I write this to you, Thomas, because you were the only one who listened.

It is a letter, though I am not sure if I will send it. I think I will leave it in the drawer. But the words need a shape. They need to be written down before I forget the taste of the iron in my mouth.

You asked me what the King saw. You asked me if it was madness. I will tell you it was not madness. It was clarity.

We were in the Hall of Mirrors. You remember the Hall of Mirrors. The glass panels ran from floor to ceiling, reflecting the chandeliers into infinite, shattering stars. The air was cold. It always was cold there. The stone floor was black marble, polished until it looked like oil.

I was the Captain of the Guard. My hands were steady. They are steady now, as I write this. But then, my hands shook. I could not stop them shaking.

The King stood before the mirror. He wore white silk. It was a strange choice for a man who had just signed the order to execute three of my men. He looked at his reflection. He did not look at me.

"Captain," he said. His voice was soft. It was the voice of a boy. "Do you see it?"

I looked. I saw him. I saw the chandeliers. I saw the darkness behind the glass.

"I see you, Your Majesty," I said.

"No," he said. He turned to face me. His eyes were wide. They were not the eyes of a king. They were the eyes of a man who has seen the bottom of the sea. "I see the cost."

"The cost?" I asked.

"The cost of the hand," he said. He lifted his right hand. It was trembling. The fingers were curled. The skin was pale, almost translucent. "It hurts, Captain. It has been hurting for a long time. But it will not stop. It will never stop."

I did not understand. I was a soldier. I understood orders. I understood loyalty. I did not understand pain as a currency.

"Your Majesty," I said. "We have matters to discuss. The border."

"There is no border," he said. "There is only the line where the light ends."

He reached out to me. I stepped back. I am sorry for that. I am sorry for stepping back. He was my friend. Before he was the King, he was my friend. We had played together as boys. We had shared bread and wine in his father’s garden. He had a laugh that could fill a room. Now his laugh was gone.

He looked at his hand again. He flexed the fingers. A drop of blood appeared on the palm. It was bright red. It looked shocking against the pale skin.

"It is not mine," he whispered.

I looked closer. I saw the cut. It was a thin line. It ran from the wrist to the base of the thumb. It was old. It was new. It was both.

"Who did this?" I asked.

"No one," he said. "It is the price. Every decree. Every judgment. It takes a piece. I have given so much, Captain. I have given so much of myself. Now there is nothing left but the pain."

I felt a chill. I looked at the guards at the door. They were silent. They stood like statues. They did not look at the King. They looked at the floor. They knew. I realized then that they knew. They had always known.

"We must leave," I said. "The council is waiting."

"They are waiting for the hand," he said. "They are waiting for the blood."

He began to walk toward the door. I followed him. My boots rang on the marble. The sound was loud. It echoed. It sounded like a hammer striking an anvil.

We walked down the long corridor. The walls were covered in tapestries. They showed battles. They showed hunts. They showed the King’s ancestors. They all had strong hands. They all held swords. They all held power.

The King stopped. He leaned against the wall. He closed his eyes.

"Thomas," he said.

I stopped. I stood before him.

"Thomas, I cannot do it anymore."

"Your Majesty, you must."

"I cannot." He opened his eyes. Tears were on his face. They were not tears of sadness. They were tears of exhaustion. "My hand is empty. I have given it all. If I give more, I will break. And if I break, the kingdom breaks."

"I will not let you break," I said.

"You will let me die," he said. "You will let me die, and you will call it duty."

I looked at him. I saw the truth. I saw it clearly. It was a terrible truth. It was a sharp truth. It cut me.

I had been protecting the King. I thought I was protecting the crown. I thought I was protecting the state. But I was only protecting the pain. I was only prolonging the suffering.

The King looked at me. He smiled. It was a small smile. It was the smile of a man who has accepted his fate.

"Go," he said. "Go to the council. Tell them I am ill. Tell them I will not rule today. Tell them I am tired."

I nodded. I could not speak. My throat was tight.

I turned away. I walked back to the Hall of Mirrors. The mirrors were waiting for me. I saw my reflection. I saw a man in armor. I saw a man with a sword. I did not see a friend. I did not see a brother. I saw a tool.

I reached the door. I stopped. I turned back. The King was still there. He was sitting on the floor now. He was holding his hand. He was looking at the blood.

I ran to him. I knelt beside him.

"Thomas," he said.

"I am here," I said.

"Help me," he said.

"How?" I asked.

"Stop it," he said.

I did not understand.

"Stop the pain," he said. "Let me go."

I looked at his hand. The bleeding had stopped. The cut was closed. But the pain was still there. I could see it in his face. I could see it in his eyes.

I took his hand. I held it. I felt the coldness of his skin. I felt the trembling of his fingers.

"I cannot stop it," I said. "I am only a guard. I am only a man."

"You are a friend," he said. "You are the only friend I have left."

I held his hand. I held it tight. I did not let go.

The door opened. The council entered. They wore dark robes. They carried scrolls. They looked at the King. They looked at me. They said nothing.

The King stood up. He brushed the dust from his knees. He straightened his spine. He put on the mask. He became the King again.

"The council," he said. "We have business to attend to."

He walked past me. He did not look at me. He did not look at his hand. He walked with a stiff gait. He walked with a heavy heart.

I followed him. I held my sword. I held my breath.

We sat at the table. The candles flickered. The shadows danced. The King spoke. He gave orders. He signed papers. He did not bleed. He did not shake. He was perfect.

I watched him. I saw the cost. I saw the price. I saw the truth.

It is a simple truth. It is a hard truth. Knowledge is a curse. To see the cost is to suffer the cost. To know the pain is to share the pain.

I cannot unsee it. I cannot unfeel it. I am marked. I am changed.

I am writing this to you, Thomas. I am writing this to myself. I am writing this to the empty room.

I am sorry. I am sorry for stepping back. I am sorry for not holding on. I am sorry for letting him go.

But I cannot go back. I cannot undo what is done. I can only live with it. I can only carry it.

My hand is steady. It is steady because I have nothing left to give. I have given my loyalty. I have given my friendship. I have given my peace.

I am empty. I am clear.

I am free.

I am free.

The letter ends. I close the drawer. I stand up. I look at the window. The sun is setting. The sky is red. It is beautiful. It is terrible.

I pick up my sword. I walk out.

I do not look back.