The Rohan Pride Trilogy
Part One: Alone
Book One
By:WhiteLadyOfTroy
Summary:
When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.
About the Trilogy:
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. The Fellowship of the Ring had two books within the text, as did The Two Towers and The Return of the King. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where The Fellowship of the Ring started.
About Chapter Nine:
As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth. This chapter, you will meet a character that you will recognize. No, I'm not telling who they are. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. In addition, let me tell you this: Originally, I intended for chapters nine and eight to be the same chapter; however, it came out to a whopping twenty pages! Uh-uh, no way. So I cut it in half.
Chapter Nine
Immediately, Cobryn pulled Abaudia to the side and started whispering to her as the slaves poured down the steps leading to the ground, looking around periodically to make sure no one was listening to their speech. Gúthwyn could not hear what words passed between them, but she could guess. The older woman's face was troubled, and would at times glance at the Rohirric twelve-year-old to her left.
Turning her head away from the pair, Gúthwyn focused her attention on Chalibeth, who until now had been marching silently, veiling whatever may have been running through her mind. "I cannot wait for lunch," Gúthwyn spoke. Chalibeth looked up, appearing to have been abruptly jerked from a pleasant memory, and Gúthwyn felt a twinge of guilt that she had been the one to bring her friend back to reality.
"Me neither," Chalibeth replied. "It is a relief to be out of the wizard's stifling fortress."
"Aye, I agree," Gúthwyn responded as they turned to the northeast, back towards their quarters. "It is—" At that moment, Feride, Lebryn, and Onyveth merged with the group.
"Cobryn!" Lebryn yelled, distracting the slave from his talk with Abaudia. "I found some sticks!" he continued, waving two of these objects around. They were a little bit longer than the length of his only arm, and relatively thick. "Now we do not have to stop if one of our other ones breaks!"
"After lunch, as usual," Cobryn responded, grinning as he did so. However, Feride did not look terribly happy.
"Do not broadcast your possession of these items!" she hissed at Lebryn. "Do you wish to get us all in trouble?" Lebryn pointedly ignored her, but it was noticeable that he spoke no longer of the sticks. Gúthwyn was confused; for the life of her, she could not figure out how two sticks served for entertainment purposes.
"What is going on?" she questioned Chalibeth, who also appeared pleased with Lebryn's find.
"We use those sticks for swordplay," she answered. "Sometimes Lebryn manages to steal some. Do you see that tall, gloomy forest behind the mountains over there?" She pointed over the stone ring that encircled part of Nan Curunír, the Wizard's Vale, also known as Isengard. From where she stood, Gúthwyn could espy the line of green that loomed in the distance. From her studies, she realized that this was the Fangorn Forest, the dark region of wood that marked the borders of the Riddermark.
"Yes," she affirmed, "I do."
"Once every week or so," Chalibeth explained, "the master sends his more faithful servants there, and they chop down the trees and use their remains to fuel the numerous fires that need to be kindled for his evil purposes. Once in awhile, however, one of these beings, usually an Orc, is careless enough to drop some of his load, and then we will gather them.
"Then, when we have some free time, we will practice sword fighting. It is quite fun; you should try it," Chalibeth suggested. Gúthwyn smiled, remembering her all-too-brief training period.
"I have," she responded, "although I had no time to become as good as the rest of my family." Chalibeth gave her a sympathetic look.
"Perhaps Lebryn and Cobryn would be able to aid you. They are easily the best out of all of us."
"Lebryn?" Gúthwyn repeated in surprise. "But he does not have the use of his right hand!" She had, of course, heard rumor of a great Noldorin prince who had been in a similar predicament, and had learned to wield a sword with his left hand more deadly than he had with his other. But Lebryn was not royalty, nor an elf: he was a mere slave.
"Times were hard, when it was bitten off by a Warg two months ago," Chalibeth reminisced, lowering her voice so that Lebryn could not hear them. By now, they were nearing the dwelling. "But you forget that the young learn easier than the old. And if Lebryn had not been able to get along with his disability, he would have been killed, since he would have been no use to the wizard's workforce. Such is the mercy of Saruman the White.
"Cobryn had to teach him everything. But it was much harder for Lebryn, who had to relearn everything that his right arm had naturally done."
"That is amazing," Gúthwyn agreed, wondering if she would have had the strength to do such a thing.
Their discussion was brought to an end as they reached the door that led into their clan's home. Opening it, Feride was the first to enter the area beyond.
"Here we are at last!" she announced, to the ragged cheers of some of the workers.
"Lunch!" Onyveth piped up, her hand on her stomach in a symbol of hunger as she sat down on her makeshift bed.
"Yes, I expect that we are all in need of sustenance," Abaudia replied. "Gwollyn, Regwyn, may I ask you two to retrieve our lunch?" The brethren nodded, turning swiftly back out of the room and disappearing from sight.
Gúthwyn watched them as their backs grew to mere dots in the vast expanse of Isengard, thinking of the treatment that had been bestowed upon her and Chalibeth by the hands of the guards. She found herself praying for the safety of the two boys, although she had been assured that her status as a new slave singled her out as an easy target.
Besides, Gwollyn and Regwyn are male, she reminded herself. Somehow I doubt that the sentinels would behave the same way towards them.
"Are you coming in?" Chalibeth queried gently. Gúthwyn jumped: she had been standing in the doorway, and her back was to the inside of the dwelling.
"Yes, I am," she hastily replied. Guessing her worries, as she was skilled at doing, Chalibeth spoke once more.
"Do not fear for Gwollyn and Regwyn. They will be fine." Gúthwyn smiled at her friend, glad that they could share company. "Now come, let us rest before our meal is brought to us." Looking back inside, Gúthwyn saw that the other slaves lay upon their cots, their eyes closed in peaceful relaxation. The daughter of Éomund, however, did not feel the need for a nap, as she was nowhere near tired.
"Must we?" she wanted to know.
"What else is there to do?" Chalibeth whispered so as not to disturb the rest of the group. Gúthwyn had to admit that there was some truth in her words. Unlike Meduseld, what lay beyond the shelter of any structure was feared, for there the servants of Saruman ceaselessly patrolled the grounds. Orthanc, the forge, and the Warg stables were places of work, not play, and there was no room for any activity that might be contrived in the dwelling of any slave clan.
Chalibeth, herself, desired nothing more than to cast herself on a large, queenly mattress and fall into a deep sleep for at least a year. She understood well Gúthwyn's energy, for her friend had not been here very long. But upon the master's laborers a great weariness of life itself eventually fell, until every waking moment seemed to last an eternity. This lethargy was evident in Abaudia's eyes, and Chalibeth was surprised that the older woman had any will to live. Onyveth, she supposed, having been brought here this year, was one of the factors that kept their healer from traveling the road of the dead, a path that all of them would eventually take.
"You are right," Gúthwyn sighed, unaware that she had just interrupted Chalibeth's musings. Nodding, Chalibeth went back indoors, Gúthwyn trailing behind her. The new slave's steps were now slow and miserable, betraying the desires of the Rohirric girl. All I wish to do is run in a wide, open field with my family beside me, she informed a nameless deity. Perhaps she was praying to Bemá himself, he that is Oromë, Huntsman of the Valar, but who knew whether he was listening? Is that so much to ask? she thought desperately.
Apparently it was. Her request was not granted as she lay down, her head falling onto the crude pillow of rags. Indeed, those of the Undying Lands had long ceased to be terribly concerned with the affairs of the inhabitants of the Mortal Lands, not since the War of Wrath, in which the host of the West ultimately threw down Morgoth Bauglir and banished him to the Void.
Unexpectedly, a strong gust of wind blew outside, trapping the countless dust particles and whipping the ashes up into the air and in all directions. The gale roared through the window and into the home of the Mûlnothrim. Directly underneath what really was a square hole, Gúthwyn choked and gasped for cleaner air. The other workers were not unaffected, and it was quite some time before everyone was breathing regularly.
Abaudia, in particular, was encountering numerous problems with these events as age leaned more heavily upon her. She was the last to recover, her hacking cough a source of nervousness from Cobryn, who had leapt up to be at her side when she appeared to be in trouble.
"Breathe," he instructed her soothingly, his hands reassuringly placed on her shoulders. "There you are, take it easy…" Everyone in the dwelling was watching, fearing for her safety. However, their anxiety was unnecessary, and after a few tense minutes Abaudia was fine.
"There is still some life in me yet," she smiled. "But that one had me worried."
"I have not seen such a storm in a long time," Feride added. Gúthwyn observed this exchange with a heavy heart. If she did not die from the taxing work of her duties, then surely the ash-filled wind would be the end of her.
A few seconds later, Gwollyn and Regwyn came back, each clutching a large parcel and a small container. Cries of delight arose amongst the clan as they deposited their effects in front of Abaudia's bed.
"Yea, it is stew!" they exclaimed triumphantly as one, wiping their soiled faces on their sleeves.
Stew! Gúthwyn repeated to herself. This is much better than yesterday! For Saruman was no fool. He knew that by offering his workers no morning meal, they would have to receive a good-sized lunch. Despite the fact that it consisted of the same stale bread as that of dinner, and poorly made soup, it was a feast for the slaves who had long forgotten the taste of food from their homes.
In addition to the three loaves, inside the packages were nine tiny, wooden bowls, messily thrown on top of each other, but dishes nonetheless. This is amazing, Gúthwyn marveled. I did not know that such food was ever offered to lowly laborers.
"Calm down!" Abaudia exclaimed. "Seat yourselves!" Those who had risen up in excitement now sat back on their cots as quickly as they had gotten up. "Now I will divide everything evenly." As she began to do so, first ripping the bread into thirds, Gúthwyn became aware that they were all, except perhaps Cobryn and Feride, staring greedily at the food, not unlike famished dogs that are forced to endure the torment of watching their masters eat mightily at a banquet.
Somewhat uncomfortable with this image, Gúthwyn remembered her manners and looked away, busying herself by absent-mindedly playing with her tunic. She smiled at the border lining the bottom: like green grass it was, over which horses ran as free as the eagles that dwelt in high-up crags of the Misty Mountains.
Glancing up, Gúthwyn saw that Abaudia had begun handing out the provender, starting first with the younger ones and working her way up. When she approached Gúthwyn, the daughter of Éomund thanked her kindly and took her share.
"Your welcome," Abaudia replied. Gúthwyn examined the contents of her portion of the stew. Realizing that she had not been given a spoon, she located Abaudia by Cobryn's cot and was about to ask for one when she noticed that no one else had one.
"You may begin," Abaudia announced as she sat down with her own share. Instantly the humans dug into their lunch, ravenous with a burning hunger that had gnawed at them for the whole morning. Not a sound was heard other than that of mouths busily chewing or slurping up the soup.
We are savages, Gúthwyn thought with an ironic smile, thinking about the Orcs who were eating unmentionable meat in their own maggot holes. The only ones who did not leave something to be desired in their eating habits were Feride, Cobryn, and Abaudia. Gúthwyn and Chalibeth, being but twelve years of age in comparison to them, were somewhat messier, although more refined than the younger children.
Three places away from her, Onyveth was having some trouble with her broth. The bowl had been filled up to the brim, and as she brought it to her mouth, her hands shook and over half of the lukewarm contents spilled out upon her lap. Her lower lip trembled, and she began wailing in frustration.
"It is all gone!" she shrieked. Gúthwyn's heart went out to this child, and, knowing that Onyveth needed the nutrition (such as there was) more than she did, she stood up and strode over to the girl.
"You may have mine," Gúthwyn offered, holding it out with two hands. "I am not hungry." Onyveth's eyes went as wide as saucers as she accepted the replacement.
"Thank you!" she said.
"Your welcome," Gúthwyn responded. "It is not full, so you should have no problem with it." Although it was masked by the noise of the surrounding diners, her stomach growled in disapproval about what she had just done.
"You did not need to do that," Chalibeth muttered as Gúthwyn sat back down on her thin mattress. "She will be expecting more help from you in the future."
"No," Gúthwyn answered. "Her bowl was too full. I do not think this will happen again."
"All right." Chalibeth ended the conversation with a shake of her head, clearly disbelieving Gúthwyn's words. And she has every right to, Gúthwyn reminded herself. She has been here longer than I.
"Is anyone ready for some water?" Abaudia questioned the group, holding up the other bucket that Gwollyn and Regwyn had brought in. A chorus of assent rippled through them in response, and Feride took the container from Abaudia and started making the rounds.
As before, the drink was taken in the hands, there being no cups to hold it in. Gúthwyn was glad that she had not been assigned to duty in the forge, for she was not as grimy or filthy as she had been the day before. Although, she thought ruefully, I doubt that the dirt has all gone away. Does anyone bathe here? Even as she contemplated the idea, her nose scrunched up in disgust, as if she could smell a foul, reeking odor emancipating from everyone.
Feride came to Gúthwyn, who was all too happy to be able to pour liquid down her throat. The bread had made her mouth dry, and, unlike in Edoras, where she had had everything brought to her instantly when she desired it, she had been forced to wait.
"Thank you," Gúthwyn spoke as Feride deposited some water into her cupped hands.
"Your welcome," Feride replied, moving on to Chalibeth.
"Now can we swordfight?" Lebryn begged after the last person had received their share of drink. "Please?" This word brought a smile to Feride's lips, something that rarely happened. Then again, Lebryn being polite when voicing his wants was just as unusual.
"Yes, get the sticks," Cobryn responded.
"Finally!" Lebryn cheered, hopping off of his cot and nearly diving underneath it. In a few seconds, he had emerged, proudly holding the two strips of wood he had found earlier. Gúthwyn saw that there were a couple more under his makeshift bed. "Can I go first?" Lebryn pleaded, an innocent look upon his face suggesting that he had never disobeyed his elders.
"You may," Cobryn laughed. Lebryn grinned ecstatically, and Gúthwyn could not help but feeling amused.
"I want to fight with you!" he challenged.
"Keep in mind that we have only half an hour left," Feride cautioned them.
"Do not worry," Cobryn assured her easily as he took one of the sticks from Lebryn. Positioning themselves in between the two rows of cots, they were allowed a little less than two feet's width of dueling space, and ten paces in length. How they will manage this is beyond me, Gúthwyn thought, leaning forward to get a better view.
From the far end of the room, she heard Gwollyn and Regwyn's voices rise up together. "On guard—begin!" The atmosphere became energized as Cobryn and Lebryn moved backward and forward across the room, each waiting for an opening in their opponent's defense.
Suddenly Lebryn aimed a low, sweeping strike at Cobryn's knees. Easily jumping over it, the young man brought his crude weapon down towards Lebryn's head, where the boy neatly blocked it.
"Get him, Lebryn!" Gwollyn and Regwyn cheered. Across from them, Onyveth was making her own racket, although whom she wanted to win no one could tell. Gúthwyn noted that, other than Chalibeth, who appeared to be enamored with this activity, the rest of the women only looked politely interested, and occasionally rather bored.
Meanwhile, the fight between Cobryn and Lebryn was becoming intense. Cots were now fair game as Lebryn climbed onto Onyveth's, much to her glee, seeking for more height. From there, he was able to meet his stick with Cobryn's and send all strikes downward, which would eventually leave his adversary's head open for a "beheading," a move signaling the end of the fight and Lebryn's victory.
However, Cobryn had the advantage, and everyone knew it. The older slave had much more experience, and had more strength and stamina than Lebryn. In addition, his longer arms enabled him to reach further than the boy could, and height always helped anyone. Already Cobryn's fierce strikes were becoming more difficult for Lebryn to deflect, and the boy was slowly, yet surely, tiring.
Almost faster than the eye could see, Lebryn dove off of the bed and aimed a swift jab at Cobryn's stomach. With astounding reflexes, Cobryn met the stick with a blow that knocked Lebryn's makeshift sword clean out of his hands. Time seemed to slow as the wood flew through the air and over Abaudia's head, its flight broken by the wall nearest the door. It fell, clattering, to the ground, and Gúthwyn knew that the end was near.
Lebryn attempted to scramble to his right to retrieve his stick, but Cobryn swung his own downward and it landed across Lebryn's neck.
"Would you like a hand up?" Cobryn questioned, over the cheering of the other workers. Lebryn shook his head, but he was not nearly as furious as Gúthwyn had expected him to be. It seemed that sword fighting was Lebryn's one passion in life, and he appreciated that he had to play by the rules.
After Lebryn had gotten to his feet, the two grasped each other's arms in the fashion of warriors, much like Gúthwyn had seen Éomer and his friends do when they were younger and learning how to use weaponry.
"Who wants to go next?" Cobryn inquired, looking around for a volunteer.
Almost instantly, Gwollyn and Regwyn had stood up. "We will!" they offered. Relinquishing their sticks to the brothers, Cobryn and Lebryn sat back on their cots, leaning against the wall and regaining their strength.
This time, it was the voice of Chalibeth that said, "On guard—begin!" Wasting no time with sizing up their enemy, as Cobryn and Lebryn had, Gwollyn and Regwyn rushed into the fight. They have much room for improvement, Gúthwyn observed with a sharp eye. Although many clumsy errors were made on each side in the time span of a few minutes, neither of them seemed to know how to gain the upper hand.
"A quarter of an hour left," Feride warned after the two had been sparring for a short period. At this, Regwyn looked up, a distraction that Gwollyn used to lightly place his stick on his brother's throat, effectively terminating the skirmish. Onyveth shrieked with joy, although it seemed like she had not seen who had won.
Chalibeth groaned. "It is always a pattern," she muttered to Gúthwyn. "Last time, it was Regwyn, before that it was Gwollyn, and prior to that, Regwyn was triumphant. Although how they organize that I do not know."
"They will not benefit from pre-arranged battles," Gúthwyn sighed. "It is too bad."
"The pair are inseparable," Chalibeth continued. "In my time here I have not once seen them apart."
"Gúthwyn!" they heard Lebryn cry. Once more he stood in the middle of the dwelling, waving the two sticks in the air.
"Excuse me?" Gúthwyn queried as she and Chalibeth looked up.
"Your turn! I want to fight you," Lebryn stated. The look in his eyes was easy to read: he wanted to win, and that was why he had chosen her. Gúthwyn blushed with embarrassment and anger, but she knew that he was right. One lesson was not enough to turn her into an expert wielder of a sword.
"Are you coming?" Lebryn asked impatiently. Gúthwyn glanced at Chalibeth who nodded encouragingly.
"It ends when a 'sword' is pointed at someone's neck," Chalibeth informed her. Nervously, Gúthwyn rose to her feet and walked to the middle of the room, an action that took hardly a second to complete. Lebryn handed her one of the strips of wood and she shifted it to her right hand, experimentally swinging it through the air to test it out. She was not fond of it.
Well, my weapon is only a stick, Gúthwyn thought, her heart pounding as she looked at Lebryn. He wore a smirk upon his face as he calmly moved into a defensive position. Following suit, Gúthwyn met his eyes. If nothing else, she decided, I will beat him in a staring contest.
"On guard…" Cobryn's command registered dimly in her head as the slaves, one by one, disappeared, until the only two people left in the room were Lebryn and her.
She never heard the word 'begin'. Lebryn lunged at her, using a downward slash that was meant to cut across her ribs. As she barely managed to block it, everything that she had learned with her family came back to her, as if it had been a day ago. When Lebryn came at her again, this time with a sidestroke, she leaned out of the way and neatly parried the following blows that were aimed at her.
Gúthwyn was surprised that she had not lost yet. I suppose I was taught better than I realized, she mused. Jerking her out of her thoughts, Lebryn jabbed his stick towards her stomach, a strike that she avoided just in time. Concentrate! her mind screamed at her. Narrowing her eyes, Gúthwyn decided to move on the offensive side. Dodging what was meant to be a stab to her side, she thrust her stick in between Lebryn's right leg and a cot, turned it so it was resting against the back of his calf, and pulled hard.
Lebryn's knees buckled, and he fell to the floor, but he was up instantly, and Gúthwyn had no time to claim her advantage. Enraged that the new slave was not going to be as easy to defeat as he had hoped, he lashed out at her with a series of attacks that were quite beyond Gúthwyn's skill to stop. She found herself being forced to the back wall, still desperately trying to impede his angry assaults.
Suddenly, their sticks met together and held, bringing their faces mere inches apart. Beads of sweat were forming on their foreheads, and both were short of breath. They stood there for a moment, blood pounding in Gúthwyn's ears as she searched for a path to victory. She knew she was outmatched, even though Lebryn had in theory 'lost a limb,' but still she looked. Slowly, Lebryn's mouth stretched into a smile that Gúthwyn could not figure out. Quizzically, she stared at him.
In two seconds she was lying on her back, her wounds from the Orc's whip agonizingly stinging in protest. Lebryn had wrapped his foot around her ankle and yanked it upwards, causing her to fall to the ground. It was a dirty trick, but she had done a similar maneuver, and therefore had no right to complain.
She struggled to regain her feet before Lebryn could end the fight, but the pain slowed her down and Lebryn poked her, not so gently, at the base of her neck.
"I win," he pronounced haughtily. Instantly, the occupants of the dwelling returned to her vision, applauding at the entertainment their lengthy clash had brought. Unlike Cobryn, Lebryn did not offer her a helping hand, and instead turned away, leaving her to fend for herself. Gúthwyn got up, making every effort to mask the discomfort her back was causing her.
"Good job," she complimented Lebryn, but he did not look back at her. Shrugging her shoulders, she made to go sit back down, but before she could, Feride gasped and said,
"We must be going!" Instantly the whole clan was on the move, surging towards and out the door. Once again, Gúthwyn found herself next to Chalibeth as the group strode down the path.
"You did well with Lebryn," her friend commented. "Have you trained much before?"
"No," Gúthwyn replied. Then she frowned, and restated her sentence. "Well, a little, actually. On my twelfth birthday I received one lesson from my family, and that was it."
"Lebryn was certainly surprised that you did not go down as easily as he, and, I am sorry to admit it, the rest of us, thought." Gúthwyn looked at Chalibeth with an unhappy face, but then she sighed, knowing that it was not their fault.
"That is all right," she replied. "It has happened before." As she spoke, an image of Tun when he was eight, the same age as Lebryn, came flashing into her head. Tun… he had been her best friend for so long. She wondered how he had felt when news had reached the common people that Gúthwyn, niece to the king, had been taken captive. Perhaps he has already found another companion, she thought, her shoulders sagging at the very idea. Although, who could blame him if he did?
"What is wrong?" Chalibeth asked, noting the sad, wistful expression on Gúthwyn's face.
"I am just remembering one of my friends," the daughter of Éomund responded. "I wish I could have seen him before I was taken from my family." Chalibeth nodded, but wisely chose not to press the matter. Changing the subject, she asked, "How has your first full day been so far?"
"It has been fine, with the exception of the Serpent." Gúthwyn shivered as she thought of their brief encounter in the dark study. As she spoke, the group began circling around Orthanc. A cluster of Orcs watched their progress from nary two yards away, their backs to the mountains as they jeered at them with hoarse laughs and crude speech. Onyveth looked frightened, and she clutched Feride's leg tightly. This action amused the Orcs, and one of them strode forward to the clan and planted himself in front of the pair.
"Scared of my troop?" he questioned tauntingly, leaning close to the young girl, allowing her a full view of the many scars that crossed his flesh and his yellowed teeth caked in dry blood. Onyveth screamed in horror, and Feride picked her up, determinedly walking away from her tormentor. The expression on her face, however, said that there was nothing she would have liked to do better than to march back and murder them all.
"Ignore them," Chalibeth warned Gúthwyn as they, in turn, passed the band of Orcs. Gúthwyn did not reply, but she could not stop her fists from clenching by her sides in her disgust at their antics. Terrorizing a child for their own entertainment is awful, she thought, her eyes on the now sobbing Onyveth.
Before long, they had entered the fortress and were starting their duties. Cobryn, recalling Gúthwyn's discomfort at the hands of Gríma the Serpent, tactfully gave her another area of the fourth floor to work on. But it was an unnecessary act of kindness, for Serpent Tongue made no appearance to trouble them that afternoon. The three hours, though long and tedious, passed by without event, and soon the slaves were heading back down the stairs and outside.
The Orcs had disappeared while the group worked. Gúthwyn was grateful for this, as she, Cobryn, and Chalibeth had finished earlier than the rest of the Mûlnothrim, and were returning to the dwelling alone. The mid-afternoon sun was struggling to pierce the noxious atmosphere, and Gúthwyn felt a few faint rays grazing the right half of her head.
In just moments, they had walked into the dwelling. Cobryn and Chalibeth immediately sat on their cots, hoping to scavenge a few moments' rest, but Gúthwyn retrieved one of the sticks that Lebryn had stowed under his bedding and twirled it around, performing the few basic strikes that she had learned.
"Do you take pleasure using weapons?" Cobryn questioned after awhile, as he observed her movements. Glancing up, Gúthwyn blushed.
"Yes," she started to reply. "Well, I have hardly learned how to wield a sword, but I enjoy it."
"I could teach you more," Cobryn offered, recognizing the potential that this girl had. When Chalibeth had joined the workers, he would have helped her as well, but though her hand-eye coordination was excellent and she was a fair opponent, she had never seemed particularly interested.
"Really?" Gúthwyn asked eagerly.
"Of course," Cobryn responded, glad to see such excitement in the twelve-year-old. "It would have to be during our lunch break, however, since that is the longest." As if to prove his point, the rest of the slaves came streaming in. Feride glanced around the room and then looked back at Cobryn.
"You should have gotten our meal," she informed the slightly older laborer. "We have scarcely half an hour in which to eat."
"Given the lack of food we receive, that is more than enough," Cobryn retorted, although not unkindly.
As Lebryn neared his cot, his eyes fell upon Gúthwyn, who was still holding one of the sticks in her hand. "What are you doing?" he demanded furiously, storming forward and snatching the object out of her hand.
"Lebryn!" Feride exclaimed. "Is it completely useless to attempt to discipline you?" But Lebryn made no answer, for he was still standing, his arms folded across his chest, waiting for a reply from the daughter of Éomund.
"I was practicing with it," Gúthwyn explained, bewildered at this attitude from the younger boy. This did not come across so well, and Lebryn stamped his foot on the ground angrily.
"You cannot do that! It is my stick, under my cot." Gúthwyn's cheeks became red, for she realized that he had a point.
"We share them," Cobryn corrected Lebryn. "Gúthwyn has every right to use them at her will."
"But, Cobryn!" Lebryn protested, pouting as he did so.
"What?" Cobryn prompted him to finish the sentence. Lebryn stood there for a moment, casting about for the right words, and then with a frustrated, suffering sigh threw the wood underneath his makeshift bed.
"Leave me alone," he growled at Gúthwyn, who was still uncomfortably standing five feet away. "I do not want to talk to you." Flushing with anger and embarrassment, Gúthwyn turned and strode back to her cot. Bending down, she adjusted the flimsy mattress. In doing so, her necklace slid out from underneath her shirt and hung over the ground. Straightening up, she placed it once more below her tunic and sat down.
"I would hide that well if I were you," Chalibeth cautioned Gúthwyn as Feride and Onyveth were sent outside to gather the clan's meager dinner. "Anything of value will be confiscated and handed over to the master." Gúthwyn paled, and instinctively she pressed her hand over her throat. The necklace was the only bit of home she had left, with the temporary exception of her clothes.
"You are right," she agreed, scanning the room to see if the other slaves had noticed anything unusual about her apparel. All of them were lying down, their eyes wearily closed, and had not seen or listened to the twelve-year-olds' exchange. Chalibeth followed their example, but Gúthwyn remained in a sitting position. To pass the time, she tried to remember all of the songs she had been taught when she was younger. One in particular remained fixed in her mind.
Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harp string, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
Gúthwyn sighed audibly. She thought now that Rohan was heading for dark times. Chalibeth held an intense dislike for her uncle's new councilor, and Gúthwyn believed that the hatred was well placed, whoever the man may have been. He seemed like Gríma—sword fighting had pushed her fear of him out of her mind for the time being, but she still remembered with terrifying clarity his stinking breath, and his roaming hands. Recalled every word that he had spoken. Could easily point out every place he had touched her, places that seemed now to be covered in irremovable dirt. And then, with a sudden flash of comprehension, she remembered.
Gríma Wormtongue is the king's advisor! She could not believe she had forgotten. She and her family had finished her sword-fighting lesson early because the man was to be inducted into Théoden's service. It was next to impossible to think that there were two men of the same name, living in the same region. But it cannot be, Gúthwyn thought to herself. My uncle would never allow such a man within nine leagues of his hall.
In the midst of her despair, Feride and Onyveth returned with the clan's meager meal. With only fifteen minutes to do so, the workers swiftly ate their food, and the only sound was that of muffled chewing. When everything had been cleared up, the empty parcels were handed back to Feride and Onyveth to dispose of on their way to the Warg stables. It was time to resume their duties.
Three hours later found the slaves returning, their footsteps dogged with slumber and exhaustion. Gúthwyn, though more awake than the others, was beginning to feel the strain of their labor, a weight that would gnaw upon the mind and spirit for countless years until the body could not even be moved to get up from their bed.
"I am ready for a long, relaxing rest," Chalibeth declared the instant they had entered the dwelling. Upon saying so, she threw herself on the cot, shut her eyes, and gave her consciousness up to the land of the oblivious. The others followed suit; Gúthwyn, however, did not fall asleep immediately. Darkness ensconced Nan Curunír, brought about faster by the relentless smog emitted from the forges. And still she remained, lying on her makeshift bed, craning her neck to gaze outside.
For one brief instant, she fancied that she had seen a small, sparkling object in the sky, its luminosity managing to penetrate the gloom that was manifest in Isengard. It must be a star, she mused. Once, a long time ago, someone had told her about them. They were created by a mighty queen, before the Ages of this world, she had heard. Whenever you see one, you should make a wish. But be careful! If you tell anyone of your desires, they will slip away faster than one of the Mearas bolting in fright.
At this she had giggled at the mental image, and her storyteller had enveloped her in a warm, loving hug. Gúthwyn did not remember their identity, but she liked to believe that it was her mother, Théodwyn as she had been in the days where sickness and grief had not yet taken her life.
Glancing back at where the glimmer of brightness had been, she closed her eyes. I wish I was back at home, she prayed. When that was done, she looked towards the heavens again. The star twinkled once more, and then disappeared with a flash of light. Content for the moment, Gúthwyn let everything darken around her, and cast herself into a place of dreams.