You write this by candlelight. The wax pools on the saucer. It smells of tallow and old smoke. You are in the tower room. The stone is cold against your back. You press your spine into the draft. It bites. You do not shiver. You have forgotten how.

The letter is unfinished. The ink is black. It dries slow in the dry air. You hold the quill. Your hand is steady. It is not your own hand anymore. It belongs to the prisoner. It belongs to the traitor. You are both. You are neither.

Lord Ashworth stands at the door. He does not knock. He never does. He is tall. His shadow stretches across the floor. It reaches for your feet. You do not look up. You know his weight. You feel it in the air. It is heavy. It is wet.

"Is it done?" he asks.

His voice is soft. It is like silk tearing. You like the sound. You hate the sound. You write. You do not answer.

"Thomas," he says. He uses your name. It is a whip. It cracks. "The King waits. The court waits. We have a protocol to keep."

You look at him then. His face is pale. His eyes are bright. They are empty. There is no love there. There is no hate. There is only duty. He is a good man. That is the worst part. He believes in the law. He believes in the order. He believes you must die to keep the world turning.

"I am writing," you say.

"Write."

He turns. He leaves. The door closes. The latch clicks. It is a small sound. It is final.

You return to the page. The words come easy now. They flow. They spill. They are not words. They are blood. You write of the garden. You write of the rose. The white rose. It was in the courtyard. It bloomed in the snow. It was impossible. It was real.

You remember the day you planted it. It was spring. The air smelled of wet earth. You knelt in the dirt. Your knees hurt. You did not care. You put the root in the soil. You pressed the earth down. You watered it. It was yours. It was a secret. A small, green secret in a world of stone and steel.

Lord Ashworth knew. He saw you. He watched. He did not stop you. He smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes. But he smiled. He gave you permission. He gave you a life. He gave you a garden. He gave you a death.

You write about the rose. You describe its scent. It is sweet. It is cloying. It chokes. It is beautiful. It is poison.

The candle flickers. The flame dips. The light goes low. You feel the dark closing in. It is warm. It is safe. You are alone. You are with him. You are always with him.

You think of the protocol. It is not just a law. It is a ritual. It is a dance. You and Ashworth. You and the King. You and the court. You dance around the fire. You dance around the edge. You step in. You step out. You never touch. You never break.

But you wanted to break. You wanted to tear the world open. You wanted to show them the rot. The rot under the stone. The rot in the blood. You tried. You failed. You were clever. You were sharp. You were wrong.

You are not a hero. You are a mistake. You are a stain on the white cloth. You are the black ink on the page. You are the mark that cannot be washed away.

The quill scratches. The sound is loud. It is like a nail on wood. It is like a bone breaking. You write faster. Your heart beats fast. It is a drum. It is a hammer. It pounds against your ribs.

You think of the trial. It was brief. It was quiet. No one shouted. No one wept. The judge read the charges. You nodded. You admitted guilt. You did not argue. You did not plead. You knew the truth. You knew the end.

Ashworth sat in the front row. He wore his armor. It was polished. It was bright. It reflected the light. It was a mirror. You saw yourself in it. You saw your own face. It was calm. It was cold. It was empty.

He looked at you. He held your gaze. He did not blink. You did not blink. You were connected. You were bound. You were one.

The verdict was passed. It was inevitable. It was correct. It was just.

You write. The page fills. The ink runs. It smudges. It blots. The words become shapes. They become images. The rose. The stone. The light. The dark.

You stop. You drop the quill. It rolls on the desk. It makes a small sound. You sit back. Your chair creaks. Your body is tired. Your mind is clear.

You feel a presence. It is behind you. You do not turn. You know it is him. It is always him. He is the wall. He is the window. He is the air.

"Thomas," he says.

His voice is close. It is in your ear. It is in your skull.

"Come."

You stand. Your legs are stiff. They buckle. You catch yourself on the desk. The papers flutter. They fall. They are white. They are snow.

You walk to the door. You do not look back. You open the door. The hallway is dark. The stairs are steep. You go down. One step. Two steps. Three steps.

You hear his breath. It is steady. It is calm. It is the rhythm of the world.

You reach the bottom. The courtyard is there. It is night. The stars are out. They are bright. They are cold. They are watching.

The rose is there. It is still in the ground. It is white. It is glowing. It is alive.

Ashworth stands beside it. He holds a sword. It is sheathed. It is clean. It is ready.

He looks at you. His eyes are soft. There is a tear on his cheek. It is the only imperfection. It is the only truth.

"I am sorry," he says.

You shake your head. You do not want his pity. You do not want his forgiveness. You want his presence. You want his hand.

You reach for him. He reaches for you. Your hands meet. They do not clasp. They do not grip. They just touch. Skin on skin. Warmth on warmth.

It is enough.

It is more than enough.

He draws the sword. The steel sings. It is a high note. It is pure. It is beautiful.

He steps forward. You do not move. You stand still. You are the rose. You are the stone. You are the light.

The blade falls.

The pain is not there. There is only light. It is white. It is blinding. It is the color of the rose. It is the color of the page. It is the color of the truth.

You see it. The protocol. It was not a trap. It was a gift. It was a way to be free. It was a way to be one.

You are not dead. You are not alive. You are between. You are in the space. You are in the silence.

You see Ashworth. He is kneeling. He is holding the sword. His hands are shaking. He is weeping. He is broken.

You want to comfort him. You want to hold him. You want to tell him it is okay. You want to tell him it was right.

You cannot speak. You have no voice. You have no body. You have only the light.

You let the light go. You let it fade. You let it disappear.

You are gone.

The candle in the tower goes out. The dark takes it. The night takes it. The world turns.

The rose blooms. It is white. It is perfect. It is alone.

It waits.

It does not die.

It remembers.

You remember.

You are the ink. You are the page. You are the word.

You are the silence after the sound.

You are the space between the stars.

You are the truth.

You are free.

The end is not a end. It is a beginning. It is a breath. It is a start.

You are there.

You are here.

You are now.

The light remains.

It does not go out.

It burns.

It burns bright.

It burns hot.

It burns forever.

You are the fire.

You are the flame.

You are the light.

You are the truth.

You are free.