"Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother's house we go! The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh through the white and drifted snow!" Sir warbled, trying to get us to join in with wild and exaggerated gestures of the hand that wasn't on the steering wheel. Turmeric, seated in the front, had already surrendered, and was humming along while sketching some sort of circuitry.

"For fuck's sakes it's summer, stop singing fucking Christmas carols!" Lal snarled, kicking the back of the driver's seat.

I frowned, "The second stanza ends with We would not stop for doll or top, for 'tis Thanksgiving Day. Indicating that 'tis a song of autumn, not one of winter celebrations—but quoth sir, horrible and endless singing is considered a traditional ordeal of the quintessential road trip experience, along with excessively frequent inquiries as to whether or not we have reached our destination and overlong intervals between bathroom breaks."

"The point that it's not the season still stands." Oregano groaned from where she was sprawled in the third row of seats, "Please tell me someone packed earplugs, my carsickness is unpleasant enough as it is. And Basil, we've talked about this, every second sentence from Iemitsu's mouth is alternatively true, stop taking it as gospel."

"It isn't about paperwork…" I shaped my face to show exaggerated confusion, "And sir only lies about paperwork!" I held the expression for a few moments, then let it slip back to good cheer. "Surely sir would not deceive us, his dearest apprentices and allies?"

Turmeric laughed, "Emotional blackmail, Basil?"

"This one?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"Natural selection." Lal corrected with a smirk, "If they can't realize and resist, then they probably deserve it."

After the months of pressure and a truly gargantuan workload, our trip to Oma's was a relief I did not realize I needed. The Bloody Mist had taught me to bear pressure as tides bore the tug of the moon, yielding and shifting and unbroken, and so I had carried that attitude into this life, forgetting that it was quite unnecessary, until this point, when I let all my troubles go and focused on this adventure.

The setting sun slanted through our car's windows, warm rays bathing us in soothing orange-red; all of a sudden, the light was broken by the shapes trees marching past, reaching up with leafy boughs into the summer sky. Outside, dusk trailed its last wisps of red down into the horizon, and I could just discern sleek shadows in the gloaming, keeping apace with us despite the numbers displayed on the car's dash.

"They're just the family of my Großvater." Tumeric indicated the dark wolf-shapes, "Don't worry, boss, they're just here to welcome us home—also to make sure that we don't get lost."

"Your family is super cool!" Sir grinned, slightly wild-eyed, "Shouldn't you know the way though, Turmeric?"

Turmeric frowned, "The paths change. And I usually walk, so I take narrower ways—I didn't even know that there is a road."

"Well, lucky us!" Sir said cheerfully, "I wouldn't want to walk around with so much luggage!"

We had packed bolts of silk, clothes and toiletries, and some more things that I did not know about—overall, we had packed six or seven giant suitcases, and I did not want to think about dragging them through the undergrowth.

The woods opened into a small clearing, with a house of gingerbread and boiled-candy windows that had a tiny, plump old woman seated on a rocking chair by its door.

"Meine süße Kirschtorte!" She cried, setting her knitting aside to hurry over and pull Tumeric into her arms. "How are you? Have you been eating well? Of course not, poor boy, you've been working yourself to the bone—come in, come in, your colleagues too, I've just taken the Schweinshaxen out of the oven, wash up and we'll eat—leave the car, Caramel and Quiche will deal with that!"

I eagerly jumped out of the car after Oregano, stretching stiff limbs, and leapt out of the way of a pair of gingerbread men. Sir and Lal were rather motivated to get out of the way too, given that even Bianchi's worst creations didn't have eyes and oversized mouths—or superhuman speed.

Oma directed us to the kitchen, which had a surprisingly modern sink where we freshened up before seating ourselves at the set table. We each got a plate with balls of potato dumplings, sauerkraut, and a pig haunch with crisp crackling skin, drizzled in a thick gravy. Delicious.

For the first few minutes, the silence about the table was only broken by the clinking of cutlery. Once the pace slowed down, Oma cackled, "How does my cooking compare to my grandson's?"

Trick question. Evil trick question. She was awesome.

Sir snapped first, "It's super good, hahaha! Your family has some great cooks—I mean that you're one too!"

"Which one's better?" Oma pressed with glee.

"Ahh…" He sweated, then seemed to stumble on a flash of inspiration, "My Wife!~*~*! My lovely wife's cooking is the best! She makes the most delicious salads and tamagoyaki and udon and ramen and drumsticks and everything! Her tamagoyaki is super soft and sweet and not burned at all, and her cucumber slices are always the perfect thickness for crunching, not too thin and not too thick, plus her ramen is better than anything you can buy in the stores, nothing at all like that nasty instant ramen that just has weird looking noodles and not enough toppings, it also has a thick broth that is super rich because she puts a tiny pat of butter into it just before serving and also soft-boiled tea eggs that taste super and look so pretty!—"

"—Just shut up about your wife." Lal grumbled, "Ma'am, your dumplings are fluffier, and don't stick to the teeth, so I like your cooking better—I like less acidic sauerkraut too."

"That's just because Oma's teeth are getting worse." Turmeric commented dryly.

"Your roasts are also crisper." Oregano defended, "And although your cooking is good, Oma, Turmeric knows my tastes better—I'm siding with him."

All eyes turned to me, even the candy ones of the gingerbread helpers. I smiled sunnily on the automatic, "Thou art verily among the masters of the kitchen, Oma! Yet this one cannot judge when the contestants are so different!" I then sniffed hopefully at the air and turned puppy-dog eyes on Oma, "Perhaps experiencing dessert would help this one decided?"

Oma cackled, "Let's see!"

She had made a lemon meringue tart. It was sour and sweet and redolent with the fragrance of citrus, bursting upon the tongue with the scent of a sunny day.

Naturally, I widened hurt eyes at my apprentice-brother, "Thou hast never yet made such a delicacy."

"I have work." He pointed out, quite reasonably, "And I made you snow pear and rock sugar soup."

"Bah! You just think it's too fancy." Oma snorted, "When the lemons in Italia are fare nicer than the ones we have here. And did you think to send any to me? No! Too caught up in your job to think about your poor, lonely Oma."

"Any deliverymen who manage to find the forest would get eaten." Turmeric snorted, "And you're the farthest thing from poor and lonely."

"Is that a bad thing?" Oma cackled, "There are only so many Jehovah's Witnesses that I can eat! And that's not an excuse for neglecting me—tell me all about your little problems."

Keeping us from resting and regaining the energy to keep our guards up. Clever.

Lal and Turmeric exchanged a look.

"It's past Basil's bedtime." She cut in, "Let's send the kid to bed and then bring out the drinks."

"Alas! Woe!" my mouth stretched wider into a yawn at the last syllable.

And so, I was sent off to bed.

The next day had everyone acting supremely sketchy.

Oregano practically shoved me out of the door with a basket in my hands with the orders to come back with trout and no directions to a suitable body of water, while Turmeric could be dimly heard yelling something about salt and sugar.

Oma was nowhere to be seen, while explosions out back denoted Lal's presence—why was she detonating things from a distance? I blinked at the locked spun-sugar door, "Oregano?"

I understood the point of operational security and classified information, but there was no reason for me to be cut out of the loop—unless I was believed compromised. But nothing that could have put me under suspicion had had happened.

It could have been that they were the ones under influence, but… inherent immunity aside, the last time I was the only one absent among us all was… last night, after I had gone to bed. However, Oma was presumably a friendly. I needed more information to make sense of the situation, preferably without showing that I was suspicious of anything.

In other words, off I went to find trout.

Trout were coldwater fish, found mostly in moving water.

Woodcraft led me to cut across the forest, seeking valleys where water may flow. I heard the rush of the stream before I saw it, a cheerful gurgling that sent waves of wet-earth smell into the air.

I had neither net nor rod for fishing, and I was hungry.

So I picked a sturdy pine and hauled myself up into its branches for breakfast while I looked for flashes of silver scales. The basket held—ooh! Nice!—sticks of fatty salami and a smoked salmon sandwich. A green apple too!

"Willt thou share thy bounty, newcomer?"

It was a wolf, tall as a man, amber-eyed and grey-furred and—so very fluffy.

"I would to one who I need not fear." I called down, guessing such beings were bound by their word.

The wolf chuffed, "Thou shalt not suffer the doom of Narfi, cub of the lion. Come down, I would speak with thee."

I dropped down, a touch of Tranquility burning away sound. "Please partake, stranger, though this is but meager fare."

"If thou callest the witch grandmother, then call me grandfather as well." Grandfather rumbled, giant muzzle delicately picking a salami from my breakfast, "I know not why the witch insists on preferring confectionery, when her savory offerings are so much more pleasing to eye and tongue."

I tactfully took a bite out of my sandwich.

Grandfather rested his head on his paws, "Knowest thou what fanning the flame of the clam would bring?"

"Challenge, but also the possibility of its overcoming." I pressed the fingers of my free hand together, as if readying an invisible senbon, "When before there was only despair."

"Nay, newcomer, the opposite would come to pass." Green motes of light swirled about the giant wolf, "Flame carries more than power—it carries soul and spirit and Will. The Flame of the Clam threads through past and present and future, and to ignite it is to allow what was and what will be hold over what is. We who are birthed of myth and legend may solve the mundane pain of a Sky awakened too young, but we are helpless against the weave of the Fates, and indeed, in aiding ye, may find ourselves drawn unwillingly under his Doom."

Grandfather sighed, "And a heavy Doom indeed. Forgotten ghosts awake, dead faces are seen anew, forsaken Wills are enacted; the World holds its breath at the change that will come to its foundations. Thou must needs forgive a grandfather for worrying for the fate of his grandson, in such a time of heroes."

"There is a Doom in the spin of the wheel of time, the cycling of events as what once was seeks to be again." I agreed, "And yet we are only of the now, and not of the then."

The apple was crisp and tart, bursting with fragrance and flavor, "The grand laid plans of gods and men have not the power to dictate our future. A choice was made, and this one shall pay the price it demands."

The wolf yawned, baring sharp fangs, "Such grand declarations. Fate is a promise that even after the harshest of winters, a gentle spring will come; to cut its weave gives hope for milder frosts, and yet also risks endless cold—many shall rage for being endangered so, for being forced to pay when they did not so choose, the Administrator not least among them."

I laughed with childish certainty in my invincibility, "Good sir, 'tis not unworrisome! But fear not! This one is certain that we shall all see a kind summer, of sweet fruit and fragrant grass and the trailing smoke of cookfires! —"

I dove where a flash of scales had caught my eye, manifesting a needle to spear the fish through, then surfaced with a shout, "A trout!"

Looking up at the giant carnivore, I grinned, "Dark tidings are best saved for darker days, Grandfather Wolf! Spoken beneath blue skies, they make us not grim, though thy warnings are heeded!"

I froze my prey in icy prisons, and tossed them for him to catch, gleefully slipping through the currents after rainbow tails.

"Thou wouldst be best served returning to shore." Grandfather huffed when my basket was filled to overflowing.

I sighed as I left the cool water, only to shriek as a giant maw descended on me and threw me onto the wolf's back, clutching his fur for dear life as we raced through the forest to the gingerbread house, the icing of which had all been switched to shades of blue with touches of lilac and lavender.

"Dare this one asks what has occurred?" I stared.

I felt the rumble of laughter beneath me, "Go see."

…

It was a celebration, with fireworks suspended in the air, bright blooms of colored sparks frozen in time, and on the table was a great multi-tiered cake iced in marzipan. Sir was sprawled on a pile of charred pinatas, empty flour bags, butter, disarmed bombs, multicolored paintball pellets that were probably to blame for the splashes of bright color, and at least five different types of feathers. I could smell the stink of alcohol even at this distance.

Lal was perched on a fruitcake cushion beside him and wielding a rolling pin, and opposite her sat Oregano, who held a series of candles, while Turmeric was taking my trout away into the kitchen. Oma was nowhere to be seen.

"This one hesitates to ask: what is the cause of this?" It would explain why I had been kicked out to not get in the way, but the secrecy?

"It's a birthday party." Lal informed me.

"Ah, this one understands." …there were three women here, Oregano, Lal, and Oma. Of the three, I immediately dismissed Oregano; Lal and Oma… Lal could be said to have raised all of us, but why this specific date? Oma, on the other hand, wasn't exactly a mother, but in the absence of Turmeric's mother, she could be who we celebrated for his birthday—it would even explain why he returned to the witch's woods at this time.

A realization struck me, "This one failed to prepare a present! Or would the trout be gift enough?"

"Why would you need to prepare a present?" Oregano asked with a frown, "Do you want a hobbit birthday? We can do that next year."

"Surely it is not this one's choice!" I protested, staring at the carnage in the corner, "What happened to sir?"

"Idiotmetsu tried to add in Vongola Style Flour throwing, Vongola Style Pinata hitting, Vongola Style butter smearing, Vongola Style Paintball and quite a few other bits of Main Family Madness to our party." Lal said darkly, "I educated him as to the error of his ways."

"By christening sir as one would a ship?" I asked, noting broken glass (or possibly sugar) scattered around the two.

"Took two bottles of champagne and one of beer." Lal glared, "But hopefully, it'll be enough."

Turmeric came back from the kitchen while Oma popped up behind the cake. "Time to celebrate, dearies!" She cackled, snapping her fingers for candles.

Oregano handed seven over, which Turmeric lit and stuck on the cake. Oma clicked her fingers, and the light went out, leaving the seven pin-pricks of red-yellow flame the only sources of illumination, apart from the sparks in the air. "Make a wish, Basil!" Sir warbled.

"Gladly." I agreed dubiously, climbing onto the solid oak table to reach the top of the cake.

-Will be done.

The light came back.

"Time to cut the cake!" Oma grinned diabolically as she handed me a giant cleaver, hilt first, "Birthday boy!"

I took the knife numbly.

Birthday boy.

Me.

"Pardon this one's ignorance." I interrupted, "But, to confirm, this party celebrates this one?"

"Who else?" Turmeric raised an eyebrow, "You're the only one whose birthday is on the sixth of June."

"Pa—"

The cleaver dragged my hand down. I bit down a yelp as it sank into the wooden support underneath the cake, parting the behemoth to reveal layers of pale gold and deep, dark brown-black, and red, and warmer brown—cheesecake, black forest, red velvet, and apple.

BOOM!

The cake erupted, lemon curd and cherry syrup bursting from the top in an impressively real explosion, the cloud of icing sugar hiding…live starlings?

"Iemitsu!" Oregano growled.

I giggled, confusion forgotten. Life was fun.

Note that Turmeric's real name doesn't get spoken. This is deliberate, as Names=Bad Things when Fae are involved. Safer to go by aliases and monikers. And Kawahira gets mentioned, yay!

Next chapter: Tsuna!