˚ ₊ ♡ ❰ BALLAD OF BROKEN SWORDS ❱
*✧ ─── ❝ ❪ THE DYING OF THE LIGHT ❫ ❞

⋆ 🌪. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
˚ ₊ ♡ rohan: edoras ─── act four

❝ 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝙥𝙖𝙡𝙚, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝙡𝙞𝙡𝙮,
𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙚𝙙, 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧 ❞

*✧ ─── ON THE HILLS IN THE VALLEY OF THE WHITE MOUNTAIN EDORAS WAS BATHED IN SUNLIGHT THAT REACHED ABOVE THE GREAT STARKHORN MOUNTAIN—the Golden Hall of Meduseld rose above the wall, its straw roof like strands of sunshine that glittered from a distance. Twilight was fast approaching, and the cool summer breeze began to held bite upon Gyda's bare arms. As Gyda wrapped her arms around herself, she gazed at the Golden Hall, its beauty stark against the looming twilight. The wind carried the faint scent of wildflowers from the plains, mingling with the distant sounds of the feast held inside the halls behind her. Laughter and song floated on the breeze, muffled by the thick wooden doors.

Rohan celebrated their recent victory, but Gyda could not shake the feeling that it was a fleeting moment of peace.

The clash of goblets and the occasional cheer made her lips twitch in a smile, but it did not reach her eyes—for her heart still carried shadows of doubt. Saruman's slight at Elgarain, at her use of Vilya...

Footsteps approached from behind, light but deliberate. She didn't turn, already knowing who it was by the familiar rhythm of his footfalls.

"You're missing the revelry," came Legolas's voice, calm but tinged with knowing. "The people of Rohan take their victories seriously."

Gyda allowed herself a small smile, though it was bittersweet. "They do. And they deserve this night, perhaps more than most." She paused, her eyes tracing the outline of the mountains as they faded into the deepening twilight.

His familiar warmth came closer to her as he stood beside her, his gaze also fixed on the horizon. "Will you share what worries you now?"

Gyda let out a soft sigh, her breath mingling with the cool night air. The horizon stretched out before them, the sky turning darker as the stars began to peek through the fading light. Legolas' presence, as always, had a way of grounding her, yet tonight even his words of comfort felt distant, unable to reach the core of her unease.

"Thank you, Legolas," she said, her voice quiet but sincere. "I appreciate it. But some things..." she trailed off, struggling to find the right words. "Elgarain and I, we will figure this out together."

Legolas nodded, his expression understanding, though there was a lingering hint of concern in his eyes. "I know you and Elgarain have a bond stronger than most, but sometimes, speaking the burden aloud can make it lighter."

She smiled again, though it was faint. "I know," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "But there are things I don't yet understand myself, Legolas, something... I feel something coming—something changing."

The elf prince remained silent, his gaze thoughtful as he considered her words. "There is darkness everywhere now," he said at last, his voice soft and steady. "But it is in such times that we must hold fast to the light, however dim it may seem."

Gyda nodded, her eyes briefly meeting his.

"I will hold to that," she replied, her tone firmer now, as if repeating his words gave her a little strength. "I will hold to the light, even if the darkness creeps closer."

Legolas smiled gently, his gaze filled with a quiet reassurance. "Good," he said, then paused for a moment, glancing back toward the Golden Hall. "Though for now, perhaps you might find some of that light inside, among your friends."

Gyda glanced back at the hall, where laughter and music spilled into the night air. The thought of joining the others, of finding some joy in the moment, seemed both inviting and far away.

"I suppose a little warmth wouldn't hurt," she murmured, though her heart still felt heavy with the weight of her worries.

As they turned to head inside, Legolas placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, his voice gentle. "Remember, Gyda, even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise again."

With that, they stepped through the doors of Meduseld, leaving the chill of the night behind. The warmth of the hall enveloped her immediately, but even as the firelight and familiar faces welcomed her, Gyda couldn't help but feel the lingering presence of the unknown awaiting her still clinging to the edges of her thoughts.

"Alright."

A goblet was pressed into her hands by one of the wandering warriors, his arm wrapped tightly around his friend's shoulders as they staggered forward. She stepped aside, making way for them, her gaze fled toward the front of the Hall where a commotion stirred on the raised dais, where Théoden and his kin presided over the gathering.

The King, though still marred with exhaustion, stood strong in front of his throne. His gaze swept across the hall, across his people and mirth filled his eyes. The proudness he so easily displayed was something that reminded Gyda of Elgarain's unwavering hope.

Close behind him, Éomir stood, his expression more akin to a stone statue while Éowyn seemed like a breathing tapestry of old—the fire in her eyes, and the sadness the enclosed around her irises.

The solemn voice of Théoden brought her back to the present; "Tonight, we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country. Hail the victorious dead!"

The Hall echoed with the clinking of raised goblets as voices rang out in unison "Hail!'

As the cry faded, a hush fell over the crowd, the cheers settling in a reverent silence. Gyda lowered her goblet, heart pounding as memories of the fallen filled her mind—their laughter, their determination—their silent sacrifices. Around her the faces of warriors young and old reflected a similar gravity.

Then with a sharp note from a lone horn, the band of musicians began to play and the hall seemed to pulse with life. Gyda glanced around, seeing the flickering firelight dancing across each face, the flames seeming to draw strength from the gathering as much as it cast warmth over them.

"Lass," Gimli's jubilant voice carried easily over the music, like a hammer meeting an anvil that broke through the rumbles of fire. "Here, drink—drink." He laughed and pushed another goblet toward her.

Gyda couldn't help but smile as the dwarf's enthusiasm was as contagious as ever. She accepted the cup, feeling the cool ale drip over her fingers as it sloshed with his eager push, before she gifted it to Legolas besides her. "I think you've already had enough for both of us," she teased, eyeing the froth at the top of the mug.

"Bah!" Gimli laughed heartily, waving a hand in the air as if to swat away her words. "Nonsense. A feast without a hearty drink is no feast at all!"

She raised the mug in a lighthearted salute before taking a sip. The ale was strong—but she knew as as elvenkind it would not influence her much, but its warmth spreading through her was welcomed.

She glanced around the hall.

The feast was in full swing now. People were laughing, dancing, singing, and sharing stories of the battle. She spotted Éowyn, who was laughing with some of the soldiers, her smile wide and genuine. Across the hall, Aragorn sat near Théoden, his brow furrowed in quiet conversation with the king.

Gyda's gaze settled on Elgarain last. The elven queen was standing near a group of Rohirrim, her face composed and serene, though the weariness was clear in her posture. There was a hollowness to her, a deep exhaustion that even the bright lights of the hall couldn't hide. Her normally radiant skin looked pale, her cheekbones sharper than usual, casting shadows on her face that hadn't been there before.

Gimli patted the seat beside him and broke her whirling thoughts.

After a moment of hesitation she sat, the dwarf raised his cup high. "To the finest warriors in all of Middle-Earth!" His booming voice drew a cheer from those around them, mugs clashing together in celebration.

Gyda chuckled, clinking her cup with his. "And to the fiercest dwarf in all the lands," she added with a wink before catching Legolas' eyes across the table.

Gimli's chest puffed out in pride, and he gave her a nod of approval. "Aye, I'll drink to that!"

Suddenly, the sound of a lute being plucked filled the room, followed by the energetic thrum of a fiddle. A cheerful, rollicking tune picked up, and Gyda noticed Merry and Pippin standing on a table nearby, clapping their hands and stomping their feet to the beat. Their infectious energy spread quickly, and soon, the hall was alive with dancing.

"Come on, Elgarain!" Pippin called out, his cheeks flushed from both ale and excitement, his small hand beckoning. "We've fought and won! Now we dance!"

Elgarain, despite the exhaustion etched into her face, allowed herself a weary smile. She hesitated, but Merry grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the center of the room. With a light laugh, she relented, joining the hobbits as they spun in a circle, their feet moving to the lively music.

The exhaustion in her face seemed to fade slightly, replaced by a flicker of light as she let herself get caught up in the Hobbits' infectious energy.

Gyda watched, her heart swelling at the sight. Elgarain spun with a surprising lightness, her brown hair catching the torchlight as she moved. Merry and Pippin, meanwhile, laughed and clapped, their steps enthusiastic but clumsy as they tried to keep up with the Elven Queen's natural grace.

She smiled, brightly and caught Legolas' blue gaze, His smile mirrored her own, small but genuine, and she felt the warmth of it as though he was holding her in his embrace.

But then, without warning, something sharp shot through her chest. It was sudden, like a zap of lightning that cracked through her body, forcing her breath to hitch. The smile faltered on her lips as the pain cut through the warmth, leaving her frozen in place. She blinked, trying to steady herself, but the sensation lingered—deep, unsettling, and out of place amidst the laughter and music.

Gyda pressed a hand to her chest, confusion knotting her brow. The sharpness wasn't just physical; it carried a weight, a heaviness that spread like a shadow over her heart. It was as though a warning had passed through her.

Legolas' gaze sharpened, and in an instant, he was beside her. His expression had shifted, the quiet joy replaced by concern. "Gyda?" he asked softly, his hand resting lightly on her arm. "What is it?"

She shook her head, trying to push the feeling aside, but it clung to her, stubborn and unshakable. "I don't know," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the noise of the feast. "Something feels...wrong."

The words had barely escaped her and Gyda's eyes snapped up to look over Legolas' shoulder.

Elgarain.

The name echoed in her mind like a scream, even though no sound left her lips. For a moment, everything else disappeared—the music, the laughter, the flickering torchlight—and all she could see was the still form of the Elven Queen lying on the stone floor, her hair a dark halo against the cold ground

Legolas' sharp gaze followed Gyda's, his body tensing as gasped rippled through the hall. Gyda's heart raced, the sudden wave of dread snapping her out of her confusion as she shot up from her seat. Her eyes locked onto the figure crumpled on the floor amidst a scattering of startled Rohirrim.

Her red dress was sprawled around her like a bloodstain.

Gyda was already moving, swift as wind, weaving through the crowd with Legolas close behind. By the time they reached Elgarain, Aragorn was already kneeling beside her, his face etched with concern.

"Elgarain?" Aragorn's voice was low, urgent. His hands moved gently to check for signs of injury, but there was no blood, no visible wound. Her skin was pale, almost ghostly in the dim light, and her breathing shallow, barely noticeable.

"Move back!" Aragorn commanded, his voice calm yet firm as a small crowd began to gather. Merry and Pippin stood nearby, their faces ashen, horror plain in their wide eyes. They had been dancing with her only moments ago—how had this happened so quickly?

Gyda knelt beside Aragorn, her breath tight in her chest. "What happened?" she asked, her voice strained, though she feared she already knew the answer.

Aragorn shook his head, his brow furrowed as he checked her pulse. "I don't know. She collapsed without warning." His tone was controlled, but there was a flicker of fear behind his eyes. "She's burning up."

Gyda's heart sank as she touched Elgarain's hand. The Elven Queen's skin was hot—feverish—yet clammy, as though some unseen force was sapping her strength from within. Her delicate features were drawn, and the ethereal light that normally surrounded her seemed dimmed, as if it was being swallowed by an unseen darkness.

"Is she hurt?" Legolas asked, kneeling beside Aragorn, his voice laced with tension.

"No injuries," Aragorn muttered, his fingers brushing against Elgarain's forehead. "But this fever—it's unnatural."

Gyda's mind whirled, a cold pit forming in her stomach.

Aragorn's face tightened, and he leaned closer, whispering softly in Elgarain's ear, as though trying to coax her back to consciousness. But she remained still, her chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths.

Eowyn appeared next to him, her blonde hair cascading like a veil over her face as she knelt beside Elgarain, her expression a mask of worry. Her hands trembled slightly as she placed them gently on the Elven Queen's shoulder, her gaze flickering between Elgarain, Gyda and Aragorn.

"What can I do?" Eowyn's voice was barely a whisper, laced with both urgency and fear. Her usual warrior's poise was wavering.

Aragorn looked up at her, his face set in lines of grim resolve. "Fetch a healer," he said quickly.

Eowyn nodded and rose swiftly, her movements brisk and purposeful as she hurried toward the edge of the hall and disappeared behind a wooden pillar.

"Let's get her to the healing halls." Gyda shook herself out of her stupor, her voice steely with determination despite the fear that gripped her heart.

Legolas and Aragorn quickly moved to support Elgarain's limp form, careful not to jostle her. They lifted her gently. With a nod of agreement, they began to carry her through the bustling hall, where the festive atmosphere had been replaced by anxious whispers and concerned glances.

The winding hallways of Meduseld were somewhat familiar as they made their way to the healing hall, the tapestries she had observed with much awe the last time she walked these halls did little to grasp Gyda's attention a second time.

As they turned a corner, the air grew cooler and more still, a reminder of the transition from the warmth of the Great Hall to the somber atmosphere of the healing chambers. The dimly lit corridors were lined with the muted colors of tapestries and the occasional flicker of torchlight, casting long shadows that danced along the walls.

The room was sparsely furnished, with a few simple cots and shelves stocked with medicinal plants and remedies. The healer's quarters were adjacent, offering a more private space for critical care.

Legolas and Aragorn gently lowered Elgarain onto one of the cots just as Eowyn returned, a healer—a tall, stern-faced woman with sharp eyes and a calming presence—at her side.

The healer knelt beside Elgarain and began to examine her, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. She placed a cool, damp cloth on Elgarain's forehead and started to prepare a mixture of herbs, all the while murmuring soothing words and instructions to those around her.

Gyda stood close by, her hands clenched tightly together in a futile attempt to steady her nerves.

Aragorn, standing beside Gyda, kept a steady watch on the healer's actions, his face etched with worry. He took a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure.

Gyda's gaze was fixed on Elgarain's pale face, the sight of her still form stirring a deep sense of unease within her. The fear that had gripped her earlier had not faded; if anything, it had intensified.

They needed Gandalf—now. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE; it has been a hot minute, but we are back on track baby! Exciting stuff to come my friends.