Soon, they would be no more.
Shallah remembered something her father told her once. The trees watch over us, he said. They keep us together, keep us safe. They keep out the light. They are our walls, and our doorways. But a door is meant to be opened. All you have to do is walk though.
He told her that, and a few days later he was gone.
She breathed deeply of the mossy scent of the wood.
“Goodbye,” she said softly, and walked through.
When Shallah emerged from the wood the wind began to blow. It picked at the blankets laden with food, and tossed more than one lady’s kerchief. It sent an empty basket tumbling over the cliff, the children chasing after to watch its descent. It snatched a bit of blue cloth right out of a leather pouch and carried it out to sea.
Shallah’s hair was pulled free of its hood, the gusts tugging fiercely at her curling locks and tattered skirts. Her cloak blew up in her face, blocking her momentarily from view.
She fell to her knees.
It is said her father was at her side in moments. It is said Petyr took her up in his arms and carried her down the path to the village below.
It is said she wept.
For in that instant, as Shallah raised her eyes to the sun for the second time in her life, she found she could see again.
The End
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