Henry arrived at his office.
In his bearing there was none of the dignity of a noble lord. He trembled from head to toe, his face was white as chalk. And when he closed the door behind him, he slammed it shut, shattering the illusion of self control he had tried to maintain.
Even with the door closed, he couldn't say he was breathing easy.
The hand Amy had pierced was still bleeding. It was not obeying his commands. For all intents and purposes, it was as if he had cut it off at the wrist. Yet he could still feel it.
The hand burned with pain. The pain spread throughout his body like greedy flames that devoured everything in their path. Henry gritted his teeth, resisting the pain. But even that pain was but a shadow behind the anger.
Yes, that was the truth.
He had never felt so humiliated. Never, not once.
He hadn't always been in this position. Fifteen years ago, he had lived from day to day, always worried about whether he would have enough to eat the next day. He had always had a roof to sleep under. However, that hadn't stopped him from living a miserable life like that of an abandoned child on the street.
Having a roof over his head meant only one thing.
That no one had had to watch while he was becoming a hunk of bones. While his own body consumed him. The outside world hadn't had to see that ugliness, but still it had happened.
He hadn't considered himself any luckier than the kids on the street, begging for a living, scavenging through garbage.
He couldn't have done it because his lifestyle wasn't that different from those kids, after all.
His life had been miserable from the start and had almost ended the same way. However, his encounter with Cecilia had changed everything. Yes. Something unwanted had been infused with life.
He was going off the deep end. Thinking of her again, even though she was lost and would never return. The important thing here was that... He had never felt so humiliated.
He clung to his anger at that like a burning nail, like a bulwark to keep the memories away.
How dare she?
After all he had given her and how he cared for her, yes, love was the most important of all the precious things he had given her, so how dare she?
How could she be so ungrateful, so ungrateful?
Henry felt like throwing up.
His back was to the door, as if fearing that Amy might reappear at any moment.
He lowered his head and stared at his hand.
He had plenty of money.
So, like any sensible man, he had a personal healing mage. If he called him, he'd be here right away, he lived nearby, and he could regain the use of his hand as if nothing had happened. He didn't have to wait for daybreak to go to a hospital in other words.
No, of course he didn't.
His life was full of privilege. However, he decided not to call him.
Henry decided to hold on to this broken and bleeding hand as well. He decided it was the most appropriate thing to do. He would writhe in the darkness. He would writhe as the pain kept him awake all night. And when dawn came at last....
Henry laughed. He laughed and laughed, uncontrollably. His face contorted into an expression that even he himself would not recognize in the mirror.
And then it would teach her a valuable choice. For it was not true that he had never been humiliated in this way. She had humiliated him too by going off to play soldier, escaping his grasp.
But no more. Not one more.
If that was what she wanted, he would show her what a real war was.
Henry stopped laughing.
His eyes stayed riveted on the lantern that gave off light from the table.
He grabbed it with the only hand he could use. And, in absolute silence, without so much as a grunt, he slammed it against the corner of the table.
The glass exploded into a thousand pieces. The light disappeared.
Henry pursed his lips.
He drew his arm back and struck it again, in the same corner. The material that had surrounded the light, generated by magical fireflies, now shattered, bent with the impact.
He struck and struck until even that circle was shattered.
The fireflies lay on the ground in pieces.
They were an artificial creation that had never lived, but they didn't disappear without a trace once they lost their function. They were still there.
What was left in his hands was nothing more than a wooden stick, with no indication that it had ever been anything else. A stick with which to skewer his enemy. A weapon. That was what he held in his hands now, a weapon.
Without dropping the weapon, he vented his anger on the objects in the office.
He knocked books off the shelves. He stomped on them, filling the deck with dirt and dust.
He overturned the table, causing a great clatter.
Finally he smashed the stick in his hands against the chair, trying to smash it.
Well, and he succeeded. Only he broke both things in the process.
As if he had passed to the weapon in his hands a great deal of his fury, as he lost it Henry regained control over himself.
He took a deep breath.
Did she want a war? Well, she would have it. And he would be the one who would come out on top.
Unbeknownst to him, someone was watching him.
From beyond the window, amidst the darkness of the night, was a tower facing the office. The woman standing atop the tower was the silent observer.
As if she were a ghost, the moonlight seemed to pass through her. Her face as if carved in marble didn't reflect her humanity either.She was cold as the night wind, cold as the moonlight that enveloped her.
But not indifferent.
"I see," was all the witch said.
■
Desmond cut a piece of meat with knife and fork and put it in his mouth, chewing. The meat tasted like nothing to him.
But no the problem was not in how the cafeteria food had been prepared today.
The problem was, of course, in himself.
He didn't feel well. Of course he didn't. After Amy's departure, he hadn't been able to sleep a wink all night. But now he felt like he was dreaming. Precisely now.
Because that she had left with her abuser was an event of such enormity to him that he couldn't believe that no one else except his team knew about it.
He almost couldn't understand how the people around him could go on with their normal lives, as if it hadn't happened.
Hell, speaking of which, he couldn't believe how he was doing it himself.
There was nothing else he could do except wait, but....
But what?
Desmond had believed that, through effort and sacrifice, he had transformed himself. That he had made himself better.
But he was nothing more than a child, after all.
All he could do was kill any enemies that came his way.
So, if he met an enemy he couldn't kill, he was powerless. Like that day ten years ago, he had left everything in the hands of his savior, having given up. And now he was here wasting time. Doing nothing in particular.
Christina was talking to him.
But he couldn't hear her well, as if her voice was coming from a very distant place. As if his head was underwater.
Desmond shook his head, along with his lethargy.
It didn't get rid of it completely, but it weakened the power it had over him, taking a step into the real world.
"Did you feel something?"
"What do you mean?" She sounded a little nervous, for some reason.
"Yesterday. When that creature took Amy. You told me..."
"Lower your voice, please."
He did.
"That you can feel what other people feel. Did you feel something, then?"
Christina swallowed.
"Yes," she admitted, "I don't even want to talk about it, but.... It was like this man... Like he wasn't even human."
No. He wasn't.
He had given up the privilege of calling himself a human being from the first day he hurt his own daughter.
But that was an insult to animals, really.
No animal would hurt its own young. It took a human to act with such cruelty, for no reason at all even.
Not that there was any reason that could justify such a thing, but....
He didn't think that creature had a reason.
Beyond that he enjoyed it, of course.
"I know what you're thinking. I'm not saying that he didn't seem human to me because of the things he did to her or that I saw such things. It's just that..."
"Take your time to think about it. You don't need to answer me in a hurry, Christina."
There was silence.
"I'm really not sure he's human," she said. "I've never felt anything like it."
Desmond felt a shiver.
"But if he's not human, then what could he be? What do you mean?"
"I don't know. That. I know it may sound stupid, but..."
"It's not that. I believe you."
Just as Abigail didn't seem like a human being to him, but for the opposite reason.
While Abigail was filled with a goodness and purity that no human being could harbor in their heart, in the heart of that creature beat a darkness that couldn't exist in any human heart.
"I feel sick. To be here wasting time while she has to sleep under the same roof as that monster."
"Yeah. Tell me about it. I feel like... I'm gonna have to stop eating soon. Because otherwise I'll throw up."
"But there's nothing we can do. Except wait."
"I know, but..."
Desmond decided not to finish the sentence.
Because he was about to say that it hadn't stopped her from feeling like shit and with him it wouldn't do that either, but that wasn't just obvious.
It would sound petty. Completely unnecessary.
She was simply trying to make him feel better.
What kind of person would spit on her kindness?
Desmond nodded his head.
"That's true. You'd only make the situation worse. The best thing we can do for her is to wait."
He wondered if that answer would have made her feel better, returning the favor.
Surely not.
With him, at least, it certainly hadn't worked. Quite the contrary. He felt worse than before, if anything.
That awkward silence, full of things to say but which neither was sure how to say, or if it would do any good at all by the way, was broken shortly thereafter. Again.
And it was broken because Abigail appeared in the same way she always did: suddenly, as if she had been there all this time.
As always, his heart raced at the sight of her.
Not just because of how he felt about her or her beauty, but because it was almost as if she was really there. Almost as if she was part of his normal life and there was no problem.
What a sweet illusion...
Too bad he had to wake up, coming back to reality. Because this wasn't a social visit by any stretch of the imagination.
It would bring news. Good or bad.
"What have you done?"
"Nothing. What are you...?" Christina fell silent and became serious, realizing what he was referring to.
Because he was looking at the "empty" seat next to her, and not at her.
"Things aren't settled yet. But I'm sure it won't be long. Desmond..."
"Hold on. Give us a moment."
"What did she say to you?" Christina scolded him, as she saw him get to his feet.
"Not here. Let's go."
Christina got up and accompanied him to the room. The only place in the whole academy where there was no risk of anyone overhearing them.
Classes were not over because of this. This was just the break, so after lunch they were supposed to get back to the exhausting and crushing pace of classes.
On top of that they would lose some time going home, but not that much.
Because Abigail could tell him all about it on the way. And that's what she did.
It was shorter than he thought it would be. Short and shocking in equal measure.
"Did you establish a contract with her?
His heart dropped.
It didn't say anything good about him... but, after that answer, he didn't think for a moment about Amy. He thought only of himself.
"Why?" He couldn't keep the panic from seeping into his voice. Several glances turned in his direction.
Desmond clenched his fists and tried to concentrate, trying to control the urge to start talking to the air...because that would destroy everything. And he wasn't talking about his life at the academy.
That would be proof of Abigail's existence, something they could follow.
It would be like betraying her.
And that he couldn't do it, even after hearing such a thing.
That he was going to be replaced.
Abigail gave him a sidelong glance. He wondered what the woman was thinking. Was she disappointed? No, of course she was disappointed.
That's why she was going to throw him away and find herself another, better model.
She... what she wanted was to die and stop suffering. But there must have been some special condition that he could not meet. There had to be something that made Amy better than him.
I can do better. I can get better, please, I can, I can do it, if you give me the chance.....
He pleaded in his mind, as if Abigail could hear his thoughts.
Maybe that was how it was. Maybe this was how she had learned that he wasn't the right one. Of how deeply vile and twisted and weak and disgusting he really was. That was why she didn't love him and that was understandable, sure, sure, who, after really knowing him, was going to love a person who wasn't even capable of loving himself?
It was natural, natural, natural, natural, natural.
Desmond hugged himself, still walking.
He raised his left hand and bit down hard on one finger. The whole hand trembled in his mouth. He thought about his gun.
He thought about his little ritual, and....
"Desmond?"
"Desmond. Listen to me. Calm down. She's not going to pay the price. I only did it to help you."
He took his finger out of his mouth. His tremors lessened in intensity. She felt something warm in her chest. Hope.
Hope to overcome the fear he had carried with him since long before their reunion, even.
Even?
It had taken root in his heart precisely because of that. Because a long time had passed before they were reunited, and even if today he didn't want to admit it, didn't even want to think about it, back then, many times....
He thought he had been abandoned. And, after the reunion, he had constantly believed, deep down....
That it was only a matter of time before he would be abandoned like now.
But...
"So, I'm not going to be replaced?" he said in a weak voice.
More because it came out that way than on purpose, so they wouldn't be overheard by the people walking back and forth. Few, but enough to make him worry.
"Of course. What gave you that idea? You're the person I've been waiting for for two thousand years. I know that as surely as I feel my heart beating."
Her words made him feel so good, so warm and loved, that Desmond paid little attention to the number of years she had just mentioned. To the enormity of the passage of time. Of the time that was behind her.
"You promise?"
"Yes." She paused. I promise.
Desmond heard whispers.
And he could guess their content easily enough, but he didn't pay attention to it at all. What if they saw him as a weirdo? Anyway, he was only close to one person in this whole academy.
Just one, now.
But soon it would be two again. Soon.
He wasn't even worried that they would take him for a freak and the rumor would spread [like wildfire], just like all rumors. If they thought he was crazy, then it wouldn't be unusual for him to occasionally talk to someone who wasn't there; perfect, no one would suspect a thing, ha.
"She received useful power and, with any luck, she will fix things on her own."
They got as far as the room.
"Mom...I asked you to save her. "Desmond closed the door behind them. "I asked you to save her. With every second spent in that house, she...."
"I understand how you feel," she replied in a soft voice, "But you must understand that my methods are rather less clean. Besides, the girl told me she felt the need to do that for herself. And I can't say I don't understand her feelings. If I solve everything for her, that man will forever remain a shadow over her life."
Desmond gritted his teeth. He put a hand on the wall as if seeking support.
"I know. I know, but... Is she at least all right?"
"That man hasn't laid a hand on her. Nor will he, I assure you. I'm watching her closely to make sure nothing happens to her. Although, frankly, I don't think I have to protect her. I think she'll protect herself just fine. There's steel inside her. It may have been bent, but not broken."
Abigail spoke as if admiring Amy's strength. And there was nothing wrong with that in itself, but strength?
What strength was she talking about?
Amy hadn't gone to her abuser without even putting up a fight because she was strong. No, nothing of the sort. She had left because running away was easier than fighting.
If you told yourself it was inevitable and left everything in someone else's hands, well....
Your life became bearable.
Like letting yourself be swept along by a current.
But for that you didn't need strength. Strength was with those who swam against the current.
So... of course she needed help!
She had been here watching, invisible to the human eye, so she should know it as well as he did! Yes, he had seen it in her face. The terror. The defeat.
There was no trace of strength there.
She was a strong person, but not when brought face to face with that monster. Face to face with her past, which was no doubt as dark as a starless night.
Desmond hadn't had a family since he was very young.
However, Amy had surely wished she didn't have one.
Between those two things, it was clear to Desmond which was worse.
"What is it? What did she tell you?" Christina. An attack on two fronts.
His head hurt.
His head was ready to explode.
Shut up. Give me a break. Give me a fucking break, will you?
"If you're so disturbed by that idea, I'll deal with that man my way," Abigail said. "You just say the word. It's not like I care what her wishes are. It's enough for me what's best for you."
"No. "I... No, okay. "Desmond shook her head. "I'm sorry, please forgive me, it's just that... I can't shake... I keep thinking about it... Like I'm going crazy... Every time I remember that man's face... and the fear in Amy's face, in her eyes... I can't..."
Incoherent. Didn't know what to say. Couldn't even finish a sentence.
"Okay. I'll go now and fix this."
"I don't..."
"I don't want you to suffer anymore."
"Stop it!"
His savior frowned.
Desmond turned around and spoke, gesturing with his arms wildly, as if trying to grab something.
"Stop, I'm not saying that. Let her... let her handle things her own way. You were right all along. As usual. It's probably for the best."
"All right."
"But, if things get out of hand, then..."
"Of course. I'll take care of everything. Desmond... "She reached out her hands, held them inches from his face. "I wish I could touch you. I wish I could comfort you from here. But my fingers can't reach you."
"Don't worry. You're already doing... more than enough. Exposing yourself for my sake" and he realized what he had asked of her really meant, only after the words were out of his mouth. "It's true, I've asked too much of you... only because it suited me...".
Christina stood to one side of him, one hand on the wall, clearly frustrated, but keeping silent.
I'm sorry. It's not like I'm ignoring you on purpose. It's just that I...
"Don't say that," his savior replied, and for a moment he seriously wondered if she had read his mind. "I didn't expose myself unnecessarily, or for you. I have done it for myself. Because you and I are one. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. You know that, don't you?"
Desmond ducked his head.
"Same here."
"I hope I can give you some good news soon. I'll see you later, Desmond."
"Yes. Thank you."
Abigail disappeared as if she had been a figment of his imagination. Her heartbeat returned to a normal rhythm and, as if she had torn away an essential part of the world, taking it with her, everything seemed, as always, momentarily lesser.
The colors, the smells, even the sensations of his body, his heartbeat, his breathing, everything faded, everything peeled away like cheap wrapping paper. Momentarily, he felt he wasn't even in the real world.
More like on the stage of a play, and a not particularly well done one at that.
Yes. Yes, wasn't that the truth?
It wasn't that Abigail was from a fantasy world, as beautiful, as radiant as she was, someone anyone could recognize as special at a glance. The world in which humans, so low and filthy and despicable, was the fantasy world.
Abigail lived in the real world. And she carried it with her.
He wished intensely that he could go to that world with her. To see what she saw.
But, unfortunately, apparently that world was a "stage" for only one person. When someone new entered, the previous one had to leave the stage and go down to the ground with the rest of the mortals.
It was not a stage she could share, regardless of how strong and special the connection between them was.
"Desmond?"
Desmond didn't answer. Closing his eyes, he ran his hands over his face, over his head, pushing his hair back. He exhaled.
"Desmond, what's going on? You're scaring me..."
He dropped his hands.
"I'm sorry. Amy's fine. She told me nothing happened to her... at least for now. She said she's got everything under control."
"Amy?"
"Amy, her. Both of them."
"But, during the conversation... You seemed worried. No, I know you were worried. Scared as shit. Don't try to hide it from me. Whatever it is."
"I'm not trying to hide anything from you..."
"So what?"
"You see. My... "The first thing that came to his mind was "goddess", the second "mother". He knew her name now, but he still hadn't quite gotten used to calling her that. A part of him resisted as if he were committing blasphemy. "Abigail formed a contract with Amy. To give her power."
"And what?"
"And nothing. She left it in her hands. Because Amy wants it that way, according to her. And she'll step in if things get out of hand, but not before."
Christina bit her lip.
"I understand why you were so worried. I don't want to make it worse for you, but, at least as she was leaving, Amy had no intention of continuing to fight. There wasn't a spark of will to fight in her heart. And yet... Abigail said Amy wanted to take care of everything, right?"
"Right."
"Then something must have awakened her fighting spirit. Maybe just Abigail's appearance, the hope she gave him. But I'm afraid "something" really happened. Something terrible that changed everything, whether Abigail saw it or not."
She didn't want to make it worse for him. But she' d made it so.
She had made everything ten times worse than before.
Desmond felt nauseous at that frighteningly plausible idea.
If she hadn't reacted, he would have simply assumed she had done it and he hadn't realized it, and that would have been the end of it.
But react she did.
Her expression changed as if she felt guilty. He had caught her in a lie.
■
The world had become a theater of shadows cast against a background of gray fog that covered everything.
There were the shadows of two people, and a table between them.
The second shadow was opening and closing its mouth, but she had no way of knowing what it was doing. Its words did not reach his ears.
However, she could imagine what it had said because of the tears running down its cheeks, and because of the way it could only be a table divided the shadows. It brought a clear image to her mind. Although it might not work the same way for other people.
The white against black formed a great constraint that attracted attention, which made the image have a greater impact.
Why did she refer to the weeping shadow as the second shadow?
The answer was simple.
That the shadow on the other side of the table could be none other than herself.
It had the shape of a grown woman, and she was not a grown woman. In that sense, it could be that of any woman except herself.
But, for some reason, she was sure that shadow was hers.
She was watching this as if outside her body. A spirit so insubstantial that it didn't even cast a shadow.
But, in spite of that, in spite of everything?
It was her, no doubt.
And to that despairing cry, her response was.
(the sound of flesh against flesh)
a smile.
(A slap. The sound of slapping...)
As if she was mocking the shadow that was practically prostrating itself before her. No, it was exactly that, as hard as it was to accept it, to even conceptualize that "she" could be capable of something like that.
(It was done through the silvery mist that covered the world. Over and over again.)
Then words just as terrible as her smile spilled from her lips.
(Slaps. Slaps. And the wild beating of a heart. Hers?)
"What do I care? Go whine to someone who will listen." No doubt, that was
(Glass bursting. Broken glass falling, falling, falling.)
the sound of her own voice. But her tone was completely different from any she had ever put on in life, making her sound like a completely different person.
The second shadow kept talking. Mouth opening and closing.
(Mute pleas. Between the tinkling of the glass and...)
"Get lost, don't you understand?"
(the heartbeats, there were the mute pleas. The desperate weeping. And the sound of flesh impacting against flesh)
"You've already lost your purpose. You've never been more than a piece on my board and now you're in the way, so get lost, get out of my sight."
(the rain of crystals. Tinkling, tinkling, tinkling that failed to hide the sound of the knocking).
The second shadow turned around and disappeared in the fog.
With its disappearance
(the drops of blood that spilled out)
the shadow fell apart, revealing itself as it was now, not the mature form the shadow had suggested. But her perspective didn't change. She continued to see herself from the outside.
Except for one change
(a clenched fist, bloodstained, crystals sunken into the skin)
that leapt into view. That chilled her heart.
Her face, it was her father's face.