A/N: So... Not to sound like I'm obsessed with myself, but I made a Lord of the Rings 'ficmix' using this story. For those of you who don't know what a ficmix is, it's basically a fanmix that comes with a fanfic. For those of you who don't know what a fanmix is, it's basically a soundtrack for a fandom, pairing, person, whatever. For example, if I thought the song "Milkshake" was really applicable to Cedric Diggory (which I just might...), I would include that in a fanmix about him. Anyway, so, I have a playlist on my computer that I basically use to keep track of songs that remind me of The Rohan Pride Trilogy, and today I uploaded it on my LiveJournal. If you guys are interested in checking it out, here's the address (remove the spaces when you paste it into your browser): http:/ anolinde .livejournal .com /171387 .html
If you do look it over, I hope you enjoy it!
(Also, let me know if the post looks screwy on your computer - I was using HTML tables and they weren't cooperating with me.)
Chapter Thirty-Four
Thankfully, Gúthwyn's wound did not need to be cauterized. She was practically beside herself with relief after Elfhelm pronounced the procedure unnecessary, for the very idea of submitting to such a torture—even in the name of healing—had caused her to break out in a cold sweat. Mercifully, her shoulder was well on the road to recovery. After a slight fever the next day, which according to Elfhelm was a common affliction experienced by those in a similar predicament, she was only troubled by a constant throbbing that gradually grew weaker.
The Marshal nevertheless insisted on redressing her wounds at each stopping point for the remainder of the journey, rattling off gruesome descriptions of ghastly infections if she dared to question him. All in all, Gúthwyn was very glad when they rounded the last spur of the White Mountains on the final leg of the road to Ithilien.
Elfhelm brought the company to a halt as the looming walls of the Rammas Echor, the outermost defenses of Minas Tirith, reared up in the distance. "My lady," he spoke, addressing Gúthwyn, "I would advise resting a day in the Houses of Healing in the White City. You are sure of a welcome from King Elessar, and it would ease my worries to know that you are being properly cared for."
Gúthwyn shook her head. Although she had not seen Aragorn for years, and normally would have seized any excuse to put off seeing Faramir for a day or two, she did not want the king of Gondor to be remotely inconvenienced on her behalf and she was, quite frankly, tired of traveling. "I would rather get to Ithilien as soon as possible," she declared. Even as the words fell from her lips, she could hardly believe she was saying them.
Elfhelm sighed, evidently non too pleased by her decision. "I am going to inform the guards at the Rammas Echor of our presence," he told the company at large. "Wait here."
"Elfhelm?" Gúthwyn interjected quickly before the Marshal had a chance to ride off.
"Yes?" her friend inquired.
"Will you have them send word to the king and queen that I apologize for not being able to visit the White City again, yet that I am expected in Ithilien and must make haste?" Gúthwyn requested, knowing that such formalities were considered necessities of propriety. Not that she particularly cared about propriety, but she did not want Aragorn to think that she was snubbing him—if indeed he even noticed the report of her entourage journeying around his home.
Elfhelm consented to pass the message along, and soon rode off towards the walls. After he returned, the company set off. The sun was beginning its slow descent behind their backs; when they arrived at Éowyn and Faramir's home, it would be nightfall. Just in time for a miserable dinner with Borogor's killer, Gúthwyn thought, sighing.
Excepting the minor delay caused by fording the River Anduin, the ride was uneventful. Dusk was gathering when they turned south towards the hills. Before long, the trees dotting the landscape became a full-fledged forest. Gúthwyn swallowed as the ground beneath them began sloping, for she knew that they were drawing ever closer to the one place she had managed to avoid for the better part of a decade.
Elfhelm led the entourage along a path that seemed to be heading towards the heart of Emyn Arnen. Gúthwyn stared apprehensively at her surroundings, recalling the last time she had been in Ithilien. To her surprise, however, what little she could see in the shadows that had begun to fall did not match her recollections. The trees here seemed far less menacing, far less oppressive—even without the sunlight streaming between their trunks. The forest floor was covered in flowers; each one Gúthwyn noticed was more beautiful than the last.
Confused, Éomund's daughter nearly caused a crick in her neck by trying to examine the foliage closer. As the stars appeared overhead, their soft glow gently trickling down into the woods, she was stunned to realize that the hills of Emyn Arnen were almost… beautiful. That cannot be, she thought in astonishment, certain that the darkness was concealing the ugliness that had to be lurking somewhere.
Yet though the visual evidence of Ithilien's splendor was questionable, Gúthwyn could not ignore the sweet scent of herbs and flowers in the air. Breathing deeply, against her inner protests, she was forced to grudgingly admit that the forest certainly smelled better than she remembered.
Then again, she mused, suddenly reassured, this is not the place where Borogor fell. They had been much further north, only a few days' march from the Black Gate. It was permissible, therefore, to admire the region near Emyn Arnen—was it not? Gúthwyn squirmed guiltily in her saddle. She had expected to hate Ithilien when she arrived, but the loveliness of the scenery around her was making it difficult.
As the path burrowed in between two hills, leading them deeper into Emyn Arnen, Gúthwyn felt long-dormant butterflies beginning to stir within her. Within a few minutes, they were positively fluttering against the lining of her stomach. She could see a soft glow ahead of them; far from filling her with relief at the promise of rest, the sight consumed her with dread. Soon, she would be dining with Borogor's killer. Living with him.
Ignore him, she told herself. You still have Éowyn.
Unfortunately, Éowyn was the reason she could not simply pretend Faramir did not exist. If she did, her sister would know something was wrong. In all likelihood, she would be angry with Gúthwyn. Even if she were not—and, knowing Éowyn, she would be furious—she would ask questions that Éomund's daughter was not prepared to answer.
As the horses rounded a bend in the path, her shoulders slumped. Her head drooped, and her hair fell forward to form a protective curtain around her; thus, she did not notice the sprawling village in front of her until Elfhelm muttered, "At last!"
Looking up, Gúthwyn's eyes widened when she saw what Éowyn had left Rohan for. She was gazing upon a vast dale filled with lights. The soft glow of candles in the windows of numerous, cozy abodes illuminated the road before her. Even in the near-darkness, she could tell that the craftsmanship on the houses was excellent. Nothing was stirring in the town; a far-off bird's call echoed in the air. The melodious sound of a distant waterfall met her ears at the same time as a flowery scent drifted towards her nose.
While she followed the riders down into the settlement, Gúthwyn surveyed the large dwelling at the opposite end of the vale. Obviously the place where Faramir and Éowyn resided, it was spacious and inviting. When she squinted, she could make out the shapes of various flowers and herbs planted in small gardens all around the lodge. Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat, knowing that this was Éowyn's doing.
Where was the sense of danger, the fear of trees rustling in the wind? Where were the clearings littered with stone ruins, the formal symbols of Gondor's power that had been crudely drawn upon by the Enemy? Éomund's daughter had come to her sister's home expecting a landscape reminiscent of the territory she had scouted with Borogor, yet none of her instincts were willing to believe that anything so ugly as despair and death could befall her here. Emyn Arnen was no Rohan, that was certain, but she thought she might almost… like it.
A guard strode out to meet them as they approached Éowyn and Faramir's house. Gúthwyn flinched, seeing that he was a Ranger; but she did not recognize him, and when he glanced at her there was nothing more sinister than a quizzical expression. "Is this Lady Gúthwyn's party?" the man asked Elfhelm, identifying him as the leader of the group.
"Yes," Elfhelm confirmed, turning around to look at Gúthwyn. His eyes zeroed in on her shoulder. "The lady is wounded and needs a healer, right away."
"Elfhelm!" Gúthwyn hissed, both mortified and worried. "If Éowyn hears that before she sees me, she will panic! It is nothing serious," she tried to assure the Ranger.
"Ignore her," Elfhelm said sharply. "Send for Prince Faramir and Princess Éowyn at once."
Princess Éowyn. It was a title Gúthwyn had never gotten used to.
"I cannot believe you told him that," she fumed as the Ranger hastened towards his lord's dwelling. "You will frighten my sister, and for what purpose? So I can have my bandages changed promptly?"
"There is still risk of infection," Elfhelm pointed out, having long ago grown accustomed to her headstrongness and hardly batting an eyelash at her rudeness. "The healer here will have better supplies and be better equipped to care for your injury."
"But—"
Elfhelm cut her protest short. "Quite frankly, Gúthwyn, I would much rather suffer your indignation than your brother's wrath. Arguing with me will not change that."
Gúthwyn heard a soft cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh to her right. Glancing over, she saw Cobryn smothering a grin. Irritated, she glared at him—but though there was enough light for him to notice her, he was busy examining his surroundings. Nor was he alone: Hammel and Haiweth were practically stretching their necks in an effort to get a closer look at the town.
Just then, one of the doors to the enormous lodge in front of them opened. Gúthwyn's heart leaped as she saw her sister, whose golden hair was positively glowing in the candlelight that emanated from inside. At that moment, however, her face was taut with anxiety. "Sister?" she called out, lifting her skirt a little as she hurried down the stairs.
Even though a tall figure that must have been Faramir appeared in the doorway a few seconds later, Gúthwyn disregarded his presence and hastily dismounted Sceoh. "Éowyn!" she exclaimed, all but running over to the White Lady. "I have missed you so much!" she cried, embracing her sister.
Then she gasped, for the movement had strained her shoulder and produced a sharp pain that shot through her entire limb. Éowyn immediately pulled away. "What is wrong?" she interrogated Gúthwyn, scrutinizing the younger woman's body. "Your shoulder," she deduced almost instantaneously, pointing shakily at the bandages covering the arrow wound. "What happened? Mablung said you were hurt."
"It is nothing," Éomund's daughter asserted quickly. "I was shot by an Orc, but Elfhelm was able to take the arrow out and—"
"You what?" Éowyn demanded.
Detecting the higher pitch of his wife's voice, Faramir stepped further outside. Gúthwyn tensed as she met the puzzled gaze of Borogor's killer; she did not hold it for long, but swallowed and looked back at Éowyn.
"Haiweth was attacked by Orcs while we were in the Firienwood," Elfhelm explained, sliding off his horse. One by one, the others did the same. "Gúthwyn went to rescue her—without waiting for the rest of us," he added sternly—"and was hit by an arrow. We killed all of the creatures we saw. They were weakened by starvation, and it was no struggle. The tribe was but a remnant of the Orcs that once swarmed the mountains."
By now, Faramir had come down the steps and was at Éowyn's side. Gúthwyn edged away from the Steward, refusing to acknowledge him.
"My lord," Elfhelm said, bowing. He then resumed speaking to Éowyn. "Haiweth was unharmed. I removed the arrow from your sister, and have been bandaging the wound since. I have done what I can with the meager supplies I have, but it would be best for her to have a healer examine her."
"Of course," Éowyn agreed. "A thousand thanks, Elfhelm. Faramir, will you—"
"I will go myself to Nestadan," Faramir vowed, looking relieved to have a task that took him away from Éomund's daughter. Gúthwyn's stomach clenched as he leaned over to plant a soft kiss on Éowyn's brow before straightening and vanishing into the darkness.
"Come, sister," Éowyn said when the murderer was gone, gently clasping her hand. "Once the men are situated, I will bring you to your room. Nestadan will attend to you there."
"Nestadan is your healer?" Gúthwyn inquired, already missing Halwend.
Éowyn nodded, then turned to the rest of the company. "Please," she spoke, raising her voice so that all could hear, "follow me into our lodgings. Leave your horses here; someone will be with them in a minute. Dinner is ready."
Cheered by the prospect of a good meal, the soldiers readily obeyed. Gúthwyn went up the stairs with her sister, though not before checking to ensure that Hammel and Haiweth were nearby. Once she was satisfied, she devoted her attention to the room in front of her. It was much like the great hall of Meduseld, in that it was a large chamber with a hearth and multiple tables; but here there was no throne, and even at night it did not seem as dim as its counterpart in Edoras.
Éowyn directed the entourage to a long table with many seats that was positively groaning under the weight of dozens of dishes. Gúthwyn's eyes widened: with the sole exception of the Dol Amroth visit, Éomer had never served so much food in the Golden Hall. Clearly, Faramir and Éowyn were well-off.
As they drew closer to the generous feast, a man that had been standing off to the side now stepped forward. Like most Gondorians, his hair was dark and his eyes grey. "Gúthwyn, this is Beregond," Éowyn announced. "He is the captain of Faramir's guard. Beregond, this is my sister Gúthwyn."
"My lady," Beregond said with a bow.
Gúthwyn gave a small curtsy, blushing when she managed to wobble on such a simple maneuver. Her one saving grace was that Beregond was definitely not one of the Rangers who had witnessed Borogor's death—his garments suggested that he was not even a Ranger at all.
"Sit, and eat to your heart's content," Éowyn bade the group at large, gesturing for the men of Rohan to take their seats. "Please, do not wait for my husband and I. We shall join you as soon as the healer has been summoned for Gúthwyn—we will be but moments."
Tired and hungry after a long day's ride, the warriors were more than happy to obey Éowyn's suggestion. At an encouraging nod from Gúthwyn, Hammel and Haiweth sat down next to Cobryn and began to heap food onto their plates. As they did, Éomund's daughter observed that there were several empty seats at the far end of the table—yet Éowyn had been informed of their number. Were some of Faramir's Rangers to join them? Her belly lurched at the thought, and she suddenly lost her appetite.
"Beregond," Éowyn said then, "will you send for the servants to take care of the horses, and then see that these travelers lack nothing until I return? I will not be long."
Beregond agreed to this, and soon Gúthwyn was being taken down a corridor that started on the far right side of the hall. They walked by several doors, but the passage was lengthy and there were even more further down. "I have put you in the room next to Faramir and I," Éowyn informed her. "It faces west; on a clear day, you can see all the way to Minas Tirith."
Impressed in spite of herself, Gúthwyn thanked Éowyn for her kindness. "I am sorry for having sprung my request to stay here so abruptly upon you," she apologized as her sister walked past the double doors to what were obviously the master chambers and stopped in front of the next room. "I promise, I will explain as soon as the men are gone." She did not want to taint Lothíriel's reputation even further.
"What matters is that you have come at last," Éowyn replied softly, opening the door. Her words were genuine, yet Gúthwyn felt a pang of guilt as she realized that it had taken her almost a decade to accept Éowyn's repeated offers to visit. How horrible a sister could she possibly be?
Her thoughts were momentarily erased by the sight that lay before her as she stepped into her chambers. They were far vaster than her accommodations in Edoras, and far brighter: moonlight was streaming in through an enormous window on the opposite wall, bathing the entire room in a gentle glow that enabled her to see her surroundings even in the absence of candles. There was a writing desk, a gigantic wardrobe—surely her clothes would only take up a drawer or two, at most—and a large bed with more pillows than she could count. Just beneath the windowsill was a wooden bath, partially hidden by a privacy screen.
Best of all, however, was the fireplace that dominated the left wall. It was not yet lit, but Gúthwyn's heart jumped as she imagined how warm she would be during the harsh winter nights. "Sister, this is amazing!" she breathed, hardly daring to believe that such a room had been given to her. "You did not have to put me in such luxurious quarters. I would have been fine with a small chamber!"
"Do not be ridiculous," Éowyn responded with a laugh. "This room has long been in disuse, and I am glad to have you reside in it. I will have your things brought here while you are dining tonight, and we can unpack in the morning."
"A thousand thanks," Gúthwyn said gratefully.
"You are most welcome," Éowyn told her. "And… the walls are thick."
Not understanding, Gúthwyn raised her eyebrows quizzically.
"In case you were worried about being so close to Faramir and I," Éowyn explained quietly. "You will not hear anything, I promise."
Although Gúthwyn's cheeks turned bright red when she finally comprehended what Éowyn was referring to, she was so relieved that her sister had thought of this that she impulsively hugged her once more. Her shoulder protested violently, but as usual she ignored it. "Thank you," she whispered, embarrassed.
"My lady?"
A voice at the door interrupted the moment, causing both sisters to glance up in surprise. Éowyn recovered her bearings first. "Nestadan!" she happily greeted their hailer, motioning for him to come inside. "Gúthwyn, this is our healer," she announced. "Nestadan, my sister."
"It is a pleasure to meet you," Nestadan said sincerely, bowing. His brown eyes were friendly, putting Gúthwyn at ease. "I understand you received an arrow wound during your journey here?"
Éowyn did not speak, prompting Éomund's youngest daughter to do the talking. "Y-Yes," she replied, unnerved at having this authority. "It is not life-threatening, though. I will be fine."
Nestadan laughed, his light brown hair catching the light and momentarily turning gold. "Éowyn told me you would be like this. She seems to think we will be seeing much of each other."
"I am sick often," Gúthwyn admitted.
"You may find that your strength improves here," Nestadan pointed out. "Many of the men in Emyn Arnen who relocated from Minas Tirith, where the people are crowded together and are more prone to spreading illness, have discovered that they are in far better health than before."
Gúthwyn knitted her brow, considering this. It seemed like a valid argument: could it be that, away from the confines of Edoras, she might catch less diseases than she was wont to? She certainly hoped so.
"Sister, do you mind if I leave you here?" Éowyn inquired then. "Faramir may find himself in need of a translator, for he barely understands a word of Rohirric."
Gúthwyn hesitated, unsure of whether she was willing to trust Nestadan to the extent of being alone with him in a room. Yet if Éowyn was comfortable with the healer, then she did not want to embarrass her sister by arguing. Besides, she reassured herself, I still have that knife in my boot.
"O-Of course," she agreed, surreptitiously glancing down at the small lump near her ankle where she knew the dagger was concealed.
"When you are done," Éowyn said, "join us at the table. You must be starving! Nestadan, you are more than welcome to eat here as well. In fact, please do."
"Thank you, my lady," Nestadan responded politely. "You are most kind."
Éowyn smiled, bade them farewell, and left. Gúthwyn swallowed, her façade of bravery wavering when the stark reality of the situation set in. She was in a bedroom with a man she had not known for more than a minute, and she had no idea what he was capable of.
Stop worrying so much! she scolded herself. You are being too paranoid.
Nestadan smiled gently at her, most likely detecting her anxiety. "Please, sit down," he said, gesturing towards her bed. "It will be easier for me to examine your shoulder."
Gúthwyn nodded mutely, lowering herself onto the very edge of her comforter. As an afterthought she began to take her bandages off, not wanting the healer to do it himself. Nestadan raised an eyebrow when he saw this, but he did not comment and merely spread his supplies out on her nearby desk. She watched him alertly, noting the numerous herbs in his possession that she had never seen before.
"How did it happen?" Nestadan asked, sorting through what looked like several jars of various medicines.
Gúthwyn related the story to him, removing the last of her bandages as she did so. She also told him how Elfhelm had taken the arrow out, in case it was somehow relevant to any treatment that might be proposed.
When she was done, Nestadan exhaled slowly. "You are a courageous woman," he remarked, pulling the chair in front of the desk over to her. He sat down, making Éomund's daughter uncomfortably aware of how close their knees were. "Not many ladies I know would have risked life and limb to go chasing after Orcs."
An angry blush crossed Gúthwyn's face at his patronizing words, but the twinkle in his eye seemed to say that he was not berating her. "I love Haiweth as I would my own child," she informed him stiffly. "I do not regret putting myself in danger to save her, and I would do it again and again if I had to."
Nestadan smiled, leaning in to get a better look at her shoulder. "She is lucky that you were there," he commented.
Gúthwyn nodded, briefly closing her eyes and thanking the Valar for their mercy. Had her feet been any slower, Haiweth might have been grievously injured—or worse. A moment later, however, her eyes flew open and she drew in a sharp breath: Nestadan was now carefully probing the area around her wound, each finger a small fire that both burned her and frightened her.
"I am sorry," Nestadan apologized, knitting his brow when she shrunk away from him. "Am I hurting you?"
"N-No," Gúthwyn stuttered, forcing himself to submit to his touch—though she could not suppress the shivers racing through her spine.
Nestadan glanced at her, and for an instant she imagined that he had perceived her fear… and then, a second later, had guessed at why. Yet soon his expression cleared, and she was relieved: he was now businesslike, professional. She had no reason to suppose he even suspected that she was terrified of him.
"Whoever took care of this for you did a good job," he said then, standing up and walking back to the desk. "You should keep it bandaged until you can go for a day without the rags soiling, but unless you strain it the punctures should soon close." Withdrawing a bowl from his pack, he crushed some herbs into it and then added some liquid from a small flask. Gúthwyn watched as he stirred the concoction together, the plants and fluids coming together to form a thick paste.
When the process was finished, Nestadan brought the poultice over to her. "Éowyn tells me you enjoy wielding a blade," he informed her, using a brush to gather up some of the mixture. Gúthwyn tried not to flinch as he started applying it to her shoulder, but she could tell that his keen eyes had noted her discomfort.
"Y-Yes," she confirmed, struggling to come up with a reply. "I-I do."
It was hardly eloquent, but it sufficed.
"She says you fought at Pelennor?"
"Yes," Gúthwyn answered, wincing a little at the stinging sensation in her shoulder. "I-I disguised myself so my uncle and brother would not realize it was me. Only Éowyn knew."
"Were you hurt?" Nestadan inquired, dropping the brush back into the bowl.
"N-No," Gúthwyn responded, warily eyeing the healer as he retrieved fresh bandages. "I was lucky." On that particular day, she thought, recalling her gruesome injury at Helm's Deep.
"That is no small feat, to emerge from such a battle unscathed," Nestadan said admiringly. He reached out and began binding her shoulder while he spoke, careful not to knot anything too tightly.
Gúthwyn cringed as his fingers brushed across her bare skin and averted her gaze, mortified. She hated this. She hated the fact that this man, this stranger, was permitted to touch her. Part of her even hated Éowyn for abandoning her to his mercy. She knew she was being foolish, that if Nestadan were not so near her she would be fine. He seemed perfectly friendly, and he was clearly trying to put her at ease.
At last, at long last, Nestadan finished wrapping the bandages around her and rose to his feet. "I will not keep you," he assured her: "you have a feast to get to, and I know you must be hungry. Enjoy your stay here, Lady Gúthwyn."
"Thank you," Éomund's daughter said, more confident now that the air about her was freer. "Thank you very much, Nestadan."
Nestadan gave a small bow. After gathering his healing supplies, he exited quietly from the room. Gúthwyn lay on her bed for a moment—the mattress was so soft, she almost had difficulty preventing herself from falling asleep—until she was certain that he had emerged into the main hall. Rising, though not without the fleeting desire to remain in her quarters and surrender to a hopefully dreamless nap, she left the chamber and began walking down the hallway.
She had not gone further than a yard or two before a door ahead of her opened and a slender, golden-haired figure stepped out into the corridor and turned towards her. Gúthwyn's heart hammered rapidly in her chest as Legolas's deep blue eyes met hers, then altogether stopped when she realized that he was wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.
"W-What are you doing here?" she blurted out, stunned. Legolas had obviously just taken a bath: his bare chest glistened with water droplets, and the lone towel in his possession was plastered to his thighs.
The Elf did not appear to be conscious of his nudity, though Éomund's daughter knew that her face was burning with humiliation. "Did Éowyn not tell you?" he asked, confused.
"T-Tell m-me what?" Gúthwyn stammered, struggling not to think of how identical his body was to Haldor's. They could have been mirrors of each other: slender, but with more strength than the biggest of men; pale, yet not white; and tall, so much taller than her. The very sight of Legolas in this light filled her with dread.
"Éowyn invited me to Emyn Arnen for the week," Legolas explained, utterly unaware of the effect his nakedness was having on the woman in front of him. "She thought that a familiar face might help you adjust to your new surroundings."
"She failed to mention that," Gúthwyn muttered weakly, noticing how toned Legolas's stomach and arms and… well, everything were. All of a sudden, she found herself remembering the days of her attraction to Haldor.
You idiot! she thought a second later, mortified. The air in the corridor was now stiflingly hot. How could you forget, even for a second, what he did to you?
"What happened to your shoulder?" Legolas questioned concernedly, gesturing towards the fresh bandages.
Rather conscious of the fact that her clothes were rumpled and she was in need of a bath, Gúthwyn glanced down at her injury and reluctantly related the story to Legolas. He was stunned, and evidently agitated; once or twice she even saw his hand twitch, as though he might reach out to her and examine the wound for himself. She closed her mind to the images conjured in her head by such possibilities.
"You are lucky the arrow was not poisoned," he remarked when she was finished, his forehead creased with lines.
"I was more worried about having to cauterize it," Gúthwyn confessed, shuddering even though she had escaped that particular remedy. "Elfhelm thought we might have to, if the blood flow showed no signs of ceasing."
Legolas nodded in agreement. "My people avoid cauterization whenever we can, and use it only as a last resort, for it burns the flesh beyond recognition. It is not a very pleasant method of healing."
Gúthwyn could not argue, given how much pain she had experienced when being branded by the Eye of Sauron. Over a decade later, the mark had not faded in the slightest. Yet she did not wish to contemplate such things, and sought to distract herself. Unfortunately, that meant that she immediately became more aware of Legolas's shirtless state.
She would not have been surprised if her cheeks were scarlet. How could he stand there before her and not care—indeed, hardly seem to realize—that he was clad in only a towel? How could he be so composed like this in the presence of others, when she could hardly stand to look at herself in the mirror while she was changing? It was disarming; distracting, really. Try though she might to keep her eyes on his own, her peripheral vision betrayed her and forced her to examine every inch of his bare torso, his naked arms, his scarcely-concealed legs. She had lain under this Elf, had been pressed against a mattress beneath him. Yet it was not only fear, however, that was making her heart pound in the frantic way it was now. The tingle in her body was too warm to be terror, too unfamiliar to be dread. What was it? Was she glad to see him, even in these circumstances?
"Are you all right?" Legolas inquired gently, bringing her back to the present.
"What? Oh, y-yes, I am fine," Gúthwyn said quickly. Too quickly.
Comprehension dawned on Legolas's face, followed by guilt. "Forgive me," he apologized, gesturing towards his lack of coverage. "I was on my way to get another towel. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable." At last, he appeared self-conscious; he even folded his arms across his chest, as if he had any hope of concealing himself.
"N-No, I am fine," Gúthwyn reiterated, though her cheeks were flushed. "I-I should be going," she announced, motioning in the direction of the dining hall. "Éowyn is w-waiting for me…"
"Of course," Legolas agreed. "My friends and I have already eaten, so we are retiring early."
Gúthwyn nodded, feeling both relieved and strangely disappointed. She recalled that she had been meaning to ask how his colony was faring—that was why she was now reluctant to see him go. "Goodnight," was all she said.
"Thank you," Legolas replied, inclining his head. "I hope to see you tomorrow."
Éomund's daughter blushed, taken aback by his kindness. Legolas smiled and sidestepped her, continuing his walk down the hall as if one of the most embarrassing moments in her recent years had never occurred. She gazed after him, marveling at how quietly Elves walked. For the first time, she became aware of the elegance with which Legolas moved—the kind of gracefulness that she could never hope to have.
Abruptly, she came to her senses. Haldor had always been silent when he stalked up and down the lines of practicing men at the training field, when he tortured her in the dark of his tent. Turning away from Legolas, she strode as fast as she could in the opposite direction. What made her think that this prince was any different? So what if so far he was a living reminder of all the reasons she had fallen in love with Haldor? Time would reveal his true colors—would it not?
You have known Legolas for almost a decade, a nagging voice in her mind said sharply. Haldor turned into your worst nightmare within a month. Legolas is nothing like him.
Gúthwyn pretended that she could not hear that part of her, for she did not want to contemplate what else might be true if the voice was right.
"Sister!" Éowyn exclaimed joyously as Éomund's youngest daughter entered the main hall a moment later. "Nestadan came back five minutes ago—we were worried that you had gotten lost already!" Nestadan winked at her from where he was sitting at the table.
Gúthwyn knew that Éowyn was jesting, but when Faramir smiled awkwardly at her she lost her capacity to smile. "I ran into Legolas," she muttered, taking the empty seat across from Éowyn. Faramir was at the head of the table, unfortunately directly to her right. "I was not aware that he would be here."
She was careful to keep any hints of accusation from her voice, but at least Éowyn had the good grace to flush a little. "I invited him as a surprise for you," she admitted, exchanging a glance with her husband. Faramir, Gúthwyn noted, did not seem as thrilled about the idea as his wife. "Éomer told me that he visited you often in Edoras, and I thought—"
"He did not visit me," Gúthwyn injected, irritated that Éowyn had made such an error. "He sojourns at Edoras because it is a convenient resting place between Ithilien and Eryn Lasgalen, that is all."
Thankfully, Éowyn let the matter drop. "How are Éomer, Lothíriel, and Elfwine?" she inquired instead.
Gúthwyn almost lost her grip on the bread basket she had just picked up. "Our brother is very busy, as usual," she recovered, shakily putting a roll on her plate. "He has not been able to get to the training grounds nearly as often as he would like. Elfwine, of course, is nothing short of a little rascal. He is quite mischievous." Please, do not ask why I left…
"What of my cousin?" Faramir prompted her when she did not elaborate, sending shivers down Gúthwyn's spine. "How fares she?"
"Well enough," Éomund's daughter replied quietly, for a woman whose husband and son hate her. "She is still attempting to learn Rohirric, but she finds the language difficult."
"That is understandable," Éowyn said with a laugh. "I have heard many a stranger in Rohan complaining about how difficult it is to master our tongue."
The conversation continued in this light vein for the rest of the meal. While Éomund's daughter did her best to chat amicably with her hosts, it was almost impossible to maintain a semblance of normality with Borogor's killer sipping wine at her side. Every time she caught sight of Faramir, she grew nauseous. The bread she was eating turned to sawdust in her throat, the soup to bile. It had been almost ten years since her first encounter with the Steward of Gondor, but her aversion to him was as strong as ever.
How will I get through this year? she wondered helplessly. How will I be able to sleep, knowing that he is behind the next door? How will I keep what he has done from Éowyn?
Judging by the terse expression on Faramir's face that had settled in when Gúthwyn entered the main hall and that stayed firmly in place throughout the meal, he did not have an answer to that question. He addressed her as infrequently as he possibly could without being impolite, and he gave up trying to meet her eye when she adamantly refused to reward his attempts with a visible reaction. All in all, the experience was horribly unpleasant—and something that Éomund's daughter had to resign herself to for at least another year.
One by one, the exhausted warriors begged leave and retired to the beds that had been prepared for them. When she, Hammel, Haiweth, and Cobryn were the only ones remaining at the table, Gúthwyn braced herself for the inevitable. Surely now, Éowyn would demand to know why her younger sister had so hastily arranged for a long-term stay.
When Éowyn opened her mouth to speak, Gúthwyn instinctively flinched. The White Lady's next words, however, were merely: "Sister, you should also get to bed. Your shoulder must be sore, and it has been a long day for you. Will you be joining us for breakfast tomorrow?"
Stunned, Gúthwyn almost blurted out, "Is this not the part where you ask me what I am doing here, when before I have never expressed even the remotest interest in seeing your home?"
Yet Éowyn was smiling encouragingly at her, and Gúthwyn decided not to look the gift horse in the mouth. It certainly made things easier for her, if not more confusing. With a tentative nod, she said, "Y-Yes, of course. I would love to. Th-Thank you."
"Excellent!" Éowyn responded, clapping her hands together cheerfully. Gúthwyn felt Cobryn's eyes on her; she glanced at her friend and surreptitiously shrugged, just as surprised by the lack of interrogation as he was. "Hammel, Haiweth, and Cobryn, I will show you to your rooms."
Hammel and Haiweth thanked her. Cobryn, on the other hand, appeared embarrassed. "Many thanks, Lady Éowyn," he said politely, "but you do not have to go to the trouble. I am perfectly content to sleep in the hall."
"Nonsense," Éowyn replied. "We have more than enough rooms, so it is not at all an imposition."
Cobryn had no choice but to concede defeat for the sake of politeness. Gúthwyn rolled her eyes at her friend, purposefully letting him see her do so. Apparently he decided not to dignify her rudeness with a retort, for he staunchly ignored her. The two of them and the children then followed Faramir and Éowyn, who was already making plans to show them around Emyn Arnen the next morning, down the passage where Gúthwyn's chambers were.
Éomund's youngest daughter bade the group farewell when she reached her quarters. After saying goodnight to everyone except for Faramir—though she ascertained that Éowyn was not paying much attention before she executed the snub—she ducked inside the room and immediately almost tripped over her bags. The servants must have brought them inside during dinner.
Relieved to have a nightdress handy, Gúthwyn discarded her travel-stained clothes and slipped into the far more comfortable gown. Grateful for the soft bed that awaited her, she quickly washed her face over the basin on her nightstand and then crawled under the covers. Yawning, she promised herself that she would write to Éomer and Elfwine as soon as she had spent a full day in Emyn Arnen. The first couple hours of her stay had yielded little to report.
As soon as she had made that decision, her fatigued body finally surrendered to the welcoming arms of sleep. The last vague, half-formed thought to cross her mind was of her unusual moment with Legolas earlier, and how the sight of him all but naked had not stirred as much repulsion within her as it surely should have.
Gúthwyn shivered, and at last slipped into the peaceful realm of oblivion.