Scar doesn't talk. 

He doesn't move, staring at the screen as it changes to a no-signal dog face smiling at us. For a moment I think he's going to do something mad and smash the TV but he doesn't. I shift closer.

'...Scar?'

He looks at me, tears shining in his eyes, and starts crying. I hug him, numb. 

'Goodness gracious... Scar, are you ok?' Mumbo enters the room, sitting the other side of him.

'His old friend was... killed. Executed.' I explain. He doesn't speak. A dull part in the back of my brain reminds me that it was my fault. I got him arrested. Tears blur my vision and I sob, still hugging Scar. Mumbo shuffles closer, and joins in. He's fighting his own tears of empathy as well.  We all sit there crying until our throats hurt. A couple times Scar stops as though to say something but can't get out more than a couple words before starting to cry again. It has to be more than an hour we spend there until he manages to speak.

'I never spoke to him after I met you. We never met... we decided it would be safer to part ways and now- now...' He fights crying again. I signal for Mumbo to stay with him as I slip away, returning with cookies and a glass of water, hand them over, then disappear on the hunt for Jellie.

She's staring out Scar's bedroom window dolefully meowing and hisses as I try to carry her through to cheer him up. He looks up as I enter, and she runs to him. He tries to smile, cuddling her as he tries not to start crying again. I take my seat again. Even more is telling me it's my fault now, but I don't mention it to Scar, scared it'll set him off again. The rest of me is thinking about my conversation with Cub, the letter still stuffed in my pocket. If I hadn't listened to it, he wouldn't be dead. 

Other memories rise to the surface. Memories of the resistance. What happened. 

Her death.

'I need to be alone.' I excuse myself, running from the room and into my own.

Guilt overwhelms me as I lie on my bed. I'm the only reason Cub's dead. If I hadn't obeyed the stupid letter... if I'd decided to stay home, ignore it. He wouldn't have been caught. And killed. And... and... I tear the letter from the pocket and rip it into pieces. The stupid letter that killed Scar's friend...

I need to make this right. I need to do something to, if not cheer Scar up, make up for what I've done, maybe stop the guilt...

I stand slowly, leave my room, and enter the kitchen instead. Scar never uses a recipe to make his cookies, but I'm sure it's simple enough... eggs... flour... sugar... chocolate chips... I don't know how much of each to use, but decide to start on what I do know. Eggs... I decide it's better to go with less and add more, so crack one into a jug, mix it... I turn to the other ingredients, draw a blank on what Scar normally does, and put them all in a bowl at the same time, and mix it. By the end it looks a little bit like cookie dough, so I put that all in the oven to cook, decide 20 minutes is a good cooking time and leave to check on Scar.

'How are you doing?' I ask. He barely hears me over the sound of the TV.

'Earlier today, we witnessed the execution of the government traitor and former royal magician Sir Cubalot many considered already dead after the a resistance attack on the castle almost a year ago...' They're replaying it onscreen. I scramble for the controller, anger filling me as I try and turn it off.

'No- watch.' 

'What?'

'Just watch.'

I sit down next to Scar. He's finished all the cookies, staring at the screen.

'There.' 

I blink as the footage returns to Hypno. 

'Where?'

'Just before it disappears... look.' Scar rewinds. 

'How many times have you...'

'Shh... right... there!'

I frown.

'Scar, what do you mean?'

A sigh.

'Just before the camera disappears, someone knocks it over. I think Cub did, and then ran.'

Silence.

'Scar... they wouldn't... Someone might've just dropped it, or something.' I insist. Scar shakes his head, rewinding again.

'Just look!'

I do. I can't see anything.

'Do you understand?' The look of desperation on his face, the hope, and I suddenly know I can't tell him the truth again.

'Yeah, I understand.'

He hugs me. I hug back, knowing he's seen nothing.

'Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you...' He repeats as I try to get free. But another distraction helps me first.

'THE OVEN IS ON FIRE!'

'WHAT?!' I stand, running to the kitchen behind Scar to see Mumbo standing there, staring at the smoke billowing out the oven.

'GRIAN WHAT DID YOU DO?!'

'NOTHING!' I yell back, before realising. 'I- I tried to make cookies!' I fling open the oven door, forgetting to grab oven gloves as I try to recover my creations. Just as the fire alarm starts blaring, I pull out the tray of burning cookies with my bare hands, dropping them immediately from pain. Mumbo screams as the floor sets on fire, so it must be Scar who actually closes the oven as I stand there, staring at the red welts across my shaking hands, yells for Mumbo to grab water.

It's only when, soaking from Mumbo's wild fire-extinguishing, that the emotions wash over me and I sink to the ground, crying. My hands sting. It feels like they're on fire too.

'I'm sorry.' I mumble through the tears. 'I can't do anything right.'

'No... Grian, it's ok...' Scar sits next to me, an arm around my shoulder.

'I followed a stupid letter and got your friend killed, and now I can't even make cookies to apologise...' I stare at the blackened, soggy lumps on the floor in front of me. 'I'm an idiot.'

'You're not an idiot... come on... you need some cold water for your hands. Scar helps me stand, leading me to where the tap is still on. Mumbo grabs a chair and I sit down next to the sink, holding my burnt hands under the water. 

'Now, just hold them there for about 10 minutes and they'll be ok.'

'10 minutes?!'

'It'll be ok... I'll be here baking to entertain you.'

'Scar, no... you don't have to...' The ever-present guilt piles even higher. The last thing I wanted was for Scar to end up doing all the work.

'It'll be a good way to cheer me up... I like baking. Why else do you think I do it?'

'...because we like cookies?' 

He laughs. I try to feel happy that he's cheered up, but can't, knowing it's only a false hope that's done it.