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 DREAM OF MASSACRES. I AM A GARDEN OF BLACK AND RED AGONIES
- sylvia plath, three agonies
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SOMETHING SCREECHES far in the distance.
Yseult tightens her bag around her shoulder and reaches for the sword she'd hastily thrown in, noticing the way that Frodo's dagger glows. Gandalf had explained to her that it glowed only when in the presence of orcs. She cannot find her own sword beneath all these dresses and books and potion jars.
She knew she brought too much.
Boromir rushes to the doorway. An arrow barely misses his nose. He jumps back, smirking, having waited for too long for a taste of action. Aragorn orders the hobbits to stay close to Gandalf as they all pull out their weapons, awaiting the incoming storm of orcs hungering for a taste of their flesh.
Yseult's hip digs into the corner of the tomb as she scrambles through her bag, digging deeper and deeper to find the sword that most likely will be at the very bottom. Aragorn, pushing closed the doors to the room with Boromir, glances back at the frantic witch, watching as she tries desperately to find the sword at the bottom of her bag.
"I said to get with Gandalf!" she shouts over at her. Her eyes blaze as she stares back up at him, red hair tumbling free of the ribbon and framing her face like a fiery mass about to take hold of the earth.
"I can fight!"
"Without a weapon?" His voice is harsher than it should be, he knows as much as his tongue lashes out at her, more afraid for the harm that could be done to her than the harm she will most likely do to him if they manage to crawl their way out of these caves.
Her hands shake as she joins the hobbits. Even they have hobbit-sized swords. She reaches back into the bag, feeling for the sword. Something metal and cold touches her fingertips, but it's gone before she can take hold of it.
The orcs bash against the door, trying to get in. Everybody raises their weapons. She digs deeper, not caring for the sympathetic glance Boromir sends her over his shoulder. It just makes it worse, the blood rushing to the top of her skin, a fire growing in her gut. Has nobody ever told them not to get on the wrong side of a witch?
"Let them come," growls Gimli, climbing atop his cousin's tomb. "There is one dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath."
Weapons start breaking down the door. Something screeches when Legolas' arrow hits it, but Yseult is halfway in her bag, much too bothered about finding her sword to care about who is breaking down the door.
