[ WP ] Walking along a bridge of petrified wood , following another .

All he could feel was the soft fabric of her cloak between his thumb and forefinger. He could not see -- had never been able to see -- and the nothingness that surrounded him had never been more threatening than it had been now. But he could hear her breathing, and the soft steps of her feet as he padded away in front of him. 
 
 
 `` Stay close,'' she whispered and he nodded, then assured her he was. She took another deep breath and continued, the rustling of her clothes the only sound he could hear in the ugliness of the dark. 
 
 
 Step by step, they walked across the bridge. He could feel the slickness of the surface beneath his feet and wished he could see it. Petrified wood was supposed to be beautiful: like mother-of-pearl, shiny and smooth and glistening colours of spilled oil on water. She could see it though. He hoped that she liked it, that she thought it beautiful. She had n't seen enough pretty things in her life. 
 
 
 He took a bunch of the fabric in his hands and forced himself to calm down. She was n't scared, so he could n't be, even though she could see the drop that lay on either side of the bridge. He could feel it though: the cold air of the dungeons that whistled up past him. He wondered when she would warm up, whether her blood would stay cold forever as a result of her stay in those cells. 
 
 
 *Jailers do n't need to see, * they'd told him when they'd put his eyes out. He wished he could see her though. He'd thought about saving her for a while before he'd let her out of her cell and told her to flee. What he had n't expected was for her to take him with her.
