I guess I should start this off by saying I died.
Not in battle. Not in glory. Not even in fire.
Something quieter.
Something slower.
The white death.
My final days were spent in the guard room.
The king had me locked inside it like a criminal, though I had served him faithfully. I can’t say I blame him. Men fear what they do not understand. Still… I would have preferred to die among family.
What little I had left of them.
When I died, I expected pain. Judgment. Hell, perhaps.
Instead, I woke up.
The room was the same.
Stone walls. Iron-banded door. The narrow bed in the corner.
But something was wrong.
It was brighter than I remembered.
And warmer.
I stood slowly, bracing myself for the cough—for the blood.
It never came.
My chest didn’t burn. My breath didn’t rattle. Even the old wound in my leg, the one I took in Mercia, felt… gone.
Not healed.
Gone.
I should have questioned it.
I didn’t.
My eyes drifted toward my armor in the corner. My sword rested beside it, exactly where it had been left.
And beside the bed—
Someone lay there.
I stepped closer.
Slowly.
The man hadn’t moved.
His shirt was stiff with dried blood.
His leg—scarred.
The same scar.
I stared at his face.
At my face.
For a long moment, I said nothing.
Did nothing.
Then I reached for my sword.
I crept close.
Close enough to see his eyes—
My eyes.
The same ones that were closed.
Now open.
Staring.
Not at the wall.
Not the ceiling.
Me.
I couldn't move.
Not foward
Not backwards.
His gaze didn't waver.
Didn't blink.
Then—
His lips moved.
"Welcome."
The word dragged out of him, wet and uneven, as if it had to be pulled free.
Like his lungs had forgotten how to breathe.
Like something else was speaking through him.
And hadn’t learned how to use his voice yet.
His chest never moved.
Not once.
“You’re…” I swallowed. My throat felt tight again. Not sick—just wrong.
“You’re me.”
A pause.
Then a slow smile pulled across his face.
Too slow.
Like it didn’t belong there.
“No,” he said.
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“I’m what stayed.”
I didn’t understand that.
I didn’t want to.
I took a step back.
He didn’t move.
But his eyes followed.
“You left,” he continued, softer now. “When the pain stopped.”
My grip tightened around my sword.
"I died."
Something flickered behind his eyes.
Amusement.
Or pity.
"You think that's the same thing."
His smile stretched wider.
Wider than mine ever had.
“You shouldn’t be standing there,” he said softly.
Before I could answer—
he moved.
Not a step.
Not a lunge.
He was on his feet in an instant.
No shift of weight.
No breath.
Just—there.
The bed creaked after he left it.
My body shouldn’t move like that.
I raised my sword, instinct more than thought.
“Stay back.”
He tilted his head.
The bones in his neck cracked.
Once.
Twice.
Then kept going.
“You’re still holding onto that?” he asked.
And then he was in front of me.
His hand closed around my wrist.
Cold.
Too cold.
I swung.
The blade bit into his shoulder—
deep.
He didn’t react.
Didn’t flinch.
He just looked at the wound.
At the blood.
Then back at me.
“That won’t help you anymore.”
His grip tightened.
I heard the bone in my wrist give before I felt it.
I screamed.
He didn’t.
Instead, he leaned closer.
Close enough that I could smell the rot in my own lungs.
“You left me here,” he whispered.
I didn’t feel it at first.
Then I did.
I tore backward, dragging the sword with me, but his grip held.
Unmoving.
Unbreakable.
My fingers wouldn’t close.
Wouldn’t listen.
“Let go—” I choked.
He didn’t.
He only stepped closer.
"Like you did?" He choked out.
The room felt smaller.
The door farther away.
I twisted, slammed my shoulder into him, stumbled toward it anyway.
Three steps.
On the fourth—
my breath caught.
My chest burned.
I reached for the latch.
Missed.
My hand shook too badly.
Behind me—
nothing.
No footsteps.
I turned.
He stood where I had left him.
Watching.
“You feel it,” he said.
My lungs rattled.
Wet.
Familiar.
“You took the easy part with you.”
I backed away from him—
and the room seemed to stretch.
The door farther still.
“You left the rest here.”
“No,” I rasped. “I died.”
Something flickered behind his eyes.
Not anger.
Not pain.
Recognition.
He moved again.
Faster.
Closer.
His hand left my wrist—
and closed around my jaw.
Cold fingers dug into my face.
Forcing me forward.
“No—”
Our foreheads touched.
And the world—
lurched.
I was on the bed.
I was standing.
I was choking—
I wasn’t breathing at all—
The ceiling above me.
The door in front of me.
Both at once.
Something pulled.
From the inside.
Like falling backward into my own bones.
I screamed.
Or he did.
Or both of us.
My hand found the sword.
I drove it forward.
Blind.
Desperate.
It tore through him.
Through me—
The world snapped.
I hit the floor.
Hard.
Alone.
For a moment—
I could breathe again.
Then it started to fade.
My chest tightened.
My limbs felt heavy.
Slow.
Behind me—
a wet sound.
I didn’t turn.
“You can’t stay out there,” he said.
Closer now.
Stronger.
“I can feel you slipping.”
My fingers dragged uselessly against the stone.
The door was still too far.
“You already started coming back.”
I forced myself to look.
He stood straighter now.
Steadier.
The wound in his shoulder hung open—
but the blood had stopped.
His eyes hadn’t.
They were fixed on me.
Waiting.
Like I was the one that would return.
I tried to move.
My arm dragged uselessly against the stone.
The door was still too far.
Closer than before.
Farther than it should be.
My chest tightened.
A shallow breath.
Then another.
No.
That wasn’t me.
I hadn’t tried to breathe.
Behind me—
something shifted.
Not footsteps.
Not movement.
Alignment.
Like something settling into place.
My fingers twitched.
Not by my will.
I forced them still.
They moved anyway.
A breath pulled into my lungs—
slow.
Deep.
I choked on it.
Tried to push it out.
Another came.
Stronger.
My body—or what was left of it—turned.
I didn’t tell it to.
The room tilted.
The floor vanished.
The bed—
I was on it.
No—
I was in it.
Weight pressed down on me.
Heavy.
Familiar.
My chest rose.
I fought it.
My chest rose again.
And I couldn’t stop it.
My lungs filled again—
and I wasn’t the one who took the breath.