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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THE HOBBITS stumble on their feet behind her and every so often she stops to make sure they are okay, hand curling around a wind-bitten cheek, or smoothing the curls on top of a head, or squeezing the tension in a shoulder. They all move into her touch, like moths to a flame, begging for the sweet release of something that could easily be their demise. She is so soft with them, so gentle, but her eyes turn upwards to the others trailing close behind and all they can see is fire, hardened stone, a wall that they will not be able to knock down.
Every so often she lets out a groan of pain, hand clasping around her side where there are obvious dark red stains blossoming over her dress. Aragorn wants nothing more than to stop her and get a look at the cut. Every time Yseult winces, he has to hold himself back from rushing to her side and begging her to let him help. She would not accept his help anyway.
So, she totters along the rocky trail, leading them closer to the forestry in the distance. It is too quiet. All that can be heard is the mingling of their breaths in the air, and just ahead of them, the shattering gasps of the witch trying to push herself through the pain.
Summer-haired Samwise tugs on Yseult's skirt gently. She barely turns her head to look at him, but a gentle smile curls at her lips and she reaches out with her free hand to smooth the flyaway hairs on his head. He smiles back up at her and quietly asks if she is feeling okay, noticing how much paler she looks out in the light. There are beads of sweat clinging to her hairline. He watches as one drips down her nose, careening off of the end and onto her lip, before rolling over her chin. She does not seem to notice. There are dark half-moons forming beneath her usually bright eyes, heavier now that her skin looks so pale in the soft sunlight. She nods but does not say anything. Her lips are dry and cracking, like the earth in a drought, hard beneath your feet and bulbs dying beneath your fingers. She lifts her hand to wipe the sweat from her eyes and smudges blood across her eyelids. It almost seems like she doesn't even notice.
The hand that had been on Samwise's head drops down to his shoulder and squeezes tightly. For a moment, it is like he is the only thing holding her up. But, he knows that would be a silly thought. She is a strong witch. She will be just fine.
As they take their next step, she goes crashing to her knees.
"Strider!" Samwise yells for the ranger at the back of the group. Aragorn pushes past everyone else to get to Yseult, dropping down to get a better look at her. She glares up at him when he tries to touch her, prying her fingers from her side, but there is no heat in those glacial eyes, no fire flickering in her irises. Only pain. Only fear. Only agony.
