Chapter 63: The Stranger Returns V

Chapter 63: 63: The Stranger Returns V --- "And every time I try to push through it," John said, "I come out feeling like I lost a fight with a memory. I have other battles to fight. So I work around it. That is all." The room held the quiet respectfully. Embers sighed. Outside, a late cart rolled by with a soft clatter, and the driver hummed two gentle notes to keep his mule company. The steam from the tub made a small cloud near the rafters and then faded. Fizz cleared his throat. It was a small sound, which was strange for a creature who liked big sounds. He placed one tiny paw on the rim of the tub, as if the tub were a person who also needed to hear him speak softly. "I understand some of that," he said. "Not the human lung part. My lungs are a mystery even to me. But the feeling of a battle you did not invite. I understand that." John nodded once. He did not trust himself to say thank you without sounding like he was swallowing stones. Fizz tried on a smile that was not quite steady. "Also, you should know that I was only going to add two flower petals. Three at most. I am not a monster." A breath of amusement slipped out of John before he could stop it. It was small, but it was real. Fizz brightened another shade, encouraged by the sound. "However," Fizz said, sliding back toward his familiar showman self, "I must still register my official complaint. This bath was extremely beautiful. I sang to it. I whispered encouragements. I told it that a hero would sit inside and thank it for its service. Now the bath is experiencing rejection and I will be up all night counseling it." "I will write it an apology," John said. "Dear tub. You are not the problem." Fizz folded his arms and nodded gravely. "I will appreciate the letter." They looked at one another for a moment while the room breathed around them. The tub steamed. The coals glowed. The cat peered in and decided nothing interesting was happening, which meant something gentle was. John straightened a little. "I should tell you the rest," he said. "You are my partner. You deserve to know why this started. Not the shape of it now. The first cause." Fizz did not move. He only dipped his head like a priest receiving a vow. John met his eyes. "It began when I was twelve. I used to live inside a Duke’s household." Fizz’s pupils narrowed and then steadied. He did not make a sound. He did not prompt or hurry. He waited. John drew a breath and held it for a count. He let it go. He opened his mouth to speak. The embers cracked softly in the forge like polite applause. The night listened. The forge felt like a living creature that had fallen asleep. The coals breathed under their blanket of ash. The iron on the racks gave off a tired warmth that reminded John of old horses sighing in a stable. Beyond the door the village had settled into the heavy quiet of honest rest. A single cart creaked once and faded. Somewhere a woman laughed and then hushed herself, as if even her joy wanted to let the night keep its calm. John had told the story from his birth, only the parts that mattered. Fizz’s face had already changed in the soft light. The glow had thinned into a narrow band along his fur, and his eyes had gone from round and nosy to sharp and bright. "These fucking half brothers of yours..." Fizz did not so much ask as announce the opening of a war. He did not wait for permission. Words came fast from him when his heart was hot. He spoke like a kettle that had been forgotten on the fire. "These fucking half brothers of yours deserve to be chewed into paste by a rabid boar. Then rolled in sand. Then pressed into bricks. Then used as paving stones for a busy toilet. All of them. Every last one who laughed while you lost your breath." John did not correct him. He did not say that sand would be wasted on them. He did not say that he had been small and young and helpless, all in the same day. He kept his hands flat on his knees and let the heat in his chest settle into something that would not explode but would burn forever. Fizz was not finished. "Three years, John." He said it like a judge reading a sentence. "Three years without one day of peace. That is not a prank. That is not boys being cruel for a season. That is a sport. That is a family pastime. That is a household where cruelty is furniture." His ears pitched forward and he jabbed a tiny paw toward the door as if the Duke himself stood there in shadow. "And your shameless father." He did not say the word father with any softness. "Your father never spoke to you since your first breath and then on the first day he opens his mouth he throws you out without one coin. That man deserves murder written out in polite cursive and signed by the saints." The word murder hung in the air like a hot iron. It should have felt too much. It did not. It felt like a stone that had been waiting on a shelf for a hand to pick it up. John’s jaw twitched and stilled. He said nothing. His silence gathered behind his teeth the way thunder gathers beyond a hill. Fizz spun once like a comet and then came to an angry stop at eye level. Fizz continued, "If I ever see him I will wrap him in my fur and tell him a bedtime story that ends at the bottom of a pit. I will feed him boiled bitter roots without salt and I will clap every time he trips on his own pride. I will tie bells to his ears so he can hear how foolish he sounds when he moves."