You hold the bird. It is dead. Its wings are tucked tight against its ribs, feathers matted with dried blood and rust. You are in the keep. The stone is cold. You feel the chill through your tunic. The air is thick with dust. You breathe it in. It tastes of iron.

The bird is a mirror. It shows you what you are. A keeper. A warden. A man who holds things that do not want to be held. You have held many things. You have held the door. You have held the rope. You have held the silence. But you have never held a thing that looked back at you with such hollow eyes.

The bird’s name is not known. It has no name. It is only a shape. A weight. A burden. You placed it in your hand three days ago. It was alive then. It pecked at your fingers. It sang. The song was a thin, sharp line in the air. It cut through the noise of the camp. It cut through the shouts of the men. It cut through your own thoughts.

Now it is silent.

You sit on the floor. Your back is against the wall. The wall is rough. It scratches your skin. You do not move. You do not blink. You stare at the bird. The feathers are brown. They are the color of wet earth. They are the color of old mud. They are the color of the ground where the men sleep.

You remember the day you caught it. You were walking the perimeter. The sun was high. It burned your neck. The heat was a physical weight. It pressed down on your shoulders. It pressed down on your chest. It made it hard to breathe. You saw the bird in the grass. It was small. It was quick. It darted away from you. You lunged. You missed. You lunged again. You caught it. Your fingers closed around its body. It struggled. It kicked. It flapped its wings. The wind from its wings was warm. It was alive. You felt its heart beat against your palm. It was fast. It was frantic. It was afraid.

You put it in the cage. The cage was small. It was made of wire. The wire was thin. It was sharp. The bird pecked at the wire. It bled. The blood was red. It was bright. It was fresh. You watched it. You watched it for hours. You did not eat. You did not drink. You only watched.

The men came. They were loud. They were angry. They said you were a thief. They said you had stolen food from the store. They said you had stolen wine. They said you had stolen cloth. They said you were weak. They said you were broken. They said you belonged to the bird. They said the bird belonged to you. They said it was an omen. They said it was a curse. They said you would die.

You did not answer. You held the cage. You held it tight. You held it against your chest. You held it like a child. You held it like a prayer. You held it like a secret. The men pushed you. They shoved you. They kicked the cage. The bird cried out. The sound was high. It was thin. It was a scream. It was a warning.

You fought them.

You did not plan to fight. You did not want to fight. You only reacted. Your body moved. Your hands struck. Your feet kicked. You were small. You were slow. But you were hard. You were stone. You were the wall. You were the keep. You did not stop. You did not look up. You only struck. You struck until they fell. You struck until they bled. You struck until they ran.

You stood alone. You stood in the yard. The dust settled around you. It swirled in the air. It covered your face. It covered your eyes. You could not see. You could not breathe. You could only feel. You felt the blood on your hands. It was warm. It was wet. It was yours. It was theirs. It was mixed. It was one.

You walked back to the keep. You walked slowly. Your legs were heavy. Your arms were heavy. Your heart was heavy. You carried the cage. You carried the bird. You carried the blood. You carried the silence.

You opened the cage. The bird looked at you. It did not fly. It did not run. It stayed. It stayed because it was tired. It stayed because it was afraid. It stayed because it knew. It knew you would not let it go. It knew you would hold it. It knew you were the same.

You put it in your hand. You closed your fingers. You held it. You held it until it stopped moving. You held it until it stopped breathing. You held it until it was dead.

You are still holding it. You are still here. The stone is cold. The air is thick. You breathe. You breathe the dust. You breathe the iron. You breathe the silence.

The bird is a mirror. It shows you what you are. A keeper. A warden. A man who holds things that do not want to be held. You have held the door. You have held the rope. You have held the silence. You have held the men. You have held the blood. You have held the fear. You have held the hate. You have held the pain. You have held it all. You have held it until it broke. You have held it until it died.

You look at your hands. They are stiff. They are red. They are cracked. They are raw. They are not yours anymore. They are the bird’s. They are the men’s. They are the keep’s. They are the world’s. They are everything. They are nothing.

You stand up. Your knees crack. Your back hurts. Your head spins. You feel dizzy. You feel sick. You feel empty. You feel full. You feel nothing. You feel everything.

You walk to the door. The door is heavy. It is wood. It is old. It is strong. You push it. It groans. It creaks. It opens. The light is bright. It is white. It is blinding. You squint. You step out.

The yard is empty. The men are gone. The blood is dry. The dust is still. The wind is gone. The air is still. The world is still.

You walk to the edge of the keep. You look over the wall. The land is flat. It is brown. It is dead. It is endless. It is yours. It is not yours. It is the bird’s. It is the men’s. It is the world’s.

You feel a pull. It is in your chest. It is in your throat. It is in your hands. It is a desire. It is a need. It is a hunger. It is a pain. It is a joy. It is a curse. It is a gift. It is the bird. It is the life. It is the death.

You look at your hands again. You look at the bird. The bird is dead. The bird is gone. The bird is you.

You close your eyes. You open them. You look at the land. You look at the sky. The sky is gray. It is heavy. It is low. It is pressing down. It is crushing. It is breaking. It is ending.

You take a step. You take another step. You walk to the edge. You walk to the wall. You walk to the ground.

You stop.

You look at your hands. You look at the bird. You look at the world.

You understand.

You cannot let go.

You must hold.

You must hold until you break.

You must hold until you die.

You must hold until the bird is alive again.

You must hold until the men are gone.

You must hold until the keep is dust.

You must hold until the world is silent.

You must hold.

You close your fingers.

You hold the bird.

You hold the silence.

You hold the pain.

You hold the life.

You hold the death.

You hold.

You hold.

You hold.