His Queen

Chapter 62 - Alana

Alana couldn't breathe. It felt as though the air had been stolen from her lungs, leaving her gasping in a sea of suffocating grief. Her hands trembled violently as she gripped her cousin's cold, lifeless hand, the warmth that had once pulsed through Kitra's skin now gone. The stark chill of death clung to her like a cruel reminder of what had been lost.

Kitra lay limp in Aragorn's arms, her body broken and still. Aragorn cradled her gently, as if holding her too tightly might shatter her fragile form. His face, streaked with dirt and blood, was now marred by tears that streamed freely down his cheeks. He pressed his forehead against Kitra's, whispering words that Alana couldn't hear, words filled with love, sorrow, and desperate grief. His voice cracked, barely holding together as he clung to the woman he loved, a woman who had been taken from them far too soon.

The sight was unbearable.

Alana's chest tightened painfully, her heart hammering in her ribcage like it was about to explode. Each breath came in ragged, uneven gasps as the overwhelming weight of the moment crashed down on her, pressing her into the ground. The battlefield around them faded into a blur of distant noise and movement; all that existed was this moment—the heartbreaking stillness of Kitra's body, the unspoken agony etched into Aragorn's face, and the sharp, hollow ache inside Alana's chest that seemed to be ripping her apart.

Her fingers clenched around Kitra's hand, as if holding on to her tightly enough might bring her back, might somehow reverse the terrible finality of it all. But her cousin's hand remained limp, the warmth that once radiated through their shared bond gone, leaving only the cold, still silence of death. The absence was like a physical blow, and Alana's body shook with sobs she could no longer suppress.

"No... no, no..." Alana choked, her voice breaking as the tears spilled down her cheeks, mixing with the blood and dirt that streaked her face. "Kitra... you can't leave us. You can't leave me."

Her words fell into the empty air, lost in the chaos of the battlefield. Kitra didn't stir, didn't respond. She was gone.

Alana's vision blurred with tears as she knelt beside Kitra, her cousin's lifeless body cradled in Aragorn's trembling arms. The battlefield seemed distant now, the sounds of war drowned out by the deafening silence of loss. But then, through the suffocating fog of grief, something stirred in her memory—a distant echo of hope.

The vial.

Galadriel had given it to her in Lothlórien, a gift of great power, meant to be used in times of uttermost need. It had been a radiant token of light, a symbol of hope in the darkest of times. And this—this was that time. Kitra was slipping away, and there was no other way to save her.

Alana's heart raced as she scrambled to her feet, her hands shaking violently as she fumbled at her belt. Her fingers dug into the leather, desperately searching for the precious vial hidden beneath her tunic. The panic rising in her chest made it feel like time was slipping away too quickly, faster than she could react.

"I... I have something," Alana whispered, her voice thick with desperation, barely audible through the weight of her sorrow.

Aragorn's tear-filled eyes snapped up to meet hers, confusion and hope flashing across his face in equal measure. "What—?"

But Alana had no time for explanations. Her hands found the vial at last, the smooth, cool glass of it a small beacon of hope in her trembling grip. She yanked it free, her fingers clumsy with urgency as she uncorked it using her teeth. The cork popped free, and in her haste, the sharp glass edge cut into her lip. She barely registered the sting or the warm trickle of blood running down her chin; all that mattered was Kitra, whose life was fading too fast before her eyes.