The rain fell like a curse. It did not stop. It soaked into the stone, into the wool, into the bones. I stood at the gate. The iron was cold. It bit my fingers. I did not pull away. I waited.

"Is he there?" I asked.

The guard looked at me. His face was a mask. Mud and blood and fear. He held his spear. The wood was wet.

"Who seeks the Warden?" he said.

"Thomas Vane."

The name hung in the air. It was heavy. It was old. The guard stepped back. He made a sign. A cross. Or a warning. I did not know. I moved past him.

The hall was dark. The torches sputtered. The smoke stung my eyes. I walked down the corridor. My boots slipped on the wet flagstones. The sound echoed. *Slap. Slap. Slap.* It sounded like a heartbeat. It sounded like a drum.

I knew what I was looking for. I knew the shape of it. It was not a thing. It was a part of me. My left hand. The one I had lost. The one I had left behind. Or so I told myself.

I reached the door. It was oak. Thick. Carved with faces. Screaming faces. I knocked. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Enter," a voice said.

It was low. It was rough. Like gravel in a tin cup.

I pushed the door. It groaned. I stepped inside.

The room was small. There was a table. There was a chair. There was a man.

He sat in the chair. He did not look up. He was reading a letter. The paper was yellow. The ink was faded. He wore a robe. It was grey. It was stained with wine. Or blood. It was hard to tell.

"Thomas Vane," I said.

He looked up. His eyes were blue. They were empty. They were deep. They were the sea.

"You are early," he said.

"I am never late," I said.

He smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes.

"Sit," he said.

I did not sit. I stood. I looked at the table. There was a bowl. The bowl was empty. It was silver. It was bright. It reflected my face. My face was pale. My face was tired. My face was wrong.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want to see it," I said.

"See what?"

"The hand."

He laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves in winter.

"You are a fool, Thomas."

"I am a penitent," I said.

"Penitence is for the living," he said. "You are a ghost."

I felt the anger rise. It was a hot coal. It sat in my chest. I swallowed it. I had to be calm. I had to be still.

"I am here to ask you a question," I said.

"Ask."

"Did you kill me?"

The silence stretched. It was long. It was thick. The fire popped. A spark flew up. It died in the darkness.

He put down the letter. He folded it. He placed it in his pocket. He leaned forward.

"Why do you ask that?" he said.

"Because I remember the night," I said. "I remember the rain. I remember the sword. I remember the sound of the blade hitting the stone."

"Yes," he said. "I remember it too."

"Then tell me the truth."

"The truth is a river," he said. "It flows in many directions. It drowns those who swim in it."

"I am already drowned," I said.

He looked at me. His gaze was steady. It did not blink.

"Who told you that?" he asked.

"Who told you what?"

"That you were dead. That you were killed. That your hand was severed."

I frowned. I did not understand. I had heard it in the taverns. I had heard it in the fields. They said I died at the Battle of Blackwater. They said my body was found. They said my hand was cut off and thrown in the ditch.

"I thought I was dead," I said.

"Many think they are dead," he said. "It is a comfortable lie. It requires no effort. It requires no pain."

"I am in pain," I said.

"Then you are alive."

I looked at my hand. My right hand. It was whole. It was strong. I flexed the fingers. They obeyed. I looked at the empty space where my left hand should be. It was not empty. It was filled with air. It was filled with shadow.

"Where is it?" I asked.

"Where is what?"

"My hand."

He stood up. He walked to the window. The rain hammered the glass. It was a drumbeat. It was a warning.

"Look out," he said.

I looked. The courtyard was empty. The stones were slick. The rain fell in sheets. I saw a figure. It was far away. It was standing under the eaves. It was small. It was still.

"Who is that?" I asked.

"Your brother," he said.

My heart stopped. It was a sudden halt. It was a shock.

"Edward?" I said.

"Yes."

I knew he was dead. I had seen him fall. I had seen the light leave his eyes. I had carried his body to the church. I had held his hand. It was cold. It was stiff.

"Liar," I said.

The Warden turned. His face was hard. His voice was sharp.

"I am no liar. I am a witness. I am a keeper of secrets. And I am a traitor."

The word hit me. It was a blow. It was a brand.

"A traitor?" I asked.

"To the King," he said. "To the Church. To you."

I felt the ground shift. The floor was no longer solid. It was water. It was mist. I was floating.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I loved him," he said.

I did not understand. I did not want to understand. I wanted to leave. I wanted to run. I wanted to escape this dark room. I wanted to escape this man. I wanted to escape the truth.

"Love is a chain," the Warden said. "It binds you to the past. It binds you to the dead. It binds you to yourself."

"I am free," I said.

"No," he said. "You are a prisoner. You are a prisoner of your own guilt. You are a prisoner of your own memory."

He walked to the table. He picked up the silver bowl. He poured water from a jug. The water was clear. It was cold. He held the bowl out to me.

"Drink," he said.

I took the bowl. My hands trembled. I brought it to my lips. The water was icy. It burned my throat. It burned my stomach. It burned my soul.

I drank. I drank until the bowl was empty.

When I lowered it, the room changed. The shadows moved. The light shifted. The walls receded. I was no longer in the hall. I was in the field.

It was night. The rain was falling. The mud was deep. I was kneeling. I was holding a sword. The blade was red. The blood was mine. Or it was Edward's. I could not tell.

I looked up. I saw the Warden. He was standing over me. He was holding a knife. The knife was dark. The knife was wet.

"Kill me," I said.

"No," he said. "I will not kill you. I will only free you."

He raised the knife. He swung it.

The pain was instantaneous. It was white. It was hot. It was absolute.

I screamed. I screamed until my voice broke. I screamed until my lungs burst.

Then the pain stopped.

I was back in the room. I was holding the bowl. It was empty. The Warden was standing by the window. He was looking out at the rain.

"Did you see it?" he asked.

I nodded. I could not speak. My throat was raw. My throat was broken.

"It was not a murder," he said. "It was a mercy."

"I don't understand," I said.

"You did not lose your hand in battle," he said. "You cut it off yourself. You cut it off to escape the debt. You cut it off to escape the love."

I looked at my right hand. I looked at the empty space on the left. I remembered. I remembered the knife. I remembered the pain. I remembered the silence.

I had not been killed. I had not been defeated. I had abandoned myself. I had abandoned Edward. I had abandoned the cause. I had abandoned the love.

"Edward is alive," the Warden said.

I turned to him. My eyes were wide. My eyes were wild.

"What?" I said.

"He is alive. He is here. He is the one who sent for you. He is the one who set this trap."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because he needs you to forgive him. And he needs you to forgive yourself."

I felt the weight of it. It was heavy. It was crushing. It was the weight of years. The weight of lies. The weight of guilt.

"I cannot forgive him," I said.

"Then you will never be free," he said.

I looked at the bowl. It was silver. It was bright. It reflected my face. My face was old. My face was dead.

"I am free," I said.

The Warden shook his head.

"No," he said. "You are just a mirror. You reflect what you are. And you are a monster."

I wanted to strike him. I wanted to break him. I wanted to tear his throat out. But I could not move. My legs were weak. My arms were heavy. I was still in the field. I was still in the mud.

"Let me go," I said.

"You cannot leave," he said. "The door is locked. The gate is closed. The rain will not stop. You are trapped in the moment. You are trapped in the guilt."

I looked at the door. It was closed. The handle was iron. The iron was cold.

"I am a prisoner," I said.

"Yes," he said.

"Who is the warden?" I asked.

He smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a tired smile.

"I am the warden," he said. "But I am also the prisoner. We are all prisoners, Thomas. We are all trapped in our own stories. We are all trapped in our own choices."

I looked at him. I looked at his eyes. They were blue. They were empty. They were deep.

"I will kill you," I said.

"You cannot," he said. "I am not real. I am a projection. I am a part of you. I am the part of you that knows the truth."

I raised my hand. My right hand. It was trembling. It was shaking. I felt the anger. I felt the rage. I felt the hate.

But I did not strike.

I lowered my hand.

I looked at the bowl. I looked at the empty space where my left hand should be.

I remembered the cut. I remembered the blood. I remembered the silence.

I had done it. I had cut it off. I had done it to save myself. I had done it to save my life. I had done it to save my honor.

But I had lost it. I had lost my hand. I had lost my brother. I had lost my soul.

"Let me go," I said again.

The Warden nodded.

The door opened. The rain rushed in. The water covered the floor. The water covered my feet. The water covered my knees.

I walked to the door. I walked into the rain.

The cold was shocking. The cold was painful. The cold was real.

I walked down the path. I walked through the mud. I walked through the dark.

I saw the figure. It was standing under the eaves. It was Edward.

He was alive. He was wet. He was shivering.

He looked at me. His eyes were red. His eyes were swollen.

"Thomas," he said.

I stopped. I looked at him. I looked at his face. I saw the scar. I saw the pain. I saw the love.

"Edward," I said.

He walked towards me. He stepped into the rain. He did not care. He did not flinch.

He reached out. He took my hand. My right hand.

His grip was tight. His grip was warm.

"I forgive you," he said.

I looked at him. I looked at our hands. I looked at the empty space.

"I forgive myself," I said.

The rain continued to fall. It did not stop. It would not stop. But I was not afraid. I was not alone.

I stood there. In the rain. In the dark. In the silence.

I was free.

I was a prisoner.

I was both.

The rain washed the blood from my hands. The rain washed the guilt from my soul.

I held Edward's hand. I held it tight.

We stood together. In the storm. In the night.

The threshold was behind me. The threshold was ahead of me.

I did not cross it.

I stayed.

I stayed in the rain.

I stayed in the truth.

The rain fell.

It fell.

It fell.