Homen seemed calm when morning came; though Sheilaktar was a little groggy owed to having her sleep interrupted, and might not have been the best judge. But he went about his usual routine as if nothing had happened; and as usual he was a dear about it. He revived the fire, put on some tea, and began crafting some hot breakfast.
As she blinked her eyes sleepily at him, Sheilaktar was not precisely fooled; she had been planning to leave for Mulsantir the day after, and now she suspected her Mulan child would unravel (again) soon after she was gone. Something is hounding him, and it had been worse these last few days than ever before. She grunted, heaving her legs out of bed and yawning. Then she rubbed her face and started pulling her indoor shoes on to ward off the chill. Still upset, I see. Oh, anxious child; silly, anxious child; what plagues thee? How do I get thee to talk to me? Thine mood is becoming communicable, and I am less adjusted to it than thou.
Perhaps she might cancel the trip, and endure her sister's condemnations and the general disapproval of her 'community.' It would not be the first time she had butted heads with other Wychlaran over tradition. On the other hand: to skip such an important ritual, without any warning and without time to train a replacement, would be a grievous injustice onto not only the celebration but also onto the Mother Goddess herself.
Stumped, and short on brainpower before breakfast, Sheilaktar shook her head. Perhaps it was best if they waited to have this conversation until after the solstice. Once she returned, she would have adequate time to speak with and comfort him. But how long was too long to wait? He had been nigh unconsolable just hours ago.
The witch stood and approached the fire place to take a second look at how her fosterling was doing. Homen looked to her and then away again. She raised a brow expectantly, but all he said was: "Almost done," and he was talking about nothing more complex than breakfast.
Sheilaktar placed her hands on her hips, and eyed him incredulously for a moment. She looked about the cottage, rubbed her face, and breathed a grumbling prayer to the mother for patience. Sensing that he'd done something wrong, the boy looked uncertainly towards her. She chuckled.
"Come here, child," she told him, reaching out to him. He blinked and then straightened up as if in alarm as she reached out to him and put her arms about his narrow shoulders. "Well? Come here."
He looked as if he had no idea what to do, but at her prompting he chose to scoot closer to her. She folded all one hundred and twenty pounds of him into a big hug, crossing her arms about his chest and holding his back tight to her bosom. He was a little heavier. One hundred and thirty, perhaps? Bah; still little more than a plucked bird! She leaned her head over his shoulder, and smiled at him. As usual, he did not make eye contact. In fact he looked very nervous.
"Now, listen here sweet creature: I am not going to abandon thee. Or die. I am Wychlaran and thou should have more respect for my capabilities than that." He swallowed and made to apologize, but she lifted a hand to hush him. Then she raised her chin, pressed a kiss firmly to his black hair, and squeezed him. "I do not mind thy company nor thy Mulan blood; and however long thou wishes to remain here in the Orchards, I shall keep thee. In fact, thou has made for a most indisputably pleasant housemate, and I could not ask for a better helper. If thou must linger here years before thy footing feels solid again, then I shall enjoy tutoring thee for all of them."
At that, he did look back at her face, if only for a moment. The speech had clearly startled him, and she had expected that; but there was also an unnerved expression on his face which looked wholly out of place.
"What is the matter? Thou look as if thou swallowed a lemon."
He shifted slightly, and looked at the floorboards. "No one has ever held me before," he told her in a very small voice.
Sheilakter raised a brow in disbelief. After a moment, she turned him about and touched his chin. "Thy parents never hugged thee? Grandparents? Siblings?" He was quiet. She was startled by this revelation. "Neither thy friends nor peers nor anyone at all? Has thou not so much as smooched a pretty damsel?" He shook his head. She considered this moment longer, and what it said of the terrors which had provoked him to climbing into her bed. Then, giving a disbelieving shake of her head, she squeezed him into her again.
Homen stumbled slightly. Then he breathed in deeply and pressed himself into the witch, slipping his arms about her stocky waist. He didn't know what to say to the woman who had carved out a place for him in her country, her home, and her life. After a bit, he told her: "Thank you."
She grunted, and effected to sound a little blustery: "Well. I am a necromancer. I have at times encountered the unfortunate side-effects of hug-deprivation. I can afford to part with one, or perhaps two. Out of gracious and magnanimous generosity, of course."
A weak smile graced his face. He hugged her a little more tightly, and buried his face into her robes and leathers. She caressed over his hair, her nails trailing soothingly along his scalp.