Water. Water.

He had to find... whatever it was, to put out. An ocean. Or a river would also do, as long as it was deep.

To put himself out, before the pain made him lose consciousness... and the flames could consume him without any resistance. It was already difficult to keep his eyes open, let alone think. His vision was blurred, despite the physical reinforcement, due to the tears of pain and the black spots in his vision.

But if he found a large enough water source, even then he shouldn't miss it. He had to count on the fact that he wouldn't.

His life depended on it.

Much more than his life, actually. He had gone to that city to help the people. To save them from the yoke of the Empire, right?

But he seemed to have forgotten that somewhere along the way, and then....

He saw a river.

Desmond didn't hesitate to dive towards it, with all his might. It might not be as deep as he wanted it to be, but... He no longer had enough air to scream. The only sounds coming from his throat were barely audible gasps.

The fire had wreaked so much havoc on him that Desmond knew he wasn't going to last much longer.

This was his chance. Either this or nothing.

He decided that in a split second and dove toward that river. He hit the water, broke through the surface, and didn't stop, he kept going into the depths.

He could see the bottom of the river. Deep, perhaps, but...

He could only hope this was enough. As he sank into the depths, he had time... not to think. His mind was still jumbled with pain.

Not in words, at least. But in another way.

He began to reminisce, as if reviewing his memories, searching for an answer to something.

He remembered being buried under the rubble of what had been his home, with a metal rod through his chest. He could hardly breathe, between the blood he was choking on and the lack of air, under all that shit.

It was a miracle that he had survived long enough for Abigail to find him and get him out of there.

Speaking of miracles, it was a miracle she had found him in the first place.

Desmond remembered, of course, his mother's smile. The one she had said goodbye with. With that and the sword he still used to this day, a huge sword, especially for a boy shorter than it.

It was no surprise that those memories were the first to cross his mind.

There was a time when he dreamed, understandably, of that day almost every night. It had been a while since her dreams had been free of those horrors. But he always knew he would see that day again.

Because it would never leave him. Some scars didn't heal.

The ones that shaped you as a person.

He remembered, too, the first time he killed a person. A child like him. Bigger, smaller, right now his mind didn't even remember.

But he saw him weak and vulnerable, compared to him.

Pale, covered in blood. Raising his hands uselessly to defend himself. If he had let go of the stone, maybe they would have allowed him to leave. Maybe it would have ended better.

Or maybe it would have been him who would have been beaten to death, after "daring" to hit him over the head with a stone.

He knew what he thought. But he could never be sure.

That's why he couldn't stop thinking about it.

There was no worse scar than one he didn't even want to graze. When he was raped by several people. Men, on top of that. He had killed them all with his own hands, but by then the damage had been done.

He had bathed in the river. But no matter how many times he did it, the feeling of being dirty didn't go away.

Those men were the only ones to succeed. But they weren't the only ones to try.

All the big hits of his miserable life passed before him, one after another. So this is what people mean when they say life flashes before your eyes, he thought.

It happened when death had you trapped.

Desmond couldn't let this be the end.

He couldn't.

His vision was almost gone, but.... He couldn't stay here or he would drown. He didn't want to die in this cold, dark place.

He pushed himself to the surface, pushing through.

With arms and legs. With wings. With everything he had.

He was still burning, he realized. But not as much as before, not nearly as much. He'd done all he could do about it, anyway.

So, he crawled to the shore.

Where the last embers would eventually be extinguished. Not by the river water. By regeneration. Because he'd given it less work, diving into the river to get the worst of it out off him.

That was done. Which didn't mean he was going to get out of it.

Desmond collapsed on the grass.

His clothes were full of holes and burns. So was his body. He didn't need to look to know that. And he was... In short, in pain.

The cold night air whistled through the burns that covered much of his body, making everything worse.

He rolled over, slowly. The most he could do now. Really the most he could do.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

He couldn't move an inch until he recovered. If he recovered at all.

The night sky is so beautiful, he thought absently.

He hoped it wasn't the last time he would be able to see a sky like this. He coughed several times loudly, as if he was choking. He took a deep breath.

Desmond!

That hadn't been his imagination. Nor his own thoughts.

It was Abigail's voice, calling to him from a great distance. He thought it was good. That he needed to hear her voice, to hear from her. At the very least it would distract him from the pain and fear.

"Mom... Mom..." He didn't finish the sentence. Rather, he didn't start at all.

Thank goodness.

Her relief was palpable.

I've been calling you for so long, and you didn't answer. I started to think that...

That the worst might happen. Naturally, if he hadn't answered. The problem was that...

"Did you?" Speaking was like stabbing himself in the chest, deeply. Every word required that level of effort and sacrifice.

But it was worth it, just to talk to his mother.

He missed her voice. He missed seeing her. Everything.

"I'm sorry." First things first. A proper apology.

Forget about that. How are you?

"I want to see you."

Abigail appeared in front of him, after a moment of silence.

Not really, of course. Powerful as she was, she couldn't just teleport for miles and miles like that. It's the same old thing. A false image.

Like a mirage.

But it was real enough for him. She was there, even if he couldn't touch her. Feel it.

It was real enough for her, too. She ducked her head, grimacing as soon as she saw him.

"Oh, my son." She said it with such regret.

Knowing her, she'd be feeling guilty about his condition. Even though she had insisted on accompanying him, even though he had had to convince her to let him go on the mission alone.

Seeing how it had turned out... he supposed it had been a bad idea.

Although he had indeed accomplished the main objective. Letting that building, along with the shipments of weapons and drugs, burn.

"Don't make that face." It was practically a plea. He was guilty, and it made him feel guiltier. It was easy to act like an idiot when there was no one who cared about you. But he had someone. Several people. He should have been better. "It's my fault. We both know that."

"It doesn't change my feelings."

Of course it doesn't.

If their positions were switched, Desmond would feel the same way, despite the facts. So he couldn't protest. He had no right to.

Putting aside for a moment that Abigail wouldn't have ended up in this state, of course.

Not like this, but... She'd already been captured once. Hundreds, thousands of times, throughout history, do not know. And he remembered the guilt eating him up inside all too well. The moment when he'd made a choice between his loyalties, or had thought he had.

In the end he had gotten it all. His selfishness had paid off, rather than doomed him.

For the moment, a voice whispered to him.

Christina had died once in front of him. He had watched the light in her eyes go out, little by little. And it could happen again. The longer the war went on, the more likely it would. A matter of time.

"Yes... I get the feeling I've had this same conversation too many times. But my condition is not what worries me now. I couldn't stop. I just... I don't understand what happened to me. What came over me. It's as if I don't..."

Unconsciously, his gaze strayed to the sword lying on the grass beside him. The blade was wet with water from the river and from the rivers of blood he had spilled in that city.

What it wasn't covered with was that red, throbbing flesh, like that on the sword he had wielded against himself.

That beat like a heart. Begging for more and more blood.

Desmond licked his lips.

He could not put his unease into words.

"As if I wasn't the same person," he dared to utter aloud, at last.

It seemed that the problems he had thought he could leave behind were still there, under the surface. Waiting to come out. He could not run away even from a past that had never happened.

——

"I never told you how I got that sword. Or did I?"

"No."

"It was like a dream."

He still remembered it well, though, even weeks later. Nothing like any dream he'd ever had in his life. Except dreams that were really memories. Of course.

"Trembling wooden bridges across the abyss. Leading me to a platform. There stood the gun, on a pedestal. I heard voices... as I stretched out my hands towards the sword..."

"What were they saying?" Abigail asked.

Oh, if only I knew, he thought.

"I don't know. It wasn't a human language, though it seemed like something I could almost understand. After I pulled out the sword, I woke up. I thought it was just a strange dream. But that sword was in my hand."

Out of nowhere.

He had only been able to explain it as an act of the gods. That was still the only explanation he could find. The time travel and the mysterious appearance of that sword, the two strange events had to be related.

It wouldn't make sense that each had happened for completely different and separate reasons.

"The gods allowed you to travel in time. I guess that weapon came from them too."

Yes.

It was the natural conclusion, the same one he had reached. There was a gap though. Something he still couldn't answer.

"What for?"

To his surprise, Abigail didn't hesitate for a second.

"To fulfill the purpose they want of you. Even if it costs you your life."

Desmond felt a shiver.

"I wouldn't mind hearing their voices. You know, while I'm recovering."

"I'm not at the castle or at home."

"No? Why not?" At this hour? Nothing was wrong, was it? She seemed calm. There couldn't be something going on with him miles and miles away, unable to intervene.

"On a mission, like you. I asked the princess. But this is nothing. Worry about yourself, not about me."

She always said that, of course. She supposed it was a mother's duty.

And, as a son, he couldn't complain, since he would do exactly the same...

Really? Are you kidding me? an inner voice replied, dark and insidious.

You would choose her? You had your chance to make such decisions and at every turn you chose them. Christina and Amy, girls your age. Because you wanted to pretend to be a normal person. Someone who can have normal happiness.

Like you see Abigail as a freak, something different. Like you scorned her.

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

Where am I wrong?

Just shut up.

Who do you think you are to treat her like that?

You shut up! It's not like that. It never was.

We're despicable and undeserving of her devotion.

We?

Desmond paused, as if waiting for the voice to continue. He slowly relaxed when no response came. It was his imagination. It wasn't as if he had never had such conversations with himself. It was something anyone did, especially people who spent a long time alone.

Just his imagination.

The same insidious voice that tried to sabotage him at every turn. His own voice, because he hated himself, and that was one of the things that hadn't changed.

"Is something wrong?" She had noticed. Of course, she always knew.

"Nothing," he answered simply.

Neither of them believed it.

——

He lay on the riverbank for a long time, breathing heavily, as if he had a collapsed lung. Believing that at any moment some son of a bitch would come crawling out of the darkness to finish the job. That in the end they would find him and there would be no fate to fulfill, no long awaited end to the war between the two halves of the world.

Just darkness. And silence.

But nothing happened. And when he recovered, he took flight on black wings again.

Back to the palace. He didn't know where Abigail was and if he asked her, she wouldn't tell him. So he could only return to the palace.