Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spring in Moomin Valley has changed, slowly, surely, over the years. If you lived there long-term, you might not have noticed. But for Snufkin, who left every winter as he couldn’t stand to hibernate in the frigid, mountainous weather, the changes were more apparent.

He walked into Moomin Valley this year, harmonica in hand, playing a joyful melody he learned somewhere back in Italy during a rather long winter. His old green coat, now more like a patchwork quilt, floated in the cool breeze. The mountain pines mixed strongly with the smell of saltwater. 

Home. He’d never admit it out loud, but Snufkin was home.

He took his place on the old wooden bridge. Casted out a line. He wouldn’t bother with setting up camp yet, considering Moomintroll had proudly declared he’d have a house ready for him to stay in for the spring and summer months. That was another thing that changed. 

Moomin.

Moomin came out of his parents house still wearing his winter coat, though it was obvious he had already started to shed, considering little white tufts of fur fell with every move. He waved excitedly at Snufkin, though he didn’t run like he used to when he was small.

 Some people would gawk at hearing that there was a time when Moomin was smaller than Snufkin. He was so known for being bigger and stronger than just about everyone else in the valley (except Snorkmaiden and Mymblemamma of course), but when he and Snufkin first met he had barely grown much out of an average Moomintroll cub’s size, and was in fact very weak and undersized from the flood that hit only a year prior.

Snufkin opened his arms for his friend, easily accepting his embrace. He breathed in Moomin’s fur, still smelling the crisp winter air off of him. He felt Moomin sigh, mostly out of relief. 

“Welcome back,” Moomin whispered softly in his ear. Snufkin felt his ear twitch fondly in response, a mannerism he only picked up a few years ago when the dreaded “Mumrik-Mymble Puberty” kicked in at full force. 

“Good to be back,” he tried so very hard not to sound too giddy, but this was a special summer. Moomin was turning twenty. 

Twenty, to Moomins, is a right of passage into adulthood. Most Moomins would exhibit signs of wanting to experience life in its fullest potential, to adventure and seek out opportunities. Moomin, with who his father is, had already experienced many of these things, and was simply looking forward to the prospect of settling down. 

Snufkin was in the same mind, or as much as he could, what with his Mumrik genes. He still would go south for the winter, but the idea of staying in a home with Moomin in the summer, doing grossly domestic things like laundry or cooking together, didn’t sound half bad. 

“Gah, gross! Get a room!” The pair jumped out of their embrace in alarm, turning to see Little My fake gagging in an attempt to make fun of them. 

Outside of growing a few inches and gaining a few more scars, Little My hardly changed at all. Well, there was one thing. She had been noticeably more protective of Snufkin, though she never said much as to why. It started when her mother got sick one year and she had to stay with her for two whole months to help her recovery and child-rearing. Whatever happened during that time must have triggered some Mymble instinct and it just so happened to target Snufkin especially.

“ My !” Moomin hissed, scowling at the short Mymble. “Why must you always interrupt!”

“I was interrupting something, eh ?” My wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. 

“Ugh, you are such a little-“

“What do you want, My?” Snufkin cut off before Moomins could curse the redhead out. 

“Sniff is still looking for a girlfriend and I’m trying to get out of dodge,” My rolled her eyes. It was well known that she was uninterested in things like romance when it pertained to herself. She found it more enjoyable to meddle in others' love lives (those “others” being Snufkin and Mymble Jr.). 

“If he really wants a girl, there’s a whole line of women desperate to get out of betrothals that are just his type,” Snufkin said. And it was true, betrothals were becoming less and less popular these days. Even most Fillyjonks and Hemulens, of whom were quite known for this type of courtship, were beginning to gawk at it.

“Yes, but he’s quite uncomfortable going for someone he doesn’t know these days,” My dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Either way I try to keep myself busy with other people until this blows over. I’m just glad Mymble has already been wed, so I don’t have to worry ‘bout her.”

“I’ll have a talk with him,” Moomin assured her. Moomin and Sniff were technically godbrothers, though it was never really addressed because that decision came by their parents long after they had met and befriended each other.

With that he marched toward the garden where Sniff was pacing back and forth, likely looking for a chance to talk to a pretty girl. Snufkin and My chuckled at the thought of Sniff getting chewed out so early in spring. 

Chapter Text

It was very easy for Snufkin to move into his new summer home. Moomin had suggested hanging a hammock in the corner of their bedroom so Snufkin wasn’t forced into sleeping in a bed. There was a nice little hook by the front door to hang his coat. A drawer for his clothes.

It was strange to put his clothes away like this. He was so used to everything being in his pack, or folded neatly in the corner of his tent.

But his only true, important belonging was placed neatly on a bookshelf, in between Moomin’s storybooks and maps. He figured the small basket could make good use holding trinkets. Moomin always liked collecting shells, a hobby he likely learned from Snorkmaiden. 

He smiled fondly, remembering the last time he saw her. How excited she was to pursue her new career as a geologist. She had wanted to make a career out of it for quite some time now, filling her and Snork’s home with scientific journals and finds. She was almost the new Mr. Hemulen, if Mr. Hemulan was more of a fashion expert.

Moomin looked at the basket in curiosity. It wasn’t as if he had never seen the basket before, but that Snufkin always had it. Snufkin never hung onto objects for long. His coat and hat were his only other possessions in importance. Snufkin didn’t quite know why he kept it. He just did. It never got lost, and he never left it on purpose. He never thought about getting rid of it, and never offered to trade it. It was just his.

And that’s what he told Moomin whenever he asked about it. And boy did Moomin ask. Almost as if there was something else about the basket that made it so intriguing.

This time Moomin reached up to examine the basket. Normally Snufkin would get defensive over his possession, however he trusted Moomin wholeheartedly. Even if his tail did flick in irritation. Seriously, Moomin, you could have just asked.

“Aha!” Snufkin jumped slightly at his friend’s outburst. “I knew it!”

“What..?” Snufkin leaned in closer to see what Moomin was talking about.

“It’s a Mymble weave! The pattern is made to be more sturdy and soft, with kit’s in mind.”

“How can you tell?” Now Snufkin was interested. He was never too focused on that kind of thing, since he never had to, but considering his future with Moomin he might want to start learning.

“Mamma learned it from The Mymble, back when I was a cub,” Moomin explained. “I was so small back then and Mamma was worried about what might hurt me so she learned from The Mymble how to make safer items for the home. She taught me how to make baskets too.” 

“Wow. Maybe she should start up some weaving classes. I’d definitely take some,” Snufkin turned the basket around in his palms. 

Now that he thought about it, he used to sleep in this basket, back when he couldn’t pitch a tent and was still small enough to fit. There were scratch marks and frayed ends, bits of brown hair. A flaky corner of yellowed paper stuck between the edges of the wood. It smelled quite like a Mymble house, warm vanilla milk and dirt from the hills he used to play on.

Snufkin didn’t have many memories of his childhood, not before this basket was his home at least. But he did remember the smell of his home, his mother even. But most Mymble mothers smell the same so he could never be sure which Mymblemother wandering around is his. Not that he thought about it often.

“Let’s ask The Mymble, maybe she’s familiar with this particular craftsmanship,” Moomin suggested. “She has a great long memory of objects, maybe she knows where it came from!”

Snufkin couldn’t find a reason to disagree, he was quite curious himself. It was always a great mystery where he came from, so they might at least be able to pinpoint his birthplace.

The Mymble’s current home was built around a tall, branching tree with wonderful pink flowers, though it never seemed to grow any fruit. She quite liked living close to the Moomins, so Moomintroll made sure to build his house close to hers, just up the beaten path.

Her latest batch of kits were small, only three of them. They hung around her legs as she folded clean laundry. Snufkin wondered if that’s what he was like with his own Mymblemamma. 

“Hello there, boys! What brings you down here on this fine day?” The Mymble waved cheerfully, beckoning them over. 

“We have an inquiry, Miss Mymble,” Moomin held out the basket. “See, this looks much like a Mymble weave and we were wondering who crafted it.”

Now, The Mymble was terrible at remembering faces and dates and the like, but ask her about an object, any object, and she likely knew where it came from. The perks of meeting many people was getting many interesting gifts. 

She gently took the basket, turning it over in her palms. Her wide brown eyes studied the thing closely, picking at a thread, sniffing the corner much like a dog would do to a stranger’s shoes. Finally she looked up at Moomin, holding out a single blue thread that she had somehow procured from the wood. 

“This basket was made by none other than your Moominpappa, dear,” she said proudly. Both Moomin and Snufkin looked at each other in shock. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. He was making a bit of money selling baskets back when you were a wee kit. Oh, I mean cub!”

She handed the basket back to Moomin, who then gave it back to Snufkin. He stared at the basket warily. So Moominpappa did business with his mother..?

“Is this, by chance, yours little Snufkintroll?” The Mymble asked kindly. 

“Ah-yes ma’am,” Snufkin suddenly felt shy about this situation. Moomin reached over and squeezed his hand.

“Your parents had good taste. I purchased a few myself, y’know!” The Mymble shared, placing a hand to her chest. “Such fond memories.”

Suddenly Moomin’s eyes were shining, “care to share?” He was so enamored with tales of the past, especially tales involving his family.

“Well, if we must, we might as well have tea!” The Mymble promptly turned and headed into the house, expecting the boys to follow. Moomin eagerly dragged Snufkin in.

Chapter Text

The Myble’s story about baskets began when Moomin had just been born. 

It was spring, the time when many creatures are born into the world, and The Mymble was busy making a new set of clothes for her daughters (at the time she had only ever had girls, not that it would make much difference as it was still fashionable for all children to wear dresses regardless of gender). This latest kit slept peacefully on a bright green cushion, snoring lightly. Their brown hair fluttered with each little breath.

She heard a knock on the door, gently setting aside her work to answer. There stood a very tired Moominmamma and a very bundled and bandaged Moomincub. 

“Oh, Moominmamma! Whatever happened to you, and your kit-? Oh my! I mean cub.” The Mymble gasped, immediately ushering them inside. 

Moominmamma sat down with a great sigh, adjusting her hold on her Moomincub so he wouldn’t fuss. “It’s just terrible!”

“What is?” The Mymble leaned forward.

“It’s awful,” Moominmamma started. “My poor cub was hurt! It’s those damn- I mean, darned, glass containers that Moominpappa loves. It’s just too dangerous having ceramics in the house!”

“You came to get away?” Asked The Mymble kindly. She knew very well how hard it is on the parents when their child is first born, having gone through it many times before.

“Oh, it’s not like that,” Moominmamma tried to deny. “It’s just our house is so small and we have so many fragile things, I can’t help but feel like our current situation is too much for us now.”

“Well, it might not be a permanent solution, but how ‘bout some baskets?” The Mymble suggested.

“Baskets?” 

“Yes, of course. We Mymbles are taught to weave baskets out of soft, thin wood and fabric. It’s quite safe, and you can wash it with the laundry!” The Mymble stood and walked to a shelf, fetching a red book and a basket full of toys. “See, and here’s a book with directions.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Mymblemamma! I knew I could count on you!”

At that, they heard a small chirp, turning to see their two children had woken up from their naps and were quite curiously playing with each other’s ears. The Mymble kit fell sideways when they tried to go for the Moomincub’s tail and called out with a shrill squeal. The mothers chuckled to each other before scooping up their respective children.

“And that’s how your parents got ahold of the traditional Mymble basket weave,” The Mymble finished. “They wanted a new house, too, so they began selling them for money to buy wood and paint, and Moominmamma would travel far to sell them.”

“Wow. That’s amazing,” Moomintroll sighed dreamily, imagining a young version of his mother and himself going door to door selling little baskets.

“I had no idea you had a newborn at the same time as Moomin,” Snufkin said, crossing his legs.

“Oh, yes, it was probably Little My,” The Mymble remarked.

“Really? But she’s a whole three years older than me,” Moomin recalled, taking a polite sip of tea.

“Two and a half,” Snufkin corrected.

“Uh, oh, yes. No, that was… ummm…” The Mymble thought for a moment. “You know what, I can’t recall. How silly of me”

Moomin and Snufkin looked at each other, quite shocked. 

“Oh, you’d forget a few names too, if you had half the children I had!” The Mymble laughed. 

When Moomin and Snufkin left later that day, they vowed to never have so many kids that they’d forget their names.

Chapter Text

There was a frantic knock at the door so early in the morning, and Snufkin was the one to answer it.

Now, normally Moomintroll was the first to wake up, especially on weekends, but this particular morning Snufkin has woken up in a cold sweat, remnants of a distant memory clawing desperately at his brain, but never seeming to be able to come to light in the waking world. 

He looked down at the creature that had decided to disturb his quiet morning coffee brewing, her thin red fur and unnaturally pale face. A Mymble kit, he thought. Only, she looked to be growing out of her years as “just another mouth to feed.” She shifted back and forth, eyes red from crying.

Snufkin knelt down to her level, “is something the matter, little one.”

She nodded. Then yelped as though she had been struck by something sharp. 

Snufkin sighed through his nose, suddenly remembering a similar situation he was in once. 

It had to have been his third summer in Moominvalley. The weather was warm, the flowers bloomed in vibrant colors. Snufkin had thought he was dying. 

He woke up feeling feverish, sweating through his clothes. Nausea overcame him, as well as this stabbing, guttural pain that he had never felt before. He was sure he woke up the whole valley in his anguish, desperately clawing around his tent for something, anything to help. 

And then he looked down. 

Not sure where else to go he crawled pitifully over the bridge and over the hill to Moominhouse, just barely scratching the front door before Moominmamma flung the door open and scooped him into her arms. 

Moominmamma was probably the closest thing to a parental figure Snufkin ever had. She was soft and warm and understanding of everything. He clung to her and cried something like he hadn’t since he was a small child. 

She placed him in the guest bed, bringing tea and cookies and hot towels to comfort him. 

Now, a Mymble kit had no reason to come to anyone but their mother when puberty started, but Snufkin wasn’t one to question it, especially since his own never really was there to help him in the first place. So he did what Moominmamma would do and scooped the little creature up, laying them on a bed of towels, and finding fresh clothes for the kit. He then went to work warming up tea and towels for the creature, as well as finding some dry crackers to eat. 

The little Mymble kit was grateful through her pain, sighing in relief when Snufkin revealed the tea to be a painkiller as well. She ate the crackers and rocked back and forth gently, slowly revealing her reasons to seek out Snufkin rather than the other Mymbles in her home.

“Everyone is quite preoccupied these days,” she started. “Mamma has been depressed, probably because her last brood was so small and she can’t seem to make anymore. The older siblings are either gone or trying to reassure Mamma. That’s when I remembered you are part Mymble, and you are close by so…”

Snufkin smiled appreciatively, “well, I’m glad that I could help. And you are welcome here anytime.”

“Thank you.”

“Say, do you by chance have a name?” Snufkin couldn’t help but ask. He liked hearing what Mymbles decided to name themselves. 

“Umm…” the kit really had to think about this one. “Maybe Milli-Bi.”

“That’s a great name,” Snufkin said. He recalled his own first name, before he went around calling himself “Snufkin”, was Millin-ii. Almost all Mymble kits start out with a variation of the Mymble title. 

“Really?!” Milli-Bi’s little tail waged rather excitedly. 

“Yeah,” Snufkin smiled brightly. 

Milli-Bi stayed with Snufkin and Moomin until their cycle waned. Snufkin made sure to send her home with a basket of food and sanitary supplies for the next month. Milli-Bi had taken her hair out of the typical Mymble style bun and had braided it down her back. She looked much more confident than she had when she first stepped through their door. 

Snufkin watched her walk down the beaten path, braid swaying behind her. 

Moomin walked up behind Snufkin, wrapping his arms around him. He pressed his head against Snufkin’s shoulder, sighing contently. Snufkin turned in Moomin’s arms, pressing a kiss against his cheek.

“She looks quite like you, Snufkin,” Moomin said.

“Is that so…” Snufkin did not want to ponder the implications of that comment.

“Yeah, you got the same round face! And your eyes are the same shape,” Moomin looked down at Snufkin with mischief. 

Snufkin felt his face fall, “tell me you’re not-“

“Oh but can’t we? I want to adopt her Snuf!”

“No! She has her own family,” Snufkin raised his hand up against Moomin’s snout. “And don’t you dare say The Mymble won’t notice. She’s depressed as it is.”

“You’re right,” Moomin sighed softly, then laughed. “We’re too young for that anyway.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Snufkin looked out at the sun setting in the distance. 

How old was he, anyway…?

Chapter Text

Snufkin wandered into some small town off the coast of Norway. It had to be closer to spring, the sun having come out earlier than usual this year and many fillyjonk had been in constant celebration because of it. They filled their streamers with candy and danced around late into the evening. Snufkin had to admire them for their enthusiasm, even if a fillyjonk party was quite stiff compared to other parties he had attended. 

Most didn’t even mind Snufkin was here, too busy enjoying themselves to mind a hybrid troll running around.

Still, he found himself in a crowd near the town center, slipping past laughter and tears, finding himself accepting drinks and getting tipsy off the atmosphere alone. Maybe fillyjonks do know how to throw a party. 

Snufkin pushed past a few hemulens and Mymble tourists, ears perking up slightly as he thought he caught a familiar voice. Following the shouting, he found himself in front of a wide table lined with food and drinks. There he saw… him!

Moomintroll, covered in a thick winter coat, laughing and almost spilling his wine as a young Mymble boy made jokes about something or other that Snufkin didn’t care for, because his moomin was there.

At that moment Moomin caught his eye, and he really did spill his wine, all over his chest. He squeaked in shock, scrambling for napkins, ear flitting back in embarrassment. Snufkin couldn’t help but let out a big, booming laugh. Of course this was how Moomin would react. He slipped up next to Moomin, grabbing a few napkins to help.

“Hello there,” he said into Moomin’s ear, soft, almost flirty. 

“Snufkin,” was all Moomin could get out, sighing and smiling wide. 

Snufkin woke from his dream, or rather memory visit, and is feeling quite relaxed because of it. It was one of his favorite memories to revisit, as it brought him to the life he has now. Snufkin reckoned that if he and Moomin hadn’t happened to be at the same party in the same town they would have never progressed to this level of relationship. And oh how lovely it was, dancing and drinking with his old friend until the sun rose high in the sky, accompanying him further and further until he found it hard to leave. 

And yet Moomin had never dreamed of those days. Most people don’t dream up memories in Moominvalley. Snufkin was quite shocked to hear Moomin mostly just had nightmares about Grokes and pleasant dreams about pancakes and family. 

Snufkin smelled something cooking, and slipped out of the fading warmth of the bed (He had been sleeping in it more often than not these days). Moomin was at the stove being relentlessly criticized by Little My on how he cooked up the sausage and ham. Snufkin couldn’t help but agree, smelling the burnt meat from across the room. 

“Morning,” Snufkin yawned as he went to the cupboard for a mug. The light blue one would do nicely this morning. 

Little My jumped from the counter, immediately shouting, “happy birthday!” Which shocked Snufkin enough to fumble with his cup, luckily not dropping it.

“I-it’s not, it can’t- how…?”

“I read the birthday book, duh,” Little My said. She pulled a thick red book out from the counter (apparently she had been sitting on it) and slammed it in front of Snufkin. The front had “The Big Book of Mymbling Birthdays” scrawled across the front in black ink. Little My turned the pages until she found the chapter of the year 19XX, where a name was poorly scratched out and still partly legible by the first letters. 

“S.N.U. That’s what Snufkin starts with, right?” The short Mymble asked. 

“Yes, but-“ 

“And the year lines up with your age!” She insisted.

“My, I don’t even know my own age,” Snufkin knelt down to Little My’s level. “And it can’t be me because I chose my own name. I named myself a long time ago.”

Little My pouted a bit, “but Snufkin, can’t you at least try to believe me?”

“I would, but this is not very solid evidence, My,” Snufkin patted her shoulder. “What’s this about, anyway?” 

“Well, we noticed that we’ve never celebrated your birthday, or anything really about you. I knew that you wouldn’t mind something like that but My felt a little guilty about it,” Moomin Explained, moving the cooked (burnt) breakfast to a serving dish. 

Little My flustered about, shouting, “shut up! It’s not like that!”

“No?” Moomin raised an eyebrow.

“You have been acting very strangely, Little My,” Snufkin said. 

“…” Little My shifted about, avoiding eye contact with a funny little scowl.

“ Little My!” At that point Snufkin did not hesitate to give her a small flick on her temple. 

“Ouch! Fine!” Little My swatted back. She took a deep breath. “You are a Mymble, correct?” 

Snufkin resisted the urge to furiously point out the premature horns attempting to pop out of his forehead (something all Mymble’s have, including the males, but normally does not fully develop until sexually active, which Snufkin is not). Instead he just nodded, “half Mymble, yes.”

“And you were born somewhere in the area, correct?”

“If by area, you mean Finland, then yes,” Snufkin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Where was she going with this?

“Then this has to be you in the birthday book!” Mymble opened the book again. “Says right here on the first page. All Mymble’s, regardless of the amount of blood relation, are given the right to have their birthday recorded in this here book by enchantment!”

“Is it witchcraft?” Moomin asked, trying to get a better look at the book.

“No! It’s Mymble folk magic,” Little My said.

“Okay then,” Snufkin said, “say that was me-“

“It is.”

“Why would my name be scratched out?”

“I… don’t have an answer for that,” Little My’s nose scrunched up in embarrassment. 

Snufkin did not like to think about his past. Before Moominvalley, before he became a lonely traveler, before the orphanage even. There was a short time before everything where he was completely alone, seemingly abandoned by the world and scared and frightened and small . The world around him was cold and white, and he was barely covered in enough fur, desperately wrapping himself in a thin, worn cloth. Who knows how long he lay in that basket, chewing and spitting up barely edible grass on the banks of the river he’d been thrown in.

He must have remembered his parents back then. It was all he cried for those nights. He was hungry and tired, but most of all he was lonely.  

He had learned to live with that loneliness over the years, but in the end there were some days he couldn’t escape it. The memory of his mother laughing at his struggle to keep upright in her lap, the red dress she was wearing like an ocean and he had yet to learn how to swim. His father scooping him up, rubbing a rough furry cheek against his own, a bothersome way to show affection. 

The smell of dirt and cigarettes and warm honey. The feeling of small hands trying to lift him. Piles of books and ink. The constant sound of wood being scraped off by a knife. The booming laughter of young fathers and uncles celebrating their achievements. Other infants and toddlers like himself crowding in by the fireplace for stories. 

It all came back so suddenly, except for the faces. Those were still blurred in his mind. Not that he tried to uncover them, anyway.

He laid out across his and Moomin’s bed, contemplating these memories. He had to have been loved, well cared for. So then who abandoned him?

He heard a knock on the door, Moomin popping his head in to see him.

“Mymble and Too-Ticky are almost here,” he said.

Right. They were having visitors over.

Chapter Text

Mymble Jr, or just Mym as her friends call her, was certainly not like her mother, and she preferred it that way. Even though her horns had grown in and her height exceeded most, she adamantly refused the first right of a Mymble, which is to bear children. 

Now, this was not an uncommon sentiment in Moominvalley. Outside of Mymblemamma, most Mymble’s who came to the valley were not interested in children. For Little My she had no interest in making a family, for Snufkin he felt ill-prepared for such things at his age, and for Mym, well, she found children too dirty.

A silly reason, really, but Mym was very adamant about cleanliness and took it up as a hobby to clean whatever she could find. Adding children to the mix would just exhaust her. 

Luckily, Too-Ticky was quite agreeable on that matter. 

“I like being a fun aunt!” Too-Ticky said over her coffee. 

“Now that we can agree on,” Little My raised her hand for a high five.

Now that Mym and Too-Ticky were a married couple, they lived together by the sea. It was a bit of a tricky spot, wedged between the churning waves and gray rocks. 

They liked visiting Moomin and Snufkin (and Little My, who was always hanging around there) for tea and coffee. But, really, one could say that these visits started way before, when Snufkin started the oh-so-dreaded Mymble Puberty. 

Now, Mymble’s didn’t have much difference in puberty than any other troll. However, outside of the valley there is a very common stereotype that Snufkin could not escape from. Mymble’s, for lack of a better expression, “get around often” so it wasn’t uncommon for him to be hounded by potential suitors. Nothing ever came of it, mind you, but it was quite irritating nonetheless to explain why Snufkin was uninterested in such things. 

Though, once he pointed out that he was a half-breed Mymble they quickly would understand.

Either way when Snufkin began showing signs of a typical Mymble puberty (the constant inflammation around the ears and neck, the beginnings of horns, the constant tail shedding) he went to Mymble Jr. almost immediately and spent his first winter in this state traveling with her and learning all about being a Mymble.

Ever since Mym became something like an older sister to him, someone he could go to in his teenage troubles that the Moomin family couldn’t help with.

As it were, while Little My and Too-Ticky were finding very agreeable things to talk about Mym and Snufkin were content to sip coffee and watch the birds flitter around from the porch. Spring was nearing its midway point, the tulips in full bloom, the grass smelling sweet, a light rain showering over every so often. Just enough to keep the plants happy. 

Snufkin could also appreciate the fact that Moomin was outside gardening on such a fine morning. While he was much like his father in regards to his overdramatized way of going about things, (for example showing off when he had, say, a heavy bag of soil to throw over his shoulder) he was much happier doing the things his mother raised him to appreciate. That is, the boring chores in life.

Gardening and cleaning and cooking, while hard learned in his youth, became more natural than second nature when Moomin struck out on his own at sixteen. While Moominpappa romanticized hardship, Moominmamma made the difference with her honesty about the boring, grueling tasks that took up the backdrop of such excitement. 

As such Moomin found himself often romanticizing the day to day.

He whistled happily as he planted carrot seeds, the sun hat he had a habit of wearing attempting to fly off, if it weren’t for the tiny string that looped it around his head. The beat down, warm and steady, but not enough to warrant sunblock for those less hairy creatures. 

“I heard a little rumor…” Mym whispered into Snufkin’s ear.

“Oh?” Snufkin’s tail twitched in interest. Mym’s gossip was always interesting.

“I hear one of mamma’s old lover’s is coming to the valley this summer. She’s been very agitated lately because of it,” Mym said, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Snufkin turned towards her.

“Yes, well, it brings back bad memories for her. I’d like to support her in any way I can.”

“But you’re not the one who lives up the road from her,” Snufkin finished her thought.

“I’m sorry, Snufkin. I just, I can’t always be here for her,” Mym set down her cup. 

“Don’t worry. Moomin and I will take care of her.

“Who’s this visitor anyway?”

The Joxter woke up to quite the commotion. A group of scruffy little forest creatures surrounded him, blinking at him expectantly. Woodies. Joxter slowly sat up. Something about Mumriks seemed to attract the attention of Woodies. The little forest sprites had gotten into his things, too, by the looks of it.

His pack was open, little bits of jerky and bread scattered about. Not eaten, just gone through. The small novella he kept in his pocket was gone too, a couple of Woodies delicately flipping the worn pages. One particular critter was eyeing his banjo case, but respectfully had not tried to open it yet.

He snorted lightly. “Come along now, all of you,” he waved the Woodies forward. “If you wish to be in my company then you're going to have to follow.”

The Woodies perked up a bit, looking a bit less guilty about invading Joxter’s personal space, and quickly began helping him pack up camp to leave. 

“We are headed to Moominvalley,” Joxter began, holding the paw of the smallest little woodie. “And my dearest Mymble will be waiting. Oh, I hope she isn’t too upset. It’s been so very long since I last saw her warm smile.”

The Woodies, like Woodies do, listened intently as Joxter went on into a raving story about his dramatic love life (heavily sanitized, of course).