The rain did not fall. It hung.

A grey curtain. Thick. Silent.

It pressed against the stone windows of the Blackfriars Gatehouse. Inside, the air was stale. Dust motes danced in the shaft of pale light.

Thomas stood by the door.

He wore the livery. Dark blue. Stiff collar. The buttons were brass. They caught the light. He did not look at them.

He looked at the threshold.

It was stone. Cold. Wet. A seam ran through it. A crack. Small. Dangerous.

"You are not to cross it," said a voice.

Thomas did not turn.

"Commander?" he asked.

"Did I stutter?"

The voice belonged to Alderman Vane. He sat behind a desk of oak. The wood was dark. Polished. It reflected the grey sky. Vane was a small man. His eyes were sharp. Like flint.

"No, sir," Thomas said.

"Then stay."

Thomas looked at the door. The handle was iron. Cold to the touch. He had held it before. He had wanted to open it. He had not.

"Who is on the other side?" Thomas asked.

Vane smiled. It was thin. A cut.

"No one," Vane said.

"That is a lie."

Vane’s face changed. The smile vanished. He leaned forward.

"Watch your tongue, soldier."

"I am speaking the truth."

"Truth is a weapon. Use it sparingly. Or not at all."

Thomas turned back to the door. The crack in the stone threshold pulsed. It was not a visual pulse. It was a feeling. A throb in his chest. A rhythm.

*Thump. Thump.*

It matched his heartbeat.

"Open it," Thomas said.

Vane laughed. A dry sound. Like leaves skittering on pavement.

"Are you mad?"

"Let me open it."

"Or what?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing," Vane repeated. He stood up. He was shorter than Thomas. But he took up the space. "You are a fool. A simple, faithful fool. I have kept you here for three years. Three years you have guarded this gate. And now, at the end, you want to run?"

"I want to know," Thomas said.

"Knowing is dangerous. Ignorance is safety. That is the way of the world. That is the way of the Gate."

Thomas walked to the desk. He placed his hand on the wood. It was cold.

"I saw him, Alderman."

Vane’s eyes narrowed.

"Saw who?"

"The man. Outside. In the rain."

"There is no one outside. The city is empty. You know this. The plague took them all. Or the fear did. It does not matter. The city is empty."

"I saw his face."

"Then you are hallucinating. Stress. Hunger. It makes the mind play tricks."

"It was my brother," Thomas said.

Silence.

The rain pressed harder against the glass.

Vane stared at Thomas. His face was pale. The veins in his neck stood out.

"Your brother died," Vane said. "Ten years ago. In the border wars. I buried him. I spoke the words. I watched the earth close over him."

"Then who was it?"

"I do not know."

"You do. You know."

Vane slammed his hand on the desk. The sound cracked the air.

"Enough!" he shouted. "You will go to your quarters. You will fast. You will pray. And when the fever breaks, you will return to your post. Do not speak of this again."

Thomas did not move.

"Open the door," Thomas said.

"I said no."

"Open it."

Vane reached for the bell on his desk. A small brass button.

"I will call the guards," Vane said. "I will have you locked up. I will have you stripped of your rank. I will make you regret this."

"Let them come," Thomas said.

Vane’s hand hovered over the bell. He hesitated.

His finger trembled.

He looked at the door. Then at Thomas.

"There is a story," Vane said softly.

Thomas waited.

"About the Gate. About why we built it. Do you know?"

"I know it keeps the city safe."

"It keeps something out. Yes. But it also keeps something in."

"What?"

"Us."

Vane sat down. He looked tired. Older. The light in his eyes was fading.

"We are not the guardians, Thomas. We are the prisoners."

Thomas frowned.

"Explain."

"The rain," Vane said. "It has been falling for thirty years. Do you remember when it stopped?"

Thomas shook his head.

"It never stopped. We do not leave. We cannot leave. If we step over that threshold, we are gone. We are erased. The magic of the Gate... it binds us. It feeds on our presence. Our fear. Our obedience."

Thomas looked at the threshold. The crack was wider now. A black line. A mouth.

"Is that true?" Thomas asked.

"I have watched men try," Vane said. "I have watched them fall. I have watched them vanish. I have watched the rain take them. I am the last. I am the keeper. And I am tired, Thomas."

"Open the door," Thomas said.

Vane closed his eyes.

"If I do, I am dead."

"I know."

"And if you do not, we both die. Slowly. In the dark."

"I know."

Vane opened his eyes. He looked at Thomas with a strange expression. Not anger. Not fear. Pity.

"You are brave," Vane said. "Or you are mad. It is hard to tell the difference, here."

"Open it."

Vane stood. He walked to the door. His steps were heavy. He placed his hand on the iron handle.

He did not turn it.

He looked back at Thomas.

"Remember me," Vane said. "When it is done."

"I will," Thomas said.

Vane turned the handle.

The door creaked. A long, groaning sound. Like a ship in a storm.

The grey curtain parted.

The rain hit the floor. It splashed. Cold. Clean.

Thomas stepped forward.

The threshold lay before him. The crack was wide. It glowed. A faint, sickly green light.

He looked at Vane.

Vane was watching him. His face was blank. Empty.

"Go," Vane whispered.

Thomas stepped onto the stone.

The light flared.

He felt a pull. A tug at his soul. A hook in his chest.

He did not fight it.

He stepped over the crack.

The world went white.

Then black.

Then silence.

Thomas opened his eyes.

He was on his knees.

The door was closed.

The room was empty.

Vane was gone.

The desk was gone.

The windows were gone.

He was in a field.

Grass. Green. High.

The sky was blue. Clear. No rain.

The sun was warm.

Thomas stood up. His legs were weak.

He looked around.

There was a path. Dirt. Worn.

He walked.

He walked for an hour. Or a day. Time was strange.

He came to a tree. An oak. Large. Old.

Beneath it, there was a man.

He sat on the roots. He wore a blue coat. Stiff collar. Brass buttons.

Thomas stopped.

His heart hammered.

He walked closer.

The man looked up.

It was his brother.

"Thomas," the man said.

His voice was clear. Young. Alive.

"Edward," Thomas breathed.

Edward smiled. It was sad.

"You took your time."

"I had to," Thomas said.

"I know."

"Where is Vane?"

Edward looked away. He looked at the tree.

"He is here," Edward said.

"Where?"

"In the gate. In the stone. In the rain. He is the lock. He is the key. He is the prison."

Thomas sat down. The grass was damp.

"Why did he let me go?"

"Because he was tired. Because he wanted to see the sky. And because..." Edward paused. He looked at Thomas. "Because he loved you. In his broken way. He needed someone to carry the weight. But he could not carry it alone."

Thomas felt a tear fall. He wiped it away.

"Is it over?" Thomas asked.

"Is anything over?" Edward asked.

The wind blew. The leaves rustled.

Thomas looked at the path. It stretched out. Into the distance.

"What now?" Thomas asked.

Edward stood up. He brushed the dirt from his knees.

"Now, we walk," Edward said.

"Where to?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere. Away from the gate."

Thomas stood.

He looked back. There was no gate. No house. No stone.

Only the field. Only the sky.

He turned to Edward.

"Come on," Thomas said.

Edward nodded.

They walked side by side.

The sun was high.

The birds sang.

Thomas did not look back.

He did not need to.

The threshold was behind them.

It was gone.

They walked into the light.