He didn't know how this worked. In fact, he was still processing that ghosts really existed.

Maybe they couldn't hurt him. Not directly, at least.

Maybe.

And maybe Desmond couldn't hurt them either, fight them. But he would feel better in this place with a sword in hand. So he called it into his hand.

Something he had already done more times than he could count. That it was as natural as breathing.

It didn't happen, though.

I missed.

Not just once. Two, three, four times. All attempts resulted in failure.

Why?

First he couldn't feel Abigail's heartbeat, and now this? He couldn't allow himself to think that way. He dismissed the terrible thought before he could fully formulate it.

He didn't try to convince himself that it was nothing to worry about. He simply decided to stop thinking.

That was safer.

He ended up in this place when the ground collapsed beneath his feet, not in a natural way. Fortunately there was a way out, because he didn't have the strength to create one. Otherwise, he could only have waited for someone to rescue him.

Well, at least he hoped it was an exit.

He saw the entrance to a tunnel nearby. Maybe it would turn out to be a dead end, but he preferred to stay positive.

He walked to the tunnel, entered it.

He wasn't using physical reinforcement, but that didn't prove to be a problem for him, for some reason. The warmth that enveloped his entire body was the only discomfort he noticed now.

He wasn't that weak, like what, like taking a dip in that black sea was good for him?

Desmond shook his head and hit one of the walls of the tunnel. Which was too narrow, evidently, to make such wide movements. He'd keep that in mind.

Actually he wasn't quite right.

He could feel that there was something strange about his body, even if it had nothing to do with how the poison had torn him apart, reducing him to an invalid.

His breathing was still uncontrolled. For some reason.

Time passed inexorably and still there was no word from Abigail. The heartbeat had not returned, nor, of course, was there any contact with him through their mental link.

There were too many questions to which he could only answer with: for some reason.

Better not to think, ah, better not to think. Not at all. How easily one's own mind could destroy a man. How easily…

***

In a moment, when all seemed lost already, Christina had woken up. She had never lost consciousness, not entirely, but her glazed look suddenly disappeared.

She turned her head in his direction and opened her mouth as if to say, blood slipping between her lips, which were quivering spasmodically.

Something that must have been really important, for he was putting what was left of her into the attempt.

But whatever it was, she could tell him about it later.

Desmond grabbed one of her hands, squeezing.

"Don't strain yourself. Please. You have to..." he begged her, crying. Those were the last words he said to her. Meaningless, hollow words. Because, deep down, he still had hope.

Her sudden awakening had allowed her to deceive herself a little more. It was easier to deceive oneself than to face reality.

"Don't add me to the weight you're carrying." One last wish.

Then she left.

For good.

***

He hadn't even been able to fulfill her last wish. But how could he do something so harsh and cruel? Many years later, he was still burdened with a faceless, voiceless family. Nothing but an idea.

But she was real.

She was real and she was gone. And with her Amy was gone too. She was still alive, and he could be happy with that.

But nothing between them would ever be the same again.

They would never be together again.

So he had been left alone, anyway.

So how could he not carry her?

If only I had known..., he began to think, but stopped himself. That would be the biggest betrayal of all. He couldn't allow himself to think that, even now. Even with how things had turned out.

He wouldn't regret it.

Desmond wouldn't regret it.

He bit the inside of one cheek hard.

All was not well with his eyesight, no miracle had happened. He could see his surroundings clearly, just as if he were outside the cave.

But not his own body.

Looking down, it was still dark. All of it.

He couldn't even see his hands or his nose clearly. For a reason, his own body was an exception.

That was also something he'd rather not think about.

Like the fact that the only heart beating in his chest was still his own, no matter how much time passed. And enough was passing, gods, he had been walking in this darkness for an eternity. An eternity.

But it all had to end.

Nothing was eternal, not even Abigail. Not even he was, once his turn on stage came.

Or it would.

Or it would be too much to die even after he was left with nothing and no one. He was in no hurry to find out, that was for sure.

Anyway, he finally made it out of the cave.

Not the same way they had entered, but he was out at last. The light burned his eyes, it bothered him. But he was grateful for it.

Meeting Abigail was the first step. She, after not finding him, would leave hoping he had managed to find his way back himself.

That was what he had thought, at least.

But even when he turned around, looking all the way to the top of the mountain, she was nowhere to be seen.

She hadn't given up.

She must have continued wandering the mountain, looking for him.

The sun was a real nuisance. Desmond raised a hand, covering his eyes, to mitigate it a bit until his eyes got used to the light again. He had spent too much time down there, from the looks of it.

The hand was black, even now. But not completely.

His heart rose in his throat. Not completely, no. It, too, was covered in a spectral white.

As was his whole body. From head to toe.

No matter where he looked.

"What is this?"

His voice had a strange echo to it.

It sounded like his voice, but it was different enough to drive him crazy. Even his voice hadn't escaped.

It was truly a total transformation.

He had tried to close his mind. Not to connect the clear dots. But he could no longer fool himself. It was time to face reality. No, he had no choice.

"I have become... something like that."

Horrified, he fell to his knees. He threw back his back and wanted to scream, but the sounds that came from his throat resembled more like a den of vipers hissing all at once than any sound a human being could produce.

His screams scared off a flock of birds, which took flight from the branches and soared above the tree line.

They didn't get far.

There was not a soul to hear or comfort him.

***

Desmond stopped screaming.

Not because his throat was raw and he was physically unable to scream anymore. He simply got tired.

Desmond clutched his head with both hands, squeezing, as he squirmed slightly on the spot.

"How is this possible? "Sometimes talking out loud helped him think better, so he started to do so, but regretted it as soon as he heard the sound of his voice.

It sounded strange, that would only disturb him more. So it was better to think quietly.

He had transformed, that was a fact.

Rather than how it was possible, the proper question was why. Had Christina, if it was Christina's ghost after all, intended this to happen to him instead of killing him? And for what purpose?

He couldn't think, no matter how many times he turned it over in his head. He could see no use for it. But neither was he willing to believe that it had all been an accident. Something... like this. Impossible.

He wouldn't find the answer.

But Abigail would. She had lived for so many years, after all. She had an answer for everything.

Now would be no different.

She said she hadn't seen any ghosts, an insidious inner voice answered him. But they do exist. So she was wrong.

He shook his head.

Abigail would know. She had to know.

But where the hell was she?

Desmond kept waiting for her, trying to calm down. Unsuccessfully, but no one could stay calm in a situation like this. It would be crazy to stay calm.

The hours passed and it was getting dark.

Of course, Abigail still didn't show up. And not only that. Her heartbeat didn't either.

Even with his hand on his chest, eyes closed, listening intently, he couldn't hear anything. But that was just a desperate move in the first place. If there was something, he would hear it without having to go that far. It was impossible to miss it.

Abigail couldn't have died, really. For good.

Only he himself could... release her.

So what did this mean?

A shiver ran down his spine.

Could their bond have been severed? That was chilling, unthinkable. But it made more sense than the alternative. That Abigail was really dead.

That was something he couldn't accept. In general, but especially not today.

Not today.

To lose two of the most important people to him on the same day. And in a sudden way, on top of that, without even knowing what had happened to her?

Without having a chance to say goodbye...

No. No. No. No. No.

Anyway, it was almost as bad as the worst-case scenario. Losing his bond with Abigail was like losing a part of himself. Like losing an arm or a leg, but also like losing something that couldn't be put into words.

A piece of his soul, maybe.

Where the fuck was she?

Where the fuck?

The answers were somewhere, but... not here.

It seemed hard to believe, though no more so than his current state. But even though he believed it must not have been a minute since he had drowned in that black sea, maybe it had been longer.

Much longer.

Maybe he had spent hours down there, and Abigail had gone back to the hotel. Because of the passage of time. And because she believed he had died down there, since their bond had somehow been severed.

Maybe she hadn't stuck around because she didn't think there was anyone to save.

One way or another, it would be better if he didn't stay put. He decided to go back to the city. Of course with this appearance he couldn't walk around quietly, like a normal person. People would fear him and want him dead.

But, under the cover of night, Desmond should be able to get to the hotel without attracting attention.

Stealth wasn't his style, but....

It shouldn't be that hard. Amy would be there. He doubted she would have made her way back alone, regardless of the hatred she now felt for him.

And even if Abigail hadn't returned yet and he was making a mistake, sooner or later she would be back there.

Yes, it was the best course of action.

But most of all...

Most of all he didn't want to wait because he needed to talk to someone about this or he would explode. Amy could blame him for Christina's death, and rightly so. She could hate him.

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But she would help him in the end, right?

Wouldn't she?

One way or another, he'd find out. Desmond stood up and started walking. To the city where all this had started. The city where the world had lost Christina's light forever, and where Amy had torn him apart.

He was heading there transformed into an inhuman monster who couldn't even show his pain with expressions.

He came down the mountain, retracing his steps, and then entered the forest. That's not where they had passed on the way down, but to the side. They had had the trees on either side all the way.

During the night surely no one would get that far, but he decided it was better to hide in the woods.

Just in case someone passed by.

He'd rather not have a ruckus form or rumors spread. He was in enough trouble as it was.

Inside, he saw many tracks. Of animals, large and small. And of human beings. He couldn't tell which of them was Abigail's trail. That is, assuming any of them were hers.

Assuming she wasn't still back in the mountain. Desperately searching for him.

The thought made him feel sick with every step he took. But he couldn't stand still. He had waited long enough.

If any of the tracks he noticed were Abigail's, it was a trail she would have left on purpose. Or because she didn't care to leave it. Maybe she was too devastated by his supposed death to care that someone might be following her.

Desmond grimaced, bit the inside of his cheek hard.

That was why he had to find her as soon as possible. That was why he prayed she was at the hotel. He couldn't let her go on suffering like that. Believing him dead. He couldn't.

His breathing had calmed down along the way. It had been because he had almost drowned. Not because of his general weakness.

It was clear.

Maybe he wasn't as strong as he used to be, maybe he never would be. But it had also been an inner transformation. In other words, he was no longer a fucking invalid, at least.

He could run through the forest, free and wild, at full strength.

He could experience a freedom he had lacked these past few months. A freedom that everyone took for granted.

But he didn't.

He no longer did.

So, despite the circumstances, Desmond couldn't help but rejoice at the feeling of freedom as he ran through the forest, traversing it on the way back to the city. Back to his loved ones.

He hoped.

He arrived nearby right away, so fast that he was surprised.

Of course. He had been barely able to walk before and on top of that... with Christina's death, trapped in his thoughts, drowning in guilt, every second was torture and seemed like minutes.

But it hadn't really been that long. How long had it taken now?

Ten minutes?

If he were at the height of his power, he could have made the journey in half that time. Maybe less.

Crouching down in the bushes, he took a moment to observe.

He saw lights and noise. Footsteps, people's voices. Some people are still going back and forth. But not many.

With any luck, he could blend into the night and no one would see him. He wasn't ready to leave the cover of the forest and its vegetation, though. Not yet. He circled around, getting as close to the hotel as possible without leaving the forest.

"What do I do now?" he asked himself.

He grimaced. It made him sick to hear his voice so different, it made him gag, it really did.

But at least it was still his voice, only with a strange echo, an inhuman echo. He imagined he could get used to it in time. Though, of course, he hoped he wouldn't have to.

The same didn't apply to his body.

There was absolutely nothing reminiscent of his original form.

He had transformed into something completely different. A creature that wasn't even human.

Speaking of which, it's not as if he kept the clothes and items he had carried with him under the cloak of darkness. In other words, he didn't have a key.

Could he break in, and without attracting too much attention? He didn't want to break the door down or rip it off its hinges, nothing like that.

He looked up.

From this position he could see the window of the room they were staying in. The room was dark, which wasn't a hindrance, but the angle was.

He had no way of knowing if anyone was in the room or not, in other words. Not from here.

In the end he decided to climb up the wall and break the window. Or maybe he wouldn't even have to break it, just knock for Amy or Abigail to open it. He hoped that would be it.

He hoped the two of them would be there, waiting.

He hoped this would all be resolved as soon as possible. All this crazy shit. He'd had enough.

He climbed up, leaning out the window.

And his hopes were betrayed.

No one.

No one, of course. How were things going to start working out for him? This day was not yet done with its horrible surprises. What else would it have in store for him?

How much more could he endure before he broke like a doll, inside and out?

Desmond raised an arm to break the window with an elbow, but then dropped it. He decided to try it, because there was no harm in trying. And he discovered that it had been left open.

Well, he supposed they didn't expect someone to climb up to a third floor like that.

And someone who could do that, magically or physically, well a closed window wouldn't stop him.

It made sense.

Desmond went inside. It wasn't there, but maybe he could find a clue. Anything would do. Really, anything.

He imagined a farewell letter on one of the beds.

Signed by Amy, of course, and full of hate and regret.

There wasn't.

There was nothing, really. Not a trace. As if they had never stayed here. Not them or anyone else, recently.

What was it?

At first he thought he hadn't been under the black sea for a minute, otherwise he would be dead. Then maybe it had been hours.

But... What if it had been days?

What if they had been gone for a long time? On their separate ways, of course. Without him, there was nothing to tie Abigail to Amy.

It's not possible. It's not possible, is it?

He spoke as if all the things that had happened to him in this last hour weren't complete madness, going by common sense. The existence of ghosts. That strange black substance. What it had done to him...

Such a profound transformation. That it had required days, not hours or minutes, didn't seem so hard to believe, looking at it that way.

But...

"Shit. Shit!"

He punched the wall. When he pulled his hand back, he saw the cracks. He had gone too far. He took no comfort in having better proof of the extent to which he had regained his strength. In fact, he didn't even think about it. He registered it and it disappeared from his mind almost as quickly.

He refused to accept that they had left and could now be anywhere. This didn't make sense, it didn't make sense, he had to be missing something, he had to think, he had to....

"Is anyone there?"

Desmond tensed.

Someone had heard his punch from the other side of the door. Of course, his bad luck continued. There had to be someone out there, at just the right moment to hear him. They couldn't have missed it. No, of course not.

If someone saw him...

He couldn't let that happen.

He didn't need any more trouble today of all days.

He looked around, searching for a good place to hide. As he did so, he drew his hand back unconsciously. He should have knocked on the window pane.

But there was no sound.

Desmond turned his head, not expecting to see anything. But he was stunned.

His hand had gone through the glass.

Not breaking it, but as if it wasn't there, as if it were immaterial. He reached out his other hand toward the glass and the same thing happened. Behind him, he heard that someone put the key in the lock, and began to turn it. He had no time.

Then he put his whole body through the glass, without knowing how he did it.

He fell the three stories to the ground, onto the grass. It hurt a little, but that was the only discomfort. Lying on the grass, he took a deep breath and looked at the window again.

In time to see how the lights were on. And see the shadow of that person, a woman, crawling along the wall.

It definitely wasn't Amy or Abigail.

It's not like he couldn't have recognized their voice, in a panic. It wasn't anyone he knew. The two of them would be fine, but... not here.

He broke into a run.

Back into the forest. Back into the darkness he'd been spit out of.

***

A scream shook the night sky.

His scream. Desmond had returned to the cave entrance, hiding, and was now writhing like an impaled worm as he screamed and screamed.

It was a poor, pathetic attempt to get all his rage out.

All his grief and agony.

To spill the venom that threatened to drive him mad. His heart had reached its limit, but the situation had driven him even further.

He felt adrift. He felt as if he was drowning.

Yes, drowning.

Lack of space, lack of air.

His world had been a small one from the beginning. In the beginning, it had only fit himself and the ghost of a woman he didn't even know. Over time his world had expanded, but it hadn't even reached half a dozen people.

Still, for him they were many people. A beautiful miracle.

But now he was alone in the darkness, and his form didn't resemble a human being. He could imagine with crushing ease and clarity that this would continue for the rest of his life.

He could imagine losing his mind for real, becoming nothing more than a beast wandering the ways of the night.

A world so, so, so small. Dark and lonely.

And cold.

So cold.

In the end he fell to his knees. He was speechless and fell. He felt like crying. His chest was shaking spasmodically, rising and falling. So did his voice, as he babbled incomprehensible things.

It was as if he was crying. Only his vision was perfectly clear.

He had no tears to shed. Because he was no longer a human being inside or out.

"I have to do something. I have to..."

His voice echoed again and again within the narrow walls, the strange echo his voice possessed joining the echo of the cavern, distorting it even more.

It sounded hollow.

Hollow like the cavern itself.

***

Desmond was wandering the ways of the night.

He wasn't thinking, he refused to think, but he was pretty sure he had left the mountain and that damned town behind long ago. It was just that he hadn't run out of forest yet.

In the distance, he heard several howls. Wolves.

He didn't think anything of it.

As it was now, he had nothing to worry about, even if they seized him as prey. He could tear them apart with ease. And even if it turned out to be the other way around....

Well, would it be so bad, I couldn't force myself to care too much, being honest.

The moon reigned over the heavens like the great white eye of some creature beyond human comprehension. The stars had gone into hiding, so that was all that was left in the night sky.

More than walking, he was staggering. He wasn't weak and sore like before, ever since he'd stepped out of that black puddle. Since he... transformed.

So he wasn't staggering because of the weakness of his body.

But because, despite everything, he couldn't seem to take a steady step. As if he was, well, drunk. Almost.

And where he was going, even he didn't know.

He had simply set off and hadn't stopped yet.

From nowhere to nowhere.

As soon as he emerged from the woods, he came upon the wolves that had been howling in the distance. More than a dozen, crouched, snarling, all around him.

It was as if they had been waiting for him at the exit of the forest.

As if they had been intending to give him hope that he might escape only to crush it at the last moment.

Of course, that was stupid. They were nothing more than simple animals.

They could play with their food, but thinking that way went beyond that. In those yellow eyes was reflected nothing but himself, his new, monstrous form.

Desmond waited there, slumped forward like a puppet with a few strings cut. Head down, arms dangling, too.

He simply waited.

What would he do, fight or let them sink their teeth into him? That he would only know when the wolves jumped.

At last they moved.

They turned and broke into a run, leaving him behind. Only then did Desmond realize that they had not been prepared to attack, that this had not been a possibility from the beginning.

They had actually been petrified with fear as they sensed, he supposed, the unnaturalness of his new self.

Even mangy dogs like that know how fucked up I am, he thought.

Desmond shook his head and continued on his way.

***

Desmond had made his way back to the capital in the hope that Abigail, even after believing she had lost him, would return to Charlotte.

For her it would be killing two birds with one stone.

She would get the protection she needed. And another person to establish a contract with, in his absence.

He also hoped to find Amy there. After all, where else would she go?

She'd killed that monster and given up a life of wealth. With him supposedly dead, Amy was no longer in danger, as she could no longer be used to get to him or to Abigail, who only cared about her life by extension.

But he wasn't sure she would choose to return to the academy.

Maybe, but he wasn't sure.

Or maybe it was just a vain hope.

It was a gamble. But it was the best he could do, given the circumstances. So he walked and walked until the sun came up again, ending a night that seemed to go on forever, unbelievably.

Then he looked for a hole to hide in. He couldn't afford to risk sticking his head out in broad daylight. That would be asking for trouble.

It killed him to waste time. But deep down he knew he had no choice.

The next night, Desmond climbed out of his hole and started running at top speed. The same speed he had used to get through the forest near that damn mountain in a few minutes.

Not as fast as the past, but definitely faster than any horse-drawn carriage could reach.

He spent the whole night running, non"stop. The sooner he got this over with, the better. He had to let Abigail know that he was okay. That she hadn't lost him.

He wanted to see Amy, too, but after Christina....

Well, she might not have cared too much about the idea that he'd died on that mountain.

Crossing the night, he heard voices. He was going to walk away. Change direction. But then he heard something that caught his attention.

"It is unbelievable that her majesty sent us to do this."

There was only one majesty in this world. That is, Charlotte.

So this was a group sent by Charlotte? Another group, after his own had failed.

What a coincidence, I couldn't help but think.

That he'd come across them just like that.

But, now that he knew the gods not only existed, but were willing to intervene, he couldn't dismiss anything as mere coincidence right off the bat.

This, however, did seem like a mere coincidence.

Why, that is.

They were Albion soldiers, but even if he came out of the brush, revealing himself, the first thing they would do would be to reach for their weapons. Because they knew him for sure, but they knew nothing of what had happened to him.

No one knew except him, so he would have to leave before anyone saw him. There would be trouble.

Still, he stayed to listen. Out of curiosity.

And just in case he heard something useful, somehow. For example, some comment about Abigail or Amy. It seemed unlikely since they were around in the first place, looking for them. But it could be that it was because only one of them had arrived, either Amy or Abigail, and they were looking for the other survivor.

"Maybe I should be grateful that she trusts us with this. But, after the invasion.... I wanted to stay. To help. Not be out here wandering around with some kids. Looking for a ghost," said one of the soldiers gathered there. Desmond couldn't see them, he wasn't going to risk a peek. He was just listening.

For the moment, at least. For the time being.

"Yeah. What's-his-name is already being eaten by maggots."

Wait.

"And even if not, I doubt we'll find him," the voice of another soldier. How many would there be, all told? But that wasn't the point. The point was...

"We don't even know what we're doing here to begin with. Apart from the fact that this is supposed to help."

Wait. Something didn't fit.

Something hadn't fit from the beginning. But what was it? What was giving him this bad feeling? After all the bad news, to say the least, he'd received in a matter of hours, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

But he had to.

Unless he wanted to give up and die, he had to know what was going on. Check it out, even if in the end it turned out to be his imagination.

The worst thing would be to be left in doubt, anyway.

"Theo, Theo. How could one man be so important to draw us away from the capital in its time of greatest need?"

This didn't fit at all.

Desmond felt a shudder.

"I'm really sick of all this."

"Yes. You don't say," one of the soldiers muttered darkly. His voice was so laden with venom that Desmond tensed unconsciously, as if anticipating a fight.

The soldiers scattered. He didn't see them, but he heard them leave, one after another, then all at once.

Desmond glanced around tentatively.

No. Not all of them.

There was one left. The same one who spoke that way?

Maybe this feeling had something to do with that man, maybe not. What he did know was that he had to figure out some way to solve the problem.

Maybe this feeling had something to do with that man, maybe not. What he did know was that he had to somehow resolve this doubt that was eating him up inside.

He had to make things fit. He didn't need any more reasons to lose his mind.

"That's why I'm doing this." That soldier spoke to himself, a while after his companions had left.

He tied a letter to the leg of a crow and then let it free. The crow flew off into the darkness of the night. It didn't disappear, in fact it didn't fly very high, just a little above the treeline.

He had to figure out what didn't fit however he could.

So Desmond came to the quick conclusion that he couldn't let that crow get away from him. There was still time.

It would be easier not to wait a second, but he didn't want anyone to see him, especially if what he suspected deep in his heart was true.

So he waited until that soldier also went wherever he had come from.

Waited until I had a clear path.

Desmond broke into a run after the crow. He overtook the animal and quickly climbed one of the trees in the forest. From there he jumped, catching the bird. He removed the letter from its leg and set it free.

That had been his intention at least. But the crow didn't leave, taking his chance.

What it did was turn around and swoop down on him, pecking at him. Trying to retrieve the letter, he realized. It was a well-trained messenger.

Or a normal one. It was possible that some kind of magic was involved in this.

Come to think of it, those wolves had run away like headless chickens when they came across him. Was a single crow really going to be more courageous than a whole pack of wolves?

He waved his hand, trying to shoo it away. To no avail.

Desmond clicked his tongue. He grabbed the crow with that hand and squeezed, making it explode like a piñata. A very small piñata.

He didn't like to kill unnecessarily, least of all animals, who were not to blame for anything. But it had left him no choice.

Without hindrance, he took the letter out of the envelope, opened it and began to read its contents. He hoped that the answer he was looking for was there, that it wasn't just his own nonsense. Dreams of someone driven mad by grief.

He needed what he was thinking to be true.

And now...

"The location of Abigail, Amy... Christina and... me. This is... This is it."

Now he understood.

It all fit.

It was crazy beyond all the craziness he had been subjected to because of his turbulent life, but the evidence was right in front of his eyes.

It wasn't that he had become another one of those things that had attacked the wagon that day.

He was that thing.

He had been from the beginning.

And now, somehow, he was back. He had a second chance.