Chapter Ten

Later that week, Gúthwyn found herself in possession of not one, not two, but five different letters of congratulation on her impending marriage. The first of these arrived at breakfast with a messenger from Emyn Arnen; Éowyn's was effervescent, full of hope for her and Legolas, and concluded with a promise not to discuss anything with Haiweth until Gúthwyn had had a chance to do so herself.

Faramir also expressed his delight in the union. Long have I wished you joy, he wrote, and it gladdens me to know that you have found it in a man (or an Elf!) such as Legolas, whose quality and strength of character few can match. May he give you peace, and may your days with him be filled with light.

Gúthwyn was unexpectedly moved by his words, and it was some time before she could attend to her meal. At lunch, however, she was distracted by Éomer handing her two more letters, both bearing the royal seal of Gondor. And before she could open either of these, a messenger arrived from Helm's Deep, carrying one envelope for her and another for Éomer.

"You are quite popular today, baby sister," Éomer said in equal parts amusement and bewilderment. "Legolas, you also have something, here…"

Gúthwyn did not answer—her heart had spiked, thinking the letter from Helm's Deep might be from Hammel, only to plummet when she recognized Gimli's handwriting.

"I am afraid this is my doing," Legolas said as Elfwine peered over Gúthwyn's shoulder, trying to see who had written to her. "I told Aragorn and Gimli the news, though I impressed upon them that it was not yet common knowledge."

For a moment, a shadow crossed his face, swift and fleeting as a cloud across the sun; but Gúthwyn, already opening the envelope from Gimli, did not notice.

"Elfwine, it is not polite to read someone else's letter," Éomer said sharply, and Elfwine pulled back with a sigh of disappointment. Gúthwyn glanced up long enough to give him a gentle smile before returning her attention to Gimli's sturdy, angular penmanship.

Like Éowyn and Faramir, he began with congratulations and well wishes for the future. It took that stubborn Elf long enough, but finally he came to his senses. Much of this trouble could have been avoided, naturally, if he had listened to me two years ago when I told him to make his feelings known to you, though I do not seek acknowledgment for my foresight.

Gúthwyn grinned: she could imagine Gimli's voice with perfect clarity, as if he were sitting right next to her and listing his grievances with an exaggerated air of injury.

However, there are others who may be more inclined to appreciate my wisdom, and—if I am I right in thinking you are among them—I have a few humble words of advice to offer, specifically concerning King Thranduil. Having been a guest at his table on numerous occasions, I can assure you that his bite is every bit as strong as his bark, but know this: he cares greatly for Legolas, and if Legolas is happy with you (which, of course, he will be), he will learn to tolerate you. I am afraid there is little you can do to win that proud Elf over, and you should not feel discouraged if you do not succeed.

Gúthwyn privately thought there was no "if" about it—she had no expectations of developing any relationship with Thranduil, save for an uncomfortable sort of armistice between infrequent dining companions. Her only hope was that Thranduil would not be so cruel to her as he had been before, now that he had grudgingly resigned himself to her union with Legolas, and according to Gimli this seemed to be a possibility.

Aragorn's letter also included counsel, albeit not regarding Thranduil. If marriage is a garden, then love is not the only flower, and it is important not to neglect the others: friendship, goodwill, and trust. Of these, it is trust which takes the longest to nurture, and which requires the most care; yet without it, the garden will wither. Secrets will spread like weeds, choking out all other growth—those from the past often the most insidious, because their roots are buried deep. Yank them out into the light and do not let them fester.

Gúthwyn felt increasingly uneasy as she read this, and she was careful to keep the letter slanted away from Legolas and Elfwine. Was it her imagination, or was Aragorn urging her to tell Legolas about her time in Mordor? Did he know more than she thought, or had he merely guessed at the horrors she had endured there? And if she chose not to tell Legolas, would he do so himself out of loyalty to his friend?

It was with great trepidation that she opened Arwen's letter—after all, there was no one else closer in Aragorn's counsels. Skipping past the opening round of congratulations, she scrutinized the second paragraph, which read:

Now that you will be at the colony with Legolas, we shall once again be neighbors, and there will be many occasions for us to visit each other. As our husbands are fast friends, so I hope we shall be. I am looking forward to many an outing with your dear sister Éowyn!

Arwen's overtures, sweet though they seemed on parchment, left a foul taste in Gúthwyn's mouth. She felt, for no real reason that she could articulate, and certainly none that the Elven queen had ever given to her, that she was being collected, and that she and Éowyn were two parts of a prized set. Your dear sister, indeed!

She imagined all the times Éowyn and Faramir had visited the White City over the years, Arwen bending her head towards Éowyn at the dinner table, the two of them retiring afterwards to discuss whatever it was that wives talked about when their husbands were elsewhere. There had been many nights like this during the campaign against Harad; they had always invited Gúthwyn, but she had never been in the mood for company. It was Haiweth who had leaped when beckoned, Haiweth who had hung onto their every word…

Haiweth, not me, she realized suddenly, staring down at Arwen's letter through a haze of suspicion. The queen had already tried once to recruit Haiweth as her handmaiden, and no doubt she was only waiting for the right moment to ask again, when it would look churlish for Gúthwyn to refuse. And Éowyn agreed with Arwen—she could picture them talking behind her back, one of them suggesting that she might be more pliable if she spent more time in the city, if it could be made less unfamiliar to her. Maybe they had even consulted Haiweth, for Gúthwyn had been so foolish as to permit Éowyn to bring her to Minas Tirith.

"Auntie Gúthwyn?"

She jumped, and found herself looking into her nephew's puzzled eyes. "Yes, little one?"

"What did King Elessar and Queen Arwen say?" Elfwine asked, though she could not tell which had made him more curious—the letters, or her own behavior.

She could not help but glance at Legolas, wondering if he also had perceived something amiss in her expression, but to her relief he appeared to be lost in his own thoughts. Turning back to Elfwine, she forced a smile and folded up Arwen's letter. "I do not think you will find it terribly interesting," she said apologetically. "They wrote to congratulate me and Legolas."

As she had predicted, Elfwine's attention was not to be sustained by such mundane matters, and he quickly changed the subject to his afternoon plans with Onyveth. To her surprise, however, Legolas did not participate in the conversation; he seemed to be preoccupied, and only when Elfwine left to find Onyveth did he come back to himself and wave farewell.

Éomer left the table not long after, informing them that he had a meeting with Gamling; Gúthwyn waited until he was out of earshot before asking Legolas what was wrong.

He hesitated. "It is a small matter, and I am being foolish in giving it much thought."

"If it is troubling you enough to give it much thought, then surely it is not foolish."

Legolas smiled at that, but his gaze remained troubled. "I suppose you have not received a letter from my father? With any sort of congratulations?"

"No," Gúthwyn said in bewilderment. "Why?"

Legolas sighed. "Maybe it is nothing. I wrote to him once we were reunited—but the news may not have reached him until recently. And yet he knew that I was coming here, and that this time I was certain of success. He could have… yet perhaps he decided to await my word."

He was speaking lightly, as if it were of trifling consequence whether or not Thranduil had written, but Gúthwyn could tell it meant a great deal to him, and he desired assurance that his father would at least pretend to welcome her into the family. She suddenly hoped, though not for herself, that a messenger was riding from Eryn Lasgalen as they spoke.

"That must be what he has done," she said, wishing they were alone in the hall so she could take his hand. "There were so many misunderstandings between us"—she refrained from mentioning Thranduil's role in those misunderstandings—"and we were always being driven apart. He must want confirmation before he ventures any communication, which is prudent. Once your letter reaches him, he will write back."

Neither of them truly believed it, but Legolas looked at her with gratitude, and she suspected he might have been more demonstrative had there not been any servants nearby. Thereafter he seemed determined to put the conversation behind them, and he inquired about her plans for the rest of the day. They agreed to go on a walk down the main road, perhaps venturing down one or two of the smaller streets to see if they could catch a glimpse of Elfwine and Onyveth.

By the time they left the Golden Hall, Legolas's calm demeanor had been restored, and he devoted all his attention to their stroll—but Gúthwyn knew that his father's silence would not be so easily dismissed, and each day that went by without word from Eryn Lasgalen would be marked and remembered.

Three weeks later, the colors on Amrothos's neck had faded from the blues and purples of a thunderstorm at sea to the sickly greens and yellows of withering grass. Erchirion could not bear the sight, and during his watches he drew a blanket over it—but Elphir's gaze was drawn to it like a fish on a hook, and ever he wondered if Amrothos had felt anything or if he had already been unconscious by then.

No one knew when, or if, Amrothos would awake. In those first hours, of which Elphir could only remember nightmarish fragments, they had thought he would not last until sundown. When he did, they held their breath throughout that night, expecting each dark moment to be his last—but then morning had come, and still he slept, still he lived.

Yet he had never opened his eyes. Despite the healers' valiant efforts, he lingered in this state, neither rousing at their voices nor succumbing to death. They kept him alive by trickling equal measures of water and broth down his throat—only the smallest spoonful at a time. Every other hour, a healer emptied out the pan in his bed.

If the old Amrothos could see what this Amrothos had been reduced to, Elphir was certain he would have asked them to kill him on the spot. It was unbearable, watching him be treated like an infant; Erchirion could not endure it, and when the healers came he left the room or turned away to stare blindly at the sea. But Elphir and Imrahil forced themselves to watch, and in the worst moments Elphir would look across the bed and see his own horror and despair mirrored in his father's eyes.

There were no healers in the room now; it was just Elphir and Amrothos, the latter lying motionless in bed, propped up by an intricate arrangement of pillows. All of the windows were open—Erchirion insisted it would comfort Amrothos, and neither Elphir nor Imrahil had the strength to argue—and the sounds of the distant sea mingled with Amrothos's labored breathing.

Elphir was half keeping vigil, half dosing. Ever since that awful day, he had scarcely been able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. In his dreams, he ran up endless flights of stairs, desperate to reach Amrothos but never getting closer to his destination—only to abruptly fly through a door and discover he was too late. Then he awoke, drenched in sweat, fumbling for the covers so he could cast them off and check on his brother.

At some point he must have fallen asleep, for he jerked upright when the door opened, and he saw that the light from the windows had moved to different parts of the bedroom. His blinking eyes fell upon Lothíriel, who was directing a servant with a tray. The hour for lunch was over, and once again he had forgotten to eat.

"I brought some soup," Lothíriel announced, motioning for the servant to lower the tray onto the nearest table. "None of us are of any use to Amrothos if we cannot take care of ourselves."

She stated this matter-of-factly, without reproach, but Elphir knew her sharp eyes had seen how loose his and Erchirion's clothes were, how much greyer their father's hair had become. When she had first arrived, storming into the castle with a troop of exhausted-looking guards in tow, she had gone straight to Amrothos's side and stayed there for a full day and night; but she had realized, sooner than any of them save perhaps their father, that whether or not Amrothos awoke again was entirely out of their hands, and meanwhile there was little to be accomplished by waiting.

Without much protest from Imrahil, she had reasserted control over their household, as if she had not spent the past decade managing another. She marched down to the kitchens to arrange meals and market purchases; she wrangled with the servants over how often to change Amrothos's bedsheets; she fired off letters, scrutinized accounts, and consulted what must have been every book in the library pertaining to the treatment of illness. She even found the time to usher Alphros outside and accompany him on walks with Huan.

Elphir had not thought to ask Lothíriel how long she would be staying, and she had not volunteered this information. It occurred to him that she had rarely mentioned her home over the past week—at some point he had inquired about Elfwine, but he could hardly remember how she had responded, and Éomer's name had not come up at all.

"The soup is not going to eat itself, you know."

Drawn out of his reverie, Elphir saw Lothíriel raising her eyebrows at him. "You seem to enjoy ordering us around," he remarked, without venom, as he took the bowl and gazed with disinterest into its steaming depths.

Lothíriel made a noncommittal noise, then glanced at Amrothos. "He has not stirred." A statement, not a question.

Elphir shook his head. "Sometimes I fear…" He paused, then asked the question he knew he could not ask Erchirion. "What if he keeps going on like this? What if he never wakes up?"

The servant was long gone, but Lothíriel's eyes darted to the door, making sure they were alone. A rare trace of helplessness wound its way into her voice as she replied, "I cannot imagine… This is no life."

"No, it is not." A rush of misery swept through Elphir as he gazed at his brother: how could this be the same man who had once spent his nights carousing with women and wine, who had challenged him and Erchirion to contests of swimming, spear-throwing, and even fishing? Where had that Amrothos gone, and who was this stranger in his place? Why had he done this to himself, to them?

Lothíriel was quiet; she did not seem inclined to resume their conversation, as if by abandoning it they could pretend that they would never have to ask themselves if it was time for mercy. Instead they continued to watch Amrothos, Elphir silently pleading for him to wake up. Once he thought something in his brother's face had shifted, but it was only a trick of the light.

"Elphir?"

"Yes?"

Lothíriel hesitated, then asked, "I suppose you have not read your letter?"

There had been one for each of them, even Alphros. Elphir had kicked them aside in the heat of the moment, but someone, a healer or a servant, had gathered them up and brought them to Imrahil. Elphir knew Erchirion had read his, for he had wept all night afterwards; Lothíriel had opened hers the day of her return, though she had not revealed its contents to anyone. If Imrahil had also sought answers in his son's final words, he had not told them.

But Elphir had not so much as glanced at his. "I cannot bring myself to. Not until he is…" Better, he had wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat. "I would rather he told me himself."

Lothíriel gave an odd sort of smile at this, as though she were holding back tears. "I thought not."

He did not ask how she had guessed, or what Amrothos had said to her in his letter; he did not want to know. It had been awful enough reading Alphros's, which he had done as Alphros cried himself to sleep in his arms. I am sorry I was not a better uncle, Amrothos had written in a shaky hand. When you were born, I imagined I was going to be your favorite Uncle Amro, and I was going to drive your father mad by letting you run wild when it was my turn to watch you and teaching you enough swear words to make a sailor blush. Instead I have spent most of your years being a drunkard. I am ashamed of how often you have seen me in this state, and how kindly you continue to treat me even though I have failed you in every way possible.

Elphir turned away from Lothíriel, so that she would not notice his face contorting, and stared unseeingly at Amrothos's limp form. For a long time, neither of them spoke, and he was able to regain his composure. Hoping to avoid further mention of the letters, he asked, "How go things in Rohan?"

He expected her to be evasive; she had not wanted to talk to him in Minas Tirith, when it had been shockingly apparent that she and Éomer were estranged despite their efforts to pretend otherwise. Yet even before that, it had been years since she had given her husband more than a passing mention in her letters. Elphir had assumed it was a tactful omission, considering the sour note on which he and Éomer had last parted, but the stay in Minas Tirith had convinced him that something else was wrong—although he was at a loss as to what had come between them.

"They are well." Lothíriel answered carefully, as if measuring her words in precise quantities. "We are making preparations for the winter fair. I told Father—although I know it may not be possible"—her eyes darted to Amrothos—"that I hope you will all be able to come."

Elphir had given little thought to what might lie beyond Amrothos's current state, but he nodded absently; perhaps Alphros would like to visit his aunt and cousin.

Lothíriel paused, then added, "Gúthwyn is living with us again."

Elphir's stomach tightened. He had seen her in Minas Tirith, accompanying Éowyn and Faramir to welcome Éomer back—they had even dined at Aragorn and Arwen's table together, although they had been seated well apart. She had not tried to approach him again, yet the mere sight of her had been enough to resurrect every memory, each more painful than the last.

Unable to keep the bitterness from his voice, he said, "I suppose she found the Gondorians to be less tolerant of her behavior than Éomer."

He had heard, of course, about the incident some years past—Lady Gúthwyn and Prince Amrothos caught in yet another compromising position, this time in a crowded ballroom. It was truly shameless, and somehow Gúthwyn had avoided blame by once again insisting that Amrothos had detained her against her will. And Imrahil, defying all reason, had swallowed her preposterous story.

"Yes, well." Lothíriel frowned. "If truth be told, I am surprise she lasted as long as she did."

Elphir was too wrapped up in his thoughts to respond. How many hours had he wasted on plans to show Gúthwyn around Dol Amroth, helping her learn to love his home in the way that he knew she loved Rohan? How many nights had he lain awake, imagining all that they would do together as husband and wife? Sailing in the Bay with Alphros, sparring with each other in the courtyard, making love in the moonlight as the sea whispered outside their bedroom window… What a fool he had been. How she must have laughed at him, waiting so patiently for her!

And then, in a determinedly casual voice, Lothíriel said, "She will be getting married at the end of this summer."

The surprise of it caught Elphir like a blow in the stomach, and for a moment he could only stare at his sister. Finally, he croaked out, "What? To whom? Not to that—is it Cobryn?" It had to be him—the supposed "friend" with unlimited access to her bedchamber, who woke her in the morning and slipped behind closed doors with her at night. Elphir could not imagine who else would have her.

"No, it is not him." Lothíriel seemed rather uncomfortable, and she could barely look Elphir in the eye. "It is Prince Legolas."

He almost thought it was a joke, but Lothíriel's expression said otherwise. "Legolas? The Elf?"

Lothíriel nodded, swallowing. "He has… had an attachment to her for many years."

Now Elphir was rummaging through a different set of memories, searching for any interactions between the two of them, wondering what signs he had missed. He thought he had seen them dancing together on one or two occasions, but he had always assumed the Elf was either ignorant of the rumors or merely being polite. He would never have guessed—for an Elf to take a mortal as a bride, and moreover one so plainly unsuitable as Gúthwyn—what madness had enthralled him?

"You never said anything," he finally managed to Lothíriel, who was watching him closely.

He could see the guilt in her eyes. "For a long time, I believed his attentions to her were unnoticed and unreturned," she tried to explain. "When she left for Ithilien, I would have sworn on oath that she did not consider him as anything more than a friend, and that he had no intention of making his feelings known. And I remembered that she had not always held him in esteem—when I first came to Edoras, I thought she hated him from the way she avoided him. It was very odd."

It was, but Elphir paid little attention to it—his mind was still reeling from the news, and his stomach was faring little better. He had spoken to Prince Legolas on only a couple of occasions, yet he had perceived in him a nobleness of bearing, a quiet yet unmistakable strength of character. Could this same Elf have been taken in by a woman who had whored herself out to half her brother's men?

Perhaps Elves did not care about such matters; perhaps they looked for other qualities in their spouses. Although he did not often allow himself to dwell on Gúthwyn's recommendations, he remembered how impressed he had been with her swordsmanship, her unaffected manners, and her kindness towards Alphros. Was that what Legolas saw, allowing him to turn a blind eye to all else?

But the truth could only be ignored for so long. On their wedding night, she would come to him not as a blushing bride, but as a wanton who knew exactly when to open her legs, when to reach for him, when to guide him inside of her…

Suddenly he felt sick. "I am going for a walk," he announced, setting aside his uneaten soup. Lothíriel glanced at him in surprise and tried to say something, but he strode out of the room and closed the door behind him. With no destination, only the desire to forget the images that had poisoned his mind, he began to walk.

He wandered aimlessly down halls and staircases, pausing every once in a while to look out a window at the ocean, yet drawing no comfort from its familiar presence. He had never regretted breaking off his betrothal with Gúthwyn, but to this day he could not understand how he had been so wrong about her, or how cruelly she had betrayed him with his own brother. It was a small consolation that he had discovered her true nature before being bound to her by marriage, and that she had not been able to bring her licentious ways to his court.

In those first few weeks after reading Lothíriel's letter to Amrothos, in which she had divulged Gúthwyn's behavior and begged Amrothos to inform him before it was too late, he had sometimes wished that he had never found out, that he could have carried on in ignorance until their wedding day. The woman described in Lothíriel's letter was so unlike the woman he admired, he almost could not reconcile them as the same person.

But he had seen her encouraging Éomer's men, surrounding herself with them and giving them her favor; holding hands with Cobryn in plain view of the entire city; pinned between Amrothos and a wall, her eyes closed as if in ecstasy while Amrothos stroked her breasts. The memories pursued him, sharp and cruel as the mountain wind, and he almost wanted to go back to Amrothos's room and help him finish what he had started…

"Elphir? Is something wrong?"

Elphir stopped in his tracks; for the first time in several minutes, he became aware of his surroundings. He had somehow wound up in the Princes' Gallery, a long hallway filled with portraits of the previous rulers of Dol Amroth. Standing before a painting of Galador was Imrahil, looking at him in concern.

"No, I was just—visiting Amrothos."

Imrahil sighed. "No change?" he asked, more out of habit than expectation.

Elphir shook his head. "Lothíriel is watching him now."

"It has been good to have her back this past week."

"It has." Elphir hesitated—Gúthwyn remained a sore subject between him and his father—but at length his curiosity got the better of him. In what he hoped was a casual tone, he asked, "I suppose you heard the news from Rohan?"

"Which news?"

Elphir could not tell if his father was sincerely unaware or if he knew and merely wanted Elphir to have to repeat it. Already regretting having spoken, he said in as offhand a voice as he could muster, "Apparently Lady Gúthwyn is marrying Prince Legolas."

"Oh, yes, I did hear about that. I was rather surprised." Imrahil fixed Elphir with a penetrating look, one he recognized all too well. "I hope you are not jealous?"

Elphir stiffened, and he fired back, "Of course not. What use have I for a woman who has so thoroughly exhausted her supply of Men, she must now move on to Elves?"

For a moment, he thought they would come to blows; the air between them crackled with tension, like storm clouds darkening a summer sky, and Imrahil's eyes blazed as if with lightning. "I will not tolerate such insolence in my presence. You are blinded by your anger, and you have placed far too much weight on whispers of no substance."

"Whispers?" Elphir echoed in disbelief. "And what are we to call my walking in on her and Amrothos in the stables? Hallucinations?"

Imrahil sighed, and the storm seemed to retreat; they were father and son once more. "I know how it must have hurt you to see the woman you cared about in an embrace with him," he said gently, and Elphir's jaw tightened. The horror of seeing his brother's hands upon Gúthwyn was all the more potent because he had been on the verge of giving her a chance to explain herself—and what was more, he might have forgiven her if she had been convincing enough.

"But do you truly believe," Imrahil went on, "that you misjudged Lady Gúthwyn's character so completely? Do you truly believe that she was a willing participant in Amrothos's game?"

"I saw the truth. I do not need you to tell me how to interpret it!"

"Then your vision is not what it once was."

The last thing Elphir desired was to rehash this old argument, to revisit yet again this eternal point of contention between them. Imrahil did not know that Elphir had given Gúthwyn every opportunity to tell her side of the story, only for his letters to be ignored; he did not know about the conversation Lothíriel had overheard between Éomer and Gúthwyn, in which Éomer had not seemed surprised in the least by Gúthwyn's admission that she was no longer a maiden.

How would you feel, Father, if I told you that one of your greatest allies saw fit to trick your son into marrying a woman of no virtue?

But he held his tongue. Imrahil possessed a seemingly limitless store of excuses for Gúthwyn's behavior and no doubt would come up with some ridiculous tale about Lothíriel sabotaging their betrothal—as if his own daughter was less trustworthy than a whore.

Instead, he told his father, "I will take my leave now."

He was almost at the end of the gallery, his hand stretched out for the door, when he heard Imrahil's voice behind him. "I noticed Amrothos's letter to you was thicker than all the others."

Elphir froze, then spun around to face him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Out of everyone in this family, it appears he had the most to confess to you."

And although Elphir had wondered about the discrepancy between his and his siblings' letters, Imrahil's suggestion filled him with fury. "There truly are no depths to which you will not stoop to defend Éomer's whore of a sister. Never mind what I saw in the stables. Never mind that she was the only woman I had ever been able to see at my side after Amarië, and she repaid my trust by breaking it in the worst possible way. I feel sick every time I think of her—she played me for an utter fool! Does that mean so little to you?"

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed open the door and vanished into the staircase.