His feet thumped against the ground loudly and erratically. He'd lost too much blood and was losing even more by the second. Snufkin stumbled into a tree, shoving his arms out in a clumsy attempt to push it from his path, only sending him spiraling down another hill in the opposite direction.

This was definitely not Snufkin's night, he thought as he desperately grasped for anything to slow his descent down the hill. Many roots and twigs lashed at his raw and bleeding palms, but the blood created a lubricant far too slippery for Snufkin to grab hold of any saving grace. So, try as he might to slow his fall, his body rolled faster, kicking up dirt and debris and colliding with protruding rocks and sticks.

All Snufkin could do was pray that he would not end up impaled by a gangly root or roll so hard into a rock that it would surely mark his end. His body went limp, any strength leaving with what little blood remained inside his small body.

This was absolutely, most positively, not his night. Because once his body rolled to an agonizing halt, and every bone in his little frame felt just as twisted and mangled as his hat had been back at his campsite, he heard the crunching of the forest leaves from below the hill.

It had followed him. Through all of that, it was still here, and Snufkin was in no shape to fight back or even flee. This was surely his last day. He was going to die, not knowing what for, not knowing by who, and - he hated to admit- not even knowing where. All of this dizzy running and tumbling had completely thrown off Snufkin's internal compass, and any chance of using a real compass was shattered as all of his belongings, save for a very few items, were still in his bag at his campsite.

Snufkin at least wanted to know what his killer looked like. Or perhaps it was more that he wanted to stare at something other than the mud and rocks he'd fallen into at the end of his descent. A face, even the face of a killer, would be warmer than the cold, unforgiving ground that felt like cement against Snufkin's battered body.

As the vagabond's eyes weakly wandered upwards to meet his killers, he froze in terror, seeing no face. Just a dark, skeletal shadow, bent and crooked, hunched over Snufkin with slits in its skull where sunken and seemingly unliving eyes bore into Snufkin's soul, making his wounds fester with pain.

Snufkin let out a small yell. This frightful creature's appearance gave the boy just enough strength to lift a bleeding leg from the cement-like ground and kick as hard as he could into the would-be-killers chest. The skeletal form stumbled backward, giving Snufkin a mere second to force himself off the ground and run.

And run he did.

He ran as far and as fast as his broken body could take him, pushing it beyond what he knew were its limits. He wasn't going to die here in the forest. He loved the forest, but he didn't want to die in it. He didn't want to die at all. He didn't want to die.

He didn't want to die.

He didn't want to die.

He repeated those words to himself as he ran, acutely aware of the pools of blood he was leaving behind with each step. He could feel the blood squishing between his toes as he placed his feet on the ground, but eventually, his feet grew numb and so did the rest of his body. He just kept running. His vision was starting to blur. Darken.

And just as his body was ready to give up on him, over the horizon he spotted an all too familiar structure. The Moomin house. Relief washed over him, slowing him a moment before it was replaced with the determination to continue forward. His run had been reduced to a staggering, quickened, limp some time ago. But he continued forward.

The signs of winter were very clear against the meadow ahead of him. The dead grass, and hibernating trees. Hibernating... That's right. The Moomins should be hibernating. It was only the beginning of the winter. The first snow hadn't even fallen yet. Oh please, wake up, Moomin. Please!

Despite the pain in his lungs from the lack of circulation and blood, Snufkin clumsily reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his harmonica. Overwhelmingly grateful it hadn't been lost in his escape, he pressed the organ to his lips and blew as hard as he could. He couldn't make music right now, he just couldn't. So hopefully Moomin could awaken to the distasteful sounds of desperation. Snufkin's legs stopped listening to him, and his knees buckled just past the bridge. If anything, he had to keep blowing into the harmonica as loudly as he could. Someone had to hear him. Please, let someone hear him!

Moomin lay in his bed, an uneasy sleep made for a night of tossing and turning. Something wasn't right. He couldn't put his finger on what exactly, but something felt very off. His dreams were usually quite peaceful, save for the occasional nightmare. But this time, he didn't dream. No dreams came to the little Moomin, and try as he might to imagine something to fill the dark void in his mind, nothing seemed to stay for long. Except for this dreadful sound. It sounded like someone had stolen a rusty harmonica and was blowing into it with no respect for the beautiful music that it could play.

Moomin rolled over, hoping that would silence the noise, but it just got louder, and louder, until eventually, it began to quiet again. There were a few moments of silence before there was another quick draw on the poor instrument. However, this time the sound was cut off halfway, and something about that was more disturbing than the noise itself.

Moomin's eyes snapped open. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. He sat up, and the smell of blood tainted the air, as though it were a thick, heavy acoustic playing alongside the terrible sounds of the harmonica.

Immediately, Moomin jumped from his bed, the dots beginning to connect. Someone was hurt. So hurt that he could smell their blood from his room. And that someone also happened to be, what sounded like, shrieking into a harmonica.

Snufkin!

Moomin nearly barreled through the window as he tripped over his own feet at the window sill. Sure enough, there was his dear friend, covered almost entirely in a gooey, red substance that reeked of iron, clothes torn- far more than they should be, and on the ground, shakily haphazardly to support himself.

He didn't need to think twice, which is good because he was struggling to think even once- this was a horrible scene before him- Moomin slammed the window panes open and quite literally fell down the ladder rungs.

"SNUFKIN! SNUFKIN!" He cried, picking himself off the ground just in time to see the harmonica fall from the boy's hand and his body following right after. Moomin was by Snufkin's side in seconds, picking up his friend in his shaky arms.

What on earth happened?! How could this be happening?! Snufkin had just left Moomin Valley a week ago! And now he was back, unconscious and drenched in blood. "PAPA! MAMA!" Moomin screamed louder than he thought he'd ever screamed before, and he kept screaming until he felt a hand placed on his shoulder. He looked up to see MoominPapa and MoominMama standing over him, eyes wide in a raw panic that matched Moomins own expression.

MoominMama gasped in terror as she got a closer look at the bundle of mess in her son's arms, "Oh, Snufkin! Quickly, get him inside!" Her words came out rushed and hoarse, like the sight before her was enough for her to momentarily lose her voice. MoominPapa didn't even wait for Moomin to react to his mother's orders, as he reached down and picked up Snufkin in his much larger arms. Not even MoominPapa could hide the shaking and uncertainty as he hurriedly carried Snufkin inside after Mama.

Moomin felt sick. He thought he was going to throw up. His eyes slowly wandered to his hands, which were sticky and stained red. This all seemed so... unreal. This wasn't happening. This was just another one of Moomin's nightmares, albeit this one would have to take the cake in the worst category. His eyes trailed up to see the large trail of blood leading from the pool Snufkin was laying in. The trail went across the bridge and continued on for as far as Moomin could see.

Snufkin traveled a long way to reach this point, longer than Moomin would ever want his friend to go while he was hurt. But this... This was more than just... hurt. The images of Snufkin's cold and shivering body in Moomin's arms replayed in his head. His friend looked as though a knife had been sliced through him. His clothes were in threads, both from the cutting of a knife to reach Snufkin's skin- he gagged at the thought of someone wanting to split open his best friend's skin- and from what looked like a horrible wrestle with a rocky hillside. Gravel and splinters were scattered across the boy's body, and Moomin could have sworn he saw bone peeking up from Snufkin's muscle and flesh- Moomin gripped his stomach and dry-heaved at the dead grass beside him.

When Moomin was finally able to wobble his way back inside the house, he almost wished he didn't. The smell of blood was just as strong, if not stronger, as he entered the living room. It seemed that Papa had chosen the floor to place Snufkin on. If these were simple injuries, the sofa or a bed would be a nice, comfortable place for the traveler to heal. But these were not simple injuries, and so Mama needed access to Snufkin's body at every angle and any piece of furniture getting in the way just would not do.

At least Mama had been able to place a blanket underneath Snufkin before he was set down, Moomin thought. He didn't think it would give Snufkin much comfort with how much pain he probably was in, but it was better than making his poor friend lay on a cold floor.

Treating Snufkin took several hours. Mama had to sew up many layers of muscle and dermis. Moomin had been correct about protruding bone. Various times throughout her care, Mama would have to be comforted by Papa. She had never treated such horrible ailments before, and the sights and the smells were starting to test every fiber of her being.

Moomin stood in the kitchen, boiling water for tea. His eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor. It was just a stain on the tile from a cherry jam that would not come up. But no matter how many times Moomin reminded himself of that, he could only see it as blood. Snufkin's blood. Snufkin was bleeding. Moomin's arms were no longer covered in blood, but the faint remnants of the red liquid had stained his white fur. His arms, his chest, his chin, his legs, his feet, his fingers, and even a spot on his cheek. There was so much blood. Moomin stared at his faintly red hands, which shook more than he would have liked them to.

His spell of terror was broken when MoominMama finally walked into the kitchen. She was covered in blood, and tears were trailing down her face. "Mama...?" Moomin attempted to break the silence that had washed over the Moomin household as Mama had been working.

Mama looked up at Moomin and then quickly looked away again, hovering her bloodstained hand over her face to cover it from her son's view. She let out a quiet sob, and Moomin felt his heart stop. No...

"Mama..?" He tried again.

No...

"Is Snufkin..." Please, no...

"Is he... okay?" He has to be... Please...!

Mama slowly lowered her hand from her face, actively trying not to wipe the tear from her cheek with her bloodied hands. She wasn't replying fast enough. Moomin took a few steps forward, "Mama...!" He began, but Mama interrupted him. "He's alright, Moomin. As alright as he can be. I did my best to fix him up, but he will need to properly recover here." Moomin felt a sense of relief ease his body. Mama continued, "I don't think we shall be hibernating this winter, Moomin. Snufkin needs supervision and we just couldn't do that while sleeping."

Moomin didn't care if they hibernated or not. Not with his best friend in the room over, and especially not in that condition. Mama began to wash her hands, and it became quite clear that she wished to be alone for a little bit. So Moomin left the kitchen, deciding Mama could take care of the tea, and he reentered the room his friend occupied. Snufkin still lay on the blanket in the living room, only now the blanket was caked in blood and the boy laying upon it was more bandages and stitches than boy.

The room still reeked of blood, but the Moomins had - sad to say- become somewhat accustomed to it for the time being. Snufkin's breathing was shallow and hardly noticeable, and to ease Moomin's mind he knelt down next to his friend and closely watched the unsteady rise and fall of the traveler's chest.

They stayed like this for a while, Moomin carefully considering Snufkin's patched up injuries. Many were hidden beneath the bandages, but the few that weren't looked like they should be. Moomin wasn't sure if Mama didn't cover them for a reason, or if she was just too overcome with emotions to bandage any further. And so now Moomin's eyes traced a long stitch that ran from Snufkin's right collarbone and to his left cheek. Moomin gulped down a wave of anger he couldn't bring himself to face right now, as he identified that wound to have been clearly made by a knife.

Papa seemed to read his son's mind, as he approached slowly and knelt down on the other side of the unconscious guest. "He's already looking much better, don't you agree, Moomin?" His attempt to lighten the mood in the air was in vain. Moomin's eyes narrowed down at another long stitch that stretched from Snufkin's hip to the middle of his sternum. Again, clearly made by a knife.

Moomin's voice was low and unfriendly. Very un-Moomin-like, "Who could do such a thing to Snufkin, Papa?" Papa didn't reply right away, as he didn't have an answer. But when he finally did reply, it was just as unhelpful. "I don't know, Moomin."

There was a long silence, and Moomin's eyes scanned the entirety of his friend's mangled body. They had to remove his clothing as it was just getting in the way of Mama's treatment. And though Moomin was happy that the bandages managed to cover so much of Snufkin's body that it was nearly impossible to tell he was completely naked in the Moomin's living room, it made Moomin's heart cry that Snufkin was so injured that he could seem clothed in bandages.

"Can we put him to bed now, Papa? I don't want him to get cold lying out here like this." Moomin's gentle tone had returned, to which Papa breathed a sigh of relief. But he shook his head, "Not yet, Moomin. Mama said he is in no shape to be moved. Besides, it's much easier to keep an eye on his condition if he is downstairs with us." Papa watched Moomin's face fall into a sorrowful frown before he quickly added, "But I'm sure Snufkin would appreciate a blanket or two. After all, it is rather cold." Moomin's face lit up at the chance to help his friend, and he nearly fell over as he jumped to his feet. "Oh, yes, Papa! Right away!" He hurried upstairs as he continued on, "I'll get Snufkin some blankets to help keep him warm!"

Papa watched Moomin ascend the stairs with another regretful sigh. Mama entered the living room, blood having been washed from her hands and arms, and apron replaced with a clean, non-blood stained one. Papa had a feeling he would never see her wearing the other one again. Poor Mama, he thought. Papa and Moomin had washed off the blood as soon as they could, only leaving them with faint stains on their fur. But Mama had allowed the blood to remain on her fur for hours as she worked tirelessly on poor Snufkin. Her hands were much more darkly stained than Papa's or Moomin's, he frowned deeply at the look of dismay that covered his wife's face.

Papa got up to embrace his wife. He was sure she needed it. He certainly did. Snufkin may not be their own child, but he was still part of the family, and as such, unspokenly adopted as Mama and Papa's child. To see him like this- to have to reattach the boy's muscles to his ligaments and bones, and peel back layers of skin to remove debris from underneath various levels of dermis... This was too much for both of them. It was times like this that he wished the small town of Moomin Valley had a hospital. Because maybe then, Mama wouldn't have had to dismantle their child just to piece him back to together again.

Moomin soon returned from upstairs with many blankets in his arms. Papa and Mama helped him place a few over Snufkin's unconscious body. Snufkin seemed grateful for the warmth and gently turned his face into the blanket over his shoulder to absorb some of the heat. This was the first time he'd moved since Moomin saw him collapse outside. It was a small achievement, but to the Moomins it felt like a brilliant accomplishment. And so they rewarded themselves with tea as they took their seats in the living room. Papa and Mama on the sofa, and Moomin right next to Snufkin.

No one spoke as they sipped their tea, and enjoyed each other's silent company. If they ever had a reason or a day to be happy that each of their loved ones was alive and next to them, it most certainly is today.

But that still left the question... Who left Snufkin in such a state? Whoever they were, they'd better prepare for the protective wrath of the Moomins. Nobody hurts their family and is allowed to roam freely. Moomin and MoominPapa were determined to catch the person who did this to Snufkin. And the best place to start was to follow the trail of blood outside and see the scene of the crime.