The westward path before them was strewn with leaves, the white trunks and trembling branches above them dropping their burdens all around. The sky was a dark, stormy grey, and Airingil watched it with the same joy that she watched all around her. The wind stirred the painted leaves around them, and lifted her husband's heavy cloak sending it flapping against her skirts. She looked up again, expectantly.
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Isilime
