Life was a war.

Like war, it was full of rules and regulations. Things you were supposed to do and things you were not. And, like war, at the moment of truth all that nonsense ceased to matter.

What really mattered was revealed. No, the only thing that had mattered all along.

The struggle for survival.

Which, in a natural habitat as complex as human society, didn't have to be literally fighting someone to the death.

Except if you looked at it from a very distant and removed perspective.

Like, for example, not being able to put food on the table one day didn't have to determine your life. But if you weren't able to do it one day, what says you'll be able to do it the next or the day after that?

What tells you that that will one day change, that you're not trapped in a downward spiral?

But that was an example that anyone could understand.

There were more subtle things. And more powerful.

Even something as simple as not knowing how to talk well with people, to understand people, could destroy your life.

A life without friends. Without people you could count on, at least.

A life with no one to love you after your parents, practically forced to do so, inevitably died. And that's if your parents loved you at all rather than despised you, either deeply or openly.

There were many exceptions to that rule. Many.

For example...

To get to the point at once, it was all part of the battle. The daily routine. The conversations. How well you did in school. Your relationships with others.

It even applied to more abstract concepts like morality.

The battle, in that case, was to be better than everyone else. Or at least feeling like it, that it was just as good and something that no person would look down on to go after the equivalent, which wouldn't give them anything extra and was harder on top of that. Simply feeling superior was the best.

But that was all just masks. Dances. Smoke and mirrors.

The creatures known as humans had so called themselves as if to distinguish themselves from the multitude of animals that walked or crawled on the ground.

Yet they were nothing more than animals, after all. Just as dirty, just as violent. Brutal.

That was the truth.

They could pretend all they wanted, but when it came down to it, it was the real fight for survival that counted. With tooth and nail. With whatever it took.

Where no life had weight and value, except your own.

If there was any difference between humans and animals... It was that the struggle for survival among humans was even more bloody than that of mere animals, who could not even imagine how far humans could go.

Because among humans there was no food chain.

Anyone could eat anyone. No one was safe, secure in their position.

Not the most wretched beggar, not the most gold"covered king.

That was the truth. And Desmond Orosco learned that truth very quickly, being left with no other choice.

He could remember every moment of the day when everything changed for him perfectly. Even the unimportant parts, the parts that belonged to the daily routine that, for the most part, was lost without return in the sea of memory.

But now the boy was busy remembering " in the form of a nightmare or a mere dream perhaps; only Desmond knew the answer to that question " what really mattered.

The moment when everything had changed for him, really.

Not the day his city was razed to the ground and his family wiped from the face of this world... as well as from his memory, from his heart.

No. He was referring to the moment when he began his struggle for survival, instead of just continuing to live.

What had happened?

For one thing, he was being hunted.

Even though, as he had said, he remembered everything, every turn, every street, every word and expression, even the dream had distorted his surroundings beyond recognition.

They were no longer those of a human city. The buildings were astronomical in weight and size.

The streets, impossibly wide.

It was as if he was lost in a city built for giants.

But those who walked through it were human beings. Passers"sometimes stopped, sometimes turned to look at them. None would do anything. And all, sooner or later, would pass them by, moving on with their lives.

Ignoring three ragged children who were chasing a fourth. Desmond.

The child Desmond was running with a bag pressed to his chest. In it were a few ounces of warm bread. Three or four. It wasn't exactly a feast, but it was real food.

Not food from the rubbish or the dump. Dirty, stale food, food that had long since passed its sell"by date.

That was food for rats and other filthy vermin, so to speak.

What he was carrying in his arms? Banquet or not, that was food for human beings, and therefore of infinitely greater value than any banquet that street rats might form by spending half the day scavenging in different parts of the city.

Therefore, a "normal", blessed person would do nothing. He or she would be willing to give up the bag without a second thought.

But the rats?

Not a chance. Desmond wouldn't give it up, and the children who chased him never tired of running after him. If they did, the sight of the loaves of bread sticking out of the bag gave them renewed strength. Like eating before eating.

For people who were so empty, even the smell of tasty food was enough to fill them up. At least for a while.

And finally, after all that running, the inevitable happened.

Desmond had lost enough strength for the children to catch up. One of them rammed him from behind, knocking him to the ground, and climbed on top of him.

He shouted at him and hit him with his small fists on the neck, on the head.

But Desmond stood strong, holding the bag against his chest.

What was it that the boy shouted? Nothing of particular importance. Demands. Threats. In the end, everything that boy would have said that day, as well as everything Desmond said or could have said back to him, boiled down to this: "I'm hungry".

No more and no less than that.

The other two boys reached down and tugged at his arms, slowly but surely pulling the bag out from under his chest. One of the loaves rolled out, hitting the ground.

None of the people present cared about a detail like that. For obvious reasons.

Little Desmond seemed to be having difficulty breathing. Because of the weight on his back, partially, but mostly because of fear. Of his food being taken away from him. Of what they might do to him after that.

Of returning to the hole where he was currently hiding with an empty stomach and the smell of warm bread still lingering in his nostrils, a ghostly smell.

Fear was one of the most powerful forces of all.

Humans were dominated by fear and desire, like all animals, after all.

And that's when Desmond made the life changing decision that rewrote the kind of person he was.

Only that making a decision was saying too much. It was more of a knee jerk reaction.

Stemming from a side of himself that Desmond himself had been unaware of and that would now come to light? Yes. It was a change, but not a transformation. It had been like that, deep down, from the "beginning".

Since that day.

Otherwise, he wouldn't have had the strength to go this far.

Desmond picked up the largest stone on the ground, within reach. And struck the boy on top of him once, causing him to fall sideways with a strange whimper of pain that was not proportionate to the blow he had been given. Almost as if he had stumbled without losing his balance, not being hit hard using a rock.

At the time, Desmond had been a vagrant. A malnourished child, one step away from death, fighting death every day.

But that didn't mean he didn't have a lot of strength.

What animal could be stronger than one that was on the verge of death, that could lose everything? Yes. Not just a few ounces of bread. His first hot meal in weeks.

Everything. All of it.

"It's mine," Desmond said, even in the dream, and stood up with the bloodstained rock clutched in one hand. His legs were as shaky as his voice. "Mine, dammit."

And he struck. Again and again, he struck the boy, their positions now reversed, preventing him from getting up.

Smashing his head like a melon.

When he was done, the boy was unrecognisable. At least from the neck up. And Desmond himself was also unrecognisable, covered in blood. It was the first time he had spilled the blood of an enemy.

It was the first time he'd tasted the sense of superiority that came with rising above those who tormented you and bringing justice.

But it would not be the last.

Morality dictated that he should feel bad regardless, or at least because the boy he had just killed had been in the same circumstance as him.

But no. That came later, ironically, as the years went by. When he had grown strong.

At that moment, what he felt was excitement. His soul sang of his victory.

The remaining children fled in terror, leaving the bag of bread behind. With their bloodstained prize.

I was surprised that the dream continued. It was one the boy used to have and by habit ended here, after his first blood, his first victory. But not much. It usually didn't go much further.

The surprise came when he arrived.

To see him return to his lair, so to speak, and enjoy his prize. One of his prizes. He had to ration his food well, after all.

Too good a head for a hungry child. But, if he had enjoyed it without reservation, he might have ended up as one of the many who died out there. Alone. Forgotten. Rotting in the dark.

So he couldn't say he'd been wrong.

And Desmond's dream continued.

After his meal, what he did was lie on his side on the floor. Hugging a thing to himself.

Not the bag of bread. Not his prize.

But the one thing he would never get rid of. That he wouldn't sell even if it was the only thing he could do to see another tomorrow...

That is, the sword I left him.

It made me feel guilty to think about it. But guilt was a useless feeling, I knew that too.

Because no matter how much you regretted it, what was done was and always would be.

It's not like it can be undone.

That 's why...

Like it was a stuffed animal... I saw him sleeping hugging the sword that was the physical representation of the chain I had tied him with as if he was hugging a stuffed animal.

■

Desmond slowly opened his eyes, coming out of a dream that had once been recurring. But a long time ago.

Still, he supposed it shouldn't surprise him that he'd dreamt of that moment again. So crystal clear, so vivid in his head. Not after the other night. Of everything that had happened.

And the thoughts it had incited in him. No, the... As much as he didn't want to admit it, doubt was the most accurate word to describe it.

That was the very reason he had slept, like the dream, hugging his sword for the first time in about eight years. About that time. Yes. The strangest thing would have been if he hadn't dreamt about it.

The first time he'd killed someone, the first time he'd felt sick, guilty.

The first time he'd fallen asleep shaking from head to toe, trying not to think about anything.

In retrospect, killing that boy was something he could have avoided. Maybe just by defending himself, by making him bleed a little, the others would have chickened out anyway.

Or maybe they wouldn't and would have beaten him half to death.

In any case, he could have managed. Sooner or later.

But at that moment he had fought believing without a shadow of a doubt that it was that boy or him. Even though he felt guilty, even though he kept dreaming about him, because of that, because it had been his first time... he couldn't say he regretted it. Not exactly.

But...

But what?

Was he going to compare the boy's murder with Laura's?

It wouldn't make sense, and it would be an insult. That child had been someone like him. Just struggling to survive, day by day, doing whatever it took.

And Laura had lived with the full capacity to make her own decisions.

If she hadn't sold out to the Empire, whether out of greed or truly for the twisted ideals she had told him about, they need not have come into conflict.

But...

Desmond swallowed.

He was not well.

He had never been particularly well, but today especially. He needed to... He needed to do something. To get these unnecessary things out of his head. These meaningless burdens.

Christina.

He felt like shit for thinking about her for the first time this morning just as a way to escape from himself. But then he felt as if an invisible hand was squeezing his heart, thinking about her, imagining her in a hospital bed. Dying slowly.

He imagined, too, her corpse burning to join the earth and the heavens, and her spirit dispersing into the air, as well as her ashes.

Today he would know whether she had survived the night or not.

Remembering what she had looked like the last time he had seen her, he wasn't really able to muster much hope, no matter how fervently he wished for her survival.

In fact, she had looked almost as if she were already dead. As white as a corpse, barely conscious.

Desmond lifted his back, crawled to the edge of the bed. His body was heavy as if someone had climbed on top of him.

Amy was already awake and staring at him wordlessly. Without being able to say anything. She was probably thinking what he was thinking. That's why she couldn't speak.

Desmond walked over to the window, pulled back the curtains and pulled up the blinds, letting the sunlight into the room. He'd slept pretty well, all things considered.

But it wasn't much anyway. Three, or almost three hours, being generous.

That might be enough for dreaming, as it had been proven, but not for resting. He felt only marginally less shitty than last night.

His head throbbed, his mouth was dry.

His body was really heavy as if someone was on top of him. As if an invisible force was pulling him down. And the part of his head that throbbed was the back of his head, as if someone was digging his elbows in there, hard.

He had tossed and turned a lot during the night, you could tell, and he was sweating. Which was coupled with the smell of blood still lingering in the air.

He hadn't yet gotten rid of the clothes he'd taken off last night, but had left them lying around, after all. Those tattered clothes had been stained with blood. His own and that of others.

In short...

In short, as he'd said, he was a mess.

Desmond took a deep breath.

"Amy…" He began slowly, uncertainly.

Amy was no longer looking at him, but at his sword lying on the sheets with a hard"to"read expression.

She beat him to it, finally.

"Is this the part where you're going to explain to me why you slept with your sword in your arms?" He was taken aback by the levity, so uncharacteristic of her, and especially at a time like this.

"I don't think this is the time for joking," he replied, tensely, trying not to let it seep into his voice. Christina might....

He was unable to finish the sentence, under the weight of that terrible thought.

Amy grimaced.

He should have kept his mouth shut. Why did he realise that sort of thing when it was too late? Well, because he only noticed things when they were obvious enough that even a complete idiot like him could see them clearly.

"I know. It's just that I... I was... I didn't mean to, but I don't want to talk about it. I don't even want to think about it.

So she thought a little teasing might distract him. Okay, that... that made sense.

And now he felt even worse than before, for talking to her like that, like she didn't care about Christina. He should have known even before Amy responded that he must be misunderstanding something. And he should have kept his big mouth shut.

In general, it always was. Because when he opened it it was usually to screw up, being the way he was.

"I'm sorry. Me neither.

He was speechless again. The two of them lapsed into silence. Without speaking, without looking at each other. Without anything. I wish I could know what was going through her mind. I wish I could read her mind, damn it.

If only something was going through his mind. His mind was blank.

He wanted to get out of this somehow, but his efforts were getting him nowhere. They only made him feel more tired. More... empty, as if someone was squeezing out the last drops left in the tank.

"I used to do that," Desmond said at last. Slept like that, when I was little. It made me feel safer. More... Closer to Abigail. And last night I needed it.

Amy looked back at him, nodded.

"I... I have no right and I don't want to get involved in these things, but... It's dangerous. I don't think you should do it. I had... "He shrugged his shoulders. I had to say it, you don't have to listen to me.

"You're right. I shouldn't, but... I really needed to. It won't happen again.

I hope he added to himself.

He had no desire to have something so extreme happen to him as to push him to seek comfort and relaxation by keeping his sword close even while he slept, as he did as a child.

But it could happen. Between the attack and his reunion with his saviour, his life would inevitably become more and more interesting. In a manner of speaking.

And if... well, if Christina died, if she did... because of him....

His gaze slid back to the sword.

Desmond shook his head.

No. He couldn't do that.

"Are you ready? "Desmond asked, tactlessly, his eyes still fixed on his sword. Knowing the answer he was going to get, more or less.

He wasn't wrong.

"I'm not. But I probably never will be, so, if I were to go by that... Let's go. Let's get the hell out of here.

Desmond nodded.

He headed for the bathroom so she could change, but as he passed by, Amy stopped him by grabbing his wrist.

"What 's wrong?"

"I'll do it in the bathroom.

"Why change now? We've always done it that way."

"Exactly. I thought that I... that we, from time to time, should be the ones who change in the bathroom and you stay in the bedroom. To be fair."

"Eh..." He didn't see why that mattered. Not at all. But well, if she insisted. "All right, then."

That said, Amy picked up her clothes, neatly folded, and went to change in the bathroom. Desmond sat on her bed waiting for her.

The bathroom wasn't a bad place to change, or uncomfortable in any way. But that was precisely the "problem", the reason he didn't see any point in Amy's proposal.

But, anyway, if it didn't make any difference, there was no reason to protest.

Amy came out of the bathroom.

As he looked at her, he remembered the strong impression she had made on him when they first met. He was used to seeing her, to having her in his life, now. But... How to say it without sounding weird?

He liked looking at her.

She was nowhere near as beautiful as his saviour, as perfect. But she was a pretty girl.

But that wasn't what it was about. Not about her physical appearance. Well, yes, partly. But also in the way she dressed, which showed how much effort she always put into it. Elegant clothes, clothes that not only looked good on her, but... fit her.

They gave the same impression of solidity that the clothes of a woman in a portrait might give. As if her outfit was part of her, not something she could take off.

Yes, that. Something like that.

She was very... feminine...

And...

Ah, the more he thought about it, the weirder it seemed to him. But he really didn't have any strange intentions. It was just...

He sighed inwardly. I wish I could express myself better.

At least no one can hear my thoughts, he told himself. No one in this room, or inside the academy.

Outside the academy was another story.

Scattered across the cities, there were thousands of mages, thousands of affinities. And that was only for those who were truly mages, for those with training, not just potential. With the spark of life that all human beings possessed.

But no matter how big the world was, no matter how many of his people were in it, such an affinity was rare.

So he could rest easily.

Desmond stood up.

"This is an odd question, but, if you don't mind...."

"Go ahead."

"Do you think I need another shower?"

Amy walked over to him, sniffing him.

"You smell sweaty. But not too much. Besides, I'm sweating too, I've been tossing and turning a lot in the night. And the truth is that I'm not in the mood to get in the shower, whether I smell too much or too little. I imagine it's the same for you."

"You imagine right. I'm tired and I want to get it over with."

They went to a reception. When they told the woman there to call the hospital, whose name Amy provided, and ask for Christina she looked at them sympathetically.

But not overly so. Not enough to jump to conclusions, to say she knew Christina hadn't made it.

Not enough to kill their hope.

"I'm calling for a patient," the receptionist continued. "Christina Mason".

Mason.

He realized it was the first time he'd heard her full name. The first time she'd realised that Christina hadn't given her surname when she'd introduced herself.

He'd called her his friend, but he hadn't shown enough interest to learn her full name.

Desmond felt embarrassed. He felt like he had last night, when he had turned his back on them, or even worse perhaps.

Even though this was a trifle. That, especially in comparison, wasn't even worth thinking about.

But Desmond couldn't stop or change how he felt.

"Yes?" The receptionist continued, asking for confirmation.

Desmond closed his eyes. His heart was pounding. Please let it be okay, please.....

Deep inside him, despite his hopes, something told him that the girl had died. That she had died the most terrible death of all: without even knowing it.

Christina had closed his eyes and would never wake up again.

Yes, there could be a death more terrible than that. As painful, as horrible, a death that was the same as falling asleep was the worst thing he could conceive of by far.

It made evident the fragility of life. How transitory everything was.

The things that mattered and the things that did not.

If she had to die, at least she should have died last night. Still conscious. Fighting. Holding on to the pain, and the fear, and whatever she was feeling at the time.

She deserved at least a death like that. She deserved...

"I see. I see. Thank you.

It was as if she was mocking him. As if she was speaking in such an ambiguous way on purpose, to prolong his suffering.

"All right.

Desmond's eyes snapped open. He took a deep breath.

He opened his mouth to say something stupid. Like, "Really?" probably. But it didn't come out. Nothing came out but a shaky breath as if they were outside and the season was winter.

He couldn't say anything. There was nothing to say.

Amy put her hands to her mouth. And burst into tears.

For a moment she thought she had heard wrong, after all. That Christina was dead after all.

But those were definitely tears of joy.

Without thinking about it, without saying anything, at least not out loud, Amy and he ended up melting into each other's arms. Sharing their joy. He could feel her heart beating against his.

And, among those strong beats, he couldn't tell which were coming from his heart and which were coming from Amy's heart.

As if they had truly merged completely, becoming one being.

As one being, their hearts beat.

As one being, the tears fell without stopping.

And there were no words. Because there was nothing to say.

Because everything they could say they were already saying in a language far more ancient and powerful than the human tongue.

■

Classes hadn't started yet, if they ever would, given that the shape of things to come didn't look good, so they didn't have to wait. There was nothing to hold them back, nothing to tie them down.

Except that the academy was too far removed from civilization.

If he had only known this clinically before, yesterday he had really realised it when he had to walk through the forest to the city. It had seemed like a long journey, even abusing his speed, but surely it hadn't been that long.

Maybe it had taken him a while. More or less, he wasn't sure, he wasn't one to pay much attention to the passage of time.

But more or less. He estimated therefore that it would take an hour or an hour and a half there and back, using the reinforcement magic, running non"stop.

It wasn't that long, he supposed. But he wasn't the only one who wanted to go visit Christina.

And even if Amy was going to stay here waiting, which she wouldn't, she'd have to go back with Christina, and forcing a girl who'd just recovered to walk all that distance on foot wasn't an attractive or reasonable idea.

So they would have to wait, after all, for the train to start. Which wasn't long. Because this train only travelled from the nearest city -Eubea- to the academy and vice versa.

Now that he thought about it, that the academy could afford that was somewhat extravagant, considering that the number of trains in operation all over his side of the world was still, as far as he knew, less than a dozen.

But seen in another light it was only natural.

Who or what deserved to enjoy such a privilege as one of the most important institutions in giving birth to the warriors of the future?

Those who will carry the weight of the world's future on their shoulders, sooner or later?

And, among the various academies, The Four Seasons was the most important.

To make use of that privilege, moreover, they had to ask permission, which they were given without protest, without problems. But it was another waste of time.

The worst thing was waiting for the people operating the thing to get ready and start it up.

Sitting there, doing nothing. Not moving forward... Even now that he knew Christina was alive and he didn't have to worry about anything, the thought made him sick.

He would have felt better if he had started walking towards the city, abandoning logic.

After a long while, they finally, finally got going.

Amy was sitting next to him. They were the only two passengers. This time for real, not just the only two passengers in the carriage. Thinking about it brought other memories to the surface of his mind.

He said it as if what he was remembering had happened an eternity ago.

But then again, with everything that had happened since he'd been on this train, it was as if it had.

He truly couldn't believe it hadn't even been half a month since then. Not yet.

And the future that awaited them would inevitably be just as bumpy.

Just as harsh and cruel.

After all, the survivors of the attack on the academy had already experienced the hell of the battlefield firsthand. And that was the only change that awaited them, in other words. To be officially soldiers.

But what they would do would ultimately be the same. They would only magnify what they had done so far.

He imagined, even so, that it might break the will to go on.

He imagined, though, that it might break the will of the other survivors to go on. Even his teammates, it was possible, though he didn't want to think about that.

It wouldn't happen to him, though.

He was sure of it. What had happened to him last night had been... momentary insanity.

His will was unbreakable. He would keep moving forward and doing whatever it took for the sake of his dream, even if it meant defeating himself as well.

He knew it. And he swore it.

"Hey, Amy. I have another weird question.

"Is it going to become a habit?

Desmond thought about it.

"Probably. Have you ever felt... like a presence in your own dream? A real one, I mean.

"Because you have. Tonight.

It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, kind of. "Yeah. I know it's weird, but... it just gave me that feeling, that's all.

"It's not a good place to talk about that woman. But it's... But I guess it's impossible. I've never heard of anything like that before. But, a week and a half ago, I'd never heard of people being able to rise from the dead.

Very rational, isn't it? It was a little shocking how easily he'd accepted something he'd thought he'd laugh at, but not unpleasant. Not at all.

"Besides, I remember... I don't want to think about it either, but I remember that you contacted her somehow. That you spoke to her as if she were right in front of you even though neither of us could see anything. Only you. So why not? "Amy shrugged.

"I guess you're right. Thank you.

"You just felt a presence? It didn't talk to you or anything?

"No. It was just... a really weird feeling. Maybe I was just dreaming after all. Because, well, because I miss her.

"That's possible too," Amy said. Without a second thought.

Desmond grimaced.

"Honest, huh? But that's not a bad thing. To tell you the truth, I'm leaning in that direction myself. Although, compared to coming back to life after death, or appearing to someone from a great distance, without being there, visiting someone's dreams seems like child's play... It also seems too fanciful.

"Ask her, and get it out of the way," said Amy.

As far as possible, that wasn't a bad idea. He remembered Abigail saying something like they were running out of time. So it's not like he could talk to her whenever he felt like it.

But they were connected, and sooner or later she would answer his call.

"Later," said Desmond. "First, we should talk about something less serious for a change."

"Well, like what, for instance?"

"I don't... I don't know. I'm not good at this sort of thing."

"Well, that makes two of us. Erm... The only thing that comes to mind is our situation. The situation of our kingdom, I mean."

"Well. That's less serious only because it's not directly related to us. Not a bad subject I suppose. But what do you mean by our situation?"

"You don't know?"

"If I did, I wouldn't feel the need to ask."

Amy reddened slightly.

"No, of course not. I'm referring to the skirmishes that are taking place on the border. Exchanges of blows. Don't you read the newspapers?

"No. "But of course I should.

"Well, the bottom line is that things haven't changed. "Well, the bottom line is that things haven't changed. There's tension and war is looming. But it hasn't broken out yet.

"Although it's only a matter of time before it does. And for us to go out and fight it.

Amy smiled with a hint of sadness.

"Only someone like you who doesn't have to worry about dying could say so nonchalantly.... At least that's how I would have thought in the past. Would you keep a secret for me? I've had a lot of nightmares and I've come to think that this definitely wasn't for me, but last night everything changed. Last night I stopped worrying, just like you.

"Why? "That was all he could think of to say.

"No tengo idea. I suppose I could say something corny like last night made me realise how necessary this job is, or something like that. But I don't know.

"I never thought you felt like that. I mean, you woke up screaming from a nightmare the first day, but then it seemed to me that you were over it. That you'd left your doubts behind.

"No, I'm not that strong. And now... I can' t say that either. "Amy laughed at herself. But I do feel proud of myself. Free. I'm sorry. You wanted to talk about something less serious and I'm dragging up something that's not only serious, but sounds like a bragging opportunity to compensate for my inferiority complex."

Desdmon wasn't sure what to say.

Was she kidding about the whole inferiority complex thing? Was this the part where he was supposed to laugh?

"No, I didn't think you were doing that. Not even once. I'm serious.

"Don't take it so seriously. It was just a joke.

Oh, fuck. He should have gone with his first instinct, after all. But it was too late. As usual.

"Well, still, it's not a bad topic. It's helped me get to know you better. Now I understand that you're a confused person." He paused. "That was a joke, too. "

Amy snorted.

"But true. Very true."

■

After exiting the train, they had to walk for quite a while until they reached the hospital. Along the way, despite the memory he' d relieved this morning, his surroundings didn't bring back bad memories.

For it was not on these streets that he had wandered as someone who was less than nothing, so long ago.

No, he had moved to Eubea as he began to prosper.

To forge a new beginning, he would say. But even though it had been something like that, he couldn't say. Because there was no such thing as a new beginning. You couldn't run away from the past.

And even if you could, he didn't want to run away from it. Anyway, he wasn't afraid of the past.

He didn't want to look away from even the darkest memories.

The past was the past, after all.

What he was afraid of was the future.

That's why he stood there, staring at the glass doors of the hospital, in the midst of a tide of people that was especially shocking now that he had grown accustomed to living in a place whose population, so to speak, was not even two dozen.

The flow of people didn't stop, didn't even slow down.

Amy, sharing his hesitation perhaps, put her hand on his shoulder. Desmond looked back at her and nodded.

There was nothing to see. Christina was fine. Therefore, she had to be in perfect condition, fully healed. Unlike the dogs of the Empire, there was no such thing as a half baked medical job for the Albanians.

Magic was what made it possible of course.

If they were not finished with the patient, then that patient was still as bad as he or she had come to them. Still in danger. There was no middle ground.

And he had nothing to fear. Nothing.

They walked through the doors. It all happened so quickly, after being tormented by the excruciatingly slow passage of time during the train journey, that he had the impression that they had arrived in front of the door Christina was standing in seconds after they had passed through the front door of the building.

This, of course, could not be so. But it seemed to him that it had happened so quickly.

He wasn't ready yet.

He still wasn't, but it didn't matter. Because he had the responsibility to face his... guilt.

There was the answer. Amy had downplayed it as if anyone would have turned their back on them in their situation, as if it really hadn't been reprehensible at all, but he couldn't expect the same from Christina.

That was what he had feared. More than his death, to look into her eyes and find that the way the girl looked at him was completely different from before.

He felt like throwing up.

Desmond opened the door and walked into the hospital room, greeting her in a voice that probably didn't hide or even disguise what he was hiding inside.

Desmond wanted to punch himself for his stupidity. What had come out of his mouth was a simple hello as if they had just met.

on the street by chance, and nothing remarkable would have happened.

No, he was not good at any of this. And sooner or later he would pay for it.

He couldn't go on pretending to function as a normal human being for much longer. It was only a matter of time before they saw the real him.

"Hello," Christina replied politely as if he had said something coherent. Helping him, too, with a nice smile. I hope you had a pleasant morning as well.

She also spoke as if nothing had happened last night.

As if she hadn't almost died.

If it wasn't completely ridiculous Desmond would have wondered if she had forgotten for some reason. Everything that happened, and why it happened.

"It could have been better," Amy replied honestly and also with a lightness that seemed equally out of place.

Maybe he was the one who was out of place.

Maybe not. It was him one hundred percent of the time, especially when he had to ask the question. He couldn't make sense of it.

But whether it really made sense or not, it was normal. Which was more important.

Okay. He was clear on that, at least. The problem was that he knew even less now than he did before he spoke. No, that didn't matter. He didn't have to play along.

He had come here to apologise, and he knew how to do that. Without a shadow of a doubt.

Because asking for forgiveness and seeking forgiveness were not necessarily the same thing.

Not in this case. Definitely not.

He wanted to be forgiven, of course. That was why he had made the decision he had made, instead of walking away with Abigail and leaving everything behind, the good and the bad.

But he couldn't control it. He would take whatever Christina gave him.

"I'm sorry," Desmond said.

Amy gave him a sidelong glance.

"Desmond," she began, but in the end said no more. She wasn't going to intervene. Neither for him nor against him. That was just what he wanted.

That was just what Desmond wanted.

"What are you talking about? I make my own decisions.And I accept their consequences. I went to your rescue fully aware that I could have died trying. I almost did, it's true. But I am alive. But even if I had died, you would have had no burden to carry. As I said... I make my own decisions."

"I wasn't talking about that. Well, yes. But partly. Only partly."

And now a little less. Maybe he wanted to accept any excuse to feel better about himself, but the truth is, now that he thought about it, it did seem a little condescending. Apologising for a decision Christina had made.

As if she was a little girl who couldn't take responsibility for her actions.

They were all adults now.

But still, what choice did she really have? If she had sat back and waited for the authorities to solve the problem, Desdmond would surely have died. He would have taken his own life before he would have consented to being used against Abigail.

Well, whether he had come out of it alive or not, Christina would have long regretted doing nothing.

Not for the rest of her life. That was saying too much. Even if he had died.

However, as Christina thought about reaching a decision, it might have seemed to her that she would regret it for the rest of her life. Which was just as bad.

No, she hadn't really had a choice. She was not the kind of person who would have been able to stand aside in a situation like that.

"I... You know what I'm talking about. I've already talked to Amy about it and she's downplayed it, but it's the truth. I had to choose between you and her. And I chose her. Even though you were dying. That's the truth and I can't... I can't do anything about it, but..."

"Desmond. Stop it, please. I'm not going to let you continue to self-flagellate. You chose her over us. Okay, so what?"

"So what?"

"Don't make that face. Everyone puts the people they know on a scale, that is, inside themselves. The weight that woman has for you tipped towards her. We are not worth the same as her, nor even together. But there is nothing wrong with that. You can call it reprehensible as much as you want, but all people do the same thing. So do I. Desmond. You're a good person and I appreciate you. I'd take a bullet for you... Last night proves it".

"Yeah. You made that more than clear."

"But, if I had to choose between you and the life of... My mother's... my mother's, I wouldn't think twice."

Then I'd feel bad, but I wouldn't hesitate.

Desmond gasped.

"How do you know?"

"I feel I've missed something," Christina said, slowly, and after a while.

"She mentioned her mother by coincidence," Amy interjected.

"I mentioned my mum because I don't have any friends other than you, so I couldn't have mentioned anyone else. Wait. What exactly is this about?"

"The woman from the other night? Abigail, she's like a mother to me."

Christina nodded her head.

"Okay. That makes me even more right. I'd say anyone who loves their mother would throw their friends to the wolves for her sake in a heartbeat."

"Whether you're right or wrong," he conceded a little, but only a little, "it doesn't stop me from feeling guilty about what I did."

"Then when we get out of here, buy us a drink. And then I'll forgive you."

"It 's not a joke."

"I know. "She got serious. Of course it's not a joke. But I've already told you how I feel, the truth. You just have to accept it or rebel against it because you feel you need to be punished in order to forgive yourself. Yes. What you seek is not my forgiveness, since you already have it. It's that you can't forgive yourself."

Desmond was speechless.

Though he hadn't realised it himself, Christina had put it perfectly. She had hit the nail on the head.

"You're right. I suppose." His voice trembled slightly.

"Speaking of a drink... my throat's dry. Amy, would you mind?"

"I'll get it," Desmond said, getting to his feet.

"No." Christina grabbed his arm and pulled him down, forcing him back to his seat. "I haven't finished lecturing you yet. Do you understand?"

Amy nodded, as if that question had been directed at her.

"What do you want? Tea, coffee? Water or soda?"

"Tea is more my thing," said Christina.

"Water," Desmond said.

He'd gotten the message, so she didn't need him to tell her any more. But if it would make Christina feel better, let her keep up the lecture for as long as she wanted. It was a small price to pay.

Amy left the room without another word.

"Subtlety isn't your thing," said Christina, "so I'll give it to you straight. There's something I want to talk to you about, and Amy mustn't know about it, okay?

What could it be?

He thought about it for a while. His heart dropped to his feet.

But of course she hadn't forgiven him just like that. Of course she hadn't taken it all, what had happened and what might have happened, so philosophically, as some kind of saint... or a hermit with no real connection to the world. It was pretty much the same thing.

Just for the sake of team unity, she had decided to tell him her true feelings when Amy couldn't hear them.

And she'd gotten her to leave them alone with that excuse.

Now came the worst.

Now came the...

No, not the end. If Christina was putting team unity above her feelings, then he still had a chance to be forgiven. For everything to go back to the way it was.

But... whether he could take advantage of it was a different story entirely.

"All right," Desmond said. There was a lump in his throat.