The mud sucked at my boots. It was thick and cold and smelled of rot. I kicked it away. I kicked it again. My legs were shaking. Not from cold. From fear.

"Stop fighting," said the man behind me. His voice was soft. Too soft for a soldier. He wore a coat of grey wool. It was torn at the hem. "Let it take you."

I did not stop. I could not stop. My hands were locked around the hilt of the sword. The leather was worn thin. I could feel the grain of the wood beneath my skin. It was smooth. It was my father’s sword. It was the only thing I owned that had not been taken by the tax collectors. Or the soldiers. Or the hunger.

"Look at your hands," the man said. He was tall. Thin. His face was pale as the ash that covered the road. "See how they shake? The sword is part of you now. It is not a tool. It is a bone."

I looked down. My knuckles were white. The metal of the hilt was cold. I remembered the day my father died. He had held this sword until his last breath. He had told me to keep it sharp. To keep it ready. To use it if they came. They always came.

"Who are you?" I asked. My voice was a rasp. Like dry leaves scraping on stone.

"I am a guide," he said. "I know the way through the Blackwood. I know the paths the soldiers do not see."

I did not trust him. I did not trust anyone who spoke with such calm. The world was loud. The world was pain. The world was the heavy tax on the grain stores. The world was the empty bowls on the table.

"We must move," he said. "The sun is high. The shadows will shorten. The soldiers will find us by nightfall."

I tightened my grip on the sword. "I am not running."

"You are surviving," he said. "There is a difference. Running is for those who have hope. Surviving is for those who have nothing left."

I hated him for that. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to drive the sword through his shoulder. But I did not. I was too tired. And I was hungry.

We walked. The forest was dark. The trees were tall and black. They twisted over our heads. The air was thick with the smell of pine and decay. I heard the wind in the branches. It sounded like whispers.

"Do you have a name?" I asked.

"Names are heavy," he said. "They carry the past. I am just here."

"My name is Thomas," I said.

"Thomas," he repeated. "A good name. A strong name."

He paused. He looked at me. His eyes were dark. Deep. I could not see the bottom of them.

"Your wife," he said.

I stopped. My heart jumped. "What about her?"

"Elise. Is that her name?"

I nodded. I did not want to speak her name. It hurt. It was a sharp pain in my chest. Like a knife twist.

"She waits for you," he said.

"She does not wait," I said. "She is gone. The sickness took her. Or the starvation. I do not know which. It does not matter."

"It matters," he said. "It is the reason you fight. You fight because you think if you kill enough, you can bring her back. You think if you are strong enough, the world will give her back to you."

I stopped walking. I turned to him. The sword was raised in my hand. The tip pointed at his throat.

"Keep walking," I said.

He did not flinch. He did not move. He just looked at me. He smiled. It was a sad smile.

"You cannot kill the truth, Thomas," he said. "It is already in you."

I lowered the sword. I could not. My arm was weak. I wanted to hear more. I wanted to know if he was right. I wanted to know if I was a fool.

We walked on. The path was narrow. The mud was deeper. I slipped. I fell. The sword clattered against a rock. I scrambled for it. I grabbed the hilt. I pulled it from the mud. It was caked in black dirt. I wiped it on my tunic. The leather was sticky.

"Look," he said. He pointed to a tree.

I looked. The bark was carved. There were marks. Deep lines. They looked like scratches. Like claw marks. But they were not. They were letters.

T. E.

My heart stopped. I touched the letters. They were old. The wood was dark. The cuts were deep.

"When did you make these?" he asked.

I did not answer. I did not want to. I wanted to be alone with this.

"Years ago," he said. "When you were younger. When you were strong. When you believed that strength was enough."

I looked at him. "How do you know that?"

"I have seen many like you," he said. "Men who hold on to their weapons. Men who think the sword is their soul. It is not, Thomas. It is a weight. It is a chain."

I looked at the sword. I looked at the letters in the tree. I remembered Elise. I remembered her face. She was pale. Her eyes were closed. Her hand was in mine. It was cold.

"I will not let go," I said.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because it is all I have."

"It is not all you have," he said. "You have your life. You have your breath. You have your memory. The sword is just a piece of metal. It does not love you. It does not wait for you. It does not care if you die."

I felt a anger rise in my throat. It was hot. It was bitter. I wanted to scream. I wanted to strike him.

"You do not know her," I said. "You do not know what I gave up. You do not know what I lost. You are just a man in a grey coat. You know nothing."

He stepped back. He looked at me. He looked at the sword.

"Then fight me," he said.

I hesitated.

"Fight me," he said again. "Use the sword. Use your strength. Show me what you can do."

I raised the sword. I swung it. The air whooshed. The tip stopped an inch from his face. He did not move. He did not blink.

"Again," he said.

I swung again. And again. I swung until my arms burned. I swung until my vision blurred. I swung until I was out of breath.

He stood there. Still. Silent.

"Are you done?" he asked.

I panted. My legs were weak. I leaned on the sword for support.

"Yes," I said.

"Good," he said. "Now look at your hands."

I looked. They were red. They were bleeding. The leather of the hilt had cut me. I did not feel the pain. I only felt the exhaustion.

"You are tired," he said. "You are so tired. You have been fighting for so long. You are fighting a war that is not yours. You are fighting a war that you cannot win."

I looked at him. "Who are you?"

"I am your shadow," he said.

I laughed. It was a dry sound. "I do not have a shadow. It is night."

"Your shadow is the part of you that knows the truth," he said. "The part of you that is tired. The part of you that wants to rest. The part of you that loves Elise more than you love the sword."

I looked at the sword. I looked at the letters in the tree. T. E.

I thought of my father. I thought of his face. He was not smiling. He was worried. He had not told me to fight. He had told me to live.

I looked at the man in the grey coat. He was waiting. He was patient. He knew what I would do. He had always known.

I reached for the sword. I did not draw it. I did not swing it. I held it. I felt the weight of it. It was heavy. It was so heavy.

I closed my eyes. I thought of Elise. I thought of her voice. She had told me to put it down. She had said, "Thomas, put it down. Let it go. I am not here. The world is not a battlefield. It is a place where we live. And we must be gentle with it."

I opened my eyes. The man was still there. He was smiling. It was a gentle smile.

"I am tired," I said.

"I know," he said.

"I cannot carry it anymore."

"I know," he said.

I looked at the sword. I looked at the leather hilt. It was worn. It was scarred. It was my father’s. It was my burden.

I let go.

The sword fell. It hit the mud. The sound was dull. Heavy. Final.

I did not pick it up. I did not look at it. I turned to the man.

"Thank you," I said.

He shook his head. "You did it yourself. I just reminded you."

He turned and walked into the forest. The trees swallowed him. The shadows closed in. I was alone.

I stood there for a long time. The wind blew. The mud was cold on my feet. I felt the cold in my bones. But I did not feel the weight in my hands. My hands were empty. They were light.

I walked on. I did not look back. I did not need the sword. I did not need to fight. I needed to live. I needed to remember.

The path was long. The road was hard. But I was light. I was free.

I thought of Elise. I thought of her face. She was not gone. She was in me. She was in my breath. She was in my heart.

I walked on. The sun began to set. The sky was purple. The air was cold. I was alive.

I did not fight. I did not conquer. I just walked.

The mud sucked at my boots. But I did not fight it. I let it take me. I let it carry me.

I was Thomas. I was alive.

The path was pale. The path was long. I walked on.