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-One:
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-One

Gúthwyn did not speak to Éomer for the rest of the day. Her blood boiled at the mere thought of him; the unlucky men she chose to spar with on the training grounds experienced the brunt of her wrath. She fought even fiercer than usual, channeling all of her rage onto the unfortunate guards. Occasionally, one of them would tentatively ask what was wrong, but someone would inevitably lean over and mutter in their ear the news of her heated argument with the king. Her anger was fueled even more when Tun did not show up.

She had apologized to her partners afterwards, as some of them were complaining of soreness. In truth, she really did feel bad about taking her frustration out of them—they certainly had done nothing to her. But she knew that if she were to confront the source of her feelings, the situation would already get worse. Practically all of Edoras now knew about her and Éomer's altercation, as many of the servants present during it had let their tongues wag.

Now she was in the empty stables, absent-mindedly grooming Heorot as she sorted over her troubles. "I do not understand him at all," she muttered to the animal, running a brush through his mane. Heorot serenely swallowed the rest of his carrot.

Ignoring the fact that her horse could not respond to her, Gúthwyn continued irritably. "Besides, I thought we had resolved the matter before the feast! And suddenly he decides to disregard that? What is wrong with him?"

"My lady?"

She jumped, and quickly turned to see Tun standing in the doorway. "Tun!" she exclaimed, setting aside Heorot's brush and going out of the stall.

The dying sunlight was behind her champion, making his hair seem golden. At first she could not read the expression on his face, but as she drew closer she saw that his brown eyes were even darker than usual. "I hope you were not talking about me?" he asked, attempting to smile. Yet he could not hold her gaze for long, and looked at the ground.

"No, not at all," Gúthwyn assured him, and then frowned. "I was talking about Éomer."

His eyes widened. "My lady, I am so sorry," he murmured, a flush creeping over his cheeks. "I never intended to—I never wanted to—"

"Tun, you have nothing to apologize for!" Gúthwyn hastily told him. "It is Éomer who is overreacting, he—"

"He is right," Tun interrupted her quietly. "I should never have accepted your challenge. And…" he paused hesitantly. "I heard that the two of you got into an argument about the incident," he admitted.

"Because he was being an ignorant fool and refusing to acknowledge that it was an accident!" Gúthwyn exclaimed hotly.

"My lady, please," Tun said, looking pained. "I do not want you to be fighting with him on my account. I am not worth an estrangement. That is why I have sought you out."

She knitted her brow, confused. "What do you mean?"

It took him longer to work up the nerve to speak. He shifted back and forth, scuffed his feet into the ground, and fiddled with his hands before he took a deep breath. "I am leaving with Erkenbrand next month to go to Helm's Deep," he at last blurted out.

Gúthwyn's eyes widened in shock. "Tun, no!" she cried. "Is this Éomer's doing?"

"My uncle and I have discussed it together," Tun said dejectedly, "and we both agree that it is for the best."

"But… how?" Gúthwyn asked, bewildered. "You have done nothing!"

"My lady, I do not wish to leave you," Tun responded earnestly, his eyes laced with pain. "Yet I cannot let another mishap occur. Your brother already suspects me of being untrustworthy."

"Can you not… Can you not just avoid sparring with me?" she wanted to know.

"I could," he said, "but if I go away for a long time, then perhaps this situation can be forgotten. People will talk, my lady. They have already started talking."

"How long?" she demanded, her voice sounding oddly strangled. "How long will you be at Helm's Deep?"

He fell silent, staring at the floor.

"Tun."

At last he looked up. "A year," he replied hoarsely.

For a full minute Gúthwyn froze, gaping at him in horror. She could not even begin to imagine life in Edoras without him—how many times had he lifted her spirits with his carefree jokes? How often had she sparred with him until the sun began falling and they were forced to call it quits? How many valiantly attempted and gloriously failed dancing lessons had he given her? How much laughter had they shared together over the past year?

When she at last got her voice back, she choked out, "Why are you doing this?"

"My lady," he began. She cut him off.

"How can you let him do this? He is condemning you, even though you are innocent!"

"Gúthwyn," Tun said, and the sound of her name falling from his lips was enough to silence her. Even he seemed surprised. "Please, this has nothing to do with your brother. He was not present when the matter was debated. It is of my own will that I am leaving."

"Why would you want to leave?" Gúthwyn asked, struggling to swallow the lump in her throat.

"Because if I do not," Tun answered somberly, "Éomer may never forgive me."

"I will speak to him," Gúthwyn said immediately. "I will force him to forgive you!"

And she turned around and would have marched straight into Meduseld, had Tun not caught hold of her arm. "My lady, please! It will only make things worse."

Deep down, she knew that her friend was right. Fighting back the wave of misery that was threatening to swallow her, she embraced him. "Will you at least visit?" she inquired as his arms wrapped tentatively around her.

"No, my lady. I cannot," he replied.

"Why?" she asked, pulling back a little and meeting his eyes. Hers were on the verge of filling with tears. Yet suddenly, through the shimmering haze that was her vision, she was able to place her finger on something that had seemed off about his appearance: His nose was slightly crooked.

Her brow knitted. "Tun, what happened to your nose?" she asked abruptly, reaching up to touch the bent area.

To her surprise, he cringed a little. "Nothing," was his swift answer.

"It… it has not always been like that, has it?" Gúthwyn questioned in puzzlement. She had broken Tun's nose once, when she was five, but she could not recall doing that much damage… yes, the shape was definitely different now. Then she saw something that made her squint. "Tun, is that blood?"

The rust-colored spot at the bottom of his left nostril could not have been anything else. Before her champion could answer, she asked sharply, "What happened?"

She had rarely seen him look more awkward. "Well," he began, stumbling a little on his words, "I, ah… it was a mistake, I… well, I tripped, and…" he trailed off, allowing her to imagine the details. Yet his explanation was not nearly satisfying enough.

A thought occurred to her then, and she demanded, "Did Éomer do this to you?"

"No," he said quickly, though something briefly flickered in his eyes. "It was my own clumsiness that injured me."

"A-Are you sure?" Gúthwyn asked hesitantly, thinking that if her brother had been in any way associated with the harm inflicted on her friend, she would show him how a broken nose felt. Or at least scream at him in front of the entire court so that all of Edoras would know of his dishonor by the next morning.

"Yes, I am sure," Tun responded firmly. "Besides, it is nothing I am not used to."

Gúthwyn could not help but smile at this, and then felt a wave of unbearable sadness wash over her as she thought of how much she would miss him. "Why will you not visit?" she whispered. To know that her champion was being punished in such a manner, all because of a simple mistake, was almost more than she could bear. And the fact that her brother had had a hand in his departure, however indirectly, only made the pain worse. Tun deserved none of this.

There was an expression on his face that she could not quite read. A sigh escaped him, and he shook his head. "I need to do this," he said. "For… For my own reasons."

"What reasons?" Gúthwyn pressed

Tun opened his mouth, closed it, hesitated, and opened it again. "My lady, I am sorry," he said.

"Sorry about what?" Gúthwyn's eyes narrowed in bewilderment.

He released her, looking distressed, and stepped away. "I must go. Excuse me."

Before she had time to realize what he was doing, he gave a low bow and started walking towards the stable doors.

"Tun!" she called, but though his shoulders tensed he did not stop. Gúthwyn could not summon up the energy to chase after him; he passed, as if a dream, through the doors. He did not return.

By the Valar, she thought weakly, her vision blurring. Éomer, what have you done?

How long she stood there, she did not know. Only when a stableboy entered, and called her name tentatively, did she remove herself from her musings. "Excuse me, Breca," she said to him.

"Is… Is everything all right, my lady?" Breca asked concernedly.

She smiled at the younger man. "I am fine, thank you."

Yet no sooner had she gone out of the stables than her face fell again. Tun would be leaving in less than a month—how could they make up for a year of missed time in only a few weeks? This is all Éomer's doing, she thought bitterly, clenching her fists. If he had not caused such a clamor over so small a thing, Tun would not have felt the need to go to Helm's Deep!

But, try as she might, she could not become angry with her brother. It was as if she no longer had the strength to do so. The news of her champion's imminent departure had left her dejected; now, she was fighting back tears rather than restraint. Without Tun, she would never have reunited with her family. She would have fled from Rohan, enraged that none of them had sought her out in the early days of her captivity. It was because of him that she had not.

Her feet found their way towards the stairs leading up to the Golden Hall. Half in a daze Gúthwyn ascended them, barely responding to the guards' greetings. As the doors pushed open, her heart twisted to see Éomer and Legolas speaking together not too far from her. They both glanced over at her arrival, the latter nodding and the former remaining still.

She approached her brother, folding her arms across her stomach as she did so. Éomer met her eyes briefly. They were dark with both anger and sorrow. Legolas looked back and forth between the two of them, puzzled.

"You got what you wanted," Gúthwyn at last said hoarsely, blinking away the tears that were about to surface.

Éomer stiffened.

"He is leaving with Erkenbrand to go to Helm's Deep," she managed, and watched as his and Legolas' eyes widened. "He will not be back for a year." Her breath was beginning to hitch. "I hope you are happy."

"Gúthwyn, I..." Éomer trailed off, at a loss for words.

"Excuse me," Gúthwyn whispered, and turned away. As she strode towards the hallway where her chambers were, wiping her eyes as she went, she heard her name being called. Yet she did not pause, and there were no further sounds of pursuit.

A gloom now settled over Gúthwyn, thick and dark; the bright sunlight and the cheery laughter of Haiweth could not pierce it. To make matters worse, she saw little of Tun, whom she suspected was trying to lessen the burden of his departure by avoiding talking to her altogether. Nor was she on speaking terms with Éomer, who had tried to initiate reconciliation several times—usually through a closed door. At length he had given up, and they had learned to navigate around each other. Though they sat at the same dinner table, their conversation was limited to him asking her for a particular dish out of his reach.

Surprisingly, she had spent quite a bit of time with Legolas. He was one of the few who did not press her about her estrangement from her brother or ask her—as several of the women had—if it was true that Tun was leaving because Éomer suspected a forbidden love between her and her champion. Nor did he nag her about her eating and sleeping habits, which the servants turned to once dissatisfied with her refusal to confirm or deny the gossip.

Instead, he told her about Ithilien and Eryn Lasgalen, and she in turn spoke to him of many Rohirric customs and tales. He knew she had little interest in the Elves, and took care to keep his stories centered around those she had already met. Sometimes Raniean and Trelan joined these conversations, although she tended to get nervous around them and was unable to say much. Usually, however, the two of them walked down the main street of Edoras. Gúthwyn felt at ease there, for it was the daytime and there were crowds all around them, so she was not ever truly alone with Legolas.

On the night of the farewell dinner for the Elves, Gúthwyn stood in front of her mirror, trying to keep her patience in check. It was one of the rare instances in which she had allowed the maids to prepare her for such formalities; as usual, they had pounced on the opportunity. Her hair was nowhere near as fine as Éowyn's, but it was certainly long enough, and would suffice for their designs. Unfortunately for Gúthwyn, however, who had been in a fit of loneliness earlier and extended the offer to the servants based on those feelings, this meant that she now had to endure a stream of well-intended criticism.

"My lady," Cwene scolded her, "you are as thin as a rag doll!" The older servant gave an impatient tug at the shift Gúthwyn was wearing. "When was the last time you ate?"

"This afternoon," Gúthwyn automatically replied, though as soon as the words left her lips she remembered that she had not, in fact, eaten all day.

Cwene tsked. "Elflede, look at this child!" she exclaimed. With that, she put one hand on Gúthwyn's stomach and the other on her back, intending to flatten the shift out so that the younger maid could see exactly how slender their lady's frame was. But with a surge of panic Gúthwyn wrenched away, drawing her arms protectively over herself.

"No!" she cried, though she could barely hear her own voice.

The chatter of the maids ceased, and all of them stared at her in confusion. "S-Sorry," she muttered, trembling. Her hands were beginning to sweat, and for a frightening moment the room spun in a dizzying circle. Stop it! she screamed at herself.

"My lady, are you feeling faint?" Mildwen asked timidly, placing a cautious hand on her arm.

Gúthwyn struggled to shake her head clear of the mists that surrounded her. "I-I am fine," she replied, relieved when Mildwen let go of her. "I was just—never mind."

"Do you wish for something to eat or drink?" Elflede inquired, still sounding anxious. "You look awfully pale."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said, "but really, I am fine." Hoping to change the subject, she asked, "What shall I wear to the dinner?"

Though Cwene met her eyes and sighed, the other servants seized upon the task of finding their lady the perfect gown. Gúthwyn watched as they went to her trunk and opened it, setting aside her sword. Framwine, I wish it were you about to be used tonight, she thought morosely. The upcoming dinner was not something she was eager to attend. She and Legolas had been speaking more easily of late, but the formal setting would make everything awkward again. Her brother and Cobryn were well suited to somber meals, yet she detested them and felt horribly out of place in her stiff finery.

"My lady, is this your diary?"

Gúthwyn was abruptly yanked out of her musings to see Mildwen holding up Beregil's poems. The maid was new, and had never seen it before. A cold chill swept through her body. "No," she said, taking a step forward. "No, it is not—may I please have it?"

Mildwen was about to oblige when a piece of paper fluttered downward and came to a rest on the floor. Gúthwyn's heart froze when she saw the familiar title.

"'The Warrior'?" Mildwen asked curiously, the eyes of everyone on her.

"Mildwen, please!" Gúthwyn exclaimed harshly, striding towards the servant.

Looking both terrified and apologetic, Mildwen swiftly handed it to her. "I am so sorry, my lady," she murmured with a bowed head. "Forgive me; I did not mean to pry."

Somewhat calmer with the small book in her hands, Gúthwyn sighed. "No, I am sorry," she told the young maid. "I should not have become angry with you." Tenderly, she replaced "The Warrior" back where it belonged, running her fingers over its words one more time before closing the book. For a long time she looked at the black cover, thinking of how often she had turned to this object in her despair.

"How about this dress, my lady?" Elflede asked then, and she glanced over to see the young woman holding up a dark-colored gown.

"No, no, no," Cwene replied immediately. "She will seem as if she is going to a funeral! Although the Elves were wondrously fair folk to have here, Prince Legolas not the least"—several of the younger servants giggled—"their departure is hardly cause for mourning."

Gúthwyn remained silent, and placed Beregil's book in the drawer of her night table. When she next turned around, Elflede had set aside the brown dress and had lifted up a white one. It was the same that she had worn to Éowyn's wedding.

"No," she said quickly, cringing at the sight of it.

"You need to rethink your irrational aversion to this color," Cwene muttered, taking the dress out of Elflede's hands. "Look at this, child! Any lass your age would give an eye to wear it."

"I should certainly hope not," Gúthwyn answered. "But they can have it, if they wish."

"Nonsense!" Cwene cried. "I insist that you wear it for the dinner, my lady!"

Gúthwyn raised an eyebrow at this, though her gaze was fixed on the dress. With the sight came a rush of memories… Hands caressing her stomach in the dark, and beg, always beg… The hot breath on her face and the pain between her legs…Her on her knees in front of Haldor, trying not to gag as he filled her mouth…

She felt as if she were going to be sick, and took half a step towards her chamber pot. Then she remembered that she was not alone. Tendrils of nervousness seeped through her; her stomach was turning over and threatening to upheave its entire contents.

"Well, my lady? What say you?" Cwene pressed, sounding as if she were speaking miles away.

"Fine," she said quickly, wanting to get them all out of her room as soon as possible. Her hands were shaking. Familiar coils of panic were unwinding themselves within her… Haldor was on top of her, ordering her not to make a sound… He would kill Hammel and Haiweth… "Crying is pathetic and weak!" She wanted to scream, but his mouth was upon hers, and she was gagging… Then all was black.

When Gúthwyn next came to, she was lying on the floor, her head pounding and her insides in an uproar. The maids were anxiously trying to revive her; she had barely opened her eyes when a cold wave of water splashed over her face. She began spluttering and choking, pressing a hand weakly over her stomach and curling in on herself. With her free arm, she gestured frantically towards the chamber pot.

"Someone find King Éomer!" she heard a voice cry. Gúthwyn moaned, attempting to shake her head, but it suddenly felt like a sack of bricks.

Then the chamber pot was brought to her. Gúthwyn hauled herself up on her elbows, leaned over, and vomited into it, trying to keep the noise as quiet as possible. One of the maids gasped; Cwene barked out some orders. Another person ran out of the room.

"Gúthwyn, lie back down." The older servant took her shoulders and began pulling them firmly downwards. Her head was kept off of the ground, resting on Cwene's knees. "Mildwen, do not stand there like an idiot! Get a rag!"

Seconds later, Gúthwyn's lips were being wiped as if she were a child just learning how to eat properly. She wanted to tell them that she was capable of doing it herself, but she thought that if she opened her mouth she would retch again.

"You do not have a fever," Cwene murmured as she placed her hand on Gúthwyn's forehead. "But your face is flushed, and—oh, your highness!"

Gúthwyn saw the other maids scurrying out of her brother's way as he came into the room and knelt beside her. "What happened?" he demanded anxiously.

"She fainted, my lord," Cwene replied swiftly. "And when she awoke, she was sick."

Éomer looked down at her, putting a gentle hand on her forehead. "Sister, can you hear me?" he asked.

Her head was throbbing with each movement, but Gúthwyn managed to nod weakly.

"Perhaps she would be more comfortable on the bed, my lord," Cwene suggested.

"Right," Éomer agreed. "Here, I will do it."

Gúthwyn felt herself being lifted in her brother's strong arms and carried over to her bed. The motions made her feel nauseous, even more so as he lowered her down onto the mattress. He had pulled some of the blankets back before doing so, and soon she was underneath the comforters.

At that moment, someone appeared at the foot of her bed: Hammel.

"Hammel," she whispered, trying valiantly to smile at him. The muscles would not cooperate.

He came to stand beside Éomer, and watched as the king propped her up against some pillows. The servants looked as if they had half a mind to usher him from the room, but she reached out for him. "Hammel," she said again.

The boy let her take his hand. "How are you?" he asked quietly.

"Fine," Gúthwyn answered, though her stomach was howling in protest. "Do not worry."

"Were you feeling ill at all today?" Éomer inquired, exchanging a disbelieving look with Hammel.

Gúthwyn shook her head, and the next instant felt herself turn a pale shade of green. She could barely hold it in until a bucket was shoved beneath her mouth; then she threw up again, struggling to keep her face turned from Hammel so that he did not have to see it. When she was done, her entire body was clammy.

"Here you are, my lady," Cwene said then, reaching over and placing a damp strip of cloth on her forehead. Cold droplets of water trickled down her face. Gúthwyn thanked her wearily.

"Was it something you ate?" Éomer pressed her, sitting down in her bedside chair and drawing it closer to her.

"I think it was something she did not eat," Cwene grumbled.

Éomer raised his eyebrows. So far, he had remained unaware about her revulsion of food; Gúthwyn intended to keep it that way. "Did you not eat anything today, sister?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yes, I did," Gúthwyn fibbed. Hammel's gaze narrowed slightly.

"Was the water bad?" Éomer continued, bewildered.

"Not that I noticed, my lord," Mildwen piped up, curtsying as she spoke.

Éomer looked at Gúthwyn worriedly. "Perhaps we should send for a healer," he murmured.

"No, no," she said quickly. "Really, I am fine."

"You fainted, Gúthwyn," Éomer reminded her sternly. "Last I checked, that was not the definition of 'fine.'"

"Your highness, the healer has gone to visit his family in the Eastfold," Cwene said apologetically.

A curse escaped her brother's lips, though Gúthwyn's turned upwards in a faint smile.

"Maybe one of the Elves can help," Elflede said, her eyes wide with nervousness.

"No!" Gúthwyn cried vehemently, pressing herself against the pillows. Éomer put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

"Sister, what—" he began quizzically, and then stopped abruptly: He had remembered. "By the Valar," he whispered, his face ashen. "I thought it was only—"

There was a long pause, in which the maids glanced confusedly at them and Éomer stared at her. Her face was burning from the scrutiny and the embarrassment. At length, her brother turned to the servants. "Will you excuse us?" he asked.

A flurry of curtsying and "my lord, my lady," met his words, and then all of the maids had gone. Gúthwyn was now able to see the white gown draped neatly over her dresser; she shuddered, and looked away.

"Hammel, you as well," Éomer said, though not unkindly.

Letting go of Gúthwyn's hand, Hammel nodded and slipped out of the room. Once the door had closed behind him, Éomer spoke urgently, "I thought it was only he whom you feared. Not all of the others!"

Relieved that her brother did not utter Haldor's name, Gúthwyn nevertheless shivered.

"Gúthwyn, why did you not say something?" Éomer asked, leaning forward. "I would not have invited Legolas and his escort if I had known you were afraid of them!"

"I am not afraid," Gúthwyn vainly insisted.

"Then what is that terror haunting your eyes?" Éomer pressed. She blinked, and edged further under the comforters.

"Éomer, please," she said, trembling. "I did not want to make a scene. I-I was hoping that I could… that I could forget him. Their visit has not been as horrible as I thought it would be. I am fine."

"If you are fine, then why did you faint?"

"I do not know," she lied, not wanting to tell him that Haldor still shadowed her waking mind. "It might be one of those short-lived illnesses in the stomach. Rest will do me good."

"Rest will do you good," Éomer agreed, but his face remained worried. "I will bring you some soup—perhaps that will make you feel better."

Gúthwyn sighed, yet she did not have the heart to refuse him. "Thank you," she instead answered.

"Shall I have one of the maids look after you while I am gone?" he asked concernedly. She shook her head.

"I will be fine."

He nodded, and got out of his chair. She watched him leave the room, and tried not to imagine having to eat something. Her eyes focused intently on the pattern of her comforter, but it was futile: Before Éomer returned, she had retched into the bucket another time.

"Here you are," Éomer said, handing her a tray on which there was a large bowl of soup. "Cwene wanted you to have at least half of it."

She cast a despairing glance at the stew. "Must I?" she asked.

"The broth will ease your stomach," he replied. "Also, sister, you look like you have not eaten in weeks."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said dryly, and tentatively put her spoon into the soup. With a quaking hand she brought it to her mouth, nearly spilling some in the process. Before she could lose the nerve she swallowed it, wincing as the hot liquid burned its way down her throat.

"Legolas wished me to tell you that he hopes you will be feeling well soon," Éomer commented, watching her face carefully to see her reaction. Gúthwyn took equal pains to keep her expression neutral.

"Will you give him my thanks?" she asked. "Or maybe I shall, when he leaves tomorrow."

"You might not have recovered enough to walk about tomorrow," Éomer pointed out.

"I am fine," she insisted. "I will be back to normal in no time."

"Gúthwyn, have a thought for yourself," Éomer said irritably. "You seem all too eager to dismiss your health in favor of your pursuits."

She glared at him, and with that simple action she remembered their arguments over Tun. He recalled them, as well: His face tightened, and he looked away.

"Well, I will be going to dinner," he said after a terse moment. "Eat, and pray do not rise from your bed. Farewell."

Gúthwyn's eyes dully followed him as he left, and once the door had closed she took a glance at her soup.

When the maids returned to light the candles, they found that only a third of the bowl was gone. Their lady's hands were clutching her stomach, and even in sleep she looked nauseous. The moon shone on a pale face.