I woke from a dream of teeth.

My father’s teeth. They were white and sharp and falling out of his mouth into the mud. I lay in the straw bed, the wood of the frame creaking under my weight. The air was cold. It smelled of wet wool and old iron. I sat up. My hands were shaking.

The camp was silent. We were deep in the moor, far from the walls of the city. The sky was a bruised purple, heavy with clouds that would not break. I stood. My legs felt weak. I looked at my father. He sat by the dying fire, his back to me. He was a large man. His shoulders were broad like the yoke of an ox. He was eating a hard biscuit. He chewed slowly.

"Sir," I said.

He did not turn.

"Sir, the orders changed."

He swallowed. He turned his head. His face was pale in the firelight. His eyes were red.

"What orders, Thomas?"

"The King wants the village burned."

He looked at me. Then he looked at the fire. The flames licked at the dry wood.

"Is that true?"

"I saw the messenger. I saw him write it down."

My father stood up. He was taller than me. He always had been. He moved toward me. He put a hand on my shoulder. His grip was hard.

"You are a good boy," he said. "You are a good soldier."

"I am doing my duty," I said.

"Are you?"

He let go of my shoulder. He walked to the edge of the light. The darkness behind him seemed to pull at his cloak.

"We go to the village at dawn," he said.

"I will lead the men."

"No."

He turned back to me. His face was calm. But his hands were fists.

"You will stay with the horses. I will lead the men."

"Why?"

"Because I know the way. And because I must."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to say that I was his son. I wanted to say that I had blood in me that was his. But I was a soldier. Soldiers do not argue with their fathers. Not in the field. Not when the sky is falling.

I nodded. I went to the horses. The animals stamped in the dark. I held the reins. I felt the leather warm in my hands. I thought of my mother. She was dead. She had died in the winter, her body stiff in the bed. My father had not wept. He had carried her to the church himself. He had not spoken to me for three days.

I waited for dawn.

The mist rose from the moor like a ghost. It swallowed the tents. It swallowed the men. It swallowed the world. I could see my father in the distance. He was walking toward the village. He was alone. He did not have his sword. He carried a lantern. The light was small and yellow. It cut through the fog.

I followed him. I did not want to. But I could not stay. I walked through the mist. My boots were wet. The water seeped into my socks. I felt a chill in my bones.

The village was small. A few stone houses. A chapel. A well. The doors were closed. The windows were dark. It was a quiet place. It was a peaceful place.

My father stopped at the gate. He lifted the lantern. He looked at the houses. He looked at me.

"Thomas," he said.

I stopped. I was ten paces behind him.

"Yes, sir."

"Close the lantern."

I closed it. The darkness was total.

"Go," he said. "Take the men back to the moor. Tell them the orders are canceled."

My heart stopped. I looked at him.

"Sir?"

"The King is old," my father said. "The King is cruel. But I am not. I will not burn these homes. I will not kill these people. I will not let you do it."

"Sir, if we disobey..."

"We will be hung," he said. "Or we will die in battle. It is the same. I would rather die for my soul than live for a king."

I looked at the village. I saw a light in one of the windows. It flickered. A child’s window. I felt a pain in my chest. It was sharp. It was hot.

I turned away. I walked back into the mist. I walked back to the men.

I told them the truth. I told them my father had refused the order. I told them we were to wait.

The men looked at me. They did not like it. They wanted the gold in the houses. They wanted the wine. They wanted the blood.

"Are you mad, Thomas?" one of them asked. His name was Silas. He had a scar on his cheek.

"I am a soldier," I said. "I obey my captain."

Silas spat in the mud.

"Your captain is a traitor."

I did not answer. I sat on a rock. I waited.

The hours passed. The mist did not lift. The village did not burn. The light in the window stayed on.

Then I heard a sound. A scream. It was high and thin. It cut through the silence. It was a woman’s voice. It was a child’s voice.

I stood up. I ran. I ran through the mist. I ran toward the sound.

I reached the gate. My father was there. He was on his knees. He held a lantern. The glass was broken. The flame was gone.

He was bleeding.

There was a man behind him. A soldier. One of our men. He had a knife in his hand. The knife was in my father’s side.

My father looked at me. His face was gray. His eyes were wide.

"Run," he whispered.

I did not run. I stepped forward. I saw the man. It was Silas.

Silas looked at me. He looked at my father. He smiled.

"The King pays well, Thomas," Silas said. "And you were getting too soft. You were like him. Weak."

I looked at my father. He was sliding down the gatepost. The blood was on his hands. It was red and bright.

"Father," I said.

My father reached out. He took my hand. His grip was weak.

"Listen," he said. "I am sorry. I should have told you. I should have prepared you. I failed you."

"No," I said. "You did not fail me. You taught me."

He coughed. A drop of blood fell on the mud.

"The mark," he said. "On the door."

I looked at the door. There was a symbol carved in the wood. It was a circle with a line through it. I had seen it before. In my dream. It was the mark of the old faith. The faith of the village. The faith that the King hated.

My father’s hand slipped from mine. He fell. He lay in the mud. His eyes were closed.

I stood over him. I looked at Silas. Silas was walking away. He was carrying a sack of gold. He did not look back.

I was alone.

I looked at my father. His face was peaceful. The pain was gone. He was just a man. He was just my father.

I knelt down. I touched his face. His skin was cold.

I stood up. I picked up the lantern. I lit it. The flame was small. It shook in the wind.

I walked to the door. I touched the mark. I carved it into the wood again. I made it deeper. I made it clearer.

I walked back to the moor. I walked to the men.

Silas was there. He was counting the gold.

I walked up to him. I did not speak. I held up the lantern.

Silas looked at me. He saw the light. He saw my face.

He saw the mark on my shirt. I had taken it from my father’s collar. It was pinned to my chest.

Silas stopped counting. He looked at the mark. He looked at me.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am the son," I said.

Silas backed away. His hand went to his sword.

"You are nothing," he said. "Your father is dead. You are alone."

"No," I said. "I am the mark."

I swung the lantern. The glass broke. The flame flared. It hit Silas’s face. He screamed. He fell back into the mud. The fire ate his shirt. It ate his hair.

The other men watched. They did not move. They saw the fire. They saw Silas burning. They saw me standing in the light.

I walked to the center of the camp. I stood still. I held the lantern. The flame was dying.

I looked at the men. I looked at their eyes. I saw fear. I saw shame. I saw truth.

"Turn back," I said. "Go home. Leave the village alone. Leave the King alone."

No one spoke. The wind blew. The mist lifted. The sun rose. It was pale and cold.

The men looked at me. Then they looked at the village. Then they looked at the ground.

One by one, they sheathed their swords. One by one, they turned their horses around. They rode away into the mist. They left the gold. They left the sack. They left Silas.

I stayed. I stayed with my father. I stayed with the mark.

I buried him in the moor. I did not go to the church. I did not call the priests. I dug the hole with my hands. The soil was hard. My nails broke. My hands bled.

I laid him in the earth. I covered him. I put stones on the mound. I put the lantern on the stones.

I walked away. I walked into the wilderness. I walked until I could not walk anymore. I slept in the trees. I ate the berries. I drank from the streams.

I did not go back to the city. I did not go back to the King. I was a ghost. I was a shadow.

I carried the mark. I carried the pain. I carried the love.

The love was heavy. It broke me. It built me.

I am old now. I sit by the fire. The wood crackles. The smoke rises.

I am not a soldier. I am not a man. I am a memory.

The fire dies. The dark comes.

I close my eyes.

I see the teeth. They are white. They are clean.

I am home.