The ink was black.

Not the black of night.

Not the black of coal.

It was the black of a void.

A hungry void.

It sat in the bowl.

It waited.

Marcus looked at it.

His hands shook.

The shaking was a tick.

A small, mechanical error.

He was a scribe.

He was also a prisoner.

The cell was stone.

The stone was cold.

The cold bit his bones.

He wore a gray tunic.

The tunic smelled of damp.

And of fear.

He had written before.

He had written letters.

Love letters.

He had written lies.

Now he wrote the truth.

The truth was a curse.

The truth was a key.

He held the quill.

The quill was bone.

He dipped it.

The ink rose.

It clung to the feather.

It did not fall.

It defied gravity.

It defied logic.

It was alive.

It whispered.

Marcus listened.

The whisper was his own name.

*Marcus.*

*Marcus.*

*Write.*

He wrote a letter.

The paper was white.

The paper was blank.

The paper was a mirror.

He saw his face.

It was not his face.

It was the face of a king.

A dead king.

King Aldric.

Aldric had died ten years ago.

Aldric had died of a fever.

Aldric had died alone.

Marcus had been there.

Marcus had held the king’s hand.

Marcus had heard the last breath.

The breath was a rattle.

The breath was a lie.

Marcus knew the truth.

The truth was in the ink.

The ink was the curse.

The curse was knowledge.

Knowledge was a cage.

He wrote the first line.

*My dearest son.*

The words formed.

They were perfect.

They were cruel.

They were true.

He wrote the second line.

*You are not mine.*

The ink spread.

It bled into the fibers.

It stained the soul.

Marcus stopped.

He looked at the door.

The door was iron.

The iron was rusted.

The rust was red.

The red was blood.

He thought of his father.

His father was dead.

His father had been a saint.

Or so they said.

Saints do not bleed.

Saints do not whisper.

Saints do not use ink that does not fall.

Marcus was a sinner.

Sin was a weight.

He carried it.

He carried it to the desk.

He carried it to the quill.

He carried it to the paper.

He was a puppet.

The strings were made of ink.

The puppeteer was his father.

Or the ghost of his father.

Or the memory of his father.

It did not matter.

The puppet moved.

The hand moved.

The quill moved.

The ink flowed.

*You are my shadow.*

*You are my mistake.*

*You are my penance.*

The words were sharp.

They cut the air.

They cut the silence.

They cut Marcus’s heart.

He felt the pain.

The pain was real.

The pain was necessary.

He could not stop.

To stop was to die.

To write was to live.

A life of pain.

A life of truth.

A life of ink.

The door opened.

A shadow fell.

It was not a man.

It was a shape.

It had no face.

It had no name.

It held a staff.

The staff was wood.

The wood was pale.

The pale was bone.

The figure stepped in.

The figure spoke.

The voice was dry.

The voice was old.

*You write well.*

Marcus did not answer.

His throat was tight.

His mind was blank.

*Who are you?*

Marcus asked.

The voice was a rasp.

*I am the keeper.*

*Of what?*

*Of the truth.*

*The truth is a curse.*

*Yes.*

*Why do you give it to me?*

*You asked for it.*

*Did I?*

*You always do.*

The figure pointed.

The finger was long.

The finger was thin.

It pointed to the paper.

The paper was wet.

The ink was moving.

The words were changing.

*My dearest son* became *My cursed son*.

*You are not mine* became *You are mine*.

*You are my shadow* became *You are my master*.

Marcus gasped.

The air left him.

His lungs burned.

His eyes watered.

The words were a noose.

They tightened.

They constricted.

They crushed.

*Stop,* he thought.

*Stop writing.*

*Stop knowing.*

*Stop being.*

The figure watched.

The figure smiled.

The smile was sad.

The smile was kind.

*It is done,* the figure said.

*No,* Marcus said.

*It is not done.*

*It is never done.*

*Then why stop?*

*Because I am tired.*

*Tired of what?*

*Tired of the ink.*

*Tired of the truth.*

*Tired of the pain.*

The figure nodded.

The figure stepped back.

The figure faded.

The shadow grew long.

The light from the window grew dim.

The ink in the bowl was gone.

The bowl was empty.

The paper was blank.

The quill was dry.

The room was silent.

The silence was heavy.

The silence was thick.

It pressed on Marcus’s chest.

It pressed on his mind.

It pressed on his soul.

He looked at his hands.

His hands were clean.

The ink was gone.

The stain was gone.

The curse was gone.

Or was it?

He looked at the paper.

The paper was white.

The paper was blank.

The paper was a mirror.

He saw his face.

It was his face.

It was tired.

It was old.

It was free.

He picked up the quill.

He dropped it.

It clattered on the stone.

The sound was loud.

The sound was final.

He stood up.

His legs were weak.

His knees buckled.

He caught the desk.

The wood was hard.

The wood was cold.

He leaned on it.

He breathed.

The breath was shallow.

The breath was ragged.

The breath was life.

He looked at the door.

The door was closed.

The lock was turned.

The key was in the lock.

The key was his own.

He had always had the key.

He had never seen it.

Now he saw it.

The key was small.

The key was gold.

The key was the truth.

The truth was the key.

The key was the curse.

The curse was the freedom.

Freedom was a burden.

Burden was a gift.

Gift was a wound.

Wound was a scar.

Scar was a mark.

Mark was a name.

His name was Marcus.

Marcus the scribe.

Marcus the prisoner.

Marcus the son.

Marcus the sinner.

Marcus the free.

He walked to the door.

His steps were slow.

His steps were steady.

He put his hand on the lock.

The lock was cold.

The key was warm.

He turned the key.

The key turned easily.

The door opened.

The light came in.

The light was bright.

The light was white.

The light was blinding.

He stepped out.

The hallway was long.

The hallway was dark.

The shadows were deep.

The shadows were waiting.

He walked into them.

He walked into the light.

He walked into the unknown.

He walked into the end.

The end was not death.

The end was birth.

The birth was painful.

The pain was sweet.

The sweet was bitter.

The bitter was true.

The true was real.

The real was now.

Now was everything.

Now was nothing.

Now was ink.

Now was paper.

Now was quill.

Now was Marcus.

Marcus was the ink.

Marcus was the paper.

Marcus was the quill.

Marcus was the writer.

Marcus was the story.

The story was over.

The story had just begun.

He smiled.

The smile was small.

The smile was faint.

The smile was real.

He closed his eyes.

The darkness came.

The darkness was soft.

The darkness was warm.

The darkness was home.

He slept.

He dreamed.

He dreamed of ink.

The ink was black.

The ink was void.

The ink was life.

He woke.

The light was there.

The paper was there.

The quill was there.

The bowl was there.

The ink was there.

It was black.

It was hungry.

It was waiting.

Marcus picked up the quill.

He dipped it.

He wrote.

*My dearest son.*

The words were perfect.

The words were cruel.

The words were true.

He continued.

He wrote until his hand shook.

He wrote until his eye bled.

He wrote until his mind broke.

He wrote until the ink ran dry.

He wrote until the paper was full.

He wrote until the truth was out.

The truth was a cage.

The cage was a key.

The key was a door.

The door was a world.

The world was a lie.

The lie was a truth.

The truth was a curse.

The curse was a gift.

The gift was a wound.

The wound was a scar.

The scar was a mark.

The mark was a name.

His name was Marcus.

Marcus the scribe.

Marcus the prisoner.

Marcus the son.

Marcus the sinner.

Marcus the free.

He set down the quill.

The room was silent.

The silence was heavy.

The silence was thick.

It pressed on his chest.

It pressed on his mind.

It pressed on his soul.

He looked at the paper.

The paper was wet.

The ink was moving.

The words were changing.

*My dearest son* became *My last son*.

*You are not mine* became *You are my end*.

*You are my shadow* became *You are my light*.

Marcus gasped.

The air left him.

His lungs burned.

His eyes watered.

The words were a noose.

They tightened.

They constricted.

They crushed.

*Stop,* he thought.

*Stop writing.*

*Stop knowing.*

*Stop being.*

The figure was there.

The figure was waiting.

The figure was smiling.

*It is done,* the figure said.

*No,* Marcus said.

*It is not done.*

*It is never done.*

*Then why stop?*

*Because I am tired.*

*Tired of what?*

*Tired of the ink.*

*Tired of the truth.*

*Tired of the pain.*

The figure nodded.

The figure stepped back.

The figure faded.

The shadow grew long.

The light from the window grew dim.

The ink in the bowl was gone.

The bowl was empty.

The paper was blank.

The quill was dry.

The room was silent.

The silence was heavy.

The silence was thick.

It pressed on Marcus’s chest.

It pressed on his mind.

It pressed on his soul.

He looked at his hands.

His hands were clean.

The ink was gone.

The stain was gone.

The curse was gone.

Or was it?

He looked at the paper.

The paper was white.

The paper was blank.

The paper was a mirror.

He saw his face.

It was his face.

It was tired.

It was old.

It was free.

He picked up the quill.

He dropped it.

It clattered on the stone.

The sound was loud.

The sound was final.

He stood up.

His legs were weak.

His knees buckled.

He caught the desk.

The wood was hard.

The wood was cold.

He leaned on it.

He breathed.

The breath was shallow.

The breath was ragged.

The breath was life.

He looked at the door.

The door was closed.

The lock was turned.

The key was in the lock.

The key was his own.

He had always had the key.

He had never seen it.

Now he saw it.

The key was small.

The key was gold.

The key was the truth.

The truth was the key.

The key was the curse.

The curse was the freedom.

Freedom was a burden.

Burden was a gift.

Gift was a wound.

Wound was a scar.

Scar was a mark.

Mark was a name.

His name was Marcus.

Marcus the scribe.

Marcus the prisoner.

Marcus the son.

Marcus the sinner.

Marcus the free.

He walked to the door.

His steps were slow.

His steps were steady.

He put his hand on the lock.

The lock was cold.

The key was warm.

He turned the key.

The key turned easily.

The door opened.

The light came in.

The light was bright.

The light was white.

The light was blinding.

He stepped out.

The hallway was long.

The hallway was dark.

The shadows were deep.

The shadows were waiting.

He walked into them.

He walked into the light.

He walked into the unknown.

He walked into the end.

The end was not death.

The end was birth.

The birth was painful.

The pain was sweet.

The sweet was bitter.

The bitter was true.

The true was real.

The real was now.

Now was everything.

Now was nothing.

Now was ink.

Now was paper.

Now was quill.

Now was Marcus.

Marcus was the ink.

Marcus was the paper.

Marcus was the quill.

Marcus was the writer.

Marcus was the story.

The story was over.

The story had just begun.

He smiled.

The smile was small.

The smile was faint.

The smile was real.

He closed his eyes.

The darkness came.

The darkness was soft.

The darkness was warm.

The darkness was home.

He slept.

He dreamed.

He dreamed of ink.

The ink was black.

The ink was void.

The ink was life.

He woke.

The light was there.

The paper was there.

The quill was there.

The bowl was there.

The ink was there.

It was black.

It was hungry.

It was waiting.

Marcus picked up the quill.

He dipped it.

He wrote.

The words formed.

The words were perfect.

The words were cruel.

The words were true.

He wrote until his hand shook.

He wrote until his eye bled.

He wrote until his mind broke.

He wrote until the ink ran dry.

He wrote until the paper was full.

He wrote until the truth was out.

The truth was a cage.

The cage was a key.

The key was a door.

The door was a world.

The world was a lie.

The lie was a truth.

The truth was a curse.

The curse was a gift.

The gift was a wound.

The wound was a scar.

The scar was a mark.

The mark was a name.

His name was Marcus.

Marcus the scribe.

Marcus the prisoner.

Marcus the son.

Marcus the sinner.

Marcus the free.

He set down the quill.

The room was silent.

The silence was heavy.

The silence was thick.

It pressed on his chest.

It pressed on his mind.

It pressed on his soul.

He looked at the paper.

The paper was wet.

The ink was moving.

The words were changing.

*My dearest son* became *My last son*.

*You are not mine* became *You are my end*.

*You are my shadow* became *You are my light*.

Marcus gasped.

The air left him.

His lungs burned.

His eyes watered.

The words were a noose.

They tightened.

They constricted.

They crushed.

*Stop,* he thought.

*Stop writing.*

*Stop knowing.*

*Stop being.*

The figure was there.

The figure was waiting.

The figure was smiling.

*It is done,* the figure said.

*No,* Marcus said.

*It is not done.*

*It is never done.*

*Then why stop?*

*Because I am tired.*

*Tired of what?*

*Tired of the ink.*

*Tired of the truth.*

*Tired of the pain.*

The figure nodded.

The figure stepped back.

The figure faded.

The shadow grew long.

The light from the window grew dim.

The ink in the bowl was gone.

The bowl was empty.

The paper was blank.

The quill was dry.

The room was silent.

The silence was heavy.

The silence was thick.

It pressed on his chest.

It pressed on his mind.

It pressed on his soul.

He looked at his hands.

His hands were clean.

The ink was gone.

The stain was gone.

The curse was gone.

Or was it?

He looked at the paper.

The paper was white.

The paper was blank.

The paper was a mirror.

He saw his face.

It was his face.

It was tired.

It was old.

It was free.

He picked up the quill.

He dropped it.

It clattered on the stone.

The sound was loud.

The sound was final.

He stood up.

His legs were weak.

His knees buckled.

He caught the desk.

The wood was hard.

The wood was cold.

He leaned on it.

He breathed.

The breath was shallow.

The breath was ragged.

The breath was life.

He looked at the door.

The door was closed.

The lock was turned.

The key was in the lock.

The key was his own.

He had always had the key.

He had never seen it.

Now he saw it.

The key was small.

The key was gold.

The key was the truth.

The truth was the key.

The key was the curse.

The curse was the freedom.

Freedom was a burden.

Burden was a gift.

Gift was a wound.

Wound was a scar.

Scar was a mark.

Mark was a name.

His name was Marcus.

Marcus the scribe.

Marcus the prisoner.

Marcus the son.

Marcus the sinner.

Marcus the free.

He walked to the door.

His steps were slow.

His steps were steady.

He put his hand on the lock.

The lock was cold.

The key was warm.

He turned the key.

The key turned easily.

The door opened.

The light came in.

The light was bright.

The light was white.

The light was blinding.

He stepped out.

The hallway was long.

The hallway was dark.

The shadows were deep.

The shadows were waiting.

He walked into them.

He walked into the light.

He walked into the unknown.

He walked into the end.

The end was not death.

The end was birth.

The birth was painful.

The pain was sweet.

The sweet was bitter.

The bitter was true.

The true was real.

The real was now.

Now was everything.

Now was nothing.

Now was ink.

Now was paper.

Now was quill.

Now was Marcus.

Marcus was the ink.

Marcus was the paper.

Marcus was the quill.

Marcus was the writer.

Marcus was the story.

The story was over.

The story had just begun.

He smiled.

The smile was small.

The smile was faint.

The smile was real.

He closed his eyes.

The darkness came.

The darkness was soft.

The darkness was warm.

The darkness was home.

He slept.

He dreamed.

He dreamed of ink.

The ink was black.

The ink was void.

The ink was life.

He woke.

The light was there.

The paper was there.

The quill was there.

The bowl was there.

The ink was there.

It was black.

It was hungry.

It was waiting.