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Death spoke, their voice a whisper on the wind, “we meet now at the end of the age. You, who has eluded me for a lifetime's worth of lifetimes, now kneel before me as all of creation does. You are the final gift to me before the cycle restarts and the hunt begins anew. Tell me, champion of Belgast and the one who called themselves Death's Failure, what say you now before you enter the endless dark of Sheol?”
Síran rose shakily, her mortal wounds still present outside her mortal form. Blood ran down her face, her left eye no longer opened, her skull was caved in from a blow from an iron flail, and a myriad of bruises covered her body where her bones had been shattered. “For over a millennia I have protected the realm and its people from the hounds of darkness,” she spoke, her breath ragged and voice coarse, but rising in intensity and fervor, “since the dawn of this age the light of Arvenór has shown forth from the mantle of the Guardian, and I have bore burdens long buried beneath the sands of legend and myth. Today my body has broken. It lies on a battlefield that will one day fade from memory. But my spirit stands undaunted, my will surges forth, and I am guided by powers beyond both your might and that of the grave. So long as the light of Arvenór shines, and the people of Belgast carry hope in their hearts, I shall stand here before the black gates of Sheol, and not a single vessel of its shadow shall touch the souls of Arvenór's blessed. I shall guard this post eternally if I must.”
Death stilled and their countenance grew pensive. They looked at Síran and saw that she spoke true, the light of Arvenór still burned bright in her soul's core. It was almost painful to look at. At last, after what seemed an age unto itself, Death spoke, their voice now carrying a touch of trepidation, an emotion Death had believed themselves incapable of feeling. “You would subject yourself to an eternity before the gates of Sheol rather than embrace its inevitable endless sleep? You would spend eternity battling me, the primordial embodiment of the end? You would fight and stand guard against the end for a people who will one day not even remember your name or your fate?”
“I would, and I will.”
Death's shadowed form faded revealing a boy not quite a child, but neither an adult. He had a pale visage not unlike the moon, and his eyes pierced the surrounding darkness with an ethereal white glow. He sat before Síran, a grim and saddened smile on his lips, and said in a soft voice, “Sit. If we are to be here eternally, then I see no reason why we cannot at least be civil for a time. Perhaps words will get us where sword, bow, and magecraft cannot. Allow me to tell you a tale of a forgotten hero like yourself. Perhaps we'll understand one another after the tale is done.”
Fin. (Maybe)