1

Desmond was almost certain that Abigail had been awake for a while, as had he. He didn't want to disturb her. But he felt the need to confess something he had been holding back.

And apologize. For not trusting her, when she'd given him everything from the beginning.

No, he thought. For not trusting us.

The guilt burned inside him, and he was reasonably sure he wouldn't be waking her up. Well, he could do one thing. To be one hundred percent sure.

"I'm sorry," Desmond whispered.

"Why?" Abigail asked instantly, turning to look at him. They were close enough to each other that the darkness of the room wouldn't prevent him from seeing the puzzlement in her expression and in her bright red eyes, so beautiful.

"When he said that, well, he was one of my predecessors? I felt angry."

Yes. That was the right word.

As if that creature had come to take his place beside Abigail. And worst of all?

"But mostly I was afraid," he confessed, at last. As usual, it didn't make him feel any lighter. But at least the guilt would go away. In time. "Afraid that there was someone else... who could do the same thing for you. Who could..."

Abigail smiled in response. As if she had read his mind.

"There's no one who can replace you."

Desmond let out a sigh of relief, unconsciously.

Abigail reached out a hand, caressing his face. Desmond closed his eyes and leaned toward her. Like a cat, was the first thing that popped into his head.

Or a baby.

Well, he was her baby one way or the other.

"I've told you many times. These two thousand years of suffering were to meet you. Without knowing it, I was waiting for you. Besides, you mean so much more to me than someone to end my suffering."

Fear was irrational. And he was even more so.

It meant a lot to hear those words coming out of her mouth, even though he'd known from the beginning that that was what Abigail would say, that that was how she felt.

Hearing it, anyway, did much to dispel his doubts.

Doubts Desmond shouldn't have had in the first place. They'd been through too much to doubt.

"Amy has a contract with me, too, or have you forgotten? And what has that changed? Nothing.

That was a good point, too.

Desmond nodded his head. His eyes were stinging, suddenly.

"Come on, come here," she whispered, taking him in her arms. "Sleep quietly. We still have a long, long journey ahead of us."

And many things ahead of them.

They had started this journey to save his body, but it wouldn't be worth it if Christina died in the process. He had to save her. He vowed to save her.

2

Desmond had a lot of time on his hands.

Too much, in fact. Nothing to do but wait for the moment to come when he would have to intervene, as he followed the wagon in which he and his companions were traveling.

Wandering like a ghost through the woods. Being slowly consumed by guilt, by the weight of his memories.

What was he if not a ghost?

Someone else was in his place, living his life. And he could only watch from the outside. He was completely unconnected to the world.

Wandering, wandering, wandering.

Like a kite swaying in the air.

Halfway between heaven and earth. Far from anything and anyone.

Desmond felt a shudder at those thoughts. They also made him nauseous. He didn't vomit, perhaps because he wasn't physically capable of vomiting.

He hadn't felt hungry once since his transformation. He hadn't eaten anything, either, not even some field mouse.

What was he going to throw up then?

If only he could vomit up what was writhing inside him. His feelings.

He had spent so many years of his life all alone, but now he was falling apart in a matter of days. That was because he had been nothing before and now he was someone.

As unworthy as he might be, at least he was someone.

And people needed other people. They were... They were a mirror to look into. Giving yourself shape. He was beginning to understand that.

Would he fade into the darkness alone, like a mere ghost?

The days were almost unbearable. He had a goal and he wouldn't stop, just like the people he followed, until night fell. But, ah, the nights. The nights.

Every night, as he writhed in pain that no one could cure, he replayed what had happened on the day of the tragedy over and over again. Without stopping. Unable to stop.

"As always when we arrived in a city or town, we split into two groups as soon as the day began. We went out to look for answers. We stopped at that bar where, expecting nothing, we finally found them. And then... Speaking of... And then..."

He repeated it until he fell asleep, mercifully.

Or until the desolation of dawn hit him. And he kept spinning on the same wheel. He couldn't wait for these weeks to end.

Every day was hell. Each day seemed to stretch on endlessly.

But the end came, anyway. Everything passed. The good and the bad.

The time came.

3

It had arrived.

It was here. The moment. And the assassin. He hadn't gotten to see it when it first happened, Christina had consumed all his attention. But somehow, as soon as he laid eyes on that person, he knew.

Somehow.

And it was confirmed that his deduction wasn't mere paranoia. It was a fact that he was following them. It was a fact what he was planning to do.

Because she also saw him pull out the knife.

It was time.

Desmond emerged from the darkness of the alley, became one with the crowd. And then swam against them. No one had noticed, at least yet, that there was a ghost wandering among them.

It didn't matter to him one way or the other. He was no longer afraid to reveal himself. Only of failing this. Of having... to see... again...

His heart was almost beating out of his chest.

He felt that he was not only fighting against a two"bit thug armed with a knife, but also against destiny itself, composed of threads woven by divine hands.

But it turned out to be easy after all.

The end of a small eternity. Desmond grabbed the hand with which that spawn held the knife.

He twisted it, causing it to drop the knife noisily. And he screamed, but that wasn't why.

He screamed as he looked into his face. The face of a vengeful spirit.

Desmond's eyes burned like the flames of hell.

That creature screamed as if he were vomiting out his soul and then Desmond lunged at him, sword in one hand and sickle in the other.

To tear him to pieces.

4

Desmond pounced on Christina's killer.

No. The one who would have been, who had been, but no longer was. He wasn't because he had prevented it. With his own hands, he had changed destiny. Christina's. And his own.

It didn't seem like much, stopping a two"bit thug like this. And it wasn't. It was easy.

But the enormity of the act was dizzying.

It was frustrating that he had needed to go that far, though. He could have spared himself so much pain. Wandering the woods, in the dark, only able to stare at the outside world like the ghost of a lost soul, for what seemed like years to him.

And watching Christina die. Watching her die in his arms, watching her light go out forever.

But he had undone all that. He had turned back the hands of the clock.

With his own hands.

Desmond threw that worm to the ground, falling on him at the same time. There were a thousand things he wanted to scream at him. Thousands.

But now that the time had come, he discovered that it didn't matter.

What he wanted wasn't to waste time and oxygen on this thing, but kill it the faster, the better. What had changed? Things could go the same way until this son of a bitch stopped breathing.

So he couldn't waste any time.

But then again... His mere existence was an insult to him. That's why he couldn't let him live.

Desmond swung his sword.

The crowd screamed in fright, some ran away, while many others probably froze in fear. He wasn't looking but he didn't need to look.

He had seen something like this too many times. The reactions did not vary.

Fear made human beings predictable. Especially being drowned in a crowd.

In any case, no one came to help the assassin.

No one knew what he was, so they would think he was someone innocent, a victim. But still no one came to help him. Of course. Why stick your neck out?

Why gamble everything on a stranger?

Especially against a creature that didn't even look like a human being, that would make them tremble just by looking.

Yes. It was human nature.

Some might call it despicable, but it was natural.

And Desmond was grateful for it.

Because in his current state... he would strike. No matter who got in his way, innocent or not, he could hurt or kill even anyone who tried to interfere with this.

He hadn't traveled back in time to let anything get in his way.

Nothing, not even morality.

He was beside himself with rage.

Could he really say that?

Maybe it was at times like this that he was most in tune with himself. With the monster he wanted to look away from.

That is, when he let the rage take over. And didn't worry about anything else.

Of course. When you put everything else aside, all the affectations, the barriers, what you tell yourself, isn't that when you discover your true self?

Rage.

Anger.

He'd been angry, hadn't he? Not at this worm. Not since Christina had been murdered in front of his eyes. That's not what he meant.

He'd been angry from the beginning, hadn't he?

With the world that had taken everything he'd ever had from him. And much, much, too much, of what he might have come to have.

And now... even his body, his voice, all of that had been taken from him.

The worm raised his arms as if to protect his head, pleading for his life.

"I'll pay you! If you let me go..."

Desmond, of course, turned a deaf ear. Hardly heard him in fact. He just registered it. Like a voice coming from a distant, but adjacent world.

He kept attacking, slashing at him with swords.

Long after the voice quieted. Long after he felt the carpet of blood under his feet, and knew that son of a bitch was dead.

Then he stood up on shaky legs. Why were they shaking? It didn't make any sense.

Or did it? Excitement? Was that what made him shake?

"I've won!" Desmond shouted to the heavens, covered in someone else's blood and guts "I did it!"

He declared his victory, filled with a wild joy. Which he expelled in the form of a bloodcurdling laugh, from the back of his throat.

Victory…

5

In the depths of the sea, depths so remote that no human being could reach them....

Something woke up. And began to move.

Something.

6

Victory was a mangled corpse at his feet, that didn't even look like a human being anymore. Victory was Christina looking at him from afar, next to the other Desmond, with fear and disgust in her eyes.

And determination. As if she believed that the next enemy she would have to deal with would be him.

Even though he had just saved her life. Saving the team, which would fall apart after losing just one of them, inevitably.

Victory was hollow.