*。☆。
★。＼｜／。★
˚ ₊ ♡ ❰ BALLAD OF BROKEN SWORDS ❱
*✧ ─── ❝ ❪ A WARRIOR'S WILL ❫ ❞
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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ACT ONE ── ad melinora 🏹 ⁺⑅
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CHILDREN OF ARDA DUOLOGY ⋆ ☄.
♯ ❝ NEVER LOSE YOUR FIRE ❞
CHAPTER NINE ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
˚ ₊ ♡ the third age ─── year 2950
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━━ ˚ ₊ ♡ 🏹
❝ 𝘪 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝘢 𝙬𝙖𝙮, 𝘰𝘳 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝘰𝘯𝘦 ❞
*✧ ─── HER FATHER USED TO SPEAK ABOUR MIRKWOOD AS IF IT WAS A STORY SPUN FROM FAIRYTALES, AND GYDA HAD LISTENED WITH BATHED BREATH BUT NOW STANDING AMONG THE WOODLAND ELVES SHE FELT THE FAÇADE HER FATHER CREATED CRUMBLE. It was still grant and awe-inspiring, even as they descend further below the earth and warm light illuminated from the walls where torches hung. But there was a certain coldness that lived inside the floor, almost as if it was alive and breathing.
Gyda had tried to shake off the feeling as she walks side by side with Galion, ignore the shiver that tries to finds its way up her spine. She ignores the way their escort eyes them warily, or how the ones behind them clutch their swords. She feels Galion exude the same anxious feeling, she notes it in the way his fingers twitch as if fiddling with an invisible arrow.
Cerwyn looks rigid, a strange sight for he normally looks as if he flows on the wind, but she cannot blame the older elf. Their first encounter went far from perfect and she knows it was not her place to defy the words of a king, even in defense of her own princess. She wonders how her father would reply, how he would react to the blatant disrespect. She knows she's not strong with words, and that she possesses no silver tongue. Her father called her brazen and unapologetic, for the fire in her eyes should not be tamed or kept as embers. Her mother just called her, her father's daughter.
"When shall we be expected to start training?" Gyda's voice hides her nerves well, a trait she inherited from her father.
Lanthir says nothing as they turn another corner, and walk down a steep set of stairs that leads to a lone corridor. Gyda almost feels like they are led down to their death with every step they descend. The Woodland kingdom is a stark contradiction to the lush and warmth of Imladris and Lindon and she wonders what might haunt these dark halls, what darkness might have walked beside her, which ghost traces her steps.
"When will training start." Gyda repeats, voice firm and unwavering, a clear indication she commands an answer—or the very least an acknowledgement. She had been no stranger to doubtful glances or unsure eyes, but she will not tolerate them from strangers. She had proved herself more than she had hoped to have needed to, and she was certain she would not repeat such actions here of all places.
The silver haired elf looks over his shoulder this time, and as the light from the flames touches his skin, he looks almost haunting. High cheekbones accentuated, hair flowing like mist and blue eyes startlingly clear as they settle on her. His pale skin just a couple of sunrays short of translucent.
Gyda juts her chin up, hazel eyes guarded and one singular brow raised inquisitively.
A beat of silence, heavy and uncomfortable. "Tomorrow morning."
The answer is curt, and monotonous, like it's a burden to be spoken out loud.
Gyda only nods, lips set in a thin line before the silver haired elf turns his gaze ahead. She exchanges a knowing look with Galion. At the end of the corridor a shadow flickers as another elf appears from the darkness of the halls of Mirkwood. She looks young, as she scurries past them back up the stairs. No one pays her much attention, but Gyda catches her green gaze.
"Your rooms are here. Someone will come to escort you to the dining halls later this evening." Lanthir speaks in a low voice that slithers from his tongue like summer honey. It is eerie how he can be equal alluring and foreboding.
Gyda's eyes follow his outstretched hand toward a singular oak door, patterns are carved on the wood, an intricate detailing of tree roots and sprouting flowers.
"Hanta" Galion is the first to move, hand twisting the doorknob before leading the small delegation inside.
Gyda's eyes settle on the common room, cloaked in a feverish orange glow from the hearth and the floor decorated by large grey stones, the kind with a tinge of green. The room is simple and elegant, with dark accents and wooden furniture.
"Till dinner." Lanthir bows his head, before disappearing like a ghost in the night.
In the soft hearth-light, Gyda finally feels her pulse become a steady beat once more, the rigidness of her spine softens and the tension leaves her shoulders.
"I feel trapped below the earth here." Galion voices in distaste as he inspects the room with calculating eyes from the bumpy stone walls with fingerlings of tree roots—to the yellow carnations in a beige vase at the center of the wooden table, a mocking display of their host hospitality.
"Tomorrow we will be out in the open air again." Gyda promises as she lets her own eye flicker around the room. The subtle hints of power that the woodland elves proudly exude. "Make sure to rest well, we cannot be any less than perfect tomorrow."
"It certainly seems as if they're excited for us to be here." Daros speaks up in the silence, twirling one of the yellow carnations between his fingers in a mocking manner.
Galion only scoffs, dropping his bow next to one of the many door leading to one of the bedchambers. "Those stories of your father seem like whimsical fairytales now Gyda."
The brunette elf hums, knowing all to well her father taught Galion the same thing as he did her. Seperated twins he used to call them in their elfing years.
Gyda only manages to smirk half-heartedly at her friend and give him a shrug in reply. "Time changes everything." She mutters.
"No." Galion denies solemnly, "War does."
Gyda has no more words to spare at this moment in time, instead opting to inspect her bedchambers with a soft goodbye to the others.
The room is circular, and Gyda already misses the sunlight that filters through the silk curtains in her room in Imladris. It feels dreary, like the life had been sucked from every crevice. She ignores the feeling and instead removes the baldric strung over her shoulder and drops the leather band and the scabbard holding her sword against the cobbled wall.
With a gentleness she does not often use her hands reach for the handcrafted glaive, the intricated carvings telling a story only privy to her own memories. Her thumb caresses the carving of the bronze coreopsis flower with a fond smile. She remembers well when she had been gifted the spear.
Dawn had greeted her with gleaming, warm sunlight, the fresh smell of wet grass and flowers carried on inside her room on a summer breeze. It had been a day for celebrations in her household, and young Gyda had been euphoric the night before her birthday. A hundred years old—officially an elfling no more. She already bugged her adar the evening before to start her warrior lessons with the other young elves. Eager to prove herself as great as her father—as powerful and skilled.
Excitement was no strange companion to her lately, as she ran around the forest with her friends from dusk till dawn giggling and fighting with wooden swords till everyone was battered and bruised with grass stains on their clothes.
But now she would no longer have to play pretend—today she could take up the family mantle, their warrior legacy. The bounce in her step as she descended down the stairs of their home made the wooden steps creak, and dust rise in the air.
The hearth in the living room was already lit, a pot with water boiling above the flames as he mother tended to it.
"My dilthen meathor." Amren greets her warmly with a dazzlingly bright smile displayed on her delicate features. "all grown up." The words are spoken in a watery, but proud tone that makes Gyda smile even bigger than before.
Happy laughter spills from a soft pale lips as she runs in her mother's loving embrace. "I hope you will still embrace me like this when you've grown up to be the warrior you are meant to be." Amren whispers in her daughter's ear.
"Of course naneth." Gyda promises as she tightens her grip. "You give the best hugs."
"What about mine then? Are they not as good?"
Gyda giggles as she manoeuvres around in her mother's arm to look at her father. "They are good!" she assures gleefully, a hint of mischief in her voice. "but Naneth gives the best, it's simply the truth."
"Well she shall have to teach me on how to improve them then." Gyldorn hums thoughtfully and Gyda pushes herself up to walk into her father's arms.
"No—I like yours the way they are." She denies, lithe arms wrapping around his torso.
Gyldorn's chest rumbles as he laughs and Gyda shakes in his embrace before peering up through thick eyelashes. "Are we to start training today?" Her tone his hopeful, barely contained eagerness.
"You haven't even eaten yet Gyda." Gyldorn replies casually, and Gyda pouts at her father.
"I have eaten every day of my life." She shakes her head defiantly, "I haven't had a warrior's lesson yet."
"As true as that might be my sweet Gyda." Amren comes to stand next to her daughter, amusement sparkling in her eyes, "You cannot train without something in your stomach."
Gyda sighs, but with a single stern look from her father, her shoulders slouch in defeat. "Alright."
Gyldorn kisses the crown of her head affectionately, as his wife rubs her daughter's shoulder in comfort. "How about a present first then?" He suggests and they watch as Gyda's face lights up like the stars in the night sky.
"Yes please!"
"Follow me then."
Gyda faithfully trails after her father as he leads them outside in the garden where flowers bloom in the sunlight. The small shed in the corner of the garden comes in sight and she patiently waits outside as her father instructs her too.
Anticipation courses through her like a tidal wave as seconds tick by and a gasp escapes her parted lips when her father reappears again from the shadows of the shed, holding in his right hand, an Nõldorn spear.
"When I turned a hundred years old." Gyldorn begins with a fond smile, "My father made for me, my own glaive. And now dilthen meathor, I have made one for you."
He presents the spear to her and Gyda leans closer to inspect the intricate design carved in the Nõldorn wood. A finger trail the curves and dents until they pause at the top where wood meets steel.
Her eyes flicker from the carving to her mother's garden. "It's Naneth's flower." She whispers in acknowledgement.
"Your mother planted those flowers when she was pregnant with you dilthen meathor. They are bronze coreopsis flowers. It is a fire flower." He tells her as Gyda smiles brightly. "It represents strength."
"Strength." She echoes.
"Never lose your fire Gyda."
Gyda's fingers caress the weathered carving. "Never." She echoes in the silent room, and for a moment, she might think the ghost that walked beside her was father.
*。☆。
★。＼｜／。★
𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙤𝙢 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙮
𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙
─ scott lynch
⋆⋅ ━━━━ ‧ ༻✩༺ ‧ ━━━━ ⋅⋆
third age ━━ year 2950
NO SUNGLIGHT GREETS HER, FOR THERE ARE NO WINDOWS IN HER ROOM. THE COLD HAD DWELLED DURING THE NIGHT DESPITE THE FLAMES OF THE HEARTH, AND GYDA'S MUSCLES WERE TAUT AND ACHING. AND when she enters the common room where some of the others had already gathered it seems they feel the same way. Everyone is mostly silent as they prepare for the day ahead, nibbling on pieces of lembas bread that they had brought on their journey in favour of waiting for breakfast in the king's dining halls. The cold welcome from yesterday had lingered and the elves from Imladris and Lindon both preferred to stay away as long as they could for the moment. Gyda had know to expect indifference from the Woodland King, but there was almost a malignant undertone as they entered Mirkwood that felt like they'd be certainly not welcome.
It makes her wonder why they accepted Elrond's suggestion. Were they just trying to keep an wary eye on them? Or re-establish dominace? She tries not to contemplate too much—she knows her mind will skip to conclusions without proper details. An idle flaw from her youth she still rarely manages to shake. But Gyda does know, whatever the reason Thranduil accepted them in his home might be, she will show them her worth. She knows despite her age, she is at least well-equipped with the traditions of her people.
Gyda is already lacing up her arm braces when she catches Galion's eyes. The honey-haired elf is seated in an armchair by the fire, sharpening his arrows with thoughtful precision. He grants her a small smile in greeting which she returns with a single nod. With a deep sigh, her thoughts involuntarily drift towards Elgarain, and how she is fairing back in Imladris. She knows without a doubt that the young elf is surely doing anything but her duties—excluding her healing lessons with Lord Elrond. But for the first time, there is no feeling of aggravation that follows. With the memories of her father still freshly in her mind, Gyda for the first time in a while, remembers the excitement and carefree time of her youth. The running with swords and euphoric feeling of the grass beneath her bare feet. Fighting had been her heart's desire and now with a clarity she had not had before, she knows, freedom is the thing Elgarain aches deeply for. Elgarain too, was a victim of war—of a stolen youth.
She forgets it sometimes, but Elgarain is not a full grown Elleth yet—not in the way the war had forced Gyda to be. There is still an innocence present in Elgarain, a playful glimmer. And now, here in the gloom halls ruled by a king, with a past of grief not much unlike her own, Gyda knows that Elgarain's free spirit is what will make her a great queen for their people.
With a heavy sigh, she shakes away her thoughts and reaches to string the baldric around her back with her sword in its scabbard before grabbing the Nõldorn spear in her hand. The cold wood familiar and comforting. Without so much as a spoken word, the others grab whatever they need before they start their ascend up the cobblestone stairs again. Following through the twisted corridors and dark halls that they had been led through by Lanthir yesterday, the delegation of elves returns back to the light of the forest just outside the large hall.
Sunlight filters through the canopy of leaves high above, and Gyda let's out a breath of relief at the gentle brush of the wind against her skin. The large clearing ahead their destination and standing on the grass terrain stands Lanthir with his hands clasped behind his back. Numerous Woodland elves have gathered around him. Their silvery-blonde hair shining like starlight in the sun and it is a stark contrast to the darker complexions of the Lindon and Imladris' elves. Gyda and Cerwyn stand in the front, both representatives equally unreadable as the Sindarin ellon.
Mirkwood archers form a row behind their captain, and Gyda knows for certain Galion's eyes are seizing up his competition. She notes only the Nõldor elves carry well crafted spears in their hands and Gyda's pride swells with knowledge of their skills.
"Amatulya." Lanthir greets them with a tight-lipped smile, a gesture Gyda returns with a bit less poise.
"Shall we begin?" Gyda offers, jutting out her chin.
Lanthir didn't reply with words and instead releases his sword form his scabbard gracefully, the steel edge glinting in the sunlight and Gyda accepted his invitation with a single nod.
Taking in a deep breath that expands her chest, Gyda's releases all the tension in her body and twirls the spear around her body with nimble precision before, without warning, thrusting the spear forward.
Lanthir sidesteps with ease, silver hair flying with the sudden motion. His own sword comes down on the wooden handle and forces it to the ground with a powerful blow. Following the momentum, Gyda tightens her grip and sweeps the spear sideways.
Lanthir takes a couple steps backwards to avoid the hit as he regains his balance as Gyda circles him. Gripping his sword with two hands, Lanthir dashes forward again and strikes.
Gyda can feel the vibration run up her arm as the two weapons make contact and she rotates before twirling her spear around. Lanthir's body arches backwards as the sharp edge of her spear flies just above his face. He drops to his knees, before thrusting his sword forward.
It connects with the edge of her spear as she brings it down in a quick motion. Lanthir yanks his weapon back and Gyda jumps backwards to avoid another strike.
She sets off against the rough dirt, catapulting forward faster than the Sindarin elf had expected as the tip of her spear breaches his silver-trimmed sleeve, the fabric tearing, whilst the steel end of her weapon buries itself in the tree, trapping the Ellon.
The elf grunts, eyes flashing to meet her own, before he rips his arm away, the fabric completely tearing and freeing him.
Gyda retrieves her spear, both hands firmly holding the wooden end,
They circle one another—like predator and prey. Who is which?
Gyda's heart hammers inside her chest, before charging forward again, but unlike what Lanthir expected, the Elleth plunged the tip in the ground, catapulting her body in the air. Her leg twisted outwards, the curve of her boot hitting Lanthir's sword hand.
As she landed on the ground again, she looked over her shoulder smugly when she heard the clattering sound of a sword falling on the ground. Catching Lanthir's irritated glance she tilted her head mockingly, before shaking off all ill-thoughts. He was not an enemy she was faced with like the ones she fought on the plains of Mordor. This was a moment the teach and be taught. Her father would not want her to become arrogant. Instead she paused her quick pace, straightened her back and waited a moment for him to pick up his sword again.
The Woodland elf did so, not without a suspicious glance. The moment he widened his stance again, Gyda tilted her spear towards him again.
The two continue in a lethal dance that had the other warriors in awe. Twisting, spinning, striking and evading. And it seems after a quick look at the other's fighting style, both were equally matched.
Gyda breaths heavily after blocking another swing from Lanthir's sword, the older elf equally breathless at this point. Catching his gaze again, she smiles, a bit more genuinely this time. The Sindarin elf might have been a prick, but he was a good fighter, and she could appreciate that.
She steps back, placing her spear by her side, before holding out her hand.
Lanthir hesitates for a second, glancing upwards at something behind her, before he clasps her forearm with his hand. "You fight well."
"As do you." She affirms casually, "Lindon's warriors will do well to be taught your skills." She speaks earnestly.
"As will we—" he casts his gaze at a figure to her right, Galion. Who still stands with his bow. "But I think your friend has little to offer us."
Gyda ignores the jest, and from the corner of her eye she sees Galion clutch his bow tightly. "He might surprise you yet. I did too after all."
Lanthir hums, before turning to his own soldiers, commanding them to show the other elves the rest of the training grounds.
Taking this moment to part from the centre of the terrain, Gyda approaches Galion with a soft smile. "You made us look good Gyd." Galion grins.
She chuckles, feeling more free than she had since she stepped inside Mirkwood's halls. "They underestimated us. They won't now, and they won't hold back again."
"The princeling looked impressed with you." Galion leans down to whisper in her ear and Gyda's brows furrow in confusion.
"huh?"
"He was watching." Galion shrugs, eyes casting upwards, to the same place Lanthir had been looking earlier.
But all Gyda's sees his an empty balcony covered in ivy.
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ELVISH TRANSLATIONS
dilthen meathor — little warrior
Hanta — thank you
Naneth — mother
Amatulya — greetings / welcome