Astor was angry.

Anger was too subtle a word to describe her emotions at the scene. Anger implied that there was a specific causation or a possible end to the feeling. That the emotion wasn’t consuming and absolute.

Perhaps rage would be more apt but perhaps rage also lacked the severity and weight of the situation.

Astor left unnoticed while everyone crowded around the corpse, fearful cries and mournful sobs and pain, so much pain, left behind in a miserable bastard who tried and failed to live.

Moss stayed with the people. He was both a suspect and a helper, a strange swordsman and a capable ally, the villagers turned to him with varying intents and he balanced those expectations with his people skills.

Astor didn’t know or care about that.

She didn’t know the person who died. In a small village like this, it could be said that everyone knows everyone but not really. There are those who you’ve seen everyday but never really spoken to. Those who you choose to avoid.

Astor found a quiet spot between two houses and slumped down with her hands over her ears to mute the deafening sounds around her.

She was angry.

So unbelievably angry.

If she found that rabbit, she’d gut it.

Except she wouldn’t.

Except she couldn’t.

A shadow loomed over her and Astor looked up, surprised to see the chatty swordsman kneeling down in front of her. How long had she been like this? How much time in the day had she wasted? When she left, Moss was still in heated conversation with the villagers. Did he leave early? Had she lost more time than she thought?

He wore a compassionate smile and patted her head sympathetically. “Someone you knew?”

“...no.”

Surprise lit up his face before understanding dawned. “First time seeing a corpse?”

“No.” Her voice was firmer this time.

Her answers seemed to puzzle him and she decided to have some mercy on the idiot who didn’t understand. Who couldn’t understand.

“Death is painful.” She said, her teeth gritted with unrestrained anger. “Whoever did this–” She couldn’t even finish, the anger welled up too much and she was almost breathless from it. “It doesn’t matter who, it doesn’t matter why, death is horrible. No one deserved that. That person shouldn’t have died.”

Righteous indignation.

It was a strange thing to see so clearly in the eyes of a child so young, especially weighed down by bitterness and hatred. A child who clearly had very decided views on death. Certainly, there was the hint of experience in the grated voice.

“How old are you?” Moss couldn’t help but ask. He’d presumed about nine or ten judging by the kid’s height but it was hard to tell these things. He didn’t like to think about a kid feeling so wretched about death but he knew that lots of kids had unspeakable experiences. Considering the lack of parental presence, Moss could guess where this child’s experience with death lied.

But that brought up the question as to why no one was taking responsibility for the kid. He was alone and probably parentless and the villagers really seemed to pay him no mind at all. Moss had seen more than one villager walk past this little hiding spot, notice the huddled form, and say nothing.

“Thirteen.” Astor said and the number surprised Moss a bit. Older than he thought but that still didn’t mean it was right for all the adults around to leave him to gather mushrooms in the forest alone.

Guilt gnawed at Moss’s chest as he considered the possibility that those jokingly stolen mushrooms may have been Astor’s only meal.

“C’mon, I still owe you breakfast.” He said, despite the day already beginning to dim with the late afternoon glow. “What do you want to eat?”

“Mushroom soup.” The boy said sourly, still looking shaky and angry but appearing to calm down a bit. Moss was relieved. He hadn’t been sure how to handle the child’s trauma if more was shared with him. He didn’t really know what to do or say about any of this. He just hadn’t been able to walk by ignoring the kid like all the others.

Moss chuckled and nodded. “Alright. Mushroom soup it is. Let’s go to the marketplace and buy the ingredients. Then, I’ll set up camp.” He didn’t miss the way the child had avoided mentioning a home to go back to. The way he’d only found a safe space to curl up in between houses.

Moss was assuming the kid was a homeless orphan. His parents probably did something bad as well, that would explain the villagers ostracizing him. It was an old and stupid story but many people still behaved in those same cruel patterns. Moss didn’t begrudge people acting like that. They were just people. People did and thought cruel and stupid things. That’s just how they are.

He did wish that he could be a bit more stupid and cruel though. If the child was ostracized then the villagers would dislike Moss for association. He’d been so happy to find a village that finally thought of him as cool and mysterious. They’d even requested his help solving the murder! He really liked it here and he liked his people skills finally paying off. He wanted the approval of the villagers and he wanted to be well-liked and well-remembered.

If he could have just been a bit more stupid and a bit more cruel, then he would have left Astor curled up. Alone and ignored. Now he would probably pay the price of the affection and approval he so desired but… well, there was no going back and he’d already made his decision.

It was a credit to Moss as a person that given a million chances to re-do that moment, he would have made the same decision every time. Even knowing what was to come. He was just that sort of person.

By the time he had a fire going and some water boiling in a tiny campsite at the edge of town, Astor appeared to have completely calmed down. Except for the way Astor kept glancing at the sky and then the soup as though sunset would take the soup from them, the pair were able to sit in peace together as Moss chittered away about the magnificent story explaining how he’d become the master of making mushroom soup.

The story involved two demons, a squirrel, and a lot of alcohol. It was possible that Moss didn’t remember the whole thing correctly because of that last part but he embellished where the gaps were and was pleased to see that Astor seemed quite engaged with the tale. A slight smile twitching onto the young and dirty face. Even the occasional giggle when Moss got to the silly bits.

“I’ve got to go.” Astor said suddenly, standing up and walking away from the pleasant aroma of mostly finished soup. Moss looked up from his work in confusion.

“Bathroom?” He asked, confused what else the kid could mean.

“Sure.” Astor replied and disappeared into the trees.

Astor didn’t come back. And no matter how Moss searched that whole night, he couldn’t find a trace of the child.