Immortality

Tarrant hooked on his belt sword for the first time in a long time, and slipped the ancient steel sword into its sheath. He had spent hours sharpening and restoring it. He could have easily gotten a new one, and it might have even cost him less, but he trusted the one that he had. It had carried him through many dark times. He prayed it would be able to carry him through one more.

Gisil sat across from him, watching him quietly. She had known him her entire life. He had been there when she was born. She trusted him implicitly - more than she trusted anyone. She was drawn to him in a way. She couldn't look away from when he spoke, and she was never more comfortable than she was in his arms. There was a warmth and a light to him that wasn't present anywhere else in the world. And she knew that he felt the same way about her.

Tarrant stood up and pulled a wool shirt on before holding out a hand to Gisil. She took it and let him pull her up onto her feet. "Are you ready?" he asked her. "This is it. No turning back."

Gisil looked up at him, looking into his eyes. There was an emptiness to them that she could only notice when they were alone. He was experienced with hiding his thoughts and emotions, she had learned, but he never did when it was just the two of them. She was able to see true happiness in those dark eyes, but she was also able to see unbelievable pain that she knew no one but Tarrant could ever experience. "I'm ready," she whispered.

They walked out of Tarrant's room, hand in hand, and down the castle hallway. They could have done this in secret. Gisil had tried to convince Tarrant of going through with that plan. But Tarrant was older, wiser. He knew what it was they were fighting better than anyone. He had said that if they didn't make a point of their departure, as painful as it may be, they wouldn't be able to buy enough time. Gisil had had no choice but to concede.

Violently and abruptly, Tarrant kicked the door to the throne room open, revealing the true strength he had been gifted with all those years ago, and sending the shattered remains of the door into the far wall. Gisil tried not to look at her father, sitting on the throne.

"Tarrant?" the king asked. He had known Tarrant his entire life as well. Everyone in the castle had. Tarrant had regaled them with tales of the world before the castle had ever even been built. Before the concept of a castle had even been made. "What's wrong? What's happening?"

"I'm sorry, old friend," Tarrant replied, his face flat, but his voice taut with bitter frustration. "I'm afraid it's time for me to draw the line. I have waited for the chosen one for over a millennium, and she has arrived too late. I can not save you. I can only save she and I from having to watch the darkness win."

The king stood up roughly, but paused as Tarrant's sword leapt into his hand. "You told me she was not the one of prophecy," he called out, sadness rich in his voice. "You lied to me?"

"I had no choice," Tarrant spat back. "It has been too long. The darkness is too powerful. No prophecy could ever stand against it now."

The king looked to his daughter, but Gisil's eyes were closed, and her body was glowing. For the first time, she was releasing her powers. Tarrant's sword began to glow, dully at first, but quickly became blindingly bright.

With a flick of his wrist, the sword ripped through the air, tearing a massive hole that sucked in the air around them like a black hole. The king gripped his throne tightly, trying to maintain his feet. "Why?" he cried out desperately. "Why are you forsaking us after all this time?"

"I am old," Tarrant called out. For the first time in over a thousand years, he was crying. "But this is the only way I can give you even a chance of dying without the darkness corrupting you. I promised to see the chosen into a new world. That's what I'm going to do."

Tarrant discarded the sword and lifted Gisil into his arms. She curled tightly into a ball, gripping Tarrant's shirt with all the strength she had. He and the king locked eyes. They were both crying.

"Goodbye, old friend," Tarrant called, his voice barely audible over the whirlwind of air being sucked into the hole. Before he could hear a response, Tarrant leaped through, and the hole sealed behind him.

The king dropped to his knees. In the back of his mind, he could sense a creeping darkness that wanted to take him fall away, as if it were no longer afraid of not eventually getting there.

"Goodbye," he whispered. "Old friend."