in which the witch of the wilds has spent her whole life avoiding the prophecised true king of gondor until he shows up on her doorstep with four hobbits, an elf, a dwarf, a warrior and an old wizard with a sparkle in his eyes and asks her to join t...
I BURN, I FREEZE; I AM NEVER WARM. I AM RIGID; I FORGOT SOFTNESS BECAUSE IT DID NOT SERVE ME
- catherynne m. valente, deathless
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DAYS PASS as they travel through forestry, finally leaving behind the river that had become the last bit of home Yseult would ever remember. The rushing of water was an adequate numbing of memories, blocking out the sound of their own thoughts, allowing them some sort of peace to accompany their journey. As the sound becomes further and further away, almost so quiet they cannot hear it at all, a small ache begins in her chest.
It has been so long since she left the confines of the Forest.
She'd come here three-thousand-and-something years ago, stumbling over the giant roots of the giant trees working to fight off any invaders, ragged dress soaked to the very thread as she trudges through the river. It took her weeks to make any progress, growing weaker as her food supply diminished, using the last few droplets of water in her flask just to keep herself hydrated. But, as the Forest watched her struggle, it opened up some more, welcoming her beneath its leafy canopy like a warm hug, a shelter of snapping branches like extended limbs.
The Forest was her only sanctuary.
It is the home of ancient souls, tribes of stripped bare bark and crunchy leaves, giants of roots that hug the very centre of Arda. High above the dark green canopy, bird song flutters in the sky, mixing with the serene flow of the rushing river. In this home, you become art, you become song, you become a poem breathing through the wind and into the senses of the many animals that call the Forest their home. Anyone who steps between the trees feels that kinship with the flora twisting around their ankles and the fauna who run away at their booming voices. And then, the nascent sun shines through the pine needles and lights up the entire place like a holy oasis – white-gold in the summer, sepia in the winter. It is the only refuge many of them have ever known.
Yseult runs her soft palms across the rough bark as they come to the exit of the Forest.
The earth sings to her through the trees, lyrical ballads that beg her not to leave them behind, branches gnarled like talons clawing at her dress. If they could, they would trap her inside their wooden cages and keep the door locked until she promised not to leave their mossy confines.
She hurries after the rest of the Fellowship.
As soon as she's out of the way, she spins around to face the entrance she had found centuries ago, watching as the Forest closes itself up to her. This is not the first time she has left it behind, not the first time she has listened to the river's rapid rushing quietening to almost nothing, not the first time she has watched the squirrels collect on the branches to wave her goodbye.
