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Rollant could feel his life slipping away, as it had on the battlefield six hundred years before. The world stopped, and the sounds of distant cannon fire faded to silence.

“Why?” he called out. Why then? When he was happy with élise and finally found love again.

Why had the sorceress forsook their deal at that moment?

Though he had wished for mortality for centuries, he did not want it then.

But it seemed, life again was unfair. Thus, he only wished, needed, to see élise one last time.

As if fate had heard him, élise’s face came into view.

Her hands caressed his face, and her lips brushed his.

Tears fell onto his cheeks. He blinked, coming out of his haze.

The man and his two children stood off to the side with their cart, watching them in somber silence.

The mother pressed strips of her dress against Rollant’s wounds.

“Rollant!” élise’s voice sounded far away as he lay on the path to his land with their home in the distance. She had dropped to her knees beside Rollant; her hands trembled as they brushed his blood-matted hair from his face.

But cutting through élise’s screams, an ethereal whisper revisited the dying.

“Do you wish to live, Rollant?” The same chill of night pressed in heavily above him as it had six hundred years prior.

élise faded from sight as the celestial hair of the sorceress preceded her starlit face, hovering above his.

“Why now?” he croaked.

“You abandoned your duty to serve the crown and attacked royalist soldiers rather than fight alongside them. Because of your actions, Napoleon Bonaparte put down the royalist rebellion, and he will become emperor. Marie-Thérèse and Louis XVIII will never have children, thus ending the Capetian dynasty. For the first time, neither side of your deal is upheld.”

“Then let me live my life with élise,” he said as death edged his vision.

“You would trade eternity for a few fleeting moments with a mortal woman?" she hissed. "You are nothing without me. A mere shadow of what I made you.”

She circled him like a vulture. Her dark tendrils wrapped around his limbs. “But I offer you a new purpose,” she said with an air of deliverance. “Serve Napoleon’s empire that will last forever with your service, or reject me and turn to dust?—”

“No,” Rollant said with certainty.

“You would willingly fade into dust? After all I have given you? You beg for death like a fool? You are bleeding out on a filthy street like any other worthless man." Her voice dripped with venom.

“You could live forever with an empire that will never end. You could have riches unforetold. You have paid your penance for Arnoul’s blood, and you may love again, and you say no?” the sorceress asked as if her vain promises were worth the pain of immortality.

“No,” Rollant urged.

“What of élise and the king’s daughter? What will they do without you? The poor orphans will live a life they know nothing about. Who will take care of élise and Marie-Thérèse?”

The sorceress had asked him the same question about Amée and Cateline to twist his reasoning and logic and to compel him to accept her offer.

Amée’s beautiful face appeared in memory as clearly as if he had seen her that morning.

With the clarity of her visage, clarity of reason came with it.

She and Cateline would have been fine without him.

Amée would have grieved him, but she would have been well-cared for; she could have found love again or chosen to live alone.

She had everything she needed. And now élise had his fortunes and gold.

She was young and beautiful. Her whole life was ahead of her, just like Amée.

Marie-Thérèse was well cared for in the Temple, bored but well.

He couldn’t do much to help her beyond that.

Could he spit in the face of God one more time? He knew the answer. He would not make the same mistake again. He had inflated the importance of his life, and it had cost him his humanity.

He prayed instead of answering the sorceress. “Forgive me, Lord. I only wish to say goodbye to élise and hope for your forgiveness. Please allow me into your fold.”

Rays of light broke through the celestial hair and starlight face, dispersing the image of the sorceress who curdled an agonizing scream.

A warm, golden light surrounded Rollant and lifted him off the ground, giving way to a blinding brightness that gradually faded, revealing the crisp October day.

Fresh air filled his lungs like a babe after birth.

Every breath was sharp, raw, and alive. élise’s hands cupped his face, and her touch burned like fire—no longer muted by the dull ache of centuries.

Tears blurred his vision, but for the first time, they weren’t tears of regret.

They were tears of life. The cobblestone pressed into his back.

The sounds of the children crying were full force in his ears.

élise’s fingers gripped his hair. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Rollant, you aren’t supposed to die.” The words tore from her lips in a frantic whisper. “You can’t. You can’t do this.”

His body was warm beneath her touch, but it was the warmth of fever, not life.

Centuries of breathing false, foreign air faded to nothingness.

He had forgotten how pure the air was, how fresh and rejuvenating.

élise’s scent was of linen and lavender.

He turned his face and breathed her in for the first time at the expense of agony ripping across his chest. His body ached.

It hurt from centuries of abuse. But somehow, his newfound peace diminished the pain of his wounds.

“The bleeding stopped,” the mother said as she worked, pulling needle and thread from her pocket. “I’ll sew him as best I can.” She shouted over her shoulder, “Jehan, alcohol.” He produced a small flask.

élise’s gaze never unlocked with Rollant’s. The questions flooded her eyes. “You’re not supposed to die,” she whispered in repeat, her voice cracking.

Rollant swallowed the lump in his throat as his eyelids fluttered. “Thank you . . . for showing me love again,” he whispered in a stutter as pain ripped through his chest with each breath.

“No.” She shook her head, her grip tightening. “No, no, you don’t get to thank me. You don’t get to say goodbye.” Her voice cracked, thick with rage, grief, and terror.

“You will stay with me,” she whispered, nodding—begging. “You will.”

The afternoon sunlight dimmed, and the sounds and smells faded. Death closed in. His time was fleeting, and his soul met élise’s in their gaze.

“No—Rollant, please!” She clutched his coat as if sheer will alone could tether him to life.

His breath shuddered and slowed. “You’ll always have me,” he murmured, and the darkness took him.

But in the black abyss, a voice called to him. Soft, familiar, surreal.

"Rollant."

A golden glow bathed the abyss, chasing away the shadows. Rollant turned, and there she stood—Amée, radiant and untouched by time, draped in robes as white as morning mist.

Behind her, Cateline and Ninette stood in solemn reverence among the lost kings of France—Louis, Philip, Charles—all those he had served, with centuries of gratitude etched into their faces.

"You have carried your burdens long enough," Amée whispered in sorrow and pride. Her fingers brushed his cheek, warm and real—not the ghost of a memory, but a promise of something beyond. "Live, Rollant,” Amée crooned. “Live for her as you once lived for me."

The kings raised their hands in solemn blessing, their voices joining hers in a chorus that echoed through the void:

"Live, Rollant. Live as we lived."

* * *

Two days passed, and élise refused to let Rollant give up.

She thought of the first time she’d met him—the quiet strength in his gaze, the fire that had never dimmed.

Now, that fire was flickering, and the thought of it going out forever filled her with terror.

He had always seemed larger than life, a man untouchable by time.

But now, time was clawing at him, and she couldn’t stop it.

She cleaned and dressed his wounds, but she didn’t understand why he was no longer immortal.

The family that helped Rollant moved into Hugo’s old home, as they had lost everything in the city.

Bertille, the mother, came over regularly to check on Rollant and to force élise to sleep, though sleep never came easily.

Each time she shut her eyes, she feared they might open to find Rollant never breathing again

His pain was evident even in unconsciousness.

Low, pained groans accompanied the hard rise and quick fall of his chest. She lifted the cloth on his side, cringing at the angry, jagged wound.

The gash across his chest was healing well, but the one on his side looked worse with every passing hour.

élise poured more alcohol over it, the scent making her stomach churn.

“At least Bertille is a good seamstress,” she muttered, trying to lighten the weight in the room, though her voice trembled.

She caressed Rollant’s face, her nails scratching the stubble on his jaw.

Her hands ran down his neck and arms to soothe the tension in his muscles.

His body felt so strong, so solid beneath her touch, but it terrified her how fragile his life had become.

“Don’t you leave me,” she stammered. Her voice cracked on every word. Her tears fell freely onto his chest, tracing unseen paths down his fevered skin.

“Not now. Not after everything. Not when we’ve fought so hard for us.” Her fingers trembled as they curled into his.

The silence of the room mocked her. No whispered reassurances, no teasing quips—just the shallow, ragged rhythm of his breathing.

“You promised,” she choked. “You told me once that I’d always have you. So don’t you dare make yourself a liar, Rollant.”

Still, he did not answer.

Her body shook with exhaustion, her head falling to his chest, listening—waiting—hoping.

“Please,” she whispered into his skin, voice breaking. “I love you. That has to be enough.”

élise sat up, rubbing the exhaustion from her face.

Her mind swam in the haze of sleepless nights.

She pressed a warm cloth over his side, hoping to coax the wound to heal, and her tears blurred the sight of his ashen face.

It wasn’t fair—not after all they’d endured, all the years she’d waited.

He was hers. Hers to love, hers to fight for.

But what if that wasn’t enough? What if she was too late?

The first rays of dawn crept into the room, bathing Rollant in a golden glow. élise froze as his chest rose slower now, steadier, each breath pulling at the quiet stillness of the morning. Had she imagined it? The way his chest moved.

Her breath caught. She leaned in, hands trembling as she pressed her fingers to his wrist. The faintest flutter of a pulse met her touch.

His lips parted, a soft groan escaping, and his hand twitched beneath hers.

"élise?"

She shattered.

His voice was faint and less than a whisper, but it was enough to send her weeping into his shoulder.

“Rollant,” she sobbed. Her fingers clutched his hand, clinging as if she could anchor him there, pull him fully back into life. “You’re awake. You’re awake.”

He moaned, his head rolling weakly on the pillow as if testing the limits of his body. He rasped in a voice, hoarse and broken, “Am I dead?”

élise laughed through her tears. “No,” she whispered, pushing his hair back from his forehead, “But you’re stubborn enough to come close.”

His voice rasped, hoarse and broken. “I have so much pain,” he said. “But so much life.” Her hands cupped his face as his eyes fluttered open, their dark brown meeting hers with a dazed focus.

His lips twitched into something like a smile, and it sent a flood of hope rushing through her. For two days, she had wondered if she’d ever see him smile again. Yet, he was here, and he was alive.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” she said, tears brimming once more as she pressed her lips to his.

Rollant took élise’s hand and pressed it against his chest. Beneath her palm, his heartbeat was steady and strong. His eyes softened, and she swore she saw a glimmer of peace there that she’d never seen before.

He exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a sob. Tears filled his eyes, but they were not of pain.

“For the first time in six hundred years,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “I’m finally alive.”

élise held his face in her hand, her own tears falling freely now. “And you’re mine,” she whispered fiercely as she touched her forehead to his. “All of you. For as long as you live.”

* * *

The days stretched into weeks and months, and élise watched Rollant recover. The strong, stoic knight she had first met began to reappear, though there were moments when his pain lingered in his gait and the lines of his face when his breath caught from the wounds that had nearly killed him.

élise worked tirelessly beside Bertille, tending to him, cooking meals, and keeping their small world in order.

The weight of everything she’d endured—from her childhood, Gabin, Hugo, and the Revolution—settled over her, but it did not crush her.

If anything, it strengthened her resolve.

Once, she had lived in fear, always bracing for the next fight, the next loss.

Now, she had something to hold onto—someone to hold her back.

Each moment with Rollant, each breath he took, reminded her that she had not only survived—she had built something worth living for.

One day, élise glanced up at Rollant as they walked through the garden, arm in arm, her hand resting in the crook of his elbow. The golden light of evening bathed the garden in a quiet glow, painting the lavender and thyme in hues of amber and violet.

Rollant still carried himself like a knight—head high, shoulders strong, every movement deliberate—but his face had changed. The burdens of centuries had not disappeared, but they no longer consumed him. The weight was still there, but now, he carried it differently. He carried it with her.

Her fingers laced with his, and he squeezed gently as if grounding himself in this life they had built from the ashes of war.

She smiled. “What are you thinking?”

Rollant exhaled, his eyes scanning the garden—the place they had nearly lost each other and, against all odds, found their way back. His fingers curled tighter around hers. “I never thought I’d be this happy,” he whispered as if the words themselves were fragile, too precious to speak aloud.

He turned to her then, and the achingly tender love in his gaze made her chest tighten around a fast-beating heart.

There wasn’t just love, but certainty. He had searched across centuries and found his answer in her.

She hadn’t just chosen him; she had chosen love.

And every day, she would choose it again.