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...
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OUTSIDE, FEAR seems to seep through the cracks in the walls.
The witch stands naked in the middle of the room, the wind flowing beneath the door, standing the hair on her body on edge. She stares down at the red dress sitting on the old bed, the spotless armour shining next to it. Both items look out of place in this haggard, dreary room. Too clean, too perfect. Both elven made and clearly so, when she is surrounded by the dreary lack of longevity of the human-made room around her.
The red dress sinks onto her skin. Not quite velvet. Not quite satin. Something in between, warm and smooth and easy for her to move around her. She spins, stretches, makes sure she can lunge and kill an orc without breaking the stitches. The dress feels like water – like blood – dripping from her skin. The sleeves are long and loose, easy enough to tuck a few knives up there without an orc noticing. The neckline dives to the curve between her breasts. It is a dark red, like blood drip, drip, dripping on snow.
Yseult braids back the sides of her hair so that it does not fall into her eyes during battle while the back of it cascades in loose curls down her back. Once it is done, she reaches for the armour.
The gift from Galadriel.
It is not heavy but when she raps her fist against the breastplate it echoes like a hollow metal door. She slips the metal corset over her head. It fits perfectly to her body, cinching it in just tight enough not to fall off but not too tight to make breathing difficult. The metal curls over her breasts. The corset itself does not provide much coverage except for her middle, but as soon as she attaches the chainmail to cover her upper chest and arms, she feels almost invincible. It is almost as if a protective layer of magic has fallen over her.
She could take on a hundred orcs single-handedly and not a single blood drop would be hers.
She loops the belt around her waist and attaches her sword, letting the amber-studded hilt bash against her hip as she tidies away her bag, hiding it beneath the bed. She will always be that girl afraid they are after her, always watching over her shoulder for them to grab her.
Always watching her mother die.
The door slams shut behind her and she searches for Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas somewhere in this deep gorge. Yseult's travelling companions walk with the King along the rampart walls. She shoves past Rohirrim stocking up supplies for the battle soon to break out, stepping over wooden boxes of old swords, the hem of her red dress swishing around the ankles of her boots. Every so often, a man will look up and let his eyes roam over the particularly tight corseted nature of her armour, but she simply glares until he looks away.
