˚ ₊ ♡ ❰ BALLAD OF BROKEN SWORDS ❱
*✧ ─── ❝ ❪ THE EYE THAT SEES ALL ❫ ❞

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

❝ 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶
𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝘺𝘰𝘶
𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 ❞

*✧ ─── THE COLD WAS BITING AT HER FINGERS, BUT GYDA PAID IT NO MIND. ELGARAIN HAD SLIPPED INTO SLUMBER again, if it could be called that, so still and fragile was her breath, and Gyda had found she could no longer bear the silence of that room. With the quietness of a ghost, she had left Aragorn to watch over her—the ache in her heart still burrowed deep inside her.

Now the world outside greeted her not with comfort. The stars above blinked cold and distant through a veil of clouds, and the wind tugged at her cloak like a whisper from the mountains. Her breath came in pale clouds, quick and uneven.

She stood at the edge of the courtyard, where stone met earth. The moonlight silvered everything—her hair, her eyes, the tears she hadn't realized were slipping down her cheeks.

Footsteps echoed behind her. Soft, deliberate. Then warmth—steady and grounding—at her side. Legolas didn't speak again at first. He simply stood with her, close but not pressing, his presence a quiet tether to the present.

"You should be inside," he murmured after a moment, brushing at her damp cheeks with the edge of his sleeve. "She might wake again."

How could Gyda say she didn't know how to face her again? Not with everything they knew now.

"Is this what has been bothering you for so long?" He asked, his voice low, the wind nearly swallowing it.

Gyda nodded, shoulders slouched forward again. "We had known something was wrong." She admitted quietly into the night. "everything has fallen apart so quickly."

Legolas reached for her hand, his fingers warm against her chilled skin. She didn't pull away.

"I was supposed to protect her." Gyda whispered, and the words tasted like failure in her mouth.

Legolas squeezed her hand, "You've always have, but I think perhaps, you might realise you are someone others wish to protect too." He could feel her still next to him, "Elgarain did not risk her life to be a chain around yours."

His words struck deeper than she expected.

She looked down at their joined hands, the contrast of his fairness against her wind-reddened skin, and for a moment she let herself lean against him, just slightly. Enough to know she didn't have to stand on her own.

The wind curled around them like a sigh, and somewhere in the distance an owl called into the night.

"I'm scared," she confessed. "Not just of losing her... but of what I'll become if I do."

"You can be scared." He offered simply, "but you won't be alone."

Quietness wrapped around them like a blanket and Gyda felt her heart slow down again.

"The stars are veiled," Legolas murmured, his voice low and distant, as though he were speaking more to the wind than to her. His gaze drifted eastward, eyes narrowed toward a sky thickening with restless clouds. "Something stirs in the East. A sleepless malice."

Gyda followed his gaze, and though she could not see what he saw, she felt it. The pressure in the air. The way the wind seemed to pull inward, as if the world itself were bracing.

A chill prickled at her skin, crawling up her spine like icewater.

"The eye of the enemy is moving," Legolas whispered.

She turned to face him, her eyes glistening. "If the enemy moves now, and Elgarain is still bound to me... if she weakens further—"

"Then we hold fast," he interrupted, his voice suddenly firmer. "We hold to each other. To her. To what remains of hope."

Gyda blinked. Her heart stung, both at his faith and at her own doubts.

She closed her eyes. Legolas's words echoed within her—ominous and heavy—and then, like a blade sliding between her ribs, something cut through her. A gasp tore from her throat as she doubled over, pain lancing sharp and sudden.

"Gyda?" Legolas's voice was immediate, filled with alarm. His hands caught her shoulders, steadying her, but she barely registered the warmth of his touch. Her ears rang, her breath stuttered. "Gyda, what is it?"

There was something—something slithering through her mind, almost akin to how she had felt Vilya's presence talking to her—but this was different, faraway. No, this was colder, alien, slick with malice. It slid across her thoughts like oil over water, and it didn't belong. It wasn't hers.

Elgarain.

Her heart lurched violently in her chest, a primal panic rising in her throat. "Elgarain," she rasped, the name clawing from her lips.

Then she was moving—blindly, instinctively—tearing herself from Legolas's grasp before he could stop her. She flew through the halls, feet barely touching stone

When she burst into the chamber, the air inside felt wrong—charged, oppressive. Amber light pulsed through the dimness, sharp and unnatural, forcing her to squint against it.

And then she saw it.

Pippin—no, not Pippin. The light wasn't coming from him, but from the Palantír cradled between his hands. His face was ghost-pale, eyes wide and unblinking, locked on something far beyond this room. The stone pulsed with a sickly radiance, veins of shadow flickering across its surface like cracks in glass.

Gyda's breath caught.

His Fëa had found a foothold. Sauron had seen them.

A memory, sharp and stinging, ripped through her mind—the Plains of Mordor, the iron-grey sky suffocating above her and her father's shadow cast long and tall in the ash. She remembered the silence before the storm, how the very air had throbbed with a dark will. She had only been a young elleth then, hidden beneath a cloak too big for her small shoulders, but even then she had felt it—the Eye. Not merely watching, but reaching. Pressing.

That same presence now coiled in the room like smoke and steel, heavier than stone, colder than death. Her pulse pounded like a drumbeat in her ears.

"Gandalf!" Merry's voice broke the world apart. He sounded like a frightened boy, not the cheerful hobbit Gyda had come to know. "Gandalf, help!"

Pippin fell like a marionette with its strings cut, crumpling to the floor with a choking gasp. His hands clawed at the air. Gyda's limbs moved before she could think—she grabbed Merry by the shoulders, pulling him back as he tried to reach for his friend.

"Stay back!" she said hoarsely, just as the door slammed open with a burst of wind and footsteps.

Aragorn rushed inside, frantic gaze zeroing in on Pippin. Elgarain was right behind him, she looked pale, deathly so, her skin nearly translucent in the unholy glow. Her breath came shallow, her steps faltering. Gyda was at her side in an instant, her arm wrapping instinctively around her waist.

"Elgarain, no—you shouldn't be up—"

But Elgarain's eyes were wide, focused, dread blooming behind her lashes like a slow dawn. "I felt him," she whispered. "Like knives in my chest."

Aragorn moved forward, reaching to grasp the Palantír.

The effect was immediate.

He jerked as though struck by lightning, his spine arching violently as he collapsed to his knees. A cry escaped him, and Gyda instinctively pulled Elgarain closer, steadying her. Elgarain made to move forward—

"Stay here," she breathed into Elgarain's hair, voice trembling. "Please."

The Palantír rolled free, clattering against the stone. The light surged—and then Gandalf was there, awakened by chaos. His robes flew behind him as he lunged forward, tearing a thick blanket from the bed and casting it over the seeing stone.

The light died.

Darkness fell, and for one brief, blessed second, silence returned.

Gyda could finally breathe. Her lungs stuttered, chest heaving like she'd been drowning. Her fingers were still trembling where they clung to Elgarain's wrist. Her heart thundered wildly, as if still caught in Mordor's shadow.

"Fool of a Took—" Gandalf's fury cracked like a whip. He turned, robes bristling, his expression thunderous. But when his eyes fell on Pippin, his anger melted into fear.

"Pippin..." Gyda's breath faltered when she took note of the hobbit laying motionless on the ground, wide glassy eyes staring up unblinking at the ceiling.

"Please no," Elgarain muttered, eyes wide.

Gandalf ran to the small hobbit, pushing Merry aside as he leaned over him. He was clutching his hand, and Gyda held her breath in anticipation as Gandalf whispered healing words in an ancient tongue.

Pippin gasped—once, twice—his body convulsing, and then his back arched with a strangled cry. Sweat beaded along his brow. Finally, his eyes rolled toward Gandalf, the whites bloodshot and wild.

The darkness clung to the stone walls like oil, thick and pressing, moving where it should not move. Gyda stood motionless, her body taut as a bowstring, yet inside she was unraveling. Her mind was a storm—thoughts scattered like leaves in a gale, none staying long enough to hold. All she could do was watch.

Helpless again.

Pippin trembled on the floor, his small frame convulsing as if the very shadow they all feared had taken root in his bones. Gyda's breath came shallow and quick, her hand gripping the fabric at her side until her knuckles whitened. She wanted to kneel beside him, to touch his shoulder, to do something—but her legs wouldn't move.

"G-Gandalf..." Pippin gasped, eyes glassy with terror, tears tracing clean paths down his cheeks. "Forgive me."

Gyda's heart squeezed. His voice was too young for this kind of fear.

"Look at me," Gandalf said, low but commanding, one hand cupping the hobbit's jaw, angling his face gently. "What did you see?"

Pippin blinked rapidly, lips twitching as he fought to form the words. He opened his mouth once, twice—nothing. Gyda took a slow step forward, as if her nearness might lend him strength.

Then finally—"A tree," he whispered, voice threadbare. "A white tree in a courtyard of stone... it was dead."

Gyda sucked in a breath. Cold bloomed in her chest.

"Minas Tirith?" Gandalf softly asked, "is that was you saw?"

"I saw..." Pippin's face twisted, eyes lined with tears. He was shaking, fear marring his face. "I saw him." His breathing was uneven and Gyda felt something churn inside her stomach. "I could hear his voice in my head."

"And what did you tell him?" Pippin shook, eyes faraway. "Speak!"

"He asked me my name. I didn't answer." He was crying. "He hurt me."

Gandalf eyes seemed wild, the blue of his iris like a storm, "What did you tell him about Frodo and the Ring?"

𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜
𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙮𝙨 𝙞𝙩𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛

*✧ ─── ursula le guin

THE GOLDEN HALL OF EDORAS FELT DULL AS THE FELLOWSHIP GATHERED INSIDE. The remnants of the Fellowship stood gathered beneath the high wooden beams. Gyda stood behind Merry and Pippin, her hands resting lightly on their shoulders. Pippin still trembled beneath her touch—his small frame tense, as though he were holding himself together by the thinnest of threads. Gyda could feel the rapid beat of his heart through her fingertips.

Next to her, Elgarain, ever so pale stood beside Aragorn--his hand clutching onto hers as if he reassure himself of her living, breathing presence. Close by Legolas and Gimli stood, the latter looking worriedly at Pippin every now and then, though he tried his hardest not to let his worry show.

Across stood Theoden King with his houshold--a contemplating look on his face as Gandalf had retold the happenings of that night.

"There was no lie in Pippin's eyes; a fool, but an honest fool he remains." Gandalf's voice cut cleanly through the stillness, neither sharp nor scolding. His gaze shifted between King Théoden and the trembling hobbit. "He told Sauron nothing of Frodo and the Ring."

From nearby, Gyda heard Gimli let out a small, audible sigh—less relief than quiet gratitude. The cost of a single word spoken to Sauron could have ended them all.

"We've been strangely fortunate," Gandalf continued, his white cloak shifting like mist in the morning, "What Pippin saw in the Palantir was a glimpse of our enemy's plan." He approached the company. There was a solemness in his eyes.

Gyda's breath caught. She'd felt that same presence earlier, when Pippin had fallen to the floor—when the shadow that had clung to Mordor in her memories had swept briefly through the room. That gaze. The weight of it, pressing in from afar like a great eye kindled with malice, familiar in a way she wished it wasn't. It had haunted her since the plains of Gorgoroth, since standing with her father amid smoke and ash and the screams of the dying.

"Sauron moves to strike the city of Minas Tirith. His defeat in Helm's Deep showed our enemy one thing."

They all followed his gaze to Aragorn, who stood next to Elgarain. "The heir of Elendil has come forth. Men are not as weak as he supposed. There is courage still—strength enough left to challenge him. Sauron fears this. He will not risk the people of Middle Earth uniting under one banner."

"He will raise Minas Tirith to the ground before he sees a king return to the throne of men." Gandalf continued, voice bleak before he turned to the King of Edoras, "If the beacons of Gondor are lit, Rohan must be ready for war."

Tension filled the room, thick and heavy as Theoden looked upon Gandalf, his brow furrowed and his voice laced with bitterness. "Tell me, why should we ride to the aid of those who've not come to ours?"

All eyes turned to Theoden. "What do we owe Gondor?" his voice rang through the hall

A heavy silence followed, each breath in the room held. Gyda felt Merry shift under her hand.

"I will go." Aragorn stated, and Gyda's gaze darted to Elgarain. She had gone utterly still, so still she looked carved from marble. Her hands had clenched, knuckles bloodless.

"No"

"They must be warned." Aragorn insisted, eyes boring into Gandalf's.

"They will be." Gandalf assured as he walked toward Aragorn and spoke in a hushed voice—so no one but Aragorn and the elves could hear him. "you must come to Minas Tirith by another road. Follow the river, look to the black ships—" he raised his voice once more. "Understand this, things are now in motion that cannot be undone."

Gyda felt the shift—like the world itself had taken a breath and held it. The walls of Meduseld seemed to pull inward, the firelight dimmer.

No one could deny the impact of Gandalf's words, their fellowship was scattered, no one knew where Frodo and Sam had gone with the Ring—if they still marched toward Mordor to save all of Middle Earth. There was only hope, hope that perhaps the fight that awaited them would be for something.

"I will ride for Minas Tirith." Gandalf announced, "and I won't be going alone."

All eyes turned to follow him.

Pippin seemed more frightened than before when he realized Gandalf had chosen him.