Day Eleven - Evening and Night

     Curfew looms nigh. Casper can’t play hooky forever, can’t put off the inevitable. He’ll have to face the consequences of his actions- have to face Balor eventually. He has to go back. He dreads it. It’s not something he’d choose to do, not on his life.

     He goes back. The manor is as welcoming a sight as always, which is to say not in the slightest. Casper stands there, gaping up at it like an imbecile over whether he should use the front door or the back. The window perhaps? Or he could forgo the main building entirely and hole up in the glasshouse like he’s done for the past few days.

     Oh, what does it matter? Balor’s going to chew him out regardless of where he goes or what entrance he uses to get there. Isn’t that the reason for his coming here? Better he comes himself than get dragged to heel by force; he’s learned his lesson well. There’s no escape. Two more weeks- two more weeks and he can leave, but, until then, he’s staying where he is. He has to go back. He’ll always go back.

     The front door it is then. Come what may, he’s going to take his beating like a man. In he goes, back straight, shoulders high and trembling. The door’s scarcely closed behind him when Balor’s all over him. Casper’s squeezes his eyes shut because he doesn’t want to see what comes next. Balor’s hands are firm on his shoulders, his breath is warm in his face.

     No escape.

     The first minute of what’s said is missed over the din of alarm bells going off in Casper’s head. Balor doesn’t do more than talk, a reassuring rumble, a constant, gentle pressure. Slowly, Casper comes off his panic high and then, and only then, does he start to listen. He opens his eyes.

     Balor isn’t mad at him. A little pissed perhaps, but mostly worried. And sorry. He says he’s sorry. Casper’s sorry too.

     The rest is a blur. When Casper comes to his senses, he’s already tackled Balor in a death grip of a hug, babbling incoherent apologies and how wrong he was and please, don’t hurt him. Please.

     Balor sighs unsteadily. Casper can hear it rattle in his chest. “Wherever do you get these ideas, Casper?” Then, so quietly, “I fear for you.” Why, he doesn’t say and Casper doesn’t ask.

     Balor insists on going out last minute to catch something for him. Casper insists it’s okay, he’s already eaten. Balor goes out anyways. Something about making it up to him. Casper just wants the company. He waits. Sings to himself softly in a dark, empty room. It’s enough to bring back memories. (He doesn’t want to remember.) Balor gets back, bird in hand, before he gets in too deep.

     Soon after, the kitchen is glowing gold, from the fire in the stove box to the tiny tails of flame capping salvaged candle stubs, their very own island of light. A safe harbour in the night. They’re getting better at this, Casper thinks. Conversation is still somewhat stilted after everything that’s happened today, but it comes. It’s harder to skin feathers than fur, but at least they don’t burn the bird this time. Or, rather, Casper doesn’t burn it. Balor knows his magics and his herbs, but he couldn’t cook if his life depended on it. Besides, Casper’s the one who’ll end up eating it. May as well make sure it’s somewhat palatable.

     “How come I never seen you eatin’?” Casper asks as he’s checks the roast fowl.

     “Hm. You have noticed then,” Balor shifts behind him. He’s been looking over Casper’s shoulder the whole time, making sure he doesn’t burn himself on the stove. He mulls the question over. “I had lost the habit a very long time ago after having forgotten one too many times.”

     “How do you forget somefin’ like that?” Casper laughs. How could anyone forget hunger? It’s an all too familiar companion.

     Balor meets his smile with one of his own. “You would be surprised. I have been reputed for becoming absorbed with my studies, ofttimes to the point of neglecting sleep and, yes Casper, this poor habit of mine extended to consumption as well.”

     Casper steps back from the stove. “But you’re not doin’ any of that now, are you?”

     “That would depend on what you are referring to, Casper.”

     “The study stuff of course!” What else could he be talking about?

     “No, my days as a disciple ended aeons ago, though the habit remained.” Balor shrugs unabashedly. “I suppose that, seeing as it came to no ill effect, I simply assumed I no longer needed sustenance to survive and no longer saw fit to eat nor drink, lest it should please me to do so.”

     “So that’s why you can’t cook worth shit!”

     Balor’s face falls. “Watch your tongue, imp.”

     Whoops. Casper ducks back to the stove and busies himself there.

     Dinner’s a mostly silent affair. Casper doesn’t say much of anything until the end. “Hey, Balor?” He stares at the space just above Balor’s head. “If there were somefin’ important, you’d tell me… right?”

     Balor goes still. “I would hope so, yes.” His voice betrays nothing.

     Casper holds his pinky out. “Promise.” A word half way between a demand and a request.

     Balor hesitates, considering him and his outstretched hand. With a small nod, he copies the gesture and Casper hooks their hands together. “I… shall do the best I am able to,” Balor vows.

     Casper believes him.

END OF DAY ELEVEN.

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