Page 126 of The Darkest Oath

He didn’t want Élise to feel responsible. She wasn’t. She only wanted food for the starving. He turned around and cupped her face. “You did not kill Louis Charles,” he whispered and kissed her forehead.

He took a deep breath and walked from her embrace to the sofa and sank into the worn cushion. His head drooped back on the wood railing, and a sigh released from his belly. He stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight.

“Everyone dies,” he whispered, his voice thick. But would he too now that the king was dead and the heir a traitor and absent?

He pulled a knife from his belt and laid the blade on his hand while Élise watched, her eyes darting between him and the blade.

“I’m afraid, Élise, that when I become no longer immortal, I will fade to dust given my age.” He swallowed hard. “Or I will relive every death and then die.”

“But you have not done those things,” she whispered.

“Because there is still a rightful heir to the throne, and the war is not decided.”

“The Count of Provence,” Élise said with a nod to Louis XVI’s younger brother. “But he is not here. How do you serve a king who left his country?”

Rollant chuckled, stained with sorrow. “If I am immortal still,”—he slid the blade across his palm—“then I fear I have to leave France.”

Élise retrieved a cloth and gingerly tended to the wound in his hand, holding her breath. Her shoulders slumped, and her gaze dropped when the gash healed. She wiped up the rest of his blood and sat down next to him. Her fingers caressed the healed gash in his hand as if to calm the cut’s phantom burn.

“What do we need to do now?” she asked.

“It means I need to leave.”

“No.” She shook her head. “What doweneed to do? If you leave, I leave with you.”

“Élise, I can’t protect you. I can’t protect a ten-year-old boy, a king, a queen. And a sorceress tied me to them. How am I supposed to protect you across the country? Across all of Europe?” He threw his hands up, letting lifetimes of pent-up anguish escape. “It’s all futile anyway. Centuries! Centuries of service—all for what? Nothing!” He jolted up.

“Everyone dies,” he yelled, his voice hardening with every word. “But not me. No! I’m forced to watch while the world crumbles.” His hands curled into fists, his knuckles white. “For what? What has any of this been for?”

He screamed at the ceiling and summoned the sorceress to answer. “Witch! You cursed me with this hollow life! Was it mercy—or punishment? Did you know what it would do to me?” His voice cracked as he threw a chair across the room, the splintering wood echoing his torment. “I have paid my price and my debt. Release me!” he yelled and kicked the table over.

The silence that followed was deafening. A splintered leg of the chair rolled to a stop at Élise’s feet.

Rollant’s breath heaved. His hands shook. He had faced battlefields and betrayals, but never had he felt this lost.

The sofa creaked as she stood and took a cautious step toward him. “Rollant,” she whispered.

He looked at her then—the fear flickering behind her eyes.

And it broke him.

His knees hit the floor. He loosened the collar of his shirt and sat back on his heels with a shaky breath. He palmed his face to calm himself. “I am sorry, Élise.” He couldn’t bring himself to look upon her after his outburst. “I . . .” His voice trailed off.

She sniffled, and it crushed his heart. He had scared her and the guilt for doing such a thing was more than he could bear.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, wiping his face, not realizing tears ran freely down his cheeks.

“Your curses don’t define you, Rollant.” Her voice was smooth and soft like the most decadent silk. She kneeled beside him. Her arm wrapped around his waist as her other hand gripped his and brought it to her lips.

“You call it pointless,” she said softly. “But would Louis Charles have died afraid if you hadn’t been there? Would he have died alone? Would I have survived the Revolution or Gabin if you hadn’t found me at the bakery? Would Hugo and the others have all met their fate at the guillotine? Rollant, your life isn’t meaningless. You’ve saved more than you know.”

She pulled his head into her chest until he laid his ear to her lap and let the years’ worth of suppressed guilt, anger, and loss run down his face as a stream of tears. She bent over and kissed his temple as she crooned, “The choices you’ve made because of your curses define you. And those choices show me who you are—a man worth fighting for, a man worth my love and my life.”

He brought her fingers to his lips. “What would I do without you, Élise?” He brushed her off, not believing his worth.

“You’re not hearing me,” she said and turned his face to hers. “There is more to life than your duty to the crown; for once, consider what you want for yourself. Not for me, not for the king, not for France. For you.”

They locked eyes, and he swallowed hard. His brow furrowed. “For me?”

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