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

⋆ 🌪. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
˚ ₊ ♡ rohan: dunharrow ─── act four

❝ 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝘸𝘦 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 ❞

GYDA'S HORSE—AN OLD WAR VERTRAN NAMED BREGDAN, AS ÉOMIR HAD TOLD HER, TROTTED TO A SLOW HALT AS THEY ARRIVED AT THE HOLD OF DUNHARROW. A day it had taken them to travel there from Edoras. Their journey went without danger, but the air had felt tight and supressing. Her eyes had barely strayed from Elgarain, who winched and paled with every shift of movement. Her arms curled tightly around Aragorn.

Gyda's finger's twitched with every frown that marred her Queen's face. As if to reach out and quell her pain with a touch—a touch that might return the strength her own Fäe had stolen from her. But she refrained and remained silent throughout.

She blinked, thoughts washing away like a gentle tide and focused ahead.

Dunharrow wasn't an actual fortress of stone, but a natural flat upland on the side of the mountain. It could only be reached by following a narrow winding path known as the Stair of the Hold. She had read that along the road there were old statues, known as the Púkel-men, placed there by the Men of the White Mountains, who lived here long before the Rohirrim did. But more eerie than that was the shadow that fell upon the valley, caused by the Dwimorberg. For under this mountain lay the Dimholt Road. Through a dark forest right to the entrance of the Paths of the Dead...

The wide vale at the foot of the mountain lay thronged with many hosts, and the green earth was broken beneath the press of hooves and the trampling of many feet. White tents stood in ordered ranks, their flapping walls bright against the shadow of the heights above, and over them the banners of the Mark streamed in the rising wind—green as the fields of summer, bearing the white horse in running flight.

Riders had come from every reach of the Riddermark, answering the summons of their king. The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel rang out where armor was mended; the rasp of whetstones sang along spearheads. Murmurs of greeting rose and fell as kinsmen reunited, some clasping forearms with fierce relief, others with grim silence.

As the King's Guard advanced through the camp, the soldiers lifted their gazes, some bowing their heads, others placing a fist to their chest in salute.

"Make way for the king!" a soldier ahead of her shouted, alerting the encampment of their arrival. "Make way!"

They moved between rows upon rows of white tents, where men brushed down their mounts, fed them from hand, or checked the fletching of arrows with meticulous care. The sight of so many—farmers, herdsmen, and seasoned warriors alike—brought a slow ache to her chest.

They had already given so much to the long years of war, and still they came, called once more to stand in the shadow of battle. Gyda wondered if there would ever come a dawn when such calls were no longer answered, when the swords of Rohan might be hung upon walls for the sake of memory rather than need. If there would ever come a day, she perhaps could.

Théoden rode at the forefront, every nod or lifted hand of acknowledgment given as though he knew each man by name.

"Grimbold, how many?" Théoden's voice carried across the noise, firm but not without warmth, as his gaze fixed upon a tall man with long grey hair.

"I bring 500 men from the Westfold, my lord," Grimbold replied with a bow from the saddle.

To their right, another voice rose—deep, sure, carrying over the thrum of the camp: "We have 300 more from Fenmarch, Théoden King." The man wore a breastplate marked with the golden horse of the Riddermark, the emblem bright against the dull gleam of steel.

Théoden inclined his head to each, though his mount did not slow its steady climb toward the upper slope. His eyes swept the crowd ahead. "Where are the riders from Snowbourn?"

"None have come, my lord," answered Gamling, who stood with helm in hand, his weathered face shadowed with unease.

Then fell a hush, as though a shadow had passed over the camp, and they rode on in silence. For though Rohan was a wide land and its folk scattered far, and tidings travelled slowly over the leagues of grass, yet every hour now was dear. Gondor waited, and the enemy would not delay his stroke.

Gyda felt unease grow in her heart and Merry tightened his grip around her waist out of nervous habit.

As they headed up the mountain, she caught a glimpse of one of the statues beside the road. The stone seemed born of the mountain itself, as if the very bones of the earth had shaped it to guard this winding way. For a fleeting moment, Gyda wondered whose eyes it was meant to watch for: friends returning... or enemies approaching.

The party began to slow, the thud of hooves against the hard-packed earth easing to a measured trot as the path widened into a broad shelf carved into the mountainside—the  guard Théoden had sent ahead of him had worked up to put the tents and resting places for the horses. The camp was all set up when they arrived at the end of the path.

Guiding Bregdan to the side, Gyda passed Elgarain and Aragorn and stopped in front of a white tent near the east side of the encampment. Lowering herself down, Gyda's patted the horse with firm affection before helping Merry down. The hobbit thanked her quietly and she nodded before glancing at Elgarain. The Elleth was pale, and she detected a faint tremor in the queens legs. But Aragorn's hand steadied her.

But before she could say something—express concern or offer assistance, the cursing in Khuzdûl echoed like a chime in the wind when Gimli dismounted from his horse, trying with all his might to hide the help he needed from Legolas to do so. "Would you rather have run the distance, my friend?" Legolas asked with a sly smile.

Gyda hid her smile behind her hand as she caught Legolas' eye.

Gimli narrowed his eyes at him, making them almost disappear entirely between his bushy eyebrows and his beard. "Keep up your mockery, princeling. My axe longs for death."

The ellon laughed, the sound light but with the edge of challenge. "I do not doubt it."

"I count six thousand spears," Gyda said. Her tone carried the weight of stone, making them all turn toward her. She stood at the cliff's edge, her figure stark against the grey horizon, eyes fixed on the swath of white tents scattered across the valley below.

Legolas joined her, the sharp gleam in his blue eyes dimmed by what he saw. "That's less than half of what we hoped for."

Elgarain moved to stand beside them, her cloak drawn tight against the wind, followed by Aragorn and Gimli. From this height, the camp stretched wide enough to seem formidable—but they all knew the truth beneath the illusion.

"Six thousand will not be enough to break the lines of Mordor," Aragorn said, his voice low with reluctant certainty.

"Perhaps more will come," Elgarain offered, her hope sounding almost like defiance.

But the man beside her only shook his head, voicing the dread that had been gnawing at them all.

"Every hour lost hastens Gondor's defeat. We have until dawn—then we must ride."

"And so we will," came a firm voice behind them.

They turned to see Théoden approaching, his stride steady, his gaze unwavering. Something in his presence seemed to straighten the air itself. Gyda, knew his confidence would inspire his men, the same her father and the former king of Lindon had done when they marched for the plain of Mordor.

It gave her heart a small spark of hope.

"Then we better make sure to be well rested," Elgarain said, desperately wishing to distract her thoughts from the battle to come. "Who would like some tea?"

"A wonderful idea!" Merry chimed in, seeming happy for another topic than war. "I would love some."

Gyda caught the faint, knowing glance Aragorn gave her and the equally restrained smile he received in return. They followed Elgarain to a campfire where a blackened kettle hung suspended above the embers, its metal warm with the promise of comfort.

They settled on the grass, a ring of waiting souls, the flicker of firelight catching in steel and shadow alike. The water hissed faintly as Elgarain poured it into the pot, steam rising like whispers. She added herbs from a small pouch, their fragrance curling into the night air—sharp, green, and grounding against the restless scent of horses and leather.

But still the unease lingered. In the dark edges of the camp, horses shifted and stamped, their ears flicking nervously, the whites of their eyes catching the firelight. The murmurs of the Rohirrim did little to settle them.

"The horses are restless," Legolas observed, his voice carrying a note Gyda rarely heard from him—wariness. "And the men are quiet."

She shivered despite herself.

"As well they should," Gimli muttered, casting a guarded glance toward the looming slopes above. "The stones are whispering with strange voices." He lifted his chin toward a dark cleft in the rock. "That road there—where does it lead?"

"It is the road to the Dimholt, the door under the mountain." Éomir spoke as he joined their side. "None who venture there ever return. That mountain is evil."

"Why?" Merry frowned.

Éomer's mouth pressed into a thin line, and for a heartbeat, he said nothing. It was Elgarain who spoke, her voice low but steady "It is guarded by the dead," Elgarain said, when Éomir remained silent. "Men who were cursed by Isildur for refusing to fulfill their oath to him, to fight when he called upon them during the Last Alliance. He cursed them so they would never find rest until one of his heirs would call upon them to fight once more and they would answer."

The fire popped, sending up a brief shower of sparks that drifted away like fleeting spirits.

Gyda's gaze had gone distant, as though she were no longer truly by the fire at all. Her lips parted, and the word slipped out, almost unbidden, as though drawn from somewhere deep and half-forgotten: "Óricuva."

Her eyes were shadowed, not merely with the fear such a tale might stir in any sane soul, but with something far older—an echo of a memory.

Éomir caught it. Though younger in years, he was a man seasoned in war, and he recognised the look instantly—the faraway gaze of one who had seen too much and remembered it all. His brow furrowed. "You were there?" he asked, voice low, almost reluctant.

She remembered it as if no years had passed. The faces rose before her, half-lost in the mists of time—men of kin to the Dunlendings, their eyes darting like jackals, their words slick with deceit. Once they had bent the knee to Sauron, basking in his shadow; but when the darkness faltered, they turned to Isildur, swearing fealty with tongues they would not keep. When the summons came, they did not ride.

She could still see Isildur's face, carved in grim resolve as he spoke the curse, his voice carrying the weight of ages yet to come: "Thou shalt be the last king, and if the West prove mightier than thy folk, to rest never until thine oath is fulfilled. For this war will last through years uncounted, and thou shalt be summoned once again ere the end."

The words had bound them to the mountain, their spirits chained to a twilight between worlds.

Somewhere deep in her recollections, another name stirred—Malbeth, a seer among Men. Rumours of his visions had travelled even beyond the borders of Gondor. Galion had spoken to her of them once, his voice carrying the cadence of a poet, his eyes bright with the thrill of an ancient riddle:

"Over the land there lies a long shadow, westward reaching wings of darkness. The towers trembles; the tomb of kinds doom approaches. The dead awaken; for the hour is come for the oathbreakers; at the stone of Erech they shall stand again and hear there a horn in the hills ringing. Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them from grey twilight, the forgotten people? The heir of him to whom the oath was sworn. From the north shall he come, need shall drive him. He shall pass the door to the path of the dead."

Gandalf had looked at Aragorn in the hall of Meduseld just days ago—a knowing glint at whisper that spoke of another path to take. Gyda eyes flickered up to him as the fire flickered against his skin. Did he know of the prophecy? Did he understand what Gandalf wished for him to do?

Gyda shook the thoughts away and turned to look at Éomir and nodded in confirmation—something cold and unforgiving laced in her words: "They abandoned their king. Ú-thand I naid hain; aníron danad hain ú-guiliel."

The words left a heavy silence behind, and even those who did not understand them knew the weight they carried. Beside her, Legolas moved with quiet care, his hand settling between her shoulder blades. The warmth of his touch was a tether, and some of the tautness in her frame loosened as she exhaled.

"Some place to gather your army," Gimli muttered, his tone dry as weathered stone.

"We all know the dishonor that awaits us for refusing the call," Éomir replied, his gaze locked on the fire's heart. "This mountain is a reminder of that."

Dishonor felt like a light judgement in Gyda's eyes—the mere idea to abandon an oath made her blood boil.

No one spoke for a while. The silence felt thick, laced with the faint sounds of restless horses and the distant creak of leather harness.

Then, without a word, Elgarain rose. She moved with purpose, gathering the cups and filling each with steaming tea. The scent of the herbs rose into the chill air, mingling with woodsmoke. One by one, she passed the cups into waiting hands before lowering herself beside Aragorn.

Her fingers curled around the warm clay, drawing what comfort she could from its heat and a soft sigh escaped her.

From the corner of her vision, she saw Gimli pull a small flask from his pocket and tip a generous measure into his tea. When he caught her and Elgarain watching, he grinned unabashedly.

"I need something stronger than tea when listening to stories of the dead, lass." He directed at Elgarain and Gyda shook her head.

Aragorn, pipe in hand, drew in a long breath of smoke and let it drift lazily into the firelight. "I thought your axe longed for death?"

For a heartbeat, Gimli's expression hardened. His dark eyes fixed on Aragorn, the set of his jaw as solid as granite. It was as if the dwarf weighed the notion of taking offense—or perhaps leaping to his feet with fists flying.

But then, in a sudden, roaring shift, he threw back his head and laughed.

It was a sound that rolled through the camp like thunder, deep and booming, shaking loose the gloom that had settled over them. Heads turned to look.

The jovial feeling that had settled was suddenly broken as a warning blow of a horn came from the guard down in the valley. Gyda tensed, hand reaching for the pommel of her sword as she stood as swift as wind.

Below in the encampment, the sound of lazy chatter changed into the clanking of swords being drawn, the warning shouts of men waking each other.

They hurried to where the path led up the mountain. The falling of hooves, the rattling of armor, spears glittered in the light of the moon. An unknown company was approaching. A quick count told her it was a group of about thirty. All seated upon strong horses, slowly making their way up the winding road. But something about the arriving company had allowed them to pass by the soldiers below. They would hardly let an enemy convoy get so close to their king. When they almost reached the top, Éomir cried out: "Halt! Who rides in Rohan?"

A figure wearing a deep blue cloak dismounted and walked forward. He held his hand up, outward, a sign of peace. Then his clear voice rang out: "Rohan did you say? That makes me glad to hear, for we have ridden long and far to reach it."

There was something familiar about the voice, bringing back memories of laughter and warmth. And suddenly the figure looked all too familiar. But it couldn't possibly be...

"You have found it," Éomir replied, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "This is the realm of Théoden King. None ride here without his permission. Who are you?"

"This is the Grey Company, Rangers of the North. They have been joined by my kinsmen, Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Lord Elrond of Rivendell." He removed his cloak, moonlight shining upon brown curls. "And I am Galion, guard of the High Queen of the Ñoldor."

Her heart stuttered in her chest, something warm and surprising stirring in her chest. With a gentle push Gyda moved forward until she was at the front, wide eyes shimmering in disbelief. "Mellon nîn, you are well met."

Galion grinned at her, smile like molten sunlight. "Gyda." He breathed out, "Na vedui." He strode toward her through the dimming light, his mail catching the ember glow of the campfires. There was no hesitation in his step, only the steady, unflinching presence of someone who had fought beside her through storms of both steel and shadow. Oh how she had missed him.

When they met, there was no soft embrace, instead their forearms came together in the soldier's clasp, the iron grip speaking more than a hundred speeches could. Their gazes locked and for a moment Gyda didn't feel the heavy weight pressing down on her shoulders as she smiled widely at him. Only his warmth and grounding presence. "You've come just when we needed you."

Upon seeing their happy reunion, Elgarain could no longer contain herself and rushed forward. She pulled them into her arms, holding the two of them as close as she could. Gyda tensed at first, surprised by arms around her before she melted into the embrace and held them both a little tighter.

"Tarinya," the archer greeted her as he pulled away, placed his fist against his heart and bowed. Though his face was lit up by an all too familiar smile. "I am glad to see you well."

"And I you, Mellon nîn," she smiled, feeling as though the stars suddenly shone brighter. "More than you could possibly know."

At those words he frowned, sensing immediately there were words left unsaid. Gyda knew they would have to tell him soon, but for now, there was no time to divulge their ailments. Then the rest of the company had arrived at the top of the mountain. Two faces, almost the same and yet their eyes shone with different memories, got down from their horses and joined them.

"Elladan! Elrohir!" Elgrarain cried out, not caring one bit about appearing regal. It made Gyda smile faintly.

The sons of Elrond bowed, bright smiles on their faces. "How good to see you," Elladan said.

Gyda moved to stand beside Elgarain and tilted her head at the twins. "I'm glad to see you both once more."

"So are we, Gyda," Elrohir spoke, glasping her hand in a warm embrace.

They were joined by another man dismounting his horse. He had a kind face, warm brown eyes and light hair held up by a string of leather. He held his fist against his heart in the Elvish greeting and bowed deeply. "I am Halbarad Dúnadan, Ranger of the North. We have come in search of Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

"And found him have," Aragorn called out as he walked forward. His face lit up by a smile as he embraced the newcomer. "Of all joys this is the least expected!"

Halbarad laughed. "I have missed you, my friend."

Aragorn clasped his shoulder before turning to face Théoden and his guard. "All is well. They are my kin from the lands in the North where I long dwelt."

The Ranger bowed before the King of Rohan, while the Elves gave him the formal greeting of their kind.

"Then I welcome them," Théoden spoke. "If these kinsmen be in any way like yourself, my Lord Aragorn, such strength will be much needed. Come, we have food and drink to spare."

As they moved towards the fires, Aragorn greeted the rangers with warm smiles and long embraces. These proud men and women, his people, having travelled all this way to support and fight for their king.

Though Gyda, had been glad to have been returned in the company of old friends, questioned stirred in her thoughts. They would not have travelled such distances without good cause, and it seemed Elgarain thought so similarly as she turned to one of the twins. "Elladan? Why have you come?"

A shadow moved across his face, one that made Gyda tighten her grip on her sword. "We bring word from our father for Lord Aragorn." His eyes swept across the Grey Company as they settled by the fire. "Lord Elrond believed he would need the aid of his people in the battles ahead. So we gathered his people and set out with them."

His words did little to reassure her.

"Well then, let us not waste any more time." Elgarain said softly.

Gyda moved with Galion by her side, pressed closed together and falling in an easy rhythm. As she moved to sit down on the weathered log by the fire, Legolas was swift to take a seat beside her.

The Elleth smiled at him, glad for his close presence and when she looked up, she took note of Galion's questioning gaze. He did not inquire, but there was a knowing smile on his face as he sat down on her other side.

Legolas and Gimli were seated in between, the most unlikely friendship of all seated there, but no less strong. Elladan joined his brother next to Halbarad, while Elgarain sat down at Aragorn's side. The arrival of the Grey Company brought a strength to their tired bones and livened their spirits.

"Halbarad tells me you come bearing a message from Lord Elrond," Aragorn said as soon as Elladan had joined his brother. All conversation around the fire died down as everyone looked at the Elf lords.

Elrohir shared a glance with his brother before nodding. "Indeed we do. His words are these: the days are short. If you are in haste, remember the Paths of the Dead."

Gyda's teeth gritted together, her mind drifting away once more.

"Murderers, traitors," Aragorn muttered as he stared into the fire, echoing the words that rang inside Gyda's head. "You would call upon them to fight? They believe in nothing. They answer to no one."

Elladan reached for a package he carried at his belt, wrapped in dark cloth and shaped like a sword. He held it out with two hands for Aragorn to take. "They will answer to the king of Gondor."

Slowly, hesitantly, Aragorn reached for it and took the sword in his hands. Careful not to cut himself, he unwrapped the blade and at last, the hilt. In the light of the moon it seemed to shine with golden light. The pommel was decorated with golden figures but the hilt itself was simple and elegant, long enough to be held with two hands.

"Andúril, flame of the West, forged from the shards of Narsil," Elladan spoke, watching with a smile.

"By the stars," Elgarain breathed, eyes wide. The blade that once had been broken was now renewed. The sword of kings once again held by the one worthy to wield it.

Aragorn stroke the hilt, regarding the blade with admiration. "Sauron will not have forgotten the sword of Elendil," he muttered. In one, swift, movement he held up the blade. The light seemed to shine on him as well, illuminating him like the sun was shining for him alone. "The blade that was broken shall return to Minas Tirith."

"Put aside the Ranger," Elrohir said, his face carved with the same stern lines as his father. "Become who you were born to be. Take the Dimholt road."

A heavy sign left his lips and he lowered the blade. "I thank you for delivering Lord Elrond's message. I will let you know of my path in the morning." He bowed to the Elven Lords, then got to his feet and walked to his tent, disappearing inside.

"We should all get some rest," Elgarain said, feeling even more weary than before the arrival of the Grey Company. "The light of the dawn will bring us the council we need."

AUTHOR'S NOTE
omg omg omg 🥹🥹🥹🥹 galion is back. I missed him so much and I am soooo happy to bring him back to this story. Dude has missed so much! From Gyda and Legolas to Elgarain and Gyda *clears throat* predicament. Please leave some love on this chapter and until the next one. 🥰

EVISH TRANSLATIONS:

Óricuva ─── curses

Ú-thand I naid hain; aníron danad hain ú-guiliel ─── Their deeds were without justice, their own hand shaped their doom

mellon nîn ─── friend

na vedui ─── at last

tarinya ─── my queen