Page 121 of The Darkest Oath

“After having gruel all week, this stew is everything my belly could hope for.” Even his words dripped with exhaustion, though his eyes sparkled when he looked upon her. He reached across the table, and Élise slipped her hand into his.

“I’m worried about you,” she said. “You look as if you carry the weight of the world.”

Rollant chuckled with a shake of his head. “It’s only been a long week.”

But Élise knew the lie. Rollant carried what he would not tell her for much longer than the past week. His silence always spoke louder than his words. Her direct nature drove her to ask the question. She was tired of guessing. She was tired of him pulling away from her to protect her, shelter her, or for whatever reason.

“No, it’s more than that,” she said in a whisper.

Rollant scrubbed a hand over his face, his jaw tightening.

“Why do you look so worn, Rollant? Why do you never tell me what happens during your days at the Temple?”

His face paled. His thumb ran over her fingers as his gaze turned inward.

She was losing him to his past horrors. With a gentle but firm tone, she said, “You’ve carried this burden alone long enough. Let me carry it with you.”

Rollant’s fingers tightened around his spoon with knuckles white. His gaze dropped to his bowl, his usual confident demeanor giving way to something raw. The strain in his shoulders and the way his lips pressed together meant he was holding back words he didn’t want to say. He sighed and ate his stew.

It was his way of telling her he would answer in a moment, so she finished her meal in silence to allow him time to gather his thoughts. He was always so careful, so reserved, and she threw all of that to the wind.

The scrape of his spoon against the bowl was the only sound for a long moment, the rhythm of its quiet punctuation to the silence between them.

When they were finished, Rollant took the dishes and washed them. With his back turned to her, he spoke with a shake of his head.

“If I tell you, Élise, it cannot be undone. You will carry it with you, as I do. Are you sure you want that?”

Élise rose and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her cheek between his shoulder blades. “I want all of you, Rollant,” she said, her voice catching. The plea was evident in her tone. "Not just the parts you think are safe to share.”

“Six hundred years is a long time to be alone,” he whispered as he washed out a bowl. “Habits are hard to let go; I’m sorry if you feel I have kept my darkest moments from you. I only wish for your happiness.”

“Are you happy with me, Rollant?” she asked.

He lowered the dish into the basin and dried his hands before turning in her arms. He cradled her face and placed a sweet, gentle kiss on her lips. “Beyond happy,” he whispered. “You are my greatest strength.”

She closed her eyes as he kissed her cheeks and forehead. “Then I want to help you carry your dark moments so they are not so dark. You are not alone anymore. I am your wife, let me help you. Let me be close to you in all ways we can be.”

“Then I will tell you,” he whispered and led her to the sofa. Rollant stared at their entwined hands for a long time before he began.

Her chest tightened as she listened, the words falling from his mouth like stones in the room’s stillness, impossible to take back. Her throat tightened, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for his, the warmth of his skin grounding her amid his despair: Louis Charles—the screams, the bruises—even still, after Antoine Smith’s execution.

“There is nothing but desperation in his eyes,” Rollant said. “And I feel I have failed him just as I failed his father. I am immortal. I cannot die, and yet I cannot save anyone.” His gaze dropped, and his shoulders released centuries of regret.

Élise’s heart broke at his words, the weight of his pain pressing down on her chest. Her thumb brushed across the calloused skin on his hand, trying to offer a small comfort for the anguish he couldn’t escape and had carried alone for so long.

“I am trapped in an endless cycle of seeing everyone suffer and try as I might, fate does not change anything. Everyone dies. There is no peace. I long for an end to the torment, Élise,” he said, tears breaking free.

Élise’s chest constricted at the pain in his voice and could feel him withdrawing even further into himself to pull out each confession. She took his hands in hers, holding him tightly as if she could stop the sorceress’ deal and grant his desires.

“Yet my duty to the crown binds me to a future I never chose in full understanding.”

He wiped his eyes in vain. “And knowing I will have to be alone again after knowing you, after loving you, losing you,”—he kissed the back of her hand—“It is more than I can bear. This home bringing me such joy with you alive will be nothing but pain.”

Élise rubbed his back and shifted on the sofa to be as close to him as she could.

“You see,” he started and wiped his tears. “I did not want to darken your day with such morbid thoughts.”

She leaned her forehead to his. “You did not darken my day,” she whispered. “You can’t do everything, Rollant. Though immortal, you are still one man. You stayed with Louis Charles more than you had to because no other royalist would risk their life posing as a Temple Guard. You’ve told me he believes he is safe with you, and that matters, Rollant. You have not failed him.”

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