The sword hung by the door. It was an old thing, heavy and dull, the scabbard leather cracked like dry earth. I looked at it. I always looked at it. It was the only thing in the house that did not change. The house changed. The seasons changed. The people changed. The sword stayed.

"Did you sleep?" Eleanor asked. She stood in the hallway, her hair loose, a shadow in her face.

"I did," I said.

"You lied."

"Maybe."

She walked past me. Her dress brushed my arm. It felt cold. I followed her into the kitchen. The fire was low. The coals glowed red, then faded.

"Thomas is coming," she said. She poured water into a cup. The sound was sharp. "He wants to see you."

"Who is Thomas?"

"My brother. He works for the King."

The King. The word tasted like iron. I spat into the fire. The coals hissed.

"Why is he here?" I asked.

Eleanor did not answer. She sat down. She wrapped her hands around the cup. Her knuckles were white.

"He says you are a traitor," she said.

I laughed. It was a dry sound. "A traitor to whom?"

"To the Crown. To the law."

"The law is a dog," I said. "It bites whoever feeds it."

Eleanor looked up. Her eyes were hard. "Do not mock it, William. It has teeth."

I sat down across from her. I looked at the table. The wood was scratched. I had cut my name into it years ago. The letters were worn smooth.

"Tell me why he is here," I said.

"He wants to arrest you."

"Arrest me?"

"For the murder of Lord Ashworth."

The name landed in my chest. A stone. I did not breathe. I thought of the night. The rain. The blood on my hands. I thought of the face. It was not Ashworth’s face. It was mine.

"I did not kill him," I said.

"Everyone says you did."

"Everyone is a fool."

"Thomas is not a fool."

"Thomas is a coward."

Eleanor stood up. She walked to the window. Outside, the sky was gray. Rain began to fall. It tapped against the glass. A slow, rhythmic sound.

"He has brought men," she said. "Three men. They are in the yard."

I stood up. My legs felt stiff. I walked to the door. I looked at the sword. The handle was worn smooth by my father’s hands. By my hands. It was a mirror. It showed me who I was. And who I had been.

"I will not fight," I said.

Eleanor turned. Her face was pale. "You must."

"No."

"William, if you do not fight, they will kill you."

"Let them kill me."

"Then who will protect me?"

I looked at her. I saw the fear in her eyes. I saw the love. It was a wild thing. It burned in her. It was not reason. It was instinct. It was the need to survive. The need to hold on.

"I will protect you," I said.

"How?"

"I will leave."

She stepped back. "You will leave me?"

"I will leave so that they take me. So that you are free."

"You are a coward," she said. Her voice was low. It cut deeper than a blade.

I did not argue. I knew she was right. Or maybe she was wrong. It did not matter. The sword was still by the door. I picked it up. It was heavy. It felt like a question.

"Put it down," she said.

I did not.

"William, put it down."

I looked at her. I saw the man I had been. The warrior. The protector. The man who believed in honor. That man was dead. He had died in the rain, with Ashworth’s blood on his hands.

"I am not that man," I said.

"Then who are you?"

"I am a man who is tired."

The door opened. The wind rushed in. It smelled of wet earth and horse sweat. A man walked in. He was tall. He wore a coat of dark wool. His face was thin. His eyes were bright. They were like the eyes of a hawk.

"William," he said. His voice was calm. "I am Thomas."

I looked at him. He looked at me. We did not speak. The silence grew. It filled the room. It pressed against my ears.

"Eleanor," Thomas said. He did not look at her. "Please, step aside."

Eleanor did not move. She stood in front of me. Her arms were crossed. She was a wall.

"You are my brother," Thomas said. "But you are acting like a fool."

"Is that why you are here?" I asked. "To call me a fool?"

Thomas smiled. It was a cold smile. "I am here to offer you a choice."

"A choice?"

"Yes. Surrender. Or die."

"I would prefer to live."

"Then surrender."

"I will not surrender."

Thomas’s face changed. The smile vanished. His eyes hardened. He took a step forward.

"You have no choice, William."

"I have a sword," I said.

Thomas looked at the sword. He did not flinch. He looked at my hands. He saw the tremor. He saw the weakness.

"Put it down," he said.

I did not.

"William, please." Eleanor’s voice was soft. It broke my heart. "Please."

I looked at her. I saw the truth. She was not afraid for me. She was afraid for herself. She wanted to live. She wanted to be free of me. I was a burden. I was a stain. I was the past.

I understood then. I had never loved her. I had only needed her. I had used her. I had made her my shield. My anchor. My excuse to stay. To fight. To be someone.

I lowered the sword.

My hands shook. The weight of the blade pulled at my arms. I let it fall.

The sword hit the floor. The sound was a crash. It echoed in the empty room. It was the sound of an ending.

Thomas stepped forward. He did not touch me. He did not need to. He was already there. He was the law. He was the order. He was the thing that kept the world from falling apart.

"Take him," Thomas said.

The men in the yard came in. They had clubs. They had ropes. They did not have swords. They did not need them.

Eleanor moved. She walked past them. She walked past Thomas. She came to me. She looked at me. Her eyes were wet. She did not cry. She just looked.

"Will you forgive me?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"Why?"

"Because there is nothing to forgive."

She nodded. She turned and left. The door closed behind her.

The men grabbed me. The ropes bit into my wrists. I did not struggle. I let them pull me up. I let them push me toward the door.

I looked back. The sword was on the floor. It lay in a pool of shadow. It was still there. It would always be there. It would outlast me. It would outlast Eleanor. It would outlast Thomas. It would outlast the house. It would outlast the King.

I walked out into the rain. The cold hit my face. It was a shock. It was a mercy.

I looked at Thomas. He stood in the doorway. He watched me. He did not speak. He did not need to. We were the same. We were both mirrors. We reflected each other. We were both guilty. We were both innocent. We were both nothing.

I walked down the path. The mud sucked at my feet. The men walked behind me. The rain fell harder. It blurred the world.

I thought of the sword. I thought of its weight. I thought of the silence it made when it fell.

I did not look back. I could not. If I looked back, I would see my face. And I was not ready to see it yet.

The road stretched out before me. It was long. It was dark. It was mine.

I walked.

I walked.

I walked.