Day Four - Midday

     The boy wakes to find himself in bed again. He doesn't question how he got there. The foreigner obviously had a hand in it. Chances are he's the reason the boy woke here this morning. The grey sky says he hasn't been knocked out for long. Hopefully it's only been a few minutes, just enough time for the bruise under his chin to set. He pokes at the large, blue splotch. It's tender and the swelling presses awkwardly on his mouth. Swallowing feels funny.

     The timing of his injuries is astounding. As soon as the necklace of bruises Myr gave him two days ago start to yellow, he gets himself a new set of marks. He prays Alicia won't ask about them. He has no idea what to say if she does. But that's no pressing concern. If he can't navigate the house, it'll be impossible to trek the uneven trail to town. He'll have to skip on his daily trip, but he's not too bothered. There are closer meals to be taken today.

Day Four - Morning

     Daylight glows grey through the bedroom window. It's a bright grey, testifying how the storm had abated during the night. What remains of the rowdy tempest is a gentle shower and chalky clouds that'll burn off with the sun.

     The boy wakes grudgingly. He had enough of the waking world yesterday, thank you very much. He'd rather stay in bed today and not worry about food, or Myr, or finding shelter from bloody rain that never stops. He'd rather he didn't think about food at all. The reminder dredges up his aching appetite from wherever it had been buried in his sleep. His stomach growls loud enough to be heard from the kitchen next door.

     He recognizes the routine that has defined his time here. (He’d be an idiot not to.) He wakes, aching and hungry. He sneaks to town for the food and compassion he needs. He sneaks back full of neither, having just enough of both to keep him alive another day. He circumnavigates around Myr, lest he suffer his wrath, before fatigue knocks him out for the night.

     Is this how his days will go? Is this all there is to his life?

Day Four - Midnight

     The boy stirs. The movement is sluggish, uncoordinated. Eyes blink open briefly, seeing but not registering anything. He isn't awake. He merely looks that way. His body is running entirely on autopilot. He sits up. His head dips. Eyes close again, then open before he relapses into true slumber. He sits a little straighter as he looks around.

     He's back in his room, the one with three beds. Even with the window, there's not much light to see by, not with the storm still raging outside. Sheet lightning splits the darkness and vanishes the next instant. The flash serves as the boy's candle. A minute later, the silence is similarly pierced by growling thunder.

     The boy belatedly reacts. He shifts to face the window and the tempest expressionlessly. He doesn't twitch at any spark or roar the weather makes. Later on, the storm settles and is content with spitting at the earth in torrents. Fifteen minutes more and the boy slumps where he sits. His eyes are half-open. He's asleep. It takes another minute for gravity to topple him forwards onto his pillow. The impact rouses him. He yawns and stretches. His eyes close. He curls into the faded quilt, into himself, and drifts into proper dreams.

<== Day Three - Evening     ==> Table of Contents <==     Day Four - Morning ==>

Day Three - Evening

     It's raining. Still raining. Has it let up for a second today? Every spark of warmth and comfort the boy soaked up from the pub's fire is immediately washed clean from his skinny frame. Perfect. Abso-bloody-lutely perfect. Better still, he's got a full hour of slogging uphill to look forward to. He doesn’t bother putting on his shoes. What's the point? They’ll only slow him down.

     The cloud cover ushers in premature nightfall. It makes it look later and darker than it should be at this hour. It's why the boy got his times wrong and left sooner than absolutely needed. He wish he'd stayed, but he didn't, so he uses the extra time to fight the downhill slide of the decayed trail. In hindsight, he's glad he left when he did.

     Ash grey clouds crash into each other. The sky grows thick, heavy, and as friendly looking as a lead pipe. The boy scampers out from underneath it to avoid getting hit, gaining as much ground as he loses to gravity and the soupy earth. He screams his rage into the storm. Thunder joins his chorus and roars with him as a flash of gold sparks mere feet away. He braces his arms in front of him. It’s a futile defense against lightning’s fury and he knows it, but he does it anyways. What else can he do?