A faint flame rippled on the ceiling.
Outside, in the corridor, there was only a tunnel of darkness as far as the eye could see and lines of bars as dark and impenetrable as the very blackness in which the dungeon was plunged.
In short, there was no one to disturb them or get in their way.
The golden mask (he hadn't confirmed that he was, but he had to be) would have comrades. It didn't matter.
He doubted their reach would extend that far.
Therefore, he was at their mercy.
The assassin was dangling hand and foot in front of him, like a pig about to be slaughtered. And something like that was going to happen. Only before he died, he would sing. He waited.
He laid the assassin's chest bare, opening the buttons, one by one.
Then, he set to work with the knife already gripped in his hand. He placed the tip of the knife on his enemy's stomach. Then, he worked his way up, taking his time, zigzagging.
He traced a red line across his chest and intended to bring it toward a shoulder.
The assassin was enduring the pain more or less stoically, without uttering even the slightest sound. That wasn't disheartening at all. This had only just begun.
Desmond had never tortured anyone before.
At least, not with the intention of getting answers. But he didn't think it would matter. Just as tearing something down was easier than building it up, there was nothing complicated about doing damage.
In fact, he was an expert in hurting.
His enemies.
Complete strangers.
His most precious people. And himself.
He was destructive, harmful and poisonous. But at least he was trying to do the right thing, in a way that took advantage of his talents.
The woman who accompanied him stood in a corner of the cell, her hands clasped in her lap. Waiting. Watching. She had a role to play here and it wasn't yet necessary for her to act.
As he had intended, Desmond traced a red line to the assassin's right shoulder.
Then, he pulled the knife away from his skin and....
He was going to do something. But then he realized that the assassin had used his ability to stop time.
It didn't bother him in the least.
He was bound hand and foot, and unarmed. Even if he stopped time, it wouldn't help him escape. All it would do was delay the inevitable. Gaining a respite, however small it might be.
Desmond was destructive, leaving nothing but destruction in his wake.
But he could also be patient, if necessary. He had all the time in the world. He could be here until dawn, if necessary, and beyond.
The golden mask wasn't going anywhere.
His comrades wouldn't be able to get him out of here, and he suspected they wouldn't even bother to try. For good reason.
And it wasn't even about the fact that they would in all likelihood fail in the attempt.
It was something else.
Desmond could move even through stopped time, hurt him, take that breather away. But there wasn't any need for that effort, harming himself for nothing.
Sooner or later the effect would wear off, or the assassin would make it disappear, to conserve as much energy as he could.
To save it.
So Desmond simply stood there, knife raised in one hand, staring into the assassin's eyes.
Even, as he had predicted, he himself turned the clock back on.
Well...
Stopping time wasn't the most correct way to refer to it, really. Because time, outside of the space the assassin could affect, was still running its course, as it always had and always would.
With his magic, no matter how powerful he was, he couldn't really affect one of the fundamental forces of the universe.
But he couldn't think of a better way to put it.
Stopping time, perhaps in a way, was the proper way of saying it. Because a frozen zone, or things like that, didn't really cover the effects and consequences of the affinity.
Anyway.
No matter the details, the assassin was defeated.
And soon he would be dead.
As soon as he told Desmond what he wanted to know.
"Have you had enough? "Desmond asked. "What do you think you're going to get out of that? Apart from wasting some of my time. You're not waiting for the cavalry to arrive, are you?"
"Maybe," the assassin said, slowly and after a while.
Desmond shook his head.
"I don't think you're stupid enough to expect that."
"You underestimate us? Just because we know how to pick our battles?"
"No. If it was worth it, they'd try. And maybe they'd succeed. Maybe they would. But it's not worth it. You went on the attack without a mask to cover your face. You're someone... sorry, something to throw away. There are dozens more like you, maybe hundreds, I'm sure. All just as replaceable."
The assassin pursed his lips in a thin line. It wasn't much, but it was the biggest reaction he'd gotten from him since this had started. Well, he was saying that as if it had started a long time ago.
Desmond left the knife on the table. Later, in all likelihood, he would pick it up again. But for the moment he had had enough fun with it. In the end he opted for the hammer.
He grabbed it with one hand, picked it up, twirling it around, a smile on his face.
Yes, he thought. That's better.
He had a lot to enjoy, all laid out before him like merchandise behind a shop window. He decided he would start with the fingers of one hand. He swung the hammer, but had to stop when he felt the effect of his affinity.
Even if he had finished the motion, the hammer would have 'bounced back' without doing anything. And what was more important.
It would have put the hammer within reach of that son of a bitch.
He could snatch it from Desmond. With his hands and legs tied, even if he managed to snatch it from him, that would be nothing more than a futile gesture of resistance. Still, he preferred not to take unnecessary risks. He stayed his hand and, like the previous time, simply waited for the inevitable to come.
There was nothing the golden"masked assassin could do to turn the situation around. He had already lost. This was the aftermath, not a continuation of the fight at the charity dinner venue.
Sooner or later, the assassin himself would understand that. He would understand that he was better off surrendering, rather than putting up futile resistance.
When time resumed, Desmond smashed his finger with the hammer. The assassin looked away, twisted his face and let out a choked scream from the back of his throat. His eyes filled with tears, purely in reaction to the pain, unavoidable. But it wasn't as tough as he wanted to present himself, far from it.
Desmond realized he was avoiding looking at his mangled finger. It was just a finger, a finger twisted in a way that it couldn't move naturally. But only a finger.
And, still, he couldn't bear to look at it.
It was weak. Just as this was the first time Desmond had ever tortured a person, he was willing to bet it was the first time he had ever been in a situation like this. Frankly, he found it pathetic that he had already started whimpering even though he had nearly stabbed a girl who hadn't even turned fifteen yet. As far as he was concerned, he had lost any right to complain after something like that.
Desmond swung the hammer again. There was no forced pause, this time. The golden mask didn't use his affinity, but took the blow without further ado... while he was still recovering from the first one.
Blood spurted out. A few drops sprayed his face.
Desmond flashed a smile.
He didn't continue immediately. He understood instinctively that, although it might seem ideal to others in a situation like this to overwhelm him with pain, to leave him no room to breathe, the best thing in reality was to give him time to writhe in pain. For them to endure it. And for them to almost get used to it, so to speak.
Just to light the fuse again. When it got to the point where the assassin seemed 'comfortable' with the pain, Desmond broke his third finger.
More blood dripped down, hitting him in the face. Desmond wiped the blood off with the back of one hand.
He repeated the same process for the next two fingers.
The woman was still watching silently, in the same posture as before. She had a role to play, but the time hadn't come yet. She was here to help him torture this... individual, in a way. But not as directly as what he was doing.
She seemed a little nervous, he observed out of the corner of his eye. He supposed that was natural. Desmond supposed that for a normal person this wouldn't be pleasant to watch, even if she was aware of the circumstances.
Of what this son of a bitch had tried to do. And would have succeeded, had it not been for him.
But he didn't think that was all it was about. In fact, he had noticed her discomfort from the beginning, from the moment Charlotte herself had sent her to him.
He couldn't say why. Maybe because he had a bit of a reputation for being an aggressive and violent animal, which this little demonstration would have convinced her of.
Or perhaps because he had been appointed as Charlotte's personal knight. And, as such, he had a fraction of the princess's authority on his shoulders. A fraction of the authority of a member of the royal family, of the only living member of the royal family, in fact, was still a fucking lot.
In practice, he was a direct representative of the princess and few people other than the princess could take him to task.
Most likely, he supposed, it was a mixture of both.
And possibly more things, personal experiences, doubts and suspicions, things he could not know because he knew nothing about her. Not even her name. Anyway. As long as she did what she had to do, when she had to do it, it didn't matter how she looked at him. That wasn't just the least of it. It shouldn't even be a consideration.
Desmond finished breaking all the fingers on his right hand. The assassin's eyes were even more watery by now and a few tears had fallen down his cheeks. Some would describe this sight, the blood, the torn fingernails, the fingers twisted like shadows on branches, in the deep dark of night, through a window.
Some would describe this as a horrifying sight. He, however, had only one word for it: pathetic.
It was simply pathetic.
In the name of who knows what, the assassin had pretended to use the gift of his life to kill a girl who only wanted the best for her kingdom. And yet he couldn't stand something like this.
Yet he was whining and complaining, as if this was too much. It's nowhere near as terrible as the suffering you deserve.
The assassin gulped. And looked straight at him. Not with much determination, but at least he managed to look at him.
"It seems you don't... you have a lot of experience with this. You haven't asked me a single question yet. Interrogations start with questions."
"It's true, this is my first time. And it's true, that's how they start. But the interrogation hasn't started," Desmond said. He leaned back, resting the hammer, casually, almost as if bored, on one shoulder. "I'm sure I warned you from the beginning. Now let's have some fun. That's what I said, I'm pretty sure."
It was fun, indeed. He had done, and not done, many things he regretted. Things he would think about for the rest of his life.
However, there was nothing resembling a moral conflict in this.
Not by a long shot.
He was sure that any decent person would gladly do this, or more, to someone who had tried to stab a little girl. There was no greater crime than hurting a child, or even trying to.
That was
(he saw a mother clinging to the bloody mess that had been her child, pleading with eyes that barely saw and in a voiceless voice, pleading that...)
no doubt, right.
(he help her child. She died not knowing that no one could help them anymore. Not in peace, but with hope, at least.)
No doubt it was.
This was not one of the things he would regret, looking back. Nor what he had done so far. Nor what he still had yet to do.
"And you still think you're a good person," the assassin said, laughing under his breath. After that he spat more blood than saliva.
"Look who's talking. You tried to kill a girl. Someone like Charlotte. A really good person. Who has all the power in the world, but thinks only of the good of others. One of the few people like that."
The assassin smiled, then.
"Who said I intended to kill her?"
Desmond tensed. His first instinct was to ignore it as a crude provocation, a poor attempt to distract him. But maybe... maybe it was more than that.
Thinking about it for a moment, if the goal of the attack hadn't been to kill the princess, then....
The only possible goal was this outcome.
To be captured, tortured, in search of answers. Why, for what, what would he get out of it, no, they?
Questions to which there was no such easy answer. He had no idea what to think.
But just because he couldn't find answers didn't mean there weren't any. It didn't mean there was nothing to find.
Desmond glanced back at the assassin, who suddenly seemed even smug, as if confirming his suspicions.
But only as.
He knew a way to remove his doubts, though.
Very simple. Quick and violent.
The assassin, whose name he didn't yet know and might never discover, opened his mouth to say something. Before he could even begin...
Desmond plunged the knife into his stomach. He plunged the entire blade into his innards.
Only the hilt was sticking out, splattered with blood and other internal fluids.
The assassin let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a scream, he convulsed as if the steel of the knife was burning red hot. Half from pain, half from surprise.
Desmond didn't stop there.
Without a second thought, without the slightest hesitation....
He opened its entrails with that same knife. He passed it from left to right, deepening, widening the cut, savaging. His smile had become something completely different. An ugly grimace, teeth clenched, all showing.
He enjoyed it.
Yes, he was enjoying it... and he didn't mind at all.
This was him, deep down.
The killer used his affinity, again.
What did he intend to accomplish with that? He had asked him once before, not long ago. He hadn't received an answer. He hadn't found one.
Now he wouldn't either. Definitely.
Because there was no answer.
No logical one, at least. There was no answer except fear. He hadn't expected it to go this far.
He didn't know what he could do.
So...
He had stopped everything, again.
But he couldn't stop indefinitely. When enough time 'passed', the effect broke, and Desmond went on with his bloody work.
With the same horrible grimace.
With the same intensity, as if nothing had happened, there had been no interruption.
He cut him open like a fucking pig, because that's what he was. Then he withdrew the knife and let him collapse. But not too far.
After all, he was still tied up. The chains held him back.
They allowed him to see, hanging by his hands and feet, how his blood dripped from the wound in his stomach and made a puddle on the floor. As his glistening intestines, which seemed about to explode, threatened to join the blood.
He was emitting incoherent sounds from the back of his throat.
"What was the plan?" Desmond asked, undeterred. Watching as he bled out in front of him. Slowly but painfully.
The assassin didn't answer him. He just kept whimpering.
It sounded like he was drowning in his own blood. It sounded as if he had stabbed him in the throat.
It sounded like, even if he had the presence of mind to respond at this very moment, he wouldn't have been physically able to.
But it was only what it sounded like.
He could respond. And he would respond.
"You heard me. What was the plan?"
"I'm dying. First... First fix me."
"What was the plan? This woman can fix you. But she won't lay a finger on you until you talk, understand?"
"You... You need me. You need me," he said, spasming violently.
"Didn't I tell you? Like you, there are many. Dozens, even hundreds. Even if you die, I can find someone to replace you. Someone who's more willing to talk, instead of clamming up for some stupid reason. So talk. Or die. Those are your two options. Talk... or die."
He didn't talk.
He continued to moan, eyes glued to the ground, breathing heavily. The woman with him took a step forward, attracting his attention.
Desmond turned his head and the woman stopped at that very moment.
Yes. It actually looked as if she was more afraid of him than the prisoner. He wouldn't show it, but that.... That wasn't pleasant.
It could be the least of it, in a situation like this.
But it wasn't pleasant at all. Desmond would like it to be different. There was nothing he could do to change it, though. He could already imagine what would come out of her mouth. And what he would have to answer.
"Sir Orosco, let me...."
"No."
"If he dies..."
"You are here to obey my orders," Desmond answered sharply. "If he doesn't speak, there's no healing for him. We'll let him die like the dog he is."
The woman took a step back and simply nodded her head, even more nervous. He promised himself that when this was over he would apologize to her.
And he would ask her name.
But for the moment, he had to act stern. He couldn't let her defy him, let the assassin think, even for a moment, that he was going to be saved. That they couldn't afford to lose him.
"I'm dying. I'm dying."
Desmond remained silent, waiting.
"We didn't want to kill her. Okay, that's the truth! We didn't mean to kill her! Now... now help me..."
"Keep talking," Desmond replied with an arctic coldness in his voice.
"My mission was to stab her. But not to kill her. We just wanted to hurt her... That's all..."
"For what?"
"Please. I think I'm about to pass out. And if I lose consciousness now, I'm going to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. Please. Please."
Desmond twisted his face. He thought he couldn't be more disgusted by how pathetic this guy could be.
But, once again, he had exceeded all his expectations.
"Sir Orosco..."
Desmond made the decision that he probably wasn't lying and couldn't push this much further, not without risking the prisoner actually dying. So he nodded his head and stepped aside, leaving the way clear for this woman.
Perhaps it was too late for her to save him, despite her supposed great talent. If it was, Desmond wouldn't be too sorry. He wasn't lying when he said that, like him, there were hundreds to replace him.
It wouldn't take much for them to find a replacement.
Another to hang from the same chains.
To hack up like an animal.
The woman healed the internal damage, then closed the deep, wide cut. He hadn't died on her, after all. Just as Charlotte had promised him, she was a woman capable of keeping the prisoner alive even after he'd done almost anything to him.
Almost.
Everything has its limit.
He saw the woman reach out to touch the assassin's right hand.
Desmond intervened, grabbing her shoulder, making her stop.
"No. Healing his fingers is unnecessary. It won't kill him."
The woman hesitated for a few moments, but finally backed down.
Desmond resumed his previous position.
"Now you understand I was serious, don't you? Tell me where the rest of the rats are hiding. Or I'll kill you."
"I'm dead anyway," he replied slowly and after a while. "For having raised a weapon against royalty."
"No. If you cooperate, I can promise you that you won't be executed. That instead you will be allowed to rot in jail."
"That's not a life," the prisoner said, with a smile that seemed to be mocking himself.
"But it is a kind of life. Anything is better than death. Because there is nothing else. Believe me. It's the truth. I've died more times than I can count, only to come back to life. And I can tell you there's nothing else. No paradise, no eternal punishment. Only darkness."
His words not only had an effect on the prisoner, but also disturbed his attendant.... One more thing to feel guilty about. She didn't need to know that.
But...
"You're lying!" the prisoner said.
"Why lie when I can hurt you more with the simple truth?"
The prisoner was silent, then. He had nothing to say. Because there was nothing to say. He had told the truth, in effect.
Of course, his case might be an anomaly.
He had died more times than he could count, but only temporarily. So perhaps not enough time had passed. Maybe those who believed there was something else were right after all.
But it didn't matter. The assassin would surely not be able to think about that.
And even if he did, he couldn't convince himself of that. He was alone and scared. At his mercy.
His words would be one more blow, in a moment of weakness.
I am good at torturing people, after all, he thought. In a variety of ways.
"Words are blown by the wind. I need the princess to come here. Sign it. Make it official. Only then... Only then..."
Desmond kept from laughing. Hardly, though. He couldn't believe something like that had come out of his mouth.
"So what? Don't tell me you're so innocent. Even if you get a royal pardon, signed by the princess herself, if we don't want you alive, we can just shred the paper and throw it away. Words are blown by the wind. True. Pieces of paper are just as easily blown away."
Yes.
It didn't make sense.
He supposed that maybe he had said it merely as a ploy to buy time.
"That night, we spared your friend's life, even though she killed many of us."
Desmond frowned.
He remembered it well, of course. If the assassin intended to get out of this alive, he should have known that reminding him of what had almost, almost happened wasn't a good decision.
Why he'd been so eager to take those sons of bitches out in the first place.
Yeah, it hadn't been a wise decision, reminding him of that.
"Now... you act like this... you act like this and you dare act like you're better than us?"
Better than them?
Where had that come from? Now he couldn't help but laugh. In an exaggerated way.
"I know what I am. I know I'm a monster." That, too, was true. Since the interrogation had begun, he hadn't told a single lie. He was convinced of it now. "But... But at least I don't hide behind a golden mask, when all there is underneath is dirt. I don't try to hurt little girls in the name of the greater good, thinking I'm some kind of knight fighting for justice. I know what I am. Do you? You guys are still acting under the illusion that you're anything more than monsters hungry for control."
"I did what I had to do, believing in my cause. Same as you." Then he fell silent.
Anyway. He didn't mind putting an end to this sterile topic, for they had strayed, without him realizing it, from what really mattered here. Letting himself be carried away by his feelings. By his anger.
"Let's focus on what matters. Tell me the location of your base or bases, as many as you know."
That guy was a nobody, just as Desmond had claimed. Replaceable.
Surely the golden masks had more than one base and surely the assassin didn't know most of them. But something he did have to know, as a member of the group.
He would at least provide him with something to start with.
He would make sure of it.
Desmond smiled. He licked his lips. Almost there. He was so close he could almost taste it. His revenge.
And... that they could sleep peacefully at night again.
They would only be able to sleep peacefully once all of these were dead, or at least behind bars. Somewhere far away, preferably.
The answer was...
"No."
Surprisingly, the golden mask still dared to challenge him. Even though he had come so far. He had proved that his life was really at stake. And Desmond had given him, furthermore, such a simple form of escape, an escape from pain, from death.
Still, he had answered him with a very decisive no.
As if the assassin was the one in control of the situation. The one who made the rules. As if he could afford to not obey his orders.
Desmond made a move to step forward, he was going to show that stupid son of a bitch who was in charge, really. But then... His head started spinning.
And he misstepped, and almost ended up on the ground.
"Sir Orosco?" It was subtle, but it didn't go unnoticed in the healer's eyes. He supposed because her profession was focused on people's health, she was sensitive to changes.
He hadn't noticed anything before it happened. It just... had happened.
And it went from bad to worse in the space of a heartbeat.
Desmond fell to his knees.
He heard a scream.
From her? From him?
He put his hands to his temples, squeezing hard, as if that way he could make it stop spinning. As if that way he could make the pain that threatened to split his head in half go away. When it was rather the other way around.
His teeth were clenched as tightly as his hands were on his head.
His teeth were chattering.
He closed his eyes for a moment, really, just for a moment....
When he opened them...
He stopped breathing. The man in chains was gone. The chains clinked on the floor, as if it had been something recent, something that had happened... right under his nose... without him noticing anything.
Desmond looked around.
The woman... She wasn't there either.
How could this have happened? What exactly had happened in the first place?
It didn't matter.
Catching the fugitive (if he was still within reach), took precedence. He could worry about what had happened, and how to prevent it from happening again, when he had him back behind bars. In his power.
Desmond staggered out through the cell door.
His steps were unsteady. He had to lean, with his hands, first on the wall and then on the bars. For fear of losing his balance.
And fear of not being able to get up, afterwards.
His head still hurt. He still felt dizzy. Although both sensations weren't as intense as at the beginning, it still took its toll on him... whatever it was.
Had he really passed out?
He really had the feeling that no more than a second had passed since he closed his eyes.
A blink of an eye. A single blink.
How could this have happened in the blink of an eye?
Desmond put his hands to his head again, as if it did something against the lacerating pain. Or any kind of pain.
The hallway was pitch black. He'd noticed that already, before and after he'd entered. Several times. But now... It was hard to tell.
Now the darkness seemed almost... unnatural.
He would have laughed at himself, except that he knew well it was something within the realm of possibility. Christina was his friend. She would do him no harm, at least not on purpose.
But she wasn't the only user of shadow magic in this world.
There were others, still alive.
Just as dangerous. Or even more so. So, that thought...
It wasn't something to laugh at.
Desmond looked around. He could see no sign of the enemy. Nor did he hear anything.
But he did pick up on a strange smell, quickly.
Well, it started out as nothing more than a smell at least. But soon it escalated. And how. The hallway was gradually becoming filled with a white smoke. But not where he was, but up ahead.
That way, he thought. That's where the son of a bitch must have gone.
Desmond moved down the hallway.
Well, maybe he wouldn't find the assassin, not yet. But he wasn't the only one who had disappeared like it was nothing. The woman, too. If she was still alive, she could tell where that one had gone, what he'd done.
If she was still alive, of course.
She wasn't in the cell. So surely she had gone out after him, had tried to stop him.
Desmond swallowed hard.
He hoped she was alive, at least. Whether she'd succeeded or not.
He didn't want... He didn't want that on his conscience.
"Desmond. Desmond."
His first thought wasn't that the healer was calling out to him, asking for help.
His first thought was that that was Abigail's voice, calling to him from a distance.
He was wrong.
"It's not too late to back out."
That voice...
"It's not too late to save yourself.
It was foolish. Or it should be. He didn't remember that person's face, let alone his voice. But...
"My son..."
Desmond gasped. His heart leapt into his throat.
That was his mother's voice.
His mother's re... biological, not Abigail's.
He didn't know how, but he was convinced that was her voice. His mother's voice, nameless, faceless.
Who had died under the rubble.
Who had died in that darkness. Like all the others.
Just like him...
He would have died, if it weren't for Abigail.
"This isn't real. This is not real. This can't be real," he repeated constantly in a low, almost inaudible voice, as he kept moving forward. Through the darkness. Through the smoke.
But could such a thing really be considered impossible?
In a world like his own?
Could he reject the idea, despite the life he led, despite the countless times he himself had escaped the arms of death?
Yes.
Yes, he could.
Because it made no sense. He could escape because of the power he had received from Abigail. Her... her blessing.
And Abigail could do it... because she was immortal.
But... his... his mother...
It was impossible for his mother to have survived her death. And on top of that, that she had appeared before him just now. And in this way. Just calling out to him. Without being seen.
It didn't make sense.
It didn't make sense.
None of this had made sense from the beginning.
The damned hallway seemed endless. Desmond stopped abruptly as he came upon three vaporous silhouettes in the fog.
He recognized them immediately, without having to think about it.
Father. Mother.
Sister...
The whole family, reunited again. The whole family...
"It's not too late to back out yet," speaking in unison. Begging. What?
Back out of what?
Save himself from what?
Desmond gritted his teeth again. Power gathered in the extremities of his wavering body.
"Enough! You're not real!"
Desmond swung his sword with both hands, violently and frantically. Cutting through the fog. And through the family he had lost long ago, making them disappear.
Making them leave him alone....
No, no, no, no, no. He had been alone for a long time. But things had changed. He had a family now.
He wasn't alone and...
It was going from bad to worse with alarming speed. His head hurt like it was going to split in half, he was having trouble walking as the world spun around with him as its axis.
Now he was even starting to find it hard to breathe and his eyes were glistening with tears, blurring his vision.
Now he was bad. Fucked up.
But he pushed his weakness aside when he saw it. He forgot about it. He forgot even the ghosts of his past, which were behind him like the shadow of death following in his footsteps.
The fugitive.
At last.
He was there, through the smoke, across the hall.
At the end of the darkness.
"I've got you now, you son of a bitch!"
Desmond broke into a run toward the assassin with all the energy he'd thought he hadn't had just a moment ago. Mind clear, steps firm. There was nothing that could stop him.
He thought so.
That's why he didn't stop to think about why he was standing there, as if waiting, when he should have been waiting for the assassin to come to him.
That's why he didn't stop to think why he was standing there, as if waiting, when he should have had plenty of time to get out of there. He should have been startled, at least, instead of showing no reaction at all.
Nor did he stop to think about the strange things that had happened since he closed his eyes and what they meant, as a whole.
Or, for that matter...
Why didn't he feel the effect of the assassin's affinity.
He simply ran up to the assassin and charged him, plunging the sword into his chest.
The assassin was at the end of the darkness, he had said.
At the end of the darkness... was the light.
He saw it too late. No, he didn't see it, but he realized it. When the glass exploded around him. When the moonlight poured over them as they fell through the air.
Not them.
The killer, whom he thought he had skewered, disappeared as his family had a moment ago.
That is, like fog.
The impact.
His world became even darker and more distorted, as if looking at the world through a fogged glass. For a moment he thought he had burst into tears.
Then the current swept him away like trash.
The rest was darkness.
***
A distorted world, upside down, tinged with dark blue. A strong pressure, enveloping his whole body, but especially resting on his chest.
He felt like his chest was going to crack and fall apart.
He had the feeling that his chest was going to explode.
At the same time, he felt very hot and very cold. He thought: this is like being in the womb.
An absurd comparison, of course.
That was something no one remembered. He, in fact, didn't even remember what his mother had been like.
But that was the first thing that popped into his head anyway.
Dark. It was very dark.
And it was getting darker with each passing second. As the air was starting to get thin. Was that it? Shortness of breath? What was going on?
How had he gotten here?
He couldn't understand.
He couldn't remember at all.
Total darkness came and went.
He could barely feel his limbs. If it wasn't in his field of vision, he wouldn't be entirely sure they were still there.
At some point, the current had stopped. No, it was he who had stopped. Slammed against something.
He could feel...
Feel his lungs filling with water.
Desmond opened his eyes wide. He struggled, with the little strength in his body, to surface.
He had to get out of here or he would die, or at least something would happen to him that was indistinguishable from death. His regenerative power was almost limitless, but he couldn't regenerate from his lungs being filled with water.
He would sink into darkness. At the bottom of the ocean.
He would be left alone.
He would be forgotten.
And if he didn't get out of here, he wouldn't be able to rescue Abigail. He would never be able to.
She needed him.
She could only depend on him. So, he had to gather his strength in his body and to the surface, he had to make it, only he could do it, only he, of all the people in the world, she had chosen him....
He broke the surface of the water.
Desmond crawled to the surface. He coughed, hard, the water that had entered his lungs as if he were vomiting.
Once free of the water, he was also free of the shadows of the past.
Back to reality.
That had happened a... a long time ago. Less time than it seemed. But quite a long time. Abigail was saved, and he wasn't alone. Not anymore.
Desmond remembered that this was the way things were. But that left him in the dark.
What had happened, how he'd ended up here. What was going on.
Questions he had no answers to.
He kept coughing. His chest heaved spasmodically as he expelled water and other shit.
When he finished, he saw something in the corners of his blurry vision. A pair of boots. He lifted his head, alarmed, and saw it there.
The realization was like a lightning strike.
He understood everything about the situation in an instant.
The man in front of him was his prisoner, the golden mask who had escaped. He had ended up in this situation trying to catch him.
Despite the difficulties, despite how close he had come, here he was again.
Good.
Desmond slowly stood up, leaning on the ground first, then putting his hands on his knees. He heard his bones creak. He could feel blood running down the side of his head.
He did nothing. The blood was falling in a way that didn't hinder his vision. So moving it out of the way would only be a waste of time. Besides, trying to do so would probably only make it worse.
The assassin turned and ran.
Desmond started running after him.
I can still do it.
I can catch this son of a bitch. I can.
***
Christina was the first to enter. Breaking in wouldn't be the most apt to describe what happened, the door wasn't locked or any other way, she found it ajar. So she didn't have to force anything, but forcing her way in was perhaps the most apt to describe the feeling it conveyed.
The rage, the power pulsing under her skin.
Once again she was running through the shadows of the night, what should be her domain, in fear.
As when Laura, the false teacher.
As in the attack on the camp and the long, long flight, seriously believing she would never see another sunrise.
Princess Charlotte had warned them. And, of course, it had taken them a while to get ready and get to the palace. So, although she still felt fear, she'd had enough time for her fear to be eclipsed by rage.
For a long time she had directed that rage inside her at Desmond. For betraying them, for abandoning them.
No, that way of putting it implied that he saw his betrayal of Amy as a crime of equal importance. Which couldn't be further from the truth.
She was selfish, so she felt"she felt, at least, even if it wasn't true"that what he had done to her...was something special.
Especially serious.
Especially unforgivable.
Desmond wasn't here, though. He wasn't at home, either. She didn't know where he was, and that was the point now. The reason for her rage. Fortunately, she had a perfect target on which to unload her rage.
Christina walked between the rows of bars and cells until she found the only one of them that was occupied.
Open, too. Wide open. Hanging from the chains was an animal at her mercy.
At that instant.
The next second, it wasn't there anymore. The chains were ripped from the wall and fell to the floor, coiling, clinking. Tinkling like broken glass.
On the back wall a crack was created in the shape of the person who had been hanging on those chains just a moment ago.
Mysteriously.
Christina hadn't realized what she had done. It just happened. As if she had set the autopilot.
As if... someone else's will had moved her.
"Where is Desmond? What have you done to him? Answer me. Or I'll tear the answer out of you with my bare hands, sooner or later you'll talk, so I don't care one way or the other."
Of course, she did care.
Time was pressing. A single second could make the difference between life and death. Desmond was powerful, practically indestructible.
But only practically.
He wasn't an immortal, like Abigail. He could be killed.
So time was running out.
That guy kept silent, still pressed against the wall by her shadows, even after the powerful blow he had received.
Staring at her with a smirk that was getting on her nerves.
Okay. If he didn't want to talk, she'd make him talk. The time had come to cut and tear. The living shadows moved, responding to her will, like muscles tensing in preparation for the effort.
But she was stopped.
Amy put a hand on her shoulder, willing her to stop.
For a moment Christina directed the rage boiling inside her at Amy, who wasn't to blame for anything.
But only for a moment.
As she had said, she wasn't to blame for anything. And besides... They'd been through too much together. Not just with Desmond. Especially after he'd left. Then, forcibly, she admitted, they had become closer than ever.
Because they had only been able to lean on each other.
So Christina couldn't be mad at her, not really, not for too long.
Not to mention that, in this, they were certainly united. Amy had been looking for her to forgive Desmond from the very first moment. So the anger beat in their hearts with equal intensity, for what had happened, for what might happen.
She'd had her reasons. She'd interpreted it as an attempt to stop her.
But she'd have her reasons.
"Let me do it," Amy said, determined. Her eyes, which were like daggers, were fixed on the prisoner. "There is no reason to count on him to cooperate or to force him to do so with violence. It can be simpler than that."
Ah. She'd almost forgotten.
Or, rather, she preferred to forget it. It wasn't something she was comfortable with. The power to bend people's will, with just a few words, absolutely.
Though if that power had to fall into someone's hands, who could be better than someone who had experienced what it was like to live under an absolute yoke?
Amy stared at the prisoner. And she gave him an order.
The prisoner, unable to do anything else, began to speak.
***
They ran through the dark city. It was silent, it was almost dead. In fact, Desmond had the feeling that they were the only people in the whole city.
Of course, that couldn't be true.
But the feeling remained.
He preferred it that way, actually. That there were no people who could be dragged into this.
He didn't need the death and suffering of more people on his conscience.
He already carried... the weight of too many souls.
He already had more than enough of that weight. So the current situation suited him just fine. He hoped it would stay that way. Though, of course, it would be impossible for it to stay that way forever.
Or not impossible, well... Depended on how fast he was able to catch the astard.
Anyway.
He could do this alone. He'd already done it once, during the dinner, and he'd do it again with more or less the same ease. He didn't need any help at all to take care of one man.
If they wanted to cause him trouble, they should have brought a fucking army.
They ran through streets and alleys. They ran over fences, and straight through them with all their might, tearing them down.
They climbed onto rooftops, climbed back down and kept going.
The chase was getting too long. Too long. For some reason, he just wasn't able to catch up to that son of a bitch.
He should be stronger. Faster. More... everything.
But he wasn't able to reach him. He was always staying just out of reach, even if it was just a little bit.
It was maddening.
Desmond gritted his teeth like a beast. He was, he always had been, but he was working, right here, right now, for the greater good. For the good of all the people in this kingdom. So...
Desmond shook his head. As if to get those unnecessary doubts and questions out of his head.
And they were really unnecessary, just another burden.
Not long after it started to rain. He didn't pay attention to it, but it seemed like the world itself was against him. How come he hadn't been able to catch him yet?
What had they done to him that a pissant like that had managed to stay out of his reach?
Desmond put a hand to his head, clenching, as he kept running.
His head felt like it was going to explode. And that his attempts to remember what had happened only increased the searing pain, the almost unbearable pain.
It wasn't normal at all, of course.
None of this.
That he was faster than he was, though not by much.
The pain in his head.
The unnatural weakness. And not being able to remember how the fuck he'd gotten to this point. The last thing Desmond remembered was torturing the very guy he was now desperately trying to catch.
He didn't understand how the hell he could have broken free of his chains.
And even if he had, how he had made it out of the palace alive, even while abusing his affinity.
He had seen with his own hands that, as powerful as the golden mask was, he was limited by the expenditure of magical energy involved.
So...
So, all those questions were useless.
He couldn't let him slip away.
He would turn it over a thousand times, if not more, when he had it in his possession again. But not before.
He had to think about this in a positive way, as difficult as it was for him. True, he hadn't managed to catch him yet. But, looking at it another way, he hadn't lost sight of him for a second either.
Desmond was managing to always stay close to the target.
Which meant it was only a matter of time before he caught it. Yes, only a matter of time.
Because the assassin would get tired, sooner or later. But he couldn't get tired. No sir.
As always, time was on his side.
In time, he would come out on top.
Then...
In that instant...
The assassin disappeared in front of his eyes. Like melting in the rain. Desmond stopped suddenly. His footsteps weren't the only thing that stopped. He could have sworn his heart stopped too.
"What was that? Where is he?
He looked around, overcome by the feeling that something similar had happened in the not too distant past.
That strange sensation, frankly, outweighed the fear that he might have escaped.
But he hadn't escaped him.
He saw it again on the right, at the other end of the street. He was about to enter an alley. About to disappear from sight.
Just about to. He hadn't been fast enough.
"I got you, you son of a bitch! You're not getting away from me!"
Desmond ran after him again.
Along the way he ran into several people for the first time in this whole race. Shadows that trembled like a candle flame behind the rain curtain.
He crossed the entrance to the alley.
He didn't see the golden mask there. But he couldn't be too far ahead.
Desmond walked deeper into the alley and it seemed empty to him, too, at first. He despaired that he had escaped him. That he had wasted what might well turn out to be his best chance to take down the golden masks. Then they came to him. The alley filled with black robes that blended into the darkness of the night. It was filled with golden masks that glowed extra bright in the moonlight.
All of them armed with daggers.
Desmond laughed.
It didn't matter if he had missed the assassin or was somewhere in this group, wearing his own mask and tunic. It didn't matter. Many more who could replace him had willingly come forward in front of him. It was enough if he left at least one of them alive. Actually, this was a better outcome. Whatever affinity the one he ended up capturing here and now had, it would surely be less problematic to contain than the ability to stop time.
It never crossed his mind, not for a moment, that he might lose.
That was just the way he was.
"A trap. I see. But you're wrong if you think that's enough to stop me. This isn't even close!"
They came at him, silently.
Desmond resisted with everything he had. But he was obviously not at his best. It soon became apparent that this didn't just apply to his strength and speed.
A storm of shadows and steel surrounded him, accompanied by flashes of gold.
Cuts were made all over his body.
On the legs, on the arms. On the chest, especially. With ease. Even though they shouldn't be able to penetrate his skin. Not yet, not so soon.
It was as if the physical reinforcement had only ten percent, at most, of its effectiveness.
Or as if most, if not all, of the reinforcement was being spent on....
Simply allowing it to keep working.
Keep going forward.
Defending and attacking.
Despite whatever the fuck they had done to him. Whatever was happening to his body.
It didn't matter, Desmond told himself.
He didn't need the help of physical reinforcement to beat a dozen or so enemies. He was strong. And not just because he depended on it, or on his semi"immortality.
He certainly wouldn't have made it this far without one or the other.
But from this, at least, he could fight his way out of it as just another human.
But he wouldn't do anything if he allowed things to go on like this. There were too many of them. To win, he needed to take control, to dictate the pace of the fight. He had ceded that control by going on the defensive.
No, even if he was only fighting one person, the best defense was a good offense.
Time to regain control.
His eyes lit up with mischief. Desmond gritted his teeth. Holding the sword in both hands, he described a circle around it, fast as a whirlwind.
The golden masks moved as far away as the alley allowed them.
Many of them dodged the blow.
Two weren't so lucky. One was split in half and died soon after, from the heavy loss of blood.
Another was hit in the leg. Blowing it off.
"I'll kill you all! I won't leave a single one of you animals in this world!" he shouted before completing the move.
The golden masks had been left with no choice but to back down. While thinking that it was strange that he hadn't used any kind of magic so far, Desmond executed a backflip.
Putting some additional distance between him and his enemies.
At least that was the idea.
But he wasn't able to pull it off.
In mid-air, he was caught with some kind of magic energy whip. He was then slammed against the wall of the alley with enough force to crack the wall.
The impact knocked the air out of his lungs.
For a moment he thought he would pass out, but managed to cling to consciousness.
Albeit barely.
***
The assassin finished telling everything. Except for his name, but he didn't need to. When he was released from her power, he looked at her as if she was his worst nightmare.
She could understand it. But she didn't care too much.
Maybe she should, but she didn't care. She couldn't force herself to care, with what was at stake. Again. Again and again. They couldn't seem to escape this circle.
But her rage was as intense as the first time.
And as dark as the fear beating in her chest.
They had wasted too much time already. Unlike the witch, Desmond was not literally indestructible. It was within the realm of possibility that they would come too far.
They had wasted too much time already. Unlike the witch, Desmond wasn't literally indestructible. It was within the realm of possibility that they were too late.
She needed things to be right. And for that, she needed both of them. So there was nothing she was more afraid of in this world. It wasn't written in her eyes, all over her expression, as with the expression of the two-bit thug in front of her. But, still, she was terrified. No doubt about it.
Too much had happened to her. She had done... too many things.
She had a feeling that, without the two of them, a dark abyss would swallow her up. If she looked back, she too would be swallowed up with nothing left. She lived with this constant, pressing anxiety to stay out of the darkness.
She felt she couldn't be still and couldn't feel calm anywhere.
The golden mask was looking at her as if she wasn't even a human being. But in a different way than "he" had looked at her while he was alive.
"He" had never had fear in his expression. Not even at the end.
Amy grimaced.
"What have you done to me? How did you...?" The assassin swallowed. "We made a mistake. We made a big mistake that night. The witch and her protégé are a great threat to the kingdom. But you may be the greatest. We should have killed you."
Amy answered simply:
"It's possible."
"Okay," Christina said, "Does anyone know where that street is?"
"I don't know," Amy said, "but we can ask for directions along the way. Let's get going."
"You already have someone here to ask for directions," Abigail said. Amy looked at her. "Finish the job."
Amy turned her head to look at the assassin again. It was true. She hadn't finished the job.
She gave him one last order.
"Bite your tongue. Until you rip it out.
His face twisted with panic and she saw the effort in his eyes. The desire to stay alive. But no matter how much will he put into it, it wasn't possible.
Those soldiers had resisted her. But not for long.
In the end they had done what she ordered them to do.
In the end they had all done it.
"Why did you do that?" Abigail had felt the need to ask that question, but the strange thing was that she was very calm, she didn't even sound angry that she had gone against her words. Well. More like her order.
Amy decided to answer honestly, as there was no point in doing otherwise.
"I couldn't bear to see his face for another second. And we don't need him. We can ask for directions along the way. Now all we have to do is get going. We've wasted too much time already."
Only after those words left her mouth did she realize she had repeated herself. Oh well.
As she'd said, they were on their way. Immediately.
As for asking for directions, the best candidate was, of course, the person who had called them here in the first place.
The princess of Albion.
***
They had him pinned against the wall with the use of that whip of magical energy, wrapped around his torso, squeezing with great force. That was the first time any of them had used magic in the entire battle.
He supposed because, although they wanted to do this as quickly as possible, they also wanted to be as discreet as possible.
Anyway, whatever.
Desmond wasn't in perfect condition. But if they were only able to make it this far, then they still couldn't stop him.
He cut the whip, causing it to dissolve.
Making it let go of him.
He landed nicely, on his feet, but still lost his balance and almost ended up on the ground. Weak.
He was fucked and with every moment it was getting worse.
So Desmond had to end this as soon as possible. The possibility of backing out didn't enter his head. He couldn't let this opportunity pass him by.
If he ran away instead of fighting on, allowing the golden masks to go back into hiding, who knew when they would show up again?
They had raised their weapons against Charlotte, even though the assassin said he had only intended to hurt her, not kill her.
Who knows what they would stoop to next time, if they were desperate enough?
Who knows if he could stop them?
No.
This had to end as soon as possible. And he could end it.
Desmond took a firm step forward, sword held in both hands. He stepped over a puddle of water on the ground, sending ripples across its surface. The water wasn't the only thing undulating, of course. But he would hold steady long enough.
"Come and get me..... you sons of bitches. I still... I can still fight.
And he tried. You couldn't say, at least, that he didn't try.
Unfortunately, he didn't get very far.
They didn't even have to use magic. They surprised him with a blow to the back of the head. Making his world spin even more. Making his knees wobble. Making him fall.
And then... he was injected with something in one arm.
He turned around abruptly, throwing the syringe and the liquid inside against the floor, causing it to shatter into a thousand pieces.
But it was too late. He had been injected with something.
Something.
Desmond raised his head.
His vision was very blurry and much of it, he knew in his innermost self, had nothing to do with the rain engulfing them.
They were all wearing masks like theatrical masks.
Inexpressive, featureless. Yet, at the same time, they were made of gold.
There was...
There was something that... Something that his mind almost, almost reached. About the true nature of his enemy. But he was unable to complete the thought.
It didn't.
Anyway, it didn't matter anymore.
Aside from the dark cloaks and the glint of daggers....
Before he lost consciousness altogether, he saw some ghosts in the rain. The blurred silhouettes of the family he'd never had and didn't remember.
But their voice was clear.
"It's too late now," they told him in unison.
After that, darkness. There was only darkness.
Knight of Justice (3): FIN