I love you.

Three little words. How ironic was it that Rhys had been unable to say those words, until it was nearly time to say goodbye"

Natalya was sleeping, peacefully, contentedly, or so it seemed. The two of them had talked long into the night, discussing matters of philosophy and religion, until they had run out of words, and then they'd made love for a second time and then a third, as if they'd both sensed the fate that awaited them, the knowledge that the long and winding road of destiny was finally nearing its end, at least for him.

Rhys knew the end was near, and he knew what he had to do. It was his birthright, his destiny, what he'd been born to do, and though he dreaded it, he knew he had no choice. There was no other way to earn his freedom, but to face that which had haunted him all his life. The final battle was at hand.

There had been a time when he'd been so full of despair that he wouldn't have cared if he'd lived or died, but that time had passed. The battle to save mankind had become a matter of survival, but now that the time was drawing near, now that he had something and someone to live for, he found himself fearing death and dreading the end more than ever before.

In his quest to find the sword, he'd found something else, something far more precious, more valuable than the rarest of diamonds. Against all the odds, he'd found love again with Natalya, and with that love, came the pain of knowing it couldn't last. He had to leave. It was the only way to keep her safe.

It wasn't the first time he'd left someone behind. He'd left Kellie behind for the exact same reasons. He didn't want what had happened to Jessie and Riley to happen to anyone else. This was his battle, not theirs, and if anyone was going to put their life on the line, it was going to be him.

It wasn't a matter of running away. It wasn't cowardice that caused him to leave, to cut the ties between himself and those he cared for. It wasn't that he didn't care; it was that he cared too much.

It was nearly morning when he finally took his leave. He wished there was another way, but he knew he had no choice. He had to get as far away from Natalya as he could before the demons could hurt her. He knew she was going to be angry and hurt, but at least, she'd be alive. He'd promised that if he survived, he'd come back. He'd find her again and they'd be together, but he couldn't think about that now. No false hopes. No dreams of the future. What mattered now was finishing this thing once and for all, no matter what happened.

Rhys tapped the syringe and leaned over the quiet form of Natalya, who was sprawled across the bed, peacefully asleep. He couldn't take any chances on her waking, following him, finding him, talking him out of what it was he knew he had to do. He needed a few hours to get away, to make a clean break. He wasn't sure where he was going yet. He'd figure that out once he got to the train station. One ticket to anywhere, as far away from Albi as he could get.

He hesitated a moment as he watched her in her sleep, a small smile upon her lips, and he wondered what she was dreaming about. Him, maybe. Who knew" It didn't matter. He was only tormenting himself and her by prolonging the inevitable.

Gently, he swept a handful of chestnut curls away from her neck, fighting the urge to brush his lips against her skin, so soft and warm. He leaned closer, cringing a little as he sank the needle into her flesh, a quiet moan escaping her lips as she seemed to feel the prick of the needle, the drug working too quickly for her to protest.

"I'm sorry, Nat," he whispered, his lips close to her ear, heart aching with the old familiar pain of loneliness. "Goodbye."

In the end, he relented and kissed her - one last kiss to remember her by - a soft, lingering brush of lips against her cheek, breathing deeply of her scent. No matter what happened, he'd never forget her. She'd burned a memory of herself into his mind, and no matter what happened, would live forever in his heart.

After another long moment, he finally pulled away. It didn't take long to pack his things. He strapped the scabbard to his hip once again and sheathed the sword, carefully hidden beneath his coat. For some reason, no one seemed to notice it there but himself and Nat, but he knew the demons would know he had it soon, if they didn't already. And it was for that very reason that he was leaving. Two down, one to go.

Rhys made one final sweep of the hotel room, leaving only one thing behind. His cell phone. It would be too easy to track him or try and contact him if he had it, so he left it there on the nightstand where he'd set it down only a few hours ago.

The sky was just turning gray as he made his way toward the door, the sword strapped to his waist, a duffel hanging from one shoulder. One last look at Natalya, his heart feeling like it was about to shatter in a million pieces, and those three little words found their way to his lips a final time.

"I love you," he told her, knowing she couldn't hear him, that she'd never even know he'd said it.

And then, he was gone.

There was one thing to be said for traveling by train - it was relaxing. More relaxing than driving and far more relaxing than flying, which made Rhys a nervous wreck. It wasn't long before the sound and motion of the train running along the rails lulled him to sleep. He was beyond exhausted. Not even the coffee running through his veins was enough to keep him awake any longer. He needed to sleep, if only for a little while. Besides, the demons wouldn't dare try anything on the train, would they' He hoped not.

He tried to stay awake for a while. He ate a little and watched out the window as the countryside passed him by. It was almost two hours to a place called Toulouse, where he transferred trains, and then another three hours or so to Lourdes. With any luck, he'd be there before it got dark, just enough time to get a hotel and a good night's sleep before he decided what to do next. Summon Abaddon, he guessed. He had the sword and didn't see much point in waiting any longer. He just had to find the right place to do it, where there was no risk of anyone else getting hurt. He wasn't sure yet where that might be and didn't know enough about the geography of the place to even hazard a guess. It was a bridge he'd cross when he got to it. He'd thought about calling Adam to let him know he was alright, but he'd left his phone with Natalya, too worried the man would use it to track his location and tell her where to find him.

Rhys' eyes grew heavy as he watched the French countryside pass by outside his window, a blur of color. His head tipped to one side finally, in a lean against the window, the ride so smooth it didn't even rattle his aching brain. One thing at a time, he thought, trying to keep his mind from racing ahead, idly wondering how much time he had left. Thirty-two years he'd walked the Earth as a human. He wondered what it would feel like to be an angel again.

"Dad," he heard a voice calling him suddenly and realized he must be dreaming. "Dad!" Someone was shaking him, trying to wake him from sleep, a boy's voice this time - young and familiar. Rhys felt his heart seize up in his chest. Patrick. He tried to pry his eyes open, to see his boy once more. The son he and Riley had lost, a son that would now never be born.

"Pat," he whispered, a single tear sliding its way down his cheek, as he pried his eyes open to find a boy sitting beside him, looking up at him with the same familiar face he'd seen once before in a dream that had been meant to give him hope, a dream that had seemed like so much more than just a mere dream.

The boy smiled up at him with the same hazel-green eyes and smattering of freckles he saw in his own face, but there was something different about him, too. There was a little of Riley in him - short, dark hair; the eyes, though green, almond-shaped like hers; her nose, his mouth. He was a good-looking boy, taking the best of them both and blending them together. Rhys' heart seized up in his chest at the sight of him, the son he'd never know.

"What are you doing here?" Rhys asked, brushing the tears from his own face, not quite trusting himself to talk without betraying his feelings, his voice rough with barely-contained emotion.

"I came to tell you something," Patrick replied, sliding his small hand into his father's larger one. "I'm not dead, Dad. Not really. You're not alone. We're all here. We're all watching you."

How many times had Rhys heard that before and yet, he felt more alone than ever. "You're not real, Paddy. You're just a dream. A wish. You're what might have been, but will never be," Rhys replied, feeling that old familiar loneliness like a dull ache in his chest.

"You're wrong," the boy told him, tugging at his father's hand to pry open his fingers and press something cool and smooth into his palm before closing his fingers around it. "This is yours. Grandma gave it to me. She said to give it to you. She said it will give you strength and courage and hope."

Rhys opened his mouth to speak, to remind his son that she was dead. She'd been dead a long time. He'd watched her die. He'd been unable to stop it. He felt the tears coming again, this time for her and for all those who'd gone before him, those he'd tried to save and couldn't or who'd gone willingly to their deaths to try and save him. He closed his hand around whatever it was his son had given him, too fraught with emotion to think about that right now or what it might mean.

"Am I....Am I ever gonna see you again?" Rhys stammered, his heart feeling like it was going to burst within his chest. Patrick's death had ripped a hole in his heart that he thought would never mend. Nothing had hurt as badly as that. He'd been an innocent, his only crime having been conceived.

"Someday," Patrick replied, frowning almost sadly up at his father. "Do what you came here to do, Dad. Finish it. Save the world. You're the only one who can do it." The boy pulled away suddenly and moved to his feet, glancing behind him as if he heard someone calling him, summoning him away. "I have to go now. I love you, Dad. Remember what I said."

"Pat..." Rhys called, the boy's fingers sliding slowly away from his own, until they were no longer touching.

"I'm right here, Dad. I'm always here. All you have to do is believe."

The train's whistle screeched, signaling that they were nearing their first destination, the city of Toulouse, and Rhys awoke, startled and disoriented.

"What the hell..."

He glanced out the window at the changing landscape, houses and buildings moving past on either side of the track. He turned to look at the other passengers, some of whom were chatting and laughing, while others were reading, listening to music, talking on the phone, going about their daily routine, as if nothing was amiss. What had just happened" Had it only been a dream"

Rhys looked over to find a boy sitting two rows away, beside a man he assumed must be the boy's father. The similarity between them was unmistakable. He looked to be perhaps eight or nine years old, just about the age Rhys had been when his own father had died, about the same age Patrick had been in his dream. The boy caught his glance and smiled amicably back before turning to his father with a look of pure devotion, and Rhys felt something twist in his chest, like a knife buried deep in his heart. Fathers and sons. His own father was dead, and he wondered if he'd ever have a son of his own.

He glanced down at his hand, as if suddenly remembering something, uncurling his fingers to find he was holding a medal made of silver. He furrowed his brows as he plucked the chain from the palm of his hand and held the medal up to get a better look at it. St. Jude Thaddeus, the Patron Saint of Lost Causes. If Rhys wasn't a lost cause he wasn't sure who was. But how the hell had it gotten there"

"I'm right here, Dad. I'm always here. All you have to do is believe."

Believe in what" Rhys wondered. An afterlife? Heaven and hell; angels and demons; saints and sinners. Miracles. God. It was all just a matter of faith, wasn't it'

"I love you, too, Paddy," Rhys whispered, hoping against hope that his boy would hear. He carefully pulled the silver chain over his head and tucked the medal safely beneath his shirt, where he could feel it hanging against his chest, close to his heart.

Rhys wasn't sure what had just happened, but somehow, he had gotten a tiny glimpse behind the thin curtain that hung between the world of the living and the dead. Somehow Patrick had stepped through that curtain, if only briefly, and given Rhys incontrovertible proof that life went on, that death wasn't final. If that wasn't a miracle, Rhys didn't know what was.