The rain tapped against the glass. It was a steady, gray drumming. Elias sat by the window. He held the iron bar. It was cold. It was smooth. It weighed nothing. It weighed everything.

Elias was a man of few words. His hands were large. They were scarred. They had held a sword for ten years. Now they held a piece of scrap. He looked at the bar. He did not blink. The house was quiet. It was a big house. It had many rooms. The floors creaked. The wind whistled in the eaves. It sounded like a breath held too long.

He had come here to hide. He had come here to think. But thinking was hard. The memories were loud. They shouted in his ears. They were not words. They were sounds. The clash of steel. The cry of a man dying. The laughter of the Baron.

The door opened. A soft step. Margaret entered. She wore a blue dress. Her hair was pinned up. She held a tray. There was tea on it. There was bread. It was dark bread. It was crusty.

"Sit," she said. Her voice was low. It was soft. It was like water over stone.

Elias did not move. He looked at the bar. He turned it in his hands. The metal caught the light. It was dull. It was gray. It was the same color as the sky.

"You have not eaten," Margaret said. She put the tray on the table. She did not look at the bar. She looked at his face. Her eyes were kind. They were tired.

"I am not hungry," Elias said. His voice was rough. It was deep. It was like gravel.

Margaret sat down. She picked up her cup. She sipped the tea. The steam rose. It curled in the air. It smelled of mint.

"The men are coming," she said.

Elias stopped. He looked at her. His eyes were dark. They were hard.

"Who?" he asked.

"The Baron’s men," she said. "They are at the gate."

Elias stood up. He was tall. He was broad. He looked like a wall. He looked like a storm. He looked at the bar. He held it tighter.

"How many?" he asked.

"Ten," Margaret said. "Maybe more."

"Good," Elias said.

He walked to the door. He opened it. The wind rushed in. It was cold. It smelled of wet earth. It smelled of rain.

He looked out. The yard was empty. The gate was closed. The trees were bare. The branches swayed. They looked like fingers. They reached for the sky.

He went back to the table. He picked up the bar. He lifted it over his head. He swung it. It was slow. It was heavy. It made a whooshing sound.

He swung it again. He swung it again.

Margaret watched him. She did not speak. She did not move. Her eyes were wide. They were bright.

"Are you afraid?" she asked.

Elias stopped. He lowered the bar. He leaned on it. He breathed hard. His chest heaved.

"No," he said.

"Then why do you shake?" she asked.

Elias looked at his hands. They were trembling. The iron bar was slippery. It was cold.

"I am cold," he said.

Margaret stood up. She walked to him. She put her hand on his arm. Her hand was warm. It was soft. It burned.

"Elias," she said.

He looked at her. He saw her face. He saw her lips. He saw her eyes. He saw the fear in them. He saw the love in them.

"I cannot do this," he said.

"You can," she said. "You must."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because they will kill you," she said. "If you do not kill them."

Elias looked at the bar. He looked at the door. He looked at the rain.

He thought of the Baron. He thought of the castle. He thought of the fire. He thought of the blood.

He had killed the Baron’s son. He had killed him in the dark. He had used a knife. It was a small knife. It was a kitchen knife.

The Baron had come for him. The Baron had many men. They were strong. They were rich. They were cruel.

Elias was alone. He was poor. He was tired.

He looked at Margaret. He saw her face. He saw her fear. He saw her love.

He raised the bar. He swung it. He hit the table. The wood splintered. The tea spilled. It was black. It was hot.

He swung it again. He hit the wall. The plaster cracked. The paint peeled.

He swung it again. He hit the floor. The wood groaned.

He was not fighting. He was not practicing. He was breaking.

Margaret stepped back. She put her hands over her ears. She closed her eyes.

Elias stopped. He stood in the center of the room. He was breathing hard. His hair was wet. His clothes were torn.

He looked at the bar. It was bent. It was dented. It was broken.

He dropped it. It clattered on the floor. The sound was sharp. It was loud.

He fell to his knees. He put his head in his hands. He did not cry. He did not speak.

Margaret walked to him. She knelt down. She put her arms around him. She held him. She held him tight.

"I am here," she said.

He did not answer. He did not move. He was a statue. He was stone.

The rain continued. It tapped on the glass. It drummed on the roof. It sang in the eaves.

The door opened. A man entered. He was tall. He was fat. He wore a coat. It was red. It was wet.

He smiled. It was a wide smile. It was a ugly smile.

"Hello, Elias," he said.

Elias did not move. He did not look up.

"Hello, Margaret," the man said. He looked at her. He licked his lips.

"Go away," Margaret said. Her voice was steady. It was strong.

"I cannot," the man said. "I have orders."

"From whom?" she asked.

"From the Baron," the man said.

Elias lifted his head. He looked at the man. His eyes were red. They were wet.

"The Baron is dead," Elias said.

"Is he?" the man said. He laughed. It was a dry laugh. It was a harsh laugh.

"Go away," Elias said.

"I cannot," the man said. "I will take you."

The man reached for his gun. It was in his coat. It was black. It was shiny.

Elias moved. He was fast. He was quick. He was a ghost.

He grabbed the man’s arm. He twisted it. The man screamed. He dropped the gun. It hit the floor. It made a loud noise.

Elias picked up the bar. It was still on the floor. It was bent. It was broken.

He swung it. He hit the man. The man fell. He hit the floor. He did not get up.

Elias stood over him. He was breathing hard. His hands were shaking.

Margaret stood up. She looked at the man. She looked at Elias.

"Is he dead?" she asked.

Elias looked at the man. The man was still. He was motionless.

"I do not know," Elias said.

He looked at the bar. He looked at his hands. He looked at the blood. It was red. It was wet.

He felt sick. He felt empty.

He had wanted to fight. He had wanted to win. He had wanted to be strong.

But he was not strong. He was weak. He was broken.

He looked at the window. The rain was still falling. It was endless. It was eternal.

He looked at the bar. It lay on the floor. It was cold. It was heavy.

He picked it up. He held it. He held it tight.

He walked to the window. He looked out. The yard was empty. The gate was closed.

He looked at the bar. He saw his reflection. It was dark. It was blurred.

He saw his face. It was old. It was tired. It was sad.

He was not a warrior. He was a man. He was a husband. He was a father.

He was not the Baron. He was not the man with the gun.

He was Elias. He was only Elias.

He looked at the bar. He let go. It fell. It clattered. It was silent.

He turned around. He looked at Margaret. She was watching him. Her eyes were wet. Her face was pale.

"I am sorry," he said.

She walked to him. She put her hand on his face. She touched his cheek. It was warm. It was soft.

"It is okay," she said.

He leaned into her. He closed his eyes. He felt her breath. It was warm. It was sweet.

He felt the rain. He felt the wind. He felt the cold.

He felt the weight of the bar. It was gone. It was light. It was nothing.

He was free. He was alone. He was home.

The rain stopped. The sky cleared. The sun came out. It was bright. It was warm.

Elias opened his eyes. He looked at the window. The light was golden. It was soft. It was kind.

He looked at Margaret. He smiled. It was a small smile. It was a sad smile.

It was real. It was true. It was enough.

The bar lay on the floor. It was still. It was quiet. It was gone.

The house was quiet. The wind was still. The rain was over.

Elias held Margaret. He held her tight. He held her forever.

The day ended. The night came. The stars came out. They were bright. They were cold.

Elias slept. He dreamed of nothing. He dreamed of silence. He dreamed of peace.

He was a man. He was a husband. He was alive.

The iron bar was cold. The iron bar was heavy. The iron bar was gone.