"Why are you smiling?"

The voice brought him out of his thoughts, and he went from smiling to frowning. True, he had forgotten the time and place, lost in his thoughts.

There was a nurse looking after him, sitting by his bedside.

She had a hand, which was wrapped in a blue glow, on his chest. At first it had hurt, it had burned like a flame, only, without scarring, without burning his clothes. But it had passed quickly.

Now it was warm and pleasant, and it had helped him relax. Which was part of the problem.

"Oh no, no. Don't stop, don't get me wrong. I just wanted to know why you were smiling because, well, I haven't seen many smiles today."

Naturally. He was the odd one out.

"If you don't want to tell me," the nurse continued, mistaking his silence for something else, "don't, don't feel pressured or anything.

"My team. I... I think I've made friends," he said, and his smile returned. He couldn't help but grin like a fool.

"And you usually make male friends. Well, as a rule, people get along better with their own sex."

"Friends... Girl friends... For me, none of that is normal."

I'm not normal, he thought.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions. It's one of my many bad habits. Like drinking."

He stared at her, puzzled. He hadn't been offended before. Now, however... Well, not offended exactly, but what was the point of suddenly confessing to being an alcoholic? What was the point of that?

She laughed, for some reason, as if she hadn't said something problematic.

He felt uncomfortable.

He felt a gap between them that hadn't been there before.

"And why not?" She went on. "I mean, you don't exactly seem like a shy guy."

He thought about it for a moment.

"I don't know what you're getting at," he confessed.

"Well, I'm a nurse. I'm quite attractive, though it's wrong for me to say so. Usually when I deal with boys your age... and girls, quite often, they blush and can't look at me, it takes some getting used to."

"How? Why?"

"I'm putting my hand on your chest."

"And? If it was without the shirt, maybe I'd avoid your gaze, maybe. But it's not like you want to... you know. Something with me. You're doing your job, no more, no less. Why should I blush?"

"You see what I was saying?"

It was starting to get on his nerves, frankly.

"No. I don't see it. Not being embarrassing doesn't make friends fall out of the sky. I... I don't understand people. I never know what to say or how to say it. I haven't even tried very hard, let's say."

"Why?" she asked in a soft voice.

Ever since he got on that train, things were happening that he didn't understand, that made him feel uncomfortable, out of place.

Like this nurse whose name he didn't even know who seemed to care about him.

Why the hell did she care?

"I have a mission. I've dedicated my life to that mission. I've never had time to waste talking to other people, beyond what was necessary and fair."

"You've been alone all this time?"

Desmond stiffened.

"Forgive me again. I really do talk too much, I'm too stupid to know when to bite my tongue sometimes. But... it's revenge you want, isn't it? Like so many other people. Blood begets blood."

Of course it does.

From that day on, his fate was decided. He couldn't have kept his head down and lived the life of a normal person, even if he wanted to, managing to survive.

He had to be a soldier. He had to kill his enemies. He had to walk this trail of blood to the end.

Not because he literally could not choose another way.

But because he didn't want to.

"It's natural. Human," Desmond said.

"And sad, too. I'm sure you've lost a lot. That you've experienced pain no child should ever have to feel. But... don't tell anyone, but I wish we'd stop killing each other. But we're only capable of repeating the same mistakes."

Desmond clenched his fists.

Now she' d really crossed the line. Was she doing this on purpose, to provoke him?

"So what? You think we should shake hands with them?"

"Should we or shouldn't we, that's not the point. I'm not one to say anything like that, anyway. All I know is that it can' t be stopped anymore. But I wish it were possible."

"Why? What the hell are you saying?"

"Keep your voice down. Please. What are we going to gain by fighting until one side is dead? It's not like I'm saying it's our fault. The Empire should see reason too, they have to if we're ever going to see real peace."

The nurse was not much older than him. If he were to guess, he'd say she was in her early thirties.

But her expression changed and, for a moment, she looked much older.

"Don't look at me with that face." She moved her hand, and the light, to one of his legs. "Wouldn't you be happier if what happened to you had never happened? If you had been able to lead a normal life? If both sides had signed a real peace, your father and mother would still be with you."

His mouth was dry.

For some reason, his mouth had gone dry. He swallowed.

"Yes, but..."

The nurse looked at him silently, waiting. Her gaze was strange, and it made him feel as if he had... needles stuck in his skin.

"What about you? You talk like an idealist, and yet here you are. Nursing the wounds of soldiers who will one day go to war and perpetuate what you hate so much. What are you doing here if you want the bloodshed to stop?"

She smiled sadly.

"You called me an idealist. I prefer to think of myself as hopeful, but realistic. The war will only end when there is a victor. I'm well aware of that. I want to help it happen. Since I don't have the courage to kill anyone, this is the only thing I can do. But yes, I have a lot of blood on my hands. And I am a hypocrite. I am. But at least I admit it, and I face my contradictions every day. Can you say the same?"

Bitch, he thought, gritting his teeth.

It would all be so easy if she were an enemy. Then he could just vent the rage that burned inside him and its flames would just consume this woman who couldn't keep her mouth shut, neither for her sake nor for his.

But he couldn't do that. He had to keep control, and he would. He was not an animal who would bite anyone who provoked him.

"No one asked you. Shut your mouth and get on with your work, instead of flapping your tongue so much. While you're wasting your time with me, there may be someone who needs your attention more than I do."

Desmond saw the pain in her expression, though she was quick to hide it. If there was one thing he was good at in this world, it was hurting other people. With or without his sword.

He wasn't proud of it. Even now, but...

But...

"You don't. You are not ready. You still have time, a chance. This isn't the right life for you."

"Someone has to fight."

-But it doesn't have to be you. Think about it, Desmond. You can still live life as you really are."

"I'm... I'm nothing more than a soldier. Even if I tried what you want, I wouldn't even know how to live." Desmond hung his head. He felt bad, like he was giving in to her, but he couldn't help it. "I've spent too much time thinking of myself as a tool to live the life of a normal person. What is normal, anyway?"

He lifted his head and looked into her eyes, searched her gaze for a moment of connection.

"Normal people" he practically spat the word "live their lives relying on us. Pretending that everything is all right. When they know, deep down they must know, that the sky could fall in on them at any moment. That everything they have and everything they long for could burn to ashes.

"I can't say... you're wrong about that. "

"I wouldn't be able to live in a cage and leave everything in the hands of strangers. That kind of life is as false as the normality they enjoy. Do you understand?"

Silence fell. A long silence in which time seemed not to pass.

But it was an illusion, of course. A trick of the mind, not the effect of some spell.

"Yes, I understand. I understand that nobody can stop you anymore."

■

Isabella chose to take the stairs.

Lifts were one of the conveniences they had adopted from their enemies. However, she found them anything but convenient. They made her feel tense, as if she were in the middle of enemy territory, so she did her best to avoid them.

Some of her colleagues had become accustomed to it. They had let that little piece of the enemies' daily lives into theirs.

However, she would never be able to do that, for sure.

It would be like giving up.

Like admitting that the enemy's way of life was the right way. The Empire had taken too much from her to give it that.

As she had known before she went up, Jacob was there.

What he hadn't informed her of was what he was doing. In other words, nothing at all. His back was to her, looking out the window at an unchanging landscape. And what was he thinking about while he was doing it?

The same as the rest of the faculty, of course. But on him it would be a heavier weight than on the others.

Because he was that kind of person and because, naturally, as headmaster of the academy, the greater portion of the blame would fall on him. The tragedy was over. But its waves would be felt for days, weeks.

She walked toward him.

"There you are," Jacob said. She stopped in front of the table at the sound of his voice, but moved again to stand by his side. "Something told me you weren't going to let me have my moment of peace and reflection. "

"You've never had a sense of humor, so do me a favor and don't pretend now."

Jacob raised his arms above his head in surrender, a wry smile on his lips.

"How harsh." He dropped them. "But I can't say you're wrong."

"What are you staring so hard at?"

"The monument to my failure."

Isabella cringed as if she'd been punched. As if it had been, in the first place, a punch thrown at her and not at himself.

"You didn't fail."

"Well, that's what they're going to call it, isn't it? The bureaucrats, the higher-ups, from the army and the court. And even the people. It's the majority who decide the truth, the rest of the world just has to adapt. And you are greatly outnumbered. Even I think they will be right to call this my failure, because you can't call it anything else."

"If even you couldn't avoid it, no one could have done better in your place. What else could you have done?"

"I don't know, but something. You can always do more. Nothing is inevitable."

Isabella sighed. She supposed she should have expected such a response. Knowing him, and knowing the emotional state he was in. But...

"Talking to you is very frustrating, you know that?"

"Yes, I get that a lot. I mean, not that many people can stand me. " He spoke as if he were joking, but his smile and expression told a different story. A story of bitterness.

"Jacob..."

"Jacob, one of the great heroes in the war for our existence!" He suddenly spoke like a different person, gesticulating grandiloquently, stretching out his arms. "Jacob, the great mass murderer. But that man of whom everyone speaks, my dear, was not present today. He died in the war, and behind him was left only this."

Jacob bent his head, looking at his legs. If one looked closely, one could see the outline of the missing part, misty as a specter.

Just as with his missing eye. They were there, but he had lost them forever, they were out of reach. Out of anyone's reach.

That's why magic was no solution to his problem.

If he had simply lost a big chunk of his leg, he would have been walking again in a few days.

If he had simply lost a big chunk of his leg, he had been walking almost immediately afterwards.

In their kingdom, there was usually no such thing as a soldier who couldn't soon return to battle as long as he wasn't dead yet, regardless of the severity of his wounds.

Jacob Mason, the greatest war hero that had been seen in decades, had been unlucky enough to be one of the few soldiers alive who could never return to battle. Many would say that was a blessing, in a way.

To have the excuse to abandon his patriotic duties and live a relaxed life, apart from the danger.

Almost like that of a normal citizen.

Except for the nightmares, and the scars, physical and mental.

Jacob was different. He was the exception to many things, in many ways.

His life had been defined by battle and he had not been able to let it go, he would never be able to. She knew him very well, ever since they were children. She was well aware that he was drowning in this place. That he couldn't stand it.

Every morning, she woke up fearing she would find him dead.

And almost, almost, hoping it would happen, at the same time, because then at least he would stop suffering. That counted for something, didn't it?

"Jacob. You are just as important to the future of this kingdom. Only now in a different way," she said in a soft voice, even though she knew he wouldn't get the message. That he wasn't ready to hear it yet, much less accept it.

On the other side of the window was a team working to remove the debris and take away the bodies.

Working among the blood and corpses.

That was the life Jacob wanted to go back to.

She wished he could be normal. That he could accept things as they were, because that was the only way he could be happy. However, she knew that was a sweet dream of hers. And, like all dreams, it would fade when the dreamer woke up.

How long would it take her to give up herself? To accept the reality about him?

Almost as long as it would take him to give her what she wanted, for sure. Or maybe more.

Maybe that wish would continue to burn in her heart even in her next life.

"Isabella... That boy is down there."

At first she wondered who he was referring to, exactly. When she saw him, she felt like an idiot. Of course he meant him. What else could have caught his attention?

"Helping, yes. What's wrong?"

"I thought they attacked the academy because of my presence. That they wanted to kidnap me. That proved false when they tried to execute me on the spot. So now I'm wondering, wouldn't there be another reason? If they wanted to hit us where it hurts, it would have been better to attack the capital and go for the queen's head, after all."

He wasn't wrong. Not entirely. However...

"What do you mean? They didn't come to kidnap you, but to kill you. That's reason enough to have attacked this place."

"I'm not as important a target as the queen. A juicy one, though, I admit. They could have done it just for that, for me. But I'm beginning to think it was for that boy. For Desmond. Does that sound silly to you?"

"It would be natural for them to want him if they knew what he'd done," she answered slowly and after a while. "However, everyone who witnessed it is dead."

"They could have known beforehand.

She hadn't considered that possibility. But it didn't seem very credible.

"How? How could they have even suspected it?"

Jacob shrugged.

"I don't know."

"And they made no attempt to capture him," she continued. "That boy was shot through the heart."

"Knowing he can't die, that could be interpreted as an attempt to capture him. After all, while growing a heart he would be immobile, unconscious, unable to resist. Besides, it is possible that the purpose of this attack was to verify that he had that affinity."

"It is possible," she repeated.

What Isabella was truly thinking was that Jacob was overthinking it.

Desmond hadn't been a target, although he would no doubt become a target in the future, sooner or later. Not to mention Christina.

But, if it made him feel better, even just a little, she would play along.

It wasn't very healthy to shift blame. But something was something.

Someday soon, he would have to come face to face with it anyway. It was only a matter of time.

And had he ever handled guilt well? Isabelle looked sideways at her childhood friend. From those who had died because of him, in his view, and for those he had killed with his own hands?

Isabella was the person who knew him best. However, she wouldn't be able to answer that question.

■

The nurse had told him he was fine, that there were no problems, so Desmond didn't hesitate to get to work when he arrived.... He was going to say the rescue team, but there was no one to save under the rubble. Just bodies, blood, scattered organs, body parts.

He could have just laid there resting.

No one would have said anything to him, no one would have blamed him, least of all his teammates. However, he needed this.

He worked best when he had a mission. And what better way to put the events of the day behind him than to stir up the wreckage, to confront the dead and bury them?

He needed to do this in more ways than one. He couldn't help himself.

Ninety-seven young men his age had come here pretending to become soldiers, stepping over whoever it took. Hoping to become the hope of the kingdom. Of them, only ten remained.

And most of the dead were buried under the rubble. In the stillness of a darkness that the light could not reach.

Not yet.

Just thinking about it made him feel sick. He couldn't understand how things had gone so wrong, so easily. He was still reeling, trying to process.

Ten survivors, himself included. Even though he had died once.

Counting the faculty and the infirmary staff, the number of survivors was less than twenty. Not even twenty when there had been over a hundred personnel at the beginning. How was that not going to make his stomach turn? He'd rather be anywhere but here.

He'd rather be lying in bed in his team's room, eyes closed, resting, even if he wasn't able to sleep.

But he had to be here, and he'd had enough sleep.

His chest ached, felt like it was on fire. He had been working nonstop since he got here, so he allowed himself a few moments of rest.

He heard a laugh.

Why did a laugh without the slightest trace of malice make his back tighten like a bow?

He didn't turn around.

"Take a deep breath, boy."

"Yeah, or you're going to make the rest of us look bad."

Desmond wiped a hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. And he took a deep breath. But he hadn't the slightest intention of stopping, even if he fainted. Not that he thought he was weak enough for that to happen to him.

"It's my job."

"Well, actually, it's our job..."

"If the kid wants to help, let him help. I haven't seen any of you slackers complain before."

"Okay, boss. All right."

"See what I said, boy?"

Desmond didn't answer. He couldn't believe they were talking like this, like it was all a big joke, in front of a mass grave full of children. It was better not to talk to people with a screw loose.

In fact, he regretted opening his mouth to begin with. And not being the only one working here.

The people who had given their lives in this place didn't deserve to be taken out by idiots or madmen who didn't treat the act with the proper seriousness.

Every time they found a corpse in the rubble, every time he had to feel their bloodstained skin on his hands, his heart dropped to his feet. And these people had time to joke? Didn't they feel anything?

He could imagine it, but he didn't want to, nor did he want to understand it. People like this shouldn't exist.

He hadn't gone so far as to say they should be killed because he didn't believe that. They were evil, but, as depraved as the criminals on this side of the world were, they were nothing compared to the demons that had attacked this place.

To the demons who had stolen everything from him. His life, his dreams.

Even his mother's face.

He kept at it, putting his all into it. Sometime later, less than an hour later, he found a dead body. That wasn't strange. They kept finding corpses, after all. A considerable number of people had died before they even left the building, even if most of them had fallen before they even set foot in the building.

This time, however, it was different.

Not because of the condition of the body. In fact, both bodies were virtually intact and that was where the difference lay.

Two.

Two boys who had died holding each other. It could have been because a fleeting feeling. Fear, and the need to hold someone in the last moments.

But Desmond didn't think so.

He swallowed hard.

Where would the feelings of the souls that had been lost yesterday go?

If he were any other kind of person, he would tell himself that they would not disappear, that they would go somewhere else and come back, even if it was in a different form.

The idea that death wasn't the end, even a new beginning, in which not few people believed.

But he wasn't capable of believing in that fairy tale.

Desmond had left behind those useless things, those burdens, just like his childhood and the debris of his past. He knew it was all a matter of time. As much as it hurt. As much as people didn't want to accept it.

These two and their story were just another number on the lost list.

Their deaths had not been particularly significant, and they had died young enough not to have done anything that anyone would remember them for long after they died.

Their families would no doubt mourn them. But, when they too, would be forgotten without having left the smallest trace.

Desmond was aware of that.

That was the fate of most people. He would probably share the same fate. The people who endured, who changed the world... were very few.

Still...

Still, I promise you that you will remain in my heart until that day.

Desmond didn't believe he was simply seeing what he wanted to see.

Interpreting their lives and deaths as he saw fit and, in the process, committing an even greater offense than the workers had committed with their carefree attitudes.

It's not like they had been kissing or anything. Something that left no room for doubt.

Yet there was no shadow of doubt in his heart.

That there had been a love here that never blossomed to its full glory.

And more than this, many more. All the fallen had surely had people who loved them. Men and women. Friends. Family. So why was he concentrating so much on this one?

What was so special about it, really?

That it was a love between two men, if he was not mistaken? No. Homosexuality had been seen for what it was, something normal, natural, for a long time.

No, that wasn't the answer.

Desmond came to the conclusion that there was no special meaning. That simply the image they presented had left a deep impression on him.

But that didn't mean that his feelings on seeing them were false.

Nor did it make his promise any less sincere.

I will remember you. You two and all of you, until I fade into obscurity.

People's feelings passed from one hand to another.

Even those who were no longer around were part of the chain formed.

■

By the time they finished work, night was near, but it had not yet fallen.

Desmond had spent the day satisfactorily, keeping body and mind busy. He hadn't been able to avoid cutting himself on the sharp edges of his memories of what had happened that day, because it's not like he'd been doing anything that would allow him to forget about it, even for a few moments. But it had helped him feel better.

In a way, it had helped him feel better. Just as he had thought, he now felt he could put this tragedy behind him and look towards the future.

With his teammates, beside whom he had gone through hell.

Desmond couldn't think of better teammates.

When he returned, he learned that they had already been assigned a room in the Spring Tower. Not temporary. They were the one they would have even after the academy was up and running. He supposed for the very reason that they had been allowed to choose their own teammates, and that they had let them be only three instead of the usual four.

So as not to disturb the feeling that they belonged here. That they should be here.

If they took away the room they had grown accustomed to... It seemed dramatic, but it wouldn't be surprising that some people would react irrationally.

Routines, the familiar, was like a security blanket. Especially necessary in times like these.

Desmond couldn't help but notice that he had the least baggage.

Having lost the sword, it was now scarcer than it had been when he started, even. And that made him feel a sense of inferiority he hadn't felt for many years. Not since the time he had lived on the streets.

"Come out for a moment," Amy said, looking over her shoulder at him. She was on her knees, crouched in front of one of her suitcases.

"What for?" Desmond said, confused, stopping his work. They had divided the closet and drawers, and were sorting everything out.

"For something. You're a man and I'm a woman. Have a little more tact."

Desmond looked at Christina, who was quietly sorting her clothes, working in silence.

"Do you know what she's talking about?"

For some reason, Amy's cheeks had turned red.

"She doesn't want you to see her underwear," Christina replied dryly. And without a second thought, even though she had one of her own panties in her hands.

"Oh. I guess that makes sense. " Desmond stood up.

"You guess?" Amy was even redder.

"Well, you've probably seen my underwear and I haven't said anything to you."

"That's different."

Desmond shrugged.

"I don't see how, but okay. Let me know when I can get back in."

■

There wasn't another one of those incidents.

They laid down to sleep instead of staying up late, talking, getting to know each other. All three were very tired. It had been a long day. For him, especially. He didn't want to play the victim, but well, for him yesterday had blended into today. It had felt like one long, long day.

Which didn't mean they would fall asleep anytime soon. Not with all the things that were undoubtedly on their minds.

He, however, at least, fell asleep with surprising ease.