Wings.

There were wings growing from his back. They weren't just shadows burned into the wall behind him, which was coming down.

They were real, and anyone would think to use them to get out of here. He could try, at least, to carry Abigail in his arms and take to the skies to lead them both away from the disaster looming over them. As soon as the wings appeared, Desmond figured that was the reason Abigail had directed him to the roof.

However...

"We have to stay here."

Abigail had explicitly forbidden him to do that.

In fact, she had begged him to stay here.

He was a soldier. His role was not to question, but to obey. Of course it was. That would never change. But… He would like to know, at least, why she wanted this to be so. The reasons didn't change his decision, his way of acting. But they would at least make him feel more at ease...

Or he might just be more worried about it.

In any case, he wanted to know the truth.

"Why?"

"I've told you, Desmond. I don't have time to explain."

Yes, she had told him.

And it was true, he supposed. At least it was true that at any moment the enemy would arrive.

But...

"Can you at least tell me what this is? These wings... This... power."

"I don't know."

Desmond grimaced.

Why? Why had she felt the need to lie to him?

And such an obvious lie, to boot.

After all...

"You said I'm closer than anyone else."

"Oh. You misunderstood me. I was talking about the cause. The wings, the power you feel inside you, it's just a symptom. Unique to you. I know as much as you do about that."

"The cause."

"Our contract, Desmond. That's what I'm talking about. It's not that simple. You're... You're close to being able to fulfill your part of the contract, okay? Your body is close to being able to accept and withstand the curse of immortality."

Ah.

So that's what this was all about. He had fought to get here, so desperately, thinking only of saving her. To be together at last. And to do... to do what he should have done all along. Be true to her. Not look away. No doubt. To never, ever, ever betray her for… Passing feelings. Yet she, despite everything he'd told her... despite everything... She was asking him to stay and fight... because she wanted to die...

For no other reason.

To think that he had fought so desperately to save a person who didn't want to be saved....

No, nothing.

Desmond shook his head.

"It's all right," he said.

"Is it really?"

"Yes. I understand everything now. Now I can fight without doubt in my heart."

The last thing he needed right now was, of course, doubt. Desmond took a deep breath. He tried to make his mind blank.

In response to his breathing, to the movement of his chest, the wings on his back reacted.

Spreading, folding, stretching.

Following the rhythm of his breathing.

They seemed as insubstantial as a shadow. Yet they were real wings, beyond any doubt.

Desmond remembered flying on those wings against the spider. The Empire's war machine.

He should have felt unstoppable like that, but nothing could have been further from the truth. He had felt like a frightened, angry animal, trying to hide the fear beneath his rage. He had felt desperate. He had died, after all. Even if he hadn't remembered it then. Even if at the time he had been thinking of nothing but crushing the enemy before him, before he himself was crushed.

Now, he faced an enemy worse than a single one of those spiders.

Waves of soldiers. Whatever war machine they threw at him. A war of attrition that would inevitably end in his defeat. Desmond didn't stand a chance in hell of winning, fighting in the heart of the Empire. That was why his goal had been to run away from the start.

Besides, this was not his war in the first place.

But, while Abigail didn't expect him to win, he didn't know when he would be able to take her and run. Desmond knew why he was fighting, but he didn't know how to recognise when he had 'won'. He couldn't say that Abigail had cleared his doubts. Abigail had been wishing it would happen for thousands of years.

This could be a desperate gamble that would not pay off in the end... But better not to think about it. Better not to think about it at all. Spreading his wings, sword in one hand and pistol in the other, he approached the elevators. Several made it this far. Not just the one they'd taken, of course.

Six elevators in total.

This was, if it could be called that, his advantage.

They could only come in six groups at a time. And, no matter what, their enemies could only come that way.

Six elevators could contain a lot of those animals. So those points didn't mean much. But it was something. He heard the signal. The doors of one of the elevators began to slide open. Even before they were fully open, Desmond threw himself in there. He wouldn't even let them set foot outside the doors of the lift. He would turn the inside of that thing into a slaughterhouse. Their final resting place.

His sudden arrival sowed chaos and confusion.

The air was filled with gunfire. They fired continuously, thinking not of their companions, but only of themselves. In the desperate, stupid idea that they might get out alive. After what he had done on his way here.... They should have been aware of their fate from the moment they stepped into the lift.

Everyone should have known what awaited them, by now. Or would they all be counting on the hope of catching him tired enough, wounded enough, to capture him and survive this?

Well...

Desmond supposed everyone was like that. That everyone found it easy to fool themselves. And sooner or later, everyone would hit the wall of harsh reality. The air was filled with gunshots… And screams too. That too. It was all over quickly. As promised, he didn't let a single one of them set foot outside the lift. Its interior was painted blood red. Decorated with entrails.

His wings, however, glowed pure black. The blood of his enemies hadn't sullied them.

He'd had to retract them to fit in the lift, and that hurt like it hurt to hold any limb in an awkward position for too long.

Desmond took a few steps back.

He breathed deeply, greedily. As if he were tired.

He couldn't be tired.

This had only just begun.

The lift doors closed in front of him and the elevator started in the only direction it could go, after reaching the top. That is, down.

Desmond took the opportunity to stretch his wings.

Power filled him. It burned in his chest. He had the feeling that the wings were pushing him to take flight. He had the feeling that it would be so easy, that all he had to do was let himself be carried… By this strange current. A power he didn't understand, that didn't come from him. The idea was scary. Yes, it was.

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But he couldn't deny that at the same time it was fiendishly alluring. This was only the beginning. More and more waves of soldiers would come, and eventually some would get lucky.

It was inevitable. No matter how strong he was, he wasn't invincible.

No one was.

Not even Abigail. Otherwise he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't have needed to be.

Desmond bit his tongue, literally, hard as he waited for the madness to begin again. He noticed the taste of blood in his mouth.

That quickly disappeared.

He glanced back.

Abigail had dropped to the floor. She was sitting with her knees under her. She looked weak and pale and... heartbreaking. Just plain heartbreaking. She shouldn't be in a dangerous place like this, in her condition. He should take her and carry her far away from here. But... she wouldn't forgive him for doing such a thing, because of what was at stake. Moreover, he wouldn't forgive himself if Abigail lost her chance to rest because of him.

What was coming had been set in stone that night.

If he wanted to turn back, he could only do so by going back to that night and making a different decision. Unfortunately, the gods had never been particularly kind to him. They wouldn't choose this moment to give him a blessing. One way or another, what little he had, he had earned. With his own hands. He wasn't going to beg the gods for their favour now. If they even existed in the first place.

There is only one goddess I believe in....

Desmond closed his eyes.

And she's more than enough for me.

He didn't have to listen long to confirm that three of the lifts were working. He didn't know if he counted the one he'd seen going down. If it had already reached the bottom and one of the three was another one. How would they have reacted? How had they taken that reminder of his strength? It didn't do much good, but Desmond took satisfaction in imagining their reactions.

Even if they get me in the end, I won't make it easy for them.

I will make them bleed.

I will make the very heart of the Empire bleed.

The sounds stopped.

Beeps. Lights.

Several doors opened at once.

Desmond darted towards the first one to open. Even though they had seen the 'gift' he had left them inside that lift, an impressive sight, though it was wrong for him to say so, they hadn't hesitated to try again. They had gotten on the elevators and were coming for him anyway.

Further proof of their fundamental lack of humanity. Not that any was needed. Absolutely.

He did the same as with the first elevator. Easily, with complete freedom. Unfortunately, while he was doing that, the groups in the other elevators came out and spread out on the roof.

Things, from now on, would go from bad to worse.

Sooner or later they would get out of hand.

Sooner or later. But not yet.

Quickly, he stepped between the soldiers and Abigail.

Quickly. Faster, even, than he normally moved. And he couldn't blame the adrenaline.

He realised it had been his wings. He had unconsciously propelled himself with his wings. Even without getting his feet off the ground, that momentum had been a great help. He didn't know how he had done that. He didn't have to know. He didn't know how his body moved, but he could still move it as he pleased. The same went for these wings. He'd had no problem using them even the first time, so why should he now?

It was a part of his body. Unless something was wrong, his body would naturally listen to his commands.

One of the soldiers turned and ran. Towards the open doors of one of the lifts. The man stepped into the lift and punched one of the buttons over and over again, desperate, out of his mind. The doors finally closed in the face of several soldiers who had had the same idea as him.

They sought to flee to the other lifts.

Not all had turned away, running with their tails between their legs. Most had held strong... at least for the moment. They were firing burst after burst at him. Their efforts were having no effect whatsoever. The bullets were like stones hitting the surface of the water. A little splash, then nothing.

Desmond didn't have to stand here, letting himself be shot, proving to them that even their best efforts would be useless. That they couldn't stop him.

But he was doing it anyway.

Because he wanted to.

Because he could.

Desmond lifted his wings to the sides, positioning them so that they would serve as a shield. It was surprisingly easy. He didn't even have to look at them. He felt it.

The Empire's soldiers were focusing on him. Still, there was a chance that a stray bullet would hit Abigail. She would get up like it was nothing. As she always did. But that was no excuse for being careless. Even if all her wounds disappeared, pain was still painful. She didn't have to go through that. Someone like her didn't deserve it.

Even though he would come back to life, dying was never pleasant. He did... get used to it, as terrible a word as that was. But it wasn't pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. Desmond wanted to keep Abigail from suffering. Yes. All he wanted was to make her happy. He really did.

He wanted to be happy and he wanted to make the one he loved happy. A small, almost insignificant wish. However, the world wouldn't let him have even that. It continually placed obstacles in his way.

We have the right to be happy, Desmond thought. You cannot take that from us.

One of the soldiers, while trying to reload his gun, dropped the magazine. It then fell to the ground. He decided that was it. He had done enough theatrics. If he went too far, it would weaken him too much. The battle wouldn't end with him taking out the soldiers in front of him, after all. He still had a lot more to do. He would still have to pile up many more corpses, with his bare hands, to be happy.

Desmond smiled.

He was going to enjoy that. No doubt about it.

Finally he took a step forward. All the soldiers took several steps backwards, as if pushed by the force of an invisible tide. The sudden movement caused them to deflect their shots. Bursts strayed to the sides and overhead. None hit Abigail. Fortunately. Did they even remember that Abigail existed in the first place, with him here? Like this?

He didn't know.

Otherwise, he'd make them forget.

Desmond sprang into action, propelling himself with his wings as naturally as if they had been part of his body since birth. The outcome of the battle, of this battle at least, had been decided before it even began. They were just ordinary soldiers. Completely average. Without the special armor. Without weapons like that electricity staff, with which one of those animals had almost defeated him. So this couldn't end in anything other than an all-out massacre. He wasn't yet tired enough for ants like these to make a dent in him.

Yes. The outcome was highly predictable.

Every time he swung his sword, several of these animals died. And they would all end up dead. But still they kept throwing themselves at him over and over again.

And why? What for?

Abigail gasped.

Of course, Desmond turned abruptly, his attention turned away from the enemies around him.

He saw her fall.

He saw her fall to the ground. Wounded, but not dead.

A bullet had hit her, bursting her collarbone. Now Abigail lay on the ground, one hand over the wound. She gasped, writhing. Eyes almost closed.

As if she had to strain to just keep them open.

Desmond charged again.

He swung his sword. Legs and arms went flying. Blood too.

And the screams.

It was the same as always.

He might as well still be fighting in the attack on the academy. Or that night, in the harbour, in the rain that seemed to want to wash him down.

Or even fighting in the bowels of this building, to make his way to Abigail, still.

Wherever he went, whatever he did, the same thing kept repeating itself over and over again.

He couldn't escape.

Would anything break the spiral he was trapped in, anything but his own death?

Desmond felt like throwing up.

As if to stifle the urge, he screamed instead. Savagely, from the back of his throat. He screamed until he was no longer able to scream.

He screamed until he had no one left to scream to. They were all dead.

Desmond drove the sword into the ground.

He leaned on it, breathing hard.

Tired? Yes, but no thanks to the guards. He was breathing this way because he had overdone it with his throat, screaming until he ran out of air.

He touched his neck with one hand. Massaging it.

Desmond turned away.

Abigail was still lying on the floor, but not because she was too weak to move because of the wound and the drugs.

He was watching her move. Drawing a circle of her own blood, the blood from her shoulder, around her. Big enough to sit in and not touch the lines.

Not too big, that is. Just big enough.

He wanted to ask what she'd done that for.

Desmond had a feeling she'd answer with that she didn't have time to explain, though. So he kept his mouth shut.

Not that he needed to know anything other than that it was or would be useful in any way, anyway. And if he needed to know anything more than that.... Abigail would tell him.

By the same token, he also considered not giving voice to the next question that crossed his mind.

Nevertheless, he did.

"Can I sabotage the elevators?"

Cut the ropes, make them fall. That wouldn't solve anything, of course.

But it would buy him time.

Which was enough.

Abigail replied as expected.

"I'm sorry, but no. You've... you've got to be fighting."

Aha. Desmond nodded his head.

So the fighting had something to do with... what was happening to him. Whatever it was. That being the case, then he understood why the process had been accelerated.

In the last few days he had done nothing but fight.

Every second of every day.

Against hunger, against cold.

Against enemies he could cut down and also against the enemy called his own body.

Desmond turned away.

"Okay. I'll do it."

And he waited so he could do his duty.

However, the moment was not coming. Desmond frowned.

"How strange. They should be here by now."

He'd killed many, but not nearly enough for them to have run out of soldiers. And he was only talking about this building.

He was in Kronos, the city that was the heart of the Empire.

The power of the Empire loomed over him like a shadow.

At any moment it would fall upon him.

There was no chance of winning this fight. Only to hold out long enough.

So why the pause?

He received the answer soon after.

A tremor. An earthquake, that was the first thing he thought of. But then he realised that it was an explosion, that it could only be an explosion.

There was an explosion. And another. And another. A chain of explosions that seemed to have no end.

He heard the crackle of flames, saw the smoke rising like the shadow he feared.

The ground beneath his feet sank.

No. That was not it.

The ground was moving because the whole building was collapsing.

Shadows of war (2): FIN