The mist clung to the floor of the great hall like a shroud. It was thick. It was cold. It tasted of iron and old rain.

Elias sat in the corner. He was not a man. Not anymore. He was a thing of smoke and silence. He watched the throne. He watched the King.

The King was young. He was pale. He held a cup of wine. The wine was dark. It looked like blood.

Elias had been a man once. He had been a physician. He had loved a woman. Her name was Elara. She had hair like spun gold. She had eyes like the sky before a storm.

They had lived in a small house by the river. They had been happy. Or so he thought.

Then the sickness came. It started in her lungs. It was a rattle. A wet, heavy sound. It filled the room at night. It never left.

Elias fought it. He mixed herbs. He boiled willow bark. He prayed to gods he did not believe in. He ran out of time. He ran out of strength.

He begged the King for help. He begged for a cure. The King had a court of sorcerers. They could weave spells. They could bend the air. They could heal.

The King refused. The King said there was no magic for such a thing. The King said it was the will of the heavens.

Elias did not accept it. He was angry. He was desperate. He was a monster of grief.

He went to the forest. He found the old witch. She lived in a hut of bones. She had no eyes. She had no skin. She was all hollows.

He offered her gold. She threw it away.

He offered her his honor. She laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on stone.

He offered her his life. She accepted.

She gave him a potion. It was clear as water. It was cold as ice.

Drink this, she said. Give it to her. She will live. You will cease.

He did not hesitate. He took the vial. He ran home. He poured it into Elara’s mouth.

She drank. Her chest rose. The rattle stopped. Her eyes opened. They were bright. They were full of light.

She looked at him. She smiled.

Elias felt his body dissolve. He felt his bones turn to dust. He felt his skin burn away. He felt his soul tear free from the meat.

He became the mist. He became the cold. He became the silence in the corner of the room.

He watched her live. He watched her age. He watched her hair turn white. He watched her face wrinkle. He watched her grow old.

He could not touch her. He could not speak. He could only watch.

Years passed. Decades. The house fell into disrepair. The river changed its course. The trees grew tall. They blocked the sun.

Elara grew lonely. She missed him. She spoke to the empty air. She set two plates on the table. She talked to the shadows.

She did not know it was him. She thought it was a ghost. She thought it was a memory.

She did not know he was there. She did not know he was watching.

The King died. His son took the throne. The son was cruel. He burned the witch’s hut. He hunted the strange things in the forest. He wanted order. He wanted control.

He heard rumors. He heard of a spirit in the old physician’s house. He heard of a woman who talked to the air.

He sent soldiers. They came at night. They broke down the door.

Elias felt the intrusion. He felt the heat of their torches. He felt the smell of their fear.

He wanted to save her. He wanted to warn her. He wanted to stop them.

But he was only mist. He was only cold. He was only silence.

He tried to push the mist against the door. It did not help. The wood splintered. The soldiers entered.

Elara stood in the center of the room. She held a candle. The flame flickered. It was the only light.

The soldiers surrounded her. The captain stepped forward. He was big. He was strong. He had a sword.

The captain spoke. His voice was loud. It cut through the mist.

Who are you? he asked. Why do you live here?

Elara did not answer. She looked at the corner. She looked at the mist.

I am alone, she said. I am waiting.

Waiting for what?

For him.

Who is he?

My husband.

The captain laughed. It was a harsh sound. He had no wife. He had no ghost. He had no magic.

You are mad, he said. You are a heretic. You consort with demons.

Elara looked at him. Her eyes were hard. Her eyes were full of sorrow.

You do not understand, she said. You will never understand.

The captain raised his sword. He swung it down.

The mist moved. It moved quickly. It moved with purpose.

It wrapped around the captain’s arm. It was like a cold hand. It was like a vice.

The captain screamed. He dropped the sword. He ran. The soldiers ran. They fled into the night. They did not look back.

The mist faded. It returned to the corner. It settled on the floor.

Elara fell to her knees. She wept. She reached out for the mist. Her fingers passed through it.

It was so close. It was so far.

She died that night. She died in her sleep. Her heart gave out. She had waited too long. She had given too much.

The house was empty. The soldiers returned. They burned the house. They burned the ashes. They burned the land.

The mist remained. It drifted over the black earth. It drifted over the ruins. It drifted into the sky.

It rose. It rose higher. It became part of the cloud. It became part of the rain. It became part of the wind.

It was free. It was everywhere. It was nowhere.

It did not miss Elara. It did not miss the King. It did not miss the witch.

It missed the feeling of being whole. It missed the weight of the body. It missed the pain of the heart.

It had traded it all. It had traded it for her life.

Was it worth it?

She had lived. She had aged. She had died.

She had not known him. She had not touched him. She had not spoken to him.

She had lived in the shadow of his sacrifice. She had lived in the silence of his love.

And that was not love. That was a trap. That was a cage.

He had saved her life. He had stolen his soul.

He had gained freedom. He had lost meaning.

The mist settled on the throne room of the new King. The new King was old. He was tired. He sat on the throne. He held a cup of wine.

The mist entered the room. It circled the throne. It touched the King’s face.

The King shivered. He looked up. He saw nothing.

But he felt it. He felt the cold. He felt the presence.

He knew. He had heard the stories. He had seen the mist in the forest.

He looked at the cup. He looked at the wine.

He drank.

The mist watched. It did not interfere. It did not fight. It did not beg.

It simply watched.

The King died. The wine poisoned him. The mist had not poisoned him. The King had poisoned himself.

He had tried to control the uncontrollable. He had tried to bind the free.

He had failed.

The mist drifted out of the window. It drifted into the night. It drifted into the stars.

It was alone. It was free. It was empty.

It was the price of freedom.

It was the cost of love.

It was the truth.

The mist rose. It rose into the infinite. It became the air. It became the breath. It became the silence between the words.

It was everywhere. It was nowhere.

It was the end.

It was the beginning.

It was the fading guest.

It was the cold.

It was the silence.

It was the end.