I stand in a valley. It isn’t beautiful, it isn’t picturesque, it is a simple valley. A small stream snakes down the middle, edged by sparse bushes. The only other vegetation is the tall, course grass that covers the ground, but for a few patches of bare dirt. The nearest trees are on the tip of the small mountain directly behind me. Even the other low peaks are barren. It is not a place I want to die, but not a place I want to live either.

I am at the edge of one of those few bare patches of dirt, the largest of them in fact. The ground is cracked and dusty. There are two pairs of identical footsteps; one pair belongs to me, the other to the thing across from me.

That thing could almost pass as human. It is an ugly thing. Like someone tried to make a copy of me, but got all the good parts wrong. And yet at first glance you could almost believe it really was me. Same red hair, same beard, same body. But look closer. Its eyes, they’re hollow and dead. And see there, those scars are like from stitches. It isn’t me. It is a hollow, crafted thing.

And I am attached to it by puppet strings. They swing gently just above the dirt, stirring the dust. Slack, at the moment.

“What are you?” I ask the Beast.

“We’re you,” my voice answers from the Beast’s mouth in an unctuous tone. “I’m more you than you are.”

Somehow I almost believe him. He does look like me. But, “no! Liar.”

The Beast hoists an arm and the puppet string yanks mine into the air. My shoulder is jarred.

“See? We’re one in the same. Only, I control us,” it says.

He has a point. Only. . . I’m holding the strings. How I missed that fact, I’ll never know. But now I bring my arm back down, dragging the Beast’s with it.

“No,” I say, “I made you. You’re my puppet.”

The Beast yanks hard, making me stumble forward onto a knee. The dust fills the air around me, stealing the moisture from my mouth and throat, choking me. It pelts my eyes, drawing tears.

“Are you sure about that?” the Beast’s ingratiating mockery of my voice asks.

I rise back to my feet and stare down the monster. “Pretty sure.” I yank on the strings.

Only, nothing happens. The Beast braced itself and held strong. Now it smirks. “Then why am I the one with all our strength?”

I give another tug on the strings. I don’t even faze him. I can’t fight him, I have to run, to hide. But no, I need to get past it. I am tired of living in the wilderness, what’s past it is the Mountainous City, full of people, full of life. No, I must get there.

I yank again. Still nothing. The Beast grins back at me.

Then, as it looks over my shoulder, its smile fades. What could almost pass as fear flashes across its face.

I look back to see what frightens it. Three men are walking through the valley toward us. They brush the grass gently aside, moving no faster nor slower than they ought. As they draw near, I see one is older–at least I think he is, the sun is positioned directly behind his face and I can’t see it clearly–but strong, his muscles stretching the shirt he wears. He is terrifying, but I can just make out a gentle smile on his face. He has a hand on the shoulder of the second man, a younger man with neat beard. The Younger also smiles, a wider jovial expression. He waves at me and says something to the older.

The third man floats, or at least that is how it seems as I can’t see his feet for the grass and he moves smoothly with no bobbing up and down, between but behind the other two. Now that he is closer, this man seems almost more ghost than man. Like a thick steam, I can almost see through him.

The strings in my hands jerk forward and I go with them, losing sight of the three men and hitting the dirt on all fours. Cold, then burning, claws at my knees. As I stand again I see that they are bleeding.

“Here, let me.” The three men have reached me now. It was the Younger, at a nod from the Older, that spoke. He kneels beside me. One touch of his hand and the pain disappears.

The ghost-like man hovers behind my back. I shoot him an unsure look. This close he is even more transparent. I can’t clearly make out his face, but from what I can tell he might be a brother to the Younger, who is now standing.

“He will help,” says the Younger, resting a hand on my shoulder reassuringly.

Before I can ask what he means, the ghostly man walks forward, straight into me. He vanishes as we come into contact. Warmth spreads all through me, starting in the chest and burning outward like a fire. The sensation seems to strengthen my muscles.

I turn back and the Beast, which had seemed so strong and terrifying before, now looks a little frail. That is definitely fear on its distorted reflection of my face.

The Younger reaches out and takes a hold of the strings in my right hand. He smiles and me and grips the strings firmly.

The Older grabs those in my left hand. He stays facing the Beast and I can only see the back of his head.

With their added strength, I make the Beast dance. First a little jig. Then some swing. A waltz with an imaginary partner. Then I punch itself in the face. I laugh, exuberant at my power over the Beast.

Then the two men let go.

My laugh dies. My arms go slack. “What are you doing? I need you!”

The puppet strings go tight and I lurch forward. For the third time, my knee hits the ground.

I drop the strings and stand. I raise my fists at the Beast.

“That’s cute,” the Beast laughs.

I don’t even see its fist coming. It catches me right on the cheekbone. A lightning bolt of pain shoots through my head. My vision goes black.

My cheek is pressed into the dirt.

I roll onto my back and open my eyes. The Beast grins down at me. He doesn’t look so frail anymore.

He kicks me with a force that sets my organs pinballing off each other. I gasp, but my lungs refuse to fill. At least one rib stabs me with jagged edges. The Beast winds up for another kick.

But then he backs off. Now it is the Younger standing over me. There are tears in his eyes.

The Younger offers me his hand. I take it and, whimpering, I get to my feet. He places a hand on my side. Once again, one touch and the pain vanishes. He wipes away the blood and dirt on my cheek, leaving healed skin behind.

“Here, take these,” says the Younger, motioning to a suit of armor now laid out on the ground beside him.

He hands me the belt and I tighten it around my waist. I need his help to get the shaped cuirass on, but we get it fit snugly around my torso. Next, the boots of hardened leather, almost like tall sandals laced over the foot and up my lower leg. The tall shield I take in my left hand. The Younger slides the helmet over my head, folding my ears over.

Finally, all that’s left is the sword. This the Younger picks up and grabs the flat of the blade with both hands, offering me the hilt. I take it.

I don’t have time to search for a sheath for the blade as the Beast charges me. I sidestep and take a downward swing with my new weapon. Blood flashes in the low sun, splattering across the dirt.

The Beast stops and rounds on me, unfazed by the gash down its hip and thigh. It braces itself for another charge.

This time, while I am still able to make contact with my blade, the Beast gets ahold of my arm and twists as it passes. I feel things break and the bone bursts from the skin. My own blood sails through the dust-filled air and joins the Beast’s on the dirt. The sword falls from my grasp.

I would scream, but my chest tightens, squeezing all of the air out of my lungs. My stomach turns over. I feel myself flush and my eyes flutter. My knees are on the ground again.

The Younger picks up the sword and wipes it clean on his clothes, which, I vaguely notice, stay clean themselves. Tears blur my view, but I see the Younger kneel next to me. He holds the hilt of the sword to me.

I can’t take it, doesn’t he see that?

He takes my hand and moves it to the weapon. By the time the handle is in my hand, the bone is back where it should be and the skin is in one piece. The pain retreats and I wipe away my tears on my shoulder.

The Younger smiles at me. “Trust the shield,” he says.

I look at the piece of wood in my left hand. It is thick and sturdy, but still, the memory of the power behind the Beast’s blows is fresh in my mind. “I don’t think it will stop him,” I bemoan.

“Trust.” The Younger stands and backs up.

I shake my head, but each of my attempts has left me more injured than the last. And, while it is bleeding from two deep wounds, the Beast still stands tall. It readies a third charge.

I meet it with the shield this time. The blow is mighty and I slide backward in the dirt, leaving ruts. My arm goes numb. But I remain standing and unhurt. I look at the Younger; he is grinning at me.

Then another blow hits my already numb arm. I am knocked over, flat on my back. Somehow, I keep the sword in my hand. The shield stays on top of me. One peek around it is all I need to see the Beast ready to stomp on me. I brace and it comes, a painful hit that knocks the air out of me. I just have time to gasp my breath back before the next stomp evicts it again. My body doesn’t seem to want to listen to me, I can’t move. I will lie here, slowly beaten into the earth, buried alive.

Two more of the strikes I endure before I am able to get my sword arm working.

Warm blood sprays my face.

The Beast reels backward.

I use the shield and sword to help me climb to my feet. Hoisting them, I look my adversary up and down. It is hunch in slightly, it’s chest heaving. Blood flows steadily from its leg, its side, its hip. It is still ready to fight, but finally looks worn.

As for me, I feel bruised and my arm is numb, but the only blood on me belongs to the Beast.

The Younger squeezes my shoulder and all my pain goes away. Feeling returns to my arm.

The Beast continues to add to the scarlet pool at its feet.

I tuck the shield in front of me, placing the flat of my blade against its side. I take short steps toward the Beast, bringing the tip of my sword closer to it with each one.