The Bargain

Looking down at the hostile, cold buildings of stone, steel and glass that made up the city of Ilfirin, a small smirk crept onto his face.
The white walls and colourful rooftops had been torn down during the reconstruction of the city, as he molded it to his ideal. In his eyes, the city was glorious, more powerful than it ever had been.

His gaze focused on the reflection of himself in the glass. Cold, silvery eyes stared back at him as he looked at the image of a tall, pale man with long dark tresses. Turning around, his gaze landed on a throne, at the head of  the long table, as memories came flooding back.

*********************

His lips curled into a sneer of distaste as he looked across the barren waste-land.

He had walked out of the council chambers, taking one last glance at the man who sat at the head of the table, the man who had the whole city, no, the whole kingdom of Helce in the palm of his hand. His very own brother, younger as well, if you would believe it.
The place was his! Not his brother’s, but his!
That seat at the head of the table should be his, along with the pride in his father’s eyes.
But no, young Gildin took it from him, stole it from him, usurped his throne. And he was not fit to be there, the whelp.
He was! The man who was so much stronger than Gildin was, so much worthier. But alas, the fates were cruel!  Instead of giving him his rightful place, he was the general of the army, a mere pawn on his brother’s chess board. While he was out toiling and fighting against the rebels, the boy sat comfortably on his throne.

And here he was now; sent out to the far south, to this desert land, merely to scout out the land as his brother, or rather his Highness, wished to expand their borders. Why he would want this pitiful excuse for a town was beyond him.

A group of guards standing in front of the caravans parted hastily, their apprehensive gazes following Daeron. They all knew the reputation he had earned himself as a ruthless warrior, merciless in his ways. They followed him obediently not out of respect nor loyalty, but out of fear. A cold glance from him was all that was needed to silence any protest.

His footsteps were heavy from his iron shod boots, as he strode across to his mount. Sliding on with cat-like grace, he kicked the horse into a gallop towards the sea of tents, intent on finding himself some entertainment.

Leaving his horse with a soldier, he walked past numerous tents, until he came upon one that seemed to beckon to him, its rich, crimson drapes and soft glow of candlelight so alluring that he could not help but step inside. Strange items lined the shelves, large jars containing what looked like parts of something that was once alive, bobbles, bits and books. And he was drawn to one item, in particular.
A medallion, lying there on the table, seemingly harmless. And as he reached out for it, a soft, silky voice startled him.
“Ah…finally. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming. Oh…where are my manners…Hail, your Highness. “

Daeron whirled around, his sword drawn and just inches away from the neck of the old man who sat there in the shadows of the tent. His jaw clenched slightly as he moved his blade threateningly.
“You mock me, old man?  You better be careful or your years might be shortened considerably.”

The dark skinned man merely smiled.  Something behind the smile made Daeron ill at ease.
“Mock you? Why Highness, I would not dare. And I jest not, for you are the true king.  The place is rightfully yours.”

The general straightened up, his blade slowly finding its way back into its sheath. There seemed to be more to this peasant than met the eye.
“Oh, though I do not deny that I deserve the throne, apparently some people don’t agree…” he added bitterly, thinking of his father and the council members.

So lost was he in his own musings that he didn’t see the sly smile that appeared on the wrinkled face.
“Would you give anything then, to be in power? For I have a potion, that will make you strong… so powerful, in fact, that you could easily overthrow your brother and claim the throne. But of course, I demand something in return…. a bargain, if you will…”

The General looked up at him, his mouth opening as he was about to hurl a scornful reply when he reconsidered and wearily asked,
“How will I know if it works..?”

The old man smirked before picking up a vial, swirling its dark red contents.
“You could have a try…”

Daeron was curious now and agreed to give the potion a try. The old man then proceeded to drop a few drops of the liquid onto his palm. And nothing would have prepared the young General for what happened next. A surge of energy shot through his body.  He felt powerful, unstoppable, even invincible.
On impulse, he waved his hand in the direction of a few jars and was startled when the glass shattered, spilling the slimy contents onto the rug. He turned back to the old man who was watching him with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction.
He eyed the potion hungrily, almost growling out his next words
“Whatever you want as payment I’ll give, just give me that.”

The old man grinned as he grabbed the young man’s hand, picking up a knife and carving a deep cut into his palm before taking the medallion which he had been eyeing earlier.
“Sign your name, in blood, on this medallion, and the deal is done.”

Daeron, without a thought, grabbed the medallion and hastily smeared some blood onto his finger and signed his name, not noticing as the blood seemed to fade away almost immediately, merely intent on getting the elixir. He poured the rest of the potion onto his palm, watching as the liquid seeped into the gash in his hand, which closed up instantly.
He could feel the cold, sweet potion race through his body, bringing him to his knees as he threw his head back, letting out a cry as he felt a fire consume him. And just as suddenly as the feeling had come, it disappeared, leaving him panting on the coarse sand.

Wait….. sand. He looked up and was shocked to see that the entire tent had disappeared, mysterious man and all. But he knew it was no dream, for he could feel the powerful force in him. Even so, he could hear the old man’s voice, whispering,
“The deal is done.”

*********************

He blinked, snapping out of his reverie. It had been twenty years since that day, and yet the events seemed to haunt him in his sleep as well as in consciousness.

His thin lips curled into a smirk as he thought of how easily he had overthrown his brother and his father, taking back what was rightfully his. Though there was trouble now and then from the rebels, it was nothing his men could not handle. He snorted before turning around, thoughts of new ways to crush the rebels’ spirits bringing a malicious smile to his lips.
And he was not prepared for the sight before him.

There he was, the old man from the tent, sitting comfortably in his throne. Grey eyes met dark, cold black ones, as he sputtered slightly, about to call for his guards when the man spoke up.

“I have come for the payment promised…One soul, please,“ a low chuckle followed.

He narrowed his eyes before drawing himself up to his full height,
“What are you talking about?! And how did you get in here? “

“I am here for the bargain you made years ago. In exchange for power, you said you would give me your soul,” he replied quite casually,
“Unfortunately for you though, you were impatient and did not wait to hear the terms of our agreement. But that’s not my problem, now is it?”

“You senile old fool. Get out of my chambers before…”

“Before what? What are you going to do?”

Daeron drew a gun from under his cloak and pulled the trigger. His eyes widened as he watched the bullet hit the old man and the wound instantaneously healing itself, leaving no scar or even the slightest blemish.

His cool, collected demeanor slipped. Fear gripped his heart.
It tore straight through the walls of ice and stone surrounding it, the ones built to hide his one weakness, leaving only the very vulnerable, very human core. Only human , after all.

Panicking he took a few more shots, but the effect was the same.
“W-What are you…?”

The old man’s eyes glittered with mirth as he took in the sight of the quivering mortal, taking in a deep breath as if savoring the scent of his fear. Ah, another soul for his collection. Fallen, like so many before him, to the lust for power, revenge, acknowledgement…
Rising from the throne, he walked slowly and deliberately towards the man, spreading his arms in a great gesture,
“Why…I am the Guardian of the River of the Dead, the Master of Souls…” he paused for effect, before finishing dramatically, “the Lord of the Nether Realm. And no one breaks a bargain with me.”