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-Eight:
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-Eight
Tears were still streaming unabated down Gúthwyn's cheeks when footsteps—someone walking with a cane—sounded from outside her chambers. Less than a second later, the door shook and was flung open. In her haste, she had not bolted it properly. Now Cobryn strode in, his face taut with worry. He saw her kneeling on the floor, leaning over the chamber pot. With surprising speed he crouched down beside her.
"What is wrong?" he asked urgently.
Gúthwyn could not stop crying. In an effort to hide her shame from him, she curled into a ball and buried her face in her knees, allowing the fabric of her dress—her white dress—to become soaked.
"Gúthwyn, look at me!" Cobryn demanded, his hand grasping her shoulder tightly. "What happened?"
Her entire body was convulsing with the horror of what she had just seen. She whimpered, shaking her head. "G-Go away!" she cried, her chest heaving up and down with sobs.
Cobryn reached under her chin and used his fingers to lift it irresistibly upwards. She cringed in terror, inching away from him. Her breath was beginning to come short; small, shuddering gasps were wracking her frame. Panic flowed through her when he did not let go.
"Gúthwyn, listen!" he ordered, roughly grabbing her other shoulder and jolting her back and forth. "You need to calm down!"
She tried to pull herself from his clutch, but his hold on her was too tight. It felt as if she were being suffocated. All this time, tears were rolling down her face.
"Gúthwyn!" She found herself staring straight into Cobryn's eyes. They were blazing with an intensity that she had never seen before. Her gasps were lessened, but her sobs only increased.
His grip on her shoulders was now so tight that it was painful. "I want you to take deep breaths, do you understand?" he questioned sternly, making sure that their gazes were locked. "Deep breaths."
She struggled to do as he had told her. Inhale, count to ten, exhale. But it was not until the twentieth attempt that she was able to complete the exercise without gasping.
"Now," he said, once she had gained a semblance of calm, "what happened?"
Her tears were renewed, and she had to speak through them. "I-I-I saw L-Lebryn," she began, briefly putting her face in her hands and watching as they came away wet. "H-H-He was…" How could she convey it without breaking down more than she already had?
"He was what?" Cobryn asked quietly.
"He was with… G-G-Gamling's niece," she whispered. "B-Behind the stables!"
Cobryn's eyes widened. "You saw them making love to each other?"
Gúthwyn was almost howling with misery now. Cobryn did not, could not possibly, understand the chord that the sight had struck within her. She bowed her head and wept, trying to conceal her embarrassment from his piercing eyes.
"Is everything all right?"
The two of them started and glanced up. Éowyn was standing in the doorway, looking concernedly down at them. Faramir was just behind her.
Gúthwyn froze in horror, staring at the Steward of Gondor. His face flushed, and he bowed. "I do not wish to intrude," he quickly said, and disappeared from sight.
Éowyn watched him go; then she turned back to Gúthwyn and entered the room. "Sister, what happened?" she asked softly, kneeling down next to her.
Gúthwyn could not speak around the lump in her throat. In the end, it was Cobryn who answered for her. "She walked in on Lebryn and Gamling's niece," he explained grimly. "They were behind the stables."
Much like Cobryn, Éowyn's eyes turned round with shock, but hers also contained the knowledge of what it was that had frightened her younger sister. "Oh, Gúthwyn," she said, and drew the crying woman towards her. "I am so sorry."
Gúthwyn felt herself being rocked back and forth, and her back rubbed soothingly by Éowyn. She could not remember ever being held this way by a woman, as if her mother was still alive and comforting her after a nightmare. This only made the tears fall faster. She was disgusted by what Lebryn had done; she could not rid herself of the image of his hand wandering all over the woman's body. She felt as if she were covered in dirt and grime, but was unable to remove any of it.
Gradually, however, Éowyn's gentle voice began to calm her down. Her tears grew quieter, and the knot in her chest was loosening somewhat. It was replaced by feelings of embarrassment, that she had lost control of herself over so small a thing. Was it not the natural course of things, for a man and a woman to make love to each other? Was her brother now not doing the very same thing? Had Éowyn not done so on the night of her wedding?
Why am I so weak? she wondered desperately.
Yet when at last she pulled away from Éowyn, her sister's countenance had not changed. Cobryn was looking in bafflement between the two of them, his eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what had so bothered his friend.
"I think you should get some rest now," Éowyn said, keeping a steadying hand on her shoulder. "It is well past midnight."
Wretchedly, she nodded, and allowed Éowyn to help her to her feet. Cobryn stood as well, and said, "I will return in a few minutes."
"Th-Thank you," Gúthwyn whispered, swallowing hard.
Once they were alone, and the door had closed behind Cobryn, Éowyn went over to the dresser and took out a nightgown. "Here," she said, and then turned away to give Éomund's youngest daughter the privacy she needed. Not even the maids would she let see her unclothed—they would have been dumbfounded to see the scars criss-crossing her back, the Eye of Sauron still glaring dully from her wrist, the way her ribs jutted out against her pale, stretched skin.
When Gúthwyn was done, Éowyn turned back to face her. "Are you going to be fine?" she asked quietly.
Gúthwyn trembled a little, but nodded. "I-I am sorry for disturbing you and Faramir," she mumbled, a flush coming over her cheeks.
"Say nothing of it," Éowyn replied firmly. "Come, let us get you into bed."
It was as if she were a child once more. Gúthwyn slid underneath the thick covers while Éowyn stood over her, smoothing long strands of dark hair away from her face.
"Éowyn?"
"Yes?"
"Can you not tell Éomer?" Gúthwyn asked timidly, reaching out and taking her sister's hand. "I-I do not want him to… to be worried… this is his wedding night, after all."
Éowyn hesitated.
"Please?"
"As you wish," Éowyn relented softly. "Sleep well."
Gúthwyn was about to respond in kind when there was a knock on the door, and Cobryn's voice filtered into the room. "May I come in?" he asked.
Éowyn went over and opened the door, stepping aside as Cobryn came into the room. The two of them exchanged quiet words that Gúthwyn could not hear.
"Sister, I am going to bed now," Éowyn informed her. "If you need anything, do not hesitate to tell me."
"Thank you," Gúthwyn said, privately thinking that she would never enter Éowyn's chambers while she was sleeping with Faramir.
Éowyn left the room then, and Cobryn approached the bed. He pulled up a chair and sat down in it. "What was that about?" he inquired seriously.
"I-I just…" Gúthwyn began, and trailed off. "Just seeing Lebryn…"
Cobryn waited patiently for her to collect her thoughts. Gúthwyn stared down at the blankets, wondering if she should confide in him what Haldor had truly done to her. Her friend knew next to nothing about the Elf—only that terribly cruel were words not sufficient enough to describe him, and she had killed him for it at Amon Hen. But at the idea of telling the whole tale again, she quailed. She was not ready for it.
"D-Do you remember," she said at length, "w-when you walked in on the… the Serpent and I?"
"I do not think I will ever forget it," Cobryn answered heavily. Gúthwyn, too, felt the weight of his words. If he had come in but a few minutes later, Gríma would have had his way with her. Haldor would not have been the first to mark his territory upon her body.
Gúthwyn's voice was strangled as she continued, "I-In Mordor…" There was a long pause until she could gather up the courage to plunge ahead. "Someone succeeded."
There. She had done it. She watched apprehensively as Cobryn's mouth opened slightly, and his hand curled into a white fist.
"Was it Haldor?" he at last asked, his words choking on disgust.
She did not have the strength to do anything other than nod. For several minutes, there was silence.
"I should have known," Cobryn said eventually, his features hardened with bitterness. "Your fear... it was unnaturally strong."
It still is, Gúthwyn thought to herself, fighting against the tears that sought to reclaim mastery over her once more.
"Is there anything I can do?" he wanted to know, still looking as if he had swallowed something revolting.
She shook her head. "I just want to forget it ever happened. I told you because... because I know I can trust you."
"I will not breathe a word of this to anyone," he vowed. "Gúthwyn, I..." he could not finish the sentence. Nor did she need him to.
"Thank you for helping me tonight," she said quietly. Her head was beginning to ache; she needed some rest.
"Do not mention it," was his reply. He sounded as if he were still lost in his thoughts; his eyes displayed alternating fury and helplessness. "Sleep well."
She nodded, and was about to close her eyes when he spoke again. "Gúthwyn?"
"Yes?"
He looked at her. "Should you ever need me, I will be in the hall."
Relief—pure, wild relief—swept in waves over her body. Once again, Cobryn had correctly interpreted her thoughts. "Thank you so much," she murmured.
"Goodnight," he answered, and left.
Gúthwyn buried herself under a mass of covers and awaited the inevitable nightmare.
Once outside Gúthwyn's room, Cobryn strode down the passage into the throne room. Servants were scurrying about, hoping to clean the hall in enough time for them to get a few hours' worth of sleep, but he paid them no heed. Behind the cover of a large pillar, he pounded his fist against the wall. Fury raced through him, raw and passionate. Curse you! he yelled silently at the Valar. Curse you for all you have done to the ones I love!
And he was powerless to stop them, as always. Before Gúthwyn's arrival in Isengard, both Feride and Chalibeth had experienced the abuse that made his blood run cold. They did not have to tell him for him to know it had happened—it was all too evident in how, for weeks afterwards, they had experienced nightmares; how every male on the edges of their vision was suspect, and to be cringed from; how they had not looked anyone in the face for days. At the time, he had only been far younger; he did not know how to comfort them. He had done nothing.
When Gúthwyn had appeared in the doorway of their home, wide-eyed and confused, yet with a proud streak in her that had done more harm than he cared to recall, he had vowed to protect her. He had already failed with Feride and Chalibeth; it was as if the Valar had given him another chance. But they had taken it away from him, and he had endured the long wait of her stay in the cage. Chalibeth's blood had seeped into the floor of the stables, and he could not even give her a proper burial. Nor had he the skills to heal the bite marring Gúthwyn's face when she was released; neither had he even remembered to give her water. Abaudia had brought her back from unconsciousness, while he had done nothing.
And then Saruman had called her to his office. She had returned in a state of madness. The dreaded name of Mordor had fallen from her lips. He had not believed her. None of them had. It was the word of an Uruk—which should have been worth nothing compared to Gúthwyn's—that had at last convinced him. His dear friend was to be sent to the Black Land, and he would not be able to watch over her and guide her from harm's way. But what was there to be done against the will of Saruman? Nothing. He had bid her farewell, and done nothing.
He had watched with horrified eyes as the Uruks rounded up the women and children, driving them into the Warg stables with eager whips. He had heard their screams and seen the fear on their face as, one by one, they disappeared, and were never seen again. Even their bodies had been absent in the silent day that followed, when Cobryn and Lebryn had fed the same Wargs that had feasted on their friends. All that he had been able to do was hide Feride and Onyveth in their dwelling. Yet they had known that it would not last. And still he had done nothing.
Then he had stood aside as the Uruks dragged his wife and Onyveth out of the room, preparing to march them and the rest of the discovered women down to the stables. His eyes had met Feride's in that moment, and the calmness with which she accepted her fate had shattered him. She had deserved none of the death that was doled to her—and she had gotten it not because she had disobeyed someone, but because her master had decided that she was no longer necessary. If there was something to be learned from the tales of old, he should have fought to the death against the Uruks, and by doing so rescue the others from what awaited them. But he had done nothing.
When at last the Uruk-hai had left Isengard to battle the people of Rohan, incurring the wrath of the Ents, they had given him and Lebryn what he had believed only a fading dream: Freedom. Yet it had come with a price. Because of his handicap, Gwollyn and Regwyn had allowed him to climb up the broken stone wall first. He had moved too slowly; before they had time to scramble above the flood, the water had swallowed them. The next time he had seen them, their corpses were growing cold. Once again, he had done nothing.
And now this. Gúthwyn. He had known that the past still held her in its snare. Did all of them not walk under the shadow of their memories, trying to learn from their mistakes? Did scholars not peruse old scrolls in hopes of discovering the answers to ancient mysteries? He himself was not free from his days at Isengard. But to see his formerly proud friend reduced to tears in such a manner… that, more than anything, had shown him just how fragile she truly was. Once again, he found himself unable to help someone he cared about.
Nor had the new piece in the puzzle of her time in Mordor affected him any less. His heart twisted to know that she had not escaped that which was almost certain for a woman slave to be put through. She had always been so innocent, even to the point of naivety, that to see her ravaged eyes and hear her hoarse whispers had felt worse than fifty whip lashes. He found himself wondering if Haldor had only raped her once, if it had just been one night that he had forced himself on her.
"My lord?"
Cobryn was dragged out of his thoughts by a tentative voice. Glancing over, he saw one of the younger maids standing a few feet away. "Is everything all right, my lord?" she asked, and he realized that his fist was still on the pillar.
"Yes," he replied, lowering his arm. "My apologies. Excuse me."
With that, he began walking towards his pallet, making a mental note to reprimand Lebryn for his conduct in the morning. He was hardly surprised that his friend had been found making love to one of the women; the younger man was to be seen at a tavern nearly every night, usually with a drink in one hand and a fetching maid in the other. Nevertheless, he was still disappointed. From what he had heard, Gamling's niece was no blushing virgin herself, but that did not dismiss the fact that Lebryn's actions would be frowned down upon if they were discovered. Furthermore, he doubted that Gamling would not go out of his way to deliver a few angry words—or fists—to Lebryn, if he found out.
Cobryn sighed as he lowered himself onto his pallet, and though he soon closed his eyes it was long before he had drifted off to sleep.
Miserable, worthless creature!
He was going to marry you, Gúthwyn, marry you!
In the dark of night, the pale moon rested a few of its fingers on a woman's bed. She was tossing and turning, each time making a strange swatting motion.
You disgust me!
You are a pathetic whore!Another thrust of denial; bony fingers clawed at the air, grasping nothing. The blankets twisted and wrapped around a thin body.
You are a disgrace!
I will be happy if you rot in the Void for doing this to his memory!
You horrible, disgusting, foul little bitch!
A small chest was heaving frantically up and down, struggling to breathe. Sweat shone on the woman's white face. The stench of fear was in the air.
Borogor. Dead.
Tell me that you like it and want more!
Her back arched; she rolled, and hovered dangerously close to the edge of the bed. Sharp gasps resounded throughout the room.
So you are telling me that you do not remember kissing me—
Lips clamped firmly together, the flesh turning white.
—touching me, begging me—
There was a soft cry, a futile denial of a wrong done.
—making love to me—
She twitched, and there was a quiet thump as her body fell off the bed and landed on the ground. The scent of blood trickled into the air: Her head had glanced off of the nightstand. Still, she did not wake.
—moaning… nothing?
A whimper, faint, escaped from a quivering mouth.
You have failed.
With a muffled cry of terror, Gúthwyn's eyes flared open. Darkness was surrounding her, and something was wrapped tightly about her chest. She could not move; she could not breathe. Panic overwhelmed her. In a blind frenzy she began writhing and kicking. Where am I? she wondered in fright, not recognizing her surroundings. "Please…" she whispered, struggling against her bonds.
Tears were forming in her eyes before she broke free. Panting, clutching at her chest, she fearfully looked around her. After a few frantic seconds, she saw the flickering light of a candle. Focusing all of her concentration on the flame, she stared at it fiercely and willed herself to calm down. "C-Cobryn," she muttered, trying to remember what he had told her. I want you to take deep breaths, do you understand?
One, two, three, four. Gúthwyn counted them out, holding the air within her for as long as she was able to before expelling it. Slowly, she felt herself beginning to adjust to the dimness of the room. Now she knew it was her own. Somehow, she had fallen off of the bed. Shivers started working their way through her body. What is wrong with me? she asked herself, cringing as the sensation of crawling skin settled over her arms.
The thing that had been suffocating her was a thick blanket; Gúthwyn wrapped it back around her, afraid of the shadows lurking in the corners untouched by the candlelight. Her teeth were chattering, but not from the cold. The voices in her nightmare still swirled throughout her chambers, whispering horrible things to her. You are worthless…
"I am not worthless," she said to the room, though her words were subdued. Delighted, sensing weakness, the voices pounced. You say you are not worthless, but what were you doing less than five days after Borogor died? Whose bed were you in? And what of all the other times you serviced Haldor? The time you put your head between his legs and pleased him? Nay, you are not worthless—you are less than worthless!
She could not win. Moaning softly, she clamped her hands over her ears, willing the voices to go away. It was then that she felt something wet close to her temple. Puzzled, she examined her fingers. The tips of them were red.
Blood? she thought, perplexed. Her hand returned to search out the source of the wound. Gradually, she prodded at the skin, working her way up towards the hairline. At last, she found a small cut on the far right side of her forehead. She had no memory of how it had gotten there.
Slightly disturbed, Gúthwyn got to her feet, and stumbled over towards her dresser. Fear of the darkness propelled her movements, which became clumsy and awkward as her nervousness heightened. She nearly spilled a bottle of ink in one of the drawers as she tried to find some bandages; hastily, she righted it, and then tore off a piece of the gauze to press it against her head.
While she waited for the bleeding to stop, she looked around her room. Her gaze lingered on the bed: It was a mess of twisted and tangled blankets. She cringed, knowing that she would have to rearrange them so that the maids did not suspect anything. The rest of the area was lit by the usual five candles that she had burning throughout the night, though there were dark spaces between them that made her quickly avert her eyes.
Her thoughts gradually returned to her nightmare. She had been trapped inside the cage, with all of the voices surrounding her. They had whispered, always whispered, some of them within her very ear. The smell of blood and decaying corpses had made her choke. Haldor had been right outside—she had heard him, terrifyingly close to her—and his eyes were glinting like those of the Warg that had stared unceasingly at her during her punishment.
Gúthwyn shuddered, instinctively wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. A familiar nausea was uncoiling itself in her stomach. Have I not thrown up enough today? she asked herself desperately.
But it was no use. She could feel what was left of her dinner turning unpleasantly inside her as she stared around her chambers. The walls were closing in on her. Darkness was falling, shrouding everything in its impenetrable veil. Soon her brow was coated in a thin layer of sweat. She began imagining that maggots were crawling over her arms and legs. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself that they were not there, she could not stop her panicked jerking, or her hands from rubbing frantically at her skin.
Finally, she knew she could not stay in her room any longer. She dropped the bandage that she had been using. It floated to the ground, the patch of blood on it briefly illuminated by the moonlight. Lifting the blanket up slightly so that she did not trip on it, Gúthwyn strode towards her door and quickly opened it. Almost immediately, the dark passage seemed to stretch until it was miles long.
Gulping, praying that no one would hear her, she began edging her way down the corridor. Such was her state that only an unreasonable worry convinced her to stop at the children's room and check on them. Hammel and Haiweth were both fast asleep. A pang entered her heart to see them in such a state of innocence; she wished she had that luxury. But her purity was gone, stolen in all senses by Haldor.
Continuing down the hall, now trembling regularly, she paused for a moment once she had reached the throne room. A great number of the visitors were sleeping there, and she did not wish to wake anyone. Aside from the fact that it was not polite, she did not want to be asked any questions. For an instant, the possibility of turning back found its way into her mind. Yet she dismissed it, too scared to return to where there were long shadows and the walls were growing smaller.
Holding her breath, Gúthwyn tiptoed around the corner of the hall, and then walked along the outskirts of the room. Along the way, she glanced down at the faces of sleeping people. With the exception of Prince Imrahil, and King Elessar and Queen Arwen, who had been given private chambers, everyone else had laid out their pallets here. She saw some of Faramir's men, one of which she recognized as a former Ranger—wincing, she made a note to avoid him—as well as the princes of Dol Amroth. A small smile tugged at her lips when she saw that Alphros had curled up against Elphir; the man had his arm wrapped protectively around his son.
At length, she came to the doors, and pushed them open to reveal the night sky scattered with stars. Clutching the blanket closer, she was about to step outside when she caught sight of a lone figure standing at the top of the stairs. A pipe was clenched firmly in his mouth, expelling small clouds of smoke into the air. For warmth, he had garbed himself in a worn traveling cloak. A pair of stained boots were nearly falling off of his feet.
"Good evening," Aragorn said without turning around. "Or shall I say morning?"
Gúthwyn was unsure of whether he actually knew who she was. "It does not seem like the morning to me," she said quietly. "It is too dark."
The King's head twisted to look at her. She was acutely aware of how ridiculous she must have appeared, with a blanket covering her body and her hair likely disheveled from her frantic wriggling. A small blush crept over her pale face.
"What has you up at this hour?" he inquired, as if he could read her thoughts.
Not wanting to admit her weakness, she shrugged, and moved so that she was only a few feet away from him. Now she was able to see her people's land better. "I am not a good sleeper," was her answer.
Her remark received a thin smile. "Of that I am aware of. Nearly every time you had watch duty with the Fellowship, you practiced with your sword."
Gúthwyn's eyes widened in embarrassment. "You saw me?" she asked.
"In those times, I did not get much rest either," Aragorn replied, sighing. "Even now, it is sometimes more fitting for me to go outside and look at the stars."
She considered this. "They are a beautiful sight," she at last agreed, gazing up at the heavens. "To me, even more so after not seeing them for seven years."
A pang of sadness resounded within her as she said this, and she did not meet Aragorn's eyes. Yet he was silent. For a long time, neither of them spoke. She coughed a little on the fumes from his pipe; he sighed at the stars, as if he had been asking them for answers and they were withholding them.
At length, Gúthwyn shifted and glanced at him. "Éomer told me about your offer."
"Did he?" Aragorn asked. "I had half expected him not to."
"He had half a mind not to," Gúthwyn responded, exhaling. Though she had a thick blanket on, she shivered in the suddenly cold air. Stirring herself to speak, she said, "I decided not to go."
He did not say anything, and she took a deep breath. "I just… cannot go back there," she explained, involuntarily shuddering. "I never want to set foot in the Black Land again."
Aragorn nodded. "I understand," he said quietly. "I extended the offer to you not because I wanted you to go, but because you deserved the chance to if you wished. I knew Éomer had kept secret from you our journey to Isengard, and I thought that to do so again would be unfair to you."
Touched by this gesture, and glad that someone did not think her too frail to hear such news, Gúthwyn said, "Thank you."
For awhile, neither of them spoke. Then Aragorn's voice sounded into the quiet night. "What do they want?"
"Excuse me?" Gúthwyn asked, startled and confused.
His eyes held hers. "The slaves," he explained. "The members of Sauron's army that were captured, and forced to fight against their own people."
Gúthwyn drew a shaky breath. "They want freedom," she said. "They want… they want to forget all the time they spent in the Black Land. They want to see their families again. They want…" She trailed off, swallowed hard, and whispered, "A home. A place where they do not have to worry about their friends and brothers being killed in a fight not their own."
Aragorn looked at her, and in his eyes she saw the sorrow of someone with a burden weighing them down, so that the world became weary and the past dogged them with footsteps close behind. She knew the feeling well; her heart was heavy with regret, and painful memories of her life as a thrall haunted her nearly every night. There was an unspoken understanding between her and the Ranger, one that gave her a newfound respect for him.
They fell into silence once more, though it was not awkward. Slowly but surely, the grey of dawn began crawling across the sky. Gúthwyn felt her courage returning with the light, and decided to go back to her room and try to salvage some sleep. No matter what Lebryn had done—she trembled, and forced the incident from her mind—she would not let it disturb her rest.
Aragorn seemed to sense her imminent departure, and said, "I am sorry my company has not been of much help to you."
"Help?" Gúthwyn echoed, puzzled.
He looked at her. "You came here to seek what comfort there is in the ageless stars, did you not?"
Aragorn was still the shrewd man he had been as a Ranger. She flushed at how close to the mark he was. "I am fine," she replied.
In that moment, both of them knew how wrong she was. But they said nothing, and soon she had turned around and gone back inside.
