The two men quickly retrieve the wooden chest from upstairs. The flames rise and crackles intensify briefly as the chest comes into view of the hearth, and again as it's opened to reveal the numerous wooden dolls and jars of preserved fruit.

"Kiritsugu." Thia calls. "Would you like to offer your gifts and wish to the hearth first? It is your first time with us after all."

"If that's okay with you," he says. This is her ritual, he's following her directions.

"Certainly. Take your gifts from the chest, shows them to the hearth, cast them into the flames, and once all of them have been received, give the hearth your wish, if you know it now."

A little statue of Iris. Something to remember her by. It's all he needs. 

His thoughts muddle between his wife and the flower. 

As Kiritsugu's offerings fall into the flames, the vanish entirely, not evening beginning to burn before disappearing into the hearth's flames. The flames shiver and jump momentarily, and the hearth radiates the same acceptance it did a moment ago when Thia invoked it. The old woman nods to him, before directing the others to give their offerings and wishes, and then does so herself.

Ira wishes for good luck and good health for the forest and plants so that they will be fruitful and abundant, Bran wishes for their illnesses and injuries to be healed and their bodies made whole, and Thia wishes for the house and its parts to be repaired where they are damaged and replaced where they are missing. Each time, the hearth shines with the same acceptance. After the gifts are given, there's a quiet moment, the house filled with the crackling of the hearth and the muffled whipping of the wind outside. Then, the fire begins to dance, brightening and darkening periodically, changing in color, and the sound of its crackling becoming rhythmic, almost musical.

"The answering has begun." Thia remarks, standing from the floor. "Kiritsugu, you're free to stay up to observe if you wish, I know Bran will be. I have satisfied all my curiosity for the hearth and will be going to bed. Ira?"

The young woman nods, yawning as she does. "I think I"m going to sleep too. Good night Bran, good night Kiritsugu."

He'll stay, though he's not going to say anything. 

His wish feels petty, in the face of what they've asked for, but it's all he has left.

Thia and Ira both head upstairs, while Bran returns to his seat at the table, where he and Kiritsugu may watch the flames.

It's a while longer, maybe somewhere between an half an hour to an hour, before the flames begin to grow noticeably more vigorous, the pops and crackles of the flame becoming louder and more regular, gaining an almost musical quality. The magic of the hearth is doing something, though what exactly it's doing remains unclear..

"Is this supposed to happen?" Kiritsugu asks.

"Yes, and it will get much, ah...stranger, before it's done." Bran answers.

He leans closer. 

It's strange. He should be frightened of fire, after everything, but this blaze does not scare him. 

The warmth is stronger nearer the fire, but somehow it's not hotter exactly. Even if Kiritsugi dared to stick a hand into the flames, it would never become uncomfortable, let alone dangerous, even if it would become detectably warmer the nearer he got to its center.

Every time Kiritsugu looks into the flame, it seems more vivacious, more fascinating. It dances and whirls, its crackling song becoming more and more clear as the light of the fire pulses in striations, bars of color splitting and merging hypnotically, casting the entire room in stark light and dark. Perhaps another hour or two have passed, though it's somewhat difficult to judge the passage of time.

Is he able to fall asleep to it?

No, though he might be lulled into a half-sleeping fugue. Bran will gently nudge Kiritsugu and suggest that he get some sleep if he's tired. "Wishing night happens every year, and in all my years I have seen surprisingly little variation in its events, aside from the particulars of the answering. There will always be next time."

He stirs, forcing himself to wakefulness. "I want to see it," he says. "At least my first year here." 

He wants to find a way out, but that seems less and less likely. Moving between worlds is a Great Magic, not something he has access too easily.

Bran nods, accepting Kiritsugu's resolve to witness the answering.

Time continues to pass, maybe another hour or two, the magic of the hearth becoming steadily more noticeable, permeating the air and space within the cabin. The light and dark begin to mix together in a confounding, impossible way as the fires writhes and shivers, shapes and forms appearing and disappearing in the crepuscular semi-reality of the space. From this strange interplay, figures seem to crawl out from the hearth, through the grate, and spreading out through house. Child-sized, and perhaps even child-shaped, but impossible to truly scrutinize, oil-slick on the surface reality like a dream you only half remember even as you experience it.

Many of these figures disappear as strangely as they appear, merging into the walls or floor or various items around the house, folding their light-dark-light into whatever they join into. Some of them walk up to Kiritsugu as a group, before beginning to sort of rhythmically shrink and grow, steadily and slowly constricting down to something smaller and more solid at the center of where they stand.

He shuts his eyes. It reminds him too much of grasping arms at the center of the Grail.

Something about the strangeness of the light and the dark and the two intertwined can't be escaped by closing his eyes, but it does shut out most of what he's seeing. A whisper, almost imperceptible and yet equally unmistakable, unfamiliar yet oddly nostalgic, caresses Kiritsugu's ear. "A world which is good, is one in which we can be happy."

There's the sound of something hard clacking against the wooden floor in front of Kiritsugu.

He stands up, opens his eyes, and points his gun at the sound. Not in that order. 

At the other end of his gun is a painted wooden doll, similar in style to the ones he's been making with Bran and Ira. A simulacrum of Irisviel, holding a bouquet of purple flowers.

Bran is at Kiritsugu's side, careful to remain out of the line of fire. "Are you okay?"

He puts the gun away sheepishly, feeling stupid. 

"Yes," he says. "I'm sorry. I--" 

He picks up the doll and starts to cry.

Turning to Bran, clutching the doll to his chest, he says, "It saw her. As she was. Before..."

Bran is at a loss for words, so instead he just gives Kiritsugu a gentle hug. He is warm in the same comforting, safe way as the hearth.

He lets himself just be for a moment.

Bran continues to hug his friend for a long while. The answering continues, the odd figures-from-fire traveling traveling through out the house and sinking into every board and nail, even entering into the bodies of the family and of Kiritsugu. Eventually, though, the figures cease their activity and fade away, the light and dark split apart and the magic of the hearth falls back down to the background levels which Kiritsugu has become familiar with.

Bran offers to carry Kititsugu up to the bed, if he's feeling weak or tired.

He lets it happen. 

He shouldn't, his pride shouldn't allow it, but here he is. 

He's clutching the figurine to his chest, trying not to let the guilt wash over him. 

Bran carries him, gently but with great strength, up the stairs and into the bed in the second bedroom. It's strangely empty now, with just the raw materials for doll-making, all the finished dolls having been given to the hearth.

"Would you like me to stay with you, until you fall asleep?" He asks with quiet solemnity.