Abigail was locked in a cell with no light. The experiments had ended for the day, so she had been thrown into this hole.
It was nothing new to her.
If she let herself go, she could imagine that she was still in the first unlit hole she had ever been thrown into in her long life, trembling, fearing death at the stake, dreaming of freedom.
Even if it was a freedom she had to fight for.
To win it inch by inch with blood.
She had lived for a long time, too long. Therefore, she had gotten used to everything.
And she couldn't help but see the threads, the patterns, that ruled the world.
Especially where she was concerned.
That was something Desmond didn't understand.
That he couldn't understand, because it didn't fit into his frame of reference.
But Abigail wasn't scared and she wasn't waiting for help. She knew exactly how terribly she was going to suffer, but, even so, that suffering had long since ceased to stir her heart.
Rather than experiencing pain, she was experiencing the memory of pain....
Like many other things, really.
Yes, try as she might to explain it to him, Desmond couldn't understand. That's why he was on his way.
Which he shouldn't be doing.
He had set himself on a path of destruction that would destroy, first and foremost, his own life.
And she wanted to protect him.
And she wanted to make him happy....
She couldn't make him understand her way of seeing things. It was too late for him to back out, anyway.
Abigail, knowing that her son had made the worst possible decision for himself, didn't feel the expected guilt.
She was surprised.
She experienced real surprise, not a memory of surprise, when her lips twisted into a smile at the thought that Desmond was on his way.
Even here she wouldn't be able to enjoy a modicum of comfort.
They thought her too dangerous to bury in a cell without also tying her hands and legs and neck.
They were right.
But they had no idea what the real danger was.
Smiling honestly, without forcing it one bit, she raised her head to the camera that was watching her at all times.
"I know you are listening to me. So listen carefully. There's a storm coming. He is coming, and there is nothing you can do to stop him, he will sweep everything away.
There was no response, of course.
Darkness and silence.
There resounded, for no reason, a laughter that sounded like an old door creaking.
Over time, by force, she had grown accustomed to many things, yes.
Almost all of them. But not to some.
Like, for example...
Life.
Desmond ran and ran, holding back bitter tears, until night fell.
He briefly considered setting up camp, stopping for the night. He rejected the idea almost as quickly as it entered his head. He wasn't going to be able to fall asleep anyway.
But more importantly, he had already sacrificed too much.
He had lost everything he had wanted and sought, and even things he had never suspected he wanted.
By consequence to the path he had chosen.
So he had to give it his all.
He had to put all his power into this. To stop unnecessarily was unforgivable. So he kept running tirelessly.
Even with the physical reinforcement magic, his body couldn't sustain this level of exertion indefinitely. Sooner or later it would collapse, unable to continue.
But he would worry about that when it happened.
All in due time. If he was the type to plan things in the long run, he would not have been able to muster the confidence to leave the academy in the first place.
Yes. To keep going until he could no longer take another step.
That was the only thing he had to concentrate on.
That was the only thing he could concentrate on without collapsing.
But, in the end, the collapse came.
His body, which had exceeded its limits and even gone beyond them, finally gave no more of itself.
Desmond fell to the ground, barely able to breathe, let alone move. He lay on the side of the road, face up, staring at the moon.
How long had he been running since night fell?
A few hours?
It hadn't seemed that long, but had it actually been a very short time?
In any case...
Fuck.
His chest burned. His legs were burning, even his arms. His whole body was burning.
How long would it take for him to recover, to be ready to charge again?
How much would Abigail suffer while he writhed pathetically among the ground?
Abigail's blessing had granted him a body beyond human potential.
A body that could defy even death.
However, that didn't mean a body without limits. A body that could withstand anything. This was humiliating, despairing.
Now that he was still, that he had nothing to do, all the shadows of the forest came alive around him.
It was the shadows of his heart that came to torment him and drag him underwater, now that they could, it only took the slightest opening to be overwhelmed, overcome.
Fuck.
The moonlight was distant, cold.
Merciless.
As was the sunlight.
He was alone.
He was alone now, and it was what he had earned, but....
But he wouldn't find kindness or warmth anywhere. Not until he rescued Abigail. Not until they were reunited.
That was painful.
That was too painful for words.
He had already lived in such a world for ten years.
He didn't want to go back to that, a dark and lonely world, where he was slowly sinking, where there was no human warmth, no kindness or hope. Where there was only struggle.
Hour after hour. Day after day.
A struggle with a vague goal, which he might well never accomplish, but which after all had long been the only thing keeping him going.
Whether he wanted to or not, he was back. The difference was...
In that, today, the goal wasn't so vague.
He didn't know where Abigail was exactly, but it was in the capital. In his head did not even enter the doubt or possibility that she was wrong about that.
If he rescued her, then everything would be all right again.
He would be all right again.
And, well, if he died trying, if he died for real....
At least this would stop.
Steps.
Desmond's body was a wreck already, completely exhausted, but that didn't influence his ability to listen.
He clearly heard that there were several people approaching him.
People wandering in the middle of the night, in a place like this.
It would be nice if it was nothing, if nothing happened. But Desmond had never been guilty of optimism. He wasn't about to start now.
Five men emerged from the darkness of the night.
They were armed.
Beyond that detail, they weren't the first thing that would come to mind if he thought of bandits, he had to admit. Still, appearances were deceiving.
Appearance aside, the feeling they conveyed was that of a bunch of bandits.
A bunch of smartly dressed bandits, that is, good at what they were good at on top of it.
"Look what we have here," one of them said, glaring at him. His tone couldn't have been more unpleasant, it instantly reminded him of an oily eel.
Desmond tried to get up.
His arms were shaking too much, he wasn't able to muster enough strength to push himself up, leaning on the ground with both hands, and he fell again.
One of the bastards laughed.
Someone turned him over with his foot, as if he were a piece of garbage dumped on the side of the road.
That was all he was to them.
They were like crows that devoured any carrion, without even leaving the bones.
"He has little on him," said one.
"But that sword seems to be of good quality. "He was surprised to hear the voice of the next man who spoke. He had thought he saw five men, but he had been mistaken. That was the voice, unquestionably, of a woman. "We could get good money for it. The gun... probably too."
"That's something. And a gift horse, you know."
"Yeah, there's no need to look it in the mouth."
One of them bent down, grabbed the hand that held the sword. He tried to take the weapon from him.
However...
At least Desmond could still exert enough force to stop him from taking it from it so easily. If nothing else.
The bandit glared at him.
"Do you not understand the situation you're in? Would you rather we cut your throat? Or take your sword and hand?
Desmond reflected.
That bastard was right, it wasn't worth fighting for possession of his sword. After all, he could call it back to his hand at any time, whenever he wanted, as if he had never left it.
The gun was another story. He didn't have that bond.
Abigail had told him that he couldn't learn to do the same with the gun, or anything else.
That it was the sword, period.
Still, it wouldn't be that big of a deal. It would hurt a little.
But he fought mostly at close range with his sword. The loss of the pistol wouldn't cripple him. He could manage just fine without it.
He felt hands on his back.
No, on the pack on his back. That too was something... he could afford to lose. He wasn't in any state to fight, anyway, so he couldn't demand anything more of himself, though he couldn't really afford to lose the backpack. He had already demanded too much of himself. More than enough.
"Now that I get a good look at him, this boy is quite handsome," one of the men said.
Desmond's body tensed from head to toe.
"Really?" Someone sighed. "Well, all right. Have it your way. But make it quick."
The man brought his hands to his waist.
A long time ago, in a faraway place, when he had been nothing more than a little boy trying to appear strong, lost in a huge world, big enough to swallow him whole, something like this had happened.
The man was taking his pants off.
Desmond burned with humiliation. Not only would they kill him, but they took his clothes off before they killed him.
Like taking advantage of the skin, the teeth, everything on a hunted animal.
But the reality turned out to be far more terrible. A reality he could not have imagined as an eleven year old boy, despite everything he had been through.
Despite the fact that he knew the dark heart of humanity better than many adults.
That hadn't even crossed my mind.
He was a child, after all.
Twisted, damaged, but still a child. Still innocent.
Until, he supposed, that day. When...
Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain.
Desmond writhed like a worm under the man who had him pinned to the floor.
The pain wouldn't let him think.
His mind had become an amorphous mass that was only capable of registering pain. And... the vague perception of what was actually happening to him.
As if his mind was trying to keep him from realizing that because, when he did, he would be torn to pieces.
No!
Desmond swung his sword with renewed strength. His blade severed the head from the shoulders of his attacker.
Sent it flying, in fact.
Along with the blood that spurted out like it had been spat out of a sprinkler.
Desmond got up very slowly, with effort. Giving the enemies plenty of time to pounce on him and stab him to death. But that didn't happen.
They just stared at him.
Not only at him, but also at the severed head of their companion that was now rolling in the grass.
That trail of blood was like the slime trail of a snail.
It was... as if they had never seen someone die, almost. At least not one of their own.
Ridiculous.
Desmond was bathed in blood from head to toe, even though he had only killed one person.
For the moment.
He gripped the sword with both hands. As if it weighed more than he did, he couldn't lift it very high, the tip of the sword grazing the ground.
"What monstrous power!"
They were afraid of him, but they had not backed down.
They still couldn't.
Fear could give you the impetus you needed to run away or leave you frozen.
Everyone responded to fear in their own way.
And Desmond...
"But it looks like he's barely hanging on. We can take him, guys."
Desmond was also responding in his own way.
Bathed in the crystalline moonlight, Desmond emitted from the back of his throat a howl like that of a wolf preparing for the hunt.
The boy managed to break free, barely.
His messed-up mind was crystallizing against his wishes, becoming aware of what he wanted to bury forever, to forget it had even happened.
It still hurt.
But the pain under there was nothing compared to the pain in his heart.
He screamed wildly, but in his scream there was no strength, but a desperation, a sound akin to glass shattering.... For it was shattering, falling apart.
As his mind crystallized.
As the blood rushed down his thighs, from his but....
Before, he hadn't even had the strength to stand up. Now he was unable to stop.
Desmond had cut off the head of one enemy, but there were still four surrounding him. All of them were armed.
His mental strangeness was strange, fractured.
He wasn't even using physical reinforcement. Not anymore.
He was moving under his own power, unknowingly.
The bandits might have been scared of him, now that they knew he could defend himself, that he knew....
But there was no one here more frightened than himself.
Every time he swung his sword, he trembled.
Desmond was nothing more than a frightened child, at that moment. A frightened child who could only depend on a greatsword.
The first two enemies died in the first exchange of attacks.
A single hit each.
Desmond was simply a little faster, a little more accurate, than the enemy. He took a few cuts, but he made it out alive, which was what mattered, after all.
He had won in one hit.
But he might as well have lost in one blow.
With his inhuman body, he'd been pulling away from the sensation of the fear of death and the weight of fighting with his life on the line with each passing second.
But now he felt it very distinctly. The fear.
The third was not so easy.
He fended off his first sword strike, and that was enough to throw him off balance, to make him fall to his knees.
He didn't recover.
Not in time.
The third plunged the sword into his stomach.
Desmond felt the taste of blood in his throat, spilling into his mouth.
He gathered strength in the arm with which he held the sword and plunged it into the enemy's heart.
It fell before him.
The fourth, the only survivor, rushed at him, sword held above his head.
But he was cut down like all the others.
He cut off one of his legs, to be more exact.
Then, as he howled on the ground, bleeding to death, Desmond ended his suffering. Permanently.
Not long ago he was sure that he was going to die, that he had failed.
Yet his fury had carried him to victory.
Now there was nothing and no one left.
Except him. And the pain, which wouldn't leave him.
The pain down there, from behind. The blood was still falling. Thick and hot.
The pain in...
He couldn't finish the sentence, not even in his thoughts.
The boy dropped down among the corpses and the blood. Trembling.
All alone.
Mom. Mom, where are you?
That was the same thing he was thinking now.
Desmond crawled over, put his back against a tree. He had dropped the sword at some point. The hand that should have been clutching the pommel now lay over the wound in his stomach, clenching.
It wouldn't do much to slow the bleeding. All he was doing was keeping his insides where they belonged.
He would wait to be here until his wounds were healed....
He had no choice anyway.
In this state there was no way he was going to get far.
Desmond narrowed his eyes. Even the moonlight seemed too heavy for his tired eyelids.
A raven flew nearby, Desmond shooed it away with his free hand, waving it away.
"Get out of here. I'm not food," Desmond said feebly. Blood gushed from his stomach, his lips were stained with blood, too. He looked like what he was.
A man who would soon be dead. Though he would soon be up and walking again, there was always the doubt.
The terrifying possibility that it wouldn't happen this time.
Abigail had told him so.
That it wasn't true immortality, like her own. It couldn't be.
That he had limits... and, if he wasn't careful, he would soon find them.
The raven was as black as if it had been birthed by night itself. He watched it fly away, disappearing into the darkness that surrounded him. As if threatening to engulf him.
Mom. Oh mom, where are you?