Tomorrow's Demons Part 10 End

Dear father Alain,
Please mail this to the post.
Your son,
Alphonse Dawnay

I would like to believe- especially in these troubled times when or nation’s rulers are at war with the very people they claim to represent- that we all live our lives for a purpose, whether that purpose, that goal is one we set ourselves or one that others lay before us. I dedicated my life to a hunt. I sought to capture a killer, a brigand. I sought to bring down Le Spectre. But now I must wonder if I was not chasing after shadows, chasing after a man- a thing- which did not exist.
Many will ask how this can be, when I myself reported Le Spectre dead three days ago, killed during the occupation of my home city. I myself fired the shot which claimed his life. Yet medals and honors and commendations for my service are empty, meaningless. I should know; I dedicated my life to my worst enemy.
You see, I did not kill Le Spectre. Le Spectre died before his heart stopped beating, before that bullet stole the breath from his lungs. There was a moment when I stood alone before my enemy, before my life, before my purpose, when I realized it was all in vain. Le Spectre moved to throw his katar, the weapon which has claimed so many lives, the weapon which is mounted on a wall behind me even as I write this. At first I believed that my shot was simply quicker. But now I know that something stayed his hand. I know that Le Spectre- who had killed so many to survive- finally died in that moment, that instant before I fired. The man I dedicated my life to hunt down would have let go, would have let that blade find my heart. That man died by his own hand, not by mine.
I do not think I will ever know why Le Spectre withheld that last blow, why he chose death and mercy for another in that moment. My single greatest regret is that I never got to look into his eyes. I would like to believe that I might have seen a bit of myself there, if I had. To have lived as a specter is rare, but to have lived- even for a moment- without one is truly unique.

Alain Dawnay sat back as he finished reading it, then folded the letter in which he had uncovered it a few minutes ago. He moved across the room to a desk, upon which lay a messy pile of letters. He simultaneously threw down the paper and opened one of the letters, stroking it in an almost imperceptible gesture as he did so.
Written on the folded sheet of paper in a flowing script were a few short lines;
Dearest Alain,
The soldiers took me. I am charged with revolutionary activities. The penalty is death by guillotine. I hope you can forgive me for never writing to you. I was bitter, and angry. I know now that it was not your fault. The boy’s name is Damien. Since you may never meet him I included a drawing below.

Beneath, in ink obviously not made for drawing but in a hand obviously born for it, was a picture of a handsome boy with piercing blue eyes staring out at him from beneath long, black bangs.