The bread was black. Not dark brown, not the deep mahogany of a good rye, but black. It sat on the wooden board like a piece of charcoal, dense and heavy. I cut into it with my knife. The blade stuck. I had to press down, feeling the resistance in my wrist, the grain fighting the steel. My brother, Thomas, watched me. He did not speak. He was thin. His ribs showed through his tunic, sharp as flint. He was nineteen. I was twenty-four. We were soldiers, or rather, we were men who wore the uniform of the King’s guard because the alternative was starvation in the streets of London.

"You eat," I said. My voice was rough. I cleared my throat. The sound was dry.

"I am not hungry," Thomas said. His eyes were fixed on the wall. The candle flickered. Shadows danced. They looked like rats.

"Then throw it away."

"I will not."

I looked at him. He was looking at me now. His eyes were wet. Not with tears. With something else. Something cold. I knew that look. I had seen it in the eyes of the men we arrested. The ones who stole bread. The ones who cut down trees in the royal forest. They looked at us with that same coldness. They did not see guards. They saw thieves in red coats.

We were on the road to the north. The winter was coming. The air bit. It cut through the wool of our cloaks. We had walked for three days. My boots were wet. My feet were numb. I could not feel my toes. I focused on the rhythm of my steps. One, two. One, two. The ground was hard. Frozen mud.

The village was a cluster of stone huts. Smoke rose from the chimneys. It curled into the gray sky. We stopped at the edge of the hamlet. A man stood by the gate. He held a pitchfork. He did not smile. He did not bow. He looked at our insignia. The lion and the crown. He spat.

"Guard," he said. The word was a slur.

"Peace," I said. I raised my hand. It was a gesture of truce. Or was it? I did not know. I was tired. I was hungry. I wanted to sleep.

"We need food," I said. "And a place to stay the night."

The man shook his head. "No."

Thomas stepped forward. He was quiet. He was always quiet. I liked that. I did not like loud men. Loud men made mistakes. Mistakes got you killed. Or hanged.

"Please," Thomas said.

The man laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound. "Please." He said it like a curse.

I looked at Thomas. He was looking at the man. His face was blank. He was thinking. I knew he was thinking. He was calculating. We always calculated. It was the soldier’s instinct. Assess the threat. Identify the weakness. Strike.

But we were not going to strike. We were not bandits. We were the law. Or so we were told. The law said we had the right to quarter. The law said the peasants must obey. But the law was far away. The law was in London. Here, the law was the man with the pitchfork. And the law was cold.

"We will go," I said. I turned to Thomas. "Come."

Thomas did not move. He was still looking at the man. The man was watching him. The tension was thick. It was like the air before a storm. You could feel the weight of it. It pressed on your chest.

"Thomas," I said.

He turned to me. His eyes were dark. "I am hungry, brother."

"I know."

"I am cold."

"I know."

"I am afraid," he said.

I stopped. I looked at him. I had never heard him say that. I had never seen him afraid. He was brave. He was steady. He was the best of me.

"Why?" I asked.

He looked at the black bread in my hand. I had forgotten it was there. I had been holding it since the start. I had not given it to him. I had kept it. I did not know why. Instinct, I suppose. The instinct to keep. To hoard. To survive.

"Because we are not men," Thomas said. "We are tools."

The man with the pitchfork stepped closer. His face was grim. "Go away," he said. "Before I drive you out."

I looked at Thomas. He was trembling. It was a fine, rapid tremor. Like a leaf in the wind. He was shaking with cold. Or fear. Or both.

I looked at the bread. It was hard. Dense. It looked like a stone. I could break it. I could throw it. I could eat it. I could do many things with it.

I broke it in half.

The sound was sharp. A crack. Like a bone breaking.

I held the two pieces. I looked at Thomas. I looked at the man.

I held out one piece to the man.

The man stopped. He looked at the bread. He looked at me. His eyes were wide. He did not take it.

"Take it," I said. "It is yours."

The man took the bread. He looked at it. He looked at me. He did not eat it. He put it in his pocket.

"Go," he said. "Now."

I took the other piece. I held it out to Thomas.

He took it. He did not look at me. He looked at the ground. He ate it. He chewed slowly. He swallowed.

I watched him. I did not eat my piece. I held it in my hand. It was warm from my body heat. It was soft.

We left the village. The man did not follow us. We walked on. The night was dark. The stars were out. They were cold and distant. They did not care about us.

I walked beside Thomas. He was quiet. He was not trembling anymore.

"Did you eat?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Was it good?"

"It was bitter," he said.

I looked at my hand. I still held the bread. I looked at it. It was black. It was dense. It was heavy.

I put it in my mouth.

I chewed.

It tasted of ash. It tasted of dirt. It tasted of fear.

I swallowed.

It was hard. It stuck in my throat. I had to push it down. I used my hand. I pressed on my chest.

Thomas walked ahead of me. He was not looking back. He was walking into the dark.

I followed him.

The road was long. The wind was cold.

I thought about the man in the village. I thought about his face. I thought about his eyes. They were not angry. They were not afraid. They were empty. They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much. Who had lost too much.

I thought about the King. The King who sat on his throne. The King who made the laws. The King who sent us out to enforce them.

Did he know? Did he know what it was like to be hungry? To be cold? To be afraid?

I did not think so.

I thought about the bread. The black bread. It was not just food. It was a symbol. It was a mirror. It showed us who we were.

We were not heroes. We were not villains. We were just men. Trying to survive.

The darkness was deep. It was all around us. It was inside us.

I walked on.

My feet were numb. I could not feel them.

I held the empty air where the bread had been.

Thomas was ahead of me. He was a shadow. He was a ghost.

I called his name.

"Thomas."

He did not answer.

"Thomas."

He did not answer.

I looked at him. He was walking. His head was down. His shoulders were slumped.

I caught up to him. I touched his shoulder.

He stopped. He turned to me.

His face was pale. His eyes were closed.

"Thomas," I said.

He opened his eyes.

They were clear.

"I am here," I said.

"I know," he said.

We walked on.

The sun began to rise. It was a pale, weak light. It did not warm us. It did not comfort us. It just showed us the world.

The world was gray. The trees were bare. The fields were dead.

We were alive.

That was enough.

I looked at my hand. It was empty.

I looked at Thomas. He was holding his hand out.

There was nothing in it.

But he was holding it open.

He was waiting.

I understood.

I did not have anything to give him. I had no food. I had no money. I had no power.

I had only myself.

I took his hand.

I held it tight.

We walked on.

The road stretched out before us. It was long. It was hard.

But we were not alone.

We had each other.

And that was the only justice we had.

The only truth.

The only thing that mattered.

The bread was gone.

But the memory remained.

It was heavy.

It was dark.

It was ours.