To Forgive

The Fire in His Pit

A grudge is a terrible thing to harbor. It will eat you alive and tear you apart from the inside outward. It will turn your heart to rot and make your stomach sour. It is something that will keep you up at night seething with utter detest. There is no rest for those that hold grudges. And in Wilson P. Higgsbury's case, it was the thing that kept him alive.

There was a festering rottenness that made him push onward. It made him wish to defy all that this world threw at him. It drove him to conquer the obstacles that were shoved in his path. It made him want to prove Maxwell Carter WRONG!

And yet - by some ironic turn of events - here he sat, with Maxwell seated across from him in the dirt, illuminated by the glow of a fire without a pit.

"Don't look at me that way," Maxwell glared back. "It isn't as though I can help the situation that we're in."

"You could have prevented it," Wilson spat back, venom in his voice.

There was silence between them. Wilson didn't want to speak to him, he didn't have anything he could say that he hadn't said a thousand times before. Not a kind word had he in regards to this man. So he sat glaring with the heat of a sun, his eyes trying to burn holes into the magician. It was as though he believed if he stared long enough, lasers might shoot from his pupils and leave a smoldering pile of soot and bone where Maxwell used to be.

This of course, never happened.

"That is no way to look at the man who just saved your life," Maxwell tried again.

Wilson felt shame, if only a bit, and looked down at the stitches the man had given to him. They ran the length of his forearm. He'd had a close call with a Tall Bird. He thought the thing had died, having not seen it anywhere nearby, but the eyeball with legs had just been napping behind a bush, rather than near its nest like it should.

Beyond the stitches Maxwell had put honey poultice upon his minor abrasions, patching him up rather expertly as it were. Wilson would have almost put his bets on Max's previous occupation being a doctor. But then, what kind of doctor dabbled in sorcery?

"Saving my life once does not make up for the countless amount of times you've put it in danger, and -by extension- ended it," Wilson sneered.

"Your lack of gratitude to my hospitality is most unbecoming for someone who claims to be a gentleman."

Wilson's glare deepened.

He could not argue this point with Maxwell, for it were true that he was behaving in a most unfitting way, but he found he couldn't help himself and he cursed in his mind at himself for his ill behavior.

What had this world made of him, that he couldn't even put aside a grudge long enough to thank this man, who had fended off a tall bird and bandaged his wounds appropriately? But then he remembered as well he could - though some incarnations were fuzzy, and others he was certain were gone completely - that this man was the route of his pain and that he wouldn't even be in this situation to begin with if not for Maxwell. And this made Wilson's gut burn with hatred.

Sighing at the Higgsbury's refusal to lighten his harsh expression even in the slightest, Maxwell produced from his pocket a handful of carrots and offered them to Wilson.

"Are they poisoned?" Wilson asked, his brow knitting in skeptical detest.

"That's rich, Higgsbury. What reason have I to poison you?"

Wilson sneered.

With a roll of his eyes - that Wilson found unbearably irritating - Maxwell broke one of the vegetables in half and brought it to his mouth taking a bite, chewing thoroughly and then swallowing. He smirked at Wilson with a matter-of-fact grin that he wore so often in those early days when he ruled over the game board, the one that made Wilson's hairs stand on end and his stomach burn with abhorrence.

Reaching out the scientist snatched the food from the man's hand with a rough tug and he began to eat.

Max nodded his head approvingly, which only made Wilson's anger with him Grow. Who did this man think he was, acting as though Wilson needed or even wanted his approval for any reason?

Even still the inventor finished his food and gazed into the fire, watching it pop and dance against the dark of night.

"You should sleep, you must be very tired," Max said.

"You're fooling yourself if you think I am stupid enough to go to sleep anywhere near you," Wilson spat.

"And why do you say this?"

"Because I don't trust you."

There was a long silence. The two sat staring over the flames at each other. Wilson's fists curled like the loathing in his gut.

"Very well, suit yourself," The once-king scoffed. "I'm going to sleep."

And he laid down to do just that.

Wilson pulled his knees close to his chest and watched the fire burn.

He imagined strangling the man sleeping only a yard away. He could practically feel the mans throat in his hands, the pulse becoming faint under his palms, his breath wheezing out its last. It was so odd, but it seemed almost like a memory.

After a time however he felt his eyes becoming heavy. He shook his head hard to keep himself awake. He pinched his arms and bit his tongue, and rubbed his eyes and slapped his cheeks.

Nonetheless Wilson found himself laying down and resigning to slumber for the night.