Chapter Forty-Nine

Apart from her flushed cheeks, nothing about Éowyn's appearance was amiss when she and Faramir sat down at the dinner table—yet Gúthwyn's stomach still twisted at the very sight of her sister, until merely glancing at her became an impossibility. This was rather inconvenient, as the company present was limited to the visitors, Trelan, and Legolas. If she tried to avoid conversing with Éowyn, the snub would be obvious.

The only fortunate part of the whole sordid affair was the fact that hardly any Elves were to be dining with them. Instead of eating in a hall, they had been seated on a porch beneath a sky strewn with stars. Although Éomund's daughter had initially feared that she would get the chills, the air was warm and balmy. She was also pleasantly surprised to discover that a number of the dishes before her were completely without meat—something she suspected that Legolas had arranged her for sake, not to mention the lack of immortals at the table.

As the meal began, she realized that she was next to the very Ranger who had blushed upon catching her eye earlier that day. Now she smiled at him again, to be met with the same reaction.

"M-My lady," he greeted her, staring down at his plate.

"My lord," Gúthwyn replied cordially, though she was quite obviously his senior in both age and rank. He glanced up at her, his cheeks still rather pink. "I do not believe we have been properly introduced," she continued encouragingly. "I am Gúthwyn of Rohan."

"Galen, at your service," the Ranger replied, bowing his head respectfully. "How do you find Emyn Arnen, my lady?"

His speech was so earnest, his features so gentle, that Gúthwyn could not help but recall Tun. Swallowing her regret, she informed Galen, "It is wonderful. Everything here is beautiful."

"Is it not?" Galen beamed in agreement. "Will you be here long?"

"I believe so," Gúthwyn replied, hoping that the cheerfulness she forced into her voice did not betray the sudden longing she felt for Rohan. "I have no immediate plans to return to Edoras. I may very well be here for a year, if Éowyn will tolerate me for so many months."

The White Lady did not overhear her; Gúthwyn could tell by the giddy expression on her face, not to mention the pleased look upon Legolas's, that she was in the process of informing the Elf about the forthcoming addition to her and Faramir's household.

"Why would she not?" Galen blurted out, looking confused as he ladled some stew onto his plate. Éomund's daughter had tasted it already; it was excellent, and contained not a trace of meat. "You are her sister."

"Sister or not, I would not want to overstay my welcome," Gúthwyn responded. Seeking to change the subject, lest Éowyn start listening in, she asked, "Have you been in Emyn Arnen your whole life?"

Galen nodded. "My mother and father left Minas Tirith when I was but an infant, and I have only returned on occasion."

Smiling, Gúthwyn said, "Well, you hardly need to travel elsewhere when your home is so delightful."

Galen happily agreed; Gúthwyn noticed that his food lay forgotten on his plate. "What of Rohan, my lady? I have not heard anything less about King Éomer's realm."

Gúthwyn sighed, picturing the rolling plains, the bustling streets of Edoras, and, most of all, her family. As overprotective as Éomer was, she missed him greatly and would have given anything to live with him again. And that was without mention of Elfwine… "As much as I have enjoyed my time in Ithilien, I find that nothing can compare to my brother's kingdom—let alone outmatch it."

"Then you have not sojourned long enough in Ithilien," Galen answered jestingly.

Gúthwyn smiled noncommittally, knowing that no amount of time in Emyn Arnen could change her mind. Galen sensed that she remained unconvinced and opened his mouth in what would undoubtedly have been a futile effort to sway her, but at that moment they were both beckoned to join separate conversations: Galen hailed by some of the other Rangers, and Gúthwyn addressed by Éowyn—much to the former's chagrin.

"Sister, would you be amenable to exploring the colony tomorrow?" the White Lady inquired, an amused glint in her eyes as she glanced at Galen. Legolas, Gúthwyn observed, was also looking at the young Ranger, though his features were quite inscrutable.

"Of course," Gúthwyn agreed, shifting uneasily in her seat as she spoke to her sister. Adding to her discomfort were the considerable amount of butterflies taking rapid flight in her stomach: tomorrow, there would be Elves in every direction she turned. She would have to stay close to Éowyn, despite the horrifying glimpse she had caught of the White Lady's union with her husband.

"We can always wait another day if you would like to relax," Éowyn assured her, the true intentions behind her words evident in the low murmur of her voice.

"N-No, I will be fine," Gúthwyn promised, though she had her doubts.

Legolas, who was now watching her, said, "If you would prefer, we can delay the tour until the afternoon, when many will be at the training grounds, so our comings and goings shall not be disturbed."

Gúthwyn nodded eagerly, relieved—and grateful—that Legolas had proposed this solution. "If it is not too much trouble, of course," she hastened to declare.

"Not at all," Legolas replied, as she knew he would.

Faramir's eyes narrowed slightly at this; Gúthwyn imagined that he must have been trying to determine what concern of hers everyone was tip-toeing around. In hopes of distracting him, she cleared her throat and asked Legolas, "Have you any plans for the rest of the week, my lord?"

"Only to serve and entertain my guests," Legolas responded with a smile, his gaze resting on hers. Gúthwyn flushed, wishing that his blue eyes were not so disconcerting. Even when they no longer had the same terrorizing effect upon her as Haldor's, she found that they were still unsettling in a strangely different way. "Since this is your first time visiting my home"—there was a small hesitation before 'home'—Legolas continued, "is there anything in particular you would like to see?"

Startled at being given this choice, when in fact she did not know her options, Gúthwyn stuttered, "I-I…"

"If I am not mistaken, I believe my baby sister would appreciate the waterfall you showed Faramir and I long ago," Éowyn contributed, inadvertently causing Gúthwyn to cringe at the reminder of her husband.

Legolas glanced at Éomund's youngest daughter, his brow momentarily knitting; but the next instant he was as hospitable as ever, agreeing with Éowyn and saying, "Perhaps we should spend a day there. It may be too cold to swim"—it was November—"but at the very least we can have a picnic. The scenery will be no less marvelous."

"I pray there are no cliffs at this waterfall," Gúthwyn spoke, only partially in jest. She still shuddered whenever she recalled Haiweth's close brush with death; if Legolas had not pulled the child out of the water in time, she did not know what she would have done with herself.

"Nay, it is quite safe," Legolas assured her, understanding her concerns. "Except for directly beneath the falls, the water is perfectly still."

Gúthwyn gave a small smile of relief. "Then I would be most delighted to go there, should the opportunity arise and it not prove terribly inconvenient."

"I would never consider anything done for my guests an inconvenience," Legolas adamantly declared.

"Well, you did grumble quite a bit the last time your father came to visit and he wanted an in-depth report of the colony first thing in the morning," Trelan mischievously interjected, winking at Gúthwyn.

"Only because I had previously informed him that I would be practicing archery during those hours, a detail he conveniently forgot," Legolas protested. "He does not believe it fitting for a prince to spend so much time on something other than governance," he added for his guests' benefit.

Gúthwyn nearly leaned over to mutter "I am thankful for not being royalty" to Éowyn, but just in time she remembered what she had witnessed her sister doing. Instead, she edged her chair further away from the White Lady.

Once Trelan had finished teasing Legolas about his father, Legolas turned to Gúthwyn and asked, "Forgive me for not inquiring sooner—how fare Hammel and Haiweth?"

"Wonderfully," Gúthwyn replied, rather untruthfully. Although Haiweth seemed to enjoy Ithilien—yet never passed up an opportunity to hint to Éomund's youngest daughter that she wanted to visit Minas Tirith—Hammel rarely emerged from his bedroom and had isolated himself from the few boys and girls his age. The only communication he appeared to have with the outside world consisted of letters, bearing Aldeth's name and once a month sent very discreetly to Rohan, whose contents he never disclosed to even Cobryn. "I am sorry that they are not here today; they..."

Too late, she realized that, despite Éowyn informing Legolas that only three of them would be visiting, no reason had ever been given as to why Hammel and Haiweth had not chosen to venture out of Emyn Arnen; and now Gúthwyn was on the spot, fumbling for an excuse.

"It is quite all right," Legolas spoke then, intervening before she stuttered even more. "I can imagine that it will take some time before they have adjusted to the move."

Relieved, Gúthwyn agreed. Hammel, she knew, still had not forgiven her for deciding to leave Rohan. Haiweth, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content. What worried Éomund's youngest daughter, however, was that the girl appeared to view Emyn Arnen as a stepping-stone by which she might ascend to Minas Tirith.

"Fortunately, we have enough books for Hammel's liking," Éowyn said, smiling at Gúthwyn. The gesture was weakly returned. "Haiweth, meanwhile, has enjoyed having new subjects for drawing."

This was perhaps a slight exaggeration: Haiweth's favorite subjects always had been, and likely always would be, extravagant dresses made of the finest silk. These, of course, were prevalent in neither Rohan nor Ithilien. Yet Gúthwyn had seen Haiweth, on occasion, sitting outside and sketching the forest. Her looks had won her several admiring glances from passersby, worrying Éomund's youngest daughter—especially since some of the younger men were staring longer than she felt comfortable with.

Although the conversation gradually segued from Hammel and Haiweth to Éowyn and Faramir's unborn child, Gúthwyn's thoughts lingered on her own children. She remembered the days when all she had to do was greet them, and they would smile; now it was as if she could do nothing right as far as they were concerned. Hammel and Haiweth obviously resented her, even if the latter was more adept at concealing her bitterness. How had it come to this?

She understood why Hammel distanced himself from her, since she knew he had somehow found out about her and Haldor. Yet she did not believe that he had discussed the matter with Haiweth, which made the girl's discontent a mystery. What had she done to anger or upset the girl? Was it simply that Haiweth had come to despise living in Rohan, and in announcing her feelings had driven a wedge between them? Or was it something deeper-reaching than that?

"Sister, are you not hungry?" Éowyn asked in quiet Rohirric, looking pointedly at Gúthwyn's plate. "You have barely touched your food."

Although this was her cue to eat, Éomund's youngest daughter could not imagine doing so whilst besieged by such nausea. She tried not to cringe away from Éowyn, but she could not master her revulsion. Her hands were trembling, her face most certainly pale. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be done with dinner, to escape from the suffocating sense of everything being wrong.

"Sister?" Éowyn pressed, concerned.

In muted response, Gúthwyn served herself some bread and broke off a piece. Although it was like ash in her dry throat, she forced it down and then took a long drought of water to alleviate the parched taste. Éowyn watched her approvingly, making the whole procedure a thousand times worse. Shortly after, however, the White Lady mercifully returned to the main conversation at the table—a conversation which, Gúthwyn noticed, Legolas attempted numerous times to draw Éomund's youngest daughter into, generally without success.

All in all, Gúthwyn was very glad when the end of dinner arrived. She made a grateful retreat to her room, from which she hoped not to have to emerge until the late afternoon for the tour. The washbasin was a welcome amenity: she spent nearly half an hour cleaning herself, scrubbing away the filth that had accumulated on her body since the moment she had nearly walked in on Éowyn and Faramir.

Though the room was warm, she shivered. She hated even thinking about what her sister did with her husband when they were alone; it was a whole new dimension of Éowyn that she had no desire to encounter. The memory of how willingly Éowyn had consented to Faramir's advances—nay, even encouraged them—was appalling. Did her sister not realize how degrading, how disgusting her behavior was?

Gúthwyn remembered her nights with Haldor and felt sick. She finished washing herself and then dressed in a thick nightgown, the fabric of which embraced her more effectively than any blanket she could wrap around her thin frame. Once garbed, she crossed the room to her bed and stretched fully out, inhaling and exhaling deeply in an attempt to reduce her nausea.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. In case it was Legolas for some reason, although she could not imagine why he would be visiting her, she sat up and called, "Come in!"

A moment later, she wished she had pretended to be asleep—for Éowyn entered the room, her face lined with worry.

"Is something wrong?" Gúthwyn asked in confusion, instinctively edging away from her approaching sister.

"I came to inquire after your health," Éowyn replied somberly, "for it did not escape my attention that your complexion was rather wan throughout dinner. Are you feeling well?"

"Of course I am," Gúthwyn immediately lied, hoping that Éowyn would soon leave her alone. In order to avoid looking at the same woman who had engaged in such lewd acts not more than two hours ago, she busied herself by arranging the few items on her bedside table.

She had not been absorbed by this activity for more than a few seconds before the mattress dipped slightly below her. She heard a gentle creaking sound, as well as the rustling of fabric as Éowyn settled herself into a sitting position on the bed. "Gúthwyn, look at me," the White Lady urged softly.

Gúthwyn's hands moved to the flowers atop her nightstand, deftly plucking and reinserting. She was so intent upon her designs that she did not mark Éowyn moving closer until it was too late; and then the palm squeezing her shoulder was like a fist of iron. "Sister, please," Éowyn murmured, her voice reminding Gúthwyn of how she had whispered into Faramir's ear. "Tell me what is bothering you."

"Nothing," Gúthwyn muttered, flinching at the unwanted contact. "I am fine, really—perhaps a little tired, that is all."

"I know you are lying," Éowyn said sharply. "You were not like this before dinner; what happened?"

Éowyn's fingers slipped beneath Faramir's waistband, caressing him, eliciting guttural moans from the Steward. They were drawing ever closer to the bed, now coming apart only to cast aside a piece of clothing here, an undergarment there. At last undressed, they fell onto the sheets in a tangle of limbs. Éowyn gasped and sighed in pleasure, a whore enthralled by her own ecstasy—

Haldor was pinning her to the mattress, his power too great to resist. Gúthwyn felt the pain mounting as he thrust in and out of her, purposefully making his movements as jarring as possible. The agony and the humiliation were unbearable. Over the sound of her muted screams she heard him, again and again: "You are mine, you slut. Mine!" He had ruined her; no one would want her now; he was going faster and faster, until the filth was on her legs and seeping into the mattress—

—"I love you," Borogor whispered, his face mere inches from her own. They were lying next to each other under the covers, bare arms interlaced. Gúthwyn was happy, content: this was where she belonged.

"I love you, too," she whispered, leaning in for a kiss. As their lips met, she tried to memorize every second of the experience: the warmth of his body beside hers, the gentleness of his fingers running through her hair, the sense of security—

Gúthwyn's face was wet with tears by the time her agonized thoughts loosened their grip on her. She was torturously confused: was making love shameful, terrifying, or wonderful? Why did it seem as if she were the only one who saw how disgusting the act truly was—or, instead, was she pitied by her friends and family for remaining unenlightened?

"Sister?" Éowyn prompted her, concerned.

"Why do you let Faramir touch you?" Gúthwyn asked, so softly that she could barely hear her own trembling words. "How can you possibly find it enjoyable?"

There was a long pause before Éowyn responded, in which the flowers before Éomund's youngest daughter started to blur from the tears in her eyes. "Gúthwyn," Éowyn at last began, her voice strained as if from exhaustion, "why does this weigh on your mind now?"

Gúthwyn struggled not to weep, but her shoulders shook as she choked out in a strangled whisper, "I saw… I-I was j-just going to… to help y-you unpack a-and you and F-Faramir were…" She could not continue: she would start sobbing, or vomiting, or both.

Éowyn took several minutes to answer, as if she were deliberating the best manner in which to broach the subject. "I am sorry you bore witness to that," she finally began, sounding genuinely remorseful. "As for your question… I do not fear Faramir. I know he would never harm me, nor take from me what I did not desire to give. I make love to him because I want to, not because I feel obligated or pressured to."

"But d-does it not h-hurt?" Gúthwyn pressed her sister, quivering. "W-Why would y-you ever… ever w-w-want to?"

"The first few moments of our wedding night, I felt a slight discomfort," Éowyn admitted, "but it disappeared quickly and has not returned since. Faramir has always been gentle with me, putting my satisfaction before his own—and, apart from the consummation of our marriage, I have experienced nothing but pleasure when I am with him."

Gúthwyn could not imagine ever voluntarily submitting to such a ghastly act. She thought of how much she had dreaded the summons to Haldor's tent, how much dignity she had lost by the time she would crawl out of his bed. The idea of actively seeking out such humiliation was inconceivable—how could Éowyn speak of satisfaction, of pleasure? Had her sister been discussing a kiss, maybe, or even the occasional caress, perhaps Gúthwyn could comprehend; yet making love? Never.

"I know it is difficult for you to understand," Éowyn said kindly; "but when you are with someone who loves you and has vowed to spend the rest of their life with you, lying together is natural and respectable. This is partly why I have always wanted you to wed another: because once you realize that you can find joy in making love, Haldor's hold over you will finally weaken. If you fear marriage for the rest of your life, he will have utterly triumphed over you—and you deserve far more than that, baby sister."

"I cannot!" Gúthwyn burst out, burying her face in her hands. "I cannot bring myself to…. I-I am so t-terrified of… Why do I h-have to—Why do I-I need a husband?"

"You do not need a husband," Éowyn corrected her reassuringly, "but are you so certain that you would not desire one? You have so much love for Hammel and Haiweth, Elfwine, and your siblings—would you not also want someone to hold, to kiss, to fall asleep next to at night and wake up beside in the morning? Someone to provide companionship when the children have grown up and started families, when Elfwine assumes his duties as a prince, and when Éomer and I cannot be there for you? Someone to give you a son or a daughter of your own, so that you can be the mother I know you want to be—and are more than capable of being?"

"I-I do want a child," Gúthwyn mournfully conceded, "perhaps more than anything in the world… A-And I w-would like to have with another w-what I could never have with B-Borogor…But not if I h-have to…" She shuddered; yet more tears stained her cheeks.

Éowyn's arms wrapped consolingly around her shoulders. "I wish I could make you see the difference between what Haldor did to you and what you should have discovered with someone who truly loved you," the White Lady said fervently, "but I have not that power. All I can ask is that you not forsake marriage, that you give yourself a chance to recover in a way that cowering from men will not enable you to."

"Who would ever want to be my husband," Gúthwyn asked bitterly, "once they found out that I… that I am not a virgin?"

Guessing where Gúthwyn's thoughts lay, Éowyn replied emphatically, "If someone like Elphir will not listen to your side of the story, then he does not deserve to be your spouse."

Gúthwyn smiled ruefully. "That is what Cobryn told me," she admitted, realizing that her conversation with Éowyn was almost a direct echo of the discussion she had had with her friend.

"Occasionally, one needs to hear something multiple times in order for it to sink in," Éowyn responded kindly.

"I wish it were that easy," Gúthwyn murmured, at last turning around to face her sister. Folding her arms across her stomach, she added, "I would give almost anything to not be so afraid. But every time I try to imagine what it would be like to have a husband, all I can picture is what happened in Mordor… and the last thing I want to do is spend my nights at the mercy of someone else's whim. I had to murder Haldor to get away from him, and I nearly killed myself in the process—I cannot endure that all over again."

"You will not have to," Éowyn vowed, tightly squeezing Gúthwyn's shoulder. "No man in love with you would ever force himself upon you—I promise."

"I thought Haldor was in love with me," Gúthwyn whispered, swallowing.

"You made a mistake that anyone in your position would have made," Éowyn told her, "and you suffered greatly, undeservingly, for it—but between myself, Éomer, Cobryn, Hammel, Haiweth, a startlingly perceptive nephew and just about every soldier in Rohan, it is an error of judgment that you need not repeat."

In spite of herself, Gúthwyn smiled at the thought of Elfwine evaluating and dismissing potential suitors, surrounded by armed guards staring menacingly at each candidate. As silly as the image was, however, there was some truth behind it: unlike her days in Mordor, she now had a host of family and friends to look out for her. They could not protect her from the demons of her past, but they would ensure that she avoided such nightmares in the future.

"We have a busy day tomorrow," Éowyn announced then, drawing Gúthwyn out of her reverie, "and I believe you have enough to think about this evening. Can I have your word that you will at least consider what I have said, regardless of what you ultimately choose to do with my advice?"

Surprised, Gúthwyn nodded and inquired, "You ask no more of me?"

Éowyn gave her a parting embrace, then rose to her feet. "Although it is my hope that you will find someone to wed, that decision is not mine to make. Only you, and you alone, can decide whether or not to fall in love."

As the White Lady bade her goodnight and left the room, Gúthwyn could not help but feel rather gratified.