He hummed softly to himself, sketching in his notebook. His candle was burning down. He was somewhere decidedly not his room, given that he was using a candle for light. 

The tune was soft and fun to hum, so he did so over and over as he drew, pencil gliding over the paper until the candle was nearly out and he was yawning. 

He was tired, but he wasn’t quite done yet. 

Strong arms wrapped around him from behind. He protested, gesturing at the open notebook, but the pencil was gently plucked from his hand and set aside on the desk, and then he was being lifted, held against a warm chest, carried by those same strong arms. 

He was set down on a soft, comfortable surface, snuggling into it. He mumbled sleepily in protest as the arms retreated, wanting the warmth, but his limbs felt heavy and he couldn’t reach, sinking into the softness and falling into sleep. 

◉          ◉

Sunlight filtered through the uncurtained window, making Benedict blink awake. He stretched, humming softly, arms arching above him. He blinked sleepily up at the ceiling. 

This… 

this was not his room. 

He was in a bed, large and comfortable, but it was not his own. He slowly sat up, noting the thick, heavy blanket laid on top of the thin, soft one. He ran his hand over the thicker blanket and immediately recoiled at the texture. Wool, perhaps. He would never willingly sleep with a wool blanket. 

He blinked around the room. He had never seen this room in his life. It was small, tightly lain wooden logs overlaid to create the walls. The ceiling sloped away from him, the window glass stained, moss creeping up the outer sill. The bed was the most prominent feature of the room, taking up the most space. 

He ran his fingers absently over the headboard. It was intricately carved, animals he didn’t recognize traveling up the bedposts. They looked like what the before-folk had called mammals, mostly, which Benedict had never seen in person before and generally knew very little about. Creatures of olde. He used to be fascinated by creatures of olde as a kid. 

A thick rug covered the floor. There were hooks sunk into the walls, holding tools and a few coats, hung above a narrow table that showed more tools. There was a pack of some sort on the floor beneath, and a basket with some sort of cloth. That was all besides the bedside table, which had only a notebook and a snuffed-out candle. 

He slowly got out of bed, surprised by the warmth of the space. He was incredibly comfortable, though still sleepy and confused. He could have sworn he’d fallen asleep in a chair somewhere. 

He wandered over to the table, inspecting the small wood-carving tools. They looked very sharp. He didn’t dare touch them, instead, poking his head under the table, frowning at the small basket. 

He realized that it was full of linen clothes, pants and tunics. The greens and browns looked natural, as though whatever had stained them had come from the forest just outside. 

…wait. 

He was in the forest. 

He straightened up and went to the window, blinking out at the forest. The morning sun filtered through the trees, reflecting off the grass. Everything was soaked in dew. He was indeed in the forest. Deep in the forest. 

It was rather beautiful. 

Benedict shook himself. He should… he needed to go. His parents were going to lose their minds when he got back. How was he supposed to explain this? That he had gone wandering into the woods in search of a strange person who lived there and had instead gotten attacked by a creature, only for him to patch up said strange person and end up staying over at their house, in their bed? 

Hang on, how had he ended up in Oma’s bed, anyway? 

Had they… 

Shit, he should go find them. 

He stumbled out of the room, still blinking the sleep from his eyes. It felt weird to not change out of sleeping clothes, but he had fallen asleep in the same dirty clothes he’d traipsed through the woods in. He felt disgusting at the thought, but tried to ignore it. 

“Oma?” he called, looking around the small living space. It wasn’t exactly a big cabin, just the front room, bathroom, and bedroom. There weren’t many places they could possibly be. The fireplace was burning, explaining the comfortable warmth of the cabin despite the cold air outside. 

They definitely weren’t here. But they couldn’t have gone far if the fire was roaring, right? They must have started it relatively recently or it would have burned down by now. 

He wandered out the door of the cabin, blinking at the sudden light. He had no idea what time it was. Worse, he had no idea how to get back on his own. He needed to find Oma. 

The woods were so quiet compared to the city, but it was loud compared to waking up alone in his room. From his room he couldn’t hear the chattering of birds, the rustling of the trees in the wind, the burbling of the nearby stream. He couldn’t hear the skittering of something through the undergrowth, couldn’t hear the dull thunking of… 

Hm. 

He wasn’t sure what that was, actually. It was too rhythmic for it to be an animal. 

He turned towards the sound, following it around to the back of the cabin. 

Oma was there. He smiled upon seeing them, about to call out, but he stopped, everything seeming to slow down as he stared. 

Oma’s coat was thrown over a nearby log, the short sleeves of their tunic showing their shoulders and arms as they worked. They hadn’t looked up at him, not noticing his arrival it seemed, their hair pulled hastily out of their face into a messy sort of bun. 

It really shouldn’t have been so captivating, but Benedict couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away, the clean swing of the axe, the way the wood parted easily under the sharpness of the blade and their strength, the muscles in their arms as they swung. The dull thunk he had heard earlier as the head of the axe connected with the log underneath. 

Benedict nearly made a very embarrassing sort of squeaking sound when Oma picked up one of the split halves and tore it cleanly open with their hands, casually tossing the pieces onto the growing pile beside them. He spent the time it took them to finish the second half to steady himself so he could speak. 

“I thought you said you wouldn’t put more wood on the fire for me.” 

Oma looked up, finally, blinking at him. “Wound isn’t as deep as I thought,” they replied, as if that somehow made everything make sense. 

“That’s good,” Benedict replied, trying not to let his confusion show. He supposed they probably wouldn’t be able to do this if their shoulder was hurt too badly. 

Oma just nodded and began carrying the wood from the pile beside them to a more orderly stack under a small shed against the house. 

“I should be going back,” Benedict said eventually. 

“Okay.” 

Benedict chewed his lip. “I don’t… I don’t know the way. You’d have to show me.” 

Oma stopped, looking over at him. “Then you wait.” 

“But – ” Benedict floundered, waving his hands uselessly. “My parents! I have to get home!” 

“You shouldn’t have left, then,” Oma shrugged. “Not my problem.” 

Benedict pressed his lips together, glaring. He supposed they were right, but he wasn’t pleased about it. “Fine.” 

“Good.” Oma tossed a piece of wood at Benedict, who barely caught it, fumbling. “Make yourself useful.” 

“I – oh – okay,” Benedict sighed, helping Oma move the wood. Wood didn’t look like it should be heavy, but as it turned out, it was, and he felt quite embarrassed by the stark difference in how much he could carry versus how much Oma could. He was able to help some, though, and soon all of it was put away. 

Once it was done, Oma started off into the woods, towards the burbling sound of the stream. 

“Wait, we haven’t even had breakfast!” Benedict protested, scrambling after them. He couldn’t possibly be expected to do more work before eating. 

Oma just looked at him. “…what do you think we’re doing?” they said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Then they just continued on. 

“I never know what you’re doing,” Benedict muttered under his breath, but he jogged to catch up with them anyway. 

He didn’t try to start a conversation as they walked, knowing better by now. Instead he spent the walk looking around, trying to make sense of his surroundings, noticing the small… thing… hanging from Oma’s belt, holding a collection of sharp objects. Arrows, perhaps? 

“Did you make those?” he had to ask, gesturing at the carrier. 

Oma shook their head. “Only so many hours in the day.” 

Benedict nodded. Obviously Oma couldn’t do everything themself. True, they seemed to live just fine off the land, but they had a lot to manage for one person, all on their own. He couldn’t help thinking about what his life would devolve into if he had to make his own food, work every day for his money, chop the wood for his fire, wash his own clothes… he wouldn’t have time for anything besides just surviving. 

He glanced over at Oma again. 

He wondered how many things in that cabin had been made purely by them. 

He thought about the headboard, the collection of wood-carving tools on the table. He could imagine them sitting under the afternoon sun, carefully chipping away at the wood, carving intricate designs into the headboard with those strong hands… 

Benedict shook himself, focusing on where he was walking. He couldn’t afford to get distracted in the woods. There were too many things he could trip on. 

Oma led them to the stream, which turned out to be less of a stream and more of a shallow river when they were this close. Benedict watched, confused, as Oma toed off their boots and rolled up their trousers, stepping into the stream. 

Benedict cautiously approached the water, dipping his hand in it. He immediately hissed and pulled away. It was cold. Really, really cold. How Oma was just standing in it up to their knees he didn’t know, but they were holding one of the small spear-things now, and were simply standing there. 

“What are you – ” 

“Shh.” Oma waved him off, shaking their head. “It’s already late in the day, don’t make this harder.” 

“Okay…” Benedict frowned, sitting down on a nearby log, cringing as his already stained trousers got even more dirty. He watched them for a while, utterly confused. He was starting to get very bored, picking at the grass around him when there was a quick splashing sound. He looked up sharply, wondering if Oma had slipped or something, only to see them holding… a fish. 

Just… holding it. In their hand. 

Benedict squirmed, appalled, imagining the texture, watching the thing writhe and bleed. That was disgusting. He watched, horrified, as Oma pulled another of the small spears from their belt, taking a moment, and then sinking it into the water a little ways away. 

The plume of red that leaked into the water was all Benedict needed to see, turning away as they walked over and picked up the second fish. 

They came back over, stabbing the sharp ends of the spears into the ground, the fish sticking up, still twitching as they put their boots back on. 

“That’s disgusting,” Benedict managed eventually. 

Oma blinked over at him, then at the fish. “…that’s breakfast.” 

Benedict shook his head. “No. Absolutely it is not. Don’t you have – ” 

Oma plucked the fish-spears from the ground and started walking. 

“Shit,” Benedict muttered, scrambling up and after them. He had a feeling he was never going to fully understand Oma – well, at least, not anytime soon. Maybe if he spent every day with them for weeks… 

He shook himself, blushing, following them back through the woods, trying not to think about it. Would his parents really even notice? They were always so caught up in his older brother, there was every chance that he could sneak away maybe every weekend… 

Benedict smacked his own leg. Stop it. Oma didn’t even want him here. Oma was clearly very bothered by him. If Benedict came out here again, if he pushed his luck, he would probably end up like one of those fish. 

They spent the walk again in silence. Benedict felt as though he had a million forbidden questions and he didn’t dare ask a single one. 

Oma led them back to the cabin. They kicked the dirt off their boots on a weird brush thing outside the door that Benedict hadn’t noticed before. He copied hesitantly, then followed them inside. 

They were at the counter in the kitchen – well, the half of the front room that functioned as a kitchen. Benedict peered over and immediately looked away as he realized they were gutting and cleaning the fish. 

Benedict felt like he’d spent the past day in a constant state of confusion or horror. Why he was still weirdly obsessed with understanding Oma he didn’t know. When he got home, he should just stay there, where things made sense. He didn’t need to puzzle them out. They probably didn’t want to be puzzled out. 

They didn’t want him here. 

Maybe if he reminded himself of this enough he would actually stay away. 

Oma never asked for help as they sliced up the fish and started chopping vegetables and who knew what, as though they just knew Benedict couldn’t use a knife. He frowned when he realized he didn’t recognize the mushrooms they were using. That made him irrationally uneasy. Of course Oma knew what they were doing. Still, though. 

Oma walked over to the fire, then, and Benedict wandered into the kitchen, poking his head into the pot, just curious. It looked like it was meant to be stew, but he had no idea how Oma was going to cook it. They couldn’t possibly put all that over the fire, the pot was too big. 

“Move.” 

Benedict jumped, stumbling back at their voice, and was instantly glad he did. They were carrying a metal shovel-sort-of-thing with several rounded stones on it, and when they carefully put the stones into the pot steam instantly erupted from it. He didn’t want to know how hot they were, how badly he might have been burned if he’d touched them. 

Oma put a heavy metal cover over the pot, then put the shovel-thing back. 

Benedict blinked. 

Clearly they were not going to eat that right now. 

“Wait, but – what about breakfast?” he asked, beyond confused now. 

Oma looked up from the fire and blinked at him. “You said no to fish.” 

Benedict paused. 

Great. The one time they did what he wanted and listened to him, it was in not at all the way he had intended and in a way that was highly inconvenient for him. 

“So… no breakfast,” Benedict muttered. “Of course.” 

“You said no fish,” Oma repeated firmly. 

Benedict sighed. He couldn’t exactly deny it, and he supposed he was the beggar in this situation. He had been picky and now he was paying for it. 

Oma brushed past him, going back to the kitchen. 

Benedict sat down in the chair he had been certain he’d fallen asleep in last night, deciding to just watch whatever it was they were doing until they took him home. Clearly he was only getting in the way. 

Oma filled an old-fashioned metal kettle with water and something green, hanging that on the hook over the fire. 

Benedict tilted his head. Were… were they making tea? 

He watched with increasing curiosity as they opened cabinets and sliced things up. 

He didn’t understand them one bit. 

It was as though they thought completely differently from anyone else he’d met, and as though they expected everyone else to follow their train of thought somehow. They stated everything like it was obvious, did things that surprised him as though it made perfect sense. 

It had to make sense to them, somehow. 

He tried to think it over, the past day, even all the way back to their first meeting. 

Their entire exchange the night before, how they had disappeared into the bedroom. 

They had told him they weren’t sharing the bed, so Oma walking into the bedroom without a word maybe wasn’t as weird as he had thought. They didn’t tell him what was going on. They just did it. 

He was pulled out of his thoughts by the click of something on the little table in front of him. 

He blinked at the wooden platter sitting there. He could just barely see the smooth sweeps of a knife in the wood, meaning this was another of Oma’s hand-carved items. But what he was really focused on was the array of fruits, cheese, and bread on it. 

Benedict looked up from the plate to see Oma already gone back to the fire, lifting the kettle with another of their metal tools, setting it on the counter. They wrapped their hand with some sort of fabric, then filled two large cups with whatever was in the kettle. 

They brought them over, and Benedict realized that one of them was actually a bowl. Oma placed the cup in front of him, sitting across from him at the little table, holding the bowl in both their hands. 

Benedict tried to follow their thinking on this. One cup, one bowl, everything hand-carved… of course. Oma had no reason to make a second cup. That would be a waste of their time, they only needed one. 

At least, Benedict hoped that was right, because otherwise he was even further behind on understanding Oma than he’d thought. 

He cautiously sipped from the cup. It wasn’t any tea he’d had before, but it was good. He frowned at it, the pale green liquid. The taste was smooth, simple, and he was sure there wasn’t any caffeine in it. 

“What, um… what kind of tea is this?” he asked eventually, not completely sure he wanted to know the answer. 

“Pine,” Oma replied simply. They picked up a piece of cheese and popped it in their mouth. 

Benedict just nodded. He had no idea what to do with that information, but he did know that Oma had changed their breakfast plans just to give him something he’d eat. 

After a while of eating in silence he realized that he recognized the texture of the bread. 

“Did you get this from the city?” he asked, gesturing at the bread. 

They nodded. “Don’t know how to make bread.” 

Because of course they would make absolutely everything themself if they could. “Right,” he said instead. “Do you… are you in the city often?” 

Oma shrugged. “I take Trader’s Way between the capitals.” They picked absently at their fingers, staring at the plate. “Sell and trade things between, make a little money. Buy fabric, bread.” They shrugged again. “I like a simple life.” 

Benedict blinked as he processed this, realizing this was probably the longest sentence he’d ever heard them speak. “Okay,” he said eventually. “What do you sell?” 

Oma stood and walked away from him. 

Benedict frowned, wondering what he’d possibly done wrong. No, he could figure this out… Oma would always rather do than talk, show than tell. So maybe they were getting something as an example of what they usually sold. 

Maybe. 

He waited, trying to be patient, eating some more fruit until Oma came back. 

“Had trouble choosing,” they said, sitting back down. 

They placed a small, intricately carved wooden creature on the table. 

Benedict gasped softly, reaching for it, picking it up, turning it in his hands. He recognized the animal, one of the few creatures of olde he was familiar with. It was a fox. He had read about them as a little kid, and had always wished they were still around. The pose was fluid, somehow, despite the rigid wood. Its ears were perked up, tail mid-flick, one paw raised in curiosity. Its eyes looked keen, alert, though that didn’t make sense. Something about it simply felt alive. 

“Oma, this is beautiful,” he breathed, looking up from the fox. 

Oma shifted in their seat, looking askance. Benedict realized with a start that there was, however slight, a dusting of color in their cheeks. 

They were blushing. 

That was… 

“You can keep it,” Oma mumbled. “If you want.” 

Benedict managed a nod. “I – I want.” He swallowed. “Thank you, Oma.” 

Oma just shrugged. 

“I always loved foxes when I was little,” Benedict said softly. “Did you… how did you know that I’d like this one?” 

Oma shrugged again, ducking their head. 

“Okay,” Benedict sighed, chewing his lip. This was the most conversation he was going to drag from them, it seemed. That was fair, given how much he’d learned about Oma in the past few hours. “Thank you,” he repeated. “For this, for letting me stay, for the food.” He hesitated, not sure how they would interpret this, then – “When I see you next, I’ll bring you something in return.” 

He immediately wanted to bite the words back. He’d told himself he would repeat their dislike for him until he learned to stay away. He had to stay away, this was a horrible idea. He couldn’t see them again, if his parents found out… 

Oma frowned, blinking up, finally meeting his gaze again. 

Benedict swallowed, feeling pinned by their questioning stare. “I owe you, don’t I?” he said quietly. 

Very, very slowly, Oma nodded. 

“Then it’s settled,” Benedict decided, tucking the little fox into the breast pocket of his jacket. He was making a mistake and he knew it, he had to stick to the plan, but he couldn’t help himself. “Next time I’ll bring you something.” 

And Oma… 

Oma smiled. 

It was barely a smile, really, just the smallest twitch of the corners of their lips, quirking up just slightly. 

But it was undoubtedly a smile. 

Well. 

So much for that plan.