The bell tolled. It was a heavy sound, dull and wet, like a stone dropped into a deep well. Thomas stood by the window. He was twelve years old, but his hands looked old. The stone under his nails was grey. The dust of the castle floor was in his lungs. He breathed it in. It tasted like iron.

Outside, the rain fell. It was a cold rain. It washed the mud from the cobbles. It washed the blood from the gutters. No one looked up. No one cared about the rain. They cared about the King.

The King was sick. They said the sickness was in his blood. They said it was a curse. The priests wore black robes. They chanted in the hall. Their voices were low. They rubbed their hands together. They smelled of incense and fear.

Thomas wiped his hands on his tunic. The tunic was rough. It scratched his neck. He did not care. He was a scullion. He washed the cups. He swept the floors. He was a ghost in the stone. The courtiers did not see him. They walked past him. Their eyes were on the King’s bed. The bed was covered in red silk. The silk was stained. It looked like dried roses.

Thomas loved the King. He did not know why. He had never touched him. He had never spoken to him. But he felt a pull. It was in his chest. It was a sharp pain. It was like a hook. It dragged him toward the throne room. He could not stop. He could not walk away. He was bound. He was tied by a chain he could not see.

He walked down the hall. The floor was cold. It bit his feet. The candles flickered. The shadows danced. They looked like rats. They looked like spirits. Thomas felt them watching him. He felt their breath on his neck. He did not turn around. He kept walking.

The throne room was silent. The guards stood by the door. They held their spears. The spears were tall. They touched the ceiling. The guards looked at Thomas. They saw his dirty hands. They saw his ragged clothes. They did not stop him. They stepped aside. They knew. They always knew.

The King lay on the bed. His face was pale. His eyes were closed. His lips were blue. He looked like stone. He looked like death. Thomas walked to the bed. He knelt. He put his hand on the King’s hand. The King’s hand was cold. It was hard. It was like marble.

"Who are you?" the King whispered. His voice was weak. It was like wind through dry leaves.

Thomas did not answer. He could not speak. His throat was tight. His heart was pounding. It beat against his ribs. It was loud. It was fast. He wanted to say his name. He wanted to say he was a servant. He wanted to say he was nothing. But the words would not come.

The King opened his eyes. They were dark. They were deep. They held the past. They held the future. They held Thomas.

"I know you," the King said.

Thomas felt a shiver. It went down his spine. It went into his bones. He felt a heat. It rose from his stomach. It spread to his hands. It spread to his head. He felt light. He felt free. He felt heavy. He felt trapped.

"You are me," the King said.

Thomas blinked. He looked at the King. He looked at his own hands. They were small. They were dirty. They were young. The King’s hands were large. They were clean. They were old.

"No," Thomas said. His voice was small. It was a whisper. "I am Thomas. I am a scullion."

The King smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a tired smile. "You are the next," he said. "You are the one who comes after."

Thomas felt a wave of nausea. He felt the floor tilt. The room spun. The candles blurred. He saw faces. He saw old faces. He saw young faces. He saw himself. He was old. He was young. He was the King. He was the servant. It was all the same. It was a circle. It was a wheel. It turned and turned and turned.

"I don't want to be King," Thomas said. His voice broke. It was a child’s voice. It was a plea. "I want to go home. I want to be free."

The King shook his head. "There is no home," he said. "There is only the throne."

Thomas pulled his hand away. He stood up. He backed away. His legs were weak. They shook. He bumped into the bed. The silk rustled. It sounded like a sigh.

"Stay," the King said. "Stay with me."

"I can't," Thomas said. "It’s too heavy."

The King’s eyes closed. His breathing was slow. It was shallow. He was fading. He was leaving. The light in his eyes went out. The color left his face. He became stone again. He became the bed. He became the room.

Thomas ran. He ran out of the room. He ran down the hall. He ran past the guards. They did not stop him. They watched him go. Their faces were blank. They were statues. They were part of the stone.

He ran out of the castle. The rain was still falling. It was cold. It was wet. He ran through the streets. The people looked at him. They saw a boy in rags. They saw a dirty thing. They spat on him. They threw stones. He did not care. He ran.

He ran to the river. The river was dark. It was wide. It was cold. He stood on the bank. The water moved. It was fast. It was strong. It pulled at his feet. It wanted him. It called to him.

He looked down. He saw his reflection. It was a child. It was scared. It was dirty. It was him. He looked into the water. He saw the King. The King was there. He was in the water. He was smiling. He was waiting.

Thomas felt the pull again. It was in his chest. It was a hook. It dragged him forward. He could not stop. He could not breathe. The water was rising. It touched his feet. It was cold. It was sharp. It cut his skin.

He thought of his mother. She was dead. She had died of the sickness. The same sickness. The curse. He had watched her die. He had held her hand. It was cold. It was hard. It was like marble.

He thought of the King. The King had held his mother’s hand. The King had held his father’s hand. The King had held his own. It was a chain. It was a line. It was a path.

Thomas stepped into the water. The water rose to his waist. It was heavy. It pulled him down. He felt the weight. It was not the water. It was the crown. It was the throne. It was the duty. It was the love.

He closed his eyes. He felt the pain. It was sharp. It was bright. It was real. He felt the love. It was strong. It was blind. It was instinct. It was the only thing that mattered.

The water rose to his chest. It rose to his neck. He felt the cold. He felt the dark. He felt the end. He did not fight. He let go. He let the water take him. He let the King take him.

He was gone.

The rain stopped. The sun came out. It was a pale sun. It shone on the river. The river was calm. It was still. It looked like glass.

In the castle, the new King sat on the throne. He was twelve years old. His hands were clean. His face was pale. He wore a crown of gold. It was heavy. It pressed on his head.

He looked at his hands. They were small. They were smooth. They were strong. He flexed his fingers. He felt the power. It was in his blood. It was in his bones. It was in his soul.

He looked out the window. He saw the river. He saw the bank. He saw the place where the boy had stood. He felt a pull. It was in his chest. It was a hook. It dragged him toward the window.

He did not know why. He did not care. He sat on the throne. He waited. He knew. He always knew.

The bell tolled. It was a heavy sound. Dull and wet. Like a stone dropped into a deep well.

The story is told. The circle is complete. The wheel turns. The path is pale. The end is the beginning. The beginning is the end. It is the same. It is always the same.

Thomas is the King. The King is Thomas. The boy is the ghost. The ghost is the boy. The love is the chain. The chain is the love. The pain is the truth. The truth is the pain.

We are all in the castle. We are all on the throne. We are all in the water. We are all in the rain. We cannot stop. We cannot turn back. We can only go forward. We can only fall.

The bell tolled again. The sound faded. The silence was heavy. The silence was loud. The silence was full.

Thomas sat on the throne. He waited for the next one. He knew it was coming. He knew it was him. He knew it was always him.

He closed his eyes. He felt the pull. He felt the hook. He felt the love. He let it take him.

The end.