Margaret dusted a few of the shelves around the shop with a rag that looked about as weathered as she did. Whisper had just bought it before she'd gone to Thunder Bluff, and the forsaken didn't doubt that her hooved friend would be irritated that her belongings were already getting worn down.

It really wasn't her fault, though. It was the way her damned finger bones poked out that did the damage. One might think that after all these years of having sharpened talons for fingers, a corpse would get used to being gentler. It wasn't so. Her fingers had poked holes into that little cloth each time she gripped it, no matter how delicate her attempt.

Or had it always been this way?

Sometimes it was hard to remember little details from her past, and Margaret had a growing fear that soon she would be one of those lifeless husks meandering along, waiting to fall apart.

Shaking off the depressing notion, Margaret wondered if perhaps she should ask Mitchell to make a new dust rag. He often took advantage of his eerie appendages, using his fingers as pins to keep his seams in place as he worked the fabric into the intricately embroidered robes and bags he made.

Since his expulsion from the Undercity, Mitchell spent most of his days either with Gregor and Timmons or—when he couldn't stand living in Gregor's hovel—in the guild hall, throwing himself into 'little' tasks that could give his ever working mind a bit of a rest from the conundrum of the curse or spell or whatever it was that had jumpstarted Gregor and Timmons' hearts.

This was one of those mornings.

It was well enough. Blood had left Gobber behind, and the poor ghoul was lonely in his corner of the guild hall, watching the others come and go with a listlessness that made Margaret shiver. Mitchell and Liila had a tendency to treat the ghoul like a lost puppy, letting it sit at the table with them and occasionally patting the creature's arm or head.

It seemed to need the reassurance, almost as though it thought—could it think?—that Blood had abandoned it. Liila had mentioned once, long ago, that death knights' pets had strange bonds with their masters. Margaret had, in poor taste, asked if Liila felt some strange connection to Bloodsworn, and the little elf had never mentioned it again.

That had been back when Margaret had been angrier about her situation, back when her tongue had been sharper, and she'd accurately been dubbed Frostheart.

Joining Impervious had certainly mellowed her out.

Perhaps a bit too much.

She frowned again as she heard heavy boots thud against the floor. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Blood halfway to the back door. He paused to nod to her.

"I was just thinking about you, you cuddly bag of bones!" Margaret called out, a half grin in place as she waved. The rag caught on one of her fingers and practically tore in half.

Blood merely grunted in response. He was already walking again as he motioned toward the door. "Gobber's still here?"

"He is," Margaret replied, crossing her arms.

"Good."

With that the orc disappeared down the hall.

Margaret narrowed her glowing eyes and scoffed. Realizing that she'd effectively turned her rag into even more of a scrap than it was supposed to be, she supposed now was as good a time as any to go down and talk to Mitchell. He'd probably need a shoulder to whine on after Blood took Gobber back, anyway.

As she wandered down the narrow way toward the guild hall, she heard Blood snap.

"Why in the nether is my ghoul acting like a damn clothing rack?"

Some gurgling accompanied Mitchell's objections that Gobber just wanted to feel like he was part of the guild.

"He's not a part of the damned guild! He's a pet! A corpse farther gone than you! If I felt like it, I'd get rid of him and replace him with something new every day!"

Margaret stopped in the doorway. Gobber's shoulders were slumped, and he looked like he might understand what was being said after all, though likely it was just his master's tone that he was responding to. A sudden chill ran up her spine as Margaret wondered if there still was a person in that rotten husk. How nightmarish an existence would that be?

Mitchell hugged the corpse, defending it like one would a puppy that had chewed up something expensive. "You be nice to him or else!"

"Or else what?" Blood hissed, stepping around the table to tower over the spindly mage. Even as fear flickered across Mitchell's face and Margaret readied a frost bolt, Blood's shoulders slumped. He stepped away from Mitchell and let himself thud down into one of the chairs near them. "I'm sorry." He set his helm on the table and ran a hand over his face. "Have you ever had one of those days where everything that could go wrong went wrong?"

Mitchell motioned to himself, still a little jittery. "I think it's obvious that I had at least one of those."

Blood let out a bitter laugh. "Of course…well, I'm having one of those weeks." He slouched into the chair further.

However, even as Mitchell prompted him to explain, quietly draping a few bolts of cloth across Gobber's shoulders as the death knight stared miserably at his helmet, Margaret heard footsteps. Turning her head, she froze when she saw an orcess halfway down the hall.

Twirling on her toes, she hurried up to her, stopping squarely in front of her. "Good day to you, ma'am. I'm afraid all of our sales' items are back in the main room. If you're looking for something in particular, I can—"

"My son…he saw a tauren death knight with this symbol on her tabard." She dug a small paper out from the band of her beaded robe and held it out to Margaret. It was Impervious' guild crest. "I asked around, and people said that this guild frequents here?"

Margaret handed the note back to her and crossed her arms, straightening out of her typical slouch to stand almost eye level with the orcess. Wrinkles were just beginning to mark her features around her eyes. "Sounds like you're talking about Leafless, but she hasn't been back in Orgrimmar for a few weeks. If there was a problem with her, though, I can take the details—upstairs."

"It's not her that I'm here about, actually. My son, he met his father," the orcess hesitated, searching Margaret's face for any signs that she'd heard about this. The forsaken stared back at her blankly. "His father is a death knight, I think? And this tauren was in his guild."

Margaret's eyes widened slowly as who the orcess was finally sunk in. "I, uh…" She took a step back and then thought better of it and pointed toward the shop overhead. "Why don't you wait upstairs a moment? I just need to grab some things from the…uh…stockroom. Then I'll be up, and we can talk."

The orcess looked ready to argue, but nodded slowly. She scratched one of her ears, half turning before she stopped. "But you do know who I speak of? If there are no orcish death knights in your guild, I won't waste your—"

"It's not that simple!" Blood roared from the guild hall.

The orcess completely forgot about compliance or being polite. Instead, she shot down the hall, maneuvering past Margaret with such speed that by the time the mage thought to cast a frost nova, she was already out of range and turning into the guild hall. Margaret raced after her, cursing under her breath.

"Thalach?"

Her voice rang out, heralding an eerie silence within the room, made all the stranger as her breathing alone punctuated the silence.

Finally, it was Mitchell who broke the silence. He glanced from the orcess to Blood and back before carefully untangling his bolts of cloth from Gobber and stepping around the far side of the table. "So. I'll just…leave you to…whatever this is."

Blood didn't even look at him, his eyes ever focused on the intruder. Just as Mitchell was slipping past Margaret into the hall, he let out a low whisper, "Saphon. It's been…a long time."

It was as though something snapped inside of their visitor with those words. She let out bestial roar and charged at Blood, her fists pounding onto his breastplate as he stumbled up. Even as Mitchell whirled around to see what was happening and Margaret readied another frost spell, Gobber lurched over the table, his talon-like fingers ready to tear into his master's attacker.

Blood caught the ghoul's movements from the edge of his vision, and with a rough motion, he gripped Saphon's arm in one hand and jerked her to one side. At the same time, he reached out and caught Gobber by his rotting shoulder, his plated fingers biting into the creature's flesh. Gobber let out a wail and cowered, staring up at Blood, helpless.

"Go to your corner."

The ghoul hesitated as Blood released it, giving Saphon a withering look. Margaret was a bit taken aback by the amount of bile in the creature's reaction. It didn't like that its master had chosen someone other than him. The ghoul shuffled away, looking at Margaret and Mitchell with such contempt…

When it had reached its darkened corner, Blood turned to his wife, a frown firmly in place. He seemed to have forgotten about Margaret and Mitchell altogether. "Sorn'Rul told you."

"He did." Saphon said in a slow exhale. She held Blood's gaze, her eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and horror and…relief. As Blood's distorted visage twisted in anger, Saphon pulled her arm free from him. He hadn't left so much as a bruise on her. "Before you go blaming him for breaking a stupid promise," she emphasized the last words with an animated scowl, "when I heard that he'd gone running through some magic gate after a death knight, I nearly went into a blood frenzy! He was a smart boy to say he recognized his father."

Blood's anger dissipated slowly, a tension he hadn't even realized was there leaving his shoulders. He stared at the floor between them. "I should have been more careful."

"Careful?" Saphon let out a derisive snort. "By the ancestors, when have you ever been careful?" She crossed her arms. "I bet that's what caused this." With one hand she motioned to him.

"I was an arrogant fool," Blood murmured. His busted lips pulled into a faint smile. "You always said it would catch up to me one day."

"I'm sorry that it did."

He fidgeted, suddenly surprisingly self-conscious. "I didn't just abandon you. I've sent money—"

"I know," Saphon sighed. She looked around the room, pausing when her gaze landed on Gobber. The ghoul was glaring at her from its corner. She shivered a little before squaring her shoulders and looking back at Blood. "I hired a rogue to find out who was sending me the coin." Even as Blood's brow shot together, she shrugged, "And before you get defensive, even though I offered to pay him, he wouldn't accept any money. I do think he stole one of my earrings, though."

"What did this rogue look like?"

"No reason to hunt him down."

"I won't. I just…what did he look like?"

"A troll. Really big and green, but able to disappear into a crowd like you wouldn't believe…." Saphon smiled faintly. "It was good to know that you were watching over us, even if you didn't have the backbone to come home." She hesitated, eyeing him with a critical gaze. "I knew…there would be a reason for it."

Margaret tugged on Mitchell's shoulder as Blood glanced at them and then lowered his voice. It wasn't until they were up in the shop again that she finally sighed, the noise a weathered, defeated hiss. "Why does it seem that every race aside from humans are more accepting of the dead?"

Haphazardly folding his cloth and shoving it into his bags, Mitchell shrugged. "I dunno. I know a lot of orcs who freak out when Blood walks by. I think we helped desensitize them to the death knights, though. Hard to be afraid of corpses when you're allied to a bunch."

"Hmm…" Margaret lifted her hand to run her fingers through her hair and paused when she realized that her fingers had gotten caught in her rag. She'd punched holes all through it while she was listening to Blood and his wife. Somehow, the thread had bunched up all around two of her fingers and practically bound them together.

In a second, Mitchell was next to her, helping her untangle herself. "Are you stressing out about something?" His high voice was more nasally, poorly concealed panic fringing it.

"Not stressed, just tired," Margaret murmured. She laughed when he looked up at her. "I guess I've just been wondering what the point of going on like this is. Just because some people accept others like us…it won't mean the ones I want to will."

"You don't need them," Mitchell snapped. He tried to straighten up, though he only lasted a few seconds before falling back into his slouch. "Screw the living!" He paused. "Well, the living humans. We have Impervious! And the Horde!"

With a laugh, Margaret reached out and patted Mitchell on the side of his head, so that she wouldn't mess up his Mohawk. "You're a good boy, Mitch."

He took in a frustrated, rattling breath. "People love you, Margaret. Don't dismiss that." Going rigid, he finished freeing her hand and shoved the tattered mess into his bags. "I need to get back to work."

"Why you would want to keep working for the Society when they banned you from our city is beyond—"

"It's not for them." He paused, perking up a little. He'd already been halfway to the door, but he pivoted and strode back up to her. Mitchell clasped her hands, a wide grin stretching his taunt skin. "Come with me to Gregor's. I wanna explain something."

"I can't just leave the shop—"

Mitchell held up a finger and darted down the passage to the guild hall. In a second, he was back, his boyish grin returned thrice over. "Blood'll cover the shop."

"That doesn't sound like a good idea—" Margaret glanced toward the back door, wondering just how receptive the death knight could have actually been to that. Besides, he was having a moment with his living, breathing wife, wasn't he? No need to interrupt that for some silly excursion.

"Well, he can message someone if it's too hard." He laced his boney fingers with hers and started to drag her toward the door. "C'mon. It's important."

"How about I call for someone, and we wait for them? There's no hurry."

~"~

Mitchell kept glancing at Margaret as they walked, giddy. She knew something was up, but it was alright. The hardest thing to do at the moment was to keep the secret until Gregor and Timmons were in front of them. Then he'd explain to her how it had been his doing, not some curse, that had made their hearts start back up. She wouldn't talk like this anymore if she knew there was hope.

He could see it all in his head. He'd display Gregor and Timmons—not that they'd want him to, but they could get over that—and then he'd explain what he'd done. He'd show her his progress and promise to have her heart beating within…

With a frown, he picked up his pace. He didn't want to promise anything too early and disappoint her. But promising something a few years down the line could be just as torturous.

Just as he was debating whether a promise of two years would be too long and was indeed a practical expectation, the sound of an explosion triggering not too far from them shattered his concentration.

In a breath, both he and Margaret were running toward the noise, and his heart sunk as each step lead them in the same direction as Gregor's home. They turned the last bend and both blinked forward in unison, panic rising in them.

It had indeed been Gregor's home that went up in flames. Sprinting and nearly tripping on his robes twice, Mitchell ran head first into the door, ignoring the smoke that billowed all around him. He couldn't let them die.

And he couldn't let his notes be destroyed.

He felt a chill across his skin and saw frost overtaking the house rapidly, Margaret's doing, no doubt. He heard her call out, and Gregor answered from the left in the main room. That was good enough assurance for him.

Stumbling into the back room, Mitchell used his own frost spells to beat back the flames still licking the walls and furniture, scrambling to the desk where he'd been keeping his notes. The hovel had been a bit crowded with the three of them there, but Gregor had been oddly accommodating in turning his spare room—it wasn't like he'd needed to sleep—into a study for the young forsaken.

And now it was all burning.

He furiously fought against the fire, dowsing and clutching crisp parchment and half burned journals. Mitchell tried to remember when he'd last sent his notes to Rachet. It felt like it had been an eternity ago. How much progress would this set him back by?

The roof groaned menacingly, and Mitchell ducked out of the room, thinking to take what he'd gathered to safety and then go back for more. However, as he stumbled out of the building, he saw that Margaret had disappeared, and Gregor knelt beside Timmons, who was sprawled out on the ground. The warlock was covered in burns, far worse than anything Gregor had sustained, and lay gasping for breath.

Mitchell dropped everything and ran toward them, tumbling to his knees on the other side of the warlock. "Timmons? What in the nether happened here? Can you hear me?" He reached out to pat the warlock's cheek, but Gregor grabbed his hand.

"Don't aggravate the burns," Gregor snapped. He peered down the road and then checked his guild stone. "Where in the nether is everyone when you need them?"

Green text flooded the air between them before Gregor scrawled out a hurry and tucked the stone away. "Liila was nearby, getting a mount from Ogunaro. She should be here shortly. Hang on, Timmons."

The warlock's breathing worsened.

Mitchell thought through his spells and cast a light chill around Timmons, hoping to alleviate some of the pain. He peered down the street. "Where's Margaret?"

"She went to get Cinder from the store," Gregor murmured.

"What happened?"

"I don't know…" Gregor ran his hand down his face, stopping when it covered his nose and mouth. He shook his head. "There was someone at the door. Timmons recognized them, and he…he soul stoned me." He stared down at their battered guild mate. "Then there was just fire, everywhere."

"Who would do this?" Mitchell whispered, eyes wide enough that the edges of the empty sockets could be seen past his bindings. "Who—"

"We'll find out," Gregor said, though despite the grim resolve on his face, his voice wavered. "Timmons, just hang on until Liila or Cinder gets here. We'll get the bastard who did this."

Timmons breathing was calming down.

Mitchell smiled, thinking that his chill was helping. "And then you can set them on fi—"

"Mitchell!"

He rolled his eyes, looking up at his guild leader. "We both know he will."

Even as Gregor started to snap something about not giving Timmons ideas—like setting someone on fire would be a new one to any warlock—he glanced down and baulked. "Timmons?"

Mitchell's gaze followed his guild leader's, and he stiffened. Timmons wasn't breathing anymore. With a curse, he realized his error. He hadn't been calming down at all.

He'd been dying.

He jerked his stone out. "I'll get Blood or Enlyhn to come resurrect him before it's too late."

"They won't be able to get here in the next minute," Gregor whispered, reaching a hand down and slowly placing it on Timmons' shoulder. He didn't move. "We're too late."

"No…" Mitchell shook his head.

Gregor turned away from them as he heard someone hurrying up. Liila was riding toward them on an orcish worg. He cringed, suddenly thankful that his own steed was stabled away from his home. He waved to her, and her hair fluttered wildly around her as she honed in on them.

Not wanting to see the look on her face when she learned what became of Timmons, Mitchell looked down. He reached out to rest his hand on Timmons' chest, desperate to feel a faint heartbeat inside the charred cage.

However, before he could even touch him, something flickered into a bright glow beneath the warlock's robes. Mitchell's brow shot together, and he leaned forward, forgetting about feelings and fretting, his apothecary's mind wanting to know what was happening.

Lifting part of the charred robe, he saw several runes lighting up on various parts of Timmons' chest.

His expression blanked.

The runes flickered brighter, and the severity of the burns lessened, if only slightly.

And then Timmons took in a ragged gasp of air. Pained moans escaped his throat as he came to, and he writhed, only to quiet as light washed over him, mending the rest of his injuries. Liila collapsed off her worg, her own remaining runes no doubt fighting her as she tried to channel the light more effectively.

Finally, Timmons shivered and sat up, his glowing yellow eyes wide as he reached out and ran his fingers down his arms. Then his gaze snapped up to Liila.

Mitchell, however, couldn't look at her. He rose to his feet and took a few steps back, staring blankly at the ground. A lonely page tumbled slowly past him, dragged off by the wind. Even as Timmons caught it and mumbled something about research getting away, Mitchell's eyes widened.

It wasn't just his work that had restored Gregor and Timmons.

It was hers.