The dream was cold.

Kael woke in the snow.

He was a sword.

Not a man.

A blade of steel.

Cold and bright.

He lay in the sleet.

The ground was black.

The sky was grey.

He tried to move.

He could not.

He was fixed.

Driven deep.

A weight pressed him.

The earth held him.

He was the threshold.

The barrier.

The line.

Between here and there.

Between life and death.

Between good and evil.

He knew this.

It was his nature.

He was the judge.

The gate.

The wall.

He waited.

The snow fell.

It buried him.

White on grey.

Soft on hard.

He felt the cold.

It bit.

It stung.

It numbed.

He did not care.

Pain was data.

Pain was truth.

He waited for the traveler.

The one who crossed.

The one who sought.

The one who died.

It came.

A figure.

Dark.

Tall.

Walking on the snow.

Steps were soft.

Muffled.

Closer.

Closer.

The figure stopped.

Above him.

He looked up.

The sky was empty.

Only snow.

The figure spoke.

Voice was wind.

Voice was ice.

"Who are you?"

Kael did not answer.

He was the sword.

He did not speak.

He was the silence.

He was the stillness.

He was the end.

The figure waited.

Snow piled on its shoulders.

It did not move.

It did not leave.

It stood.

It watched.

Kael felt the pressure.

The weight.

The judgment.

He was the standard.

He was the law.

He was the truth.

He could not lie.

He could not bend.

He was straight.

He was sharp.

He was absolute.

The figure moved.

It drew a weapon.

A sword.

Like his.

Long.

Thin.

Blue.

The figure raised it.

It aimed.

At the sky.

At the void.

It struck.

The air split.

A sound.

A crack.

Like thunder.

Like breaking ice.

The snow flew.

The sky tore.

Light.

Blinding.

White.

Pure.

The figure vanished.

The light faded.

The snow stopped.

Silence.

Deep.

Heavy.

Kael was alone.

Still.

Cold.

He had judged.

The figure had failed.

The threshold held.

The line remained.

Good was good.

Evil was evil.

There was no middle.

There was no grey.

There was only the cut.

He was satisfied.

He was at peace.

He was the sword.

He waited again.

For the next.

For the next test.

For the next truth.

The snow began to fall.

Slow.

Quiet.

He felt a change.

A warmth.

Inside.

Deep.

It was not cold.

It was not pain.

It was something else.

Something soft.

Something wet.

It spread.

From the core.

To the edges.

To the tip.

To the hilt.

He felt it.

He recognized it.

It was fear.

Not his.

The figure’s.

He had taken it.

He had absorbed it.

When the light struck.

When the line broke.

He had caught the fear.

It lived in him.

It was part of him.

Now.

He was not just the sword.

He was the sword and the fear.

He was the judge and the judged.

He was the wall and the crack.

He felt the weight.

It was heavier.

The snow piled.

It covered him.

Up to the hilt.

He was buried.

He was hidden.

He was gone.

But he was there.

He was the threshold.

He was the line.

He was the end.

He waited.

The snow fell.

The world was white.

The world was still.

The world was dead.

He was the only thing alive.

He was the only thing real.

He was the truth.

And the truth was cold.

And the truth was sharp.

And the truth was alone.

He did not regret it.

He could not regret it.

He was the sword.

Swords do not regret.

They cut.

They divide.

They define.

He was the definition.

He was the limit.

He was the edge.

And the edge was lonely.

The snow stopped.

The sky cleared.

A moon appeared.

Pale.

Thin.

Cold.

It shone on the snow.

It shone on him.

He saw his shape.

In the white.

A dark line.

A dark cut.

A dark wound.

He was the scar on the world.

He was the mark of the end.

He was the threshold.

And the threshold was crossed.

By the figure.

By the light.

By the fear.

It was crossed.

It was changed.

It was no longer solid.

It was no longer absolute.

It was permeable.

It was soft.

It was weak.

He felt the weakness.

It was a shame.

It was a sin.

It was a betrayal.

Of his nature.

Of his purpose.

Of his self.

He had let the fear in.

He had let the doubt in.

He had let the human in.

He was no longer the sword.

He was the rust.

He was the dullness.

He was the break.

He was the failure.

He was the traitor.

He betrayed the line.

He betrayed the truth.

He betrayed himself.

He was the enemy.

He was the monster.

He was the darkness.

He stood in the snow.

No.

He was in the snow.

He was buried.

He was dead.

But he felt.

He felt the fear.

He felt the cold.

He felt the end.

And the end was not a cut.

The end was a fade.

The end was a sleep.

The end was a rest.

He was tired.

So tired.

The sword was tired.

The judge was tired.

The wall was tired.

He wanted to sleep.

He wanted to stop.

He wanted to let go.

He wanted to dissolve.

He wanted to become the snow.

He wanted to become the white.

He wanted to become the nothing.

It was a good thought.

It was a kind thought.

It was a merciful thought.

He let it in.

He let the fear in.

He let the doubt in.

He let the end in.

He closed his eyes.

He felt the snow.

It was soft.

It was warm.

It was home.

He was the threshold.

And the threshold opened.

The door was wide.

The door was dark.

The door was deep.

He stepped through.

He did not look back.

He did not look forward.

He just went.

He was the sword.

And the sword was sheathed.

The sheath was the snow.

The snow was the grave.

The grave was the peace.

He was at peace.

He was at rest.

He was at end.

The dream ended.

Kael woke.

In the room.

In the dark.

In the bed.

He was a man.

Not a sword.

He was Edward.

Edward Ashworth.

He was old.

He was sick.

He was dying.

He lay in the bed.

The room was cold.

The window was open.

The snow fell.

Outside.

On the street.

On the roof.

On the ground.

It was quiet.

It was still.

It was white.

He felt the cold.

It was real.

It was true.

It was here.

He was here.

He was Edward.

He was not the sword.

He was not the threshold.

He was not the judge.

He was a man.

A tired man.

A lonely man.

A dying man.

He felt the fear.

The dream’s fear.

It was in him.

It was real.

It was his.

He had carried it.

For years.

For decades.

He had been the threshold.

In his life.

He had been the line.

He had been the wall.

He had been the judge.

He had judged his wife.

He had judged his children.

He had judged his friends.

He had judged himself.

He had been strict.

He had been hard.

He had been cold.

He had been the sword.

And the sword had broken.

Or maybe it had dulled.

Or maybe it had rusted.

Or maybe it had been sheathed.

He did not know.

He only knew the fear.

The fear of the end.

The fear of the nothing.

The fear of the white.

He was afraid.

He was always afraid.

But now.

In the dream.

In the snow.

In the cold.

He had let it in.

He had let the fear in.

He had let the end in.

And the end was not a cut.

The end was a sleep.

The end was a rest.

The end was a peace.

He was at peace.

He was at rest.

He was at end.

He closed his eyes.

He felt the snow.

It was soft.

It was warm.

It was home.

He was the threshold.

And the threshold opened.

The door was wide.

The door was dark.

The door was deep.

He stepped through.

He did not look back.

He did not look forward.

He just went.

He was the sword.

And the sword was sheathed.

The sheath was the snow.

The snow was the grave.

The grave was the peace.

He was at peace.

He was at rest.

He was at end.

The room was quiet.

The snow fell.

The moon shone.

The bed was cold.

The body was still.

The breath was gone.

The heart was stopped.

The mind was empty.

The fear was gone.

The doubt was gone.

The pain was gone.

The end was here.

The end was now.

The end was all.

And it was good.

And it was true.

And it was enough.