Anger. He used the anger and the darkness inside of him to force the metal to his will.
He used it because it worked. It had always worked. Rooms would shake and people would fall and a man would smile, all the while reminding him of the crumpled corpse that had raised him.
Everything is not alright.
Everything is a lie.
Everything is unworthy and filthy and not alright.
Because he'd let him escape. Fade away into the blue with not even a scar to mark his loss.
It had always worked, so why not then? Why not when he needed it the most, with the weight dragging him down and vengeance slipping through his fingers? What sort of son was he if even his mother's murder could not create enough rage anymore to kill the one who destroyed them?
"You'll drown."
I'll deserve it.
"I'm not going to let you."
Unspoken. Overheard.
He let him slip through his fingers, storing the anger for next time. For there would be a next time, and next time he swore he would walk away victorious.