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Within the roaring storm, Figaro’s magic shone like a beacon. The humans cowered beneath his barrier. A shower of sparks, and the ghostlike creature gave its final howl. The storm dissipates, and before Mitile’s eyes, Figaro was falling, falling, falling.
Rushing forward, Mitile caught his young student in his arms, his small frames burning with power that Mitile could never have contained.
"I did it, Doctor Mitile—" For the first time since Rutile had deposited the strange child by Mitile's door, Figaro's eyes shone with pure joy. "—I saved them."
An innocent, carefree life. That’s what a good child like Figaro deserved. But Figaro was neither innocent or carefree, no child born of the North were, Mitile would know. The people he couldn’t save, the people he had failed, they etched a mark into his heart. He had wanted to—
The joy in Figaro’s eyes when he saved those humans burned, like the bonfire of the victory celebration.
And perhaps the twins would be wrong. A hammer that beat down a thousand times could crack at the thousand-and-first.
"Suppose you have the chance to save your village, but you have to condemn an innocent person to die, would you still do it?"
"Of course," Figaro said without hesitation. He wondered why Doctor Mitile was asking this question. The answer seemed obvious. Even if you could not save everyone, it was always better to try and save as many as you could.
Doctor Mitile seemed troubled by this answer. Often, when Doctor Mitile spoke to him, it was difficult to figure out what he wanted to hear, because Doctor Mitile never pray to him, not even unintentionally. He was more powerful than Figaro himself, so no prayer of his would be within Figaro's power to grant anyway. Still, he wished he could make Doctor Mitile happy, the way it was easy to make Mr. Rutile or Riquet happy.
"Suppose the person you must leave behind is myself or Mr. Rutile? Would you still do it?"
This time, something in Doctor Mitile's tone did make it sound like a prayer. Yet, Figaro still didn't know how to answer.
"Is this a hypothetical question where you're also there?" He asked. Would Doctor Mitile rather hear that he was special to Figaro? Surely Doctor Mitile would want Figaro to save others before himself, but he also mentioned Mr. Rutile, who held a higher place in his heart than anyone else.
"Yes, suppose it was Rutile or the village, which would you rather save? Don't try to guess what I want to hear, I want you to be honest with me."
"Then I would choose the villagers," Figaro answered, "because both you and Mr. Rutile would be unhappy if you were to be saved in place of other people."
Mitile started.
"And what about you, Figaro? Would you be unhappy if you were saved in place of many others?"
Figaro frowned. "I'd rather not be the one being saved."
Meaning, he'd rather not be in the position to receive rescue. Figaro was an independent child, rarely ever asking to be provided for. If Mitile would allow Figaro to come to his full power, the way the twins did with himself, would he be satisfied?
But then, he may not be able to kill him.
A weight fell against the side of Mitile's shoulder. Figaro was leaning on him, seeking affection. Mitile gently patted the younger wizard on the head, earning him a shy smile he couldn't help reciprocating
"I'm sorry," Figaro said, "I made Doctor Mitile worry for me again."
The moment Figaro fell from the sky, within Mitile's panicking heart, there was a moment of relief. If Figaro had died right there, then the prophecy wouldn't ever have to come true, and Mitile didn't have to—
"I'm just happy you're safe," Mitile said.
It wasn't all a lie.