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...
WHERE THOU SHALT HEAR THE DESPERATE LAMENTATIONS, SHALT SEE THE ANCIENT SPIRITS DISCONSOLATE, WHO CRY OUT EACH ONE FOR THE SECOND DEATH
- dante alighieri, canto I
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE GLIMMERING forest swallows them up as they finally set foot inside, the golden wood full of nascent sunshine. The haze of the early morning is just enough that when Yseult stretches her fingers out in front of her, the dust kicked up from their feet dances around them. It is in this forest that she can feel the familiar buzz of magic floating in her veins. Her palm spreads across the thick trunk of a golden tree and she can feel the sap coursing through the branches. In this forest, time can streak right past without notice, stuck in an endless loop of the beautiful amber leaves falling from their branches despite Spring's fast approach.
They have finally reached Lothlórien – the kingdom of Silvan Elves and quite frankly, the most beautiful kingdom in all of Middle Earth.
If only Gandalf were here to enjoy it with her.
Legolas reaches over her head to pluck a yellow flower that had sprouted in place of a once shimmering leaf. He twirls it around his fingers before handing it to her, a smile softly dancing across his features. She tucks it behind the brooch she had brought from the shadows of her hut, letting it sit against the gentle beating of her heart. The first time she had entered this forest, a similarly willowy elf had done the exact same thing.
Her eyes swell with sadness and she blinks it away.
She can picture him in every ray of sun, every weightless leaf falling into her hair, every bitter kiss of gentle wind. He would have sung her songs of his people in yearning Sindarin, and while she might not have understood his words, she would have picked up on the emotions swirling beneath his tongue. He had so desperately wanted to come back.
He never got the chance.
Now she is here. Without Sílon. Without Gandalf. Without the only people in the world who have ever come to mean as much to her as the mother, she would have quite gladly gone to Valinor for if given the chance.
"Mrs Witch." Samwise's voice trembles gently. While the forest is beautiful in the rising sun, there is a beat of danger lying underneath that echoes through them all. The Elves that live here may not be as gentle as those who welcomed them with open arms at Rivendell. "Have you ever been here before?"
"Yes. Once before." She does not raise her voice above a whisper. Her hand cards over Samwise's soft golden curls. The other hobbits shift ever closer to her, as if the kindness she uses to hide the nostalgic bitterness in her throat is something they yearn for. They must miss the Shire so much.
