Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Your feet are freezing; your fingers numb. Shivers uncontrollably wrack your whole body. It’s the dead of winter; the sky is overcast, the trees ominous and dark against white snow. You’ve endured many winters, you know this vaguely, like an image in moving water that you can’t quite make out. But you don’t know how you endured. Maybe warm clothes. You remember a warm body, warm dark caramel eyes. Papa. But that can’t be right. Your Papa has bright, near-gold eyes, and they never looked so gentle as the caramel ones.

Whatever it was that helped you through past winters is not here now. It’s just cold, eternal cold.

Several feet in front of you, Bendy’s skipping through the snow, his tail waving. That’s the flag, the sign that you endlessly follow. But you’re only getting colder and colder. You don’t know if he knows the dangers of winter for mumriks. You don’t know if you know, either.

“Bendy,” you utter weakly, without any real idea of what you’re going to say next. The wind eats up your words. Your thin arms wrap tighter around your chest. You feel like you'll never be warm again. “Bendy,” you plaintively cry. It sounds weak even to you. “Bendy !”

Finally he turns, with a smile wild and dangerous. “Yeah, Happy?”

You shudder; your numb lips falter. Words. You need to tell him… tell him something. Maybe tell him the cold can kill you, and then he won’t get the chance. He needs to know that. If you are to die, it needs to be from him.

“You called for me, didn’tcha?”

A strangled noise emits from your throat. You’re so, so scared, and you can’t say exactly why. Whenever he looks at you, whenever he’s close to you - whenever he touches you… You know what he can do. He’s hurt you, bad. And he’s hurt others worse, right in front of you. “I-I-“ you begin falteringly, but it seems your teeth are chattering so hard you can’t form words.

“I-I-I,” Bendy mimics. “You really can’t spit it out, can ya Happy? Might as well be mute!”

You whine, defeated. You’re freezing. Snufkins… they can die in the winter. You know this much. Surely he knows that too? Or maybe he doesn’t know? He has to know. There’s little flecks of useful information in your head but they’re floating about in a deep fog and none of them are connecting. You don’t know what he knows or not. You don’t know what you know or not.

“All right, Happy,” he says. “I get it. You’re all lonely, huh? You want my attention?”

Wheezing giggles erupt from your mouth. His attention. Your skin is already flinching in anticipation. You are so, so scared of him.

He snorts. “Well, you’re gonna have to wait. See…” he trails off, and looks in the distance thoughtfully. His fingers clench and release at his side. Breathily, he continues, “I really wanna kill something, Happy.” He looks back at you, and you see the impatience in every line of his body. “And don’tcha remember what Jox said? He could smell a Snuf out here. We gotta find him.”

You nod fiercely. Stop thinking about how cold you are. Stop thinking about your bare legs, and your exposed face and paws. Those don’t matter. The cold doesn’t matter. Bendy wants to kill a Snufkin. You have to help him.

“Great,” Bendy says, and trots off.

You lower your head and follow. It will make him happy. Stop complaining.

The wind picks up. Your knees nearly clack together and the snow gets harder and harder to walk through.

“Ya think we missed him?” Bendy yells back after a certain time.

You can’t muster a response. You ache. Bendy needs a Snufkin to kill - you need to help however you can. But how can you help?

You’re dwelling over this, and fussing, and forcibly ignoring your selfish wish for warmth when you abruptly pause. Look to the left. There’s a cave.

Bendy has already passed it, but you halt in front of it.

Some past life tells you this cave could be security and safety, and if you light a fire away from the entrance, warmth. Your needs don’t matter, but that information does.

“Bendy!” You cry through the wind. It takes a second cry, nearly a scream, before he looks back. 

You point with trembling, half-curled fingers towards the cave entrance. If this would have been a nice place for you to sit out the storm, then surely it’s a nice place for the Snufkin you’re hunting, too.

He tilts his head, not understanding.

“Snufkin!” You yell.

Excitement lights up on his face, and he bounds over. “Didja see him, Happy?” He looks into the cave, and frowns. “I don’t see nothin’. Are ya goin’ crazy?”

“S-Snufk-kins s-stay in c-c-caves,” you explain.

His tail flicks thoughtfully, like he’s trying to figure out whether your opinion is worth listening to or not. You know it’s not really. You never have important thoughts or feelings. You'd understand if he didn’t listen; maybe you shouldn't have said anything.

“Weird,” he says, and then trots into the cave.

Oh. You follow after, grateful and ashamed all at once. You hope you’re not wrong. Otherwise you'd be wasting his time…

The cave saves you from the biting wind, and you sigh in relief, though it’s still bitterly cold. You can’t feel your fingers. The very inside of your ears ache something awful, especially the ear that can’t hear anymore. But that ear is always causing you pain.

Bendy puts his hands to his mouth. “Oh Snufkin! Where aaare youuu?~”

It turns out you don’t have to go too deep in the cave at all. You see the Snufkin before he does: a stripe of green, a little creature burrowed away in a cranny in the cave wall. Two big eyes peer from the burrow. Perhaps it was prepared for winter, hibernating as some rare Snufkins do. But it’s going to die now. You begin to giggle, and this causes Bendy to follow your line of sight.

There’s a change in his stance. He goes rigid, even his tail freezes in place. He’s hunting. His grin is big and wide.

He’s going to kill the Snufkin. As it should be. As he deserves to.

The little Snufkin crams itself further in the nook. “Go away,” he says, and it almost doesn’t shake, but you know he senses the electric danger in the air just as well as you do. Snufkins are good at recognizing predators.

“How about you come on out,” Bendy returns. “Enjoy enjoy winter with us! We can eat something.”

“I like my own company, thank you,” the Snufkin replies.

“We can eat you,” Bendy proposes.

The Snufkin goes very very still. His eyes are a pretty brown. Your laughter bounces off the cave walls.

“Jox calls Snufkins like you rude,” Bendy adds playfully, nearing the cranny.

“Please go away,” the Snufkin squeaks.

“Come out and play first.” Bendy’s hand gropes into and grasps the Snufkin’s wrist. Instantly the little creature bites his hand fiercely, even snarling like some wild animal. Ink spurts up from the wound and coats his mouth, but Bendy doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t really seem to feel pain.

Soon the Snufkin is pulled free, and splayed on the filthy cave floor.

He’s thin, wiry, and his cautious eyes flit between you and Bendy frantically. “Let me go,” he says. “This instant.”

“Whaddaya think?” Bendy looks at you. “Should we let him go?”

You shake your head hard enough to make you dizzy. With feverish intensity, you add, “Y-You d-deserve tuh-tuh k-kill him-“

The Snufkin recoils. He won’t get any help from you, oh no. You know better than to help Snufkins, who will only ever die anyway. A knife flashes from under his cloak. “I-I’ll fight you."

“Oh, I love it when they fight,” Bendy dances excitedly in place. “C’mon, try to get me with the knife!”

The Snufkin doesn’t move, but his eyes track Bendy closely, fearfully.

Bendy darts in - one finger touches the Snufkin’s belly, “Boop!” Bendy cries. The knife flashes as Bendy’s yanking his hand back.

Several plump white fingers plop to the cave floor and melt into puddles of ink. New fingers bloom forth on his hand. “Wow, you’re fast!” Bendy compliments. “But not fast enough! You didn’t even touch me!” 

The Snufkin gapes. His eyes travel to the puddles of ink on the floor. “I - I cut you-“ he starts.

“Clearly, ya didn’t.” Bendy waves his fully intact hands. “See?”

The Snufkin’s horror deepens when he begins to realize what he’s up against. You know what it’s like, to have that realization. To feel so helpless and vulnerable before something so powerful. It hurts, to empathize.

But this is a Snufkin. An it. A thing. An object for amusement. His feelings don’t matter.

“Boop!” Bendy darts in to poke the Snufkin again, but this time the knife catches the demon before he manages to touch him. Just as before, no injuries remain.

“S-Stupid S-Snufkin,” you burble.

“You’re real bad at this,” Bendy says matter-of-factly. “Haven’t gotten me once!”

“But - but-“ the Snufkin protests futilely, as if that will ever make a difference. His gaze sweeps to you as if looking for help, for someone to take his side.

“You’re gonna die,” you tell him, smiling. It’s better he knows.

“Gotcha!” Bendy yells while Snufkin’s distracted, and in the next moment he’s transformed. The knife goes straight into Bendy’s skull but it doesn’t matter once the demon’s teeth are buried inches deep into Snufkin’s thigh. Blood spurts; the Snufkin screams.

Then Bendy lifts his head and Snufkin goes with it, dangling upside down by his mutilated thigh. His paws are doing all kinds of funny things, flapping around pointlessly and emphatically. He’s a big old mess.

His layered shirts scrunch up around his shoulders, showing off his belly and chest. What a slut. What a stupid slut.

Bouncing in place, Bendy gleefully shakes the Snufkin; he yells and rattles like an old doll. Something definitely breaks - his hip, you think, but you’re not sure. Bendy throws him down to the ground and he crumples in a pathetic ball, not moving.

In seconds, Bendy’s small again, and his tail’s flipping to a rhythm. “What’s wrong, Snuf? Why don’tcha hit me with your knife again? It’s like ya don’t know how to fight at all!” Bendy looks at you; he’s alive with bloodthirst.

“Happy, c’mon, give him his knife back.”

“Yes, Bendy!” It’s on the cave floor; you dive for it, but your paws are like numb thick mittens with very limited feel. It takes a while to pick it up (you keep dropping it or pushing it further away you dumb, dumb Snufkin-)

Finally you get it, and when you turn back, you see that Snufkin has his pants pulled down. At first you think Bendy’s sucking the Snufkin’s dick, and then you realize that Bendy is actually eating. That explains why the Snufkin is screaming in whole new pitches, and why he’s beating his fists uselessly on Bendy’s head.

“D-do you want your n-knife?” You hold out the handle to him, but it’s like he barely even notices.

Bendy’s flat teeth are tearing into the Snufkin’s abdomen, his gloved hands holding his thighs firmly apart. Snufkin’s kicking like crazy, wailing like a lunatic.

“H-Hey!” You say stronger, beckoning. “Y-your knife!” Bendy wanted you to give it to him. Why isn’t he taking it?

Tendrils of ink hold his legs apart now, while Bendy digs his fingers and teeth into the hole he’s made. It’s like a cunt, you realize, huffing a laugh. You don’t think that was what Bendy was aiming for, though. He just wants to tear the Snufkin apart. His groping fingers, bulging under the Snufkin’s flesh, find what they’re hunting for. He yanks out intestines in long sticky ropes; he shoves them in his mouth.

There’s a lot of blood. A lot .

“Here,” you say. You grab one paw (wow, he’s really shaking hard), and force his knife into it. He promptly drops it.

“I can’t help you if you’re stupid,” you tell him, laughter bubbling up your chest. Oh God Bendy is eating him from the inside out. Nausea, which had always been brimming under the surface, overflows once the demon works his arms into the wound. He’s nuzzling his head in before long, while swallowing huge wet chunks with noises that sicken you. He’s happy, though. He’s so, so happy right now, and you should be too -

You bend double and vomit on the floor. Silly. Silly silly silly

You laugh, and then vomit again.

You’re so glad he’s happy. You have to be glad. You’re Happy. Your paw sweeps down between your legs and you begin to rub yourself too hard. You still don’t have good coordination with half-frozen paws, and the sensations you elicit in yourself hurt more than they feel good (especially since your cunt aches from the Joxter making it useful earlier). But you aren’t supposed to feel good anyway.

By now only Bendy’s rear, legs, and his mirthful waving tail are outside the Snufkin’s body: the rest is buried up in him, but he’s still alive, how can a person survive through all that? When is he going to die? His eyes are rolling, his keening weakening. All through this, he’s been trying to push himself back over the floor but he’s crammed against the wall now and there’s nowhere to flee. Chunks of meat rip from him like he’s giving birth.

The stench is awful, overwhelming, but it only galvanizes Bendy. His form melts up into the Snufkin, amorphous and liquid, so for a few moments you see nothing of him.

“A-ahn-nuh-“ the Snufkin hoarsely cries.

Then you glimpse black coloration slithering under the skin, spreading like an infection. The Snufkin begins to seize and then -

Then you can’t describe what happens. One moment he’s there, ink twined everywhere inside him, and then the next second there’s lots and lots of teeth, and lots of red churning meat.

In seconds Bendy’s sitting there, soaked in blood, and grinning wide. There’s nothing left of the Snufkin except red. You lose control of your legs and end up thudding to your butt, wheezing.

“That was fun,” Bendy says.

“Y-y-yes, Bendy.” You don’t know what he just did exactly, but the Snufkin is very very dead.

Bendy stretches, then begins to lick his bloody palm.

The smell of blood and vomit is too powerful. “I-I’m gonna- fresh air-“

To the outside you go; the storm has died down but you barely notice. Trees wobble and bend and smile. The snow is everywhere. Above and below. You’re starting to feel warm, just a little. Something is wrong.

You’re too cold.

No, you’re warm.

No, cold.

You’re shivering, so that means you have to be cold, right?

Licking cracked lips, you lean against a trunk and try to steady yourself. In your hazy vision, you hallucinate a figure in the snow, a figure with distinct long red hair that flows all about her like a halo as she dances and twirls as if she is lighter than snow. How odd. You see things that aren’t there a lot, but usually you see things like Bendy murdering you and eating up all your insides. You don’t ever see pretty things. A dopey smile stretches across your lips, splitting their wounds wider. Then you're falling, falling, and the snow hugs you on all sides, warm and soft and welcoming and -

Chapter Text

Even in the depths of winter, it’s nice being a Mymble. You feel splendid top to toe. The cold nips at your body and sends you leaping about as if you’re lighter than air. Over frozen creeks and through the tall silent trees you spring, thinking about visiting Little My.

You don’t make it halfway before a ghost arrests your joyous hopping and freezes your heart solid.

Snufkin.

It’s Snufkin there, standing in the woods.

But yet it can’t be him at all. Snufkin died over a year ago. The poor poor Inspector told you grisly details that you didn’t want to hear, but that had marginally lightened his nightmares to tell. Yes, Snufkin died over a year ago. But he is here. Leaning against a tree trunk, as if nothing at all had happened.

Dread and impossible hope mingle in your heart. Your feet are like lead as you approach slowly. The mirage clears.

It isn’t Snufkin.

It’s a Snufkin, yes, but not the Snufkin everyone in Moominvalley knew and loved. Absurd disappointment blooms, but it’s swiftly replaced with deep, deep concern. There’s nothing you can do for the Snufkin that died last year. But this one is covered in blood, and he’s wearing nothing but a thin cloak in this cold. He’s got a dopey, loose grin on his face.

Your lips part, a stern cry at the tip of your tongue, when he outright collapses.

“Wha…”

What have you just come across? You don’t know this Snufkin, never met him before; maybe it’s your caring heart, maybe it’s his likeness to the Snufkin you did once know. Either way, you are immediately at his side, scooping his head from the snow.

The Snufkin has seen much better days: his hair is greasy and un-groomed, bruises and welts stand stark against skin pallid and chilly. His breathing is shallow. Without help, he will undoubtedly die out here.

You don’t know what Snufkin lacks the common sense to clothe himself properly, but given all his injuries, you suspect there’s something more at work. You had heard, distantly, of the things Joxters sometimes liked to do with Snufkins, and you fear you've finally met with the consequences first hand. But you don’t see any Joxter around, and even if you would, you’d bat them off for the sake of helping this Snufkin.

“You will come with me, then,” you tell him, brushing overgrown bangs from his forehead. “We will fix you up. Now, how to-“

Your bones quake from a growl so deep that it could have been the mountains. When it raises in pitch and you realize it’s from a creature, you’re upright instantly, on the alert.

Your eye catches movement. From the nearby cave prowls something animalistic and horned. Something black as pitch, with flesh that oozes and drips. Its teeth could puncture straight through your body.

This beast is not something from Moominvalley: Moominvalley has nothing remotely like this. But it takes only half a second for recognition to set in. In terror-stricken, anguished tones, the Inspector had once detailed to you the thing that had mauled and mutilated Snufkin, based on the testimony of the Zookeeper. He painted a vivid image, which leaves no doubt in your mind this is the monster that killed Snufkin. This is the culprit to that greatest evil.

You don’t know what to feel. Fury. Disgust. Despair. All these things flash through your mind. But it’s fear that prevails. The Inspector’s descriptions had been disturbingly graphic. Even if they hadn’t been, it takes little to imagine just how much harm this beast could cause. Instinct sends you backing away like prey, leaving the Snufkin like an offering to sacrifice. You deeply, deeply regret abandoning him but you have no choice. You can’t protect him.

It prowls nearer; you retreat, breath getting shorter and shorter. It’s going to kill you. It’s going to kill you like Snufkin, and you will be able to do nothing to stop it. You don’t know if it can talk, if it has any sentience, but words slip from your mouth, “please, please, I don’t-“

There’s no sign it comprehends. Soon it’s close enough to crush the unconscious Snufkin beneath its foot. It lowers its head. The horns nudge Snufkin’s motionless body, teeth brush against flesh. It’s going to eat Snufkin, you realize, heart hammering. It’s going to devour this Snufkin right in front of you. You can’t watch. But you can’t look away, either, paralyzed in terror while its dripping black tongue drags over skin and fabric.

The Snufkin does not move. His breathing is shallow, as is yours while you watch this scene, afraid to run. Running might inspire chase. Perhaps one step backward would be safe… And then another…

Guilt churns, because you don’t want to abandon this helpless Snufkin. But you also don’t want to die, and there’s no sense in the both of you getting killed. You’ve backed away several feet, your eyes perpetually fixed upon the monster, when it looks up at you and you freeze.

There’s silence. The deep quiet of a forest reflected in a pond, stilled in one moment of time.

This is it, you think with despair. It’s going to kill you.

But it doesn’t. What it does instead bewilders you. Its already viscous flesh begins to melt, not unlike hot wax. Horns droop, the spine sinks, bony limbs collapse like collagen soaked in vinegar. You spend a good second wondering in amazement if the thing isn’t just off and dying, but - No. Like some grotesque metamorphosis, a new being forms from the melted inky flesh. Something small. A foolish man might think it cute. You do not think that. It has teeth, horns, and still follows the black and white patterning of its previous form. But everything now is rounded, deceptively softer-looking. Its eyes are a glittering black.

When it speaks, it’s accusatory and with an accent you don’t recognize, “What diddya do to him?”

You haven’t adjusted to the juxtaposition between this and the monster there not a minute ago - you don’t at first respond.

It doesn’t seem angry. In fact, it’s still smiling but you get the distinct sense it’s not happy. “C’mon, you can tell me. I won’t hurt ya so bad, then.”

You blink. You need to answer. Your lips part, your tongue shifts, but no words arise. It… it wants to know what you did with the Snufkin? But - “I - I didn’t - didn’t do anything-“

The monster laughs a brittle, brief laugh. “I hate liars.”

What?

“Do ya think I’m stupid?” The thing takes a step closer. “Happy leaves the cave doin’ just great, and then I come out here, and whaddo I find? You, standin’ over him in the snow. If it wasn’t you, then who did it, huh?”

It occurs to you that he (you think it’s a he), absurdly, seems to care about this Snufkin’s life (if not his welfare). Then you realize the misunderstandings he’s having and it’s so bizarre you nearly laugh. “The cold!” You blurt. Was he really so oblivious? Did he not know what could happen to a mumrik in the dead of winter wearing such little clothing? Your eyes drift down to the Snufkin and your heart clenches again. “Mymbles are true to their word! It wasn’t me that hurt him, but this winter cold!” You deliberately leave out the fact that Snufkin is also suffering from a myriad of injuries that have nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with being in the care of a monster.

“A Mymble…?” He murmurs, lost in thought. “The Cold?”

This is truly news to him. “Winter weather is deadly to Mymbles such as me, and mumriks such as him,” you explain, voice shaking.

“Deadly….? Why?”

He’s not wearing any clothing beyond a bowtie. He’s not shivering, or remotely bothered. You lick dry lips. Okay. He is something unaffected by cold - perhaps unaffected by heat, or hunger, or anything of the like. That has implications you aren’t ready to consider. “I - I don’t know about you, but… for him, these things are dangerous. You - you see how I have all these layers on? The scarf, cloak-?”

“Yeah, yeah-“

“It keeps me safer from the chill.” It’s amazing you need to explain this. Like speaking to a child, only he is a monster.

“Then give him yer clothes.”

You blink in astonishment. He’s entirely serious. Furthermore, he could very well force you to obey. The situation is so unreal that again, you almost could laugh from it, if you weren’t certain you’d die the moment you did. “Give him…?”

“Your clothes, now!”

“Um.”

Impatience flashes across his expression, and you quickly amend, “That - that alone won’t save him - he’s gotten far too cold!”

The monster is getting increasingly agitated, his tail flicking anxiously left and right, left and right. He glances back at Snufkin repeatedly. “Then what does he need? Spit it out!”

This is where you ought to lie to him. Tell him there is nothing to be done, or perhaps that he should bring the Snufkin to some far-off place (nowhere near Moominvalley). That would condemn the Snufkin to die, undoubtedly. But it would save you.

Apparently you aren’t as wise as you think, because you stutter, “I-I can help him."

He looks at you warily, like he thinks you're going to snatch the Snufkin out from under him.

“If you wish me to,” you add quickly. “But whatever you decide, it needs to be fast.”

“You've treated the Cold Sickness?”

“Um, yes.” Not exactly. But you knew the principle.

He whirls around and kicks the unconscious Snufkin. “Happy? Is she tellin’ the truth? Are ya sick with the winter?”

The Snufkin is unresponsive.

“We must act quickly,” You stress, becoming afraid of what will happen should the Snufkin die with you still in the beast’s vicinity.

“What do we do?”

Your tongue stutters on numb lips, though it has nothing to do with the cold. “The-there’s a cabin. Not far. If we bring him-“

“Point the way.”

You lift a finger.

The creature hunches over; at first you think he’s going to be sick. Instead his flesh shifts, his body begins to grow - oh. Transforming back. Your heart is in your throat. Maybe he has decided to kill you after all -

Soon he is back to the enormous skeletal shape. His long sinuous tail whips towards the Snufkin but rather than scouring him, the tail wraps around his body thrice over and lifts him from the ground. The monster is carrying Snufkin - then his head swoops down. You can’t run in time before his teeth have snagged your coat and the ground drops away from your feet. Soon you’re dangling with your legs swinging and kicking, far far from the snow.

“Wait, wait-“ you whimper. Cold breath ruffles over your hair. Chilly drool oozes down the back of your neck and into your shirt. Then he’s moving: long loping strides while you swing like a puppet on strings, ground flying under your feet at a faster speed than you have ever traveled. The only thing between you and a dangerous fall is his teeth hooked in your cloak.

You force yourself to look away. A priority would be evading such a fall… your gloved hands wrap around his bottom teeth to better hang on. At the very least, it will be an extra defense against him dropping you…

You cling for the duration of the journey as a tense half-curled knot of terror. At some point, you realize he’s going in the wrong direction, and you frantically yell for him to turn. With your pointing and guidance, his gait slows to a bouncy, long-strided trot, then a halt. You peer over your shoulder. There’s the cabin: a run down shanty buried beneath snow.

His head swings down; the force dislodges your grip and you’re unceremoniously dropped into the snow. The Snufkin he carefully places.

You get up, rubbing your arms and eyeing the monster as it transforms back. No matter how many times you see that transformation, you’ll never get accustomed to it. You do hope you never have to see it again, though.

“This the place?” He asks.

“Y-yes.” It’s a winter cabin you had found with little My once. Nobody owns it. But anybody can use it when they need it. “Let’s bring him in.”

It feels weird to give a monster orders, but he keeps looking for your direction. He’s clueless - naive, even. But unimaginably dangerous. You need to be careful.

He has no difficulty dragging Snufkin in. You fall into the familiar caretaker mindset. “Lay him on the bed,” you gesture to an old stained mattress, eyeing the monster to make sure he’s not opposed to the command. He gains several extra limbs to lift the Snufkin and lay him on the bed. He’s unnatural. Beyond frightening. The descriptions your Inspector had revealed to you flash in your head, speaking to the cruelty and inhuman nature of this thing. He obeys your orders only because he thinks you can help this Snufkin. What will he do if you fail? What will he do once you aren’t needed? Oh, what have you gotten yourself into?

Through caring for your many brothers and sisters, you know a thing or two about medicine. Frostbitten fingers, cuts, bruises, and even once, a broken bone from falling out of a tree. But none of your siblings had ever been this wounded, or this frozen. In your heart you know the doctor must be called, but you don’t know how long this monster’s patience will last.

Instead you set yourself to hunting for supplies through dusty shelves while his beady eyes follow your every move.

“Hurry up. Didn’t ya say ya had to be quick?”

“I need to do things correctly. If I rush, I may make a mistake, and then it won’t matter at all.”

That seems to appease him for the time. You’re getting an idea of how to respond to him without provoking him, but you’re dreading the moment you say something wrong.

“Ah!” You rush back to the Snufkin with blankets bundled in your arm, and a knife in your hand. His clothes, soaked from the snow, you cut away. It’s hard not to stare, because you didn’t know people could be so thin. He’s hardly more than skin stretched tightly over a skeleton. And that says nothing of the scratches, bites, bruises, which litter him like a canvas. Quickly you cover him with blankets. It’s remarkable he’s still alive at all. After a bit more hunting, you pile old moth-eaten coats over the blankets. A towel you gently position over his matted hair like a crown. His pulse and breathing is weak, but both are present. At the moment, that’s the best you can hope for.

A fire you start in the hearth, after a quick soot cleaning. Finally, you rinse what wounds you can, and clean them and apply bandages, while doing your best to keep the poor Snufkin as blanketed as possible. Through all of this, you’re overly aware of the monster watching you. 

“It may be some time before he wakes,” you tell him hesitantly. “He needs to warm up slowly… Once he wakes, I’ll have some tea and food prepared. Until then… there’s little more we can do but hope.”

“I knew I could trust you,” he says, although he had never demonstrated anything of the sort. “Took me a bit t’remember, but Jox told me ‘bout Mymbles.”

Jox. A Joxter. Oh Creator of all Small Things, surely no Joxter, even as sadistic and twisted as that species could be, would ever be so dumb as to acquaint himself with a monster such as this?

“Y’got a funny look on yer face.”

You apologize, and lower your head while you dig out a kettle and hunt for food. In the corner of your vision, you see him trailing his fingers over Snufkin’s throat again and again. It unsettles you. Everything about him does.

“I’m Bendy, by the way,” he says casually, as if he’s just like anyone else.

“Just the Mymble will do,” you reply.

His thumb presses against Snufkin’s pulse. His beetle black eyes are too intense. Fingers curl around Snufkin’s throat, begin to squeeze -

“Stop.” You utter before you can stop yourself.

He doesn’t.

The hairs on your arm raise. “S-stop, you’re going to hurt him.”

Bendy lets go. A laugh huffs under his breath as his gaze eerily drifts to you. “Sorry, Mymble. Sometimes I just really wanna hurt him, especially when he makes me worry.”

The words alone could suggest annoyance, but the tone makes you shudder. It’s adoration. Infatuation. This poor, poor Snufkin. “How did you meet him?” You ask, half in despair about what misfortunate led the Snufkin to this life.

“Oh, it was on accident! Jox just came right across ‘im once, an’ set me after him!”

You are quiet as you prepare the tea. Then, “I heard you call him Happy.”

“That’s his name. I gave it to him. He’s my pet, my plaything. My favorite.” The saccharine evil chills you worse than the winter could. Bendy’s fingers are back to stroking Snufkin’s throat. “Joxter says not to kill Mymbles, but if he dies, I’m gonna chew through your insides. I bet he’d understand.”

“Oh.”

You can only imagine what the Snufkin endured. The wounds you glimpsed hinted at a story long and dreadful, but you feared what you saw was only the tip of the iceberg. This Snufkin - Happy, what a sick name - had been tortured, for a brutal period of time. Then there was the Snufkin at the Zoo. The Inspector told you details that were never released to public knowledge, because they were so graphic. How many had suffered - would suffer - at Bendy’s hands?

What can one small Mymble do about it?

You shake your head. A can of beans, a bit of moldy bread, some jerky. This is all the cabin has available right now.

You’ll need to… think about what you can do for Happy, for other Snufkins. What meager thing you could do to stand against something like Bendy?

“If - if it’s all right to ask…” you begin, “I was wondering what exactly you are?”

“A demon,” he replies, resting his chin on Happy’s blanket-laden thigh. “But I ain’t into the calling-someone-by-their-species-name thing. Just call me Bendy.”

A demon. “Bendy?”

“Mm?” He’s so disarmingly calm.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“It’s the accent,  huh?” He smiles like he knows the truth.

“Just intuition.”

He lays his chin back on Happy’s thigh. “You got it right though. I needed t’get away from home. Everything… got old. Boring.”

“Sometimes it’s like that.” When he doesn’t reply, you add. “So… why Moominvalley?”

“Mm.” He shrugs. “Was on accident, mostly. Some bug-eyed Betty carried the book in with ‘em and I was curious… wanted away.” Bendy prods Happy’s stomach. “It wasn’t like I had a whole lotta options. Not that many books ‘round the studio.”

None of what he said made any sense to you but you nod as if it did. “I see. How long have you… um, been here?”

“I dunno. Early summer?”

That was when Snufkin was killed at the zoo. Must have been shortly after Bendy arrived. Your gut twists.

“Anyway, why the interrogation?” His attention is suddenly abruptly on you.

“I’m sorry, I-“

He laughs. “Don’t sweat it. Not a lotta people talk t’me like I’m normal. Too busy runnin’ ’n screamin’ ’n all. ’S fun in the right mood, but… that’s what everyone does, ‘an a break is nice too, especially when I’m all worried ‘bout Happy.”

“Ah. Good.”

“I know you’re still scared’a me, though.”

“Oh.”

“But you care about Happy, dont’cha?”

“I don’t want to see anyone suffer,” you reply carefully.

“Sure. Just know I’m gonna bring him back to the nest when this is all said an’ done, and you ain’t ever gonna see him again. That way I won’t kill you.”

He’s waiting for an answer. “Yes,” you say. “Yes, I agree.”

The Snufkin is going to go right back into Bendy’s clutches. You’re saving him just to be further tortured, manipulated… Saving him just to be killed, in a manner you shudder to imagine. You rub your temples and sigh deeply. Everything’s overwhelming. You don’t know what to do. All you want to do is curl up and sleep and wake up to a world where you didn’t meet this thing, never heard of him.

“Why is it taking so long?”

“Snuf… Happy… has endured quite an ordeal. It… is no quick recovery.”

Bendy grumbled.

You chew your lip. Then, daringly, “his recovery would have been accelerated if he were in better health.”

Bendy’s look is sharp.

“I only mean… I notice he’s rather thin…” that’s an understatement. “Mumriks need lots of food, perhaps more than one, um, than one might initially think.”

At first you think Bendy will slay you where you stand, but then he looks back at Happy worriedly and you realize he’s considering your words. You slump in relief. No more pressing him. You can’t handle the stress, not right now.

He looks back at you. “Not that I don’t know or anythin,’” he starts slowly, “but… if a guy happened to not know… what might ya say about keepin’ a mumrik healthy?”

“I…”

“Like about cold ’n food ’n stuff. Best Snufkin-Keepin’ guide, written by a Mymble. Lay it on me.”

You spend the better part of an hour telling Bendy about things that are obvious and basic to anyone with a mortal body. Don’t touch fire. Cold can kill, but so can heat. You do your best to express that biting and scratching aren’t good, but Bendy’s seen (or rather done) enough of that firsthand to scoff at your advice, and you'd rather he not discount all your advice. Through the entire conversation, you’re tense as a board, wondering how long a person can be near-panic before they just have a heart attack and keel over.

Somewhere through the talk about drowning, you notice Happy shift in the blankets. Your heart skips. Is he waking? Surely he will soon - it has been long enough, and through this conversation you’ve been carefully monitoring his temperature, which has steadily risen, and his breath has strengthened.

But you don’t want him to wake with Bendy around. You desperately want a chance to speak with this Snufkin… to see if there’s any additional way you can help him. Only Bendy won’t want to leave Happy alone. However, he knows little about mumrik physiology and medicine. He isn’t a mortal like Snufkin - you're sure he doesn’t have a heart or blood or anything of the like. You can work with this.

“Bendy,” you say, trailing off from your tangent. “We need more firewood.”

He blinks uncomprehendingly.

“Could you get some? I can keep telling you about this when you return.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I would, but I need to monitor Snufkin’s respiratory rate and pulse,” you say. It isn’t a complete lie - you've decided it’s unwise to directly lie to the demon, whether he had a chance of finding out or not.

“I can do that,” Bendy replies. “You can get wood.”

You nod, stand. “Remember, don’t look away for a moment! Happy’s state could change at any moment and it’s best you're ready for anything. You remember what to do if it drops or raises? Or stutters or-“

You’re almost out the door when - “wait wait wait-“ Bendy’s chilly gloves grasp your leg. Most people would have stopped with the verbal order, some with grabbing fabric. But his fingers wrap around your thin thigh, and the cold bleeds into your flesh.

“I can get wood,” he says.

“You’re sure?” You somehow manage to say with some amount of composure.

“Yeah! Ain’t a problem! I’ve seen Jox do it loads’a times.”

“If that’s okay with you, then…”

Bendy nods and then he’s off, scampering into the woods which are growing darker with the coming evening.

You let out a deep, shaky sigh, and shut the door.  You slump against the door. For the first time, you can… relax. Not forever, but… you can’t describe the relief with him gone. His presence had flooded the whole of the cabin with a dangerous, toxic aura. His departure lifts a thousand pounds from your shoulders. You collapse in a chair by Happy’s side, catching your breath as if you had just run a marathon. Bendy’s existence was overwhelming. And this poor Snufkin… how long had he been in the demon’s clutches?

Bendy described him as a pet… but people weren’t meant to be pets.

“I’m so, so sorry,” you murmur to him. “You’ve deserved none of this…” You stroke his forehead. Arrange the blankets. You had seen sight of him rousing, but it’s another several minutes before his eyes shift under his lids.

“Are you there, Snufkin?” On one hand, you will feel even guiltier, knowing the Snufkin’s personality and yet allowing him to go back to Bendy. But you must know who he is. And maybe, maybe the two of you can think of something - he must have much greater knowledge of Bendy than you. Together, together you might-

His eyes hazily open. They’re half-lidded, a rich brown so dark they’re black in the cabin’s dim lighting.

“Hello,” you whisper. “Snufkin? Can you hear me?”

Those eyes round in alarm. His chest begins to heave. Lips tremble as awareness seeps in.

“Snufkin,” you say gently.

His chest spasms, then his whole body. His eyes jerk to you. “Happy,” he gasps brokenly, “My-my name is Happy.” His eyes swerve wildly around the room. “Where’s Bendy-?” Then his limbs are churning in the blankets, like he’s a deer trapped in a net.

“Shshh, he’s out - he’s out right now-“ You feel sick to your stomach. You didn’t know what you were hoping for. But this, this was not it.

“Who are you?” He flinches from your touch, “you can’t use me! Not without his permission-“

“Use you…?” You have a horrible feeling you know what he means.

“You can’t fuck me,” he says outright. “Joxter and Bendy have to agree first.”

“I… right. I won’t do that.”

This seems to calm him.

You take a steadying breath. “In fact, I don’t want to do that to you at all. I don’t want to use you.”

“I’m a Snufkin, can’t you tell?”

“And I’m a Mymble.” A heartbeat hesitation, then, “Mymbles don’t believe in what Joxters do. I believe you are a person, Snufkin.”

“Happy,” he corrects in a paroxysm of terror.

“Snufkin,” you say. “You were not always Happy, were you?”

His eyes are darting like a small animal’s. He’s afraid to look too long at you. “Where’s Bendy? I need him,” he insists lowly.

“Bendy’s out. Collecting firewood, he’ll be right back to you, I swear it.”

Snufkin, bizarrely, laughs. Then, as if he’s confused by the mere notion, he mumbles, “I haven’t been away from him in months.”

Months?

“He’s always watching. Even when I think I’m alone.”

“He isn’t now,” you say, although you don’t know the extent of Bendy’s powers, and truthfully, Snufkin’s words deeply unnerve you.

Snufkin glances at the door. “Isn’t he?”

“You need warm tea.” You say numbly. “It will help you feel better.” You fetch a glass and place it in his shaking hands.

He sips the drink, eyes feverish. When you look at him, you feel simultaneously mystified and consumed with sadness. He was once a person. Now… now he looks like a wreck, emaciated and beaten into chronic terror. The corner of one lip twitches obsessively in a near-perpetual half-smile.

“There you go,” you say in some attempt at soothing. “Isn’t that tea nice?”

He looks at you wildly, like he’s not sure why you’re asking - he’s trying to figure out where the deception is, where the pain is. It breaks your heart.

”How about some bread?” You tug off a few pieces that haven’t yet been tainted by mold. They’re a little stale, but you’re afraid it’s all the Snufkin has had for far too long. 

He takes it slowly, still eyeing you. “I-Is this a game?” He giggles nervously at the end.

”No, Snufkin.” You lean forward in your seat, wanting to touch him to comfort him, but you’re too scared to. You don’t know how he will react. You merely hope he sees the sincerity in your eyes. “Mymbles don’t play cruel games like that. I certainly don’t. Please, enjoy the bread.” 

Like a starving animal, he watches you suspiciously, and then swiftly crams the bread into his mouth, downing it with a gulp of tea. Your brow creases. He’s been so ruined.

You want to know who he was. His self, his true Snufkin self, must be buried under all this madness. You can almost hear it in the cracks of his voice, see it through the fissures of doubt in his flitting, nervous eyes. His personality and identity are still there, crushed beneath the tortures he has endured. You want to bring him back to the way he was before this torture. But that is something you’re afraid lies outside of your power.

You can’t have much time left before Bendy returns, but… it doesn’t look like Snufkin is in any state to reason through escape methods right now.

You gaze down at your hands, small, pale, trembling. You have never felt so helpless. So lost. What do you do with Snufkin? What do you do about Bendy? Tell the Inspector? No - no, you must not, you can’t even entertain the thought. The Inspector was a good man. He would likely do everything in his power to stop people from getting hurt, but Bendy doesn’t want to be stopped. You couldn't bear something so atrocious happening to the Inspector because you were so foolish as to think one Hemulen could do anything against a demon. You can’t tell him. You can’t tell… anyone. Either you burden them with a horrible knowledge they would not act on, or… they’d act on it and bring their own demise. You clasp your trembling hands together as if in prayer. Deep, steadying breaths.

Responsibility has been thrust upon you. What can you do? You can’t stop a demon. A Mymble here would be little more effective than a Hemulen. You can’t smuggle the Snufkin away. You doubted there was much of a hope in running from Bendy.

“Mymble?” A soft word is suddenly spoken.

You look up.

Snufkin’s hunched behind his cup. “D-do you really believe Snufkins are people?”

”Yes, Snufkin. With my whole heart.”

His next words are a desperate, hoarse whisper, “please save me.”

“Snufkin-“

Anguish bleeds through his words, “please, Mymble, I can’t - I can’t live like this-“ then he’s sobbing, his emaciated body wracked with tremors and tears.

“O-oh-“ You lean forward to wrap your arms around him (the Creator Above knows he needs comfort, any fragment of normal comfort-), but your movement is arrested when the door bangs open.

“Sure hope I got enough firewood!” Bendy yells in with the whistling wind.

You sit back, clench your teeth. There’s no way to ignore Snufkin’s strangled gasp. You feel like crying yourself. What a terrible, terrible situation.

“Well?” Bendy hops through the threshold. “Did I get enough firewood?”

“Let me see,” you say, not sounding remotely normal but he doesn’t notice. You walk over to the door to find that Bendy may as well have annihilated the whole forest. A pile of wood, shoddily broken up in uneven and dissimilar pieces, is perched nearly to the height of the cabin.

“Yes, I think you g-“

“Oh, guess we don’t need it after all!” Evidently Bendy had just noticed Happy sitting up, and the demon springs over to his bed. “heya, Happy! Ya woke up while I was gone - rude!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“ Snufkin seems to be trying to curl himself in as small a ball as possible, flinching from the demon’s proximity. Instantly, he’s reverted.

“No hard feelings, Hap-“ Bendy slapped Snufkin’s thigh hard and the both of you wince. “Just don’t ever do that again, all right? Yeesh, you think you'd tell a guy that you were dyin’ in snow but nooo, you’re determined t’hurt yourself, huh?”

“Yes,” Snufkin whimpers, “Yes, Bendy, I’m sorry-“

It chokes your heart to see this. For a moment, the briefest of moments, you saw something else in Snufkin. You saw the tiniest hint of his personality, of his sanity. It’s gone. He’s giggling and his skin is flinching.

Bendy turns to you, smiling. “I guess Mymbles really are pretty great. I owe you a thanks for takin’ care’a Happy. We’ll be off t’ the nest now.”

“Wh-wait-“ You fumble. “He’s not fit to be walking - to be out in the cold - and it’s nighttime-“

“Night time, best time.” Bendy drags Snufkin from the bed by the paw: the poor Snufkin is towed along like a toy.

"No - don't you remember what we talked about? You'll put him at risk again!"

This stops Bendy when nothing else does. In his mind, he equated Snufkin being awake with Snufkin being fine. It was that simple to him. It was astonishing to you that the poor individual had survived this long.

"At least let him stay tonight and rest,” you plead. “Just because he’s awake now doesn’t mean he’s entirely healed.”

"Snufkins are so needy. That probably means no fun at night, either, huh?” 

You don't want to know what 'fun' constitutes. "No," you answer. "Mumriks need time to recover."

Eventually Bendy acquiesces, agreeing that he doesn't want Happy to get killed over something as silly as Winter Cold. 

You don’t know what you were hoping to accomplish by having Snufkin stay the night - maybe it really was just something so innocent as wanting him to survive (but what kind of existence he has…). More likely… you were hoping for a moment alone where you might speak with Happy. Where you might summon his old personality, might be able to together come up with a solution.

It doesn’t matter what you expected. What you get is a very sleepless, tense night. You lay on the barren floor, dozing fitfully without ever truly resting. Whenever you jerk awake (which is a great many times throughout the night), you look up to check on the Snufkin. Every single time, without fail, Bendy is hovering by the bed. Possessively guarding what he perceives to be his property.

Watching Snufkin, constantly. Just as Snufkin had said.

This is Snufkin’s life always. 

When morning comes, you’ve not slept a wink. You manage to shove some food and water at Snufkin, but you’re given very little time to say goodbye (and no time alone at all) before Bendy’s hauling Snufkin from the cabin.  “Look, he’s walkin’ and talkin’. Ya did great, Mymble. But Jox is really gonna wonder where we are, an’ I’m ready t’be home.”

The demon bleeds into the shadows, transforms, and then they’re both gone. Like nothing happened.

You’re left at the cabin stoop, breathless and alone and overwhelmed. 

It will take you a long time to process the things you witnessed and learned. You don't think you'll ever be able to tell anyone else, not without endangering them. But you do know something - this isn't the end. Nobody deserves to live the way he is. And if there's anything, anything in your power that you can do to make things better for that Snufkin... you will.

Chapter Text

It’s as if the world has betrayed you. Another morning breaks, crystalized in snow, too perfect for words. Once, you would look at such a morning with delight and awe. Now you feel dread. It’s not right for Moominvalley to radiate such beauty while concealing unspeakable evil. 

How long had you gone in ignorance of reality? What Creator would allow this to pass?

You try to go back to normal life. You try to feel splendid top to toe, as a Mymble should. But guilt and worry swamp you. Who are you to enjoy yourself, while another is relentlessly, mercilessly tortured? Deep down, you know you must do something. Sleepless nights pass. You meet with Little My, a casual visit. She talks of things you can’t bring yourself to care about. Things that mattered until you met Happy and Bendy. Trivial things that Happy doesn’t have the luxury of caring about. 

You meet Moomin, too, who admits he woke from his hibernation, mid-nightmare, and was too frightened to go back to sleep. 

“I miss Snufkin,” Moomin confesses to you. “Do you think he’ll come back in the Spring?”

Everyone in Moominvalley is familiar with Moomin’s blatant refusal to accept the news story about Snufkin’s death. You’re not sure you blame him. After all, the details released were vague and nonspecific (for understandable reasons), and the body was so maimed they had chosen not to show a soul. Only you, the Zookeeper, and the Inspector knew what had truly transpired. 

You can’t bring yourself to correct Moomin. “Maybe so,” you reply noncommittally. 

Moomin rings his tail and looks to the mountains, as if expecting to see Snufkin come striding down them as he had always done, hollering and waving his hat aloft. You, too, look to the mountains. Only you wonder where in those craggy peaks is the monster’s lair. Is it high up, where it is blistering cold and steep, or lower, where the mountain is more of a rolling hill? If you followed the direction he had gone after leaving the cabin, you just might be able to find it. You’ve been too frightened to go to the cabin, in case the impulse strikes you to try. Bendy said he would kill you if he saw you again. You have no reason to doubt him, despite how amiable he’d been to you: a monster like him was unfathomable.

Moomin meanders back home, after you sternly remind him he ought to at least try to hibernate with his family. You look to the mountains after that, for a long time.

Later, you meet the Inspector again. 

The Inspector, like you, is different than he used to be. He’s quieter. He looks over his shoulder more. He locks his door. He suffers from nightmares, as well, though ones much more detailed than Moomin’s. He never talks about it anymore, but the fear of the monster that had killed Snufkin always shadows him. You pour him tea, and listen to him share his work day as if several months ago his understanding of the world had not shattered. 

“-thought someone was pulling up the signs again,” the Inspector huffs, “and wouldn’t that be remarkable! But you see, I came back the next day and saw it happen right in front of me. A mighty snow clump plopped right from the tree and knocked it over, just like that.”

How would he feel if he knew you had met that monster? That you had, even, spoken with it? 

“Didn’t think I’d need to look out for snow clumps in my line of work,” the Inspector exclaimed, and you smiled. 

“Danger at every turn,” you say, and wince. 

Luckily, he doesn’t catch any dark undertones. “Truly!” he exclaims. “This tea, though, this is magnificent - I was just telling Fillyjonk, I was just telling her, nobody can make tea like the Mymble, not one.”

“Thank you. I managed to pick up a thing or two from my mother.”

He shook his head avidly. “I won’t believe it for a second. Not a second. This tea, there’s something special about it.”

You squeeze his knee. “That’s very kind.” The truth about the monster floats on your tongue, but you never speak it. The Inspector is one of the only people you could tell. But you don’t. The news that that thing was still alive, that it was hurting someone (that it was sentient, even, and did its actions deliberately) - that would devastate the Inspector. He is only now beginning to recover from what happened in early summer. Telling him what you’ve learned would ruin all the progress he had made. Not to mention it may lead to him needlessly and pointlessly risk his own life to rid Moominvalley of a beast that would not move until it pleased. 

So you don’t tell him. The afternoon passes in a pleasant haze, the two of you cozily nestled by a warm hearth while a snowstorm blows outside. As evening draws to a close, it’s concluded that he absolutely can’t make it home, not in that weather. The two of you snuggle under the same blanket, and he falls asleep holding your hand. 

These are moments you have always treasured. But this time, your mind drifts to Happy. He probably isn’t keeping warm. He’s probably shivering, terrified, poorly clothed and starved. All alone far from anyone that would help him. You have all the comforts a Mymble might need. Happy has nothing.

You barely sleep. 

Come morning, the Inspector blushes furiously and apologizes for cuddling closer to you in the night. You give him a kiss on his cheek and send him on his way. What you don’t tell him is it may be the last time you see him, because you’ve decided you’re going to find the demon’s lair. You’re going to seek him out again. 

It’s an insane decision. Easily the worst idea you’ve ever had, and you had some quite ridiculous ones in your youth. But you can’t leave Happy on his own. You can’t abandon him. All you can think about is his pleading, big eyes, and that brief moment with Bendy gone where he had seemed like himself again.

But this will take some planning. Firstly - you can’t try to free Happy. Not right now (your brain sternly reminds you that this means there will be a next time, and you squash down that thought because one step at a time, thank you). 

You can’t free Happy. You can’t directly oppose Bendy. Those are the king of all bad ideas. 

So then why would you be coming by?

To feed him, maybe. Check on him. See how he’s doing (or if he’s still alive). If it’s all you can do, it’s still better than nothing. (And if you can learn something along the way, something that might help you secure Happy’s escape… well, all the better, right?) It’s best to keep it simple for now, though, because anything more terrifies you beyond belief. You will feed Happy. Help him however you can.

You pack a picnic basket. Warm homemade rolls. Strips of salted meat. Some canned tomatoes - extras from your garden this past summer. You also add a blanket and some water. 

Only after everything is packed do you wonder - would Bendy find it offensive if you showed up with offerings for the Snufkin he perceives as his property? Would he feel you were suggesting that he couldn’t take care of Happy himself?

You unpack everything. Then repack. Then deliberate. 

It isn’t that Bendy can’t take care of him, you think about saying. You merely want to… treat him?

Would Bendy interpret that as you intruding on his property? Trying to win Happy over? 

It’s difficult trying to reason with the mind of a monster. You scour your brain for any details in your conversation with Bendy, analyzing every interaction, but that night had been filled with so much fear that many details are now foggy. He is possessive, you know that much at least.

It isn’t that Bendy can’t take care of him, you mentally try again, but rather you have extra food this winter and don’t know what to do with it. You thought of them, and decided to swing by. Yes.

Keep it very casual. Very relaxed. You consider adding in more food for Bendy, but you don’t think the demon eats at all. He would like something though, you’re sure. You scour your house, trying to answer the bewildering question, ‘what would a demon want as a gift?’

He had mentioned fun while with you. You took it to be something horrible, but given what you know of him, maybe he is inclined to games, whether they’re particularly horrible ones or not.  It takes another silly amount of time deliberating over your collection of games before you whimsically choose a deck of cards (a good variety of potential games with just one deck) and cram it in the basket with the rest.

At this point, it’s later in the afternoon than you’d prefer: you consider unpacking everything and putting the basket away (and perhaps rethinking the whole idea to begin with). Before you know it, though, you’re out of your house and heading down the familiar pathless path to the cabin. If you don’t do it now, you might never.

(That would be the preferred option), your sense of survival reminds you.

But it wouldn't be the best option for Happy.

This could only go horribly wrong. You reconsider about ten more times, but make it to the cabin regardless. From there, it’s surprisingly easy to turn in the direction that Bendy had left. Your boots slog through snow as the sun begins to dip down in the sky. If you aren’t there by the time the sun touches the distant dip between peaks, you will return to the cabin, you promise yourself.

The sun is but a sliver away when you come across a path worn in the snow. There’s a familiar smell, and something dark draped in the trees. Ink. You’re close. And getting closer. In some places, the snow is melted down to dirt. There’s frequent traffic along here, then, and the trees wear scores you might have attributed to a bear. You slow down, heart thudding. The path is clear. You follow it slowly, fighting to steady your breathing. Your knuckles are white over the picnic basket.

You’ll see the demon again. You pray he doesn’t kill you. You pray, too, that Happy is still alive. That there’s some hope for him.

The smell of slightly burnt fish is strong in the air. Someone is whistling. Your steps slow to a mere crawl. Blood pounds in your ear.

“Did we run out of salt?” Comes a deeper voice unfamiliar to you. You instantly halt, certain they’ve caught you but no-

The whistling stops. “Nuh-uh. ’s right there.”

“That’s sugar, Bendy.”

“They’re the same dang thing.”

“Bendy, we talked about this. Salt and sugar may look similar, but they’re quite different things, with distinctly different flavors-“

“And I told’ja, Jox, they taste exactly the same t’me-“

Right. Bendy had mentioned a Joxter, hadn’t he… you had dismissed it at the time, because it was such an absurd idea, any mumrik working with a demon. But this seems true.

“Because you can’t taste anything, darling. Do you know where the sugar is, then?”

Bendy didn’t reply, but the other voice sighed. “Well, no salting these fish I suppose… we’ll have to raid the Moominhouse again.”

After this, things fall silent. Although you fear for your own life, you find yourself, bizarrely, much more concerned about the fact that Happy had not been mentioned, and had not spoken through that exchange. Were you too late?

You need a better look, before making them aware of your presence.

This in mind, you slink behind a tree trunk and peer daringly around into a clearing.

A fire crackles and spits within a ring of stones. Two small fish are staked beside it, one of them charred. Sure enough, there’s a Joxter by the fire - but you don’t get any details on him before your eyes leap to the shapes beside him.

Happy. Happy is alive.

You nearly faint in relief, but it’s twisted with dread. Happy is sitting cross legged by the fire, Bendy in his lap. It scares you how close they are. Happy’s vacant smile scares you more, as he pets between Bendy’s horns. He bears new bruises, new wounds. Fire flickers in his eyes. He resembles a mumrik only in the way that a doll does. The fleece cloak and blanket tucked over him at least indicate he is at least not freezing, but what have they done to his mind?

You swallow hard. The Joxter doesn’t scare you. But the demon does, and it’s dread of him that stops you from stepping into the clearing. His possessiveness is evident even in this simple scene, with his fingers trailing over Happy’s thigh, and his head leaning into Happy’s touches. He might make good on his promise to kill you after all.

You will… leave the basket, perhaps. You should have written a note. A note would have been better than coming in person. It’s as you shift to set down the basket, though, that Happy’s dark eyes raise and he meets your gaze. You freeze.

Something twists in his expression. The smile falters. You see, for a fleeting second, desperation in his eyes. Intelligence. A person.

His hand stops petting.

“Happy,” Bendy growls, twisting in his lap. “What did I tell ya about-“ then he follows Happy’s line of sight, and sees you.

You nearly bite through your lip. Caught.

Didn’t matter what you had planned. Bendy’s found you now.  His eyes narrow. If he was given one extra second, you're sure he would have done something horrible. Bizarrely, you’re saved by the Joxter.

“A Mymble!” The Joxter cries. Pots clang and a fork flies as he stumbles clumsily to his feet. “Y-you’re a Mymble, right? Oh, I’m - I’m sorry-“ he looks about himself, and hastily brushes off his cloak. “I didn’t expect company, you see, I -“ the Joxter huffs, eyes flitting like a child caught doing something bad. “I’m horribly unprepared,” he confesses, avoiding eye contact. “If I had known a Mymble would be coming - well - I mean, I don’t want to be insincere, just- we could have had something prepared-“

“Geez, Joxter, don’t get yer panties in a twist,” Bendy said while keeping his gaze fixed on you.

“Of course not,” the Joxter coughs. “Um, welcome to our nest, dear, what - what warrants a visit?”

Anger flares hot in your chest. This Joxter should goddamn know better. He’s a mumrik himself, and should know exactly the kind of suffering being inflicted on Happy. He should have put a stop to this right at the start. You see his round face, and glinting eyes, and you wish dearly you could rip him apart.

If it weren’t for the demon, you might have - that is how intense your rage is. You clench your shaking fists. This Joxter is too stupid for his own good, to associate with Bendy to begin with, but that’s no excuse. You hope he meets a horrid end.

For now, you can’t let any of those emotions show. Bendy spoke fondly of the Joxter. You can’t risk anything. “I was merely cooking,” you say carefully, measured. “And I happened to have too much food on my table. I remembered Bendy and Happy, and decided to come by for a visit, if you were interested in this food.”

The Joxter looks confused. “I’m sorry - you met-?”

“She’s the one that helped Happy,” Bendy interjected.

“Oh, oh! We’re very grateful for that, um-“ The Joxter looks about as if lost, and then plucks up a fish on a stick. “Here, would you like - I mean, we can’t just give you nothing for the kindness of keeping Happy um, well.”

“No, thank you.” You’re too scared to be hungry, and anyway, you don’t want to accept anything from these people.

“Well, sit, sit!” The Joxter gestures. Your gaze drifts to Happy. He meets your eyes.

There’s an unspoken communication between you two. You’re here for me, he seems to realize, with a mix of disbelief and the most daring of hopes.

You do your best to silently convey, yes. I want to help you.

You thought at first that it would take plenty of gentle convincing to make him believe you’re not here to hurt him. Instead, he understands instantly. Therefore the both of you share, also, an unspoken fear. Both of you have to tread as if on the thinnest of ice. Any wrong move and everything could be ruined. You could be dead.

You force yourself to look away, with the unvoiced promise that you will do anything you can.

You sit by the fire, and set your basket beside you. A deep, steadying breath. You’re in the heart of danger, here. You can feel Bendy’s gaze prickling on your flesh.

The Joxter is oblivious to it. He sits beside you, a good foot and a half away like he’s afraid to get too close. “Please, anything you need. It’s - it’s not often I see Mymbles around here. In fact-“ he laughs uneasily. “In fact, I can’t tell you the last time I did.”

“I see.” You take the moment to look around. A canoe is perched across the clearing, surrounded by several packs in varying greens and browns. Much of the ground here is scuffed to the dirt. There’s some matted down hay tossed by a tree, with a tangle of rope. It looks an awful lot like a place they’d keep a pet. Or a Snufkin.

You shudder in disgust. This is no place for someone to live.

And by being here, you have to pretend like you either don’t notice these things, or that you condone them. It boils your blood. It makes you feel filthy.

“I can’t stay long,” you say, “I wouldn’t like to intrude, and I must get home before dark anyhow.”

“Of course. But you’re always welcome back, if you’d like-“ the Joxter prattles on, half-desperate to please you like a dog. You don’t want to waste a moment on him. He’s depraved beyond comprehension.

You focus your attention on unwrapping and removing the food. Now that you’re here, you’re scared to directly give the food to Happy, and instead start by giving Bendy the deck of cards.

“This is a weird game,” he tells you, flicking through the deck.

“You can play many games with it.”

Bendy turns to Happy. “Do you wanna play cards, Hap?”

Happy, who had been staring too-obviously at you with a look of despair and longing, flinches and laughs. “Yes, Bendy.” His voice breaks. “Anything for you.”

“Great.” Bendy hands him a card. “Eat this.”

“That isn’t how-“ you interject with alarm.

Bendy looks at you. “They’re my cards, Mymble. Now I can play whatever game I want.”

You fall silent. You could argue the point. But where would that get you? It twists in your stomach like an ugly slimy worm that, in one way or another, you’re being complicit in these crimes.

“Now, Happy,” Bendy coos. “Eat the card, mmkay?”

Is this a test? Is Bendy seeing whether you’ll stop him?

The Joxter makes a noise of distress; you look over to him. “I’m - I’m dearly sorry,” he murmurs, “these aren’t the sort of games you would like to see… It isn’t like this always, dear.”

You grit your teeth. It is like this always. This is what they do, clearly.

“There are other games,” you plead quietly, faintly. “If you lose one card, it will ruin the other games. You need a full deck.”

Happy starts to chew on the card, but has difficult biting through or tearing off any piece large enough to be bite-sized.

“Perseverance,” Bendy tells him, petting his chest. “Yer really gettin’ it Happy, you just gotta try a bit harder.”

You feel tears prick at your eyes. This is horrible. You didn’t think - you hadn’t intended -

“Bendy,” the Joxter says sharply. “Stop that at once. Mymble isn’t here to see that sort of thing!”

Bendy throws a look back at the Joxter. It’s a look that would have you certain of your own death. Very clearly in that look is I could kill you instantly and you could do nothing about it, so how about you don’t tell me what to do?

Then it fades. He looks to you, as if he’s thinking. Then to Happy. “Arright, Hap. You can finish the card later.” He yanks it out of Happy’s mouth so fast that the poor Snufkin clutches his now-bleeding lip.

“I also brought food,” you say shakily, as if something so disturbing and unreal had not just taken place.

“How lovely!” The Joxter crows. “Please, it does smell absolutely fabulous.”

The food is distributed. You intended all of it for Happy, but don’t protest when Bendy and the Joxter get their own shares. It’s a comfort to at least see Happy get his own roll and strips of meat, which he eats hunched over like a rat. It’s like he expects it to be taken from him at any instant. Such a thing wouldn't surprise you, with the way he’s treated.

You try to convey your sorrow to him, but now that there’s food in front of him, he isn’t paying attention.

You don’t know how much longer you can bear to be in this place. Everyone is behaving as if their madness is entirely normal, but you can practically feel it radiating in the air like poison. Their lives are not normal, and are not right. What they have done to Happy is unspeakable.

The Joxter continues to ramble to you, speaking of things you could hardly care about. You don’t spare many words for him. Again and again you try to think of how you could get Happy out of this nightmare.

But Bendy watches him closely. Always, Happy had said. Bendy always watches him.

Extracting Happy from this situation will mean gaining Bendy’s trust in some way. But your presence here, rather than making the demon more comfortable with you, seems to have made him convinced of your supposed ill intentions. He talks with a strange inflection, like he’s saying two things at once. At all times, you get the horribly crawling feeling that one of those things he’s implicitly saying is a warning. A threat.

When you finally slink home after the sun has set, your legs tremble beneath you. You collapse in your bed, feeling distinctly unsafe. Though the Joxter had warmed to you instantly, Bendy had behaved more coldly than the first time you had seen him.

Take comfort, you try to console yourself, at least Happy is alive. And he’s in there still, under all that trauma.

It was good to know. But you were afraid your visit had done more damage than good.

What was it you could do to change that?

Chapter Text

The Inspector comes by for tea again. His simple maundering about this or that (the vegetables he plans to grow next year, the gossip about dear old Fillyjonk, so on) is a welcoming pool to sink into. As he drones on, and you stir a dash of fresh milk into your tea, you think, I could have this forever.

The uncomplicated life. A million untroubled afternoons. Time would heal you, gradually, as it had begun to heal Moominvalley. One day senility would take from you any memory too unpleasant to hold.

It’s a wistful, longing thought. A dream reserved for someone who has the power to walk away and pretend they had not witnessed what you have witnessed.

“And what of you, Mymble?” The Inspector leans forward, brow furrowed. “I’ve never seen you so ruminative! Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Nothing passes my regard you know - eyes like a hawk’s!”

“Is that why you have such thick glasses?” You reply dryly, and squeeze his knee affectionately when he splutters.

“I can’t believe it! In my own home, no less!”

Chuckling, you sip your tea, and mischievously peer over the edge of the cup. You do adore him. It’s hard, to project calm rather than solemnity, as you continue, “you are right, though, dear Inspector. I haven’t been myself lately. I’m due for a long journey.”

It’s fear that flashes across his face; undoubtedly, the events at the zoo at the forefront of his mind. Sure enough, on he goes about safety, and who knows what’s out there now! With a sweetness that has your heart warm, he offers to come along with you.

“Come Spring,” you tell him, “let’s you and I go somewhere together, somewhere far away. But this winter, I need a trip alone.”

There are ways you could have phrased things to be less alarming, to thoroughly reassure him that all is well, and that your sojourn is nothing but a simple jaunt for new sights. But you’re very scared, and unsure if you will return alive. Maybe you want to know that, if you do fail, at least one person might have even the slightest, distant inkling abut what befell you. Maybe you want someone ready, if you do crawl out alive, to hold you and comfort you without asking too many questions.

Selfish, but you reckon you’re permitted some selfishness.

You don’t want him to know the details of what you have planned, but you do want to convey a fraction of its gravity, and let him know it’s something you must do.

“This is a safe trip, isn’t it?” He asks worriedly as he gathers your scarf and coat after tea. “You won’t be doing anything reckless?”

“Only as reckless as one might expect from a Mymble.”

“Well, that’s not comforting at all.”

Laughing lightly, you take your winter overclothes, and kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll see you again,” you tell him. Hopefully before paradise.

You tell Little My that she should not expect you visiting for a few weeks, but assure her that when you return, you'll bake copious quantities of goods to earn her forgiveness. She’s cleverer than even a Mymble has a right to be, and of course asks if you need help with anything, in a ‘I’m-not-worried-but-I’m-worried’ fashion.

“Do check the mail while I’m gone, if you will.”

She’s not satisfied with the answer, but much as you wish for sane company, you can’t bring her along. Numbers will do nothing against Bendy: you are more a threat as one person than as an army. An army gives Bendy something to fight. Fighting is precisely how you get yourself and others killed, while making no progress at all in rescuing Happy.

Alone it is.

You settle your remaining affairs, and then move only what you need to survive to the wintry cabin halfway up the mountain: the very one in which you had tended to Happy. You are going to step away from reality for a time, and instead immerse yourself in the madness of the nest, in the hopes of finding one unlikely thread of hope of saving him.

As you trudge beneath the snow burdened roof, and light the first fire in the hearth, you begin to feel alone already, a lone island adrift in seas dark and turbulent.

That night is a quiet, introspective one, and the last peaceful one you have for a long, long time.

The following evening you return to the nest, knowing you have reached it even before you see it by the fetid smell that hangs low over it; the smell of death and rot.

“You’ve returned,” the Joxter says when he sees you, sheer disbelief in his voice. “Why, I didn’t think I’d see a Mymble ever again, I assumed - well.” He coughs, a blush flaring beneath his fluffy scarf. “I didn’t know you cared for m- us, at all. I’m afraid we made a horrible impression.”

He had. Everything in your soul hates this place, which reeks of death and madness, thick as dark molasses. But gaining any degree of trust with Bendy will mean becoming used to this. Visiting frequently. Feigning friendship.

“I’m here now. And I’ve brought some rolls. Where’s the others?” Because that’s what you noticed first when you entered the nest tonight: the Joxter is its sole occupant. It isn’t him you have to win over.

“Oh, Happy and Bendy? I imagine they’re playing somewhere in the snow. The two are just never apart, madly in love-“ he seemed to realize he was rambling, and coughed in embarrassment. “I’m sure you and I can enjoy what you’ve brought.”

There’s little choice about the matter, and you agree only with the promise that they save some for Happy.

“Happy is Bendy’s, but I will do my best to suggest it persuasively to him,” the Joxter promises.

Happy and Bendy do not show up once for the duration of your meal, though often your eyes cast to the dimming woods, wondering and fearing. If only you could see him, even if only a moment, to be sure he’s still in the realm of the living.

No luck.

The meal passes with anxious monotony, The Joxter rambles and stumbles over his words, and desperately hunts for subjects you might find entertaining.

“I should be going, then,” you say stiffly, when you can put up with it no longer.

“Will you return?” He asks, with all the hope in the world. “I can be more prepared, have something ready for you-“

“I’ll be back.” He’s too stupid or delusional to notice the resentment you too poorly hide.

Thus begins a series of visits to the very worst of places, to hell on earth. On the second visit, Happy is at last there, though your relief is tempered by his state: wound tight in many arms of ink, heavily guarded by suspicious pie cut eyes.

“Don’t tell me ya actually like bein’ here,” Bendy says, and it would have been so hard to lie, if not for the Joxter’s interjection,

“Bendy! Don’t be so rude to our guest!”

Happy refuses to meet your eyes the way he had before. He laughs, and laughs, and his eyes roll and he has attention only for Bendy. His mind is far away.

That night, you wonder if he is a lost cause. If there’s nothing left to save after all - but you don’t believe it. You can’t. Before, Happy had revealed the barest sliver of his sanity only after a great deal of comfort and only after Bendy hadn’t been anywhere near him. Progress will not be fast, especially with that demon hovering around him. But that doesn’t mean it can’t happen.

Visits to the nest become routine. It’s the only way you can imagine getting anywhere without ending up shredded into ribbons, but the frequency of your visits destroys your own mental state. How can it not?

Once the Joxter is comfortable enough around you, details of his madness slip in. Of his casual remorseless cruelty. He’s sick, sick deep in his brain. Him at least you can shut up: any chastising remark from you has him in apologetic fits, even if his brain is full of holes, and he’ll forget a transgression an hour after it has occurred.

Bendy, meanwhile, him you don’t talk back to. You can’t comprehend him, and you hope never to. Your nightmares become flooded with ink, and haunted by a too wide grin.

The two of them wear you down. There are times that you can’t bring yourself to leave the cabin - times you don’t eat or drink, only hide in a ball in bed and wonder why you ever thought this was a good idea, when you could be home, with the Inspector arriving for tea…

This is inane, suicidal, self-destructing. Once, you even start your journey back to Moominvalley, at the end of your rope. You make it halfway before turning around. Unlike you, Happy doesn’t have the luxury of choosing.

Happy, of course, is the third being that is trying your patience and sanity. It isn’t fair to blame him, or to get angry with him. What he became is a result of an undeserved and unfathomable level of abuse and maltreatment. Knowing that doesn’t make it easy to exist around him. He laughs incessantly. He vomits obscenities with a manic freneticism. Days go by where you see nothing but a broken shell, prattling ad nauseam about his devotion for Bendy: a stance lauded as “true love” by the other nest inhabitants. You want to tell him to shut up like they do. You want to hit him. These reactions disturb you the most. How easy is it, really, to fall under the nest’s hypnotic sway?

Conversely, Happy is the one that gives you the most hope. The one that keeps you returning. It’s the little things. The rare times he catches your eye, like he meant to, like he’s trying to convey something, and you see intelligence. The one instance that Bendy trotted out of the nest, and Happy took a half step towards you, a plea in his eye, a silent word at his lips, until the Joxter barked,

“Happy, be a dear and get me some water, won’t you?”

He’s in there. Buried deep deep down, yes, but he’s in there, and he knows you are his route to freedom. The kind of pressure that places on your shoulders ensures your nights are sleepless ones, but you have no one to blame but yourself. You got yourself involved. You have to bear responsibility for the burden you've given yourself.

Impatiently, maddeningly, you wait. Gaining their trust, and watching as Happy strains towards a sanity that the Joxter and Bendy don’t condone. As this horrid waiting period stretches on, you’re gifted with more glimpses of Happy’s true nature. You see him whittling once, his mangled hands doing their best to finagle the knife. There’s a frustration in his shoulders and eyes while he works: an indication that once, once this had come easy, had made sense to him, and he yearns for that again.

Bendy finds him, and laughs at him, and eats the carving. Happy breaks again, and laughs. You’re beginning to realize he’s broken again and again and again, but his personality continues to fight.

You see him gaze at a set of harmonicas hung up in the nest; the painful wistfulness is so raw that it’s unbearable to keep watching. “Do you play?” You dare whisper, hoping the other inhabitants of the nest will have no interest.

A nervous smile ticks at his lips as the Joxter cuts in, chuckling, “Oh Mymble, you must watch sometime - he and Bendy can make quite the duo! Not that either knows which way is backwards or forwards on the instrument, but-”

“I do, too!” Bendy protests, and the moment is lost.

This draws on for so long that you begin to fear an opportunity will never present itself. Or that if it does, you will never take it. The nest is hypnotic like that, like molasses that sticks to you and absorbs you within itself.

But the time does come. When a Snufkin is scented, and Happy is left at the nest, with instructions to ‘stay with Mymble, Mymble will keep you safe.’

The time does come. And you do take it.