*。☆。
★。＼｜／。★
˚ ₊ ♡ ❰ BALLAD OF BROKEN SWORDS ❱
*✧ ─── ❝ ❪ DEAD TAKES ALL ❫ ❞
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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ACT THREE ── face et spera 🏹 ⁺⑅

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CHILDREN OF ARDA DUOLOGY ⋆ ☄.
♯ ❝ THE LIGHT WOULD NOT DISGUISE ITSELF  ❞
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
˚ ₊ ♡ the third age ─── year 3019
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˚ ₊ ♡ 🏹
❝ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝘰𝘧
𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙨𝙩
𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧, 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝙪𝙣𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙣 ❞

*✧ ─── THE SILENCE THAT HANGS IN THE AIR IS SOMBER, A MELANCHOLY TIGHNESS THAT SEEMS TO ANSWER THÉODEN'S QUESTION BEFORE someone can answer him. The wind howls for a moment as it whistles through the buildings. It is Gandalf who steps forward, and lowers his head and it is all the King needs.

Gyda can hear the anguish in his cry as the king cries out facing the sky, in a rather familiar way she had only days ago. His fists are clenched tight, as if the action is the only thing that keeps him standig. It makes her gaze flicker to Elgarain who stands close to Aragorn, green eyes filled with grief for the man before her.

In a flurry of emotions, the king retreats back inside his hall and all they can do is watch as his people sadly watch on.

It is the woman who had cradled Théoden's head who approaches them first. Her steps steadfast despite the weariness she wears on her face. The blonde of her hair shimmers in the sunlight and her brown eyes carry a familiar heavy weight she rarely sees. "I am Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, and I welcome you Edoras." She courtly welcomes them despite the dreary circumstances.

Gyda is the first to move forward, "Gyda, daughter of Gyldorn, head of the Queen's Guard," She moves aside and nods her head at Elgarain. "this is High-Queen Elgarain of the Noldor."

Éowyn smiles and bows her head at Elgarain. "It is an honor."

"As is it to meet you." Elgarain replies with a smile. "Perhaps you have some place we might freshen up? Our journey has been long and eventful, and it will be unsightly for us to pay our respects in such a manner."

"Of course," Éowyn nods, and beckons them to follow her inside the Hall of Meduseld. "I shall show you where you all may stay."

They re-enter the Hall, and Gyda has found enough peace to finally, truly take in the marvel of the House of Men; The hall was long and wide and with shadows and half lights; mighty pillars with intricate carvings upholds its lofty roof. But here and there bright sunbeams fell in glimmering shafts from the eastern windows, high under the deep eaves. Through the louver in the roof, above the thin wisps of issuing smoke, the sky shows pale and blue.

The seeds of darkness that Sarumon had placed already dwindling like dust falling from the sky.

The wood beneath their feet creaks and moans, in a way it reminds Gyda vaguely of the dreary halls of Mirkwood.

Many woven cloths that hang upon the walls catches Gyda's attention; marching figures of ancient legend, some dim with years, some darkling in the shade. But upon one form the sunlight falls: a young man upon a white horse. He was blowing a great horn, and his yellow hair was flying in the wind. The horse's head was lifted, and its nostrils were wide and red as it neighed, smelling battle afar. Foaming water, green and white, rushed and curled about its knees.

"Eorl the Young." Éowyn informs her when she takes notice of her curious gaze. "He rode out of the North to the Battle of the Field of Celebrant."

"It is beautiful." Gyda breaths out with awe, the hand at her side itching to touch to woven cloth, but she holds herself back.

"This way." Éowyn gestures them forward, past the hearth where, now a fire flickers with flames roaring in darkness. They walk through winding hallways, stone and wooden pillars decorated with specks of gold and carvings of old stories.

Gyda tries her best to take in their path and remember her steps until at the end of the hallway, Éowyn stops and gestures to two separate doors. "Two may stay in each room."

"Thank you." Gyda replies kindly.

"I shall bring water for a bath."

Gyda nods whilst Elgarain speaks on their behalf in appreciation.

Gyda pushes open the first door on her right to reveal a simplistic room. Two beds stand in each corner and in between a hearth of stone claims most of the space. Behind her, Elgarain's familiar footsteps echo and she hears the door fall shut behind the High-Queen.

Gyda turns to glimpse at her, for the Elleth still looks like death clings to her, the pale color of her skin unnatural even so for their fair complexions, bruises of blue and purple sit beneath her tired eyes and a weariness holds her captive. It makes her stomach churn with worry. Should she not have been healing more quickly? Gyda wonders silently, worriedly.

"You may go first." Gyda says softly, "you look like death has caught you in its arms." Despite the jest, her concern is laced in the lilt of her voice.

Elgarain tries her hardest to smile but it doesn't quite reach her eyes and another burst of worry spreads through her. "I was hoping I wouldn't look as bad as I feel. But maybe a hot bath is the cure I need."

Gyda doesn't answer and instead moves to the hearth and gathers a small amount of firewood stashed beside it in her hands. With a single stroke against the firestone, sparks light up in the darkness of the room. The orange glow and the warmth a pleasant sensation to sooth her.

It is not long after the fire grows that a knock resounds from the door. Gyda pushes herself back up to her full height and passes Elgarain who sits on her bed, unwinding the intricate braids in her hair and opens the door. Éowyn and another brown haired woman greet her and she moves aside to let them into the room. The water inside the two buckets Éowyn carries sloshes as she places them on the ground. Two more buckets are placed next to it. "If you need more, you may ask Alys. She will be in the Great Hall." The blonde motions to the other woman who greets them both with a kind smile.

"Thank you." Elgarain comes to stand next to her.

With those words the women depart again from their room, and together, Gyda and Elgarain carry the steaming buckets towards the bath where a single curtain separates it from the rest of the bedchamber.

"I'll be close if you'll need me." Gyda promises as she takes the empty buckets in her hands and steps backward. The curtain falls back into its place just as Elgarain murmurs her reply.

Slowly Gyda removes her scabbard from her belt and carries it with her to the wooden chair besides the fire. The embers crackle pleasantly as she welcomes the soothing heath. Unsheathing her sword, Gyda cradles it carefully in her hands, the steel gleaming orange from the light casted upon it by the fire.

Rummaging around in her back, her fingers curl around the familiar object. The whetstone is jaded from use, but remains remarkably useful. Her sword sings as she slides it across its steel for the first time, the sound so recognizable it brings back long forgotten memories.

Round, wide hazel eyes peer up through thick, dark lashes from where Gyda sits with her legs crossed on the ground in front of her mother. Amren combs through her brown locks with gentle precision that sooths her, humming a song of ancient times.

In front of the lit hearth, her father sits with his sword drawn on his lap, the steel a multicolor of oranges and yellows as the flames seemingly dance on the blade. It brings awe to her heart as she takes in the sight.

The steel sings as her father slides a whetstone across it as he often does. "Dilthen meathor" Gyldorn calls out and Gyda's perks up with curiosity. "Come sellig." He summons her with a warm smile.

Gyda looks up at her mother for permission and the Elleth shakes her head in amusement before gesturing her to stand back up.

Young Gyda bounces with delight to her father who gently places his sword against the chair and takes her in his arms. Perched on his lap, Gyda grins contently. He brings his sword back up and gives her the whetstone.

Her fingers trail over the stone in curiosity. "Will you help me Gyda?"

"Yes!" Gyda gleefully chirps out as her father guides her hand towards the sword and helps her carry out the motion.

They repeat it and Gyda's brows pinch together in concentration. "Why must I do this dilthen meathor?" Gyldorn asks.

"To keep the sword sharp!" She answers quickly, proudly.

Gyldorn chuckles and ruffles her hair once despite the protests Amren splutters.

"You'll get in trouble now Adar!" Gyda tells him matter-of-factly, "Naneth just combed it!"

He leans down to whisper in her ear, "She frightens me sometimes so."

Gyda claps her hands in front of her mouth to disguise a snort of laughter, eyes darting to look at her mother before looking back at her father. "But you love her more right?"

"More than the stars and the sun whom shine their light upon us each day."

Gyda nods happily.

"How does one sharpen the mind?" Her father asks her then and she frowns, mouth opening but no reply rolls from her tongue this time.

"I do not know Adar." She answers honestly.

"With knowledge, dilthen meathor." Gyldorn supplies, "One cannot rely on the sharp edge of its sword alone. A thoughtless swing of the sword never hits well." He wisely speaks.

"Then I shall by as wise as I will be strong." Gyda says surely, puffing out her chest with pride, "just like you!"

Gyldorn smiles proudly at his daughter, "I belief you will Gyda."

Gyda blinks as the roaring fire of her childhood home is replaced by the flicker flames of the hearth of Meduseld. Gyda is not sure how much time has passed as she reminiscences' of long forgotten days

The whetstone glides over her sword, singing a song of childhood.

The curtain behind her is drawn, catching her attention where Elgarain appears in a freshly donned tunic with golden accents. Her hair is still damp, and while she looks slightly better than before, still a certain ailment clings to her face.

"How do you feel?" Gyda queries as she turns in her chair to look at her.

Elgarain makes the short way towards her bed and sits down with her hands folded in her lap. "Tired," she says honestly.

Gyda frowns, "The journey was long and dangerous, a good, safe night's rest might bring you better spirits."

"Perhaps." She shrugs uncommittedly.

The unease does not leave her as she stands up, "I shall look for Alys for more water." She gathers the buckets in her arms and moves for the door.

"You're safe here Elgarain." She promises her gently before making her way into the winding hallways of Meduseld.

*。☆。
★。＼｜／。★
𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙖𝙡 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚

─ richard kadrey

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*✧ ─── THE WARM WATER SLOSHES AS GYDA STANDS FROM THE STEAMING TUB WHERE SHE HAD SOAKED THE DIRT AND GRIME OF HER JOURNEY AWAY. The murky water a reminder of the hardships of their quest, and Gyda does her best not to let the small trickles of blood remind her of the ones they had lost on the way.

With slow, sluggish movement she dries of her body and gathers her tunic from a stool besides the bathtub. The leather supple and clean as she puts it on and fastens the clasps. Fashioned in the style of Rohan, green thread bounds it together. She brushes her wet hair over her left shoulder and raises her hand to draw the curtain open again.

Elgarain sits on her bed, a book perched on her lap, her hand gently caresses Vilya as it sits on her finger in an absentminded manner. "Must you not sleep?" Gyda makes herself known to her closest confidant.

Elgarain's head shoots up, startled by the sudden presence of Gyda's voice. "I'm afraid I couldn't bring myself to do so yet," she admits.

Gyda hums as she crosses the room to sit down next to the green-eyed elleth as she scoots aside to make room for her. "Are you frightened?" She asks, "To sleep?"

She considers the question for a moment. "No," she finally sighs. "I fear I wouldn't want to wake again. Lately my dreams have brought me more comfort than my waking moments have."

Gyda lets the heavy words settle for a moment as she think of a reply that could ease her friend, but there are no such words of comfort. Instead she carefully brings Elgarain in a warm embrace.

Elgarain slackens against her and Gyda holds her even tighter.

"Look at you being the one embracing me for once," Elgarain laughs through her tears, trying to ease the heavy tension.

"Only because I love you so dearly." Gyda murmurs into her hair. "I wish I could take away the pain you feel Elgarain. I would do so in a heartbeat."

"Annon allen, nesa," she whispers. "I would do the same for you if I could."

"You have Elgarain, more so than you know." She admits softly.

"I'm glad," Elgarain smiles. Then she rubs away the tears from her eyes and takes a breath. "Come, let us not talk of such sad things anymore. We've been surrounded with enough pain lately." She studies Gyda for a moment, as if wondering if she should say her next words out loud, but finally choses to do so anyway. "Would you allow me to braid your hair? I used to think there was nothing more relaxing than having someone do my hair. Arwen actually taught me how to make a beautiful braid."

Gyda looks up at her unsurely, not used to such things, not since she was still and elfling and her mother had carded her fingers through her hair.

Mirth sparks within Elgarain's gaze. "I'm actually surprised you wear it lose. A braid is much more practical in a fight." She shrugs. "But you're allowed to refuse of course."

Gyda sputters for a moment before her shoulders slouch in defeat. "you may do so." She caves in before promptly look at her with a seriousness she mostly uses whilst training the elfling. "But nothing too fancy."

"Yes, yes," Elgarain says, though it doesn't look like she's really listening anymore. She ushers Gyda to move forward and takes place behind her on the bed. Tenderly she starts parting her hair into three strands and then starts working through the steps Arwen taught her.

The gentleness of Elgarain's fingers as they card through her hair feels soothing and slowly the tension she had gathered in her muscles evens out again, as does her breathing. Elgarain hums as she works and Gyda closes her eyes in repose, but as the sounds around her fade away, another breaks through again.

It sings in her ears, tauntingly familiar and makes her scrunch her eyes tighter as she wills her heart to ignore the words. She swallows nervously as Elgarain's hand, the one with the ring moves the grasp a loose strand by her ear. Her breathing grows heavier, and without care for Elgarain's intricate work, she scoots forward in fear. "Stop. Please stop, Elgarain."

Immediately Elgarain pulls her hands away. "I'm sorry," she says with a worried frown. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No...no." Gyda shakes her head as the whispers grow stronger and she clutches her head. "It's me." She rushes to stand up and back further away from the ring on Elgarain finger.

"I-I don't understand," Elgarain mutters, following her movements with wide eyes.

"Please, just stay there." She holds her hand out in front of her as Elgarain tries to approach her. "I-I can hear it." She mutters fearfully.

"Hear what?" Elgarain looks around. "Gyda, help me understand."

"The ring. I hear the ring as Boromir did too." Her voice cracks as she looks up at Elgarain.

But the frown on the face of the high queen only deepens. "There is nothing to worry about. The ring is miles away from here with Frodo and Sam."

"It is not the One True Ring I hear." Gyda admits, eyes drawn to Vilya on her finger.

Elgarain follows her line of sight and finally realization dawns upon her features. She moves her arm behind her back, taking the ring out of Gyda's sight. "Vilya won't harm you," Elgarain promises, watching her closely. "The three rings gifted to the Elves were never touched by Sauron. There is no evil within them."

"But it has been close to the One Ring." She whispers worriedly, "what if the same darkness has seeped through and found another place to corrupt?"

"Alright," the Elleth says slowly, "can you tell me what it is you hear?"

"I-I don't know, the words are a language I can not decipher," She places her hand against her heart, "But my heart knows its words, listens to its commands. I can barely look away from Vilya, Elgarain. It begs me to be close, I know it."

Elgarain nods, trying to understand. "And why do you believe those words can only be spoken by the darkness?"

"Because the light would not disguise itself."

"Even the light doesn't always speak to us clearly," Elgarain says softly. "Has Vilya ever you down a wrong path?"

"I have not yet followed its path, I do not know where it ends." Gyda states, "And I shall not risk to bring you harm if its intentions are untrue."

"I have followed its path," Elgarain says while taking a careful step towards Gyda. "In Lothlórien, it was Vilya that told me how to heal you. And again, in Fangorn forest, I followed where Vilya led me and I was healed. I do not believe such intentions to be malicious."

"Then why does it speak to me? I do not wear it, or use its power." Gyda implores unsurely.

With a frown on her pale features, Elgarain raises her hand and looks at Vilya. For a moment she remains silent, a thousand thoughts seeming to run through her head. "Perhaps it is somehow connected with that dream we shared," she mutters.

"I do not know what to do, Elgarain." She whispers demurely, and so unlike herself.

This time it is Elgarain who wraps her arms around Gyda in a tight embrace, holding her close. "Neither do I," she admits. "So perhaps we should ask someone who does."

Gyda thinks back to her conversation in the woods with Aragorn. "Gandalf may know more of this oddity."

Elgarain nods. "There might be some time before the funeral."

"Then we must make haste." Gyda affirms, and crosses the room toward the wooden door with Elgarain close behind her. The hallways of Meduseld already slightly familiar to her as she guides them back to the Great Hall.

The observe the room, hoping to find a sign of the White Wizard among the warriors of Rohan that linger inside.

"Gimli." Elgarain exclaims in relief, hurrying over to the Master Dwarf as he sits on a wooden bench. "Have you seen Gandalf?"

Gimli blinks up at her, and Gyda grows impatient. "It is important we see him before the funeral." She adds in a clipped tone.

"Last I've seen he was outside." Gimli grumbles and Gyda spins on her heel, barely hearing Elgarain thank him before she pushes open the grant doors of the hall. The evening air greets her and her eyes scan the green terrace.

To her relief, Gyda spots the White Wizard sitting on a stone bench, smoke curling up in the sky from the pipe he smokes.

Together they walk over toward Gandalf, and Gyda grows more nervous with each step they take closer.

"Gandalf?" Elgarain calls out softly, gaining the wizard's attention as he turns to look at them with a warm smile. "May we ask you something?"

"Ah, I was wondering when you would come look for me." He sagely speaks, and the two elves owlishly blink in surprise.

"You already know?" Gyda frowns unsurely. "How?"

"How is a less important question as what it is the two of you are experiencing," the wizard says before taking a long drag from his pipe.

Elgarain takes a seat next to him on the bench, eyes shining with worry. "So, can you tell us why Vilya speaks to Gyda?"

Gyda, still standing a safe distance away from Elgarain, crosses her arms over her chest, eyes focused on Gandalf as she impatiently awaits his answer.

"Can you describe to me what you did in Lothlórien in order to heal Gyda?" Gandalf asks.

Elgarain frowns, looking as though she's trying to shake her questions about how the wizard could possibly know such things. "I used Vilya to reach out to her fëa. Then I pulled her fëa back to this world. That is how I healed her."

Gandalf nods, eyes focused on the distance. "How far did Lord Elrond get in his teachings about the healing of the spirit?"

Her gaze flickers to Gyda, looking suddenly unsure of herself. "Far less than he wanted to," she mutters.

He looked solemn, eyes staring sternly into hers. "Sometimes, when the fëa is incorrectly disconnected, a sliver can remain tied to the one who tried to pull it back to the hröa."

"Is that why I can hear Vilya? Because a part of me is still connected to it?" Gyda wonders, "Will it always be like that?"

"Vilya only assisted in pulling you back," Gandalf says, "but it was Elgarain's fëa who connected to yours."

Elgarain's gaze finds Gyda and holds her eyes with uncertainty.

"Such bonds may linger when the connection between souls is strong," Gandalf adds, noticing the look shared between them. "But, in time, it shall pass."

"So, I haven't endangered her because of that I did that day?" Elgarain asks with a trembling voice.

Gandalf smiles softly. "No, you haven't, tarinya."

Relief makes her features glow as she exhales slowly.

Still a flicker of doubt remains inside of her as she looks up at Gandalf. "Then what about the d—"

A bell tolls before she can finish her sentence, but before she can even try to repeat it, Gandalf stands up and regards them both with a smile. "No danger befalls you Gyda nor Elgarain."

She bites the inside of her cheek and she remains silent.

There was no more time.

Théodred's funeral was about to commence.

The walk towards Théodred's last resting place was spend in solemn silence, as the sun slowly starts to fade away across the horizon of the field.

Together with the people of Edoras, they walked silently through the recovering town, following cobblednpathwaya, decorated with tributes to their fallen prince.

The proceedings were unfamiliair, unlike like own traditions, how little they had happened. She'd only ever buried her father and her mother.

Two lines of soldiers form a pathway within a throng of people. Their heads bow low as pall-bearers carry the body of Théodred between them, upon his chest a small bundle of white simbelmyne flowers lays peacefully.

Gyda stands with Elgarain at the side and the remaining members of the Fellowship, among the mourning people of Edoras. Silent cries fill the air as the pall-bearers carefully lower Théodred and pass his wicket between a path of people toward the woman waiting within the tomb to receive him.

As they do, Éowyn's voice carries like a prayer over the clearing in a haunting melody. "Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende on Meduselde þæt he ma no wære his dryhtne dyrest and mæga deorost. Bealo."

The words are spoken in an old language, one Gyda knows only a few words off, but the pain in Éowyn voice is clear as she sings it. Her own gaze moves from the tomb toward Théoden who stands with his head bowing low and a single white flower in his hand at the front of the gathering.

He cradles it until the last woman leaves the tomb and a group of soldier walks forward to close the stone door. Only then does he let the flower fall, whispering words that carry above the wind. It swirls down to rest with the flowers still within the earth. "Simbelmyne. Ever has it grown on the tombs of my forebearers." He turns to look at Gandalf. "Now it shall cover the grave of my son."

Gyda averts her gaze, fists clenching by her side as the king speaks mournfully. The familiar sight a painful reminder of her own past. Of the day she had laid her own father to rest in Lindon, next to where the tomb of her mother was build on a beautiful cliff at the outskirts of the forest. No flowers grew there, but sometimes, if she listened carefully, the howling wind sounded like it hid her mother's laughter in it.

Her father took her often to sit on the grass, and now she only returned there by herself.

A hand on her shoulder breaks her from her stupor, and Legolas's gentle gaze comes into view. It is only then, that Gyda realises the people of Edoras had started moving down the long and winding hill again toward their city gates.

He tugs on her arm gently, and Gyda moves with him. She barely notices Elgarain and Aragorn walk ahead of them, nor the way she can hear Théoden's painful cries as Gandalf speaks to him.

But then, the hairs on the back of her neck rise, and a chill runs up her spine. It makes her pause, and in turn, Legolas turns to look at her.

But Gyda's gaze is focused on the horizon, where a horse trots over a ridge in the distance; upon it two children.

Gyda doesn't think before she starts running when the child topples over.

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TRANSLATION

Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende on Meduselde þæt he ma no wære his dryhtne dyrest and mæga deorost. Bealo...

An evil death has set forth the noble warrior A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels in Meduseld that he is no more, to his lord dearest and kinsmen most beloved. An evil death.

Annon allen

I give thanks to you

nésa

sister