Page 29 of Monsters and Mocha

There was a kitchen somewhere—he could smell something savory and delicious in the air—but it must have been through one of the narrow doorways that broke up the dark wood of the walls.

The crackling fire was warm and comforting, and Fitz was beginning to thaw out by the time the man returned with an armful of fabric. Though his beard and hair were only beginning to show streaks of gray, there were deep lines in his weathered face, and his eyes held hints of a darkness that Fitz had seen many times before in some of the older officers.

“Here.” The man shoved the fabric at him. “You can use the back room to change, if you like. Name’s Robertson, by the way.”

“Thank you.” Fitz took the clothes gratefully and stood. His joints were stiff with the cold and wet, and the metal in his knees creaked loudly. He froze.

Robertson had moved behind him and was throwing closed a set of blue flowered curtains. “If you need help, let me know. I’m sure those new limbs take some getting used to.”

“How…” Fitz’s voice cracked. “How do you know about that?”

“Clerval thought that I might be able to help you.”

“Why?”

Without being asked, Robertson crossed the small space and stopped in front of Fitz. His leathery hands started undoing the buttons from the wet wool. His movements were brisk and efficient, as if helping a fellow soldier undress were just a normal part of his day. “What do you know about the Battle of Wollstone?”

“Wollstone?” Fitz narrowed his eyes in concentration as Robertson slipped the heavy coat off his shoulders and tossed it over the back of the couch. “Wasn’t that the one where they tried to use hot air balloons? Wait.” His eyes widened, and he looked at the man in front of him in an entirely new light. “Robertson? Are you that Robertson?”

A slight tic of the man’s jaw was all the confirmation he gave. He started working on the buttons of Fitz’s shirt.

“But…you went down behind enemy lines. You were declared a casualty.”

“I did go down,” Robertson finally answered, his voice even and unemotional. “But I didn’t die.”

He peeled the shirt off Fitz’s torso, pulling the gloves off with it. He let out a low whistle at the shiny metal plates that were now fully revealed in the firelight. “That girl outdid herself. I’ve seen stitches before that weren’t this clean, and she was combining two completely different materials.”

Fitz curled his shoulders, crossing his arms self-consciously in front of him. “She made me into some kind of freak. A monster.”

Robertson held up the dry shirt and motioned for Fitz to slip his arms into the sleeves. “Let me tell you something, boy. I have seen my share of monsters.” Dark shadows passed behind his eyes, and his voice turned brittle. “The thing that makes them truly frightening is that they almost always look like any other man.”

Fitz waved Robertson’s hands away, pride demanding that he at least try to fasten the buttons on his own now that the fingers of his right hand were free of the glove. “But surely you see what I am now. There is nothing natural about any of this; I will never be free from the stares and the questions and the horrified gasps of mothers with their small children. I will never again have the freedom of being just another man.”

“Battle changes all of us,” Robertson answered quietly. “Your scars just happen to be more visible than the rest. They are a testament to both your own willingness to sacrifice for your country, and the lengths that Miss Shelton was willing to go to in order to keep you alive.”

“But for what?” Fitz threw his hands up as he plopped back into the chair, which groaned under his weight. He started fumbling with the fabric wrapped around his left leg. “I have no purpose anymore.”

The older soldier took the chair across from him. He leaned back, resting his elbows on the arm rests and linking his fingers together over his stomach. “What makes you say that?”

“I’m as good as dead, as far as Mavoria is concerned. There’s no way my discharge papers haven’t already been filed.”

Robertson raised an eyebrow. “And?”

With a frustrated growl, Fitz finished with the fabric and tossed it to the side. The metal plates in his leg and side were beginning to transfer the heat from the fire to his body, and he no longer shivered with cold. “And what am I supposed to do now? I’ve been in the army since I was sixteen. I don’t know anything else.”

“Then learn.”

“What?”

Robertson leaned forward in his chair, his face brooking no argument. “Listen to me, young man. The fact that you are alive right now is a miracle. Don’t waste it by holding on to the past. Deus doesn’t make mistakes; you were saved for a purpose.”

“Deus wasn’t the one who made me like this; Darby did.”

“And Deus often works through the hands of His creation. Ask yourself this—if you could go back to that day, would you do anything differently?”

“No.” His answer was swift and decisive. “Of course not.”

“But, whether by death or injury, that act would spell the end of your military career.”