by Amanda Churi
In response to both his ire and small twinge of fear, a tsunami of melancholy suddenly passed over his head, throwing him under its crushing waves and holding him there.
He gasped as he ran, trying to fight it. He kept himself moving towards the royal family physically—mentally, though, he had fallen; he was spinning beneath the iron arms of the salt water as it wrung his neck. It choked him—slammed him to the swirling, sandy floors and kept him there, rays of moonlight filtering through the water and forming a daunting smile, forcing him to look back on his wrongs.
He didn’t remember the beginning of his life too much; all that he knew was that he was a member of a family that he did not belong in.
His family was comprised of many people: a mother and lots of siblings. His birth mother and biological father were two people that had no true form in his mind. The woman who took him in shortly after birth, Deborah, told him that his parents made the right decision. When Deborah’s husband died, she was lost and fractured, so when a newborn was placed at her doorstep with nothing more than a short note, she did not even question taking him in; she said many times that had it not been for Desmond, she might have not continued on.
For as far back as his memory stretched, there had been skirmishes in the streets between his people and the British. They felt neglected by ridiculous laws and taxes—they had an identity, but the high power did not see it like such. Desmond’s mother was not on par with the many revolutions taking place, and hence, she encouraged Desmond to support neither side; she did not want to be caught with the wrong group if, in fact, war became the eventual answer.
Desmond did not walk that fine line. Desmond Revere looked up to his elder brother, Paul. Paul worked in his father’s silversmith shop after his death, but he was never even slightly worried about saying what was on his mind. He hated the British; he hated what he often thought of as a minuscule life; and he hated his adopted brother.
To Desmond, though, Paul was a role model. Desmond often played the role of the Patriots in the many scuffles that he played with his young brothers and sisters—acts which his mother would quickly break up, hustling them inside before a British soldier could catch eye of them.
As Desmond grew up, when the tides between the feuding sides only heightened in power and violence, he wanted to be a Patriot more than anything else; he wanted to fight or be a part of one of the many secret societies that the Patriots were forming, much like Paul was.
He rarely saw his elder brother, but when Desmond was nineteen years, he caught wind of something strange. He remembered peering around the corner of a building, listening to Paul and another man as they discussed an attack by the British… Something about lanterns and coming by sea.
It was only a few days before Desmond had retrieved most of his knowledge and realized what was happening. He was young, yes, but many people resisting the British were younger. Deborah would never allow him to do something so reckless, but he had a mind of his own and was not intent on being restrained and having his life laid out for him. He wanted to show Paul that he was something… That he was just as important as him, if not more.
Desmond left Boston with the wings of darkness on his back. He found the horse that had been arranged for Paul’s long endeavor that night after he had hung two lanterns, waiting by its flank until his brother showed up.
He recalled his face—the shock stringing his cheeks high and the bitterness in his eyes. Paul protested, trying to keep his brother away, but Desmond could not be swayed. Although it was not what he wanted, Paul quickly realized that Desmond would not back down, and he reluctantly agreed to take his brother along.
There had never been a time in Desmond’s life where he felt more alive. He could still feel the cool nighttime breeze blowing through his hair and envision the paths of the countryside that they traveled that night. The British were preparing to ransack Concord, Massachusetts, to seize the supplies and weaponry that they believed belonged to the rebels. The riders took many paths, but Paul’s first major stop would be Lexington.
Both called out to the many people asleep in their homes, warning them that the British were coming, but before long, a Redcoat cut through the curtain of darkness around them.
At first, it was one, and then more came by horseback. They were racing behind them, demanding them to stop, but Paul never did. He could not be caught on his quest, but the British would not let up on their pursuit.
Desmond sat on the saddle of their horse, looking behind him in abhorrer when he saw the enemy gradually closing in. They held torches and guns, keeping their sinister faces illuminated as they called out to the duo, ordering them to halt or shots would be fired.
“Paul, we need to listen!” Desmond screamed, turning back to look at his older brother, who had no intention of bowing to their commands. “They will kill us!”
“You came along!” he barked furiously. “I knew the risks, and I will not stop just because you have piss running down your legs!”
“Are you crazy?!” Desmond snapped back. “They won’t kill us if we just stop; they have no evidence that we are doing anything wrong! Just stop the horse, and we will continue later!”
“By then it will be too late! I will not stop!”
Desmond grunted with worry, snapping his sight back over his shoulder as the British gave their last warning, many raising their guns as the commander held his sword high, preparing to give the order to fire. “PAUL! STOP! They’re going to shoot!”
An enraged, menacing scream filled the air, and as Desmond turned to look back at Paul, a knife suddenly swung towards his face. The blade ripped the skin under his eye apart, pulled down through his cheek all of the way to the corner of his mouth as Paul released his built up frustration. The agony was so profound and mighty that Desmond could not focus, and he certainly could not defend himself when Paul yanked his knife out of his flesh, shoving Desmond’s flustered body off of the back of the steed. “At least now they’ll be off of my ass, huh?!”
Desmond could not answer, falling back-first off of the horse and tumbling down the trail. The British swarmed him in seconds. They did not kill him, nor did they stop their chase after Paul, but the distraction was enough to give Paul a window of time that eventually allowed him to find an alternate route and escape.
That stab from his brother served as the beginning of the end. No one in the colonies besides Paul knew what happened. No one came for him when he was thrown into the depths of a prison hulk docked at the ports, suffering from fatigue, dehydration, and rampant plague. No one cared…
His wound widened; it inhaled the sickness circling him and granted it access to his heart.
For days he suffered, lying there and watching Death creep closer with every breath. The last thing he saw was the gloomy sunlight beaming down on him through the rusted grate of the rocking ship, heightening his fever until it overcame him permanently, and the last thing he heard was how his brother was being praised for his “heroic” actions.
They, unknowingly, were giving thanks to someone who had murdered his brother without even blinking an eye—and they continued to do so for centuries, all while he was left to rot, and nobody ever gave a damn about him—
Not until Azuré found his remains ashore many years later, buried beneath the sand and giving him a chance to gain vengeance.
The ocean that had been his grave released its airtight fist, allowing Desmond to breathe as he was suddenly thrown back into the present. He immediately stumbled upon realizing where he was, sweat pouring down every limb of his body. He hardly reestablished his balance before he could collapse, but he only managed because he knew of the task ahead.
He flashed his distraught eyes to the royal family as Orione streaked out in front of them, keeping them from heading any farther down the street. They screamed, rearing back as Orione struck at them with his chains, the family hardly moving fast enough to avoid it. They turned tail and ran back in the direction that they came, knowing that t
hey could not fight an Elite as enraged as he, especially after he had suffered such a terrible blow by Cecil.
Orione kept after them as they ran towards the army head on, Kevin pausing when he realized that there was nowhere to go. Any who tried to stop them the Returned slaughtered without question, either with their weapons or by pulling them into their swarm, trampling them beyond oblivion. Several, when challenged, transformed into their ultimate state, their skin exploding off of their bones as they turned into ancient oaks, dragging their prey up into the air with them and littering the streets with Christmas trees that used bodies as ornaments. Still, those remaining never slowed, their intentions clear.
What knights remained loyal to Phantome emerged onto the stone bridge connecting the two land masses. They cried out desperately, screaming for Kevin to get to safety, and having no other option, Kevin turned down the only route left for them. He continued to carry his weakened daughter and pull his stone-like lover towards the bridge, racing over the ocean to flee capture in the safety of their own home.
Desmond huffed. How stupid… They were practically running to their own coffins.
They were nearly halfway across the bridge when the army led by Desmond set foot on the old stones, Orione reaching the passage at almost the same moment as they began to conquer the stretch of rock.
Desmond’s eyes narrowed as he locked down on the targets. Personally, he had nothing against any of them, but they were in the way. If he were to alter time permanently, there would be no glory for his traitorous brother. Paul would not go down in history; his very existence would vanish on the wind, and nobody would know who he was. Now, Desmond would be the name that all knew.
“Get in!” one of the knights cried as he shooed Kevin and the others inside. The royal family bolted for the raised portcullis, running under it and into the foyer. The few knights that dared to venture outside immediately turned to run back in as well once their leaders made it through.
“No, you don’t!” Orione expelled a ghastly wail as the iron gate lowered, power building in his heels. The snow beneath his feet suddenly grew a bright blue, solidifying before pushing up and out, allowing Orione to gain access to flight once more. He split the enraged gusts, catapulting approximately thirty feet into the air at a horrific speed, landing squarely on top of the archway. Grunting like a mad man, he swung his magical chains through those that latched to the portcullis, slicing clean through them.
The wheel of chains inside spun and dropped the gate, Desmond’s eyes widening. “I’ve got them!” he announced victoriously, using every bit of adrenaline present as he hurled himself forward, zooming right past the guards in a somersault and under the sharp, metal spikes.
Desmond’s stunt had slowed the knights ever-so-slightly. They ran for safety, but their timing was off, and with a loud crunch, the spears preyed down on them and punctured them to the stone, spraying a fountain of blood into the air as Death ripped away their lives.
The army of Returned behind him was stopped momentarily, screaming and snapping their jaws like animals as they reached their infected arms through the gaps in the grate. Desmond’s roll faltered out, and without wasting a breath, he sprung up onto his feet, multiple knights encircling him.
Desmond would not let them stop his advance. Letting out a ferocious battle cry, he raced forward, the medieval swords of the king’s army merely scratching his strong armor as he tore through their ranks. He lunged forward when he saw the long lock of hair, shoving the last of the knights aside and yanking his prey towards him by her locks.
She squealed as she was pulled into Desmond’s chest and torn from Kevin, Desmond immediately reaching down to his side and grabbing his ghostblade, resting it over their throat.
“Make one move and she dies!”
***
Kevin whirled around when she was torn from him, facing the man as his threat punctured his ears.
He hardly even allowed himself to breathe too strongly as he stared at the horrid scene. The deadly ghostblade sat comfortably at the base of Lucy’s throat, her black eyes thrashing with fright when she digested what was happening. Her neck was tense, the black, vine-like veins about her face pulsing uncontrollably. She kept her arms stiff beside her, the sweat from every pore immediately breaking free as she looked at Kevin, desperate for him to not do anything stupid.
“D-Desmond…” Kevin tried, his sanity falling further into a downward spiral every second that he held his lover at knife-point.
“Shut up!” he screamed, his hold on Lucy strengthening, causing her to let out a frail squeal. “Call off your men!”
Kevin froze, unsure what to do. He quickly looked around at his knights, who had taken the threat seriously as well. They barricaded the space around Desmond, but with his futuristic enhancements, he was the ultimate opponent, even for the twenty men that he had left under his command. He glanced at the hungry Returned separated by the lowered portcullis. The lone Elite leaped off of the archway, coming to stand before the iron bars, watching closely. He twirled the grapples in his solid hands, but he did not attempt to break down the gate at the moment; he was focused on watching the situation unfold, a terrifying, sly smile shining through the blowing snow.
“I SAID CALL THEM OFF!” Desmond ordered, his arm tensing.
“Ok, ok!” Kevin replied frantically before he could go through with the execution. “You heard him! Back off!”
For a second, the knights did not move. They looked at their king skeptically, but they understood why he said what he did. Obedient, but reluctant, they stepped back to give the four ample space, but they did not lower their swords, prepared for anything.
“Let her go, Desmond,” Kevin growled, his figure seeming to fluctuate in size due to his anger.
Desmond chuckled playfully. “You think it’s that easy, do you? You think that you can just tell me what to do, and I will blindly follow? You are not my king! You’re nothing more than a lone chess piece trying to stand up to all of my pawns!”
Kevin’s eyes narrowed. He bit his tongue, wondering just what he could do. He knew that Desmond wouldn’t even give killing Lucy a second thought. Maybe they were not as close as they used to be, but that was no reason for Kevin to turn his back on her. “What do you want…?”
Desmond smiled, his black irises blending with his pupils. He flicked his head in the direction of Daisy, who was lying over Kevin’s shoulder.
Kevin exhaled viciously through his nostrils, grabbing Daisy and placing her behind his back, the young girl wrapping her arms around his waist for protection. “No.”
Desmond cocked his head to the side, his smile never falling. “I don’t think you understand the situation properly,” he pressed, giving Lucy’s body a small crush in his arms so that she squealed. “She’s the only one of the three of you left who can stop us: the Sword of Maeve is gone; Maeve’s soul is trapped; your Receiver is nowhere to be found—you have no allies left to help you.”
“So then why would I give her up?!” Kevin snapped.
Desmond shrugged, his lips straightening. “Why wouldn’t you? She’s as good as dead anyway.” He took a small step forward. “But I won’t even allow for the slightest margin of error. I want her dead right here, right now. Assuming she lives, she’ll always be a bit of a vegetable; that’s no life to live. Give her to me, and I will end her suffering.” He gave Lucy another shake. “In exchange, you’ll have your lover, and I will let you both go.”
Kevin snarled in disbelief. “Lies!”
“Why would I care?” Desmond pushed. “I have no quarrel with you; so long as I get what I want, I promise, no harm will come to you or Lucy.”
Kevin’s racing emotions came to a pause. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder at Daisy, who was staring up at him with the widest eyes to have ever graced the planet.
His heart thundered in his chest. He could remember Daisy when they rescued her, how little she was… How sweet and innocent, always able to bring a smile to ever
yone’s face. She was still beautiful in both heart and spirit, but the evils of the world had severely wounded her.
He turned back to look at Lucy. She was never as pure, but nonetheless, she and he had molded their flesh together, and she had revived a piece of his heart that died long ago…
And he had to make a choice… A choice that no one should ever make.
He sighed in defeat. “Say I do hand her over,” Kevin began weakly, turning his guard back on. “How long do you think that you will stick around? Sure, Calla protected you with the binding spell, but her powers are all but gone—if you change the future so drastically, I hope you know that, eventually, you will go with it.”
Desmond frowned. “Do you really think I’m that stupid? I understood the spell perfectly fine. Six people, originally from vastly different time periods, had to be selected at any given time: your resistance, our ten regiment members, plus Azuré and Elip—Calla performed the ritual three times. With the spell, they were given a chance to stand against time, no matter what happened. Maybe Calla’s magical entities fade, but spells remain permanent; don’t try to fool me.” He suddenly laughed. “And what are you talking about? The future was never secured—just us!”
The mark on Kevin’s neck burned, searing his skin. He bit his lip, his arms suddenly fighting their master as they trembled. “What?”
Desmond scoffed. “Ah, another lie you were misled by…” he noted righteously. “It’s pathetic how you believed her so simply. You’re too trusting for your own good—too quick to believe everything.” He raised his neck slightly, smirking. “Just like your mark as well.”
Terrified by all that was occurring to him, Kevin reached behind his neck, resting a hand on the marking of the Returned. He paused for a moment, thinking, before he wrapped his nails around the obsidian-like design, viciously pulling it up from his skin. He grunted, the symbol taking some skin with it and drawing a few drops of blood, but overall, it was removed in a fairly clean manner. Aghast, Kevin looked at the symbol in his hand, dumbfounded. He wondered many times why his mark had never spread… And now it made sense.