Chapter Fourteen

Gúthwyn made the mistake of getting out of bed the next morning and immediately wished she had not. Every muscle in her body was aching, a testament to how unprepared she had been for her return to the training grounds. Her arms and shoulders were the worst of all: she could scarcely reach above her head, and she could not imagine how she was going to get dressed.

To stave off that unhappy trial, she hauled herself over to her desk and wrote a letter to Éowyn. Dearly missing her youngest nephew, she made numerous inquiries about Elboron's wellbeing and exhorted Éowyn to keep her updated on his activities. His birthday had passed recently, and Éomer and Lothíriel had sent him an adorable cape lined with embroidery and a matching pair of gloves; Gúthwyn had enlisted Haiweth and Cobryn to create a small book about the various animals of Middle-earth, and she hoped it would amuse him to look at the pictures.

When her letter was done, she resigned herself to removing her nightgown and changing into suitable clothes for the day. Her entire body protested at the exertions demanded of this simple activity, and she was wincing by the time her the garment fell to the floor. The thought of having to put on another dress, this one with stiffer fabric and constricting laces, was not in the least appealing.

Her eyes fell on Framwine, still resting atop her trunk, and she smiled. Borogor had once told her that stiff muscles needed exercise, not rest.

And I need them ready for when Tauriel comes.

Several minutes later, she entered the hall garbed in leggings and a tunic, Framwine hanging at her side. Spotting Éomer, Elfwine, and Cobryn at a table, she made her way over to them, trying not to cringe with each step.

Éomer grinned when he saw her hobbling towards them. "Good morning, sister. I did not realize you so enjoyed the taste of defeat."

"The sooner I return, the quicker I will taste victory," she answered, sitting next to Elfwine and ruffling the boy's hair.

Elfwine gave her an unusually distracted greeting, and she saw that he and Cobryn were staring intently at a piece of parchment, onto which someone—she guessed Cobryn, judging by their steadiness of hand—had drawn several short, horizontal lines. A couple of these had letters above them; below the lines was written an m and an e.

"What are you two doing?"

"Playing a game," Elfwine answered, his voice filled with excitement. "I have to guess the letters in Cobryn's word."

Gúthwyn looked at the lines. "Is that the word?"

"Yes, and it has eleven letters," Elfwine said proudly.

"That is a lot of letters," Gúthwyn replied, casting a doubtful glance at Cobryn, who shrugged.

"'Elfwine' was too easy for him."

"And I got 'Númenor,' Elfwine hastily added, lest Cobryn forget. "And 'Legolas' and 'Papa' and you, too, Auntie Gúthwyn."

"Well, someone here is very clever," Gúthwyn said with a grin. "What are the m and the e for? At the bottom of the page?"

"If he guesses a letter that is not part of the word, I add another letter in mearh," Cobryn explained. "If I spell it out before he guesses my word, I win. If he guesses it before I spell out mearh, he wins."

"B," Elfwine said suddenly.

With a smile and a shake of his head, Cobryn added an a to the letters at the bottom, and Elfwine groaned.

Gúthwyn watched them for another minute, Elfwine gradually filling in more of the lines with correct guesses. At one point Éomer leaned over to examine the parchment; he must have figured out the word, for he returned to his breakfast without another look. It took Gúthwyn much longer, and in the end she only worked it out a few seconds before Elfwine, whose triumphant cry of "Calenardhon!" rang through the hall.

Of course, Elfwine immediately wanted to play again, and Gúthwyn decided to leave him and Cobryn to it. Turning to Éomer, she asked him if he had seen Legolas that morning.

"Yes, he went to the archery range not an hour ago." Éomer shot her a curious look. "He seemed out of sorts. Is something wrong?"

Aware of Elfwine listening in, Gúthwyn hesitated before replying, "His father will not be able to come to the betrothal ceremony."

There was a loud thunk as Éomer set down his cup. "What?"

Gúthwyn cast a worried glance at Elfwine, who was now unabashedly eavesdropping. "He had already accepted the king of Dale's invitation to attend the midsummer festivities there."

"I have not had dealings with the king of Dale," Éomer growled, "but I cannot imagine he would be so unreasonable as to begrudge the absence of a guest whose only son was plighting his troth!"

"Auntie Gúthwyn, does Leggy's papa not like you?" Elfwine wanted to know. "Because you are a human? Is he like Leggy's friend Raniean?" While Gúthwyn was deliberating on the best way to answer, he added, "Does that mean he does not like me? Or Papa?"

"It has nothing to do with you, little one," Gúthwyn said firmly. "King Thranduil was very kind to you and your father when you met him. He is just…"

Éomer muttered something uncharitable under his breath, and she gave him a reproving glance. "Never mind that," she told Elfwine. "King Thranduil is concerned that Legolas will be upset once I die. If I were an Elf, he would not have this concern. He only wants what is best for Legolas."

Elfwine's clever eyes flicked between her and Éomer, searching for anything that had been left unspoken. After a moment, he looked back at her and said, "I think you are what is best for Leggy."

She was certain her heart melted; at the very least, her smile was so wide it hurt. "Thank you, little one. That means a lot to me."

As if that had settled the matter, Elfwine beamed and returned his attention to Cobryn, who exchanged one last look with Gúthwyn before he, too, bent his head over the parchment. While they were thus occupied, Gúthwyn frowned at Éomer, who remained unrepentant.

"He is insulting you, baby sister," he cautioned in a low voice. "Think of how noticeable his absence will be. And I am not just talking about what it will look like to our guests—what about the Elves in Eryn Lasgalen and at the colony? You are to be their princess, and yet their king refuses to acknowledge you. What sort of impression will that give them?"

"I know it is not ideal," Gúthwyn allowed, "but Legolas believes that the Elves who are likely to object to me are living in Eryn Lasgalen, not the colony. He says I will not have to deal with them."

Éomer was watching her skeptically, but she did not waver—she trusted Legolas, and she knew he would not let her walk unknowingly into a volatile political situation. "Besides," she continued, "it is harder on Legolas. He was quite hurt by his father's letter, though he tried not to show it. If I did not think it would make things worse, I would write to Thranduil myself and urge him to come for Legolas's sake."

"And what about the wedding?"

"I hope he accepts our invitation, though I fear he will not."

Éomer shook his head. "Perhaps it is for the best. If he is going to sit there and glower at you the whole time, then he is better off sulking in his halls. I will not have him insulting you here."

Gúthwyn made no reply, and Éomer, perhaps because of Elfwine's presence, did not raise the subject again. Eventually Elfwine and Cobryn finished their game, and Elfwine left to reunite with Onyveth, who had evidently promised to tell him a secret (although this information did not impress his audience as much as he had hoped). Since Éomer and Cobryn looked to be discussing council matters, Gúthwyn ate a light fare and then excused herself to go to the training grounds.

When Elfhelm saw her, a wide grin broke across his sun-worn features. "I had a feeling you would be back," he said, before turning around and shouting, "Éothain! What did I tell you?"

A moment later, the younger Rider appeared, casting a sheepish glance at Gúthwyn as he forked two coins over to Elfhelm.

"You placed bets on whether I would return?" Gúthwyn asked, not knowing whether to feel indignant or amused. With Éothain, she was more inclined towards the former. "You bet against me?"

Éothain reddened as he muttered, "You had a couple of hard falls, my lady. I thought perhaps you would want to rest today."

Gúthwyn could not find it in her heart to be truly angry with him, for she was well aware that her training schedule had been embarrassingly nonexistent over the past couple of years, and yesterday's fiasco would not have convinced anyone of her competence.

"At some point in the future," she warned him, "I will remind you that the House of Eorl is not to be so easily cowed. Until then, I am at Elfhelm's mercy. Shall we spar, my lord?" she asked the Marshal, who grinned as he pocketed his earnings.

Her words proved prophetic. Her former strength was still a tantalizing memory, as was her endurance, and although she knew how to meet each of Elfhelm's attacks, her muscles were slow to respond, every movement underscored with pain from the day before. Yet even this, as pathetic as it was, felt better than doing nothing; and when it was near to lunch, she left the training grounds in a state of cautious optimism. She was still nowhere near ready to face Tauriel, but she had managed to remain on her feet the whole morning, and that was a start.

While she was walking back to Meduseld, she saw Elfwine dart onto the road in front of her, his expression dark as a thundercloud. Wondering what had upset him, Gúthwyn quickened her pace, catching up to him just before the stairs. "Little one, is something wrong?"

"Auntie Gúthwyn!" His voice was filled with wrath, but it was not directed at her, and she had only an instant to guess at the real recipient when he declared, "I hate Onyveth!"

She blinked in surprise. "You hate Onyveth? She is your friend."

"Not anymore!" he cried hotly. "She is a foul liar and I never want to speak to her again."

Gúthwyn was all the more puzzled—she had only ever seen Elfwine this angry when she once made the mistake of calling Elboron "little one," and she could not imagine what similar transgression an eight-year-old girl might have committed. "What did she lie about?"

"You!" Elfwine's eyes flashed, a formidable echo of both his father and his mother. "She said terrible things about you and I told her they were not true and she said they were true and her papa told her—"

Gúthwyn stayed him by the shoulder before he could stomp up the stairs—whatever Onyveth had claimed, she knew she did not want the guards on the landing to overhear. "What did Onyveth say?" she asked, her mouth dry.

"She said you were a slave!"

His words were like a blow that she had only a split second to prepare for. "A-A slave?" she echoed, cursing herself for not having had the foresight to discuss this with Lebryn sooner.

"Yes!" Elfwine's hands curled into fists as he glowered at the memory. "She said that you and her papa and Cobryn were all slaves at Isengard when Saruman the bad wizard ruled there, and her papa got his arm bitten off by a Warg and your face got eaten, too, which is stupid because your face is still here!" He glanced up at her all the same, as if reassuring himself.

Gúthwyn felt frozen in place; her left cheek, to which she had given little thought in the years since the war, but was in fact still the slightest shade lighter than the other, suddenly throbbed in memory. Poor Chalibeth had fallen that day, and then… and then the darkness…

"Oh, little one," she said, for Elfwine was waiting expectantly for her denial, and in all his innocence she knew it would not have even occurred to him that Onyveth might be telling the truth. Yet he was perceptive beyond his years, and it would not escape his notice if she failed to dismiss Onyveth's charges.

And she wanted to. She wanted so desperately to look him in the eyes and assure him that she had no idea where Onyveth had gotten that silly notion from; of course she had never been a slave, and anyone who said otherwise was to be ignored. But the words she needed did not come, and she knew they never would.

Just as Elfwine's eyes were starting to narrow in confusion, she said, "Thank you for defending me. That was very kind of you."

It was agonizing to watch how swiftly the doubt in Elfwine's eyes faded. "Onyveth is a stupid liar," he scoffed. "Leggy is my favorite friend now."

Gúthwyn had to bite her lip to keep the tears at bay. "I am sure he will be glad to hear that. What say you we have a picnic for lunch, just the two of us?"

Elfwine readily agreed, and his excitement multiplied when she suggested that they leave the city—this meant bringing horses, and therefore a chance for him to show off his skill at riding. Between gathering all the necessary supplies and confirming with Éomer that they would not be missing any lessons (she did not think Elfwine would be inclined to inform her if this were the case), they did not set out until almost an hour later, and it was high noon when they rode past the gates, waving merrily at Balman.

Éomer had requested that a guard accompany them, and inconvenient though it was, Gúthwyn did not begrudge him this precaution for Elfwine's sake. Ceorl and Eanwulf had promised to remain out of earshot, and she knew they would keep their word.

When Elfwine had had his fill of racing across the plains (which took a surprisingly short time, and she suspected his stomach was the culprit), they spread a blanket on the same hilltop where they ate with Legolas, and Elfwine eagerly unpacked the food the cooks had given them. Gúthwyn was in no hurry to raise the subject of Isengard, so she asked Elfwine how his lessons were coming.

"I like sword-fighting and archery the best," he told her. "Leggy is my favorite teacher, but I like Elfhelm and Gamling, too. Did you know that soon I will fit into King Théoden's armor from when he was my age? Papa said I can wear it for practice so I will know what it is like to fight in a real battle!"

Gúthwyn smiled. She had heard about this from Éomer, and she had a feeling Elfwine would be disappointed by how long "soon" was—the suit in question had been commissioned for Théoden's tenth birthday as a present from his mother, Morwen. It was purely ceremonial, and since Théoden had been rather broad of shoulder, Elfwine had some growing to do.

"You will look very handsome," she said, "but I am sure your father warned you that it is much more difficult to fight with full armor. You may find that you cannot move as quickly as you are used to, and that you tire sooner."

Elfwine nodded, though he plainly did not believe that such difficulties would ever befall him. "Does Leggy wear armor?"

"I only saw him in armor once, at Helm's Deep," Gúthwyn answered. "Elves are quite fast and strong, so I imagine they do not need the same protection as Men."

Elfwine pondered this for a moment. "Auntie Gúthwyn?"

"Yes, little one?"

"How come you stopped fighting for so long? Was it because you were sad because of Leggy?"

Gúthwyn looked at him in amazement. Had she ever been so attuned to the adults around her when she was his age? She wondered how much of it was natural, and how much he had learned while tiptoeing around his parents. "I think that was part of it," she hedged, recalling how little she had desired to do anything after Legolas's departure for Dorwinion. "Yet also when I was in Ithilien I missed my home, and the training grounds and the soldiers here."

Elfwine's brow furrowed; she did not know if he was simply absorbing the information, or if what he had heard was not to his liking. "Does that mean you will stop fighting again when you marry Leggy? Because you will be going away with him to his home?"

"No, not this time," Gúthwyn assured him. "Tauriel will be coming with us to the colony, and I will need to practice every day if I am to have any hope of challenging her."

Elfwine straightened. "Tauriel is going to be there?"

"Yes, she will be the captain of my guard." Gúthwyn hid a smile, knowing well her nephew's interest in Tauriel—and it was only partly because of the Elven woman's skill with a blade.

Sure enough, Elfwine thought furiously for a few seconds, then asked, "Can I come visit you and Uncle Leggy? And Tauriel?"

"Of course you can—whenever you and your parents want. And Legolas and Tauriel and I will be visiting, too."

"Can you teach me Sindarin? So I can speak to all the Elves?"

Chuckling, Gúthwyn said, "I am sure Legolas would be a better teacher. You might already know more than I do."

Elfwine looked at her in alarm. "But how are you going to talk to the Elves?"

"I believe I will have a tutor," Gúthwyn ventured—she could not imagine Legolas would have the time to teach her when they were at the colony. "With any luck, I will not be a hopeless case."

"You have to learn," Elfwine said seriously. "Mama…"

"What about your mother?" Gúthwyn asked when he fell silent, staring down at the picnic blanket. "Little one, you can talk to me about her, I will never begrudge you that."

With a skeptical look, Elfwine muttered, "Mama says it is bad not to know how to speak to your subjects. She says I am lucky."

Gúthwyn inclined her head; she did not trust her brother's wife in most matters, but this was an area in which the queen had ample expertise. "I will do my best to learn Sindarin," she promised Elfwine, who was watching her worriedly. "And when you come to visit, you will learn as well."

This seemed to appease Elfwine, at least temporarily; the wrinkles smoothed out from his brow, only to form again in seconds. "Do you have to go away again? Mama says you do, but maybe she is wrong."

He gave her a hopeful look, and she had no choice but to disappoint him. "I am sorry, little one. You know Legolas is a prince, and he has to be with his people."

"He is not with his people right now."

Gúthwyn could not help but smile. "Not right now, no, but he cannot be away for too long. Once we are married, he will need to return. And I will go with him, just like your mother left her home to come here, and your aunt Éowyn left Rohan to live with Uncle Faramir in Emyn Arnen."

Elfwine mulled this over. "Mama says girls always have to leave when they get married, and boys do not have to. Is this true? Even when the boys are not princes or kings like Leggy and Papa? What if a queen marries? Does she have to go away and stop being a queen? If you were a princess, could Leggy stay here?"

"You are full of questions today," Gúthwyn remarked, buying herself some time as she scrambled to find the answers. "I think a queen would be an exception—her husband would have to come to her so that he could be the king. But otherwise the wife leaves her home to join her husband, whether he be in a faraway land or only two houses down the road. Not even a princess can stay."

Elfwine scrunched up his nose. "That does not seem very fair."

"No, it is not," Gúthwyn agreed quietly.

In the next instant, however, she wished she had not spoken, for Elfwine immediately fixed her with his sharp gaze. "Do you want to stay here instead of going with Leggy?"

She swallowed. "I would of course love to live here with him, if that were possible," she ventured, keenly aware that everything she said might be repeated to Legolas. "Since it is not, however, I will be writing many letters to you and your father. And I will look forward to when you can all visit."

Elfwine scrutinized her, his brown eyes peering up at her from beneath long lashes. Her forced cheeriness must have passed muster, albeit barely—he did not pose any further questions, but he looked rather disgruntled as he bit into his bread roll.

At length he brightened. "Does this mean that Onyveth will have to leave when she gets married?"

Gúthwyn forced herself not to look away from her nephew. "Elfwine, there is something I must tell you."

"What is it?" Elfwine lowered his bread, but she faltered, unable to find the right words. "Auntie Gúthwyn, what is it?"

She wondered what he would think of her, how she might sink in his estimation, if she told him.

It is not too late. You can still change your mind.

But it was too late. Elfwine's friendship with Onyveth would be damaged, perhaps irreparably, if she allowed him to continue believing Onyveth was a liar, and this was not fair to either Onyveth or Lebryn. Moreover, her disappearance from Rohan was public knowledge, and while few had ever dared to ask her about it, she suspected that many had guessed at least some of the details. It would not be long before Elfwine heard another whisper about her past, before someone else told him where his beloved aunt had been before the War.

There was nothing she could do, save speak. "Onyveth is not a liar. Everything she said is true."

Elfwine jerked back as if she had struck him; she prayed that it was in shock, not in disgust. "What?"

"It was a long time ago," she said quietly. "I was only a few years older than you when one of Saruman's servants kidnapped me and brought me to Isengard. That is how I met Lebryn—he was already a slave there, as was Cobryn."

She had not thought it possible for Elfwine's eyes to grow any rounder, but they did. For what felt like an interminable moment, speech utterly failed him.

Then he asked, "Cobryn was a slave?"

"Yes," she answered, trying to ignore the knots twisting in her stomach.

"And Onyveth's papa, too?"

"Yes, him too."

Elfwine looked directly into her eyes. "And you?"

Her voice was hardly above a whisper; she had tried to swallow her shame, and now it was choking her. "And me."

He continued to watch her, examining every aspect of her countenance with an intensity that was unnerving in a child of his age. Just when she thought she could bear it no longer, he asked, "Why did someone take you away? How come Papa and King Théoden did not stop them?"

"Your father never had a chance—he was shot with an arrow before anyone knew I was the target, as was Aunt Éowyn. Both of them fell to the ground as if dead. Indeed, it was not until I returned to Rohan that I learned they were still alive. As for Théoden…"

She paused, remembering how many years she had spent hating her uncle, and how their relationship had never recovered before his death. She did not know how long it would have taken her to forgive him, or if she would ever have come to love him again the way she had as a child.

Elfwine was still waiting for an answer, so she sighed and said, "He could not abandon your father and Aunt Éowyn. By the time he was able to ride after me, it was too late."

Elfwine's mouth turned into a small "o." "Were you scared?" he asked, and Gúthwyn nodded. "Did you see the wizard Saruman? Papa said he could control everyone with his voice."

"I did not see him often. Lebryn, Cobryn, and I spent most of our days cleaning, working in the forges, or feeding the Wargs."

"The Wargs?" Elfwine echoed in astonishment. "You fed the Wargs?"

Gúthwyn was unable to repress a shudder. "They were disgusting, repulsive creatures. I hope they all drowned when Isengard was flooded."

"Were you really bitten by one?" Elfwine blurted out.

"I was." Trying not to recall the horror of that day, she leaned over and turned her left cheek toward Elfwine. "If you look very closely, you might be able to see the scarring. It is very faint, and no one ever notices it."

It took Elfwine several seconds of scrutiny, but at last she felt his fingertip brush against the former center of the wound. "I think I see it," he said in awe. "Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore."

Elfwine continued to stare at her, his astonishment eventually fading into a more thoughtful expression. "Auntie Gúthwyn, how come you never told me this before?"

She tried to smile, but all that came out was a wobbling grimace. "Somehow you always manage to ask the difficult questions."

Elfwine's forehead wrinkled. "Is that bad?"

"It is good for you," she told him. "You are very perceptive, and that will be useful when you start taking on more duties as a prince. But other times…"

She paused, but the weight of Elfwine's gaze was too much to endure. "Little one, there are some things you are just too young to hear, though you may think you are old enough. And there are some things that are unpleasant even to grown-ups' ears. Yet I would be lying if I said I was only trying to protect you by not speaking of my time as a slave—I am also protecting myself so that I do not have to remember it."

"Because it is scary?" Elfwine guessed, and she nodded. "Are Cobryn and Onyveth's papa protecting themselves, too?"

"If Onyveth's father told her about Isengard, he must be willing to discuss it with her. But I do not think Cobryn likes to speak of it."

Elfwine went quiet, pondering this, and Gúthwyn used the time to brace herself for what she knew she had to do next. "There is something else I have to tell you," she began, wiping her clammy palms against her leggings. "Enough people know, or suspect, and I do not want you to hear this from someone else first."

Elfwine narrowed his eyes as she removed her right wrist brace, keeping the Enemy's brand out of view for as long as she could. Then, with a deep breath, she turned her palm towards him and revealed the foul Eye that had been branded onto her skin so long ago.

Her nephew gasped, and for the first time he looked frightened. "Auntie Gúthwyn, I have seen that before! In my bad dreams."

"Do you know what it is?" she asked in surprise, wondering if he had recently encountered it elsewhere—for the last time he had seen her wrist, he had still been learning to speak.

"No, but I hate it!" His declaration was filled with disgust, and Gúthwyn fought the urge to hide her wrist once more. "What is it? Why do you have it there?"

"It is the Eye of Sauron," she explained as calmly as she could. "It is the symbol he and his servants used. I have it because after I was a slave in Isengard, I was taken to Mordor and forced to be a slave there as well."

Several birds could have flown through Elfwine's mouth as he gaped at her; such was his horror that he likely would not have noticed. "B-But that is where the Dark Lord was," he at last spluttered. "In his tower! And the mountain that was on fire! You had to live there?"

"No, not in the tower," Gúthwyn explained. "There were other humans, like me, who did not serve him willingly. We were kept close to the Black Gates, where your father and King Elessar fought—"

"And Grandfather."

"And your grandfather, yes. The tower and the mountain were both far away. "I only—" She stopped, having been about to say, I only visited the tower once. But she was not going to describe Barad-dûr to a nine-year-old.

Elfwine had so many questions that he scarcely notice her pause. "Was it worse than Isengard? Papa said some of his men were so frightened that they wanted to run away, so King Elessar said they could fight somewhere else. Did you see the Dark Lord? Was he really a giant eye?"

Gúthwyn held up her hand to stem the torrent. "Yes, that was the form the Dark Lord took. And yes, Mordor was far worse than Isengard. But I am sorry, little one," she said, anticipating another round of questions. "I do not wish to speak of my time there. Not only was it the worst three years of my life, but I will not pollute your mind with such horrors."

"But—"

"Elfwine, this is not a debate," she said, kindly yet firmly. "You are far too young to comprehend what I endured there, and while I may tell you some of it when you are older, you will have to understand that the rest is too painful for me to discuss. You must let me keep my secrets."

Somehow, her words convinced him; he did not argue, as she had expected, nor was he frustrated, as she had feared. Yet he did have another question: "Do you have a lot of secrets?"

She could tell from his expression that he already knew the answer, and she was filled with shame as she nodded. "I am sorry, little one. It does not mean that I love you any less."

"Does Leggy know?" Elfwine pressed.

She hesitated, which was not lost on her nephew—she just hoped he had not also noticed the guilt writhing in her stomach. "Legolas knows that I was in Isengard and Mordor," she finally said. "And he also knows that there are some things I am not ready to tell him yet."

"Have you told anyone?"

"Just your father," Gúthwyn admitted. Even if Elfwine tried to seek information from that quarter, Éomer would know better than to reveal anything to him.

The wrinkles upon Elfwine's forehead deepened. "How come you told Papa but not Leggy?"

Were he not a prince, Gúthwyn thought, her nephew ought to have been a councilor, for all the cracks he was spotting in her story. "I told him a long time ago, when I first returned from Mordor. But it does no good to dwell on memories such as those, and I have done my best to forget as much of it as possible."

Elfwine went quiet, considering this. She watched him, desperate to know what he was thinking—having confessed to being both a slave and a liar, was she no longer his beloved aunt? Her throat had run dry, and she wondered if she would not prefer ignorance after all.

But all he said was, "How did you come back from Mordor? Did you escape?"

Gúthwyn opened her mouth—what she would have said, whether an outright lie or a half-truth, she did not know—but then, realizing that Elfwine would only follow up with another question and then another, until all her powers of deflection were thoroughly exhausted, she changed her mind. "I am afraid that is a story for another day. Already you have learned a great deal about me that you did not know before. Does this bother you?"

Her stomach dropped when Elfwine nodded.

"What about it bothers you?"

Elfwine took a long time to respond; his eyes kept darting to the mark on her wrist.

"I know it is unpleasant to look at," Gúthwyn said, "but the Enemy is gone now, and his symbol has no more power."

Her feeble effort barely registered. "I do not like that bad things keep happening to you," Elfwine said, frowning. "And I do not like that Onyveth called you a slave, because you are not one anymore."

"Bad things happen to everyone."

"But more bad things happen to you," Elfwine pointed out.

Gúthwyn did not have an answer for that; instead, she addressed his second concern. "Onyveth was only repeating what her father told her. I am glad that you defended me, but I think you should apologize to her."

"But—"

"It is not your fault, for you did not know, and I alone am to blame for not telling you sooner. But sometimes we act on the wrong information, even with the right intentions, and then we have to make amends for our mistakes. How would you feel if you were Onyveth, and someone falsely accused you of being a liar?"

"I would be mad," Elfwine admitted after a pause.

"I would be, too." Gúthwyn waited, hoping he would come to it on his own.

"So I should say sorry," he said glumly, looking up for Gúthwyn's approval.

She nodded. "It is the right thing to do. But first, I will apologize to you for putting you in such a position. I did not realize Lebryn had told Onyveth about Isengard, else I would have told you as well."

This mollified Elfwine, and he made only a small show of reluctance when she suggested that they visit Lebryn and Onyveth. After gathering up their things, they returned to the city, parting ways with Ceorl and Eanwulf before striking the road that would bring them to Onyveth's home.

Lebryn opened the door, his customary scowl deepening when he saw who it was. "She is not here," he said, blocking the entrance.

Gúthwyn raised her eyebrows at the pair of small, mud-stained boots that were drying out on the floor just behind him. "Elfwine has come to apologize for what happened today. And I would like to speak with you."

Lebryn gave her a long, sour look, but finally he relented and made a sardonic gesture for them to come inside. "Onyveth," he called to a closed door at the far end of the room. "You have a visitor."

"I thought you said she was not here," Elfwine remarked, frowning.

"I lied," Lebryn said without the slightest trace of remorse.

When Onyveth emerged, Gúthwyn noticed that her eyes were red, but they still flashed when they saw Elfwine. "I don't want to talk to you," she announced.

"The prince has come to apologize," Lebryn said, with only a slightly sardonic emphasis on the word "prince" as he caught her by the shoulder.

At an encouraging nod from Gúthwyn, Elfwine took a deep breath. "I am sorry I called you a liar," he said in a formal tone that might have been an attempt to emulate his father during a council session. "It was wrong and I should not have yelled at you. Auntie Gúthwyn told me that everything you said was true."

Onyveth continued to glare at him for several seconds; judging by Elfwine's fidgeting, it must have felt far longer than that.

"Fine," she said at last, her frown relenting just a fraction.

There was a pause.

"Do you want to play tag?" Elfwine offered.

"Fine." This answer was given more quickly, and less grudgingly, but there was no mistaking the forcefulness with which Onyveth lunged forward and tagged Elfwine on the shoulder. Elfwine had to step back to absorb the push, but his scowl was quickly replaced by an expression of fierce determination, and within seconds he had sprinted outside after her.

That left Gúthwyn with Lebryn, who gave her a sharp look. "You should have told him. He would have heard it from someone else if not Onyveth."

"I did not think he was old enough," Gúthwyn said tightly.

Lebryn's eyes darkened. "And I suppose you know so much more about parenting than I do."

Although Gúthwyn was used to Lebryn's caustic remarks, this one made her flinch. "That is not what I—"

"Do you also think he does not have ears? People still gossip about you, you know. I have heard some very interesting theories about what happened between you and that swan prince in the stables—"

"Enough!"

Whether Lebryn saw that her fists were clenched, or if he had heard her sharp intake of breath, he relented, and in a quieter voice he said, "Too many people know or suspect for you to hide it from him. And he asks more questions than Onyveth, which is damn near impossible. Not a good combination for you."

What is rape?

"I already had to tell him about Isengard and Mordor today, thanks to you," she pointed out, trying not to cringe.

"I am not going to hide my past from my daughter," Lebryn growled. "I have nothing to be ashamed of."

"But you did not have to bring my past into it. You could have told her without mentioning me. And Cobryn."

Lebryn opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. After a few seconds, he replied with affected indifference, "I suppose you are right. Though Elfwine still would have heard about it eventually."

It was as close to an apology as she was going to get—therefore she took no small amount of satisfaction in staring at him coolly until she saw a shadow of discomfort in his eyes. "What exactly did you tell her about us?"

"Us?" Lebryn echoed, clearly thinking she meant the two of them.

"Cobryn and I. It is none of my concern what you tell her about yourself."

"I just said that you were there. And that when your uncle came to Isengard, he allowed us to leave with him. Onyveth asked what you were doing there and I told her you had been taken from your home, just like me."

"And that is it?"

"Yes," he growled.

"You said nothing about the Wargs, and what happened to me after? What about Feride?" she pressed.

Lebryn stiffened at the mention of Feride. "I am not a complete idiot."

Gúthwyn briefly considered—then thought better of—asking whether he had told Onyveth about her namesake. Instead she nodded and replied, "Then I will thank you for your continued restraint. I do not want to hear my nephew repeating anything else he has learned from your daughter."

Lebryn continued to glower. She decided to assume that he would respect her wishes, and she turned towards the door, but before she could leave his voice rang out behind her. "Running from your past will not make it go away."

"Unlike you," she answered without looking back, "I have much to be ashamed of."

"And you think hiding it will help? What are you going to tell that Elf of yours once he starts asking questions?"

Gúthwyn spun around to see Lebryn's eyes gleaming with triumph.

"My apologies, are we also pretending Prince Legolas has not been living in Edoras for the past two months? Were all those picnics mere figments of my imagination?"

"He is—He is helping Elfwine—"

Lebryn snorted. "If you actually think I would believe that, you are far less intelligent than I had given you credit for."

Since she could not reasonably continue to maintain her innocence, Gúthwyn sighed and said, "Could you please keep this to yourself, then? Hammel and Haiweth do not know yet, and I want to tell them in person."

"Well, you better tell them soon."

"Lebryn! I am serious. Please—"

"All right, all right." Lebryn's scowl curled into a grin that was even less reassuring. "So you wound up with a prince after all, eh?"

"Yes, I suppose—"

"Does this mean I need to call you princess? My lady? Your highness?" He was mostly teasing, but she caught glimpses of something hard beneath the surface, an echo of his longstanding distaste for authority figures. He only respected Éomer, she knew, because he had seen him on the battlefield.

On another day, she might have found it amusing, but after fielding Elfwine's questions about Isengard and Mordor, she did not have the energy to deal with Lebryn's mercurial moods. "Call me whatever you want."

"Well, princess"—she inwardly groaned, somehow having known exactly which title he would choose to throw in her face—"your nephew is a much better liar than you are."

"What do you mean?"

"I asked him about Prince Legolas a few days ago," Lebryn said shamelessly, "and that boy looked me straight in the eye and said that 'Leggy' was teaching him archery."

As relieved as Gúthwyn was that Elfwine had been able to keep her secret, she could not help but wonder where he had acquired this skill, lying to adults. Had he ever done this to her, and she had not realized? She liked to think she knew him too well, but he was his mother's son…

Distracted, she mumbled something like "I see" and turned again to the door.

"Gúthwyn."

She glanced back at Lebryn, who seemed to be wrestling with several things he wanted to say. One of them might even have been "Congratulations," or perhaps merely, "So how pointed are those ears, really?"

In the end, he settled for nodding at her, and she nodded back and left to find Elfwine.

Response to Guest: Wow! I hope you're not too tired! And yes, I've always struggled to balance character development with simply moving the story along... and I'm not too great at the latter. There's certainly room for improvement!

Haldor is... well, he's an enigma, and that's all I'll say for now.

Response to RP911: Thank you so much for your review! You're right about Gúthwyn's swordfighting prowess - not only was she a lot younger during the War, but she had a lot more driving her than she does now. She'll have to find a new source of motivation. :)

I agree that her sparring with Legolas at this time would be disastrous. You brought up so many good points about what would happen if she lost herself in the fight, and what it would mean to her if he won. Luckily, Legolas is wise enough to know when not to push, even if the outcome isn't what he had hoped for, but I think it will be difficult for him when Tauriel joins their household and Gúthwyn is far more willing to fight her.

Lebryn and Onyveth are becoming one of my favorite parent-child duos! Although sometimes I feel bad that I've done basically nothing with Onyveth's mother... I keep reminding myself to incorporate her into the story somehow, but it just never seems to happen, haha. And yes, Gúthwyn is pretty terrible at keeping secrets.

Eryn Lasgalen is a lot further down the road, haha, but needless to say I'm very grateful to Peter Jackson and co. for giving me some glimpses into the palace life there. I think I'm going to have fun with all those windy passages that don't have any safety rails - probably not the most pleasant of walks for visiting mortals!