Like ships crossing in the night - 4.3 (1)

No!

He could not die here, like this!

If it were only about his life, perhaps he would have been able to surrender now that all seemed lost and accept whatever awaited him peacefully, for he had lost and that was always the fate of the defeated.

To submit, which gave security. Although much more was lost along the way.

But it was not just about his insignificant life.

She had made it very clear to him. Kill her for both our sakes, she had told him.

The woman whose boots he was staring at as his vision faded was a threat not only to him, not only to the people who had fallen with him, victims of the gas. But also to his savior.

To the most important person. The one he held in his heart.

And he could not allow that, no matter what it took. He couldn't allow a threat to her to keep breathing.

He couldn't die as long as the assassin existed in this world, and those she was associated with. Only then could he allow himself to drop dead.

Fight, he thought, and for some reason it didn't sound like his own voice.

Desmond poured even more magical energy into his body.

The consequences of something going wrong with that would be the same as sitting around doing nothing. So, of course, he had never cared so little about anything.

But it wouldn't slip through his fingers. He wouldn't fail. He couldn't afford to.

Desmond rose slowly, gritting his chattering teeth, baring them all like a wild animal. At first he thought he wouldn't make it. That is, not on the first try. But he stood up.

Face to face with the assassin. Standing, though unsteady, with an odd posture, as if a weight was twisting his body to one side.

"How did you do that?" the assassin asked. "You should be unconscious, like the others."

She was talking about a serious unexpected incident. Even so, her voice was calm, she was sure of her victory. To her it was as if he hadn't resisted, refusing to give up. As if he had lost consciousness anyway.

That infuriated him even more, if possible.

He lunged for her. Not as fast as he would like, as the word lunged suggested, because he simply wasn't capable of that.

But he got there, and his fists did fly.

The assassin dodged each and every one of his punches without the slightest effort. Whereas for him everything was an effort. Throwing the punch, regaining his balance after the punch and preparing for the next one.

Even breathing was an effort, it was painful.

Fight, fight, fight, fight!

Desmond took a deep breath. Not gathering strength. He had no strength to muster, whatever was allowing his body to keep going was nothing but fumes.

But he felt... a little more centered.

"What, you're giving up already?" The woman asked him teasingly, with a terrible smile.

Maybe it was partly because of the fear he had, the fear he didn't even want to admit, so dense, suffocating. Maybe it was partly also because of the gas he had almost really suffocated with. The effect it had had on his consciousness, which was slipping away from him.

Howling, he leapt at her with his fists raised.

She moved slightly to the side, dodging and, as in their previous fight, Desmond found himself on the ground without quite knowing how or why.

This time it was the other way around, however. In other words, with his face pressed against the ground.

And also with his arm in the woman's hands, who was twisting it. She was going to break it. Despite his efforts, despite the magical energy he was burning, there was little strength in his body. Since the strength was slipping out of him almost faster than it was coming in.

In other words, the magic he was gambling his life with was barely enough to keep him in the game.

And she was going to break his arm.

She would break it like it was nothing. She would defeat him again, proving again that he could do nothing, absolutely nothing, against her.

He would have to die knowing that he hadn't been able to protect his savior even once.

Not even once.

That his life had been a waste from start to finish. The years he didn't remember, that had been lost like grains of sand in the desert, and the years after his resurrection, which had turned out to mean nothing.

"Surrender. Or I'll break your arm."

Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing!

Desmond let out a hoarse, evil, rage-filled howl. Out of his mind, he managed to escape from the assassin's grip.

Only later did he realize that his arm had broken in the process.

No, rather that he had broken it himself in the struggle to escape.

He staggered away from the woman, holding his broken arm with one hand.

"It's... physical reinforcement, isn't it? If you keep this up, you're going to die. And I don't wish you dead. Quite the opposite. Give up and at least you'll have your life."

Was that the only thing that mattered to herself and that's why she thought she could convince him that way?

Too bad luck for her, but he had always focused on the things that really mattered. And precisely now, so close to the end, wouldn't be when he changed.

He knew no other way to live.

Desmond turned around, locking his gaze with the assassin's, his arm back in the right place. He took several steps forward, fists clenched. As did his teeth.

On the third step, he lost his balance and fell to his knees from a sharp pain.... In his chest?

Desmond doubled over and vomited violently. But what came out of his throat was not bile, but blood. Yes, the pain was coming from his chest. The magical energy had shattered one or more of his ribs. And, as a consequence, one of his lungs had been punctured.

Or simply one of his lungs had burst, unable to contain the unbridled magical energy.

He had no way of knowing.

In any case, his mouth was still filled with blood. And there was blood sticking to the walls of his throat, making it difficult for him to breathe.

"Do you understand now? You're going to die if you don't stop."

Desmond answered her with a wild look like the rest of him.

"This isn't worth it," that damned rat continued. "You must know, deep down, that you can't win no matter how hard you try. Look at you, please. I haven't even touched you and you're vomiting blood. At the rate you're going, you'll destroy yourself without me having to lay a finger on you. Listen to the voice of reason. Let your eyes close. Surrender. Surrender!"

I should thank her, almost.

With every word out of her mouth more energy surged in his chest. Her words were like a reminder of why he was fighting.

He went on the attack again.

The assassin made an attempt to move a few millimeters to the side, to dodge his attack as she had done with all the others, contemptuously, without breaking a sweat. But something stopped her.

Someone stopped her.

Christina, to be more exact, who had somehow managed to cling to her fading consciousness, just like him. At least long enough to grab the other woman by one of her ankles, preventing her from escaping.

How could she have done that?

Literally everyone else was unconscious except for him and the one who had released the gas. Even the headmaster himself had succumbed. But, at least as far as she knew, shadow magic shouldn't have protected her from that.

In any case, thanks to Christina's titanic effort and the surprise factor, he managed to knock the assassin to the ground, tackling her.

Desmond fell beside her, his head spinning, disoriented.

That dirty traitor managed to recover before him. She laid on his back and wrapped her arms around his neck. She had grown tired of trying to get him to "come to his senses" and intended to deal with this herself.

But I'm not going to make it that easy for you, bitch.

He raised a hand and what he did wasn't grab her attacker's hands, pretending to beat her in a contest of strength, because that would be stupid. What he did was grab her ear and pull, ripping it off.

But not cleanly.

The assassin screamed in pain, staggering backwards. He got blood on his head, his back, felt it even on his own ear, after it slid down his hair and fell.

Desmond spun on the ground, intending to grab the woman's legs before she could get too far away, to knock her down again.

But he failed.

Think fast or I'm dead. Or we're both dead.

There were crystals scattered on the ground, among the grass. He didn't know how they got there and he didn't give a shit. He picked up the biggest piece he saw at first glance and, grabbing it with both hands, pushed it towards the enemy's throat.

She stopped it with her bare hands. But only a few millimeters from grazing her skin.

Not long ago it had been said that pretending to beat her in a contest of strength was idiotic. But victory was so close, just a little more, a few millimeters, and she would die drowning in her own blood and then he could rest.

He pushed with all his might and went further still, hearing the crunch of his bones, his muscles twisting.

If he didn't kill her here and now, Christina would suffer for it.

Christina and everyone else. She had fallen unconscious, so he was the only one who could do anything about it now.

Millimeters. Compared to everything he'd done after getting to his feet, pushing the broken piece of glass a few more inches was nothing.

But try as he might, that woman was stronger.

She was right. The shadow of a thought. I had no chance of winning from the start.

He took a punch that knocked him to his knees.

Still, he refused to let go of the glass. For all that mattered.

The woman punched him again and again in the face. Making him drop the glass, knocking him to the ground again. Making him taste... the bitter taste of defeat.

Desmond wanted to scream.

He wanted to howl, tearing his throat to the point of vomiting blood just for the sake of it. The pain of his mangled body was but a shadow behind his rage.

But he did nothing of the sort because he didn't have the energy.

Like everyone else, he was left at the mercy of the Empire's assassin. His eyes ceased to see anything but darkness.