Drip. Drip. Drip.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Drip. Drip. D-
"...Dimitri?"
Hm? What was that noise? So different from the deafening sound of the falling blood, so quiet, he was sure he'd heard it before... somewhere.
"...Dimitri."
There it was again, still quiet. Where was it coming from?
...
Please, don't let it be them, not again. How could they be back so soon? Had he not given them enough?
He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, lance nestled softly against his side. Warm, crimson liquid drained from the blade, gently caressing his face. Who was it to be this time? The Father, the friend?
"Dimitri."
...
The Professor.
Of course it was. She was here to remind him of one of his latest failures. Couldn't save his father, couldn't save his friends, couldn't even save the one he loved. Was he to be tormented by them, too?
Glancing up through his dirty, blood soaked hair his gaze met theirs, eye burning with the fires that roared within his heart.
"I should have known... that one day... you would be haunting me as well." His voice was bitter, angry, yet also resigned. He would never know peace.
"Everything will be okay, Dimitri."
Hm? He'd never heard that before. Could it be that...
No. The professor was dead. They'd been dead for five years.
...
Hadn't they?
A pale hand slowly reached out towards him, extending a warm welcome to the cold man huddled under the stone arch. Their fingers seemed to glow gold in the harsh darkness. He looked away, rising to his feet and towering over the person before him, mere centimetres between them.
"...Professor?"