So Galahad curls his fingers in the smooth polished stone of the circular handle and pulls.

The room inside is underwater.

The water doesn't spill through the open doorway -- it stays in place, as if they were looking down at it instead of face-to-face. Inside, the water is black, lightless, except for the biolumiscence in the mouths of fish or hanging in drops from rods above their heads; tiny comb jellies, glowing pulses that travel down the ridges of their bodies. Galahad stares.