Imonada’s compassionate words have their intended effect with striking immediacy: the agitation passes as quickly as it had struck. Kipling exhales audibly, his wiry body decompressing back to its typically affable stance. Further bolstered by Rikyn’s more lukewarm support, he nods and mutters to no one in particular, “Yes, that’s right. Home. Unconditional…” His words sound oddly strangled despite the palpable relief flooding over him. Despite the support, his emotions are thoroughly split. Is Helovia really home? How would he know either way? He was not born here, but he was not born anywhere, really - nowhere he had any enduring connection to, at least. He has no family here; neither that of blood nor kinship. This has never bothered him before, but he feels it acutely now. Of course, he has only himself to blame. He has never actually invested in close relationships. Why would he care about any one individual over another? He likes everyone. What would it even feel like to cultivate long-term, deeper relationships? It never occurred to him before now. Is there something he is supposed to feel about home? Is he feeling it now?

This avalanche of questions churns away in the background of Kipling’s mind. The concepts are so remote and inaccessible to him that he cannot vocalize his thoughts at all. The relief triggered by both Imonada and Rikyn’s assurances remains at the forefront, but it is only partial, and he is puzzled and concerned in a vague, unidentifiable way. He no longer wants to flee; he does not know what he wants to do anymore. He tries to return to their activity, offering a more restrained smile as he scrutinizes their etchings. Imonada asks for his help, which would normally have delighted him, but now the figures are swimming in front of him; the frozen white of their canvas pains his eyes. “You’re both doing such a good job,” He announces offhandedly. Although Rikyn has not asked, he praises them both, not meaning to sound as dismissive as he does.

Kipling thus abandons his meager attempt to re-engage in their drawings. He tilts his head, his long horn arcing with the motion. Little beads of water from the melting snow shake loose and spatter lightly to the ground. Thoughtfully, he asks, “Where do you live?” The questions he actually wants to ask remain unspoken, buried in the bedlam of his busy thoughts: first, where is home? then, can either of you bring me home? and finally, please be my friend?