"Did you hear the bell, Thomas?"

The voice was low. It scraped against the cold air like a stone on slate. Thomas stood still. He did not look up. He kept his eyes on the mud. The mud was black. It was wet. It smelled of iron and rot.

"I heard it," he said.

"Who rang it?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to the Lord."

Thomas nodded. He pulled his collar tight. The wind was coming from the north. It carried snow. The snow was falling hard. It covered the world. It covered the sins.

"The Lord is patient," the man said. His name was Silas. He stood by the fire. The fire was dying. The logs cracked. They popped. Sparks flew into the dark.

"Patience is a luxury," Thomas said. "We are not rich in it."

Silas smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes. "You were never poor, Thomas. You were just blind. You chose to be blind. That is different."

"I chose to live."

"You chose to run. Running is not living. It is only delaying the end."

Thomas looked at Silas. The firelight danced on Silas’s face. It made his features shift. They became sharp. They became cruel. Thomas felt a pang in his chest. It was a dull pain. It was old. It sat in his ribs like a stone.

"Where is she?" Thomas asked.

Silas did not answer. He poked the fire. A log split. A burst of orange light flared. Then it died.

"She is where she belongs," Silas said. "In the ground. Under the frost. She waits for you. She has always waited for you."

Thomas closed his eyes. He saw her face. It was pale. It was smooth. Her hands were white. They were cold. He remembered the feel of them. He remembered the way she held his face. She had not spoken. She had never spoken in those last days. She had only looked at him. Her eyes were dark. They were deep. They held a sorrow that was too big for the world.

"I left her," Thomas said. His voice was rough.

"You did," Silas said. "You left her for a blade. You left her for a title. You left her for a lie."

"It was not a lie."

"Everything is a lie, Thomas. Especially the truths we tell ourselves to keep from breaking."

Thomas opened his eyes. The fire was low now. The shadows were long. They stretched out across the snow. They touched Thomas’s boots.

"Why are you here, Silas?"

"I am here to help you. I am here to save you. Or perhaps I am here to finish what was started. It is hard to tell the difference in this weather."

Thomas looked around. The forest was dense. The trees were bare. They stood like sentinels. They watched. They did not move. The snow continued to fall. It muffled the sound of the wind. It muffled the sound of the world.

"I am tired," Thomas said.

"Good," Silas said. "Tired men make mistakes. Tired men forget their oaths. Tired men let go."

"Let go of what?"

"Let go of the weight. Let go of the guilt. Let go of her memory. It is heavy, Thomas. It will drag you down. It is better to be light. It is better to be free."

Thomas looked at the snow. It was clean. It was white. It covered everything. It did not care about the past. It did not care about the blood. It simply was.

"Freedom," Thomas said. The word felt strange in his mouth. It felt dry.

"Is that what you want? Freedom? Or do you want absolution? They are not the same thing. Freedom is empty. Absolution is full. Which do you choose?"

Thomas did not answer. He thought of the castle. He thought of the high walls. He thought of the lords who laughed. They had laughed at him. They had called him a traitor. They had called him a coward. They had taken his lands. They had taken his name. They had left him with nothing.

He had taken the blade. It was a beautiful blade. It was made of steel. It was sharp. It was cold. He had carried it for three years. It was always with him. He slept with it. He ate with it. It was his companion. It was his savior.

But the blade was heavy. It was heavier than the sword. It was heavier than the gold. It was heavier than the love he had lost.

"I do not want absolution," Thomas said.

"Then you want nothing."

"I want to stop running."

Silas nodded. He looked satisfied. He reached into his coat. He pulled out a flask. It was brass. It was tarnished. He took a sip. He offered it to Thomas.

"Drink," Silas said.

Thomas took the flask. The metal was cold. It burned his lips. The liquid was strong. It was hot. It went down his throat. It burned his stomach.

"Thank you," Thomas said.

"You are welcome," Silas said. "Now. The path is clear. The road ahead is open. You can go back. You can face them. Or you can go forward. You can disappear. You can become no one. You can be free."

Thomas stood up. His legs were stiff. The cold had seeped into his bones. He felt it in his teeth. He felt it in his joints.

"I am going forward," Thomas said.

"Good," Silas said. "Then leave the blade. It is an anchor. It holds you to the past. Cut it loose. Throw it away. Be free."

Thomas looked at the blade. It was on the ground. It was covered in snow. The snow was melting around it. The steel was dark. It was wet. It looked like a mirror.

Thomas picked it up. It was heavy. It was cold. It was familiar. He had held it for so long. It was part of him. It was his identity. Without it, he was nothing. He was a ghost. He was a shadow.

He looked at Silas. Silas was watching him. Silas’s eyes were bright. They were hungry.

"Throw it," Silas said.

Thomas walked to the edge of the clearing. The snow was deep here. It came up to his knees. He stepped carefully. He did not want to slip. He did not want to fall.

He looked at the forest. It was dark. It was silent. It was waiting.

He thought of her. He thought of her hand. He thought of her silence. He thought of the way she had looked at him when he left. She had not cried. She had not begged. She had only looked. She had looked through him. She had seen the man he was. She had seen the man he would become.

She had seen the ghost.

Thomas tightened his grip on the blade. The steel was cold. It bit into his palm. It hurt. The pain was sharp. It was real. It was here.

He looked at Silas. Silas was smiling. The smile was wide. It was ugly.

"Throw it," Silas said.

Thomas threw the blade.

It flew through the air. It spun. It cut the snow. It landed with a dull thud. It sank into the earth. The snow covered it. The snow swallowed it.

It was gone.

Thomas stood there. He felt light. He felt empty. He felt free.

Silas clapped his hands. He laughed. It was a dry laugh. It was like the sound of dry leaves.

"Good," Silas said. "Very good. You are free now. You are no one. You are nothing. You are free."

Thomas looked at his hands. They were empty. They were bare. They were cold.

"I am free," Thomas said.

"Yes," Silas said. "You are free. And now, you are mine."

Thomas looked at Silas. The smile was still there. But it was different now. It was not a smile. It was a mask. It was a lie.

Thomas looked at the snow. The snow was falling. It was covering the world. It was covering the blade. It was covering the past.

But the past was not gone. It was inside him. It was in his blood. It was in his bones. It was in his heart.

He had thrown the blade. But he had not thrown the guilt. He had not thrown the love. He had not thrown the memory.

He was free. But he was alone.

The wind picked up. It howled. It screamed. It tore at his clothes. It tore at his skin.

Thomas turned. He began to walk. He walked into the forest. He walked into the dark.

He did not look back. He did not look at the blade. He did not look at Silas.

He walked on.

The snow fell.

It covered his footprints.

It covered the path.

It covered the truth.

He was free.

And he was lost.

The forest swallowed him.

The silence swallowed him.

The night swallowed him.

And the snow kept falling.

It fell and fell.

It fell and fell.

It fell and fell.