The Legend of the Last

By the light of the waning moon, the village awakes. Curtains heavy enough to block the sun’s rays are pulled back, allowing in the once silent night. Even the animals wake, sensing the tension in the air as parents prepare for the possibility of losing their children.

The evening is highly anticipated. Excitement shows clearly on some faces while others mourn their potential losses.

It’s the older children, the ones who are almost adults, who look tired and slightly bored.

“Once a year is too often,” Darren says, pulling on his boots as he sits on the edge of his bed. “A Chosen One should be a rare thing, don’t you think?”

When he gets no response, he looks up at his twin, standing by the window.

“Dalton? Did you hear me?”

The silent twin stands in the light of the moon, his eyes on the cottage just barely out of sight. He rubs the spot on his chest that aches right above his heart. The cottage is normal, so like his own, with the thatched roof in need of repair and a front path that’s wide enough for a couple to walk side by side. It’s a place he sees often, day and night, but by the light of the waning moon, his heart grows heavy.

“Dalton…”

When Darren places a hand on his brother’s shoulder, the somber twin finally turns from the window. The young men face each other. Once upon a time, few could tell them apart. Now Dalton’s skin is pale, despite his time spent in the fields. The once full face is thin from his lack of appetite. He rarely smiles.

“Come,” Darren insists, taking his brother’s hand. “Mother and Father are already in the square.”

As they leave the house, the twins must walk past the cottage. Dalton, hand still in his brother’s, stiffens. But Darren won’t allow him to stop.

“This is our last year attending,” Darren says, trying to distract his brother. Dalton watches the cottage until they round a bend. “Sleeping through this night will be better for you.”

Seventeen is the cutoff age for the Chosen Ones. The twins are only a week away from their birthday. Still, each carries a packed satchel, as required.

“It won’t make a difference.” When Dalton speaks, his voice is tight from unshed tears. He doesn’t let himself cry. Hasn’t for two years. “When we marry, our children will need to attend. And us along with them.”

Their parents are at the square because it is required. Parents don’t have a chance to hug their children for the last time if they miss the ceremony. Parents receive letters for some time after the child leaves, but the Chosen give up their old lives after a year or two. The village only hears their names if the Chosen are praised for their deeds or if they die. That is the only thought that brings Dalton comfort.

No news means she isn’t dead yet.

A crowd stands in the square, speaking softly. Children between the ages of nine and seventeen are quieter. The younger ones suck on hard candies with the promise of more if they behave. The teens stay in their own groups, more relaxed than anyone else in the square.

The Chosen Ones tend to be younger. News from other villages confirms it’s the same throughout the kingdom. Younger might mean the children aren’t strong, but if they’re younger, they can be trained. Older children are stubborn.

Of course, that isn’t set in stone. Chosen Ones are determined by fate alone. Age does not matter.

Dalton glances at the group of fourteen-year-olds. They aren’t as relaxed as the older teens. For years, the Chosen from their village were below the age of twelve. Until two years ago.

“You look tired,” the twins’ mother says when they stop beside their parents. “Did you not sleep?”

The woman takes Dalton’s face in her hands, examining him carefully. The boys take after her, with her lighter hair and forest green eyes. Their demeanors were once like their father’s. The man cracks a smile, nudging Darren in the side as he tries to find the humor in every situation.

“We’ll pass out soon enough,” he says to the twins. “And sleep through the night for years after.” His laugh is hollow, though, his attention on Dalton. The younger twin was once the strongest. He’d put up a good fight two years earlier and had to be locked away to keep him from following the Bringer. Not that Dalton has a reason to fight anymore.

The square falls silent when the Bringer enters, followed by the village head. Children step closer to their parents, who wrap their arms around their shoulders. As if holding them close will keep them from being seen.

Dalton’s attention leaves the square. The Bringer is different every year, so he has no quarrel with the man in the dark cloak. Off to the side stand two horses, one for the Bringer and one for the Chosen. The selection is swift each year and soon everyone will return to their beds. Everyone except one child.

A gasp in the crowd draws Dalton’s focus back to the ceremony. The Bringer is moving among the families, but swiftly. He bypasses the nine- and ten-year-olds holding onto their parents. He ignores the eleven- and twelve-year-olds who are trying to make themselves invisible. The thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds, gathered in groups, hold their breath, but the Bringer passes them by. The man doesn’t head for any gathered groups. He walks right up to a family. Dalton’s family.

“Chosen One.” The Bringer stops before Dalton and lowers his head. “You are found. Bid your loved ones goodbye and come.”

Never has the square been so quiet. Others pinch themselves, as if they might be dreaming. Even the children who’d been afraid to be chosen, are bewildered.

“What?” Darren is the first to speak. “He can’t be the Chosen One. He’s sixteen. Seventeen in seven days.”

While Darren refuses to believe it, their mother lets out a sob. Their father’s face pales and even he can’t find a reason to smile. 

But Dalton can. For the first time in two years, his smile is genuine.

“Yes!”

As he takes a step toward the Bringer, Dalton is brought up short, his twin’s hand on his arm.

“You can’t… It isn’t right.” Darren’s cheeks are pink with anger. In a week, they’d both be safe. They’d go on with their lives, not worrying about the ceremony for years.

“It’s my fault,” their mother cries. “If you’d been born sooner, this wouldn’t be happening.”

The Bringer watches silently. Tears are normal during the ceremony. Anger too, though not on the scale Dalton showed two years earlier.

“I’m going,” he says, eyes on the Bringer. When Darren’s fingers dig into his arm, Dalton finally looks at his twin. “Talia is there. I’ll see her again.”

That is the only reason to be fine with the situation. Dalton doesn’t care that his life will be in danger. He doesn’t care that he’ll be the oldest Chosen One in training. When his betrothed was taken from the village, his life ceased to matter. Getting chosen means reuniting once more.

Even Darren falls silent. Everyone in the village knew that Dalton mourned his one true love. In the kingdom, betrothals aren’t official until the age of seventeen. But Dalton and Talia didn’t care. They’d grown up together, fallen in love, and planned their futures. Then, at fourteen years old, she’d been chosen. Dalton’s screams, the way he’d fought to keep Talia from leaving, are still talked about among the villagers. An unseemly display. But now, he’s been blessed with the chance to be with her again.

No one can argue. No one can stop someone from being chosen. And the chance that Dalton might be happy again is enough for his family to let him go with love. Hugs, kisses, and tearful goodbyes. Then he’s on a horse, leaving with the Bringer without a backward glance.

They ride through the night. Dalton, once tired, is wide awake and filled with anticipation. No one knows the power behind the ceremony. No one understands the magic the Chosen wield to protect the kingdom from the dark wizards outside their borders. But he doesn’t care what trials he’ll face, as long as he sees Talia again.

Near sunrise, the pair stops. The Bringer throws back his hood, the light catching on his face. A younger Bringer, he is only in his thirties. Dalton wonders if they sent a younger Bringer to handle him. Though he hadn’t successfully stopped Talia from being taken years ago, he’d wounded the Bringer.

“The Chosen Ones live together?” he asks.

“They do.” The Bringer takes a piece of bread from his pack, eating it without offering any to Dalton. The young man pretends not to care. Eventually he’ll be hungry, but there is money in his pack.

“Where do they stay?” Dalton asks as he sits on a log to rest his legs. Riding a horse requires more work than he thought. He bends to massage his thighs.

“Near the capitol.” The Bringer walks to his horse, pulling more bread out to eat without sharing. “Have you heard The Legend of the Last?”

Dalton turns to look at the Bringer, but the man’s back is to him as he faces the horse.

“The myth, you mean? Of course. The Last Chosen.”

No one believes the story. A Seer spoke of it once, on his deathbed. The Chosen Ones would end when the Last took power. The Last would end the dark wizards and bring peace forevermore. 

“One person can’t exterminate every dark wizard,” Dalton says, leaning down to stretch his legs. “Wizards are born and become dark. To keep dark wizards from being born, magic itself must be erased.” 

The Bringer chuckles softly. “True. And a world without magic may be safer but presents its own challenges. Why any magic user would accept the end of magic is beyond me.”

“Exactly,” Dalton says, turning toward the rising sun. “And if magic needs to end, all the Chosen Ones must die. If The Legend of the Last was true, I wouldn’t accept it.” If the Chosen Ones had to die, that meant Talia would die. Dalton shivers at the thought. He doesn’t care about magic, but Talia is more important. He’d give up the entire kingdom for her.

“You wouldn’t accept it? Then what would you do if you met the Last Chosen One?”

Dalton stares at the sunrise. It reminds him of Talia’s bright smile. So warm and welcoming, bringing him back to life.

“I’d keep them from being chosen,” he says, closing his eyes to bask in the sun’s warm embrace.

The Bringer steps up behind him, sword drawn. The man’s expression is grim, but he still lifts his blade. “I’m glad you agree.”