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...
PAINT GHOSTS OVER EVERYTHING, THE SADNESS OF EVERYTHING. WE MADE OURSELVES COLD. WE MADE OURSELVES SNOW.
- richard siken, landscape with black coats in snow.
Hoppla! Dieses Bild entspricht nicht unseren inhaltlichen Richtlinien. Um mit dem Veröffentlichen fortfahren zu können, entferne es bitte oder lade ein anderes Bild hoch.
THE BITING wind stings at Yseult's face as she struggles across the snow-ridden landscape. The landscape is barren, covered in white powder, deathless and shivering around jagged mountains ripping through the land.
The silence beating down around them is more like a strangled corpse than a hibernating figure.
She pulls the hood of her cloak over her head, worried for the curve of her ears falling off in this chilling wind. It is the coldest she has been in a long time, colder than any winter in the Forest. This far from her home, the chill settles in her bones with no warning. The hem of her foxtail-coloured dress drags across the snow. It is fire searing through the trees. It is a flame lighting the way. It is a beacon of warmth despite the damp pulling it down.
She raises her head. In the distance, she can just make out Caradhras through the fog spiralling the mountain peak. It will take them days just to reach the top, maybe even longer to get to the other side.
If the frostbite doesn't kill them first.
Behind her, struggling through the snow, one of the hobbits stumbles with a yelp. She spins around quickly like the others, concerned for the small, shoe-less folk who most likely will be feeling the chill in their large toes. Aragorn, bringing up the rear of the group, quickly helps Frodo to his feet and dusts off the snow clinging to his shoulders. He smiles gently at the hobbit under his hands, but Frodo does not return the smile, not when he's frantically trying to find the ring that usually hangs around his neck, beating against his heart like it is a part of him, like it belongs in his bloodstream.
Even from up here, Yseult can see it glinting in the perfect snow.
Boromir is closest to it, but she knows the cold tearing through her bones is no longer due to the blistering winds. His hand quivers as he reaches for it. Yseult has seen this play out time and time again. He's just a man, another Gondorian prince with sweeping hair and heart-wrenching smiles, and when he reaches for the ring, it sings his mother's lullabies to him, trying to worm its way into his grasp so it can use him to do his bidding, trapping his heart in dark magic, dunking his soul in icy water. He does not have the strength to resist its allure.
It is Aragorn who calls on him.
"It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. Such a little thing." The chain carrying the ring swings back and forth from his glove-covered fingers, held up to his eye so he can see his reflection painted on the gold. Yseult huddles closer to the wizard standing beside her, as if he will provide the warmth that seeing the ring again after so long has denied her. He rests a gnarled hand on her shoulder.
