The rain lashed the stone. I stood guard. The tower was cold. My bones ached. I held my spear. The iron was heavy. It tasted of rust. And blood. Old blood.

I was a man of duty. I wore the grey. The cap was tight. It crushed my brow. I felt the weight. Of the world. Above me. The sky was black. No stars. Just clouds. Thick and low. They pressed down. Like a hand. On my chest.

Inside, the fire burned. Low. Slow. It gave no light. Only heat. A thin band. Across the floor. I watched it. The flames danced. They whispered. I could not hear. I only saw. The smoke rose. It curled. It died.

I had been here for days. Three days. Or four. I lost count. Time was a lie. In this place. Time did not move. It stayed. It rotted. I waited. For orders. For the end. For something. Anything.

My friend was gone. Thomas. He was not here. I knew it. I knew it deep. In the marrow. He had left. Or he had died. I did not know which. It did not matter. The chair was empty. The dust settled. On the seat. A thin layer. Grey. Like ash.

I missed him. The miss was sharp. It cut. Like a knife. Under the skin. I wanted to scream. But I did not. I was a soldier. Soldiers do not scream. They stand. They watch. They wait.

The wind howled. Outside. It hit the walls. The stones shook. A little. A tremor. I felt it in my feet. In my teeth. The building groaned. It was old. Very old. It remembered. Things I did not know. It held them. In the cracks. In the mortar.

I looked at my hands. They were rough. The nails were short. Cut by the blade. I had cut them. To keep clean. To keep safe. But they grew back. Fast. They were strong. They were mine.

I thought of the village. Below. The fields were wet. The mud was deep. The farmers were gone. They had fled. Or they had hidden. I did not see them. I only saw the empty houses. The doors ajar. The windows dark.

They feared us. The soldiers. The guards. They did not know why. They did not know the truth. They saw the grey. They saw the spear. They saw the fear. In our eyes. And they ran.

I did not blame them. Fear is simple. Fear is fast. It runs ahead. Of thought. Of reason. It takes you. And does not let go.

I was afraid too. But I hid it. I kept it in. In the belly. In the gut. It sat there. Cold. Hard. Like a stone. I carried it. Every step. Every breath.

The fire died. The room went dark. I could not see. My eyes adjusted. Slowly. The shadows moved. They danced. They played. They mocked. I hated them. I hated the dark. It was full. It was full of things. That breathed.

I gripped the spear. Tighter. The wood creaked. It was alive. I thought. It had a pulse. It beat. In time. With my heart. We were one. The man and the weapon. The beast and the cage.

A sound. Outside. A scrape. A drag. Heavy. Wet. It came close. To the door. To the wall. It stopped. There. Just beyond the stone.

I held my breath. My lungs burned. I wanted air. But I could not take it. I was a statue. A thing. Made of stone. And silence.

The sound stopped. The silence returned. It was loud. It roared. In my ears. A high pitch. A whine. I blinked. My eyes were dry. I felt tears. But none fell.

I was alone. I knew it. The sound was gone. The air was still. The rain continued. It fell. It fell. It never stopped.

I thought of Thomas. His face. His smile. It was wide. It was bright. It lit up the dark. In his eyes. There was a fire. A different fire. Not the hearth. Not the cold. It was warm. It was safe.

He had said things. In the quiet. When the others slept. He spoke of freedom. He spoke of the sky. He spoke of flight. He looked at the birds. The ravens. The crows. They flew. They were free. He wanted that. He wanted to be them.

I laughed. I told him no. Men are not birds. Men are ground. Men are stone. We do not fly. We do not soar. We stay. We hold. We endure.

He did not listen. He never did. He looked at me. With pity. With sadness. He saw me. He saw the cage. And he saw the bird. Inside. He was the bird. I was the cage.

I hated him for it. I loved him for it. It was the same. It was the same pain. The same joy. It was the cost. Of knowing. Of seeing.

The days passed. The light changed. The sun rose. The sun set. The light was pale. Weak. It did not warm. It only showed. It showed the dust. The dirt. The decay.

I cleaned the room. I swept the floor. I wiped the tables. My hands ached. The broom was heavy. The water was cold. I did not care. I moved. I was a machine. I worked. I waited.

I found a feather. On the floor. White. Soft. It was from a dove. A small thing. It lay there. Broken. Dead. I picked it up. I held it. It was light. Lighter than air. It meant nothing. It meant everything.

I put it in my pocket. I kept it. I touched it. Often. It was soft. It was real. It was the only thing. That was real.

The order came. At last. It was written. On paper. The ink was black. The words were clear. I read them. Slowly. I read them again.

I was to leave. I was to go. Down. To the village. To the man. The one who fled. The one they called the thief. The one they called the traitor.

I did not understand. I did not want to. But I obeyed. I am a soldier. I obey.

I left the tower. The air was cold. The mud was deep. It stuck to my boots. It pulled. It dragged. I walked. I walked. The path was narrow. It wound. Through the trees. The branches scraped. They tore my cloak. I did not care.

I saw the village. It was empty. The houses were silent. The chimneys were cold. No smoke. No life. I walked among them. I was a ghost. I was a shadow.

I found the house. It was small. It was old. The door was locked. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. Hard. The wood splintered. I broke it. I pushed it open.

Inside. It was dark. The air was stale. It smelled of dust. And fear. I stepped in. My boots creaked. On the floor.

I saw him. Thomas. He was there. He sat in the chair. He was still. He did not move. His eyes were closed. His hands were on his lap. He was pale. He was cold.

He was dead.

I knew it. I knew it before I looked. I knew it in my bones. In my blood. I knew it.

I stood there. I looked at him. I looked at his face. It was peaceful. It was calm. He was free. He was gone.

I fell to my knees. The floor was hard. It hurt. I did not feel it. I reached out. I touched his hand. It was cold. It was stiff. I held it. I held it. I held it.

I wept. The tears came. They fell. On his hand. On the floor. They mixed. With the dust. I sobbed. I gasped. I shook. My body trembled. It shook. It rattled.

I was broken. I was shattered. I was gone.

I sat there. For a long time. The dark came. The night fell. The silence grew. It swallowed me. It ate me. I was nothing. I was dust.

I looked at the feather. In my pocket. I took it out. I held it. It was white. It was bright. It was alive.

I understood. Then. I understood. The price. The cost. To be free. You must die. You must lose. Everything. You must give. Your life. Your self. Your soul.

I was not free. I was bound. I was tied. To the duty. To the order. To the grey. I was the cage. I was the wall. I was the stone.

I looked at Thomas. He was the bird. He had flown. He had died. He was free. I was not.

I stood up. My legs were weak. They shook. I walked to the door. I looked back. One last time. I saw him. In the chair. In the dark. He was gone. He was free.

I left. I walked. I walked. The rain stopped. The sky was clear. The stars came out. They were bright. They were cold. They were far.

I walked back. To the tower. To the post. To the duty. I walked. I walked. The mud was deep. The path was long. I walked.

I did not speak. I did not think. I did not feel. I was empty. I was hollow. I was a shell.

I reached the tower. The door was open. The fire was out. The room was cold. I walked in. I stood. I held the spear.

I was a man. I was a soldier. I was a guard. I was alone.

I waited. I watched. I endured.

The rain began again. It fell. It fell. It never stopped.

I held the spear. I held the feather. I held the silence.

I was the stone. I was the wall. I was the end.

The cost was paid. The price was high. The freedom was his. The duty was mine.

I stood. I watched. I waited.

For nothing.

For everything.

For the end.