Doorway

                                                             Doorway

Artwork: HBO

In the heart of a thick, sunless forest, where the trees twisted and gnarled like the thoughts of those who had come before her, a girl journeyed with a single purpose. Her cloak, once vibrant, now tattered from the unforgiving embrace of the forest, swayed with each cautious step. She clutched an iron coin, its weight a heavy reminder of her lineage, passed down through generations like an heirloom of sorrow.

The girl had come to find the witch known as Silver Toad of the Oak, whispered of in half-forgotten tales and haunted dreams. The witch lived in a cave beneath the roots of a colossal tree, a place where the world above met the unseen mysteries below. As she approached, the tree loomed large, its roots like serpents coiling around the entrance to the witch's lair.

Taking a deep breath, the girl entered the cave. The air was thick with the sickly sweet, almost narcotic smoke. In the dim light, she saw the witch, her yellow eyes gleaming like a disease in the dancing shadows.

“I come seeking answers,” the girl said, her voice trembling but resolute.

The witch’s smile was a slow, deliberate thing, a ripple across the still waters of her face. “Show me the coin, child.” Her face seemed to be rearranging itself, as if the segments of it were about to slough off.

The girl extended the iron coin. The witch’s fingers, cold and gnarled, closed around it. “You may ask three questions,” Silver Toad said, “and you shall receive three answers.”

She steadied herself. “Will I see my parents again?”

The witch’s eyes glinted with blade-sharp knowing. “When the crow speaks to the silent stone, then shall the past and present entwine.”

The girl swallowed, her mind racing to unravel the meaning. She asked her second question, her voice a fragile whisper. “Is there justice in the world?”

The witch’s chuckle was raw and ancient. “Justice is the shiver between the wound and the salt.” 

Desperation edged into the girl’s voice as she posed her final question. “Will I ever find joy?”

“Black wears the bride, gorging on grief-songs,” the witch replied, her tone dripping like the long summer night.

The girl stood in the silence that threatened to entomb her, her heart beating fast with the riddles she had been given. The witch’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and unexpected, yet nauseatingly cloying, like honey and rot. “You forgot to ask the most important question, bloodchild. What happens to those who find me?”

A chill ran down the girl’s spine. She had not considered this. “What happens?” she whispered, her words barely more than a breath.

The witch leaned closer, her eyes like twin abysses. “Those who seek me find the answers they dread, and with each revelation, a piece of their soul is claimed by the shadows. The questions are a doorway, child, and not all who enter return.”

The girl turned to leave, her steps echoing hollowly against the cave walls. As she emerged from the dark mouth of the cave, the forest seemed denser, the roots whispering the mortal gibberish of the lost and the forsaken.

With each step away from the witch’s lair, the girl felt an eerie heaviness settle over her. The vibrant green of the forest grew colorless, and the songs of the birds turned to mournful dirges. Once bright with determination, her eyes began to lose their light, growing dull and vacant.

She wandered through the forest, her mind a labyrinth of corpse-dreams and shadow-whispers, the witch’s words echoing endlessly. She saw visions of her parents, their faces etched with loss, she saw the crow and the frost, the bloom and the joy, forever dissolving into the gloaming.

The girl’s journey ended where it began, at the edge of the forest. But as she crossed the threshold into the world she once knew, it was clear she was no longer the same. Her eyes, now dead and blank, reflected the doorway she had passed through—a gateway to knowledge that had claimed her soul piece by piece, leaving her hollow.

The villagers whispered of the girl who ventured into the heart of the old forest and returned with eyes that saw nothing but darkness. They spoke of a witch who lived beneath the roots of a giant tree, who answered questions with riddles and claimed the souls of the curious. To seek her counsel, one needed an iron coin—a relic so rare that it was almost mythical. These coins, typically held by the nobles, were coveted by many. A great many were willing to maim and kill for one of these enchanted pieces of iron. In the silence of the night, the trees whispered the girl’s true name and the doorway stood open, waiting for the next soul to wander through, and be claimed by the haunting, unending darkness.

In the thick of the night, the trees whispered the girl’s true name and the doorway stood open, waiting for the next soul to wander through.