You wake in the mud. The rain is cold. It soaks through your tunic. You do not move. You breathe. The air tastes of iron and wet stone. You are here. You are not there.

Who are you? You do not know. Your name is a stone in your mouth. You spit it out. It is not yours. You are a listener. You hear the world when it screams.

You stand. Your legs shake. They are thin. You look down. Your hands are stained with dirt. They are steady. This is the first good thing.

The camp is gray. Tents snap in the wind. Men sleep in the mud. They are not men. They are shadows. They are broken. You walk past them. You do not look. You cannot.

You have a companion. His name is Thomas. He is quiet. He is old. His face is a map of scars. He does not speak. He watches. He waits.

Where are we? You do not know. The trees are wrong. They are tall. They are black. They twist like fingers. The sky is low. It is purple. It is bruised.

This is not England. This is not anywhere.

This is the Place Between.

Thomas stops. He points. His finger is pale. He points to the horizon. There is a light. It is not the sun. It is a fire. It is white. It burns without smoke.

We go there, he says. His voice is rough. It sounds like dry leaves.

Why? you ask.

Because the song is there.

What song?

The one that ends the war.

You do not believe him. You want to believe. You are tired. You are so tired.

We walk. The ground is soft. It sinks. It pulls. You feel it. The mud is alive. It wants to keep you. You kick free. You keep walking.

Thomas walks behind you. He does not rush. He is patient. He knows this land. He has seen it before.

Do you remember? you ask.

I remember pain, he says.

Do you remember peace?

No.

You stop. You turn. You look at him. His eyes are dark. They are deep. You see something in them. It is fear. It is not for him. It is for you.

Are you afraid of me? you ask.

I am afraid of what you will do, he says.

What do you mean?

You hear the voices. You answer them. You think you are saving them. You are not. You are becoming them.

You feel a cold spike in your chest. You deny it. You shake your head. No. I am not. I am different. I am good. I want to help.

Help? Thomas laughs. It is a short sound. It is dry. Help is a lie. We do not help. We survive.

But the light, you say. The song.

It is a trap.

You stop him. You grab his arm. Your fingers dig in. You are strong. You do not know why.

If I listen, I can stop it. I can make them stop fighting. I can end the blood.

There is no blood to stop, Thomas says. There is only silence. And you are hungry for it.

You let go. You feel weak. You feel small.

We keep walking. The light grows. It is closer now. It is not a fire. It is a pillar. It rises from the earth. It is made of bone. It is white and clean. It is beautiful. It is terrible.

The air changes. It is thick. It is heavy. You can taste it. It is sweet. It is rotten.

You hear it.

At first, it is faint. A whisper. A hum. It is in your teeth. It is in your bones.

Then it is loud. It is a choir. It is a scream. It is a laugh.

You know the voices. You do not know why. You know them. They are familiar. They are loved.

Thomas stops. He falls to his knees. He covers his ears. He screams. He does not have to. You hear it for him.

Get up, he gasps. Get up. It is lying.

You stand. You cannot move. You are rooted. The song pulls you. It is warm. It is safe. It says you are right. It says you are the savior. It says the war is your fault. It says you can fix it.

You want to go. You want to step into the light. You want to join the choir. You want to be part of the song.

You take a step.

Thomas grabs you. His hands are iron. He pulls you back.

No, he says.

Let go, you say. I have to.

You will die, he says.

No. I will live. I will be whole.

You are already broken, Thomas says. You have always been broken. This is just the final crack.

You look at the light. It is close. You can see the faces in it. They are smiling. They are dead. They are happy.

You look at Thomas. He is crying. His face is wet. He is not afraid of the light. He is afraid of you.

I am not bad, you say.

I know, he says. That is the worst part.

You pull away. You turn to the light. You take another step.

The ground breaks. The mud rises. It is not mud. It is hands. They grab your ankles. They pull. You fall.

Thomas is there. He is on top of you. He is pinning you down.

Stop, he says.

I can’t, you say. I hear them. They are so lonely.

They are dead, Thomas says. You cannot save the dead. You can only join them.

You struggle. You kick. You scratch. The mud is cold. It is biting.

Thomas is strong. He is heavier than he looks. He is older than he looks.

You are not a hero, he says. You are a child. You are playing with fire.

I am a healer, you say.

You are a wound, he says.

The words hit you. They are true. They are cruel.

You stop fighting. You look at him. You see his fear. You see his love. It is not romantic. It is not soft. It is the love of a guard for a prisoner. It is the love of a doctor for a disease.

He is trying to save you. He is trying to kill the part of you that wants to dissolve.

You realize something. The song is not outside. It is inside. It has always been inside. You have been listening for your whole life. You have been waiting for this.

The war is not out there. The war is in you. The voices are not the enemy. The voices are you.

You are not fighting the war. You are the war.

You are the violence. You are the anger. You are the need to be needed.

You close your eyes. You let the song wash over you. You do not fight it. You do not join it. You watch it.

You see the truth.

The light is not a savior. It is a mirror. It shows you what you are. It is beautiful. It is monstrous.

You are not the one who ends the war. You are the one who starts it.

You open your eyes. The light is still there. It is waiting. It is patient.

Thomas is still holding you. He is breathing hard.

I am sorry, you say.

For what? he asks.

For being hungry, you say.

He looks at you. His face is soft. The fear is gone. It is replaced by something else. It is grief.

You are still hungry, he says.

Yes, you say.

Then we must walk.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. You shake.

You do not look at the light. You look at the trees. The black trees. The twisted trees.

They are not wrong. They are just different.

You take Thomas’s hand. It is cold. It is real.

We walk away.

The light shrinks. It does not fade. It stays. It watches.

You walk into the dark. The rain is still falling. It is cold.

You are alone. You are with him.

You do not speak. You do not need to.

You are not a hero. You are not a villain. You are a man. You are tired. You are hungry.

But you are here.

The war is not over. It never ends. It just changes shape.

You carry it. You carry it in your bones. You carry it in your blood.

But you walk. You keep walking.

Thomas walks beside you. He does not look back.

Neither do you.

The path is narrow. The mud is deep.

You step. You step. You step.

The song is quiet now. It is a hum in your chest. It is a reminder.

You are not safe. You will never be safe.

But you are free.

You are free to be broken.

You are free to be whole.

You are free to choose.

You choose to walk.

The rain stops. The sky clears.

The stars come out. They are bright. They are cold.

They are watching.

You are not alone. You are seen.

You keep walking.

The dark is not empty. It is full. It is full of hope. It is full of fear. It is full of you.

You are enough.

You are enough.

You are enough.

You walk into the night. You walk into the future. You walk into the unknown.

You do not know where you are going.

You do not know if you will survive.

But you are going.

That is all that matters.

That is all that is real.

You are here.

You are awake.

You are free.