The Rohan Pride Trilogy

Epilogue: Recovery

Book One

By: WhiteLadyOfTroy

Summary:
The War of the Ring is over, and it is time for Gúthwyn to return home with the children. Yet things are not as they used to be, and many changes are in store for her, whether she would welcome them or not.

About the Epilogue:
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. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where The Fellowship of the Ring started. Recovery will be divided into two books.

About Chapter Twenty:
Raniean and Trelan appear courtesy of Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of The Mellon Chronicles who have allowed me to use their characters. Thank you! The upcoming events are based off of what I have learned from the appendices and various sources concerning the aftermath of the War of the Ring. I wish more was known, but unfortunately, it is not—thus, I have had to do much guesswork and fill in my own beliefs about what happened. Please bear with me.

Chapter Twenty

She was cold.

The night air around her was a mass of swirling mists, the moist droplets clinging to her skin and making her arms wet. Shivering, she wrapped her cloak even tighter around herself and took a step forward. She was being drawn somewhere, her feet moving of their own accord; but she knew not how, nor why.

Instead she kept walking, passing the black remains of burnt tents, their shapes always looming suddenly before her. Gúthwyn was afraid, horribly afraid, but still she moved through the camp. Ever and anon she nearly lost her footing on the torn ground. There were pits everywhere, sometimes with bones in them. All of the skeletons were humans—they looked as if they had been caught running.

She was in Mordor, after the destruction of the Ring.

The knowledge made her skin crawl and her palms clammy, but she could not have turned back if she wanted to. Further and further she went into the Black Land, her figure swallowed up by the hellish remnants of Udûn. All was quiet and still; nothing moved for miles around her. Her breath rose in a cloud before her face, dissipating slowly into the mists and making everything even colder.

Then she reached her destination. New shapes came into her vision, black and jagged against the white fog. They were the very rocks that she and Borogor had sparred behind, the very rocks that Lumren had pushed her up against and tried to have his way with her. Yet both of the men were now gone, one murdered almost exactly where she stood and the other slain in the forests of Ithilien.

She shuddered, her every motion rigid and marked with dread. As she came around the shoulder of the rocks, her heart froze: Someone was there. Their back was turned to her, but as she drew closer she recognized the broad shoulders, the dark hair, and the strong hands that had so often held her and kept her safe.

"Borogor?" she whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

He turned around, and all her breath caught in her throat. His familiar brown eyes widened. "Gúthwyn?" he asked shakily.

She did not know what happened next, only that she was suddenly in his arms and kissing his lips, nose, cheeks, any part of his face that she was able to. "Borogor," she murmured, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing their bodies close together. He held her tightly, making her feel safe. His mouth planted soft kisses along her jaw, causing her to moan slightly.

It was then that there was a pinch on her arm. Confused, Gúthwyn looked at it. Her eyes widened in panic: It was a maggot. The creature had fixed itself to her arm and was sucking at the flesh.

"Borogor," she whimpered, looking up at him in terror.

"I am not Borogor," he hissed, and his eyes were no longer brown. Gúthwyn shrieked as maggots began pouring out of them, sliding down his cheeks and getting onto her. She writhed in terror, trying to get out of his grasp, but he grabbed her arms and would not let go. His face was changing, turning smoother and crueler. "You have already forgotten who I am?" he snarled.

Golden hair.

"No!" she screamed, hitting every inch of Haldor that she could. Yet he barely noticed them as he leaned forward. Gúthwyn cried out even louder as the maggots drew nearer, some of them beginning to find their way into her hair.

"You are a whore," he growled, and then he pressed his lips fiercely against hers.

Suddenly her mouth was filled with maggots, crawling over her tongue and sliding down her throat, choking and gagging her… Haldor's eyes started bleeding, and she was covered with blood and maggots and she could not breathe or think and everything was dark and Borogor was gone and—

With a gasp of horror, Gúthwyn flung herself upwards. The candles were burning brightly around her, but they were no protection. Scrambling out of bed, she crawled over to her chamber pot and threw up. There were no maggots or blood in her vomit; yet she could still feel them crawling over her, still feel them inside her throat…

She retched some more. When she was done, and had wiped her mouth with a damp cloth, she frantically scratched at her head. For several panicked minutes she searched her hair for any maggots, but there were none. Her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps that made her feel dizzy. The world was spinning around her…

Stop it! she yelled at herself. If anyone saw you now, they would think that you had gone mad!

In an effort to calm down, she sat on her heels and took several deep breaths. Her nightgown was plastered to her skin by sweat; she tried to prize it off, but it was useless. Uncontrollable shivers now took her. The walls of her chambers were closing in, threatening to suffocate her. Gúthwyn moaned and buried her face in her hands, trying to pretend that nothing was happening and that nothing was wrong with her, but when she next looked up she knew she could not remain in her room.

Summoning up the willpower to move, she got to her feet and staggered towards her dresser. Quickly she pulled out a thick robe, her fumbling fingers nearly dropping it in their anxiety. At last she managed to wrap it around her. The shadows were long, and she lifted the garment to just below her eyes so that she was completely covered. She knew she was being foolish, but she could not help her fears. If anything, they had gotten worse over the months that she had been out of Mordor.

Her steps slow and cautious, she carefully made her way out of her room, holding her breath as if she were afraid of alerting even the mice to her presence. As it was, she had no desire to awaken the household, and tread as lightly as she was able. The only time she halted was to check on the children. In a stark contrast to her, both of them were fast asleep. For once, Haiweth did not have her thumb in her mouth.

Envying them for the luxury of sleep undisturbed, she closed the door softly and continued going down the passage. When she reached the throne room, her progress was impeded by the knowledge that the other Elves had laid their pallets in the hall. For nearly half an hour she hovered behind the cover of a large pillar, debating whether it was safe enough to go forward. She could not help imagining that, as she was going by, one of them would reach out and grab her.

They are Legolas' friends, she reminded herself. They would do no such thing.

But the thought of Haldor's splitting image only made her feel nauseous. Then she wondered if Legolas was awake, and if he would go on a nighttime stroll and see her as she went through the hall. Her heart froze, and all courage failed her so that she remained where she was for another half hour. When she at last mustered the strength to move, she only made it as far as a single step.

And then she heard a noise coming from the other end of the hall, from the corridor where Éomer and Legolas' chambers were. She panicked, and all thoughts abandoned her mind as she skittered across the throne room. None of the Elves awoke, not even when she almost tripped at the end and fell against the doors. Hastily she opened them, praying that no one would see her.

Finally she burst outside into the night, her breathing ragged and her nerves on the verge of failing. It was with shaking hands that she pushed the doors back into place, and with a trembling body that she turned to gaze over the lands. They were dark, but above the stars were glittering, their light calming her somewhat. The wide expanse of land was something that comforted her, especially when her chambers seemed to shrink around her. She had been out here countless nights, often not going back inside until an hour before dawn.

Éomer knew nothing of these trysts. He would have stayed up with her, if she had gone to him; but he got precious few hours of sleep as it was, and she would not dream of disturbing him. So she put her own desires of having someone hold her and reassure her that everything was all right—Borogor was dead, and never to do so again—out of her mind, and tried to ignore the fears that uncoiled themselves like poisonous snakes in her stomach.

She had not even told Cobryn, in whom she confided the most about her unease in the night. He knew that she had occasionally had disturbing dreams, but if she told him the truth about how frequently they plagued her… Éomer would surely be informed, and she could not risk that. She had exposed enough of her weakness, and her brother did not need to lose sleep because of it.

Huddled against the chill, Gúthwyn made her way towards the stairs. She sat down on the top step, trying to make herself as small as possible so as to spread her body heat. In the day the weather was warm, so she did not experience much discomfort, but in the night she always had to pile at least three blankets on top of her in order to banish the cold. The maids clucked their tongues at this, saying that her misery was brought about because she was so dreadfully thin, but such comments were always followed by the offering of food, which served only to make her feel sick.

For almost an hour she remained outside, having no inclination to go back to her room. The terror of her dream still clung as tightly to her as her robe, managing to seep between the folds and thread its way through the cloth. Try as she might to stare intently at the stars and remember their names, hoping to take her mind off of Haldor, she was unsuccessful. Why can I not let him go? she wondered morosely. Why will he not leave?

There was no answer from above to her question, but at that moment one of the doors opened. She had no chance to hide, and indeed was nearly powerless to do much beyond turning and watching nervously to see who it was. Her dread was confirmed when Legolas stepped outside, his golden hair glinting silver in the moonlight. Fear spiked sharply in her veins as he glanced over and saw her.

His eyes widened. "Gúthwyn," he said, drawing nearer. She could not help it: She edged away, pressing herself into the pillar as if it would protect her from him. "I thought I heard someone awhile ago…'

"I-I hope I did not wake you," she stuttered, remembering the proper thing to say. Breathe, she told herself. Think before you act.

"No, not at all,' Legolas replied, though he looked quizzically at her. "I often go out at night to gaze at the stars."

She could think of nothing to say of that, and pulled her robe even tighter around herself.

"Are you all right?" Legolas asked concernedly, now standing only a few feet away from her. Inwardly, she cringed. Because of their proximity he was towering over her, making her feel powerless against him.

"It… it is nothing," she muttered, her eyes darting back and forth between him and her knees. "I just… I just…" She trailed off, not entirely sure she wanted to say something.

"Do you mind if I sit?" he inquired then, holding her gaze.

"N-No," Gúthwyn answered, trembling. She watched as he lowered himself onto the step beside her, though he kept a three-foot distance. Nor did he look at her the entire time; his head tilted up towards the heavens, and she heard him inhale deeply.

"It is a beautiful night," he said quietly.

In response, she pulled her knees closer to her chest, shivering a little. All of her nerves were now on edge. Seeing Haldor—Legolas—at night was forcing her to remember all of her sessions at the former's tent. Each of them had been worse than the last. She had never gotten used to it; had never gotten used to the pain of him being inside of her, had never gotten used to the disgrace and humiliation that he brought upon her.

"Gúthwyn?"

She jumped a little. "W-What?" she asked.

"You look as if you are feeling ill," Legolas said softly. "Your face is pale."

Her mind briefly flashed back to her vomiting an hour ago. A little more vigorously than necessary, she shook her head. "I am f-fine. I just…" Again, she did not finish her sentence.

"You just what?" he asked, his voice undemanding.

For a long time she studied him, unsure whether or not to tell him why her sleep had been disturbed. She wanted someone to confide in, but he was nothing like Borogor—she would not be held in his arms, nor hear comforting words murmured in her ear. He would not keep her hair out of her face if she threw up, nor would he understand all of her fears and accept them without question.

Tears were in danger of springing to her eyes. Abruptly, she said, "I just had a… a nightmare."

She looked down as she said this, not wanting to see his reaction. Would he think her weak?

"Do you want to talk about it?" he instead questioned gently.

"Haldor was in it," she said shortly, wishing she could simply disappear within the folds of her robe and never have to see his—Haldor or Legolas'—face again.

For a time, there was silence. Then he began hesitantly, "Do you… Do you get nightmares often?"

Gúthwyn hesitated, and then nodded. "Almost four times a week," she whispered, the words difficult to form around the lump in her throat. "They never go away."

His eyes were filled with sympathy, but she found it nearly unendurable. "It is not so bad," she told him, trying to convince them both that it were so. "E-Eventually I fall asleep again."

"Is that the reason you do not wake until past noon?" Legolas wanted to know, his eyes fixed on her.

Again, she nodded. "They tease me for it," she murmured, referring with a pang to her friends and Éomer, "but they do not realize that I often am awake until the sky becomes grey. In truth, I get the same amount of sleep as they do. Sometimes less."

She sighed, turning her gaze towards the mountains. For years unnumbered they had stood there, barriers against invasion and creators of the sometimes monstrous winds that arose in Edoras. Now they appeared menacing, their height thrusting large shadows over the land. The Mountains of Shadow in Mordor… No, she thought, shaking her head a little. Your home.

"Is there anything I can do?" Legolas asked.

"No," she said heavily. "But th-thank you anyway."

They remained in silence for several more moments, until she tentatively spoke up. "Legolas?"

He glanced over at her, and she swallowed her nervousness. "Why are you so kind to me?" she asked, her throat constricting. "I treated you horribly for months, yet you do not loathe me as you should—as I did you."

Legolas contemplated her question for a few minutes. "At first," he began, resting his elbows on his knees, "I wanted to right what I thought was wrong. I did not understand why you hated me, for I had done nothing to justify it. Then…" Something rueful in nature crossed over his face. "I know you will not want to hear this, but then I pitied you."

She flushed, detesting the idea.

"I saw what Haldor did to you," Legolas continued in a subdued tone, "and I knew the source of your distress. But I did not want you to always have to see him when we spoke together. Yet then, when you were reunited with your family, you changed."

Gúthwyn nodded, knowing that what he said was true. Upon her return to Rohan, she had experienced happiness such as she had not for years. There was nothing like the sight of her homeland after long exile that could fill her with a greater giddiness or joy of life.

Their eyes now met. "I have seen how you are with your people and the children," Legolas said. "And it may seem bold of me to say so, but there is little I would not do to preserve such happiness."

Her eyes widened slightly, and now she regretted her ill behavior towards him more than ever. "I feel like a fool," she said bitterly. "I cannot even overcome such a simple…"

"Do not think less of yourself," Legolas replied, "because of what was done in the past. The War is over now, and you are free."

"That is what they say," she answered, and could not help but laugh. "There are no shackles on my hands. But there never were. Nay, it is my mind that is a prisoner."

She stopped short, embarrassed for having blurted out so much. "I…"

"You need not be ashamed," Legolas said quietly. "There are other men and women who were unwillingly in the service of the Dark Lord… I know next to naught of what they went through, or what you went through, but the same thoughts must haunt them day and night."

Smiling sadly, Gúthwyn responded, "Perhaps. Or perhaps not." There was no denying what they had suffered—yet she was frail, weak and beaten by Haldor's abuse. An experiment of the Dark Lord's, and a play toy for his commander.

Legolas shifted slightly, and seemed to detect her change of mood. "Are you sure there is nothing I can do?" he asked.

"I am sure," Gúthwyn said, trembling a little as she thought of her dream. "Thank you."

"Do not mention it," he replied.

Though that was the end of their conversation, neither of them made to leave. For over an hour they sat together quietly. Not a sound could be heard in the night; not even the scurrying of a rat or the whinnying of a horse. It was only when dawn was nigh that Gúthwyn stood and thanked him.

"I am sorry if I have been a bother," she murmured, thinking of how much sleep she had likely deprived him of. "You did not have to stay up with me."

"You have not bothered me at all," Legolas answered firmly, looking up at her with kind eyes. "Sleep well, Gúthwyn."

She nodded, and left.

It was well past noon when Gúthwyn made her way out of her chambers. Her rest had been peaceful and uninterrupted, something that was more than a little surprising. Yet she welcomed the reprieve, and was in high spirits as she went down the hallway. The shadows of last night's dream were all but gone; she had shaken off the horror, and had emptied her chamber pot of the vomit.

Some part of this, she thought, was due to Legolas. She would have never imagined that he could offer her comfort, but in a small way he had. It was difficult to explain—was it simply the fact that he had not done anything to her, as half of her had feared? Or was it merely that he had filled her need for company in the long watches of the night? He had not needed to remain with her, but he had done so.

Her musings were distracted as she came into the throne room and saw Éomer, eating his afternoon meal with some advisors and army officers at a table. A muscle in her jaw twitched: She still had not forgotten their argument. Nor, apparently, had he. When his eyes met hers, there was a smoldering darkness in their depths, and they were guarded. She looked away.

Then she flinched, for Trelan walked past her. He nodded as he went by, but her body had temporarily frozen and she could not respond in kind. Trying to ignore the sudden queasy feeling in her stomach, she watched him go and then looked around for someone to talk to. Most of the tables were empty, and their occupants clearly busy with work. The rest of the people in the throne room were servants, going around with platters of food or empty dishes.

Sighing a little, her good mood somewhat dissipating, Gúthwyn realized that she had no choice but to go over and sit with Éomer. The others would suspect something if she did not—and it would certainly look odd if she were by herself in a corner. Steeling herself for what would be a strained meal at best, she squared her shoulders and walked towards the table.

Cobryn was the first to see her. "Good morning, my friend," he said with a smile. "Up early, as usual." He shifted over to give her some room next to Éomer.

The other men greeted her pleasantly, and there were a few moments of light conversation. Gúthwyn avoided meeting her brother's gaze, feeling his presence as keenly as the nausea welling up within her at the sight of the leftover food. She was offered some, but declined.

Cobryn gave her a pointed look. "When was the last time you ate?" he asked in a low tone of voice.

"At the feast!" she said defensively, ignoring Éomer's glance in her direction.

"My lady," Elfhelm spoke then, leaning forward slightly to talk to her. "Your dancing skills have much improved."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn replied with a smile. "Though I would not abandon the iron boots yet!"

There was some chuckling at this, for nearly all of the men at the table had had their foot stepped on by her at least once.

"I take it you, ah… enjoyed yourself last night, then?" Éomer asked gruffly, reaching out for his mug.

She nodded stiffly. "Well enough," she responded, keeping her words cool so as to remind him that she was still angry at his treatment of Tun.

He took the hint, and did not speak to her for the remainder of the lunch. If any of the men noticed anything—which, with the exception of Cobryn, they likely did not, as she maintained a continual stream of chatter—they kept silent. Gradually, people began standing up and bidding them farewell. Some, like Gamling, were going to visit their families. Cobryn left to find Hammel and continue the boy's lessons. Erkenbrand was the last to leave, and in an effort to prolong the time in which she did not have to talk to Éomer, Gúthwyn asked, "And what are your plans for the afternoon, my lord?"

Erkenbrand hesitated for a brief moment, looking back and forth between her and her brother. "I was going to spend some, ah, time with Tun."

Gúthwyn glanced crossly at Éomer. "Will you send him my regards—and my apologies?" she asked Erkenbrand, trying to keep her tone as level as possible.

"Is that really necessary?" Éomer interjected before Erkenbrand could respond. "It is he who should apologize."

She felt her anger with him flare up. "And it is I who have the meddling brother," she snapped: "The reason why he could not enjoy himself at the feast last night."

Erkenbrand shifted awkwardly on his feet. Éomer took little notice as he retorted, "He brought it on himself. Too little caution does he exercise around you! Even Erkenbrand acknowledges it."

She looked at the Marshal, her eyes widening slightly. Erkenbrand appeared as if there were few places he would not prefer to be more than in the middle of this argument. "I think it would be best if I—"

"What do you mean," Gúthwyn suddenly demanded, "'too little caution does he exercise around you'? The reason we were sparring so heatedly in the first place was because I challenged him to cast aside his delicacy!"

"Gúthwyn, let us not discuss this here," Éomer ground out.

"No, let us," Gúthwyn replied icily. "I think it is you who owe him an apology. How dare you accuse him of such dishonor?"

"It is only too obvious!" her brother growled, his fists clenched. "Again I ask you if you had any idea what the two of you looked like!"

"It was an accident!" she cried furiously, wanting to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. "How many times to I have to tell you?"

"That is not the point!" he roared.

"Then what is?" Gúthwyn shrieked, leaping to her feet. "What is it, Éomer? Tell me why you hate him! What is your point?"

There was a dead silence in the hall. Erkenbrand stared, shocked, at the two of them; Éomer did not speak. Nor did any of the other servants who had gathered in the room. For nearly a full minute, she waited. Still, her brother did not respond.

"You are pathetic," she at last snarled, and stalked furiously away.