From his position he couldn't see Abigail, couldn't see anything but sand. He tried to move, but was unable to. He couldn't even move a finger slightly.

Something was dangling. He saw its shadow from the corner of his eye.

He realized what must have happened. And what that was, probably….

Someone had shot him, hitting him in the head, blowing his brains out. That was why he had ended up on the ground so suddenly.

That's why that swinging shadow was one of his eyes, literally hanging by a thread.

He was conscious, he was alive, but his brain hadn't yet fully recovered from the damage caused by the bullet that had been lucky enough to hit him. That's why he wasn't able to move.

Yet.

But… the sand and that sound… the sound of the sea. We're almost there.

Not long ago, he'd come to despair, thinking they wouldn't make it. But they were already so close. How could they fail when they had come so far?

That he was conscious and thinking coherently, in spite of everything, showed that Abigail had to be near even if he couldn't see her. For this capacity for regeneration did not come naturally to him. Alive, thinking…, with his brain scattered across the sand. Abigail had to be near.

So, when he recovered, he would rise and take flight, with Abigail in his arms.

And Desmond would take them both out of this nest of beasts. And they would be free and happy, the two of them together, forever. Always together.

Every second of waiting took forever. But he managed to recover, and stood up on the sand. The blood and brains on the sand were gone. His almost lost eye was back in place.

He looked around.

Abigail was less than ten yards away from him. The knife was no longer buried in her chest. It had been lost in the fall. Maybe in the woods behind them. Possibly ahead, it had sunk into the sea. He didn't know.

He approached her.

Desmond knelt on the sand, waiting for her to recover as well. He was breathing heavily.

Abigail's eyes snapped open. But her expression barely changed in the transition. Well, it was mundane to her, after all.

“There you are,” she said, smiling. “But we're not…we're not…. Why have you stopped…?” She coughed several times, loudly.

“They got me. And the knife is lost over there.

“I understand.” He called it back to his hand.

Holding the knife out to him, for some reason. Maybe the reason was obvious, but his brain wasn't working properly, so he went blank, staring at it.

“What?”

“I'm still… kind of weak. You have to do it.”

Desmond gripped the knife carefully, as if it were a snake that might bite. The woman's hand went limp. It fell to the ground, onto the sand. The sand 'splashed'. He felt it on his pants.

He wasn't looking down.

Furthermore, he wasn't looking down, so, noticing that sensation… The first thing Desmond thought of was blood.

As if he had already spilled her blood.

His gaze met Abigail's.

“What are you waiting for?”

Yes, what was he waiting for? He had no time to waste. He didn't want to hurt her, but this was necessary and she would recover.

So why was his hand shaking?

Gripping the knife with both hands, he raised it above his head.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself.

He brandished the knife. Desmond felt it very deeply, as if he had used it against himself, as the blade pierced skin and flesh, as it made its way right up to….

To the heart.

Desmond let out a breath. Only then did he realize he had been holding his breath.

See, it wasn't that bad.

He told himself, tried to tell himself. But that facade soon crumbled. As soon as he laid eyes on her dead face, it fell apart. Irrevocably. And it wasn't just that. If only it was just that, but no.

The knife trembling in his hands. The blood trickling down the blade, dripping onto the sand… drop by drop… as if trying to drive him mad.

It was too much.

It was all too much.

Desmond raised his head.

Oh. They were already here.

Desmond scooped Abigail up in his arms, but they didn't fill him full of holes before he could take flight again.

He landed on the sand, with Abigail on top of him.

A red carpet stretched out beneath them.

Air escaped through the hole in his throat. His mouth slowly opened and closed. Damn it, he thought. Neck back, eyes twisted toward the endless blue sky. Damn it.

He looked almost as if he were already dead.

Desmond's body twitched, but it was only a physiological phenomenon. A reaction to pain. He wasn't moving of his own volition.

Would it really all end here, in such a pathetic way?

His eyes narrowed. That wasn't a voluntary act for him, either. It was just that his eyelids had grown heavy.

He had fought, and he had come so far.

But everything had a limit. That was his limit.

It really was. He really couldn't go any further.

He was trying with all his might, but….

This was it.

Ahead of them was a troop of enemy soldiers. But even the sea wasn't a safe place. It was full of ships, animals ready to defend their borders. Between a rock and a hard place? Between a rock and a sword, more like.

So the end was inevitable.

He wasn't giving up prematurely again. He was trying, trying with every scrap of strength in his dying body, with every shred of will he was still able to muster, thinking only to move a little, if only a little, and then it would be easier for him, he could get them out of here, it wasn't too late.

But it was. As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, it was. Couldn't lift a finger.

It's over, it's over, it's over, it's over, it's over.

One of the soldiers came down to the shore. He pointed his rifle at his head. Desmond's vision sank into the darkness of the barrel, which seemed endless as the sky.

They would shoot him and kill him.

Then they would burn his corpse. And he wouldn't be able to come back from that.

It's over, it's over, it's over—

An explosion. A tremor, in the distance.

“What was that?”

Desmond had no idea, of course. He couldn't see it from his position. All he could see was the barrel of the rifle, the sky, and the soldiers in front that looked like a firing squad. Just too big to be a mere platoon. Dozens and dozens.

Nor could he see his head to look at what was happening, what had postponed his death. If only for a few seconds.

“Enemy forces?”

Gunfire filled the air. The sound of water splashing in great quantities.

Rather than stating a fact, it sounded like he was asking if what he saw was real. And waiting for others to disprove it. But the sounds spoke for themselves, told a story.

Albion. Albionese forces.

Desmond felt like laughing.

Apparently… maybe nothing was over after all. There was a chance they might be saved.

Desmond clung to that hope, gathering his strength.