The hall smelled of roast boar and wet wool. It was the kind of smell that sat heavy on the tongue, a thick, metallic sweetness that coated the back of the throat. We were many. More than I could count. They filled the great stone chamber, their voices a low, rolling thunder that shook the dust from the rafters. I stood by the hearth. The fire was high. It ate the logs and spat sparks into the dark. I watched the light dance on the faces of the men. They were laughing. They were drinking. They were alive.

I am Sir Thomas. Or I was. The name feels loose on me now. It slides off my skin like water. I am the man in the grey cloak. I am the one who holds the sword. The sword is cold. It is heavy. It has a weight that is not just of iron. It is a weight of memory. It is a weight of blood.

My name is not Thomas. It is a lie we tell ourselves. It is a lie the King tells. It is a lie the castle tells.

The King sits at the head of the table. He is young. He has a face like a smooth stone. He does not eat. He watches us. His eyes are black and deep. They are pools with no bottom. He looks at me. I look back. I do not bow. I do not speak. I am not a servant. I am a weapon. And weapons do not speak.

A man stands. He is tall. He has a beard the color of rust. He raises his cup. He shouts. The noise stops. The silence is sharp. It cuts.

"To the King!" he says.

"To the King!" we answer. The sound is a single beast. It roars. It vibrates in the chest. I raise my cup. The wine is red. It is thick. It looks like blood. I drink. It burns. It burns down the throat. It burns in the belly. It is good. It is warm.

The man sits. He looks at me. He smiles. It is a slow smile. It is a wolf’s smile. He knows. He has always known.

We eat. The meat is tough. We chew. We spit. We talk. They talk of the border. They talk of the rain. They talk of the harvest. They talk of nothing. It is easy to talk of nothing. It is hard to talk of the war. The war is in the walls. The war is in the stones. The stones are old. The stones are tired. The stones are worn.

I look at the walls. They are high. They are thick. They are made of granite. The granite is grey. It is stained. There are marks on the stone. They are dark. They are old. They are not from smoke. They are from time. They are from hands.

I put my hand on the wall. The stone is cold. It is rough. It bites into my palm. I feel a pulse. It is faint. It is slow. It is like a heartbeat. The castle is alive. The castle is breathing. The castle is waiting.

I have been here for ten years. I have forgotten the sun. I have forgotten the wind. I have forgotten the names of the trees. I only know the stone. I only know the fire. I only know the sword.

The man with the rust beard comes to me. He sits on the bench beside me. He does not look at me. He looks at the fire.

"You are a good sword," he says.

"I am a sword," I say.

"Good swords break," he says.

"Not this one," I say.

He laughs. It is a dry sound. Like dead leaves.

"The King is kind," he says.

"The King is a King," I say.

"Kindness is a burden," he says.

"I do not carry it," I say.

"Everyone carries it," he says.

I look at him. His eyes are bright. They are wet. He is crying. He does not know. Or he does not care. He pours wine into his cup. He drinks. He wipes his mouth. He stands. He walks away.

I do not follow. I stay by the fire. I watch the sparks. They rise. They die. They are gone.

The night is long. The music stops. The voices fade. The fire burns low. The embers glow. They are red. They are soft. They are like eyes.

I stand up. My legs are stiff. My back is sore. I take my sword. It is heavy. It is familiar. I walk out of the hall. The corridor is dark. It is cold. The air is still. I walk. My footsteps echo. They are loud. They are lonely.

I walk to the gate. The gate is open. The night air hits me. It is cold. It is clean. It smells of earth. It smells of rain. I stand at the gate. I look out. The world is vast. It is dark. It is empty.

I could leave. I could walk into the night. I could walk until I died. I could be free.

But I am not free. I am bound. I am bound by the stone. I am bound by the duty. I am bound by the lie.

I turn back. I walk into the dark.

The next day is like the last. The next week is like the last. The next year is like the last. Time does not move. It circles. It spins. It grinds.

The castle changes. The stone wears. The marks on the wall deepen. They spread. They creep. They cover the faces of the old kings. They cover the names of the dead. The stone is eating the history. The stone is eating the memory.

I am still there. I am still by the fire. I am still with the sword.

The King is older now. His face is lined. His eyes are dim. He does not watch us anymore. He watches the wall. He touches the stone. He whispers to it. He talks to the ghosts.

The man with the rust beard is gone. He left. He walked into the night. He did not come back. I saw him once. He was at the gate. He looked at me. He did not speak. He nodded. He walked away.

I feel a pain. It is in my chest. It is sharp. It is hot. It is like a knife. I cannot breathe. I cough. I spit blood. It is on the stone. It is red. It is wet.

I am sick. I am tired. I am old.

The castle is dying. The roof leaks. The walls crack. The fire is hard to keep. The wood is scarce. The men are few. They are weak. They are afraid.

I am the only one left who remembers. I remember the war. I remember the blood. I remember the names. I am the keeper of the past. I am the jailer of the memory.

One night, the fire goes out. The dark is total. It is thick. It is heavy. I sit in the dark. I hold my sword. The sword is cold. I cannot feel my hands. I cannot feel my feet. I am freezing.

I stand up. I walk to the center of the hall. I stand before the King. He is asleep. He is curled up on the throne. He is small. He is frail. He is a child.

I take out my sword. I hold it high. The iron gleams. It is bright. It is beautiful.

I strike.

I do not strike the King.

I strike the wall.

The sword hits the stone. There is a sound. It is a crack. It is a snap. It is like a bone breaking. The stone cracks. A line runs down. It is black. It is deep.

I strike again. And again. And again.

The wall shakes. Dust falls. The stones shift. The castle groans. It is a low, deep sound. It is the sound of pain. It is the sound of death.

I stop. I stand there. I am panting. I am sweating. My hands are bleeding. The sword is chipped. The stone is broken.

I look at the crack. It is a wound. It is an eye. It is looking at me.

I feel a change. It is in my head. It is in my body. The weight is gone. The pain is gone. The cold is gone.

I am free.

I walk to the gate. The gate is open. The night is bright. The moon is full. It is white. It is cold. It is clear.

I walk out. I walk into the night. I do not look back.

I walk for days. I walk for weeks. I walk until my feet bleed. I walk until my clothes tear. I walk until I am alone.

I find a village. It is small. It is quiet. The people are poor. They are kind. They give me food. They give me water. They give me a place to sleep.

I stay. I work. I mend fences. I carry wood. I help the children. I am not a soldier. I am not a King. I am a man.

I look at the stone in the village. It is grey. It is rough. It is worn. It is beautiful.

I put my hand on it. It is warm. It is alive.

I am free.

But I know the truth. I know the price.

Freedom is not a gift. It is a wound. It is a cut. It is a tear. It bleeds. It hurts. It never heals.

I am broken. I am worn. I am like the stone.

I am like the castle.

I am like the sword.

I am the golden visit. I am the end.

I sit by the fire in the village. It is small. It is warm. I watch the sparks. They rise. They die. They are gone.

I am alone. I am happy.

The stone is cold. The stone is alive.

I am the stone.