Chapter Twenty-Eight

Éowyn,

The request I am about to make is well overdue, and I pray you will forgive the delay. Something has happened in Edoras that has made it impossible for me to continue living here in good conscience, and I beg that you will let me, Hammel, and Haiweth stay with you in Emyn Arnen for some time. I am terribly sorry, but I cannot elaborate at this point and I do not know how long I will need to be away from Rohan. Please do not write to Éomer and ask him what is going on, for I promise I shall tell you when we next meet in person.

The sooner you can reply, the better. I hope that you and your husband are well.

Sincerely, Gúthwyn

Knowing fully well the magnitude of what she had just done, Éomund's daughter lowered her quill and surveyed the letter. There were several splotches on the parchment that might arouse her sister's concern, and she hoped that the tears would dry long before the messenger reached Éowyn. She expected that the White Lady would worry once she read Gúthwyn's plea, but there was nothing that could be done to rectify this until they saw each other in person—for quite frankly, Gúthwyn did not have the energy to fill so many pages with such bitter words.

No sooner had she set the letter down and buried her head in her hands than there was a sharp knock on the door, startling her so much that she nearly jumped out of her chair. "Who is it?" she asked, dreading the inevitable answer. She was only surprised that it had taken him so long to come.

"It is Éomer," her brother's voice called back impatiently.

Inwardly groaning, Gúthwyn hid her letter in the small desk drawer and said, "Come in."

She barely had time to brace herself before the door burst open and Éomer strode in, his features taut with anxiety. "What happened?" he inquired, bewildered. "Lothíriel is refusing to tell me anything, and Gamling was hardly more informative. He thought that the two of you were having an argument over Elfwine, but there was clearly more to the story that he would not divulge. Please, baby sister, what is going on?"

Gúthwyn shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Elfwine told Lothíriel that he hated her—not that he meant it, of course, he was just angry because he did not want to go inside—and she became upset."

Éomer frowned. "Why would he say something like that? He should know better."

"I think he was tired," Gúthwyn replied uneasily.

For a long moment, Éomer's dark eyes held hers. "When my son came into the throne room today, not only did he tell me that you and my wife were fighting again, but he also said that Lothíriel despised you, and he begged me to put an end to it."

Gúthwyn all but squirmed under her brother's piercing stare.

"I am going to ask you once," Éomer spoke, his voice trembling with the effort it took to remain calm. He approached Gúthwyn's desk, obviously noting the way she suddenly could not meet his eyes. "What is happening between you and Lothíriel?"

Gúthwyn paled: she did not want to be the bearer of bad news that would shatter Éomer's perception of his domestic life. "Nothing," she lied quickly, wondering how on Middle-earth she would be able to get out of this mess and then inform her brother that she was leaving Rohan.

It was the stricken look on her face, moreso than the feeble denial, that gave Éomer the answer he had been praying not to receive. "Tell me right now," the king ordered, his eyes widening, "why Lothíriel was yelling at you, for I suddenly doubt that it was merely about my son."

"She was stressed out," Gúthwyn fibbed wretchedly. "That was all, really."

Éomer's gaze hardened as she spoke, and she knew that this time he could not be fooled. "You are lying," he said flatly.

"Brother—"

"I do not know what it is that you and Lothíriel are so intent on hiding from me, but rest assured that I will get to the bottom of this," Éomer vowed. "With or without your cooperation."

Angrily, he turned around and stalked out of the room. Gúthwyn swallowed and pulled the letter back out, relieved that Éomer had not seen it. How could she explain to him that she was fleeing Rohan to give Elfwine a chance at having a relationship with his mother, to enable Lothíriel to spend more time with her husband? Her brother's family had fallen apart right under his nose—it was up to Éomund's daughter to depart, to let time heal their wounds the way it never had hers.

For Gúthwyn now knew exactly why Lothíriel had come to be the person she was, and why the woman carried such raw hatred and bitter jealousy in her heart. It had started when the queen was just a child: a princess, yes; but as Lady Míriel had said, an unimportant one. Her brothers, sought after by all the women at court, must have been positively glorified—but Lothíriel was secluded with her studies, ignored by the nobility.

Now came Lady Míriel, and the onset of the disastrous chain of events that had led to the death of perhaps Lothíriel's only friend. Shortly after, the princess was despised by everyone in Dol Amroth, lords and ladies and commoners alike. Then Éomer had appeared, offering her love—and an escape. Of course Lothíriel would have expected life in Rohan to be better than the daily torture of navigating Dol Amroth's social circles; after all, how could it be worse?

Gúthwyn did not doubt that these ruminations about Lothíriel's past would be dismissed as mere guesswork if she were to reveal them to anyone, yet she was positive that she was either right in her deductions or closer to the truth than anyone but Lothíriel—and perhaps Imrahil—had ever been. Her conjectures were only strengthened as she added herself to the picture.

Éomund's daughter could still recall her arrival into Lothíriel's life, and indeed was able to scrutinize every detail of it. She had been carrying Haiweth in her arms when Éomer introduced her to his future wife. The queen would have formed the initial impression that Gúthwyn had disgraced herself, one that was seemingly confirmed by the king's reticence when questioned about the matter. Lothíriel's strict sense of propriety would forbid her from ever being accepting of this, leaving her disinclined to so much as address the other woman cordially.

Then the queen had made her home in Rohan, residing in the Golden Hall, a place where she was constantly rubbing elbows with Éomund's daughter. Gúthwyn could only imagine Lothíriel's astonishment, not to mention suspicion, when she discovered that her husband's sister was tolerated, even well-liked, by the people of Edoras. What an opinion Lothíriel must have formed of the Rohirric populace, an opinion that would have already been tainted by her experiences in Dol Amroth!

To make matters worse, Lothíriel had soon learned that she was not the only woman close to Éomer's heart. Gúthwyn remembered how fragile she herself had been after the War of the Ring, how painfully the emotional and physical scars of her time in Mordor had taken their toll. Whenever her health had faltered—occasionally for weeks on end—Éomer had been a constant at her bedside, for he was determined to ensure that she lacked nothing. The queen would not have understood this. Had anyone stayed with Lothíriel for so long when she was sick? It was doubtful.

In all fairness, Gúthwyn thought, Éomer would never intentionally snub his wife. However, as much as she loved her brother, he was not the most observant man in Middle-earth. It was easy to see how he might have overlooked Lothíriel's increasing unhappiness, just as he had been oblivious to the sheer terror with which Gúthwyn had anticipated her marriage to Elphir.

Again, Éomund's daughter turned to the letter. The finality of the words she had written on the page had not yet sunk in. She was going to leave Rohan—the land she loved above all others, the only place she had ever called home—and live with Borogor's killer. She suspected that her mind was refusing to accept the arrangements her pen had made, and had numbed her heart to the agony she knew she would eventually suffer.

Half an hour later, Gúthwyn was still sitting at her desk and staring blankly at its surface when the door flew open. Éomer burst into the room, his eyes glittering black with rage and his face a furious shade of red. He slammed the door shut so forcefully that the walls of her quarters shook.

"I just found Cobryn," he announced harshly. "Unlike you, he was very willing to give me the answers I was looking for."

All the color drained from Gúthwyn's cheeks, and she raised a trembling hand to her mouth.

"Lothíriel is in our chambers right now," Éomer continued, his voice strangled, "and I cannot return there because if I do, I will murder her."

"Brother, please, she—"

"Stop it!" Éomer roared at her, banging his fist against the side of her wardrobe. "Do not dare come to her defense!"

"Éomer, I beg you—"

"Enough!" Éomer yelled, his features contorted in disgust. Gúthwyn swallowed, cringing away from his anger. "Cobryn informs me that this has been going on for years, Gúthwyn, years! Why did you say nothing to me? Why did you not tell me that my wife has been spreading gossip about you to the women in Edoras, that she insults you at any chance she gets?"

"I-I did not want to hurt you…" Gúthwyn whispered, trailing off under Éomer's ferocious stare.

"For Eru's sake," the king fumed, "I wish you would think of yourself for once in your life! After all Lothíriel has done to you—allowing Amrothos to practically rape you…" He was so angry that he was actually shaking; the sound of his fist slamming into the wardrobe reverberated throughout the room again. "How can you possibly believe that her behavior was acceptable? Why would you not alert me immediately?"

"I-I was trying to help Elfwine," Gúthwyn murmured to her lap.

"You were trying to help Elfwine?" Éomer echoed indignantly. "How, baby sister, does letting Lothíriel treat you so horribly that my son was begging for me to make it stop help him?"

"I knew that if I told you, you would hate her," Gúthwyn explained miserably, "and Elfwine should not have to grow up in a home where there is such strife between the parents."

For a long moment, Éomer stared at her. Then he laughed, hollowly. "Too late for that," he spat bitterly. "The very thought of her"—his fingers curled—"causes me to long for my sword. All the things she has done," he burst out suddenly, "are actions befitting a monster, not the woman I married! Her giving that sheet to you when you were kind enough to do her laundry was a deed nothing short of disgusting. I cannot tell you how sickened I felt when Cobryn was listing but some of the taunts she has used against you, when he was reciting but a few of the rumors she has started about you!"

He paused, breathing heavily, at which point his eyes fell upon Gúthwyn's desk. "To whom are you writing?" he inquired, seemingly in an attempt to calm himself down.

"Éowyn," Gúthwyn replied, dreading what she was about to say. "I… I have requested her permission to reside in Ithilien for some time."

It was a long time before Éomer spoke. At first he simply stood there, his expression laced with shock and dismay. Gúthwyn felt awful as she beheld her brother, knowing that his feelings on the matter were perhaps as strong as her own. The very air was palpable with his silent anguish.

"You… what?" the king finally asked, stunned.

Gúthwyn could barely stand to look at him. "I-I think it would be best if I leave Rohan for awhile."

"Absolutely not!" Éomer barked, the finality of her words jolting him to his senses. "There is no reason for that. You have done nothing wrong. I will not have you exiling yourself from your home as if you were the one who had committed such atrocities! If anything, I should send Lothíriel away!"

Gúthwyn shook her head. "I am giving this letter to a messenger as soon as we are done talking. Your wife is right: I have spent too long here. Hammel, Haiweth, and I have relied too much on your graciousness. Besides," she added, for Éomer was opening his mouth to hotheadedly protest, "Éowyn has often mentioned that she would like for me to visit, and it upsets her that I have yet to accept any of the numerous open invitations she has given me. I expect she will be pleased when she discovers that at last I intend to sojourn with her."

"Do not do this to yourself, baby sister," Éomer urgently implored her, stricken. "I know you love Rohan and our people; it is no secret to me that you want to spend the rest of your life here. Whatever my wife has told you is a lie. I am more than willing to have you and the children remain in Meduseld until the end of your days, and should I die before you Elfwine shall permit the same. Furthermore, until now you have never expressed any interest in traveling to Ithilien—regardless of how many times Éowyn has pressed you to come. You should not uproot yourself because you think it would be best for others!"

"But it is best," Gúthwyn gently corrected him. "Lothíriel and Elfwine have little to no relationship with each other, and it grieves me to see such distance between mother and son. As long as I am around, Elfwine will prefer my company to hers; I cannot let that continue. Once I am gone, he and Lothíriel will be able to spend more time together. Lothíriel, also, will be far more at ease in her home during my absence."

"Damn Lothíriel!" Éomer exploded, furious again. "Why are you so concerned about her comfort? Why do you insist on rewarding her for her disgrace?"

"Because, Éomer, she is acting out of jealousy!" Gúthwyn exclaimed. "She believes I have turned Elfwine against her, and she thinks that you care more about me than you do her!"

"That is ridiculous," Éomer snapped. "I loved her just as much as you. Whatever misconceived notions of inferiority she has do not suffice as an excuse for her appalling behavior! She has half the women in Edoras gossiping about how you are a harlot, and she convinced Elphir of the same—completely sabotaging all the effort her father and I had put into the negotiations!"

"She does not actually realize that I am not offering my services to all the men in Edoras," Gúthwyn argued; "she does not think she is lying. You remember how she once told you that she saw Cobryn entering my chambers in the dead of night, and never returning? She also claims that she has overheard me say that I am not a virgin. I would not acknowledge such a topic in front of her, but a couple of times we have discussed H-Haldor when we assumed she was asleep. What if she was not? If so, what evidence would there be to assure her otherwise?"

"She should have spoken to me about her suspicions, instead of relaying them to the entire population of Edoras!" Éomer blustered angrily.

"Why would she?" Gúthwyn asked. "You once mentioned that she had inquired about the talk she had heard of my disappearance from Rohan, but that you had brushed her off and only given a vague answer. I expect she thought that you would be just as unforthcoming, perhaps even angry, if she questioned you about my purity."

"I cannot believe you are defending her," Éomer remarked in revulsion. "What is wrong with you?"

"Éomer, please, I am just trying to make you understand why I must depart," Gúthwyn begged. "When you heard her yelling at me, could you not discern what she was saying? She truly does believe that I have stolen you, Elfwine, and even her father away from her. Envy has dictated her treatment of me for years, nothing else. If I leave Rohan, she will be able to spend more time with you and Elfwine, and she shall not feel so bitter towards me."

"Do you really think that just by running off to Ithilien, the mess of this situation will simply vanish into thin air?" Éomer demanded. "I will never be able to look at my wife, nor love her, the same way again. I have no desire to 'spend more time with her,' nor shall Elfwine when he realizes that you have left on her account. Your departure will make Lothíriel less welcome in the Golden Hall than ever before, of that I am certain."

"Brother, I know that you are angry," Gúthwyn began, "but I beseech you to keep Elfwine's interests at heart. He is only five; he will soon forget that this ever happened, and then your coldness towards Lothíriel will set a dangerous example for him. Please, I beg you—I love my nephew as if he were my own child, and I could not bear for him to be so affected by what transpired today."

Éomer's mouth dropped open. "Let me get this straight," he at length said: "you want me to pretend that this never occurred, to act as if I had never found out that my wife is a scheming and conniving woman who would stop at nothing to ruin my baby sister's reputation? And you have some mistaken idea that this will help my son?"

"Is it fair to Elfwine now, when he comes to hate his own mother before his sixth birthday?" Gúthwyn retorted.

"He has good reason to loathe her!" Éomer cried.

"A child should never despise their parents," Gúthwyn staunchly asserted. "I am leaving Rohan whether you want me to or not, brother, and I am doing it so that Elfwine and Lothíriel will be able to heal their relationship—and perhaps even forge a bond between them. All I ask is that you treat your wife decently when your son is around. Please."

For a long time, Éomer was quiet. Before Gúthwyn's eyes he appeared to age several years, his forehead wrinkling as he furrowed his brow and his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world were upon them. It was a sorry sight. More than ever, Éomund's daughter regretted that her struggle with Lothíriel had come to this. If it were up to her, her brother would have been kept happily in the dark for the rest of his life.

Finally, Éomer sighed. At length he said, "If your heart is set on living in Ithilien, I cannot stop you, despite my wanting you to remain here. I will not promise to act cordially around Lothíriel, for though you seem to have a number of excuses for her behavior I am not so forgiving. Yet for Elfwine's sake, I will make the attempt, even if I curse her with every breath of false politeness."

Gúthwyn gave a sad smile. "Thank you, brother," she spoke, getting to her feet and embracing him. "And thank you so much for all you have done for me and the children over the years. It is a debt I can never hope to repay."

Éomer's arms wrapped tightly around her, but even when breathing became difficult Gúthwyn did not let go. "There is nothing to repay," Éomer whispered hoarsely. "It has been a blessing to have you with us. Are you sure I cannot convince you to stay?"

Gúthwyn nodded. "Positive," she choked out.

Éomer's grip on her became even more pronounced. "Then come home soon," he told her fiercely. "Elfwine and I will miss you every day."

At the thought of her nephew, Gúthwyn's throat tightened. "D-Do not tell him right now," she said pleadingly. "I-I will do it when I hear back from Éowyn… And p-please, Éomer, do not write to our sister about this. I-I shall give her the whole story when I see her…"

"Of course," Éomer agreed.

"A-And also," Gúthwyn added, suddenly remembering something important, "do not t-tell Imrahil about w-w-why Elphir and I are no longer b-betrothed… I-I must take care of that on my own." By 'take care of,' of course, she meant 'never discuss it again'—but Éomer did not have to know that.

"You have my word," Éomer swore, his voice sounding strangled.

As the two siblings pulled apart, Gúthwyn was astounded to see that her brother was blinking rapidly in the all-too-familiar motions of someone trying to conceal their tears. She did not comment, however, knowing that it would embarrass him—and if she looked at him for too long, she herself would start crying.

"I will speak to some of the men," Éomer muttered, "to see if I can put together an escort to Emyn Arnen for you."

Gúthwyn thanked him wholeheartedly, though a shudder came over her as images of Ithilien flashed through her mind. Please, she prayed to the Valar, let my stay there be only temporary.

Naturally, the Valar were not listening.