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...
WHEN CAN I SAY YOUR NAME AND HAVE IT MEAN ONLY YOUR NAME AND NOT WHAT YOU LEFT BEHIND?
- ocean vuong, on earth we're briefly gorgeous
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FANGORN FOREST is dense and dark. The trees are gnarled and twisted. They whisper of treachery, and tragedy, and death. They have lost all their warmth, not feeling the kiss of the beautiful sun in so long.
Yseult has not felt so at home in a long time.
"'Yer enjoying this, aren't you, witch?" grumbles Gimli, noticing the smile that she struggles to hide as she lets her fingers trail across the rough bark. The moss beneath her feet swallows up her footsteps and it is like walking on the clouds high above her head. The others, however, feel more as if they are sinking.
"Oh. Yes. I enjoy seeing you all squirm. Afraid of the dark, are you?"
"Me?" He splutters, horrified by the very idea. "A dwarf? Afraid of the dark? You are out of your mind, lassie. I will tell you that much."
She laughs and it is the brightest sound to fill this forest. For a moment, it seems almost to lift the dinginess that swallows their breaths, but it is gone as soon as it came, and they are plunged, once again, into the deep.
Aragorn kneels to feel the moss between his fingers.
"These are strange tracks."
Legolas's chin raises, as if smelling something on the air. "The forest is old. Very old." Yseult runs her hand along the closest tree. It is gnarled. It whispers to her of the Ents and not much more. She wish it would tell her where Merry and Pippin had gotten to. They must be so scared. "Full of memory and anger."
"All that we have done to this forest, their anger is not misplaced." Yseult's forehead presses against the tree and for a moment they are the same. She is the tree. The bark. The roots digging deep into the earth. The tree is her blood and her flesh, the hair running along her arms, the breath in her lungs. Around her, the trees groan, connecting their thoughts, connecting their gnarled roots with her equally as gnarled bones. She is them and they are her.
"The trees are talking to one another," Legolas says. Gimli, behind him, waves his axe around wildly, frightened of the trees. He is used to the crumbling stone walls of mountains, not the whispers of trees in his ears.
"Gimli. Lower your axe," snaps Aragorn. The dwarf does as he is told, eyes darting around the darkness of the shadows trying to cling to him.
Legolas lets out a long sigh. A breeze lifts his glistening ice-coloured hair from his shoulders. "The elves began it. Waking up the trees. Teaching them to speak." Gimli grumbles about talking trees. Yseult laughs him off and pushes at his shoulder to follow the ranger and the elf, so they do not fall behind. She cannot imagine how jumpy he may be if he is stuck in the shadows by himself.
