To the reviewer "Rainbow": Your questions about Éowyn and Faramir were almost scarily well-timed! Let's just say that most of them will be answered within ten chapters...

Chapter Twenty-Five

"There has to be a mistake," was all Lothíriel could say as the color drained from her cheeks. "Nethiel cannot have done this. I-It must have… it must have caught on her sleeve, or…"

Nethiel's tunic did not have any sleeves.

Éomer gave Lothíriel a sad smile. "I know this is devastating for you, my wife," he said gently, "but I found the ring carefully hidden within the folds of one of her shirts. It was not by accident that it came to be there."

"But…" Lothíriel trembled; it was one of the few times Gúthwyn had ever seen her come close to losing her composure in this manner, to giving into something other than anger.

"There will always be someone else to hire," Éomer assured her. "We can find another maid, one who will not try to rob you." He glared at Nethiel.

"But Nethiel cannot have stolen it!" Lothíriel burst out, clenching her fists.

Éomer gave her a pitying look. "You yourself said that a servant must have taken it," he reminded her. "Nethiel and Mildwen were the only ones in your room while you were away, of that you were certain. There was nothing in Mildwen's belongings, yet the ring was concealed in Nethiel's clothes."

"It cannot be so," Lothíriel protested feebly, at a complete and total loss for other words.

"Alas," Éomer replied grimly, "it is." He cast a foul look at Nethiel. "Leave us," he ordered. "If I were you, I would begin gathering my belongings. You will be out of here before noon tomorrow."

"Éomer," Lothíriel began as Nethiel turned on her heel and fled, practically bawling in misery, "she has nowhere to go."

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "You told me that you would gladly fire the culprit, when you knew not who it was. It has been a shock to discover that someone you trusted has betrayed you, but leniency should never be a traitor's reward."

"I never said that it should be," Lothíriel retorted, her expression suggesting that she was doing some quick thinking, "yet the fact remains that Nethiel is not from Rohan. What will happen to her now? Is she to be without a roof over her head in Edoras? Or is she to undertake such a journey as the one to Dol Amroth, alone and unprotected from the dangers that any female traveler must be wary of?"

Gúthwyn flinched. "Brother, we should at least send someone with her to ensure that she arrives safely in Dol Amroth. I doubt she will elect to remain here. Have a messenger accompany her, if naught else."

Catching her pleading tone and fully aware of the reason behind it, Éomer acquiesced with a nod. "It is not prudent for a woman to be on the roads by herself," he agreed gruffly. "I shall write to Imrahil and inform him that Nethiel has been dismissed from our service, and that she is returning to his city with one of my trusted messengers. Does that ease your fears, Lothíriel?"

The queen had no choice but to consent, though her guarded expression momentarily wavered and she appeared to be on the verge of tears. Éomer smiled sadly at her, and then sighed heavily. "I do not recall there being this many problems with the maids when my uncle was still king," he muttered. "I wonder at the boldness of these servants."

Lothíriel could not muster a reply.

"Sister, I am sorry for taking up so much of your time," Éomer apologized, turning to Éomund's daughter, "as well as for holding your maid under suspicion."

Gúthwyn shrugged. "I knew Mildwen was not guilty—but I must say, brother, I was surprised she did not faint in terror. I expect she is dreadfully afraid of you."

When Éomer blinked in astonishment, Gúthwyn laughed and patted him on the shoulder. "Worry not, she is timid by nature. No lasting harm is done. Now, shall I help tidy your chambers? I regret to report that your room is rather disorderly from the search."

"That will not be necessary," Lothíriel was quick to announce, her mouth thinning as she looked at Éomund's daughter. "There is not much cleaning to be done."

"I insist," Gúthwyn said lightly, fully expecting the queen to grow suspicious. Walking past her brother and his wife towards the open door to the royal chambers, she added, "After all, I helped create the mess in the first place."

Lothíriel detected a less than noble purpose behind Gúthwyn's actions almost immediately. As Éomund's daughter began pretending to straighten out the clothes in her brother's wardrobe, she heard Lothíriel apologizing to Éomer for the inconvenience and encouraging him to return to his work.

"Perhaps I will relieve Bregwyn of our son," Éomer suggested instead. Bregwyn's job had long ago evolved from nurse to occasional caretaker. "I am sure Elfwine has quite worn her out already."

Lothíriel gave what sounded to Gúthwyn like a very forced laugh. "As you wish, my lord," she said graciously. "But take care not to let him wear you out, as well."

"That I shall not!" Éomer assured her with a chuckle. Sticking his head through the door to his quarters, he addressed Gúthwyn. "Sister, a thousand thanks for all your assistance," he spoke. "Lothíriel and I both appreciate it."

Gúthwyn smiled at him. "It is the least I can do," she replied.

Éomer grinned at her, and then left. No sooner had his footsteps faded down the hallway than Lothíriel stepped inside the room, her back rigid and her eyes flashing. "I know you are here to gloat about Nethiel," the queen snapped, stalking towards Éomund's daughter. "Your 'cleaning assistance' is neither wanted nor needed. Leave."

Gúthwyn stood her ground. "I am not here to gloat," she contradicted her brother's wife, "but rather to warn you that if you attempt to have one of my maids fired again, you will find that I am far less merciful."

Lothíriel froze as the impact of Gúthwyn's words hit her. "You—" she gasped, staring at Éomund's daughter in utter shock and horror.

"Mildwen would never steal anything of yours," Gúthwyn snarled, closing the small distance between her and the queen until it was positively miniscule. "Yet you would take revenge on her for exposing your own thievery? I am the one you have a quarrel with, not her!"

"You framed Nethiel," Lothíriel whispered, stunned; she did not appear to have been listening to Gúthwyn beyond that point at all.

"Nethiel got what she deserved," Gúthwyn hissed. "That foul woman has absolutely tormented poor Mildwen, thinking she can get away with her atrocious behavior because she is your servant. She has insulted myself, the children, and Cobryn on numerous occasions, not to mention the countless rumors about us that she is undoubtedly behind. By naming her along with Mildwen as the only servants in your room, you sealed her fate. It was either her or Mildwen; and if you thought for one second that I would roll over and let you take a defenseless woman's livelihood away, you were sorely mistaken. Nethiel paid the price for all her deeds today, and I warn you now that the same will befall you should you continue to bully Mildwen."

Gúthwyn stopped, breathing heavily. Lothíriel simply stared at her, seemingly unable to find words worthy enough of a scathing retort. It was clear that the queen had not expected this, had not anticipated her rival bringing about the downfall of her most loyal servant. For the first time since Lothíriel's arrival in the Golden Hall, Gúthwyn was looked upon as a challenge: a true equal who might even defeat the other woman at her own game.

"Did you really think that I would not realize what you were doing?" Gúthwyn asked in disbelief. "That I was such a fool that you could frame one of my maids right under my nose and get away with it? You seem to be under the mistaken belief that I was born yesterday. I will admit that I am not as apt a pupil in the school of petty revenge as you, but I can at least recognize the signs of your cruelty!"

Lothíriel's face was pale, her entire body trembling. Gúthwyn perceived that the queen was so shaken by Nethiel's demise that she could not formulate a reply, that indeed she had nothing to say to Éomund's daughter. Gúthwyn might have pitied Lothíriel for the lost of her faithful servant, had the servant in question not caused her so much misery.

"Can we not set this rivalry aside?" she instead beseeched the other woman, lowering her voice.

Lothíriel's gaze settled upon her, something flickering within the depths of her eyes.

"Stop trying to get rid of Mildwen," Gúthwyn continued. "Stop trying to spread gossip about myself and those I love, and I shall not breathe a word of this to Éomer for as long as I live. Please, can we not end this? I have no desire to be constantly at odds with you. It is fair to neither Éomer nor Elfwine."

There was a long pause. Gúthwyn could hear the distant sounds of servants moving tables in the throne room, but inside the royal chambers the silence was deafening.

"Fine," Lothíriel said at last, her voice thick and her tone heavy. "You have your truce, for now."

What does for now mean? Gúthwyn wondered. Nevertheless she nodded, knowing that this was the best agreement she would ever reach with her brother's wife.

"Thank you," she said, and left the room.

True to her word, Lothíriel did not harass Gúthwyn in the months that followed Nethiel's departure, nor did any new tales about the children and Cobryn emerge on the streets of Rohan. Éomund's daughter was grateful for this, and looked the other way when the queen wrote her maid a letter of recommendation and sent her from Edoras with enough money to last her the rest of the year. Rumor had it that Nethiel eventually found employment in the household of one of the few Dol Amroth noblewomen sympathetic to Lothíriel, but whether this was certain—or indeed, whether the queen herself had orchestrated it—Lothíriel never confirmed.

In the absence of their ringleader and their mistress's support, the maids noticeably improved their treatment of Gúthwyn. Even Mildwen was looked upon kindlier by her companions, although Gúthwyn suspected this had less to do with Lothíriel honoring their truce and more to do with the ominous firing of Mildwen's cruelest tormentor.

With the tensions in the Golden Hall lying dormant—yet not permanently gone, for beneath her mask of politeness Lothíriel certainly still despised Gúthwyn—summer faded into fall and eventually turned into winter. The new season brought old visitors: Legolas and the Elves returned to Edoras, this time on their way back to Ithilien. At ease from the decreased hostilities in her home, Gúthwyn found that Legolas's appearance did not bother her in the least. The prince was as courteous as ever, and more importantly Elfwine delighted in his presence.

It was for these reasons that the only complaint Gúthwyn had one chilly winter afternoon was the temperature, though she and Legolas were strolling down the street together less than a foot apart. She had made the mistake of not wearing gloves for this particular outing and was sorely regretting her careless decision, but she did not have the heart to call it a day when Elfwine was clearly enjoying himself so much.

The child was about a yard ahead of her and Legolas, ever so often running to the side of the road to scoop up a handful of pure white snow and eat it in rapturous glee. "Auntie Gúthwyn," he called back after swallowing an exceptionally large mouthful, "do you eat this? It's good!" He bent over, beaming, and produced another portion, this time holding it out to her. Then his expression wilted as the snow slipped off his mittens and fell to the ground.

"I do not, little one," Gúthwyn confessed, laughing gaily. "But I can see that you are enjoying it!"

"Tastes good!" Elfwine reiterated. "Leggy, do you eat snow?"

Gúthwyn glanced at the Elf beside her and could not help but laugh. Legolas seemed about as likely as Lothíriel to partake in such a frivolous activity.

Legolas confirmed the obvious with a shake of his head. "I am afraid I do not."

Elfwine frowned. "You two are boring," he complained. The next instant, however, he appeared to have quite forgotten his grievances with them. "Auntie Gúthwyn, will you make me a snowball?" he asked sweetly.

"What do you want a snowball for, little one?" Gúthwyn inquired warily, recalling what had happened the last time she had filled this request. Elfwine had promptly turned around and thrown the snow at Lothíriel, who had insisted on accompanying them during their walk. The intent was innocent, simply a desire to include his mother in his fun, but Lothíriel had not been pleased. Elfwine's overtures had been rebuffed by a thorough scolding and a cold stare at Éomund's daughter.

Yet the young prince apparently had no memory of this incident, and merely smiled innocently at Gúthwyn. "I am going to play with it," he answered coyly.

Gúthwyn sighed, weighed the pros and cons of indulging her nephew, and at last knelt down to gather a mound of snow.

"Thank you, Auntie Gúthwyn!" Elfwine cried, clapping his hands together in delight.

"You are welcome," Gúthwyn replied with a chuckle. She shaped the snow into a sphere as quickly as she could, for she was using her bare hands and the cold was nearly unbearable.

Elfwine bounced impatiently up and down as he waited for her to finish; when she showed signs of nearing completion, he eagerly crowded close to her and held out his hands. Gúthwyn laughed when she placed the snowball in his palms and he shouted for joy, fervently thanking her a second time.

Then she gasped in horror as her nephew took aim and positively flung the snowball at Legolas.

"I got you!" Elfwine crowed triumphantly when the snow sprayed across Legolas's thighs, showering his green leggings with a thin layer of white. "Now you try and get me!"

"Elfwine, no!" Gúthwyn reprimanded the child, mortified.

Legolas looked down at his snow-covered pants, then up at Elfwine.

"I-I am so sorry," Gúthwyn breathed, appalled. "I-I did not r-r-realize…"

"Auntie Gúthwyn, you're being silly again," Elfwine chastised her.

"Elfwine!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, momentarily turning around to berate her nephew. "You cannot throw snow at other people, remember what happened when you did that with your mother?"

"But Mama's mean," Elfwine protested, "and Leggy's—"

All of a sudden, a clump of snow hit him square in the chest. "I knew it!" he whooped a second later, as Gúthwyn whirled back to see a smirking Legolas lower his arm. "I knew you were fun! Auntie Gúthwyn, quick, help me make another snowball!"

His words were a declaration of war, and Gúthwyn was half-unwillingly conscripted into manufacturing her nephew's "weapons." No matter how quickly she produced them, Elfwine was always anxiously waiting for the next round of munitions. The two of them and Legolas spent the following half hour weaving in and out of passerby on the street, tossing snowballs at each other and drawing bemused stares from all who happened to witness the skirmish.

At least, Legolas and Elfwine traded volleys. It was an unspoken agreement between Éomund's daughter and Thranduil's son that they were to abstain from doing so amongst themselves, for Gúthwyn's involvement ended in providing Elfwine with snowballs and Legolas aimed only at the heir of Rohan. Gúthwyn watched closely as Legolas's throws reached Elfwine's arms, legs, and stomach—but never the head. Elfwine's aim was far less discerning, and his efforts hit their target far less frequently, yet he appeared to be enjoying himself immensely. Whenever Legolas had to duck to avoid getting hit, the child's shrieks of glee resonated throughout the air.

As the sun began dipping into the horizon, Elfwine hovered near several bales of hay until Gúthwyn's back was turned and then promptly clambered on top of them. Gúthwyn reluctantly let him remain there, for the stacks were set against a building and he was in little danger of falling. Legolas accordingly threw his snowballs with diminished speed and force, further reducing the risk of harm coming to the young prince. Éomund's daughter smiled when she noticed this. Legolas was excellent with her nephew, making it easier to feel safe in his presence.

Another ten minutes later, when Elfwine was beginning to tire, Gúthwyn knelt down to make one last snowball. Few people remained in this section of the street: by now, most of the Rohirrim had learned to avoid the raging warfare that the king's son, sister, and guest were conducting. Legolas was crouched across the road from her, hastily clumping snow together. His features were obscured by the early evening shadows, but Gúthwyn could tell that he was grinning.

Humming to herself, Éomund's daughter finished making the snowball. Her mind started drifting ahead to dinner. There she would get to see Éomer, who had been in council all day with Lothíriel. She knew her brother would get a good laugh out of hearing how she, Legolas, and Elfwine had spent their afternoon. The thought made her smile and she stood, ready to turn around and give one last snowball to her nephew.

That was when a fistful of snow hit her in the face.

"Oh!" she gasped in shock, struggling to blink the white substance from her eyes. Her hands were full of snow for Elfwine, otherwise she would have used them. Instead she stood there, waiting for her vision to clear as Elfwine's worried shouts of "Auntie Gúthwyn!" rang in her ears.

"Do not worry, little one!" she called out, shifting the snowball back and forth between her freezing hands. Why had she not worn gloves?

"I am so sorry," she heard at that instant. "You stood up after I had thrown—"

Then Legolas's fingers were gently brushing the wetness from her cheeks. Gúthwyn dropped the snowball in surprise, hearing it fall to the ground with a soft thump. Slowly, carefully, Legolas drew the snow from her eyelids. "Are you all right?" he inquired as he did so.

"Y-Yes, I am fine," Gúthwyn replied, at last opening her eyes. Gradually she was able to see Legolas a mere few inches away from her, his palm extended and softly touching her skin.

For a moment, it seemed like his hand lingered on her cheek and she was caught, frozen as if time itself had stopped and she were a glass ornament on the verge of shattering. She could do nothing but watch Legolas, waiting for something to happen, her body utterly still under the beam of his penetrating blue gaze.

Then he let his arm fall to his side and smiled tentatively at her. "Are you sure?" he asked.

Gúthwyn nodded quickly, flushing at his stare. "I am fine," she repeated breathlessly.

"Auntie Gúthwyn!" Elfwine's shrill voice caused them both to start and look up, whereupon they saw the four-year-old scrambling down the haystacks. "Auntie Gúthwyn, Leggy hit you! You hurt?"

Before Éomund's daughter could respond, the child launched himself across the street and at her legs. Once he had wrapped his arms tightly around her, he made a face and stuck his tongue out at Legolas.

"I am not hurt, little one," Gúthwyn promised her nephew, reaching down and ruffling his curly hair. "Legolas just surprised me, that is all."

Elfwine glared suspiciously at Legolas. "You throw snowballs at me," he ordered crossly. "Not at Auntie Gúthwyn."

"My apologies," Legolas said sincerely.

Confident that the Elf had understood his reprimand, Elfwine buried his face in Gúthwyn's stomach. "I'm hungry," he mumbled. "When is dinner?"

"Soon," Gúthwyn answered. "Then you can see your mother and father."

Elfwine's eyes lit up as he pulled back from her torso. "Papa said he'd tell me a story about a big battle!"

"A battle that he was in?" Gúthwyn queried, wondering if she, too, had also taken part.

Elfwine paused, frowning in bewilderment. "A battle," he at length reiterated indecisively. "Can I have my snowball now?"

Legolas pretended to recoil in horror as Gúthwyn bent over and obligingly found what she had dropped earlier. When she gave it to her nephew, Elfwine wasted no time in chucking it as hard as he could at Legolas.

"Elfwine," Gúthwyn scolded mildly as snow showered over Legolas's boots.

The child giggled in response. "That was for Auntie Gúthwyn," he informed Legolas smugly.

"Fair enough," Legolas conceded, meeting Gúthwyn's eyes and smiling.

Elfwine yawned, tired of the game. "I want to go inside. I'm cold. Auntie Gúthwyn's cold, too."

Legolas looked at Éomund's daughter, who at that moment realized that she was, in fact, freezing. She was shivering so violently that her knees were banging together beneath her woolen dress—to say nothing of the rest of her body.

"Your teeth are chattering," Legolas observed worriedly. "And your hands—"

He reached out as if to take one, but then stiffened like he had been caught committing a horrible crime. Gúthwyn, too, tensed, suddenly nervous. Elfwine glanced back and forth between the two of them, his expectant gaze finally coming to rest on Gúthwyn. Éomund's daughter tried to pull back, but an almost irresistible force seemed to be lifting her hand and extending it to Legolas. Are you so pathetic that you cannot endure his touch, not even for a few minutes? a voice in her mind goaded her on.

Legolas's eyes held hers, an unspoken question within them asking for permission. Gúthwyn nodded, though she was already quivering, and held her breath when he inclined his head and stretched his fingertips towards hers. An instant later, their hands touched.

"They are cold as ice," Legolas murmured.

Gúthwyn made a silent gesture of agreement, unable to do aught else as the Elf gently rubbed her palm with his own. "We should go inside," he said quietly.

"Auntie Gúthwyn, want my mittens?" Elfwine chimed in, starting to remove them from his hands.

Gúthwyn could not help but smile; Legolas grinned as he lowered her arm and let go. "Thank you, little one, but I would not fit into your mittens," Éomund's daughter said apologetically. "Put them back on, or you will be cold as well!"

Elfwine pulled his mittens on with some difficulty, looking disgruntled that he had not been able to provide assistance. Gúthwyn bent over and kissed his forehead, returning some of the happiness to her nephew's eyes. Legolas then suggested a second time that they retire for the evening, to which she and Elfwine readily agreed. Soon they were walking back up the main road, drawing ever closer to the warmth of the Golden Hall.

Although Elfwine chattered ceaselessly, as was his wont, neither Legolas nor Gúthwyn contributed much to the conversation. Éomund's daughter could still feel the Elf's touch against her skin, and it confused her when she could not determine whether she had been repulsed or lulled into a sense of security by it. Ever so often she thought she saw Legolas watching her out of the corner of her eye; the one occasion she was bold enough to lift her gaze and catch him, she immediately blushed and had to look away again. Not once had she thought of Haldor while Legolas was warming her hands—and when she suddenly realized that she would not have minded if his palms had lingered, she turned an even deeper red.

Was this what recovery felt like?