The metal scrap hits the ground beside Mitchell as he wails, clutching his face.
They raised him.
They fucking raised him.
Because it wasn't enough to trick him into making the plague worse. It wasn't enough to kill him and let him face his fate.
No, they had to fucking raise him.
His mother is there, somewhere, or she was. She called to him when he woke up, happy because he did get up. She was there, fawning, assuring him all would be well, when he had looked up and seen him.
Shawn Darrow.
The bastard stood there, thumbs tucked into his belt as he smiled at Mitchell, pleased as can be.
Because this was the goal the whole time. Get the plague working better, kill Mitchell, and keep on using him.
In a fit of rage, that same inhuman rage that had overtaken his mother when he had first flinched away from her, Mitchell had reached for the nearest thing he could find, some twisted scraps of metal. Shawn had laughed, asking if he thought he could win a fight with those. Mitchell hadn't waited for him to finish talking before adjusting his grip on both pieces, bringing them up, and stabbing straight into his own eyes, thinking that he can still stop whatever is to come next. If he ruins his mind, he can stop himself from making them whatever else they want.
But he has never been strong.
And the metal does not go back far enough.
Someone pulls his hands away, saves him from himself.
His face hurts, but when he lowers his hands, he can still see. His mother is beside herself, sobbing as she tells him to calm down.
And Shawn.
Shawn is amused.
He watches Mitchell, glee plain on his face as he meets the boy's gaze steadily.
It's too much.
Mitchell conjures an inferno. It is like nothing he has called upon before but he is certain that if he can just get enough of it, he can melt that smirking bastard away to nothing.
However, Shawn is far more skilled with his crafts that Mitchell is, and ice wraps around his throat at the same time that something booms inside his head, telling him to Obey.
He fights it, but the knight and that wretched voice win.
His flames are smothered.
As they flicker out, Shawn lets out a low whistle, sauntering closer and then nudging something at Mitchell's side with his foot. "Well, that wasn't very nice. Though I suppose it makes you even."
When Mitchell's gaze snaps to what Shawn is referring to, a sob catches in his throat.
There is a body beside him, charred beyond recognition, with one hand still clinging to Mitchell's arm.
He doesn't have to recognize her to know who was beside him only moments ago.
"Mom…?"
"She served her purpose," Shawn says. "And now you will, too."
Mitchell sits cross-legged in front of a crude gravestone, staring at the name written on it.
Elijah Ohara
He sits there, pulling up the dead grass, rereading the name over and over. Finally, he sighs.
"I know it's not the best I could do, but this is just temporary, okay? There's this guy in town, here in Brill, who makes some pretty nice tombstones. They're all fancy and stuff, respectable."
He looks down at his boney fingers, shudders.
"I figure it'll be better to have a placeholder until I get the official one. Because you deserve it, Dad."
He scratches at his head, at the newly styled mohawk that a friend has helped him shape, his first act as a free soul.
His second act was to make a spell that could track down people, individuals. After all, he needed to find his father, to see if he had been one of the many raised after Mitchell's breakthrough.
His father had been a shambler, jaw hanging at an awkward angle, one eye gone, the other glazed over and blind. The only real solace Mitchell had was that his father hadn't seemed to be in there.
At least, he hoped he hadn't been, considering the way the monster had attacked him.
The way he had turned to his fire again, and made sure that the creature would never get up again.
"I haven't found mom yet, but…" he trails off a moment. "I…do you mind if I lay her next to you? I hope you don't mind. I know she…she killed you. She killed a lot of people. But I… I still remember before, you know? When she was good. Because she was good, I think. If you go back far enough." He shakes his head. "She loved you and she loved me, so…"
He stares at the tombstone, at the name he's carved into a shabby rock. He broke two daggers doing it, and doesn't have the silver to afford another.
Not if he's going to pay for his father's proper stone. That one will have all the other details, the dates, a nice quote about love. The mason doing the tombstone actually had the audacity to roll his eyes when he'd heard what all Mitchell wanted, but his coin was good, and that had spurred the man to do his job.
Mitchell's father never would have needed that sort of prompting, he would have been kinder to someone asking his help.
"You're better than most, you know? You never hurt anybody."
Mitchell's face twists for a moment, as though he may cry. He can't, though. He's dead and his tear ducts are dry. Instead, he shakes his head.
"I wish I could have been like you, you know?"
He shivers, shudders.
"Respectable and never hurt anybody."
He sits there, reading the name on the stone again. As he mouths the name, reaches out and touches the stone, a forsaken woman steps up next to him.
"The Banshee Queen is calling all able bodies back to the Undercity," she says. Her voice is softer than it usually is.
The woman, Margaret, is always kinder to him than anyone else.
It makes Mitchell feel a little guilty, knowing he hasn't earned this kindness, knowing that so many of those who walk around him are as they are thanks to his genius.
She offers him a hand, and he takes it, hopping to his feet.
"You know, someone from the Royal Apothecary Society was asking about you," Margaret says as they walk away. "I think they want you to join them. Someone said they're working on the plague?"
Mitchell hesitates, then nods.
He's already caused so much damage as it is, he figures that a little more won't make much of a difference.
And he always has loved alchemy.
And who knows?
Maybe someday he'll have an unexpected breakthrough. Maybe someone will mention something simple, something he never thought to think of, and it will ignite a moment of pure brilliance.
Maybe someday he'll find a cure for the plague.
He can't help the brittle, bitter laugh that comes at the thought of that.