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

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

❝ 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙩
𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘖𝘧 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚
𝘸𝘩𝘰'𝘷𝘦 𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙙. 𝘖𝘧 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙣'𝙩 ❞

*✧ ─── GYDA'S HANDS SHOOK. SHE COULD NOT REMEMBER THE LAST TIME THEY HAD. MAYBE WHEN she was a child—when fear had been a nameless thing that crept into her bones and made her tremble in the night. Something as silly as thunder or the idea of a monster beneath her bed.

Or maybe it was later, in the raw, aching days after her father's death, when sorrow and fury tangled so tightly she could barely breathe.

She remembered how the grief had clawed at her from the inside, how guilt had wrapped itself around her heart like thorned vines, growing wild and sharp until it spilled from her in bitter outbursts—rage flung like a shield against the pain she couldn't name.

But this... this was different. The tremble in her fingers wasn't from fear, or fury. It was something deeper, more paralyzing. A helplessness so profound it twisted in her chest like a blade.  Something more human. A crack in the armor she had worn so long, she'd forgotten what it felt like to be exposed beneath it.

She could not fight this. There was no physical enemy to beat. Gyda could not fight this with a sword, not outmanoeuvre it with her wit. All she could do was watch, her heart clenching with ever shallow breath Elgarain took.

The sight of her Queen, her friend—her sister, so pale and fragile—it was unbearable.

Her fingers curled into fists at her side, her nails digging into her palms as though the pain might ground her, keep her from unravelling entirely. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if by doing so she could block out the haunting image of Elgarain lying there, so still, so silent...so unlike her joyful self.

Please. The word rang out in her mind over and over, a desperate, silent plea. Please wake up.

A shuddering breath passed her lips , breaking the fragile silence. The sound felt foreign, like it didn't belong to her. Her shoulders hunched forward under the weight of dread, and for a fleeting moment, she wanted to disappear—vanish into the shadow and escape the suffocating reality of her own powerlessness.

Then came a familiar presence. A breath of warmth ghosted over the curve of her neck, light and hesitant—yet sure. It lingered at the place where armor met skin, where vulnerability pulsed just beneath the surface.

Legolas.

He was always there, as though bound by some unspoken tether to the rhythm of her breaking. His hand rested gently at her shoulder, offering not reassurance, but presence. The kind that didn't ask her to speak, or to be strong, but simply to be. When his fingers finally settled, firm and grounding, she opened her eyes.

Her hands still trembled.

I don't know what to do.

The thought struck her like a stone to the chest, raw and shameful. She wanted to scream at herself, to shove the blame onto her own shoulders until it crushed her into penance. Why hadn't she gone to Gandalf sooner? Why hadn't she seen it? Poison—such a coward's weapon—used so often by orcs. She knew that. She knew.

She should have been more vigilant. More careful. More worthy of the blade at her hip and the title on her back.

She should have been stronger.

"Gyda," he said—just her name. No more, no less. But the way he spoke it, low and steady, as if it alone could call her back from the edge, undid something in her.

Her hands wouldn't still. Her breath came in fractured bursts, catching in her throat like sobs denied. Her chest tightened under the weight of her own self-reproach, and her heart beat a rhythm of failure in her ears.

What kind of Queensguard am I?

The words echoed through her like a curse.

She had felt it—they had. That subtle shift, that wrongness in the air, like a thread pulled loose in a tapestry. But she'd waited. She had doubted. She had told herself it was nothing. Let her pride masquerade as patience, her fear disguise itself as caution.

And now... now it was too late to undo what had been done.

Her lips parted. "What if—"

But the words snagged in her throat like thorns. Speaking them would give them shape, and once spoken, they could not be taken back. If she named the fear aloud, it would become real. And if it became real...

Her fists clenched tighter, the skin stretched bone-white over her knuckles, nails biting deep into her palms. Pain grounded her—but only just.

"You are not to blame."

Legolas was suddenly beside her, one knee to the floor, his voice as steady as his gaze. Eyes like storm-washed skies searched her face with a gentleness that hurt more than scorn ever could.

How did he always know?

"But I should have done something... we both knew something was wrong." Her voice cracked, barely more than a breath. Her gaze drifted to Elgarain's still form, and a tremor passed through her. "She needed me, and I—"

"You are here." His words came like a lifeline, low and sure. "You are doing something. Your strength is with her even now, though you may not see it."

For a moment, the storm in her chest faltered. The grief still howled, the guilt still clung—but his words stilled the downward spiral. Like a single light in the dark, they gave her something to hold on to.

Her breath came in uneven pulls, but she managed to inhale, then exhale. Not steadily, but enough. Enough to remember that she was still here—that Elgarain was still here.

Her hands loosened slightly, the tight coil of anguish slackening just enough for movement. She turned her gaze back to her friend, whose brow twitched with some shadowed dream, the faintest flicker of life that struck a fragile chord of hope deep within Gyda's heart.

Her fingers hovered over Elgarain's pale, unmoving hand. She hesitated, her courage caught between fear and longing. What if even her touch was too much? What if her presence, instead of helping, only reminded Elgarain of how she had failed?

But still, she reached.

With the gentlest motion, she laid her trembling hand atop Elgarain's. Light as snowfall, soft as a prayer. A silent plea passed through her fingers.

Please know I'm here. Please hold on.

Then from the other side of the cot, Aragorn lowered himself to her side, with gentle, caring hands he lifted Elgarain's cold hand in his own and brought it to his lips. "Anarinya."

"Nesa, please." Gyda whispered so softly, she feared no one might have heard.

Then—there. A flicker. The faintest twitch beneath Gyda's trembling fingers. The soft, involuntary curl of Elgarain's hand. Hope surged into her chest so quickly it stole the breath from her lungs. Her eyes shot to Aragorn's, finding there the same flicker of stunned wonder mirrored in his face.

But before either could speak, a soft shuffle of robes drew their attention to the doorway. A familiar presence filled the room, and the tension in the air seemed to shift, lifting slightly as if carried away on the breeze.

"Gandalf." Gyda breathed, her voice heavy with both relief and urgency.

The Wizard stood in the doorway, staff in hand, presence vast and quiet as starlight. His gaze swept the room, pausing on Elgarain's still form before settling on Gyda.

"How is she?" Gandalf asked, his tone calm but edged with concern as he stepped further in the room. His keen eyes took in the paleness of Elgarain's face, her hollowed cheeks. She looked as if the light had been sucked from her very being.

"She stirred, just now." Gyda said quickly, straightening herself to face the wizard. "Her hand...it moved. But she is still so weak."

Gandalf nodded, slowly, as if already unraveling threads invisible to the rest. He set his staff carefully against the wall and moved to Elgarain's side with quiet purpose. As he laid his hand across her forehead, Gyda held her breath, the world narrowing to the slow rise and fall of her friend's chest.

"This is no mere illness." He had closed his eyes and Gyda's heart sank knowingly.

"Then what is causing this?" Aragorn spoke up, his eyes never leaving Elgarain's.

Gyda felt her breath falter, the trembling in her hands growing harder to control. Shame clawed at her throat.

"I—" she began, her voice shaking. "I think it is me."

The room went still.

Gandalf's eyes turned toward her.

Gyda fought to steady herself, but the words rushed out, messy and broken. "Ever since Elgarain healed me... since I first heard Vilya speak to me, I— I don't understand. Strange things have happened. To her. To me. I don't know what's happening..."

"Vilya..." Gandalf straightened his eyes thoughtful. "The power of Vilya is subtle but vast, it was meant for healing, preservation, but when Elgarain healed you—" He muttered under his breath, pacing the wooden panelled floor, his robes swivelling behind him. "Unpredictable, yes," he muttered. "Especially when the bond between two individuals runs deep."

Gyda's stomach churned as Gandalf turned toward her once more. "When Elgarain healed you, in her desperation to safe you, she unknowingly tied your fates together. The strength that flows in you is not your own."

Gyda's knees buckled, and she sank into the chair beside Elgarain's cot.

"The connection forged by Vilya, something like this has not been heard of for a very long time," he continued sorrowfully, "Your fëa has been bound in a way."

"Our fëa is bound?" Elgarain's voice, though weak, carried the weight of confusion and alarm. Gyda's heart leaped as she looked at her friend, struggling to rise despite the evident exhaustion. She moved instinctively, her hands reaching to support Elgarain's shoulders, steadying her as she tried to sit up.

"Slowly." She urged as Aragorn joined her, "Don't push yourself."          

Elgarain lifted her hand and softly squeezed Gyda's shoulder.

A small smile appeared on her friend's face. "You scared me, nésa."

"Goheno nin," Elgarain whispered. "I did not realise how weak I truly was."

Gyda shook her head. "There's nothing to forgive. I should have seen it."

Elgarain leaned heavily against Aragorn, her breaths shallow and uneven, "Our fëa...bound?" she repeated, her gaze shifting from Gyda to Gandalf.

Gandalf stepped closer, his expression grave, yet gentle. "Yes, bound," he confirmed. "It is rare, but the power of Vilya has woven a connection between your spirits." He turned to look at Elgarain, his expression marred with something unsure, "When you used the ring to heal Gyda, you forged a bond that transcends beyond something I believed was still possible—when you called upon Vilya to safe her, your bond deepened, entwining you fëa in way neither of you could foresee."

Gandalf pushed his robes aside as he sat down in another chair, "Fëafelmë,"

Gyda swallowed hard, her hands trembling, "So it is true...Elgarain is—" dying. "hurt, because of me."

"No." Elgarain said, shaking her head weakly, "You didn't... you couldn't have known. Besides, it was me who used Vilya." Her gaze softened. "This is not your fault."

"But—"

Gandalf interjected, his voice steady and full of wisdom, "There is no fault here. What matters is this; the bond cannot remain."

It was Aragorn's calming voice that asked what none of them dared to. "Why not?"

"The bond was created to allow Gyda to live on Elgarain's life force. Which means keeping the bond is slowly draining Elgarain of life," the Wizard explained slowly, his voice low.

Gyda shook her head. "No, that cannot happen."

Gandalf looked her in the eye. "Then you must consider this; if you chose to sever the bond, there is no way to know if your fëa will survive on its own after having been bound like this for so long."

A heavy silence fell upon them. Gyda's mind raced, and she felt as though the ground beneath her had cracked open. Her vow rang through her head like a mantra,

I shall protect her from all that means her harm, all that threatens her life.

I vow to stand beside her, be her counsel, be her protector be her sword and shield.

How was she supposed to protect Elgarain now, when she was the very thing that was killing her?

"You must sever the bond." Her voice was grim as she spoke the words out loud. She could feel Legolas tense behind her and the shuddering breath that Elgarain took. "Break the bond and set her free—" She turned to face Gandalf, "please."

"Gyda—"

"All we can do right now—" Gandalf voice bellowed above their own with a sternness Gyda didn't often hear. "is let Elgarain rest and regain as much strength as possible."

The finality in his tone left no room for protest.

Gyda sank back in her chair, the weight of it all folding her inward. Her shoulders curled forward as if something had broken loose inside her chest—something heavy, aching and unrelenting.

She stared at Elgarain's pale face, searching for any signs of life, of will, of her. But even the hope in her heart felt threadbare now that Gandalf had revealed the truth to them. 

One by one, the others offered their soft farewells.

Elgarain tried to smile for them.

Aragorn lingered last—as if hesitant to leave her.

Elgarain took his hand and gave it a soft squeeze. "It is alright, please just give me a moment with her."

He bent with care, pressed a kiss to Elgarain's brow and whispered something no one else could hear. Then with a last, quick look, he turned and left.

The silence that followed was enormous.

Gyda sat unmoving, her hands clenched in her lap, the air thick. She could barely feel Elgarain's presence—it was faint and flickering, like a candle struggling against the wind.

"Tarinya." She began softly, her voice barely more than breath. Still, she fought to keep it steady. "I must fulfil my vow to you. The people of Lindon will need you when this war is over. I shall not be the reason you cannot return to your people."

Her voice faltered at the end, but the words hung between them, fragile and desperate. It wasn't just duty she felt—it was love, guilt, the deep, soul-crushing fear of being the weight that dragged someone she loved into ruin.

And she didn't know how to bear it.

"I will not let you choose between me and yourself," Elgarain argued.

Gyda's breath caught in her chest, her heart breaking at Elgarain's words. Choose between you and myself—the very thing she had sworn she would never do.

"You don't understand," Gyda said, her voice tight. "I've sworn an oath to you, to protect you from harm. I cannot break that vow, not now. I cannot stand idly by while I'm the one who's destroying you."

"Stop it!" Elgarain's voice rose, hoarse and raw, "stop this self-sacrificing habit of yours—do not talk as if your life is not important. I will not allow it."

"Isn't it?" Gyda's voice cracked. "it is what my father would have done for yours."

"I do not care!" Elgarain's words trembled with fury and something far more fragile—fear. "I am not my father—and neither are you yours. You've given up so much to this vow," Elgarain's eyes pierced through her own.

Her father's face flashed in her mind, his unwavering dedication to his duty. She had lived her whole life trying to become him, to walk his path, to carry his legacy like armor. But now the armor cracked, and it revealed how lost she truly felt.

"It is not that I wish for this Elgarain, not when I—" finally found something...someone " I have to do this," Gyda whispered, her voice shaking. She couldn't meet Elgarain's gaze. Her eyes dropped to the blankets, to the too pale fingers that lay still. "I cannot let you suffer because of me. My duty to you is my burden. It always has been."

Elgarain's hand, weak but persistent, reached for hers and closed around it. The touch was so real, so alive, that Gyda almost broke then and there. "Your life is not just a burden," Elgarain said, her voice soft but firm, "I chose you, Gyda. And I chose to save you. You think I'm weak, that I'm too broken to fight this, but I'm not. I won't stand by and watch you destroy yourself."

"But you are breaking, Elgarain," Gyda said, her voice cracking. "Can't you see? The very bond we share—I am the reason you're fading. I can't let you die because of me."

"Then stop trying to be the martyr!" Elgarain's voice flared like a flame, her grip tightening even as her strength faltered. "Stop blaming yourself for every damned thing that happens to me. I chose to save you, just as you've chosen to stand by me. But I won't let you destroy yourself in the process."

Silence crashed into the space between them. A deep quivering stillness. It wasn't peace—it was the eye of the storm. A breath held too long.

A heart that didn't know how to break without falling to pieces.

ELVISH TRANSLATIONS:
Fëa — spirit / soul
Hröa — body
Nésa — sister
Fëafelma — spirit impulse / soul-feeling
Goheno nin — forgive me
Anarinya — my sun

SIDENOTE:
Fëafelma is something Nel and I came up with ourselves. More will me revealed about this fëa bounding phenomenon soon 👀! But do not copy without our consent, or we will consider it stealing and plagiarism! Only the Elvish name belongs to Tolkien!

AUTHOR'S NOTE;
🫣 hello? 👋 I hope people are stilling reading to silly little story! Please say hi if you are 🫶

I know it has been ages since Nel and I written for our girlypops, but at least we came back with a banger! The secret is out, and the fate of Gyda and El is up for grabs!

Elgarain is finally spitting some facts about Gyda always trying to sacrifice herself 🤡. But ofc on the other side, El is Queen, so she is very important to their people. Who will win the battle and what will happen? 😈

Keep your eye out for more to come and in the meantime please shower this story with some love! I would really appreciate it 🙅‍♀️☺️