging between them. "You told me something once, a long time ago, on the Hattifatteners' Island." Snufkin's ears perked, curious. "I found you watching the storm, just like this. You wouldn't come for shelter." Moomin's brow furrowed for just a second as he said that, and then easing back. "'You can see it coming towards you and you can't do anything about it.' That's what you said."
Snufkin remembered. He did not know where he was going with this.
"I had to brave many storms before I finally understood," Moomin continued. "Letting go to something like that… You must adore it, that feeling."
Instead of answering, Snufkin asked, "How many?"
"What?"
"How many storms did you have to go through, on that boat?"
Moomin's ears pulled back as he thought. "I don't know. Too many, I think. After a while, I got used to them. They stopped being so frightening, even when my boat flooded. They became exciting."
"You were lucky."
"Yes, I suppose I was."
Snufkin sat on that for a moment, tilting his head up to face the sky. The clouds crackled with light, and the thunder cut through the night a mere moment after. "Have you ever seen a storm petrel out there?"
"A storm petrel?" Moomin echoed.
"Black sea birds, You'd know them by the band of white on their rumps."
At that, Moomin's tone rose in recognition. "Oh, I might have! Is that what they're called?"
"They spend most of their lives at sea, never seeing land except for nesting season. They're happy that way, always in flight above the waves. It's said they foretell the coming of a storm."
"Did you see one, earlier?"
Snufkin shook his head. "No. But you should watch for them, if you're out there." When, Snufkin reminded himself. When he's out there. "Booble knows, someday you'll need the warning."
Because I won't be there to keep you safe.
"Are you really that worried for me?" Moomin asked.
Snufkin did not answer.
Moomin's paw squeezed his reassuringly. "I'm fine, you know. There's nothing to worry about. It won't be like before. I know what I'm doing."
"We all think that," Snufkin retorted.
"Don't you have faith in me?"
Snufkin's eyes shut tight as his chest swelled. "I've done nothing but have faith in you, in all matters." What Snufkin didn't say was how little that faith mattered, when it came to inevitables. It hadn't served him before, and it wouldn't serve him moving forward.
Some days, Snufkin thought it had always been in Moomintroll's nature to leave, and that he should have seen it coming. Others times, he wondered if he'd done this to him—if in letting Moomin near him he had changed him irreparably. He had always assumed their differences to be the barrier, but in the end it was all the things they had in common which had ruined them.
Snufkin was bound to lose him, that he knew for certain. If not now, then later. If not to a storm, then to a whim. One way or another, Moomintroll was going to let him down, and there was nothing that could be done about that. There was no dent that he could make in it—none that he'd ever managed before.
It wasn't until Moomintroll spoke that Snufkin realised he'd gone quiet. "I could tell you of my adventures if you wanted," he ventured, just a tad bashful.
Snufkin's eyes opened. "No," he answered before he could stop himself.
"No?" Moomin questioned, sounding as though his tail had been stepped on. "Why not?" His ears drooped pitifully, and Snufkin almost felt bad for having said it.
"You ought not to sacrifice your stories."
"Is it sacrificing if I wish to share them with you?" he asked, and then leaned closer until Snufkin's shoulder was pressed to his arm. The contact sent a small amount of warmth through Snufkin. "And I haven't told anyone the special parts," he tried to whisper, as thought it were a secret, but had to force his voice much louder over the wind. "I kept those raw for you."
"All the more reason to keep the last of them. I did not ask to have them."
"Snufkin—"
"Quiet," Snufkin interrupted. "We won't be able to speak over the storm."
Instead of a response, Moomin's free paw came to press right under his sternum, as though to stop him from going anywhere, and Snufkin nearly jumped out of his skin, breath cutting. The paw was large against him, and Snufkin felt his chest constrict under the touch. He did not move. Slowly, Moomin's paw trailed, slipping under his arm and around to grasp the fabric at his back, and in doing so, wrapped Snufkin into his warm embrace.
Snufkin gasped at the affection, chin pressed into damp fur as Moomin tightened the hold around him. His snout lowered under his hat and Snufkin's pulse sped, torn between pulling away, and melting into the contact and allowing Moomintroll to soothe it all.
Moomin's breath blew right across his ear as he spoke, a rumble to compete with the storm and Snufkin jerked in surprise. "We don't have to shout like this," Moomin told him. "You'll always be able to hear me, if you stay close."
Snufkin broke, and buried his face against him, paw flying to clutch at Moomin's fur. If it hurt, Moomin said nothing about it.
"Stay with me," Moomintroll asked of him.
"Only if you do," pleaded Snufkin, muffled. He did not know if Moomin heard him. He did not say anything back, only tucked him underneath his snout, folding the brim of his hat and crushing the point flat.
The storm passed over them like a curtain, and spilled down onto Moomintroll's back. He stayed there above and kept Snufkin sheltered even as his fur flattened, heavy, and took on the smell of damp. The winds pulled at them, the rain pelted them, but Moomin bore the brunt of it. Snufkin held onto him tightly, and felt very warm.
It wouldn't last. Soon, lightning would strike too close for comfort and they would recognise their folly and flee for the house. Soon, they would towel themselves down and sit in front of the stove as they had done countless times before. Soon, Snufkin would recognise that he did not know where to go from here.
But for now, there they stood, two creatures slotted together, waiting for the rain to pass. And Snufkin could only wonder, faced with such forces of nature, if there was any hope anywhere in there. If the valley flooded again, if the sea finally overtook them, if the comet had struck when they were children and there were nothing left, what would they be then? What would they be if it happened now—if the waters rose and the sky fell to fold them up into a neat little packet, just the two of them, with losing odds against disasters they could not defeat?
Suppose that was impossible. Both couldn't happen at once. Snufkin knew well what comets did to seas.
Things that burned too hot left destruction in their wake.